Author Archives: Roanna

About Roanna

I'm a writer (also Princess Obvious of Of Course Land) living in Austin. I work for the University of Texas (Vatican II). I prefer to meander rather than jog. Less chance of spilling my drink that way.

Epilogue: The Time I Dated Mel Gibson’s “Brother” (There’s More)

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I forgot part of the story. It hit me today during a chat on Twitter revolving around the missed opportunity to go FULL THUNDERDOME while on a date with Mel Gibson’s (Older, Not As Good Looking) Brother. For those of you who were not alive in the 80s, or who just don’t know what going FULL THUNDERDOME is like, it goes something like this:

After I ditched “Mel Gibson’s Older (Not As Good Looking) Brother” at the café, which felt like this:

I came home, showered off the smell of disaster, and opened my email.

Oh, no.

OH, YES.

Now, I know what you’re thinking and, no, he did not send me a picture of Little Mel.

That happened on a different night, different guy.

He wrote to talk about what a wonderful time he had…

K…

And how I was at my most beautiful when my personality was …soft.

I don’t know what he meant by that, really. My best guess is that, as a misogynist with Hitler issues, he meant those moments when I wasn’t having an opinion. Or starting a war somewhere.

And my reply went a lot like this:

Greatness (Here): An Open Letter to the Church from My Generation

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Amazing post that deserves a re-post (or is that riposte?), that deserves thought (and consideration).
And most of all compassion.
And most of all love.
And most of all with a smile, with a clap of the hands, and a shout.
(You can shout hallelujah if you want.)

An Open Letter to the Church from My Generation.

That Time I Wrote a Musical About Fetuses… Feti? (And There Are Puppets)

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During the last election cycle, I happened to be taking a comedy sketch writing course. I know, right??

Thank you, Universe…

The satire assignment just happened to line up with Rick Santorum’s comments that sometimes God has terrible timing. He was referring, of course, to fetuses (feti?) conceived in rape.

So then I wrote a musical called “Fetus Schmetus.” A puppet musical, I should say.

As originally conceived (ha!), the puppets would be fetuses communicating with one another from the wombs of their various mothers, each with a different opinion on the matter.

But we had zero budget. Ok, we had $20. So I had to tweak the concept a bit. Ok, a lot.

A Word from The Author: I am pro-choice — a woman has dominion over the contents of her uterus. I use my uterus, mainly, for sarcasm.

What hit the stage was this:

Thank you to all the actors and writers of The Marshmallow Overthrow. Our next show should be called Toasted: The Return of The Marshmallow Overthrow.

Here They Come Now (Chelsea Girls)

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Here they come now…

Something about her voice
She seemed amazed she lived so long,
that she made it out alive at all…

Here they come now…

I grab my boots and gloves,
The ones from 1966, black leather to my elbows.
Peel the windblown hair away from my mouth.
Chased by the ghost of her voice.

Here they come now…

Her eyes were large and round and beautiful and sad
Sad like her voice was sad. She knew too much.
Saw too much in technicolor.

Here they come now…

I grab my boots and gloves,
The ones from 1966, black leather to my elbows.
Peel the windblown hair away from my mouth.
Chased by the ghost of her voice.
The Chelsea Girl.

The Chelsea Girl Singing ‘Chelsea Girls’ at The Chelsea Hotel