I am a sucker for songs about the moon.
One huddled group talking quietly, except when they want to be heard.
Little kids, future baristas, are shouting as their dad makes the drinks. They make the students miss the library.
One lady touched me on the shoulder. “Nice hat,” she said.
And every time the door opens, I look up. I am waiting on a friend or two or four. And waiting for my headache to go away.
Shared a smile with a guy in a puffy white sweater.
I cleared my throat. He grinned.
Does he think I was listening in?
There is at least one Rastafarian cap in every Austin cafe.
Usually, there are at least two Buddy Hollies.
There is a woman in the back. She’s coughing loudly.
She needs a doctor, not a latte.
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.
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…
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:
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.
This is my friend Beth’s parody sketch of ‘Twilight’ called… DUNES. Way more watchable than ‘Twilight,’ trust me. Great job, Beth!
You’ve seen the Twilight saga (it’s ok, this s safe place and any snickering on my part will subside soon enough) and now I present to you “Dunes” – a parody of the beloved movie franchise written as part of The Institution Theater’s Sketch 201 class featuring the most underused supernatural love interest. I do suspect that after this sketch we’ll see more of “them” as romantic leads. Yes, I’m being vague. I can’t go around spoiling things for you. (Thankfully, you can’t see the YouTube still below, so it really will be a surprise. Right? Right?!?!)
This is my second sketch to be filmed and I want to thank all the cast and crew involved in making it happen. Thank you for your time, your energy, for letting me pay you in sodas, coffee, breakfast tacos and sandwiches.
Some special thanks to:
April – for helping me make the…
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The first thing you need to know about me (and especially for this story) is that I love peanut butter.
We can argue the virtues of crunchy vs. creamy some other time (that deserves a post of its own and probably a debate panel and maybe local news coverage). What we cannot dispute is that peanut butter is the all-American treat that has no equal.
I met a guy at a café (again).
I should probably stop meeting guys at coffee shops. You’d think I’d learn…
Nice enough guy. Cute enough. We were having a lovely conversation, actually. It was both misogyny and racism free, which is always great, always a plus.
I’m scared of ghosts. Particularly ghosts who wear disturbing pointy hats…
Your guard is lowering, I can feel it. So was mine! Finally, a date that wasn’t going to end with me trying to escape the table like Steve McQueen!
And then he said: “I hate peanut butter.”
Without provocation, mind you. You can’t just put that out there without having to explain it. It’s like saying “The moon landing never happened.”
And, being me, I couldn’t help myself. I looked at him, obviously concerned for his mental health and stability. “Are you allergic?”
“Is it the texture? I don’t like crunchy either…”
“No. I just don’t like it. I can’t have it in the house.”
“So, if you were in a relationship with a person…”
You see where I’m going, don’t you…
“… and that person loved peanut butter…”
“It wouldn’t work out. It’s the peanut butter or me.”
“Well, that’s a dealbreaker then.”
We tried to talk around it for the next five minutes. He also stated, for the record, that he never goes north of 12th Street.
That’s ok. Everyone in Austin knows that everything north of 12th Street is PEANUT BUTTER COUNTRY.