Okay, so, I'm depressed.
Like, bone-crushingly, can't-get-outta-bed, when-will-it-ever-end depressed.
Don't worry. I'm sure I'll be fine. But does it ever suck.
I miss Carey. I miss my friends. I miss knowing people, and being able to walk into a room and have something to say to someone. I miss feeling like my art is good--community-focused work seems bottom of the barrel here, where, as with everything, they're focused on aesthetics. I miss knowing that something good was coming, and I just don't have that outlook right now.
Blah blah blah. I promise I didn't say any of that to provoke some kind of "Oh no, Turner, you're the best..." response (though I did figure out the comments thing, so fire away). In fact, I really don't want any ego strokes; they just makes me feel manipulative and pathetic. This blog is also a diary, I guess, so that someday I can look back and go "Whoa, thank god that's over." Hmmm, I think I may color code it, so you can spare yourselves my navelgazing and get to the good stuff. Okay...
Many of you have known me for a long time, and thus many of you know that me being depressed is nothing new. Now I'm depressed about always being depressed. Like, Why Me? I watch reruns of House and ER, so I can see people who really have reason to ask that question; I can drive down Santa Monica and privilege myself out of a lot of reasons to be sad. But still, here I am. Sad man Turner.
Stoopid depression. Even the commercial for depression is stoopid.
Anyway, here are my stories to tell you. Maybe telling them will make me feel better too.
So I watched--and fake disrupted--a play about opera and the history of castrati 5 times this week. And no, that's not what depressed me. A beautiful play with incredibly talented actors; direction that blew my mind, in a theater that's just breathtakingly fabulous. I mean, they have moveable catwalks and a pneumatic grid. Tech geeks, eat yer hearts out.
I made really good friends with Marcus, who's performance art's version of Perez Hilton, loads of conspiratorial fun, a great arts conversationalist, and generally someone who you'd want in your corner. For example, on Sunday I just had to have a McDonalds. You know when that happens? So, first, Marcus has an iPhone and was immediately able to establish all of the McDonalds' within a mile radius of where we were (there were, count 'em, SIX). Not only did he also buy the Happy Meal for the perverse potential of the toy; after we had waited for 15 minutes to get them, he started crank calling the customer service line. Not screwing anyone over, not acting shitty about how long it took for our fries to fry, just crank calling it to pass the time. We asked about Prince Albert in a can, and whether they knew if the fridge at our location was running...and then we got our happy meals and strolled to tha theatah. Clearly we are meant to be together.
Not like that.
Closing night the cast and me and Marcus went over to Olga Garay's house for a party. I'm hoping someone will post the movies we took of our song-fest; if they do, I'll post. Drunk karaoke is way more fun with trained opera singers, lemme tell you. Especially when you're sober, so you can appreciate/remember it. I even got to talk for awhile with Blondell Cummings, about making community-engaged art, and how you can't change life-long outlooks with a single performance, but it sure is satisfying to try.
Little story about Olga. She's older than my mom. And Cuban. And the Culture Czar for Los Angeles. And HOTTT. I've had a weird thing for her for a few years...she's totally crushworthy, and then sexy as all getout. I've nearly started a bar fight in her honor once, in Cedar Rapids.
So at this year's NPN annual meeting, I was feeling pretty awesome for having rocked a standing ovation, even from the aesthetes, with my show. Sixto from DiverseWorks and I were trading conference crush confessions, and as always, I sighed Olga. Sixto insisted I ask her to dance. I blushed and refused, so Sixto says "Dude, I've seen your balls. Use 'em." I am a sucker for butch competition...so I marched on over and asked her to dance.
So Olga and I are dancing, having a good time, and she says "These conferences are so boring now. It used to be someone was always coming out, or having an affair, or starting a fistfight in a caucus meeting..." To which I replied, "I know how to make a scandal, Olga." Her eyes twinkle, and she says, "Oh yeah, Scott" (except she says my name all Latina, Es-Scaaht, swoon). And I say, "Yeah, Olga, but you'll have to be my Mrs. Robinson to make it happen." I was sure she'd laugh in my face.
But she bought it.
We danced awhile longer, I told her I was serious, that I even understood the bad politics of it all, and still... I decided to leave her alone, and hope that she took my overtures as the deep compliment they were, and not some sycophantic plot to get grant money out of LA County Dept. of Culture.
The kicker: We ended up hanging out in the hotel lobby with Steve and George from RedCat and Sixto for awhile, and she orders a bottle of wine. She reaches over to pour into my glass, and I look deep into her eyes and say "I'm completely sober, Olga." Her eyes get wide, and she gasps "This whole time???"
Who knew you could get romance points for not drinking? Cha-ching.
But, needless to say, I felt a little...awkward going to the party. What if I might embarrass her, what if she hates me, what if.... All melted away when she opened the door, laughed long and hearty, and gave me a huge kiss, and asked me detailed questions about my work. I've offered to be her house boy...she said she'd think very seriously about it. I'll keep you posted.
So I guess there are things you can do to boost your self-esteem while bone-crushingly depressed. Swing way out of your league, maybe you'll get caught in the stands.
Use the comments box to tell me how you're doing, huh? Or stories. I welcome any and all stories here. Now that would make me feel much better.
Love.
Turner
