Tag Archives: Scott

Gina and Scott Continue to Be Geniuses

The Saga Of Jennifer

A horse name named Jennifer Lopez arrived at noon.  “Goodness,” moaned Jennifer Santiago, “I hope you still plan on changing those slippers.”  Suddenly, Jennifer Lopez recalled her mother, Gilda.  She wouldn’t have worn new slippers to Nevada either.

By Gina and Scott, alternating words.

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Twitter Pressure

Apparently, one needs a Twitter account in order to read another’s Twitter account, so I now have a Twitter account so that I could find out why I was suddenly getting 8 million links from Twitter.  There is no point following me there.  Facebook already has me so obsessed with knowing what people are up to all the time ALL THE TIME that anything updated more frequently will keep me chained in my apartment, clicking refresh, until I waste away and die.

Of course, being that it’s a solid wall of heat outside, this doesn’t sound terribly unappealing.

Despite making it clear that the Caveman and His Cows is infinitely superior, Scott and I, under MUCH INTERNET DURESS, present ‘Virginia: a Tragic Tale’, also called ‘Siamese Virgina Woolf Twins Visit the Wizard Who Summons a Knight to Separate Them With His Mighty Sword Whilst an Austrian Climbs the Theater’.

Virginias in desperation

Close up – Virginias await:

suspense

Close up – Scaling Austrian:

lurking

If it was better in your head, you have no one to blame but yourself.

Edit: Apparently, one does not need a Twitter account oneself to read other Twitter accounts, it is only idiots like me who see the big green SIGN IN NOW buttons and panic, not knowing how else to navigate.  Regardless, I have a Twitter and three followers, all three of whom will be bored to tears.

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Scott Visits: Part Two, Fete Entry

You will, of course, recall Scott’s mom’s poopcake that I entered in the Belgian Waffle Internet Village Fete.  Despite being roundly scolded for subcontracting, I stand by said poopcake.

Scott himself, on being encouraged to enter, decided against construction (passing completely over my recently unpacked drawer full of office supplies) and instead dove straight into the finger puppets, which I admit are both plentiful and tempting.

His ensuing tableau is titled “Caveman Clubs Cows to Death Whilst Frida Looks On.”

club

Although subsequent tableaux “Flying Contest” and “Siamese Virgina Woolf Twins Visit the Wizard” were also both good, we feel a particular fondness for the cows.

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Scott: Part One

My apartment is three feet deep in cardboard, the gas in my building has been turned off for the weekend, I am impressively allergic to New York mosquitoes, my ankles are puffy, I can’t get a full night’s sleep to save my life, the new TV doesn’t work,  and I’m really, really homesick.

Despite my being unfit for human company, Scott is here for the weekend.  I love Scott.  Scott makes many things better.

Yesterday, we went into Manhattan to have lunch with Trina, best known for dreams of an underwater Shakespeare company (“You haven’t seen Romeo and Juliet until you’ve seen it on rafts and noodles.”).

This is Scott disapproving:

We are not amused.

On the way, I was sneakily artistic with the man across the way while  Scott admired his jeans:

You can't tell, but my little toe is broken.

I did not think to take a picture of the impressive pastrami sandwiches we consumed, but here are the leftover pickles.  Trina and I ate all the bright green ones, leaving the olive greens sad and alone and unwanted:

These are not as delicious.

Then we bought some plants.  There was a photo shoot, to distract ourselves from the fact that we just missed the train and the station was a million degrees:

Glamor.

My glamorous pose was interrupted by a train scaring the bejeesus out of me:

You can see the bejeesus there, by my foot.

We carried the plants home:

I am green today

Scott got hungry:

yum

And I got tired of having my picture taken:

In which Scott does not approve of my cat and her wish to snuggle:

She is touching me.

I am trying to pull off my crankypants so that Scott is not afraid to visit again.

In the meantime, we’re presenting a workshop at a massive conference tomorrow and have not started to plan.  It is good I am no longer a role model for the youth.

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In Which Scott is not Helpful

AIM IM with Scott  7/12/09  6:03 PM:

Scott: What are you doing?  I am writing a syllabus.  And then I have to make a poster.

Me: I’m about to go to dinner.  I will probably cry at the end of it.

Scott:  Aw, you can do it.

Scott: Yay tears!

Scott: Just think of the song “Tears of a clown.”

Scott: Not that you are a clown.

Scott: It just makes me smile.

Scott: It’s rather upbeat for a song about tears.

Scott: Point: tears can be happyish.

Me: You know how I feel about clowns.

Scott: Sort of happy.

Scott: Did I say clown?  I meant …

Scott: Tears of a clone.

Scott: Don’t look it up.

Scott: do doo doo

Scott: bah bah bah bah bah bah bah

Scott: Tears of a clooone

Scott:  My clone is always crying because she is unoriginal.

Scott: bah bah bah bah bah bah bah

Me: I’m copying all this for my blog, you know.  I will title it, “Scott is Unhelpful.”

Scott: UNhelpful?

Me:  Yup.

Me: In an adorable way?

Scott: Eh, I’ll take it.

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Calling Card

Text messages I have sent my friend Scott that include “made me think of you”:

* Footloose is on TV

* Saw an Oscar Wilde quote on the subway

* Watching a gay Welsh soap opera

* A guy with a mustache joined us for lunch

* Someone just called me Beyonce

* My drama teacher is wearing argyle socks

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Stephin Merritt is Kind of a Douchebag

Prequel – Part One (July 2007)

a play in one act

Director’s Notes:

I love the Magnetic Fields. When I was in college I played Distant Plastic Trees so much that the tape wore through. Not only do I love the Magnetic Fields, I love the Gothic Archies, because I love Lemony Snicket and all things having to do with Daniel Handler. (Except Adverbs.  That, not so much. )   I was told, last summer, that Stephin Merritt, of both Magnetic Fields and Gothic Archies, DJs at Beauty Bar every Monday.  This filled me with both wonder and delight, so I rallied the forces one drizzly Monday evening and we headed to 14th street.

I do love a good thematic establishment, and Beauty Bar is, in that regard, delightful all around.  There was a Bangles/Beatles mix of some kind playing and Scott, Aliza, and I were soon perched happily in salon dryer-chairs, blue drinks that tasted of raspberry Otter Pop in hand.

It’s important to know that I am not terribly articulate in person, even under good circumstances. When I’m nervous, it gets worse. When I’m nervous and in a situation that is rapidly going downhill, I sound like a second grader on heavy medication.

The Tragedy of Gina and Stephin Merritt
the Highlights

Curtains up on a very, very small man in a hat. He is leaning nonchalantly against the DJ booth, a beer in his hand. He is terribly short. This is Stephin Merritt. He is a tiny, tiny man.

Gina enters, twisting her fingers nervously, fully aware that she is surrounded by a crowd of casual young hipster types, all more tattooed and more disdainful than she, who will no doubt listen in on this exchange with scorn. She has the air of knowing the geekery of her soon-to-follow actions, of knowing that this particular crowd may very well point and laugh, but who has flung caution to the wind merely so she can say she did.

G: (Concerned, a bit, that he won’t be able to hear, since she’s a good five and a half feet taller than he) Hi … Mr. Merritt?

SM: (Merely stares at G.)

G: Um. Hi. I just wanted to say hi …

SM: (Continues to stare. Absolutely nothing of a friendly or encouraging nature plays across his face.)

G: I just … you know, wanted to meet you, because … I …

SM: (interrupting) I don’t take requests.

G: … No … I wasn’t trying to … I just. Your music …

SM: (interrupting, with a bark of laughter) What music?

SM is interrupted by another DJ, and turns his back on G to answer. G continues to wring hands, unsure of how to proceed. Should she try again? Should she cut her losses? She looks over her shoulder to where Aliza and Scott are sitting. The matching open-mouthed expressions of horror/pity on their faces let her know that it is, in fact, going as badly as she thinks it is.

SM ends his conversation, re-leans, and drinks from his bottle, turned slightly away from G.

G: (with last ditch desperation) Yeah, so … I just wanted to say hello. Because you know … this one tape … of yours … in college … (she fades) I really … liked it … (trails off)

SM: (Stares – lip curled a little.)

G: So … yeah. Bye.

G returns to her seat.  Aliza and Scott volunteer to take turns repeatedly approaching SM over the course of the evening, giving him inane compliments, but G sadly turns down the offer.

Curtain

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