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Still mad about the production of MACHINAL I saw Saturday that was so bad I left at intermission.

Last night, I dreamed that I watched Fergie sing the national anthem, but I woke up before she yelled "Let's play some basketball!" and I've felt off all day as a result.

I really want to produce OUR AMERICAN COUSIN but end it with a gunshot and John Wilkes Booth running onstage. This is why I will never be Artistic Director of Ford's Theatre.

Archives are fun! (I think I found an unfinished Harvey Fierstein script in a box of non-writing stuff and that's kinda related to another unproduced script but it doesn't adds much to our understanding of the latter or his work as a whole but I'm spending far too long on it.)

Y'all get me over here considering seeing a superhero movie on opening weekend, but I am stronger and will not succumb to your positive reviews.

If I had the time or energy, this week's GILDED AGE is the most journalist-y in an eternity, and I love it/wanna talk about it

Tonight I left a New Haven bar before it started John Waters trivia because I was afraid of how long it would take and how embarrassed everyone else would be after I swept the floor with them.

I came home the weekend before my research trip is over to relax and see a friend who's moving, NOT to accidentally give myself a research day trip to the Library of Congress but here we are.

Perhaps the least surprising thing about my 3 hours in the Library of Congress Performing Arts Reading Room was the constant cycle of young musical theater nerds requesting stuff from the newly available Sondheim papers.

I absolutely love when I get the "good job catching the fake phishing scam we sent!" email from IT

There is absolutely nothing intuitive, logical, or clear about shipping a package to another country.

SORRY, BABY was incredibly triggering (it's English grad student/contingent faculty cinema)

Before every semester, I consider shaving my ever-thinning hair. What if this is the year?

To hate things so much that do so much good with so little must be a hell of a drug.

At some point every summer, I decide to have a little bruschetta moment. And every time, I'm reminded that my Italian ex had one correct culinary opinion: I always put too much garlic in my bruschetta