Crazytown

TAKE A DISNEY BREAK

The past several weeks, it feels like everything has been spinning at me from every direction - I've felt totally out of control, and I'm a person who likes to have control. As I've tried a whole variety of things to calm myself down, one thing really helped. Disney. Really! More than yoga or binge eating junkfood, Disney has been my happy place the past few days.

 

by Liz Richards (writer)

 

 

These silly, sappy cartoons from childhood really have been like old forgotten friends this week.

Maybe it's an emotional release, to laugh and cry at the frivolous little cartoons.

Maybe it's nostalgia, singling along to songs that shaped me.

Maybe it's just nice to get caught up in old familiar storylines. 

But this has been a crucial part of my self care this week, so there must be something to this Disney therapy! Even if it's not Disney, you should do something silly and familiar and fun this week. It'll help, I promise.

 

Here are a handful of my favorite Disney moments:

1) This classic Steamboat Willie sketch that makes me giggle every time!

 

2) This will always be my jam:

 

It's also worth revisiting "Colors of the Wind" - still incredibly beautiful and heartbreakingly relevant right now.

3) "Be Our Guest" because obviously.

 

4) Any part of The Little Mermaid because Ariel is best.

 

5) The "Hi Ho Song" from Snow White because Grumpy has my heart.

 

 

I don't know about you, but it was really hard to pick my favorite Disney moments. I could watch them forever! And they help. 

No matter how old I get, I can always learn from these characters, my first imaginary friends. And they're always there to make me laugh, pick me up when I'm down, and get me right back on my feet with just a little song.

Find your happy, find your silly. Be unapologetically nostalgic and childish in times like these, if only for the span of a cartoon. 

I think, if we have a little imagination and relearn the things that Disney taught us, we might be okay after all. Maybe there's something there.

 

ONE.

....singular sensation. 
By Alisha Giampola (writer/performer/only child)

I've been an only child my whole life. Outside of a very brief period of time around the age of eight, I have never wanted siblings. The brief desire for them was, honestly, probably more an interest in expanding the theatre company I fancied myself artistic director of than anything else. I enjoyed things happening my way, as a child. And they usually did. I liked casting the children who came over to play in elaborate productions about my obsession du jour. Which was frequently something like Ancient Rome, or the Druids, or Dickensian London. Or Egypt. I argued with the neighborhood boys about the white bath towel costumes I had arranged for them in the biographical production I was hoping to stage in the back yard of Nefertiti starring me as Nefertiti. "Why can't we wear shirts with these towels?" They asked, tucking their hands around their scrawny bare chests. "Because they wouldn't have worn shirts during the Middle Kingdom!" I wailed, imperiously, if correctly. 

The experience of the only child is rarely celebrated in literature. We are depicted as orphans, genius misfits, cranky heiresses, social outcasts. During parts of my childhood, I fancied myself all of these things at least once. But what about all the good stuff about being an only child? As a kid, I enjoyed going to my piano lesson and having lunch with my dad afterwards; spending a long afternoon in the bookstore with my mom and maybe getting to pick a book out to buy, how exciting; watching Monty Python and Are You Being Served on PBS with my grandmother; listening to Michael Crawford or The Beatles or Handel during road trips, depending on whether I, my dad, or my mom had control of the music, respectively; spending entire days completely left to my own devices, which frequently included making myself an array of snacks in tiny bowls- olives, capers, cornichons, cubes of cheese. Some of my fondest memories of my childhood are of long weekdays spent reading two or even three entire books by myself on our couch while devouring a jar of capers. Did I mention that I was homeschooled? Oh yes, I was homeschooled. 

So I guess what I'm saying is, why does everyone think being an only child is isolating and weird? How are none of the things I mentioned celebrated milestones of childhood development? Sure only children are self-absorbed tiny dictators. But we're also smart and charming and contain infinite depths of lack of personal accountability. And there is, as Hamlet, poster child for only children everywhere once said, the rub. I so rarely recognize my growing up experience in literature or media except when portrayed negatively, so it was a real treat- A TREAT I TELL YOU -to listen this week to my new favorite podcast "Dead Pilots Society" and hear John Hodgman's amazing script: Only Child.

Let's take it back for a second.... yes I have a new favorite podcast. It's great. And yes, in this particular episode, John Hodgman (of Daily Show fame) shares a pilot he once wrote for FX. Let me give you the podcast elevator pitch: some Hollywood writers got the idea to put together a lot of really amazing pilot episodes that never made it past the development phase of the writing process. These babies have never had a table read, and are "dead" because although they once were purchased, they were passed up for production and that is where, sadly, the lifecycle of many scripts comes to a dull and unfilmed end. But despair not! This podcast allows you to listen to cold readings of many a fantastic dead pilot written by frequently A-list writers and performed by fantastic actors (Molly Shannon! Paul F. Tompkins! Josh Malina! Anna Camp!) while you're struggling to find a place to stand on your train in the morning! It's so great and you should download it right now and listen to Episode 2 - Only Child by John Hodgman immediately. DO IT! AN ONLY CHILD IS DEMANDING THAT YOU DO SO!  

Haha just kidding. But seriously it's making me nervous that some of you haven't done what I've asked yet. John Hodgman, a real life only-child, writes the pilot semi-autobiographically (which is, of course, every only's dream. As I child I kept a diary that I intended for publication). One of his opening lines, about how only children are in the "super-smart narcissists who avoid confrontation club" really spoke to me. He writes eloquently and amusingly about his friends sharing rooms and bunkbeds while reporting with superiority that he has his "own room, own life: I'm basically a grown man." 

As someone who didn't have to share a bathroom until getting out of college, I deeply sympathize with Hodgman's brutally tender depiction of only children. We might have actually been somewhat "lonely weirdos" as he distastefully quips in the opening lines of the script, but childhood is full of loneliness and weirdness. Since listening to his fantastic script, I've found an article Hodgman wrote for The New Yorker which also touches on this topic, and it's lovely. It's about time only kids got a literary voice to celebrate our own special brand of weirdness, and I for one am grateful that it's this guy. 

It's funny because I was listening to the end of this podcast on my way to work, and only a few hours later I found myself rolling my eyes at a little girl who was frustrated that she was one of very few kids capable of sitting still for music circle. She kept trying to round up her fellow toddler classmates and force them back to the carpet where the rest of us were peacefully trying to play maracas and sing, ironically, The More We Get Together. I had a little internal laugh with myself where I essentially thought, "what an only child, amirite?" And that's the thing about us onlies. We have zero brand loyalty. We don't stick up for each other. I can't tell you how many times during this election cycle I have googled "Is Donald Trump an only child", been completely surprised to find that he is not, and then promptly forgotten so that I have to check again. I will say that constantly trying to be in the shot even when it wasn't his turn to speak during the last debate reminded me a whole lot of my childhood need to constantly run directly in front of my dad's camera to make sure he was videoing me- even though most of the time there was quite seriously no one else he could be filming.

If you too are an only child and also feel disenfranchised by the lack of positive media reprsentation of our growing minority group, let me gently remind you how much that is such a first world problem you whiny narcissist, as you read this blog post on your internet-connected device. Ugh, only children- amirite?

Bye.

ALISHA GIAMPOLA is an NYC based actor/teacher/writer who dislikes confrontation.
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COMPLETELY ACCURATE REVIEWS OF CHILDREN'S BOOKS: THE SQUEAKQUEL

Summer themed, for your summer reading pleasure.
By Alisha Giampola (Writer/Performer)

Remember that time I reviewed a bunch of horrifying children's books? Which I am particularly qualified to do as I spend inordinate amounts of my time reading said books to, well, children? I'm sure you didn't imagine those are the only children's books I have opinions about, did you? 

Send everyone 18 and under out of the room and let's do this, bitches.

This fantastic Julie Klausner gif brought to you by the premiere of Difficult PeopIe, season 2.
If you aren't watching, you're part of the problem. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  

Ten Little Fish
This starts off harmlessly enough. Just ten little fish, swimming in a line. Like fish do, I guess. One by one they drop off from the pack (well, the school) as they get lost, make friends with other sea animals, hide from predators, eat snacks, take naps, etc. Eventually only one fish is left. This fish is lonely for the span of an entire page until another fish comes along and they immediately fall in love and become a mommy and daddy fish, because life as a fish is incredibly heteronormative. Then, these fish go on to have ten baby fish of their own, because life is also meaningless and cyclical. 

Who Sank The Boat?
A group of farm animals decide to go on a nautical outing. One by one as they enter the boat, we are asked to ponder if this will be the animal who sinks the boat. The size shaming starts immediately and doesn't back down. All the large animals are so careful and cautious as they embark, but still they tilt and rock the boat dangerously. Even the pig, who we are repeatedly reminded is "fat", safely boards the absurdly small craft. Finally, the teeeeeeny tiny mouse leaps with abandon onto the boat and, surprise, is the one to sink it. Remember kids, society will like you better if you are small, and thin people can get away with just about anything.

Pete The Cat: I Love My White Shoes
Everyone's favorite cool cat Pete is back, and this time, he's a hipster. Pete loves his white high-top Chuck Taylors, but has the misfortune to constantly walk through unbelievably enormous piles of sticky messy things like strawberries and mud until his shoes are absolutely filthy. Pete spends the whole time singing happily about his shoes and the different messy colors they keep turning. Finally, Pete steps into a bucket of water which washes his shoes as clean as if it was a bucket of bleach. We are told that the moral of this story is that no matter what sticky pile of crap you step in on the road of life, you can always find something to sing about. I'm kind of like, well yeah, if I knew that magic cleansing water existed I'd probably be pretty happy all the time too. 

Hooray For Fish!
All fish are great, no matter their size, color, personality, or religion. Each fish is celebrated for its individuality until finally our young fish guide, our Virgil on this journey under the sea, finds his favorite fish of all, his mom. Minus one hundred points for having no discernible plot.

A CUP OF TEA

Do re mi fa so la...
By Alisha Giampola (Writer/Performer)

I spend most of my workday singing silly songs with children who have only recently grasped the concept of object permanence. A little bit like Maria Von Trapp, but without the long-term responsibility or the Nazis. These kids are toddlers, and as such, are at their absolute height of self-centeredness. If they are holding something, it is theirs, as surely as if it was growing out of their body. It might surprise you to know that if you were to ask me, "Alisha, can a child who is still learning how to talk in complete sentences understand and exercise consent?" I would think for a moment, and then say, "Yeah, totally!" 

Children at the age I'm describing are at the perfect moment in their life to begin learning that other people's bodies belong to them, and them alone. Just yesterday, I was playing maracas with a small group of these little humans, and one boy started banging his maraca on the leg of a little girl next to him. I watched, not interrupting my rendition of the song You Are My Sunshine. The little girl seemed to not be bothered, and then to be bothered, and finally began to actively push the little boy's maracas away from her leg. He kept reaching to tap her on the leg and she kept pushing him away until I finally said, "Hm, Ignatius (NOT HIS REAL NAME), it doesn't seem as if Pandora (NOT HER REAL NAME EITHER) wants you to play your maracas on her body." Ignatius stopped and looked at Pandora, and then at me. "See? She's pushing your hand away, which makes me feel like she doesn't like what you're doing." Ignatius picked his maracas back up and started tapping the ground with them instead, and we all moved on with the second verse of You Are My Sunshine. 

From my experience, adults often seem skeptical that lessons like this will actually sink in and influence their child's behavior long term. But let me tell you, they really actually do. Not all the time, of course. Like anything you tell a two year old, you have to repeat it quite a lot. And you have to respect the rule yourself. One thing I see adults do with children all the time that stresses me out is that they make them hug or kiss people even when it's pretty clear that the child does not want to do this. Grownups, please don't make your kids hug and kiss people, even if you yourself like those people. Even if you have the best of intentions. It's okay to suggest it, or even encourage a child to give a hug or a kiss to a friend or an aunt or a grandpa, but if they don't want to, you shouldn't make them. It's so hard to tell children, especially girls, that they should seek consent from their adult relationships if we haven't respected their bodily autonomy up until that point. It's a weird message.  

ANATOMY OF A CHILDREN'S RECITAL (FROM AN ADULT'S POINT OF VIEW)

Bonus stress points if you're a teacher or a parent
By Jennifer Lin (Music Director) 

As a child, I performed in too many recitals to count, but I never quite got over the nerves that accompanied each performance.

What I didn't realize, however, is that the nervousness of being a kid performer is nothing compared to that of the teachers and parents. Some examples (that may or may not have happened to me over the weekend, when some of my students were performing):

• When a kid starts a song too fast/slow, there's nothing you can do except nod your head to the tempo they should be going at and hope that the wind of your head moving back and forth somehow reaches them and telepathy will tell them the correct BPM

• When a performer makes a mistake and stumbles, you want to sing the next section so they can continue on, but all you can do is grit your teeth and try not to grimace

• And finally, the worst thing - when a child completely freezes up in the middle of their piece, every second that ticks by feels like an eternity, your heart feels like it's stopped, and every part of you that can sweat (and some you didn't know about) immediately releases several liters of nervous water, and you're doing everything you can to not just run to the piano and finish the song for them

I had done a short hike in the morning before the recital, and I think I sweat more during the one hour concert than I did on a 7 mile hike. Recitals: the new hot yoga! (Not recommended for the faint of heart, and not approved by any doctors or yoga trainers.)

JENNIFER LIN has very emotional connections to inanimate objects and is obsessed with polka dots. She works in and around Los Angeles as a music director/teacher, which means she drives way too much, drinks a lot of tea, and is constantly eating.
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EATING MY VEGETABLES

A Mother's Day Special. 
By Alisha Giampola (Writer/Performer) 

I was listening to 99% Invisible the other day (which, if you're into podcasts and have somehow missed it, uh, get on that), and it was an episode called Unseen City; all about the nature we frequently overlook in our increasingly urban landscapes. It's a great episode, and I recommend it, but I'm mentioning it because part of the episode got me thinking. Roman Mars and the author he is interviewing are discussing how, surprisingly, many plants and weeds in our everyday lives are edible and sometimes it's nice to be reminded that our food comes from the earth and not a store. I know this was meant to be a lovely sentiment, something to shake a realization from my modern psyche: of course! food from the earth! not a box! how silly! But as I pondered this thought, I realized that someone very close to me had always given me the gift of knowing where food comes from, and just how delicious something picked from a tree hanging over the sidewalk can be. My mom.

Swinging with mom, circa 1988.

When I was very small, we would take walks in the woods by my house. Mom knew what blackberry bushes looked like, and she taught me to find the ripe ones and eat them, warm and unwashed and out of our hands. In Florida, where I grew up, loquat trees inhabit many a front yard, and the heavy yellow fruits would hang tantalizingly within arms reach- or sometimes you'd have to climb the first rung of a fence, or walk through some bushes...either way, my mom or the squirrels were going to get it, and Lita Giampola is a lot smarter than a squirrel. I remember being vaguely scandalized by my mother's brazen and fearless thievery. My mom is a quiet person, much more so than me, and uses this to her advantage. As a kid, I would be deeply engrossed on our walks with telling mom the entire plot, in exhaustive detail, of the Boxcar Children mystery I had just read, and wouldn't even notice until she handed me a loquat, or a tangerine, or a raspberry, that she'd even paused to pick it. We would smell something good, and mom would say: "These leaves look like mint," a moment later we were nibbling on the small green leaves we'd just walked by. 

COMPLETELY ACCURATE REVIEWS OF CHILDREN'S BOOKS

All true, all terrifying. 
By Alisha Giampola (Writer/Performer)

We all know that lots of children's stories are scary as hell. Hansel and Gretel. Rapunzel. The Gingerbread Boy. Cautionary fairy tales that were written when people were tougher, and had to begin chopping wood and starting their own families before the age of fourteen. 

But today, in the age of helmets and The Jungle Book live-action remakes and nut-free schools, our children are surely not being subjected to stories with slightly horrifying messages just below the surface.....right? Wrong. I can tell you, as what amounts to basically a professional reader of children's books, that in fact today we have many books with equally horrifying, yet occasionally less useful messages. At least the plot of Hansel and Gretel involves helpful hints like: leave trails of breadcrumbs when lost! don't eat candy off of other people's houses! sometimes your parents are out to kill you! 

Anyway, I'd like to offer my uncensored opinion of some children's books I've had to read/perform for rapt, wide-eyed, impressionable youngsters possibly one too many times. 

The Rainbow Fish
Let's begin with the worst offender, shall we? Under the auspices of being about "friendship", our colorful protagonist is subjected to near-constant bullying and peer pressure from a menagerie of sea creatures until he plucks off and distributes HIS OWN SCALES so that the other fish can feel better about themselves. Ayn Rand would have a FIELD DAY with this book. 

Russell The Sheep
Plagued by insomnia, Russell is forced to seek out increasingly uncomfortable and dangerous places to sleep (including the trunk of a rusty car and the hollow of a tree filled with bats!) until he gives up and counts all the sheep in his vicinity, including himself, and finally falls asleep just when all the other sheep are waking up. The book ends here, leaving the reader to assume that Russell ostensibly is left only two options: wake up after only a few minutes of sleep to spend his day groggy and exhausted, or sleep through the day ignored by his friends and relatives and arise at dusk to face another sleepless night. Eeesh. 

Gossie and Gertie
Gossie and Gertie (identical except for a slight size difference and their signature red or blue rainboots) are apparently best friends. Gossie spends the entire book bossing Gertie around and when Gertie finally gets up the nerve to make some decisions independently of Gossie, she is screamed at until she points out that it's dinnertime, and then they both go eat. This reminds me too much of toxic friendships I have since distanced myself from, so perhaps I'm projecting, but I'd like to see a sequel where Gertie moves out on her own and goes back to school or something. 

LIFE IN PLASTIC, IT'S FANTASTIC

Come on Barbie: let's go party.
By Alisha Giampola (Writer/Performer) 

Last week, Barbie dolls entered the 21st century by expanding their fleet of busty, leggy ladies to include more diverse choices that apparently, reflect more realistic and diverse body types. So now, instead of just "original" Barbie, we have these other super-diverse options: TALL! PETITE! CURVY! 

Whew. Almost ran out of breath there. That's a lot of options. No matter that the "curvy" Barbie doesn't even come close to the likes of a real-life Beyonce or Christina Hendricks. Barbie just wants you to find something to identify with in their dolls, and out of a tall/petite/curvy line-up, surely you are at least one of those things. Right? RIGHT?! So, suck it, ladies who are both tall AND curvy. Additionally, there are more skin/eye/hair colors to choose from and more ethnicities are represented. Are you a tall black girl and want a Barbie to look like you? A short blonde with gray eyes? A curvy chick with blue hair? Those combinations are possible now! Interestingly, the only "obviously" Asian looking doll only comes in the Original (read: standard top-heavy-Barbie) version- which makes me wonder, did Mattel figure, pretty stereotypically, that there just wasn't going to be a rush on tall or curvy Asian models of the doll, but since they didn't want to seem like they were being stereotypical they went with Original rather than Petite for their only Asian doll?

I'm probably just overthinking this.

I remember, as a short, flat-chested, frizzy haired, brunette kid, not particularly liking the one and only Barbie doll in my collection. She was a gift, from some distant relative who didn't know me well, or a neighbor kid who had come to my birthday party, or a well-meaning adult friend of my parent's- the kind who always buy a Barbie for girls and some kind of exploding-science kit for boys. With her blue eyes, California-teen-tan, early-90's platinum blonde waves and mile-long legs, I felt zero connection to Barbie and relegated her to the most boring playtime jobs: serving my other dolls dinner, handing doctor dolls the charts of patient dolls, representing a mannequin at a store my dolls were shopping at... you get the picture.

The dolls I preferred playing with were my Disney princess dolls. Favorites in order of how closely I felt they resembled me physically and emotionally, of course- Jasmine first, then Belle, Pocahontas, and Ariel, with Snow White and Sleeping Beauty bringing up the rear. Sleeping Beauty was the only blonde, and would have gone the way of Barbie, if it weren't for her redeeming quality of having eyes that "closed" when you dampened them with water. My Disney Princess dolls spent lots of time with each other, running small businesses and kingdoms and going to brunch, and also chilling with my sole male doll: Prince Eric. (Duh.) I remember as I got older (ten? eleven? how do I not remember when I stopped playing with toys?) and started to have Prince Eric enjoy romantic dates with some of the Princesses, even in various states of undress (please, you know you did it too), I definitely remember Prince Eric entirely shunning Barbie. He just wasn't that into her. 

I guess all that is to say: I totally understand why Mattel is finally getting with the picture and including more diverse dolls. Little girls are given these dolls at such young ages, and no matter your opinion on how children form body-image-issues, there's definitely a subliminal message here: this is what you should look like. Current thinkpieces will argue that the same is done to little boys (see: should Ken get a dad-bod makeover?) but I think most reasonable people can agree that most aggressive marketing of "perfection" is gender-specified towards girls. Is Batman's 8-pack virtually unattainable as well? Sure, but Batman has so much more going on than his 8-pack (for starters, a backstory). Barbie is literally just there to be gorgeous and to dress/undress ad infinitum. She has zero history, skills, thoughts, goals, dreams, ambitions. Does she work out all the time? Did she get a ton of plastic surgery? There's simply no explanation. Sure, superheroes are ripped, but it's because they're lifting cars off of people on the reg. 

MY EGO WEARS SADDLE SHOES

Live like you're the cutest kid at the mall.
by Meghan Stanton

Once, when I was a wee bairn, my mother entered me in a toddler fashion show. I have no memory of this event – but, from what I have gathered from photographs, it was a very informal affair. It was in a mall, and a herd of children in Sunday-best paraded around the central fountain, waving and otherwise acknowledging the admiring crowds.

There was some kind of emcee, about whom I have always been curious. Was he paid? Where did he come from? Why did a gathering of youths shuffling in a tight circle like zombies require a master of ceremonies? Was it supposed to make it seem more official? For whom? The parents? Why?

Anyway, I was fucking adorable as a kid.

Goggles are an important part of any successful bathtub venture.

I was also – to put it diplomatically – precocious. And smart. I was one of those kids who tested super well on whatever the baby tests are that they give babies. I think I took the SAT when I was like eleven, for some reason. But I had been prodded and praised to the point that I already considered myself something of an academic at the tender age of four. So, I knew I was cute. And I knew I was smart.

But that day, at the – I forget the name of the mall – fancy fashion fountain, I was about to discover something new about myself. I was a performer.

Here’s what happened:

BECOMING A DIRECTOR

I’ve always had strong opinions on what makes a good director, and I’ve found myself in the position of being one again.
By Alan Winner (Performer, Writer, Director)



In any show I’ve ever been cast in, I have taken special care to behave a professionally as possible, so even though I had thoughts on other performers’ interpretations, I would keep my mouth shut and let the director do his/her job. Luckily, I’ve performed with several directors who have allowed for their actors to have input on more than their roles alone, but this is not always the case. As an actor, I am only in charge of what I bring to the table, but my attention has always drifted to alternative ways to tell an even clearer story.

While producing staged readings with The Hive, I was able to observe the idiosyncrasies of a dozen or more directors, all working with very limited time. By the time I got up the nerve to direct a reading, I had a pretty good idea of how I intended to speak to my cast, but wouldn’t know for sure without finding out first-hand.

I directed a handful of readings and started to feel the need to direct a fully-staged production, when Adam Esquenazi Douglas approached me to direct the premiere of his play, Supermen, which I directed as a reading a few months prior.

When Supermen won Best Play at the Downtown Urban Theatre Festival, I knew I was on to something. I needed to find out if I was experiencing a good bout of luck, or if I am indeed becoming a skilled director.