So, I've written that post about Catalina Island; now just waiting for the photos to come back from Wal-Mart. Can you believe that David forgot to bring a camera on our trip? Yes, DAVID. Shocking.
Speaking of Wal-Mart, I never go there, and now I know why. I don't want to offend anyone, but what is up with that place that it depresses me so? I never feel depressed at Target. In fact, Target is often uplifting, with all its adorable products. But Wal-Mart...from the second I enter and smell the McDonalds fries and get engulfed in the eerie, gaseous green lighting, I kind of want to kill myself. Then, you hear it: the mounting cries of babies, first one, then another, then dozens and dozens, from every corner of the store. I scurried by one of the babies wailing his lungs out in a cart while his stone-faced mother looked straight in front of her, and did a double-take when I realized his legs and arms were covered in big, scabby sores.
All the shoppers look like someone just died, and like they haven't had fresh air or a home-cooked meal in many moons. It's all I can do not to RUN through the aisles, in a vain attempt to make my stay as short as possible. Vain because the place is like a maze, and because just when I think I'm free I see a basket of tiny spritzers of Love's Baby Soft, and I'm inexorably drawn to it, and find I am powerless to resist the fragrance I fondly recall from 8th grade, back when Brooke Shields's testimonials to its pleasures went "Love's Baby Soft. Smells like babies. You know, that yummy smell that makes you want to chew on them." Hey, look it up if you don't believe me. It's burned in my brain.
I have already had five hours of rehearsals this week. If you want to hear about that stuff, however, you need to drop me a line and I'll hook you up with my new "All Theatre, All the Time" blog. Some of you have already received invitations. It's up and running.