Baffling Break In

After going to a party on Saturday night, I returned home to find the frame of my door lying just inside my living room. Some ramdom bastard(s) broke into my apartment.

After I saw the busted door, I called 911 and waited on the front steps of my building for the cops to show up. They came quickly. I give them credit for that. But they weren't especially helpful. This crime almost seemed to bore them. The first cop sauntered into the apartment, confident that it was weirdo free, then I followed him to see if anything had been taken. Fortunately, he?she?they? had taken nothing. There weren't even any signs that they bothered looking for valuables.

The second cop arrived moments later. The two chatted for a while, taking pot shot guesses as to how the door had been breeched. I called my landlord's answering service to have someone come out to secure my door. When I asked if they could stick around until the building management showed up, they were like, naw. They asked if any of my neighbors might have been around during the break in, but they didn't bother trying to find any possible witnesses. Cop 2 tried to show me how to block the door with a folding chair, but she couldn't make that work. So the cops left to answer other calls.

I went back to the front steps to wait for the building repair guy to show up. My pent up anger called out for nicotine, so I went around the corner to this twentysomething pierced person's party to bum some cigarettes.

Thankfully, Lipby and Yoko came over to hang out with me while I waited for the repair guy to patch up my door. They stayed with me until 2am, when I relized I just wanted to go to sleep. After Yoko and Lipby left, I pushed my loveseat against my patched up door and went to bed.

Poor Ed Norton

Have you seen those animated online ads for The Illusionist in which a little pixilated photos of Ed Norton perform magic tricks? Sadly dorky, I have to say.

Quick Quick Slow Slow Quick: the ADHD Fox Trot

The results are in. Several rigorous tests and an extended interview with three fancy experts have shown that I really do have ADHD. I am officially "hyper."

The surprise in this assessment is that my impulsivity/hyperactivity score is really up there. And I thought I only had a slight case of the spazzies. The clinician who explained my test results said that my hyper tendencies were probably only kept in check by my sex and my gender socialization.

He said that while the tests show that I'm very smart, they also indicate that part of my brain is abnormally slow. My brain is doing a bizarro fox trot. The implications are many.

So, now what? Will I take medications to revv up the slow part of my brain? If I forget to take my prescription speed, at least I can sell it.

Brecht Is Not for Wimps

I was shocked to read on IMDB that people walked out on the Public Theaters current production of Mother Courage. What were these people expecting, Mama Mia?

Thanks to Quiconque, I saw Meryl Streep as Mother Courage last Saturday, and she kicked ass! What floored me most was her singing. If she'd chosen to do so, she could have had a music career perhaps rivaling Bonnie Raitt or Bette Midler or someone like that. The whole huge cast was excellent. The sets and costumes were fine. The orchestra was awesome.

And as for the play, if you can't stand a polemic, then you have no business setting foot anywhere near a Brecht production. Is Mother Courage heavy? Hello! It's a play about the 30 Years War, written by a crabby dead German, translated by Tony Kushner. This isn't just dark humor, it's Special Dark, not like the stuff in The Producers. (The reason people can stomach "Springtime for Hitler" is that everyone is constantly reminded and reassured that it's just a joke.)

And how can people walk out on a play? That says more against the walkers than the players. I've seen some stinky theater in my time, and yes, I have laughed at performances that probably weren't intended to be funny, but I have never walked out on anything, even during intermission. And walking out while anyone is on stage is rude. Walking out on Meryl Streep is unthinkable.

The 400 Blows

At long last, a post about Thing 2, who I saw two weekends ago.

Thing 2, during one of his frequent sword playing exercises (nearly anything longer than wide becomes a sword in his hand), was mercilessly beating a tree branch with a stick.

"You're sure doing an number on that tree." said his grandfather.
"400!" Thing 2 replied.

400, or any number between 400 and 499, is the highest you can go in Thing 2's numeral system. I suppose if I were a 4-year-old, I might reckon that sticking a four in front of the astronomically high hundred would produce the penultimate number.

For a brief moment when Thing 2 forgot the sword-like qualities of the ruler I had foolishly purchased for him, I tried to show him how to measure his foot. When I read the number at the tip of his toe (5 inches or something), he immediately corrected me with an enthusiastic "400!" 400 is the only possible measure of anything important, such as giant bananas that eat little boys. According to Thing 2, these bananas are 400 year-feet, but units are irrelevant next to the penultimate number.

Thing 2 also enjoys stringing together lesser numbers, mostly in order, sometimes in Spanish. 23 is a good one. Thing 2 said, "Channel 23 is awesome!" as he watched cartoons in the hotel. I'm not sure we were actually watching channel 23 at the time, but again, such things are irrelevant next to the quality of the number.