Are You the Key Master?

Today as I gathered up my things to leave work, I glanced at my keychain and noticed suddenly:

my car key was not there.

This presented a problem as I had driven to work, needed to drive home to feed Arden and go to a meeting, and was facing either a 30 minute commute or a 65 minute Metro ride. I barely had time for the former.

I did what you’re supposed to do: I retraced steps, checked under things, felt up my pockets until they blushed. Then, I did the odd/unthinkable: went right to my car and tried to open the door.

It swung open. That morning when I took my key out of the ignition, I noticed my gym lock key sitting on the floor mat, but I just picked it up and put it back on, not noticing at the time my car key was also missing from the ring.

Because it was sitting there on the center console, all bare and stealable. And me with unlocked doors. Oh, how the gods smiled upon me today and saved my little xAnder (my Scion’s Buffy-inspired name).

It reminded me of the only other time I’ve lost my car key. (There is another time an ex-boyfriend dropped my car key in the Salt River, but that’s a story for another time when there are margaritas handy.) I woke up in Phoenix one morning and decided I wanted to go to the Circle K across the street from my complex.

But since it was Phoenix, I had to drive there.

You should know I’m the kind of person who never leaves the house without:
> Showering
> Deodorizing
> Doing the hair
> Putting on clean clothes

That day was a notable exception. I hadn’t even brushed my teeth! I threw on a scuzzy hat, a tank top, and yes, even a pair of gym shorts (unspeakable!) and tooted on over to the Circle K. I was already so wrapped up in what kind of Frappuccino I’d get that I didn’t notice myself lock the car, get out, and start to close the door. What snapped me from my reverie was the anomaly of hearing my radio play as the door closed. The air conditioning on full blast. The shy hum of the engine as it idled. And the sharp click of the door locking.

I spun out. Internally. But then I went in and bought my coffee, got change for the payphone, and called a locksmith.

Four hours, they said. Probably someone would be there by then. I died a little. Four hours, in public, in gym shorts! And flip flops. And a tank top. I might as well pole dance on the corner while I was at it.

The thought did cross my mind, followed quickly by another: Beau had spare keys to my place. Beau was working. So, I did what any sane person would do.

I willed myself to remember Beau’s cell phone number, which I don’t even know how I did since I don’t know any phone numbers that don’t belong to me.

And then I called him. Again and again and again and again and again and again and again, hanging up each time before his voice mail kicked in.

After approximately 300 calls he answered. “WHAT DO YOU WANT????”

I calmly explained that I was in an emergency situation involving gym shorts and a locked and running car and needed him to come home, get my spare car key from my apartment, and then unlock my car.

All of which he did in under 15 minutes. Because he is amazing. And he wasn’t even annoyed with me after. He has the memory of a goldfish, I think sometimes. But God bless him for it.

Monsoon Damage

The August 28 monsoon has turned out to be one of the worst in recent history, perhaps extended history. A condo building in downtown Phoenix lost its roof, several trees were uprooted, and a friend of mine caught a pic of a palm tree flattening a car near ASU. Add to this that the 100 mile/hour winds in parts of the city rivaled a Category 1 hurricane and well, you’ve got a city in shambles.

The following photos came from here.

The aforementioned building roof.

I have some pics I took myself that I’ll upload later…but this just gives you an idea of the kind of fury we’re subject to in “the land without natural disasters.”

Melt My Heart to Stone

I had tickets to see Adele tomorrow night at a little club in DC, and then got a disappointing phone call (from a California number…?) saying the show was canceled and that I’d be receiving a full refund.

I’m pretty bummed! Since buying her album I’ve really come to love her music. I was looking forward to seeing her in a small venue—my favorite kind of concert experience.

So, I don’t know what’s next. Maybe tickets to go see Cut Copy? They’re hot too.

Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Boneheaded Plot

I’ll start this review with two confessions:

1. For years, I have always conceded that my favorite film of all time was none other than Raiders of the Lost Ark. And it’s true; I’ve loved it since I was a kid and well into adulthood; I think it’s a near perfect film.

2. What I’m about to write pains me—pains me—for that reason.

Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull is a ridiculous film.

It’s a ridiculous, stupid, waste of time film, for the most part. It has its high points, sure. There are, as you’d expect, some great action sequences and stunt sequences, some tense fighting and chases, some laughs, some drama, and some liberal use of the term “archaeology.” It has Shia LaBoeuf (yay!). It has Karen Allen. (er, okay.)

Pretty much the best part of the movie right here.

Downsides: the plot. Since I don’t want to give away any spoilers, let me just say the following: the plot is completely ridiculous, even by the series’s standards. Last Crusade pushed it some, as did the magic stones from Temple of Doom, but wow. You won’t even believe what Lucas, Spielberg, et al have cooked up this time. It was such a huge disappointment that I can barely even talk about it.

Let’s talk about Karen Allen for a minute. I’m all about crazy people coming back from the edge to be productive members of society (I’m talking to you, Anne Heche and Mariah Carey). It’s fine. Bygones, etc. But I don’t think Karen Allen made it all the way home. She spends most of her time in the movie looking so delighted that there is a camera crew filming her, that she’s in a real movie, that her lines get all chewed up. Her emotions are twofold: flustered and amourous. That is the range of her performance. It’s heartbreaking to see as she was really one of the most compelling aspects of Raiders.

This is Karen Allen’s expression through most of the film.

Overall, I think they should have waited for a better script. One of the last shots of the adventure sequence was so misguided and just WRONG…Wow. It was worse than the knight standing on the seal of the Grail Temple, holding up on tentative gauntleted hand to wave goodbye…as he is then crushed by falling boulders.

Don’t waste your money seeing this unless you want to tell me I’m right when you get home.

Snake in Fridge: Nearly Entertaining Theatre

I want to begin this review by saying that there is nothing more painful than having to admit that someone’s work of art, something they poured a lot of time, effort, and artistry into, wasn’t enjoyable.

But that’s my summary of Nearly Naked Theatre’s production of Snake in Fridge. What appeared to be a raucous romp in the vein of, say, Rocky Horror Picture Show was actually more like an afterschool special.

I felt like the majority of fault rested with the playwright. At two and a half hours, the play is just too long, too rambling, unfocused. The dialog is clunky and unrealistic, as evidenced by the actor’s tripping over their words on several occasions. The story tried to weave too many subplots, some of which didn’t even come to a resolution. For example, the synopsis alludes to the fact that the house in the play “may or may not be demanding a human sacrifice,” but that doesn’t even come into play until after the first hour of the play elapses!

The play was rated “NC-17” by the theatre, and we were not short on wang (pun intended) in this show. There was a lot of wang running around the stage, and some boobs (in context). I’m not offended by nudity unless it’s my own. What was admirable to me, though, was that almost every male actor in the show went buff at some point—admirable because the theatre itself was about 20 degrees.

The performances weren’t among the best I’ve seen in Valley theatre, but many of them were uneven. I keep feeling, though, that the script didn’t give the actors much to go on. Characters were charicatures and had few interesting qualities. One character, Randy, wasn’t even fully developed in the script, and another, Charles, inexplicably appears in the second act.

This play was an unfortunate mess, but it’s true redeeming quality was that this production company tried everything they could to get it to work. The best part by far was the set design, which incorporated no less than 20 individual smaller sets, ranging from a nudie bar to a bathroom to a dance club to–yes–even the driver’s seat of a car, complete with headlights. This innovative set-up kept the play working on the few credible legs it had going for it.

Gross Neglect.

I’ve been neglecting this blog lately. A few of you know I have a lot going on in my life right now; by the time I get home from work, I don’t have much energy or much to say about anything.

Thanks for continuing to check in, and I hope to be back on a normal—and interesting—blog posting schedule soon.