Bonny Marie

April 13, 1999 - December 18, 2007

Head Trauma

There are dozens of things I should be doing at the moment—studying German, a Family History assignment, cleaning my room and doing laundry—but I’m so sad and so distracted, and all I want is to fly at you and cling to you and make you tell me it’s okay and smooth my hair. I miss you, especially now, especially during the times that are hardest to bear.

My first reaction in these situations is to recoil, to shut up and keep to myself and not say a word, not because I don’t want to tell people or allow others to sympathize but because I don’t know how to say it. I don’t know how to be eloquent and meaningful with my words in these cases. I feel awkward and stupid, like everything that comes out is some form of word vomit, desperate for sentiment but completely lacking.


When my grandmother died last year, I think the number of people I physically told is so few, I could count them on one hand. My friend Justin was visiting from Seattle. He kept text messaging and calling me the day she died. I didn’t have the heart to pick up the phone, nor the words to express my pain, so I basically ignored him. I wrote him back at one point in the afternoon to tell him, My grandma is really sick and things are crazy with my family. I’ll keep in touch. She had been dead six-and-a-half hours by then, and I didn’t keep in touch.

It’s not that I didn’t expect him to be sympathetic. He would have been very kind about the whole thing, and was kind, in fact, under the impression she hadn’t passed yet. He was genuine, though I was deceiving him in my crazy, personal defense mechanism. It was almost like I couldn’t tell him the truth without having the words to articulate the extent of my sadness. I would rather be left alone in my grief, though I wanted the company and support, than to lamely inform him of something that should be so much more significant than I’m able to express.


But I wish you were here for me to tell you. I wouldn’t mind just blurting it out all at once with no special language, but all the emotion in the world. I know you would understand, too. I know that you understand how special our little girl is and what a presence she is in this family. You would understand our sense of loss and appreciate how we mourn. You’d understand the balance between letting me fold myself into your arms, and letting me have my space.


My mom has an irrational fear of flying. It’s an admittedly irrational fear. She knows it is, openly acknowledges it, but it doesn’t make the process any easier. She takes her “doggie downers” an hour before take-off like clockwork, and keeps the bottle of pills tucked safely into the seat pocket in case of turbulence, mild or severe. She’s got a relaxation CD uploaded onto her iPod that literally talks her through take-off, landing, and any number of unexpected events in flight—like an unexplained flash of the Fasten Seat Belt sign.

It’s difficult for Mom to help others understand her fear. Others think it’s funny, or frustrating. It’s easier not to go into detail about it, so she doesn’t. No one is any closer to understanding why she feels the way she does, but at least she doesn’t get frustrated herself.


The most difficult thing is watching my dad suffer. We suffer together, but he is very alone in many ways. My dad has always been the strong one—absolutely emotional and feeling, but in our estrogen-driven family, he keeps a sense of equilibrium. There are few deaths that would affect him quite so specifically. One occurred last year. We never in a thousand years expected a second just a year later. The relationship is so very, very different. It’s almost more heartbreaking that way. This little baby is a Daddy’s Girl through and through. From day one he was Alpha, she thought she was Beta. My poor dad. My heart breaks twice for him.

And he can’t say the words either. He can’t call his sister, his best friend. He can’t call them up and just say it. How do you say it? How do you tell them without breaking down completely? He’s about to lose his running companion, the tail that literally wagged the dog with excitement at the top of the stairs when he came home from work each day, his third child, in essence. He must explain what he’s going to lose. He must face them, and in facing them, he faces the truth of it. You’re far away—you aren’t even here for me to face. It’s easier and harder that way, all at the same time.


Times like this clarify how truly empty words are. No matter how hard I try, it will not be possible for me to explain how I am affected right now. I cannot communicate the extent of my impending sense of loss or make you feel what I’m feeling. A very unique little light in my world is flickering off, and there is no way I can effectively convey my pain in words.

Language is limited. Language is vast, it is varied, and theoretically I should be able to mold words in such a way as to force you to feel, see, hear, smell, taste my pain. I should be able to take these bottled emotions and allow them to explode onto a blank page, somehow resulting in heartbreaking, life-changing genius. My descriptions should be so vivid that you understand you are the one I want right now, why you are the one who could make things all right.

But I don’t know how to be lovely and tragic and verbally intriguing. I don’t have the energy or the focus to wrangle words and shape sentences in such a way that I might express the inexpressible. I’m tired and beaten.

Bonny is dying. I need you.

A review I'd never send

Okay. Honestly, where do I begin? You’ve frustrated me all semester as you’ve managed to irritate, patronize, nearly insult, and absolutely intrigue me all at once. You’re a regular Mr. Darcy and as I’m sure you can imagine, girls do not like having a Darcy in their lives because we all know how that story turns out in the end. It’s much more comfortable to go on at odds with someone who makes you feel goaded than it is to buck it up and admit to yourself that you’re semi-attracted to them, on whatever level.

To be frank, your writing tends to induce in me the same reactions our interactions do. Generally speaking, I walk away feeling itchy and like I want to shake my fist at you, partially because there are some really great, well-constructed things going on that I truly appreciate, and partially because you have the capacity to come off as pretentious, self-indulgent, and ostentatious. You are an anomaly to me.

You're well-spoken. You have an impressive vocabulary and you carry yourself well, both in person and on the page. I acknowledge the subjectiveness of art, and that's how I've managed to keep myself under control now and then throughout the semester when all I've wanted to do was reach across the classroom, latch my hands around your neck, and shake vigorously. Unfortunately, I'm sure I only wanted to strangle you more when you looked especially nice in class that day. Whatevuh.

I think something that frustrates me about your writing-- and this fiction piece in particular-- is the fact that I recognize similarities in our styles, tastes, and habits. For example, I am a comma whore. I sprinkle commas throughout my writing, especially when I'm writing prose, and I'm afraid most of my interjections set off by commas are confusing and relatively unnecessary. I noticed this in your piece. Breaking up these lengthy sentences and varying the sentence structure would be beneficial, I think.

Something that severely bothered me was your grand total of six paragraphs in a 14-page piece of fiction. It was slowly killing me. I felt like I was suffocating. I'm begging you-- break up your story into paragraphs. It makes it more managable, and playing with specific breaks in paragraphs can really emphasize points effectively.

Your careful use of profanity was really attractive. I cannot tell a lie.

There were three very obvious parts to your piece: Jack's parents' history and his childhood; Nam; and post-Nam New York. I would have liked to have seen these three sections flow more easily one to another. As it stands, I feel a little bit like I read three different stories about the same guy that didn't relate as well as I know they were intended to. I think the exposition about Jack's parents was a little too lengthy-- I was really interested in Jack once we "finally" got around to his story, and seeing as he was the main character, I think there was too much said about his parents. It made it confusing for me at first who was going to be the main character.

Another misleading element was the phrase "Jack's third tour in Vietnam would prove to be his last." That to me indicates that he's going to die in Vietnam, and at that point in the story I'm not invested enough in his character to want to keep reading. Be careful to really say what you mean. Semantics is a slippery subject, but very important to consider!

Watch yourself that you don't use the same phrase or word too often, particularly not twice in a paragraph unless you're absolutely certain you mean to say it. Example: "rest of his days." It's cliche anyway. Come on. You can do better than that! Speaking of language, I wasn't entirely sure how to read your piece. The use of "you" indicated a conversational, familiar tone, but other times it felt more formal. I think I wanted to be more removed from the story so I could see the action and not just be informed what was going on.

Don't get me wrong. You had some very lovely work going on in this piece too. Some of your imagery was extremely vivid and sensory. You description of Cracker after his death, for example, was gorgeous and revolting (again with your contrary nature!!). It was a well thought-out piece, and had some heartbreaking moments (like selling his father's farm). When you were sensory, boy howdy were you sensory. I looooooooooooooooooooooooved the use of Gershwin's lyrics in the rising action. It really helped to set the pace of the story, and added to the frantic, chaotic nature of the moment. It was also effective irony that I very much appreciated.

I think what ends up frustrating me the most is the fact that it's already good and I want it to be just that much better. You obviously have the talent and capability to churn out some really impressive stuff, and you're certainly not lacking in creativity. You have a tendancy to project your emotions as very precious in your writing, but your writing is best when it's raw, and gory, and hard to swallow. I definitely think this story has the potential to be developed into a longer, more detailed narrative. I'm quite sure most of the critique I dish out is as specific as it is because I see it in my own writing too.

I'm not a hatemonger. In some, deep-down sort of way, I hope my frustration has been somewhat mutual. I truly do value your opinions and comments (even if they can be way off the mark-- but hey, at least you prove your ability to commit to an interpretation, and that's admirable too), and have always looked forward to hearing what you had to say all semester. Maybe it's because I tend to be outspoken myself, but yours is among the few opinions I've actually been curious to hear whenever I've written something for workshop. I can't help but be suspicious that my sentiments are returned.

Go ahead. Look up my number on stalkernet. Assuming I can ovecome this prideful prejudice I've conjured all semester, and you can set aside any aloof, uppity attitude you project, I think we'd actually get along. Care to prove me wrong?

Fairest

I wrote this for my Creative Writing class final. Ashley said Alli would like it. Let me know what all ya'll think, please! Sorry it's kind of long.

_____________________

“I am a princess. All girls are. Even if they live in tiny old attics. Even if they dress in rags. Even if they aren’t pretty, or smart, or young, they’re still princesses. All of us.”

I try to repeat this to myself when I’m feeling particularly self-deprecating. I am a princess. All girls are. There’s no one in the world who can make me feel badly about myself except myself. People can only hurt me with my permission. I’m only inferior to those I allow to be superior to me. Those who tear down others are only compensating for their own low self-esteem.

If all girls are princesses, that means I’m a princess too. Is it possible to be the princess and the witch in my own fairytale?

Everyone thinks the pretty girls always have it easy. Pretty girls have confidence. They have great hair, and boys like them. Being pretty somehow makes their lives sunny and successful—like everything is possible if you're pretty.

I think it's the less fortunate looking girls who have it best. They're not ugly or self-loathing enough to let the pretty girls walk all over them. They gain confidence from the talents they have and actually develop. The kind of boys who like these girls are the ones most Pretty Girls would rather date anyway, though they'll never admit it. Being extraordinary can be terrifying and uncomfortable, especially when you're extraordinary trait is something you can't take any credit for yourself.

Once, in late November, Mother took me downtown to the most overpriced shop on the street. It was her favorite. She wore red leather gloves as she held my hand, leading me down the street at a light clip, and a perfect snowflake caught on the cuff of her black coat. It held there for a moment, long enough to demand the beginning of a smile from the corners of my mouth, before it disappeared and melted in a moment as it surrendered to the heat of wool. It stole my smile with it.

"Don't stare," Mother scolded, her tone a song and a hiss all at once. I forced my dark eyes forward, away from the displays of perfumes, and snakeskin purses, and dozen-carat diamonds. Each saleswoman seemed the mistress of her counter, milking each customer and convincing them to buy hundreds of dollars worth of merchandise they certainly did not need, would probably never use. They dressed and wore their hair the same. The only difference between them, to me, was the varying colors of their perfect complexions.

We stopped in front of a counter featuring my mother's favorite brand of particularly expensive make up. She tore off my coat in one fluid movement and I found myself plopped into a high chair, my knees even with the edge of the glass. I absently smoothed the skirt of my deep purple party dress and studied the shadow my kitten-heeled feet cast on the brightly lit products in front of me. I wondered how hard I would need to kick to break it and what my mother's reaction would be.

I didn't pay attention to the conversation exchanged between her and the cosmetologist. I simply sat still, playing with the tasseled end of my black velvet sash, and allowed the layers of color to be smeared and blended and buffed onto my face. It smelled lightly perfumed, like flowers, not like chemicals. "We pay for the natural minerals," Mother explained once. I never understood her reasoning. To me, make up always seemed anything but natural.

A mirror was held in front of my face to gauge my reaction when the woman had finished. I looked like me, but the face in the mirror wasn't me. Her eyes were more defined, set off by a light sweep of lilac shadow and violet liner. Her lips were perfectly red, and flawlessly highlighted cheekbones. Though it wasn't the reflection I was accustomed to seeing, it wasn't disappointing, and a half-smile slowly crept back from its hiding place. I looked to my mother, as ever, for approval and she spoke to me in a way I had never heard before or since. "There," she breathed into my ear as she peered into the mirror beside me, satisfied. "Who is the fairest one of all?"

I was eleven when she whispered that phrase into my ear. It became my mantra. Some people recite verses of scripture to buoy themselves up before they wage war on the day. Others Dr. Seuss or the words of an inspirational public figure. Who's the fairest one of all? I would ask myself, hesitating before I looked up to the mirror, uneasy at the thought of confronting the reflection. I would look, set my shoulders back, and take a deep breath. You are the fairest one of all.

The face in the mirror would answer every time with her perfectly rounded, crimson lips each time I asked her. She had grown since the first time I saw her at that make up counter, my mother's smiling face next to her. Her eyes are larger, dark and unsettled, though some might call it alluring. The hair that was once limp and mousy blonde is positively golden, teased to perfection in a cascade of curls down her shoulders. Our shoulders. My shoulders.

Years ago, Mother arranged for us a standing appointment with Rafael every six weeks. Nothing stood in the way of these appointments. She simply paid off the professor who thoughtlessly scheduled a conflicting final my sophomore year of college. We'd sit beside each other with matching silk smocks as his interns shampooed, trimmed, dried, and colored our hair in matching styles. He spoke with a heavy, unidentifiable European accent, though I overheard him on a personal call once with the thickest New Jersey accent I had ever heard. We were offered lovely drinks served in colorful glasses—mineral water for me until I was old enough for the wine spritzers Mother loved. Jacques, her gray toy poodle, always sat clutched under her right arm. Jacques tended to shake like he was perpetually chilly, his frazzled curly fur sticking straight out from his ears and his little beady stare nervously flitting from sight to sight. Mother bought Jacques a red sweater to stop his shaking, but I knew better. He wasn’t cold—he was scared, and powerless, and sensible enough to know he couldn’t do a thing about it.

You are the fairest one of all. It typically took a few repetitions to make myself sound convinced. The curious gaze was never swayed.

I didn’t try to be mean to the girls in my class growing up. They found me snobbish and rude because I tended to observe, rather than participate. I was raised on comparison. Who is wealthier, who is more capable, who is more beautiful? Despite my mother’s constant assurance I was the most beautiful, it was never enough. My face, my hair, my clothes were always molded, tailored to take me one step beyond myself. I didn’t associate with most of the girls my age because I was afraid of them. Their normalcy threatened me. It made me sad.

All girls are princesses, but Haley was a princess who wore glasses. Marie had frizzy hair, and Amber was overweight for her age. Though the special care my mother took to make me the Pretty Girl made me uneasy, it also armed me with a strange sense of arrogance. The other parents didn’t want their girls to be more than mediocre. My mother didn’t love me the way I was, she loved me more. She wanted me to be better than myself—she demanded it of me. Wasn’t that an indication of how much she cared?

But my true feelings were conflicting. I felt superior to these girls, more entitled to attention, affection. At the same time I acknowledged the insecurity and recognition that I couldn’t just be me, I had to be a heightened version of me. As a child, it made me do things I didn’t understand.

Cutting geometric shapes out of construction paper in math, I played with the oversized green plastic scissors in my hand. They were hardly sharp enough to cut this paper, the ugliest shade of orange imaginable. I opened and closed them a few times, listening carefully to the gentle swish as the blades passed by each other. I looked up to the back of Taylor’s head. She was hunched over her work at the desk in front of me, at her bright yellow sweater set off her stringy, dishwater-blonde hair that rested in clumps on her back. I hated her, suddenly. I hated her hair and I hated that her parents found her appearance acceptable. It made my skin crawl with revulsion and jealousy. Before I could internalize my actions, I reached forward and snipped off a four inch chunk of that disgusting hair.

It stuck to her back, static electricity keeping it in place for the remainder of the class period. When the bell rang I already had my supplies put away and my books packed up, so I threw my royal blue backpack over my shoulder and ran out of class before the offensive hair could be discovered. I’m not sure what Taylor’s reaction was, nor the teacher’s for that matter, but no one ever blamed me for wrongdoing.

She came to class the next morning with her hair cut into a charming bob, the ends of her hair dancing level with her chin. Taylor didn’t smile for a week, but I did, proud of myself for assisting with such a needed, successful change. Mother would have been proud, too.

My favorite subject in school was science. I went on to get a degree in Chemistry at Yale, to the surprise of my high school social circle that graduated by the skin of their teeth. Pretty Girls hang around other Pretty Girls, regardless of mental capacity or scholastic achievement. Mother didn't understand my academic ambition but figured it would include me—and therefore, her—in a new class of society, a new brand of wealth and glamour. "I'm starting to see what you find appealing in these intellectual types," she teased one evening at a gala held in honor of the university's donors. She laughed like the girl she fancied herself to be, not the woman she had become—melodic and childish. Incidentally, my mother's passion for education was as fleeting as her affair with the dean.

I felt more comfortable in the lab than I had ever felt before. It was quiet, and isolated. I smirked and wondered what Mother would think of my appearance—hair pulled back tight and my face hidden beneath a set of protective goggles, a shapeless white lab coat covering my gym-sculpted body. Gloves covered my manicured nails and I wore comfortable, worn in New Balance sneakers to compensate for hours on my feet. The image would frighten her.

For my senior project I researched and developed a basic antidote for a number of poisonous household cleaning products. My professors were pleased, and encouraged me to pursue higher levels of education. Time continued to pass the way it seemed to most of my life, in an odd sort of suspended reality, blurry and distorted. I only seemed to gain clarity mixing powders and chemicals, testing their reactions and working alongside some of the most brilliant educators in the field.

Ironically, my first job out of school was with the very brand of make up my mother supplied since I was little more than a child. I began as a lab assistant, securing promotion after promotion until I began one of the chief technicians. We develop new products, testing for quality, and we always use natural ingredients. It seems so trite. It seems like a waste of my education to be limited to an industry, a line of cosmetics that does not exactly promote the schooling it took to get me here. At least I’ve got my shapeless white lab coat.

I set up a miniature laboratory in my basement. I don’t know what it is I’m trying to find or trying to prove, but I mix and assess what I can get my hands on. A small part of me is afraid I’m going to start concocting something destructive merely because I can—because I have the capacity and learning to do so. I don’t think I ever will. The knowledge that I could is enough.

I met a man last year. His name is Jacob, and he is tall and slim but strong. When he holds me, I rest my chin on his chest and look up in his face, and I can’t help but smile because he’s smiling at me. His whole face smiles—not just his mouth, but his eyes, and the little scrunch in his nose, and creases in his forehead, and his dimples. He has dimples.

Jacob has very dark hair that is not quite black, partially because it’s graying here and there. It only makes him more handsome. His is the kind of hair that just begs to be played with, and he indulges me. I love to tuck my nose into the fold of his collar because he doesn’t smell pretentious and manly, like he’s compensating for something. He smells safe, and warm, and that’s how I feel when I’m with him.

He is the CEO and co-owner of the company I work for, but is not one of those business types who is obsessed with himself and his company. I love when he pops in to see me, no matter how late he’s running for a very important meeting. He will kiss the end of my nose and tell me, “You’re so beautiful,” with this little hint of awe like he can’t believe I’d have him.

Jacob is a widower of five years, and he tells me I have reminded him that it’s possible to love again. I was worried at first, afraid I wouldn’t be able to measure up to the woman he loved for so long, but the way he looks at me, with such overwhelming adoration and tenderness, sets my heart and mind at rest. Since him, I usually forget to look myself in the mirror and repeat my morning mantra. I don’t need it anymore.

. . . . .

It has been nearly seven years since I married Jacob. We live in a perfectly lovely home, large and beautiful but not more than we need, though we could afford much more. The initial dreamlike euphoria of our relationship has not exactly worn off, but it has changed. He is as good to me as ever. He leaves me flowers at work now and then, and cooks dinner most nights in spite of his own long days. He jokes that I am the queen of this company, given his position, and should anything happen, I stand to inherit his title and all the wealth he has acquired. I don’t like it when he reminds me of that, even in joking.

Perhaps what has changed is not his affection toward me, but the way I internalize it. He has only grown more dear, more loving and patient, but I find myself suspicious, almost as though he’s got motives I can’t detect or understand. No matter how often my sensibility reassures me, there remains a sinking feeling that he wants something from me—that I’m only a trophy wife to show off at parties. I never express my concern, however. It would hurt him too much.

What worries me most is my recent dependence on my girlish mantra. Who is the fairest one of all? I have not needed to ask myself that question in years. In my marriage, I not only gained a husband, but a step-daughter from Jacob's first wife. She has always been the darling of her father’s eye, a gorgeous, if not strange looking, child. Her hair is darker than night, and her skin light and perfect as a porcelain doll. On any other child, her features would be odd and spooky, but she is so sweet and peaceful, and carries herself with such an endearing innocence.

As she’s grown I’ve realized she is what my mother always wanted me to be, only she doesn’t need changing. She is more a princess than any other little girl I’ve ever met with natural grace and beauty. Her laugh is like music, and she sings like an angel. She is becoming, without any effort, the child I should have been. She adores me, though lately I give her no reason to, and calls me Mother because I am the only one she’s ever known. Each of her faultless traits, her flawless features, increasingly grates on my nerves with each birthday, giving me less and less reason to despise her but more and more inclination to do so. I try to love her for Jacob's sake.

I’m beginning to hate her.

Cheers to Marty Feldman

This is my latest attempt for my creative writing class. I chose to write a Spenserian sonnet about my thyroid-- I mean, what else?


No school, no life, just wasting time, but not
On purpose—no. How many times has this
episode played? The days blur. Did I miss
class again? A test? Oh well… I’d have thought
Myself to be more careful. Where’s my head?
Can’t focus—my eyes are affected—I
Know it’s not what you think. Discouraged by
Unhelpful doctors, I climb back in bed.
I’m nocturnal now. Emotions are prone
To extremes. Can you blame me? One listened.
Labs proved his inkling. Though I am frightened,
To know the throat-lodged butterfly alone
Is the culprit makes me oddly heartened—
It may be Grave, but better than Unknown.

I Have a Family Here on Earth

I was just organizing the folder in which I've stored the pictures that flip through on my screensaver, and when I was looking at pictures of Maine and my family, I was just overwhelmed with how much I love them and love that place. In honor of the people and place I love so much, I present you with...

Dab Family Picspam!

My crazy mom, little sister Lizzy, me, and Dad.

+ Andrew (might as well be our adopted brother) and Bonny the CUTEST DOG EVERRR

Hey, Tom Sawyer!

Pretty little Biz and most beautiful Mom EVERRR

Dad and me. Gross? Maybe.

Bizzy and me in A Christmas Carol last year

Bonny looking fetching on our dock in Maine

This is my house-- Provo, UT

Grammy Green (Mom's mom), me, and Biz after a performance

Mom (on the right) and her older sister Debbie

My cousin Maggie and Debbie

Debbie and my cousin Matthew. He's a DJ. He worked at Club Paris Miami.

Me and Dad's mom, Grammy Wib

This is my house where I live during the summer-- Waterford, Maine

All (yes, ALL) of the 1st AND 2nd cousins on my dad's side-- Biz, Brian (2nd), Sarah (2nd), me, Tim (2nd), Joe (1st), Brandt (2nd), Renata (1st), and Rex (1st)

Just kidding. We have one more 2nd cousin! Chloe, born December 2006 (the last of our generation-- Biz is the next youngest)

Grammy Wib, probably the last time she visited the cabin she and Grandpa built

Great-Aunt Fran in front of her 150+ yr old Maine farmhouse

My dad's cousin Barbera, Grammy Wib, Aunt Fran, and Dad's cousin Chip

Proud descendants of Minnie and Charles Hamilton

This is fun

1. Reply to this post and I will make you a 5-10 song playlist from my iTunes library.
2. If you like the list, I'll send you the songs that you don't have.
3. They can be any songs that I relate to you. That doesn't necessarily mean your favourite song but songs that make me think of you. I'll include a sentence or two, telling you why I picked that song.
4. No more than 2 songs by the same artist.
5. When I'm done, I'll save the playlists on my iTunes/iPod under your name and think of you when I play it.
6. If you get a playlist from me, repost this and do it for your friends!

Why I love my life/roommates

"You have really good veins in your hands. You'll make a really good old person."
--My roommate Valerie

Psychobilly Freakout

I'm lying on our loveseat, legs hanging on the over-sized armrest. My neck is uncomfortable on this little, unfeeling throw pillow. This loveseat reminds me a little bit of Steve's Thinking Chair on Blue's Clues-- though I guess Steve "went off to college," so now it's Joe's Thinking Chair. I'm trying to concentrate on this book-- A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius-- which I really like so far and highly recommend, but for whatever reason I can't seem to pull myself away from the computer. I'm checking my usual round of websites every, what? seven minutes, as if anyone new will pop on and say something to me.

So I have the ridiculous machine sitting on my lap so I don't have to adjust very much when I finish five pages of this book and decide it's time to make my rounds again. As if anything new will actually be there.

Eff eff eff eff eff eff eff eff effity eff eff eff eff. Fuh until eternity. I probably won't make it to Eternity for saying fuh. Sometimes I wish swearing came more naturally to me. I think there's probably nothing like a perfectly fitting curse word now and then, but my little swears are too cutesy. They're usually funny, regardless of how much fury or discontent is behind them. I have a lot of discontent behind them tonight. Not much fury. I have nothing to be furious over. But oh, I'm empassioned.

I wonder if my arm tossed carelessly over my face makes me look pathetic? No. Just tired. It's a tragedy when forced pathos is wasted on unappreciating and unobservant roommates.

What would it be like for him to kiss me? I wonder if he's the type that doesn't like mouth-kisses best. I don't know what kind of kisses I like best. I like all kisses best. Except when they're in front of a Halo tournament when you're 15-- those kinds of kisses can be remembered with a very awkward juxtaposing sense of nausea and nostalgia. My Halo Champion's mouth tasted like Winterfresh gum. My stomach turned a little bit when I tasted that gum in the weeks following that night.

But this one wouldn't stoop so low as to take advantage of my vulnerability during a Halo tournament. I can almost feel his perfectly, carefully unshaven chin in that specific place in my neck and it gives me a little thrill-- not in a dirty way. Or at least, not in a very dirty way. It would be much more thrilling in person, if he were here on the loveseat with me, pulling this silly computer off my lap so he could fold me into his arms and neck-kiss me, and ear-kiss me, and nose-kiss me-- and of course mouth-kiss me, even though it's not his favorite. There might even be a little sense of urgency because he literally doesn't know what else to do with himself, we're just so compatible. And I could smell his hair, and it would smell lightly of styling products. He wouldn't be wearing any kind of pretentious Man Scent like Axe because he's too good for that, too secure for that. And his mouth wouldn't taste like Winterfresh gum, such an obvious and presumptuous preparation for the moment. His mouth would taste distinctly like him, and there would be no way for me to convey what that tastes like.

Yes, maybe I do know a little what it would be like for him to kiss me.

I have half a mind to just get up and start walking down the street, reciting Lady Macbeth's soliloquies. Out damned spot, I will shriek as moronic girls jog by with their trendy iPods, listening to their trendy music, absolutely ignorant of the bad people that do indeed lurk in Provo, much to everyones' surprise. That's the beauty of this campus-- people allow other people to do pretty much whatever they want when it comes to crazies, and they just jog by with hardly a glance. I could scream To bed! To bed! To bed! all I want and no one would bother me about it. Somehow, though, I tend to doubt yelling lines of Shakespeare will change whatever it is I'm feeling.

I want adventure in the great, wide Somewhere. I want it more than I can tell.

What am I even doing with my life? I'm not excellent at anything. I'm mediocre at a lot of things. What have I been doing that I haven't thrown myself into something so important to me that it's difficult to breathe when I can't do that thing? They say being well rounded is a good thing. I want to know who "they" is so I can tell them "they" have another thing coming. Someday I will be the "they" that everyone refers to. Ha ha! What do you think about that?

Why.

WHY.

why Why WHY WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY.

DEVIIIIIL!!!

*MAD FIST SHAKING and general unpleasentness*

BAH.

Snarl.


Thus concludes my post.

Ode to Quiet

I wrote this last night when I was lounging on Ashley's couch. It's true.

_____________________________

Amidst chaos, surrounded by the loud,

Abrasive, contentious, sharply trenchant

Self-int'rest of an egocentric crowd—

Marked by a crushing lack of sentient

Awareness regarding time, place, peopleaq

Who are subject to impending deadlines

Would rather ignore priv'leged tête-à-têtes,

Or suffer from short patience—I resign

To blood-boiling madness, long for simple

Peacefulness enjoyed in blessed Quiet.

Oh Quiet, where serenity abides!

Where composure thrives and efficiency

May reign! Capacity to think resides!

She inhabits a certain courtesy,

Absent in the oblivious nature

Of shrill laughter and screaming conversation

In confined spaces. Smiling countenance

Prevails, adhering to mindful conscience.

Sweet, dear Quiet—how I long to capture

Your stillness, your calm, your anti-tension…

Naming

Okay. So we're going to start our fiction unit in Creative Writing soon. Inevitably, we will have to create and name fictional characters. The nice thing about that process is that you can give your characters names that fit their personalities and traits, etc. The bad thing about the process is that I'm very creative or decisive about naming characters.

Maybe that's why I don't write fiction often.

Anyway, since these characters are my fictional children of sorts, I pose the question: how did you go about naming your non-fictional children? Is there a theme? Why one name over another? I've always been curious why a family of 10 all have names beginning with A or something. So yes-- what's the reasoning?

Hey Harry Potter

So I loveloveloved the song "Hey There Delilah" when it first came out. I thought it was so stinkin' cute. Also it reminded me of my friend Cameron. Quickly though, as the song gained general popularity to the point where Kelly Rippa even randomly brought it up with Regis, I lost interest.

This video has breathed new life in an otherwise over-played song. You're welcome.

Fun with WWII

Lately, the process of trying to learn German has been bogging me down. And by "lately" I mean "particularly last night." This makes it better.

Ah, Li-Lo.

Oh Lindsey. It's funny you love Utah so much and want to stick around. Here you are, leaving Happy Sumo at the Riverwoods-- you can see Tucanos in the background.

Hear that Ashley? Lindsey likes sushi too!

Merry Christmas

Enjoy. Especially O Come All Ye Faithful with the Mo Tabs.

Things I Recommend

It's October 2007 and I'm long overdue for a self-indulgent list of things I love and therefore recommend to other people. Take it or leave it.

1.) Pushing Daisies
My new favorite show, recommended to me by my good friend Jeremy. Sure, it only premiered the other night so I've only seen one episode, but it's delightful. It's kind of Tim Burton-y, kind of Series of Unfortunate Events. Definitely an unusual premise--a guy has the ability to bring back to life dead people with the touch of a finger to find out who killed them and then collect reward money. Also, it has Kristin Chenoweth. On ABC, Wednesdays 7pm (MST)

2.) My Little Pony Fruit Snacks

Delicious, sugary goodness without much nutritional value to speak of. Frankly they don't taste any better or worse than any other kind of waxy fruit snack, but these ones are shaped like My Little Ponies. Hellooooo supremacy. Also they're various shades of pink, purple, and bright green. Nah, there's nothing artificial about these babies!

3.) Maybelline Full 'N Soft mascara

Listen up, girls. Don't want to pay full price for Clinique mascara (which is the greatest mascara ever made, except that it's only worth it when you can manage to get a mini-tube in a sample pack because it's so needlessly expensive)? This is the ticket. Droopy, undefined, short-looking lashes? A few swipes with this stuff and POOF! Your eyes are transformed in but a moment! Seriously. Best stuff ever. Other than Clinique.

4.) Will & Grace on DVD
I. Love. This show. I mean, I've loved it for a while, let's be honest. But having it on DVD is a beautiful thing. Will & Grace whenever you're in need of Jack and Karen because duh, they're the greatest part of the show. I have a girl-crush on Megan Mullally. I wish I could be her. Anyway, it's the kind of show where you can watch just one episode if that's all you have time for because there isn't really a solid storyline from episode to episode. Also, there are so many random celebrity guest stars its inSANE. Examples: Cher, Madonna, Alec Baldwin, and J-Lo.

5.) Maybelline Pure Stay Foundation Powder
It may sound like I'm peddling Maybelline. I am. This stuff is seriously the greatest ever. It doesn't matter how crappy my skin looks, this stuff never fails to cover unseemly blemishes with utmost satisfaction. I usually like to use it after a little bit of liquid foundation, and it stays nice for hours. It's also extremely effective stage makeup because it covers so well and sets your make up, but it matches your skin so it's not ugly and orange. Seriously beautiful, you guys.

6.) Hilary Duff's perfume, With Love

It's my favorite since Britney Spears' Curious. Okay, so I have a thing for celebrity perfumes. Sue me. Well since I have a hard time spending money on a product that will contribute to a crazy woman's child support, I've found this an equally delightful oder. It's soooooo pretty, and relatively inexpensive. And much as I personally don't care for Hil's singing voice, I've got to respect the girl for how hard she works. This girl cares about her career, man. Sure, I'll buy your silly perfume which you had nothing to do with except funding the bill and taking a few wiffs of a few options before picking one. And it comes in a pretty bottle. You can't beat that.

7.) Across the Universe deluxe 2-disk soundtrack

Seriously. Spend the extra $2 and get the 31-track version of this album. It includes every song sung in the movie, including the credits. It's a beautiful film, and the arrangements of such classic songs is truly a tribute to The Beatles. I think Paul and John are/would be very pleased with the final result. Plus, Jim Sturgess and Joe Anderson have dishy voices. Bono also stars as The Walrus. I always knew Bono was The Walrus.



8.) The Devil in the White City

I can't remember if I gushed about this book when I was reading it this summer, so I'll gush now. I kind of missed the memo when this book came out, but I was rereading parts of it recently. This is one kick-ah non-fiction. It proves that non-fiction does not have to be some dry, boring book that your grandpa reads-- it's a truly gripping, page-turning murder mystery about the Chicago World's Fair. This is a seriously interesting read. Did you know the Ferris Wheel was invented specifically for this World's Fair? Also, shredded wheat was introduced there. AND there's a connection to Titanic. If that's not incentive, I don't know what is.

9.) Mary Jane Crocs

I've been a big fan of Crocs for about 3.5 years now. My sister and I joke that we were the ones who brought the fad to Utah because everyone thought they were so WEIRD when we brought them home from Maine that summer. Admittedly, who knew foamy, plastic shoes would be so popular in the end? Personally, I don't mind the clogs. I don't think they that ugly. BUT. Now they make them in a Mary Jane style. They're seriously adorable, with all the comforts of the original. You can get them in colors, though not so outragous. Personally, I recommend black, chocolate, and raspberry colored ones.

10.) Sweeney Todd

I know at least a few of my readers are already pumped for this movie. It's one of my favorite musicals (is that weird??) to begin with, but pair Sondheim with Elfman, Burton, Depp and Rickman, and you've got a cult classic in the making. I'm a little worried it's aesthetic value might be taken for granted by all the Depp teenyboppers out there. What's funny is I anticipate most of them will go into the movie with no idea what it's about and be sorely surprised. ANYWAY, I feel especially obligated to present you with the latest news-- the first movie trailer. Enjoy. I surely, surely did.

Autumn Time!

Kids, it's officially autumn! I know, the tides or whatever decided autumn began on September 22, but for me, it came tonight.

Autumn can and does not begin until the first sip of real apple cider is sipped.

I bought myself a gallon at Wal-Mart tonight. Ironically, Wal-Mart is the only place I've found real apple cider in Utah (in a grocery store setting).

So rejoice! Jump in a pile of leaves! Pile blankets on the bed and snuggle into a sweater. Fall is here!

What I'm actually going to turn in for Creative Writing

Writing Pains
Emily Dabczynski

I have this thing where I feel like I can’t write very well. I’m not dreadfully confident about what I can do. I have an overwhelming love-hate relationship with words that has been known to drive me close to tears. Occasionally I become so involved in a paper that it’s the only thing I can think about. The topic and my vision for what is sure to be a masterpiece pounds relentlessly at my conscious until I set all else aside, pounding my creativity into a literary pulp.

But who likes pulp? The orange juice with pulp is always in stock at the grocery store. Why buy juice with pulp if you can buy juice without pulp?

Pulp.

Pulp.

It stops sounding like a word when you repeat it enough times.

I don’t feel like I can write well without someone giving me a topic. Like Saturday Night Live’s Linda Richman—“Chickpea. Neither a chick, nor a pea. Discuss.” How would you like to have that for a prompt? None of this introspective, uncomfortable stuff. Just write about the key ingredient in hummus and Burmese tofu. Now there's a. Oh, didn’t you know chickpeas were used in Burmese tofu? Neither did I, until I checked Wikipedia.

...

I’ve always been influenced by authors I’m reading. Imitation is supposedly the sincerest form of flattery, but in my case, I occasionally have wondered if it’s flat-out, unintentional plagiarism. Well of course it’s not actual plagiarism, but give a week for the immediate admiration to wear off and I might return to a piece thinking, Who in the world wrote this? Why is my name at the top of this page? This isn’t me.

It’s some kind of an idealized me, I think. It goes back to those insecurities about not being able to write. I’ve always been able to imitate fairly well. I give a great deal of credit to observation and imitation when it comes to any success I’ve had studying dance and acting. Plato hated theatre because he felt people should study real life instead of wasting time watching others portray real life. What does it say about me that I acquire performance skills by watching others in their portrayals of characters? To me, that somehow puts a whole new meaning on the Six Degrees of Separation.

It’s not surprising that I did relatively well on an assignment last year in which our class had to write a poetry in the styles of the time periods we were studying. We had to put ourselves in the Romantic Period, for instance, and create a piece in such a way that we might trick others into believing it was written by an obscure author during that time. I worked really hard on that piece. I got an A. I have a nagging feeling everyone in the class got full credit for effort, even if they sucked.

...

One of the main problems with my lack of confidence when it comes to writing is the irresistible attraction I have toward Hollywood. If I can’t be on the screen, I’d love to be on the writing staff of a wildly successful television series. Television might be my calling—you never know. The idea of writing years’ worth of material for an Emmy winning ensemble is so vastly more appealing than writing one lousy blockbuster. How many film series have actually been successful? The Land Before Time, while sweetened by years, and years, and years of nostalgia, doesn’t quite stack up to Star Wars.

Well, it might stack up to Attack of the Clones.

And I hardly need to mention Bridget Jones and her buddies who run that Daddy Daycare.

But think of all the brilliant television series’ that only gain popularity with each passing season. Heroes is currently the highest rated series of all time. The Simpsons has only bettered with age. Seinfeld-isms have made it into mainstream slang, used even by people who don’t know the origin of “man hands,” for example. I’m stunned that the creators and writers of Law & Order can keep the series running for 17 years, continue to develop new and interesting plots, and support a number of subsequent spin-off shows.

Then there are those writers who do it all, like the cast of The Office. The staff collaborates on every minute detail of every single episode, and at the end of the day, half of them get to appear as members of the cast to boot.

Sign me up for that gig. If I can latch onto any confidence, anyway.

...

I tried to be a spy once when I was ten years old. On the first page of a fresh new journal I vowed to write down everything I saw, just the way I saw it. I think my vow was the opening lines to Harriet the Spy, verbatim.

...

My biggest frustration is when I want so desperately for an idea to gel together. I had a paper all mapped out, fully researched, and I was so excited for it to come together as only my wildest dreams could produce. Evidently, truly it could only be produced in my wildest dreams.

It was going to be about the 1919 Boston Molasses Flood in which a tank of molasses on the North End exploded, sending 2.3 million gallons of hot, sticky molasses careening down the street at a whopping 35 miles-per-hour. The wave was at least 15 feet high. It sounds ridiculous and unfathomable, which is why so many think their leg is being pulled when they first hear about it. Giggles are stifled, though, when they go on to learn that 21 people died, including a 9-year old boy whose body was found four days later and was so unrecognizable that his own father was forced to identify him by his red sweater. Jaws drop when they hear of the minimum of 150 more that were injured. One man, pinned beneath a pool table in a collapsed building, was transformed from a healthy, middle-aged father to a crippled old man in a single afternoon. His dark brown hair bleached white in the few hours he was trapped, and his broken back would never heal so that he could stand upright ever again. Dozens of horses would be so enmeshed in the congealing liquid that rescue workers simply shot them to put them out of their misery. $1 million worth of damage--$100 million, by today’s standards—was reeked on the area, and vestiges of molasses were found throughout the entire city for years to come.

It’s kind of the perfect shocking event to base a paper on. The story is highly intriguing, one of those footnotes in history you read about and wonder how you never heard of it before. I had it perfectly planned out write—mosaic structure, with a combination of narrative, quotes from the thousands of pages of court testimony, and even a recipe for these molasses spice cookies my grandma used to make. The juxtaposition of a horrifying tragedy and a sweet cookie recipe was going to be fantastically effective.

The act of reaching creative perfection was a whole separate story altogether, however. There wasn’t much research to labor over, considering only one good book has been written about the flood. The difficulty was fitting all the pieces together the way I envisioned. So much information in only 8 pages!

Hours and hours later, I was positively, maddeningly stumped, but I was so excited about the possibilities that could come from this topic that I was unwilling to even consider another—another angle, another subject. Sure, professional writers regularly take years to finish what they begin, but an 8-page unit final was surely not worth the amount of self-loathing that was weighing on me, physical and oppressive in my chest.

...

“Late at night, my mind would come alive with voices and stories and friends as dear to me as any in the real world. I gave myself up to it, longing for transformation.” So says Josephine March, my self-proclaimed fictional alter-ego. I long for it too. How I do.

...

It’s strange how people can take for granted the natural talents they have. My sister is of those people who are just good at everything she tries, so when she works, even just a little bit, she’s extra-good at it. She’ll probably be an Grammy-winning jazz trombone player and singer, a successful business owner, a sports therapist, a bestselling novelist, and the star of a Broadway musical, all before she turns 30. I’ve got talents of my own, to be sure, but not the way my proverbial green-eyes would prefer.

And we’re prone to wanting what we don’t have. There would be no need to want a thing if it was already ours. That’s where the pain creeps in—the pure, unadulterated aching for perfection in whatever we chase after. I yearn for a true love affair with words. I crave the ability to mold and shape sentences in such a way that I might express the inexpressible. I covet masterful authority of the English language, and envy those who have the incomparable capacity to whip and beat an idea into linguistic submission. I don’t want to face frustration and disappointment in doing a thing I so desperately want to love.

George Bernard Shaw said, “Words are only postage stamps delivering the object you wish to unwrap.” I think he means to be positive, maybe even encouraging.

Funny. I’m not encouraged.

Hausaufgaben Zeitplan

Tuesday
-Creative non-fiction piece
-Deutsch Arbeitsbuch pgs. 1-9
-Family History packet chapter 4

Wednesday
-Creative non-fiction piece-- finish
-Reviews for creative writing peers
-Creative writing assignment #3
-Deutsch Arbeitsbuch pgs. 10-12
-ELang chapter 4
-World of Dance

Thursday
-Reviews for creative writing peers
-Family History computer lab at 1:30pm
-Deutsch Tagbuch
-Watch The Office

Friday
-See Across the Universe

Saturday
-Family History assignment
-Family History reading
-ELang chapter 3
-Deutsch CD-Rom

Sunday
-Wish I was at Disney World

Gay Boyfriend

As if you haven't had enough youtube spamming from me lately, here's another gem.

David Blaine's Street Magic

Planet Unicorn Heyyy

Oh don't worry. There are four more episodes. Watch them. And then make this theme song your ringtone.

I saw this last night

How much do I love The Rocket Summer? Enough to demand my small/growing list of readers stop everything they're doing and download everything this man has ever written/played. You won't regret it. Then, next time he's in town, you can pay almost $30 and sit through two crappy bands to see him, and feel completely justified having done so.

The Drowsy Chaperone-- on tour!

Okay, so I lovelovelove the music from this show. I've been dying to see it, and based on everyone's recommendations, I've got good reason to be dying to see it. My mom is dear friends with an actor named Cliff Bemis, most widely recognized for his long-running gig as Cliff the IHOP Man on old IHOP commercials. Cliff wrote Mom a little while ago to tell her he'd been cast as Mr. Feldzeig in the touring company of The Drowsy Chaperone a few months back, and they officially start performances in Toronto next Wednesday (an auspicious day, as it is my birthday:D ).


So yay. The show is coming to Salt Lake City sometime next summer, I think. This is exciting, particularly because the touring cast is so good (assuming they stick around that long): Robert Dorfmanvas Underling, Georgia Engel as Mrs. Tottendale, and Bob Martin reprising his role as Man In Chair for the Toronto performances.

After that, Bob Martin will be replaced by another Canadian actor, Jonathan Crombie, who replaced him on Broadway for a short while this past winter. And I'm FREAKING OUT like a little girl who's had one too many cupcakes. Why is this significant, you ask? Why should I be all up in arms about an obscure actor named Jonathan Crombie? See, this is Jonathan Crombie:


And how much do I love that Gilbert Blythe? There are few words, friends. Few words.

Songs I Love

Go add them to your playlist. Immediately.

You Can't Hide Beautiful -- Aaron Lines
Evermore -- Alison Krauss
I'm Free -- Amber
Another Little Hole -- Aqualung
She's Only Happy in the Sun -- Ben Harper
Come On -- Ben Jelen
Ache for You -- Ben Lee
Calling You -- Celine Dion
Bubbly -- Colbie Caillat
In Your Eyes -- Darren Hayes
Out of My Hands -- Dave Matthews Band
Dancing -- Elisa
Candlelight -- Imogen Heap
Come Here Boy -- Imogen Heap
Speeding Cars -- Imogen Heap
I Miss You -- Incubus
Lonesome Road -- James Taylor
No Stopping Us (Acoustic) -- Jason Mraz
Dreaming with a Broken Heart -- John Mayer
Stop This Train -- John Mayer
Now or Never -- Josh Groban
So She Dances -- Josh Groban
The Fear You Won't Fall -- Joshua Radin
The Mummer's Dance -- Loreen McKennitt
Sorry -- Maria Mena
I Can Only Imagine -- Mercy Me
Unforgettable -- Nat King Cole (as performed by Megan Mullally and Sean Hayes)
My Skin -- Natalie Merchant
Beautiful -- Nick Lachey
God Bless the Broken Road -- Rascal Flatts
Parachute -- Sean Lennon
Free -- Shawn McDonald
Gravity -- Shawn McDonald
Out of My League -- Stephen Speaks
Never Knew -- The Rocket Summer
The Best of Me (Acoustic) -- The Starting Line
Writing to Reach You -- Travis

Ultimate 21st Birthday Wish List

This is going to be the most selfish post ever. Well, I guess it can be argued that every post I make is selfish, but today I'm going to focus solely on things I want. Stuff. I'm going Material Girl on your A.

Things I Want But Don't Have The Money (Yet) To Purchase For Myself

• A personal trainer
• A personal chef
• A personal dance trainer, preferably Mia Michaels (shut up I can dream!)
  
• Nail polish
• 4 pairs of ballet flats in gold, red, turquoise, and black
• Trendy, retro boots I'll only wear now and again
• A wide assortment of enormous purses
• Earrings. Lots and lots of big, fatty earrings
• A black MacBook
• This phone
• Every non-trashy item from Forever 21
• Skinny jeans
• Lots of babydoll dresses with assorted leggings to match
• Chunky bracelets
• Long necklaces
  
• A complete hair make-over
• The entire line of eyeshadow from Mineralogie
• What am I saying?-- the entire Mineralogie line of make up
• An 80 gig video iPod
• New bathing suits
• A trip to Europe
• Professional sunless tanning--but not so frequently that I look ridiculous/not like myself
• Designer/Celebrity perfumes of all sorts
• An entire library of first edition books (shut up don't make fun of me!)
• Every album I've ever even contemplated wanting
• The rest of my Movies To Buy list (which is, I assure you, extensive)
• The following TV-on-DVD: Seinfeld, Will & Grace, Friends, Ugly Betty, The Simpsons, Scrubs, etc.
• Original works of art by Vermeer, Dali, Hopper, Wyath, Monet, Renoir, and Van Gogh
  
• A boyfriend who is Robert Carmine (shut up this is my dream-world wish list!)
  

The Office Summer Vacation

I feel like everyone needs to watch this. Immediately.

Candlelight

I am alone, surrounded by
The colour blue
Inside a poem, the only
Words i ever knew
Washing my hands, of the
Many years untold
For now i am banned, my
Future is to unfold

Would you take my
Candlelight
Would you take my
Candlelight
Would you take
My candlelight
Away from me

I am blind
My eyes
Are
Covered
From
The
Outside
For i have lied, now all
There is left for me
To do is hide
Take in a deep
Breath, i lift
My head
For i am a new man
And i arise from my bed

This is all there is, i can see that now
I have to be careful with it, now its been found
So fragile, but powerful, this is the light
Of my destiny stay with me, through every night

My new obsession

Mel Brooks' new musical - the monster-sized Young Frankenstein- made its world premiere at the Paramount Theatre Aug. 7, as it kicked off its pre-Broadway run in Seattle.

The much-anticipated tuner stars Roger Bart in the title role, and boasts an impressive ensemble including Megan Mullally (Elizabeth), Sutton Foster (Inga), Andrea Martin (Frau Blucher), Shuler Hensley (The Monster), Christopher Fitzgerald (Igor) and Fred Applegate (Kemp).

The show continues out-of-town through Sept. 1, en route to Broadway's Hilton Theatre, where it begins previews Oct. 11. Here's a look at Young Frankenstein, currently playing at Seattle's Paramount Theatre, and opening on Broadway Nov. 8.

Based on the Oscar-nominated 1974 film, Young Frankenstein is Mel Brooks' comic re-imagining of the Mary Shelley classic. When Frederick Frankenstein, an esteemed New York brain surgeon and professor, inherits a castle and laboratory in Transylvania from his grandfather, deranged genius Victor Von Frankenstein, he faces a dilemma. Does he continue to run from his family's tortured past or does he stay in Transylvania to carry on his grandfather's mad experiments reanimating the dead and, in the process, fall in love with his sexy lab assistant Inga? Unfolding in the forbidding Castle Frankenstein and the foggy moors of Transylvania Heights, the show's raucous score includes "The Transylvania Mania," "He Vas My Boyfriend" and Irving Berlin's "Puttin' On the Ritz."

Young Frankenstein features a book by three-time Tony Award winner Mel Brooks and three-time Tony Award winner Thomas Meehan and music and lyrics by Brooks.