Sunday, July 27, 2008
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Shows, Pancake Breakfasts Around The World! and Articles
Quick News:
1) Pancake Breakfast has two new shows coming up - August 7th & 21st!
2) Stephen found this flier in Mammoth.
(Bonus "Don't feed the bears" sign!)
3) Katie and Neva will be writing reviews for The Coming.
4) Thunderstorms are awesome:
1) Pancake Breakfast has two new shows coming up - August 7th & 21st!
2) Stephen found this flier in Mammoth.
(Bonus "Don't feed the bears" sign!)
3) Katie and Neva will be writing reviews for The Coming.
4) Thunderstorms are awesome:
Saturday, July 12, 2008
That Awful Callie Freeman's Birthday
Callie Freeman was an awful little girl who lived two doors down from my grandmother. Her hobbies included being nice to me long enough so I felt secure and then land me a sharp, mean blow to the self esteem. Her hair was blond and her face was a hard thirty-five. We were both in Mrs. Cahill's second grade class where she asked us to grade each other's papers occasionally. One time, Callie Freeman got a hold of my English paper. She gave me an F-, despite that I had every answer right.
I did not like Callie Freeman, and Callie Freeman did not like me.
Mrs. Cahill had a tradition for student birthdays - we would all receive a page to color - a birthday cake with eight candles on it saying "Happy Birthday, _______" and a space to fill out our own message. Students also brought cupcakes to share with the class. The best were chocolate on chocolate.
Callie Freeman brought chocolate on chocolate on her birthday. With sprinkles.
I stared at the page I was supposed to color for her and wish her a happy birthday. I could color it, but my seven year-old integrity told me that I could not wish her a happy birthday. That's something friends do. That's something casual acquaintances do. That's something people who pass each other on the street who have no other connection do. It's not something Callie Freeman and I would do.
I scratched out the "Happy" and included the message, "Even though I don't like you." I handed it in to Mrs. Cahill and left for recess with a clear conscience. Callie Freeman stayed behind to read her cards.
When I returned from recess, Mrs. Cahill took me aside with a crying Callie Freeman at her side. Apparently, my stab at integrity wasn't polite. I tried to explain to Mrs. Cahill that Callie Freeman was mean to me and in no way liked me and that I wished her a birthday, despite the fact that I didn't like her. That was pretty big of me, I kept explaining.
I got punished for that card. And I got into trouble a lot in Mrs. Cahill's class because I would do things like talk and use a swear that was not appropriate - "shut up" (which I had to say a lot to, of course, that awful Callie Freeman). My usual punishment was my name on the board with a checkmark, ten minutes detention.
There was no checkmark. There was not even a name on the blackboard.
There was also no chocolate on chocolate cupcake for me. With sprinkles.
I didn't so much learn my lesson as I heard it smacking on the lips of my classmates. My classmates thanked Callie Freeman for the absolute heaven they just experienced. I may be remembering it wrong, but they thanked her in triplicate and possibly even mistakenly thanked me in their blissful state.
After school, I caught up with Callie Freeman and apologized. I told her that I wish she had a happy birthday. Callie Freeman then revealed the extra cupcake she had to me. She took it out, began to hand it to me...and then threw it in the dirt and stepped on it, making sure the earth and chocolate on chocolate were one.
I never got any justice out of my relationship with Callie Freeman - she moved away after that school year and if she ever resurfaced in town, I never knew. I can only hope that karmically, something happened to that awful Callie Freeman. With sprinkles.
I did not like Callie Freeman, and Callie Freeman did not like me.
Mrs. Cahill had a tradition for student birthdays - we would all receive a page to color - a birthday cake with eight candles on it saying "Happy Birthday, _______" and a space to fill out our own message. Students also brought cupcakes to share with the class. The best were chocolate on chocolate.
Callie Freeman brought chocolate on chocolate on her birthday. With sprinkles.
I stared at the page I was supposed to color for her and wish her a happy birthday. I could color it, but my seven year-old integrity told me that I could not wish her a happy birthday. That's something friends do. That's something casual acquaintances do. That's something people who pass each other on the street who have no other connection do. It's not something Callie Freeman and I would do.
I scratched out the "Happy" and included the message, "Even though I don't like you." I handed it in to Mrs. Cahill and left for recess with a clear conscience. Callie Freeman stayed behind to read her cards.
When I returned from recess, Mrs. Cahill took me aside with a crying Callie Freeman at her side. Apparently, my stab at integrity wasn't polite. I tried to explain to Mrs. Cahill that Callie Freeman was mean to me and in no way liked me and that I wished her a birthday, despite the fact that I didn't like her. That was pretty big of me, I kept explaining.
I got punished for that card. And I got into trouble a lot in Mrs. Cahill's class because I would do things like talk and use a swear that was not appropriate - "shut up" (which I had to say a lot to, of course, that awful Callie Freeman). My usual punishment was my name on the board with a checkmark, ten minutes detention.
There was no checkmark. There was not even a name on the blackboard.
There was also no chocolate on chocolate cupcake for me. With sprinkles.
I didn't so much learn my lesson as I heard it smacking on the lips of my classmates. My classmates thanked Callie Freeman for the absolute heaven they just experienced. I may be remembering it wrong, but they thanked her in triplicate and possibly even mistakenly thanked me in their blissful state.
After school, I caught up with Callie Freeman and apologized. I told her that I wish she had a happy birthday. Callie Freeman then revealed the extra cupcake she had to me. She took it out, began to hand it to me...and then threw it in the dirt and stepped on it, making sure the earth and chocolate on chocolate were one.
I never got any justice out of my relationship with Callie Freeman - she moved away after that school year and if she ever resurfaced in town, I never knew. I can only hope that karmically, something happened to that awful Callie Freeman. With sprinkles.
Pancake Throat
Written in Spring 2001 when all Pancake Breakfast meant to me was Dachau. --Neva
I really hate pancakes.
What did pancakes ever do to me? Is there a tale of pancake sodomy occurring at some point in my delicate childhood?
Close. I went to summer camp for ten summers. I participated in the ritual
cleansing of over seventy-two pancake encrusted plates, seventy-two forks slippery from the cheap margarine that the camp bought, and seventy-two knives that were sticky from maple goo.
I really hate maple goo. Probably even more than pancakes. This will eliminate the Canadian portion from my dating pool, but when you combine that smell with half-heartedly melted margarine, Tang, pre-pubescent hormones, and the stagnant July air that has no hint of humidity but an overabundance of sage and dirt…it becomes a Three’s Company in my body starring nausea, eye twitching, dry mouth and Mr. Furly. Going out to breakfast with my mother when she ordered pancakes left me green faced, me constantly winking, going through pitchers of water and wearing ridiculous kerchiefs around my neck.
I hate pancakes and maple goo the way most men hate Richard Gere.
The way Captain does it to Tennielle more than one time.
The way Siegfried named his dick The Royrider.
All encompassing, nastily, and just plain wrong.
Then came the morning where my friend, the Greek, offered to make me pancakes. It had been nine years since I had ingested the popular breakfast food. I swore it off, vowing never to eat another one for as long as I lived. So, how did the Greek convince me to eat my sworn enemy ?
Well…there was an attractive nearly naked man offering to cook me food, which has been a longtime fantasy of mine. He could have offered to amputate my nipples and fashion them into petite KiKi berets and I would have said okay. In the early morning, I’m up for anything, especially when there’s attractive nearly naked men involved.
The Greek made me a perfect short stack. He lectured me on the finer points of buttering and flipping as I had to keep reminding myself that I’ll be okay with the pancakes. As long as the goo was nowhere in the picture.
The Greek placed the short stack on a plate in front of me. He decided that with my motor skills at that point in the morning that I wouldn’t be able to butter them properly, so he took my knife and put a nice pat of butter under each and every cake. At this point, I was ready to eat.
Enter the GOO.
"And now, it's time for the maple syrup."
My dream of waking up to an attractive nearly naked man wanting to cook for me had turned into a nightmare of gigantic proportions. I tried to convince myself that the Greek was smart enough to notice that every time we went out for breakfast, I hardly ever once ordered breakfast food and when I did, no maple syrup got within ten feet of my food. However, these were pancakes - his pancakes. He created them and therefore, he was their God. And what was I but ungrateful if I did not want there to be maple goo on them? Who am I to tell God what his pancakes should or should not have on them?
I sat quietly as the Greek God went on.
"You have to drizzle it all over, making sure you get every inch."
I held my breath as the smell began to seep into the air.
"So when you cut into them -- like so --"
I turned my head away to avoid the senseless tragedy happening to my breakfast.
"--every layer, every bite you take will have it's own thick coating of maple syrup."
Do you know the real reason that Aunt Jemima and Mrs. Butterworth are smiling on the package? They know all maple syrup is sticky, slightly less better smelling, swill of shit.
"Enjoy."
I really hate maple syrup. But I really adore nearly naked men cooking for me.
A dilemma. A conundrum. Another thing that means either dilemma or conundrum.
I decided to think about it while eating the maple covered communion. I was surprised to find that I didn’t choke. If anything, I was Linda Lovelace starring in the poorly conceived fetish film, Pancake Throat.
I don’t hate pancakes anymore. I do hate maple goo to this day. This doesn’t stop me from eating the pancakes with the maple goo. It has since transformed from a morning mass to a breakfast rum & Coke. I like Coke. The rum is a bit hard to swallow at first, but the star of Pancake Throat can handle it like a pro.
I really hate pancakes.
What did pancakes ever do to me? Is there a tale of pancake sodomy occurring at some point in my delicate childhood?
Close. I went to summer camp for ten summers. I participated in the ritual
cleansing of over seventy-two pancake encrusted plates, seventy-two forks slippery from the cheap margarine that the camp bought, and seventy-two knives that were sticky from maple goo.
I really hate maple goo. Probably even more than pancakes. This will eliminate the Canadian portion from my dating pool, but when you combine that smell with half-heartedly melted margarine, Tang, pre-pubescent hormones, and the stagnant July air that has no hint of humidity but an overabundance of sage and dirt…it becomes a Three’s Company in my body starring nausea, eye twitching, dry mouth and Mr. Furly. Going out to breakfast with my mother when she ordered pancakes left me green faced, me constantly winking, going through pitchers of water and wearing ridiculous kerchiefs around my neck.
I hate pancakes and maple goo the way most men hate Richard Gere.
The way Captain does it to Tennielle more than one time.
The way Siegfried named his dick The Royrider.
All encompassing, nastily, and just plain wrong.
Then came the morning where my friend, the Greek, offered to make me pancakes. It had been nine years since I had ingested the popular breakfast food. I swore it off, vowing never to eat another one for as long as I lived. So, how did the Greek convince me to eat my sworn enemy ?
Well…there was an attractive nearly naked man offering to cook me food, which has been a longtime fantasy of mine. He could have offered to amputate my nipples and fashion them into petite KiKi berets and I would have said okay. In the early morning, I’m up for anything, especially when there’s attractive nearly naked men involved.
The Greek made me a perfect short stack. He lectured me on the finer points of buttering and flipping as I had to keep reminding myself that I’ll be okay with the pancakes. As long as the goo was nowhere in the picture.
The Greek placed the short stack on a plate in front of me. He decided that with my motor skills at that point in the morning that I wouldn’t be able to butter them properly, so he took my knife and put a nice pat of butter under each and every cake. At this point, I was ready to eat.
Enter the GOO.
"And now, it's time for the maple syrup."
My dream of waking up to an attractive nearly naked man wanting to cook for me had turned into a nightmare of gigantic proportions. I tried to convince myself that the Greek was smart enough to notice that every time we went out for breakfast, I hardly ever once ordered breakfast food and when I did, no maple syrup got within ten feet of my food. However, these were pancakes - his pancakes. He created them and therefore, he was their God. And what was I but ungrateful if I did not want there to be maple goo on them? Who am I to tell God what his pancakes should or should not have on them?
I sat quietly as the Greek God went on.
"You have to drizzle it all over, making sure you get every inch."
I held my breath as the smell began to seep into the air.
"So when you cut into them -- like so --"
I turned my head away to avoid the senseless tragedy happening to my breakfast.
"--every layer, every bite you take will have it's own thick coating of maple syrup."
Do you know the real reason that Aunt Jemima and Mrs. Butterworth are smiling on the package? They know all maple syrup is sticky, slightly less better smelling, swill of shit.
"Enjoy."
I really hate maple syrup. But I really adore nearly naked men cooking for me.
A dilemma. A conundrum. Another thing that means either dilemma or conundrum.
I decided to think about it while eating the maple covered communion. I was surprised to find that I didn’t choke. If anything, I was Linda Lovelace starring in the poorly conceived fetish film, Pancake Throat.
I don’t hate pancakes anymore. I do hate maple goo to this day. This doesn’t stop me from eating the pancakes with the maple goo. It has since transformed from a morning mass to a breakfast rum & Coke. I like Coke. The rum is a bit hard to swallow at first, but the star of Pancake Throat can handle it like a pro.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
This is my sketch group...
www.thesevenyearplan.com
Let me know if any of you guys have ideas for stage or video.
Let me know if any of you guys have ideas for stage or video.
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