29-Sep-2005

Today H-Berts called me into his office with a daunting task.  I always know I'm about to be hit with something big when someone asks "You have a degree in Russian, right?"  And today was no different.  Luckily, it did not involve translating intelligence documents or smuggling cheap fifths of Stoli (they cost about a buck in St. Petersburg, where said brand is manufactured) through customs.  Although I must say, this heat wave might warrant a trip to the northern reaches of Russia just to cool off!  Zing!!  No.  My task this morning was to mark passages from Chekhov's "The Seagull" that might induce two actors running lines to toss precaution to the wind and have kinky sex in a dressing room.  In zombie makeup.  Because said actors are performing "The Seagull" as zombies.  "Wha, wha, wha, WHAT??" you might protest.  But don't bother.  If you've actually read "The Seagull," you will have realized that most of the characters are, in fact, zombies, torn between the yearning to live a fuller life and the wastefulness of such yearning, as it only feeds on the most precious of life's commodities:  time.  And if you didn't get that reading from "The Seagull," you are a dolt and a dollard and I hope you're home the next time Captain Obvious comes knocking!  Sorry.  Must be the heat.  And the fact that there are so many passages in that play that might lead to sex!  Chekhov allows everything to simmer right below the surface, so that a conversation about carriage horses and quinine becomes a virtual hormone/forbidden lust rave that makes me want to...

Derby pie for anyone who finishes that sentence most creatively.