FiliusDomini's Xanga

On Staged Suicides and Cleaning My Room

Mon, 07 Jan 2008 12:24:39 GMT

My books are above the garage, officially in storage. The family continues to squeeze me out of their living space, out of their home, and out of their hearts. Soon, I will return to find myself sleeping in the barn with the pigs. And the pigs would eat me, naturally, just like that scene from "Hannibal," with the slight difference being that I would resist nobly, and, perchance, take a couple of hogs down with me. Yes, grotesque, I admit, but I'm writing a play wherein this Irish King (his name is Bronagh McDonoughkll'aghrny, or something like that) pillages the countryside and feeds his peasants to pigs in time of famine. Meanwhile, a knight (by name of Sir Knightface) grieves the loss of his darling Rosalind, but finds himself a prisoner of the king, loses certain anatomical members in torture, and becomes Sir Castratus, the singing knight (The "castrato" are, as you know, the chorus boys who were castrated to maintain their pre-pubescent voices, and some of them were quite famous. Farinelli is one of the most famous. You can even find a film about him, called, appropriately, "Farinelli." Handel wrote a few arias for some of these castrato, though their names slip the mind atm.). And the story continues, so on, and so forth...

It's a little Voltaire meets Henty meets A Clockwork Orange meets the pigs in my barn. Yeah, they'll be lining up for this one. And I know exactly how I'm going to promote this film. A staged suicide. Yes, I'll fill a box with random animal parts, stuff them in a box, throw it from a skyscraper, and blow the box up in the air so the only intact items the press could get a hold of would be a dog tag (he was in the army?) and my wallet/license/etc. Of course, I'll buy a few young chaps off the press to word things correctly. "Brilliant Young Filmmaker/Actor Falls Off Building and Explodes in Wooden Box Before Premiere of Film 'Sir Castratus, the Singing Knight, Formerly Known as Sir Knightface,' Which Critics Are Calling a 'Must See.'" Sounds more like murder, actually. Whatever, I'll let them figure that out. And on the evening of the premiere, I'll float down in a hot air balloon singing Nessun Dorma with Anna Netrebko.

Anyways, my parents made me box my books up. Took me five bloody days.

A couple weeks ago I attended this Model Search America gig. It was fairly bizarre. There were about twelve-hundred girls there (with their entourages, family, etc.) praying and hoping to get a spot on America's Next Top Model. Needless to say, the female stress hanging in the air was enough to make a guy suffocate and die, which, of course, didn't happen. As it turned out, I got a few nice callbacks, including-but not limited to-20th Century Fox. So, yeah, maybe I'll get lucky and Christian Kaplan will cast me in X-Men 4: The Rise of McDonald, wherein I become an evil villain and shoot french-fry lasers out of my eye-sockets. But alas, I must finish my college education first...

Ah, and do come see me play Vladimir Karlovich Rode in Three Sisters at Ithaca College January 20th & 21st, because my portrayal of a deaf, juggling, piano-playing second lieutenant will be just that compelling...

Cheers,

Jefferson McDonald

This Explains So Much

Mon, 03 Sep 2007 22:56:14 GMT

Dear Xanga,

You are Belle. You are strong, deep, and you are not a slave to petty superficial things. You are independent and allow yourself to see inner beauty without sacrificing your values. You are almost too good of a person

But, you know, Belle is the least represented of the Disney princesses, so I'm just pitching in for the minorities. It's the scholarship hunter in me, really. "Oh, you mean I can get money for being Hispanic? Hispanic I will be!" Works like a charm. As you can see, I've devolved to throwing pointless drivel on this page. I'm partly sorry and partly indifferent, to tell the truth.

These are the classes I am taking this semester:

Acting I, Theater Organization and Management, Theater Production, Script Analysis, Theater History, Tap Dance I, Ballet I, & Belly Dance I. I'm the only guy in Belly Dance, as you can imagine. But I'm so excited for that class. You can't even imagine. Try. See? You can't.

Your friend in ballet tights,

Jefferson McDonald

PS: You think I joke?

Rent to Pwn

Mon, 13 Aug 2007 12:36:46 GMT

I almost sold my first property. Except the dude who was going to purchase it disappeared from the face of the earth. I don't understand these people sometimes. They call and call and call, we set up a time, and poof! They vanish, never to be seen or heard from again. Guess I'll just have to sell it to somebody else.

Jihad the Musical is premiering at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, and you really ought to check it out. If you won't be in Scotland for awhile, just check out a video clip on glorious youtube. http://www.jihad-the-musical.com/media/

I'm personally inspired to write Gihad Jo the Musical, which deals with young up and comer terrorist Nosreffej Sivad Dlanodcm, who has been tenderly raised by Hezbollah terrorists and looks forward to the day when he too can strap explosives under his robe and martyr himself in the global "Jihad against coffeeshops and cafes everywhere." Allah just can't appreciate a good cup of coffee. But then, one hot Middle East Christmas Day, an IN-N-OUT burger drops from heaven onto Sivad's lap, and Sivad's eyes are opened to the virtues of Western Civilization.

So the Dalai Lama is coming to Ithaca College October 10th. I figure I should give him a sacrificial bull as a peace/friendship offering. Or maybe a couple of chickens. Or a lamb. Eh...gotta run.

Sincerely, JDM

Sunday, July 08, 2007

Sun, 08 Jul 2007 16:32:32 GMT

Fiddler On the Roof

So, been working diligently on the Cortland Repertory Theater production of Fiddler on the Roof. As the Dance Captain, I get to crack the whip on all the dancers. And, let me tell you, I'm pretty experienced with the ol' whip. I can do some pretty terrifying Zorro routines. They be swell, let me tell you.

As for the bottle dance, we're actually balancing them on our heads. No velcro. No tying them with our Jew ringlets. But, I'm not complaining. 'Tis much more impressive this way.

We get Sundays off. So, I'm mucking about the apartment, doing nothing in particular. But there's a charming breeze.

I'm also trying to figure out who I can pay off to get into Actor's Equity Association. Essentially, all you need to do is get cast in a Broadway production, and they'll give you your card. Just befriend one of these producers, and you're set. None of this "fifty weeks working for an equity playhouse" nonsense. Nonsense, I tell thee.

BTW, research the Ig Nobel prizes. Some funny crap.

Ciao. I'm gonna go make a cake.

Jeffy

Tales from the Politically Correct Crypt

Mon, 02 Jul 2007 00:04:57 GMT

John: Hi, I'd like a coffee.

Coffee Man: And what would you like in da coffee, sirrah?

John: Give it to me black.

Coffee Man: What did you just say?!

John: Eh...

Coffee M: Did you just call that coffee, black? I will sue your rear!

And that ends today's "Tales from the Politically Correct Crypt."

Saturday, June 30, 2007

Sat, 30 Jun 2007 19:25:17 GMT

Hooray. It's almost time for blowing up fireworks and other explosives. Very exciting.

In other news, I've been living on hummus sandwiches for the past week.

Tony Awards

Sat, 09 Jun 2007 20:03:02 GMT

Tony Awards ceremony is tomorrow evening, 8pm standard eastern time. Apparently, they're going to honor the passing of my Uncle Daniel. Read it in a press release passed on to me.

Interesting.

-Jeffy

Saturday, June 02, 2007

Sat, 02 Jun 2007 21:26:46 GMT

Man of Sensitivity

I had a rather productive day at the Ithaca Farmers’ Market, selling the meats. The market coincided with the Ithaca Festival, which drained the market population somewhat, but not significantly enough to retard the revenue accrued by my mighty salesmanship. I’ve been bargaining and upselling and shmoozing like never before. Last week, naturally, tends to be a better selling day, as people are looking for their “organic steaks for da B-B-Q.” We also happened to have this box of fatty bacon in the back of the step van, which we didn’t have any use for. Dad and I share a common distaste for fatty bacon, and, as such, didn’t feel it was proper to sell it. I mean, c’mon, you can’t sell what you wouldn’t want to eat yourself, can you? The unscrupulous among you could, perhaps, but such behavior is below our saintly business ethic. So, I decided to give away this fatty bacon with purchases of twenty dollars or more. And boy oh boy, did the people line up in droves to get a slab of fatty bacon. Gee whiz, I had no idea Ithacans were that crazy for the pork lardz. Especially the Latvian crowd. Matter of fact, they pay more for the fatty cuts than the lean ones in their land.

This week, however, was not as successful. First, we had the Ithaca Festival to contend with. And second, I’d sold almost everything last weekend. The only products remaining were the butt steaks (not popular, for some reason), and beef shanks, which were on sale (buy 1 get 1 free...or maybe more free...just buy them...plz...I’m begging you). It was a rather lame day. So, I started to tell jokes. And sing. And dance. Und tanzen und singen unt weinen dich ein...eh...yeah.

But, some of my jokes were, apparently, so I was told, offensive. One of the offendees was a lady whom I shall call “Peggy” for the sake of anonymity. Actually, scratch the anonymity, since that’s her real name. And the following is mostly true. Except for the parts I just kind of twisted around a wee bit. And added.

Scene:
The Ithaca Farmers’ Market.

Jeffy: Get yer shanks! Good fer eating. Dogs like them too. Even parakeets like them. Some people like them. Mostly Latvians. They like everything.
Peggy Lou Who: Hi there.
Jeffy: Greetings.
Peggy Lou Who: So, I’m thinking.
Jeffy: Alrighty.
Peggy: I’m still thinking. Just a sec.
Jeffy: Yeah, sure.
Peggy: Ok, I’m almost done.
Jeffy: Take your time, but hurry up.
Peggy: Ok, I’m done.
Jeffy: Saints be praised.
Peggy: So, I’d like a ground beef.
Jeffy: Alrighty. A ground beef. One ground beef. One ground beef coming up.
Peggy: So, wait.
Jeffy: Waiting.
Peggy: How is the ground beef packaged?
Jeffy: In a package.
Peggy: No, like, how big?
Jeffy: Sometimes smaller, but they can be on the larger side, but they tend towards the middle.
Peggy: Ok, I’ll take one.
Jeffy: One ground beef.
Peggy: Yes.
Jeffy: Would you like anything else?
Peggy: Well, what’s in your sausage?
Jeffy: Pork.
Peggy: I mean the ingredients.
Jeffy: I’ll get a package and you can just read the label.
Peggy: Ok.
Jeffy: One ground beef and one sausage.
Peggy: Right.
Jeffy: Jolly good.
(Jeffy gets ground beef and package of sausage)
Jeffy: Here ye be. And I was right. There’s pork in this sausage.
Peggy: Thanks.
(I then proceed to weigh the ground beef)
Peggy: Wait, there’s collagen in this pork sausage. There’s sometimes sulfur in collagen, and my daughter is sensitive to sulfur.
Jeffy: Sensitive to sulfur, eh?
Peggy: Yes, and there’s sulfur in the collagen, sometimes.
Jeffy: Sulfur in the collagen?
Peggy: Yes.
(Jeffy smells the package)
Jeffy: What the devil? I don’t smell any sulfur. Heh.
Peggy: It’s not nice to make fun of peoples’ sensitivities. You should know this, since many of your customers have sensitivities.
Jeffy: You know, you are not wrong.
Peggy: What?
Jeffy: I’m so sorry for being insensitive. To make up for it, I’m going to send a nickel to the “Find a Cure for Sensitivity to Sulfur Fund.” How’s that sound?

Just another day bringing smiles and satisfaction to customers at the Ithaca Farmers’ Market. You know, I really hope people with sensitivity to sulfur don’t go to hell. I hear there’s a lot of that stuff down there. I’m going to start preaching to the sensitive sulfur crowd. You sinners! Remember the time you got that collagen with sulfur in it? It was awful! It was horrible! But how much worse will the torments of hell be! Repent, and God will spare thee from the sulfur.

Anyway, that was exciting. After making sulfur jokes, I tried to sell ham with a little La Cage Aux Folles act. There are a few appropriate tunes. There’s that one tune adopted by gay community, “I am what I am,” which, when I was through with it, went something like, “I am what I ham.” Very presh, I assure you. And then that tune where the jerk son sings to Anne, oh so sweetly. “I’m simply a man who walks on the stars, whenever it’s Ham on my arm!” Well the Ithacans get it, for better or for worse. Because they’re all so full of rainbow cheery goodness. I could just sing the “candy man can” and sprinkle chocolate sprinkles on everyone right now! Wheee!

After that little stunt, I decided to take my automatic, hydromatic, rustomatic, grease frightenin’ step van out of that place. So I went to the Ithaca Festival where I found...by Georgy...hipppiesss! And DMV was there too. He’s not a hippie, so you know. He hits them with his cane, while I cut off their dread locks and spray them with soapy water. Fun fun.

What else, what else. Saw “Miss Saigon” last night at the Merry-Go-Round Theatre. Crappiest musical ever. Besides Hair. Which I actually haven’t seen. I just have this feeling in my spirit that Hair will be another testament to the crapshoot that is so often “revolutionary” theatrics. I weep. Plus, it has hippies. Hipppieesss!

Problems with Miss Saigon? Many. First, I don’t care that it was sad. Sad is fine. Romeo and Juliet is beautiful. Les Mis is beautiful. Schonberg knew what he was doing with that work. But Miss Saigon...well...the music itself is out of sorts. Poulenc can mess around with the music, throw some atonal nonsense in for good measure, and come out shining. Not so with Schonberg. Come to think, even Sondheim is more successful at creating something akin to music, despite his efforts to alienate the audience, much less create a hummable tune. Though not all of Sondheim’s musicals are easily digestible. Just the name “Sunday in the Park with George” put me to sleep, but Mandy Patinkin and Bernadette Peters are still amazing. But find a better name, for theatre’s sakes.

The second act was an improvement. Especially the beginning of the second act. But overall, try writing music.

Oh, and the whole brothel scene in the first act was ridiculous. A brothel isn’t a cabaret show. A cabaret is a cabaret show (see, Cabaret). Stop copying Kander and Ebb, you unoriginal pansies!! We need some originality. And no, Urinetown was not original. Doo-doo humor’s been around since...well...since doo-doo, of course.

On that dissonance.

Farewell,
Jeffy

Addendum:
(At the Key Shop)
Jeffy: I'd like to have my key reproduced!
Key Man: Reproduced? Jimmy! Reproduce this key for the young man. And shut the door tight behind you.
Jeffy: Why, this is the closest thing to Genesis I've ever seen. You guys have a permit?

Dirt

Tue, 29 May 2007 22:26:26 GMT

I've been working in the dirt lately. Like many of my college peers who need the money, I had to get a job. Who better to ask than the grandparents? They have quite a few jobs around and about the house. There are the bushes in front of my grandmother's office window. There's Grampa's flower bed on the east side of the four car garage. And there's also that treacherous hill sloping down to the water where Grandma planted 250 bushes twenty years ago. Over the course of time, the deer and the hippies have eaten these bushes so that only eighty or so remain. Nevertheless, the hill still appears quite full. I can't imagine what 250 bushes would look like. There wouldn't be much of a lawn left to landscape, I reckon. But it's been a good opportunity to hone my topiary skills. I have this really cool bush design of Hannibal Lecter chewing someone's eye out, but I had to tell everyone that it's a vineyard pruner eating grapes to keep Grandma from sending the psychologists after me again. Those pesky, perfidious creatures. Some of the bushes, however, are a tad pitiful to look upon. Not my fault, I assure you. Back in the day, my Uncle Casey was in charge of cleaning and mulching "The Hill." One day, however, he designated a couple toothless illegals to do the job. Unfortunately for grandma's bushes, these woodchucks couldn't differentiate amongst the weeds and the bushes, so It's been a hard task to turn those particular bushes into anything remotely artistic looking. I was quite proud of my efforts on one, however, and after a few finishing snips, titled this work of topiary art: the Burning Bush that Actually Burnt.

Saw Pirate's...Caribbean III last night. Pitiful. Plotless. It hurt to watch. And much too long. A cinematic crapshoot, overall. Then again, such is the lot for most of these sequels. Besides the loss of originality, the directors seem to forget that a plot is a good thing. It's your friend. Although I did like that scene where Jack queries, "How's mum?," and the older pirate dude pulls out a shriveled head. I and the brothers laughed. No one else in the theater did, from what I could tell. Their loss.

And I'm staying at the cottage over the summer months. Just me and the lake. It's good to be the king. Wait, I'm not a king yet. Working on it, but life is still good. But I was lying about the "just me and lake" part. There's also this lady who likes to walk all over my property with her stupid little chihuahuas who scatter their little chihuahua turds all over my property so that, when I am prancing about like a woodland deer (which is my favorite pastime, oh yes you'd better believe it), I prance into little chihuahua turds. And I don't like it. I don't like it in the least. It's makes me quite furious. First, I thought that I might bring down the Jack Russell terrier to chew on her little rascals. A tragic accident, to be sure. But then, because I'd be partially responsible for the loss, she'd hate me forever. But there's another, more subtle strategy to employ. I find some soft & yummy chihuahua treats, fill them with parasites, feed them to my little chihuahua friends, and await the horrific news that the little buggers died of some terrible consumption. For shame, for shame. That such cute little guys could some to such an end. But then my conscience would smite me so. I'd feel compelled to buy flowers for her loss, but, because I am poor, this would translate to dandelions, which is an altogether pitiful display of sympathy. And, realizing this, I would resort to my final fail-safe: "Time distorts all wounds to the conscience."

That's a very poor way to conduct your life, however. Don't go searing the conscience, brothers and sisters.

I was hoping to get some work this summer uniting couples in marriage, but it seems no one wants a nineteen year old kid presiding over their weddings. For shame...

Jefferson

Wednesday, May 09, 2007

Wed, 09 May 2007 23:19:24 GMT

Dear Diary,

Today was veddy veddy good. Thank you God. Everything is coming up roses.

Worst and best day of the semester in one week. Fantastic.

Must finish studying for this comprehensive math exam of torture, mutilation, and death...and other terrible things.