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Stepping Behind the Scenes of The 39 Steps*

24 Wednesday Feb 2016

Posted by woodzickwrites in Theatre

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acting, comedy, Hitchcock, The 39 Steps, Theater, Theatre, Whidbey, Whidbey Island, Whidbey Island Center for the Arts

As many of you know, I’ve been working on The 39 Steps. Playing Clown #2 in this production has been one of the most rewarding acting experiences of my life. Seriously. 

The reason I’m able to transition so seamlessly between my nineteen characters is because of crew member Evan Ray. I jokingly refer to him as “my handler.” Honestly, there aren’t adjectives adequate enough to express how wonderful he is, but I’ll try: Evan is one of the sharpest, most intelligent humans I have ever met. His meticulous organizational skills are mind-bending, he is always at the ready with a bottle of water and a fan so that I don’t keel over and he has the magical ability to keep himself and me calm throughout the backstage frenzy. He is as much a part of building my characters as my acting craft. 

Please enjoy this post he’s written about his process behind the scenes.

-Katie

Guest post by Evan Ray:

*Can you find the Alfred Hitchcock references hidden in this essay?





“How far is Winnipeg from Montreal?,” Hannay exclaims from his box in the audience. As Mr. Memory sorts through his extensive intracranial filing cabinet, I head toward the stage right clothing hooks. That was my cue to prepare Katie’s next costume change, the second of over twenty (it’s hard to count!) that will occur throughout the show. There are many instances like this one in the backstage orchestration of The 39 Steps, components of our own behind the scenes blocking that has formed both consciously and unconsciously in rehearsal and run. The play requests a high degree of organization from its stage crew and we make it our goal to bring that to the table (wings and booth?) in return. In a review of paper tech at the start of tech weekend, our stage manager, Kathy Stanley, produced a prompt book that likely contained more lighting, sound, and backstage cues than actual dialogue. My own script is full of graphs and charts reminding me how to position costumes for the most efficient quick-changes and notes about finally remembering not to leave the loops on that one dress over the hanger.

In spite of all our planning, an equivalent amount of creative problem-solving and quick thinking is necessary in a play notorious for rapid-fire action. If an actor is exiting the stage with a torn curtain—or a chair in three pieces, as the case may be—it is the backstage crew’s job to figure out what to do about it in that moment, especially if the prop will be needed later in the performance. For me, this synthesis of careful coordination and quick improvisation is one of the things that makes being backstage for The 39 Steps both an intense and intensely rewarding and enjoyable experience.

The clock reads 6:01 as I enter the mainstage door. I make brief stops at the sign-in sheet and green room and then start on the pre-show checklist. This consists of making sure the right props are onstage for the top of the show and the correct footlight is in place and “where did those biscuits go?” and the battery for the lamp is plugged in and “really, what happened to the shortbread?” and all of the money is in the right pockets and “seriously, who would have taken something from the prop table?!?.” Phew!

Compere jacket #2, British police cape, sideburns on a headband, three stuffed sheep—this is the eclectic inventory of items I pile onto my arm before heading to stage left to do final checks on the coat hooks and prop tables. “Fifteen to places.” We look over the stage one last time. Everyone makes sure the lamp works, independently of one another. No wonder the battery goes so fast. “Ten to places.” Water bottles are filled. “Five to places.” Are the safety lights on? “Actors in places and….

Here we go!” During the performance, it stays as busy backstage as it was before the show. My notes to myself, verbatim, often look something like the following: “Assist change to milkman SR (stage right), then hightail it to SL (stage left) with trench coat and bring compere jacket #1, dropping off clown hat along the way. Make sure sunglasses are in right pocket. Prepare coat with cape, take milkman costume quietly from Tristan, and assist Katie’s change to salesman SL. Then get to dressing room pronto for Bristol’s change to Pamela.” Yes, indeed, there’s certainly plenty to do and the pedometer in my phone doesn’t rest often.

Collaboration is key; this is especially evident in the middle of the show. A play itself is a giant feat of collaboration and the backstage crew is a smaller collaboration within the larger. Sometimes one action will involve many members of the crew, such as the shadow screen plane scene in Act I. Other things fall into a natural sequence; after a while you begin to notice patterns, walking past the same person in the hallway carrying the same things after that one scene.

Once the intermission checklist has been completed (tea is poured, chairs are placed, rope on the banner is properly set, etc.), it’s time for Act II. “Actors in places!”  We sometimes refer to Act I as “the busy act” (it is, after all, the act where I run from “flying” a plane to trigger the fog machine and then immediately open the mid-traveler), but there are still many things to be done in the second half. Sheep must be herded positioned, flannel nightshirts must be wrestled with, and then there is what seems to and may be a matter of seconds to strike and reset the stage for the final scenes.

Curtains close, lights go up—it’s time to pre-set for the next show. This means lots of sweeping (if you’ve come to see The 39 Steps already, you’ll probably know why), tracking down errant opera glasses, or trying to attain some semblance of order in that one chaotic stash of costumes that always accrues on stage left. The post-show checklist is as important as the pre-show one, as this is the time where that one pair of sunglasses can be located before it has had time to disappear into the woodwork, seemingly of its own accord, and make you spend fifteen minutes looking for it the next day. That’s right sunglasses, you know who you are. After double-checking everything for a third time, we head out.

Kazoos, kilts, and knives—where else can you find such diversity of prop and costume? This medley is representative of the play itself, with a storyline that winds through territories from spellbinding thriller to screwball comedy to romance to a puddle on the dark Scottish moors. And now, when you catch one of the last three opportunities to attend this show (available at tickets.wicaonline.com or 360.221.8268!) and see all of the incredible onstage feats of acting, you can imagine the glorious frenzy occurring behind the scenes as well.

Opening Night, Illuminated

14 Thursday May 2015

Posted by woodzickwrites in Theatre

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acting, corset, electricity, light, opening night, OutCast Productions, play, Theatre, vibrator, Whidbey, Whidbey Island

On Friday, May 8th, at 6:25 PM, I was backstage at the fairgrounds black box theatre, getting ready to open In the Next Room (or The Vibrator Play.)

I had taken the day off of work, sleeping in until 11:00 AM and having a relaxing day. I had spent the afternoon having my hair dyed, cut, primped and styled by Chava at 2nd Street Hair Boutique.

image

At 6:25 PM, the lights in the dressing room went out suddenly. It’s an old building, so our first thought was to check the fuse box and see if a breaker had tripped. But we soon realized that we had a bigger problem on our hands.

It wasn’t just that the breaker had tripped–there had been an issue re-wiring a telephone pole on Langley Road that had caused a fire UNDER THE ROAD. Our lighting board operator hopped on his motorcycle to find out what had happened. He reported seeing scorch marks on the road, which was closed.

The cast stood backstage in varying states of undress. Those of us wearing corsets had already started the intricate process of being laced in. 30 minutes, they had told our messenger. 30 minutes, 45 five minutes tops and the power would be restored.

We waited eagerly for updates as the audience started pouring into the darkened theatre. We thought the worst case scenario would be delaying the start of the play by half an hour. We were wrong.

At 7:35 PM, our motorcycled messenger scurried down Langley Road again to see what progress had been made. The crew informed him that it would be until 10:00 PM before the power was restored.

There is a saying in theatre that the show must go on. The cast stood backstage in disbelief as one of our volunteers suggested bringing lanterns into the theatre.

“It’s a play ABOUT ELECTRICITY,” exclaimed one of the actors. “We can’t do it with lanterns.”

image

Like troops admitting defeat on the battlefield, we slowly took our corsets and other Victorian underthings off in the dimming backstage light. We would have to cancel opening night.

I’ve never had a show cancelled before. I’ve performed to audiences of ten or fewer and had wished the show had been cancelled. We were so ready to share our world of the play with the audience. We felt lost and betrayed by Thomas Edison’s creation, which is arguably a leading character in the play.

Since the power was on in the rest of Langley, most cast members decided to go to Mo’s and drown our sorrows. We took over a corner of the bar, some of us watching the Mariner’s game. And we talked. And we laughed. And we invited our other theatrical friends who we haven’t seen in weeks because we’ve been rehearsing the show.

At its best, theatre creates community and helps us discover more about what it means to be human. As we felt the very human emotions of disappointment and frustration, we were feeling them in tandem with a community of actors. We bonded.

I left the bar a little after midnight, feeling grateful for my theatre geek friends who lift me up, tease me, hug me, make me laugh and keep me sane. These people are why I live on Whidbey Island.

The next night, we opened the show to a nearly sold-out house that couldn’t stop laughing. They gave us a standing ovation. With the illumination of restored electricity came redemption. And we were ready for it!

This piece originally appeared on OutCast Productions’ blog and can be accessed here.

In the Next Room (or the Vibrator Play) runs through May 23. Get your tickets!

image

In the Next Room (or The Vibrator Play) runs through May 23. >>Purchase tickets.

For Hollie

04 Saturday Jan 2014

Posted by woodzickwrites in Poetry

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cooking, dogs, friendship, Whidbey

Our friendship
means more
than most
things
to me.

Happiness
is piling
two eager
dogs into
the back
of the car,
letting them
run while we
walk in the
ionized air.

On the crest
of Greenbank
Farm, we are
reminded that
we are on
an island,
water on both
sides of us.

This day is

all dog barks
& tennis balls

laughter &
conversation

kale & apple salad,
cauliflower mac & cheese,
topped off with slices
of rich flourless chocolate cake,
embellished with fresh
whipped cream, delivered
by your husband.

We two women,
royalty on the sofa,
sipping our beers
with pinkies up.

A day like today,
a friendship like ours:
this is why good poetry exists.

(Also, gratitude.)

 

1148915_766478813743_1574476999_n

NaPoWriMo Catch-Up, Courtesy of Hedgebrook

27 Saturday Apr 2013

Posted by woodzickwrites in Poetry, Work, Writing

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Hedgebrook, Karen Finneyfrock, NaPoWriMo, Sue Ennis, Whidbey

I had the amazing opportunity to attend writing workshops at the Hedgebrook Spring Salon today. If you live near Seattle or Whidbey Island, I HIGHLY recommend these day-long salons for women writers. You get to go deep into your writing with like-minded individuals. It’s quite stimulating and inspiring. And I’m counting these pieces that I’m sharing as enough writing to be caught up for NaPoWriMo.

My first class was with Karen Finneyfrock and was called “The Writer’s Spring Cleaning: Let the Fresh Air In.” Here’s some of what I wrote in that class:

Again, I Am Asked If I Am A Writer

I walk the paths of the 48 acres
with a golden labradoodle as my sidekick.
She smells earth, eats grass and lopes
along on the gravel road ahead.

There are writers in the cottages.
I don’t want to disturb them.
My sidekick finds an oversized
black feather that was once attached to a crow.

Our sojourn from the office to the woods
and back again takes thirty minutes.
I pour water into a large metal bowl,
bend to set it down, and the dog eagerly drinks.

Her long and friendly tongue laps up the cool sustenance.
This is the aim of life: to wanter and sniff things out
until they become uninteresting, then switch paths,
stopping to rest and recharge.

I am loathe to plug back in
to the hypnotizing glow of my macbook.
It is a necessary meditation, because
Hedgebrook is a verb as well as a noun
and people need to know about both.

My place is at the corners of the cottages,
looking in and reporting out,
broadcasting utopia to the masses.
(Hoping someday to reside inside, briefly.)
So, well, I mean, kind of, sometimes, yes.
Jewel Theatre, Center for the Arts, Luther College, Decorah, Iowa.

 

1.) Don’t major in theatre

The building and the theatre
didn’t yet exist when I
visited campus as a
16 year old high school junior.
We were crammed instead
into a conference room,
all perspective students
all possibly theatre majors.
The parents looked relieved
when the professor said:
“If you can do anything
else, do it. Theatre is a
not a vocation for the
faint of heart.”
I scowled into my
notebook. There was
promise in that land
out of which the Jewel
Theatre would be built,
uncovered, and polished.

2.) How to pray in a theatre

The empty space is holier
than church. You are an
actor. You fill it with
sound and fury, signifying
everything. You’ll need
two copies of a headshot
and resume and two contrasting
monologues: one comedic,
one tragic, one classical,
one modern–mix and match.
As you wait to audition,
recite the lines in your
head, make sure you’re
memorized by sliding
the beads around so
they come back and touch
each other. Rehearsal
is high mass and every
time a play is produced,
another angel dances and
recites a hail mary before
diving into the Riverside
Shakespeare. Be fearless,
take notes, meditate.
Come a full hour
before call time so
no one else is around
and sense the possibility.

 

 

3.) Calling the perfect show

The stage manager is God.
A director can nervously pace
in the wings (if he knows what’s
good for him.) But all hinges
on the stage manager in the booth
calling a tight show.
Light cues have numbers.
Sound cues have letters.
“Warning L23.” (breath. breath. breath)
“L23 GO.”
If the stage manager
is skilled enough,
the show becomes a rocket ship
carefully guided through
space and time
and the performances
are elevated, transcendent–
and the actors are astronauts.

4.) Framed in light bulbs

The dressing room
is where we transform.
College students come in
and fully realized characters
by Brecht, Durang, and
Wasserstein come out.
We are hippies and whores.
We tease our hair
and spread foundation
on our faces like butter:
a thick mast
so we are no longer ourselves.
Our makeup stations
set up like
Picasso’s palette,
creating something
sublime and deranged.

 

5.) Before the lights come up

Breathe deeply.
Step away from yourself.
Become the character.
Squeeze the hand of
your scene partner
(and try not to fall in love.)
Adjust your corset.
Peak from behind
the curtain.
(It’s a good house.)
Go through
all your rituals
in rapid succession.
Savoring what is about to unfold,
treating every beat
as though it has never
happened before,
as though you are
being baptized in the
story for the first time
like the audience.
Hold the space.
Complete the transformation.
Ignite the flame.

In the afternoon, I took the songwriting workshop, led by Sue Ennis. She, Anastasia Brencick, and I wrote a song together! It’s called “Cravings.” Here are the lyrics!

I wish that I could tell you
Delicate profanities
I taste cherries in my mouth
Infatuation: an incurable disease.

I see something behind your eyes
Let me tell you what you’re thinking
I’m the greatest thing you’ve ever seen
You’re going down, you’re sinking.

You can’t breath without inhaling me
And when you finally do
The air between our lips escapes
and whispers I want you.

Craving without tasting
Wanting to be devoured
Offer up your salty flesh
Sweet indulgence by the hour

My Top 10 Reasons to Attend the Hedgebrook Spring Salon

19 Friday Apr 2013

Posted by woodzickwrites in Work

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Hedgebrook, Whidbey, women, writing

The Hedgebrook garden.

The Hedgebrook garden.

The Hedgebrook Spring Salon is on April 27–here are some reasons why you (yes, you!) should attend!

 

1. You’re a writer who needs a kick in the seat of her pants to slough off the winter grey and infuse your writing with sunshine.

2. Secretly, you wished you wrote 50 Shades of Grey and will greatly benefit from an erotica workshop with Jennifer D. Munro.

3. You want to unleash your inner rock star and will greatly benefit from studying songwriting with Sue Ennis (she writes songs for Heart, people!)

4. You’re an actress who has a play inside of you, waiting to be written. Amy Wheeler can help you with that. She’s a pro.

5. You’ve dreamt of participating in a poetry slam. Karen Finneyfrock is a superhero on this front and will help you let the fresh air into your poetry and other writing.

6. The food. It’s HEDGEBROOK food. Which means it’s extra delicious because Denise made it.

7. The open mic at the end of the day. I laugh and cry every time–it’s magical to hear writers read their work after experiencing the transformative power of mere hours at the retreat.

8. The wine that goes with open mic.

9. The opportunity to be in community and conversation with other like-minded, local women writers. Network and build your tribe.

10. Because you deserve it. Nurture the writer within yourself with the radical hospitality Hedgebrook has to offer and she will do cartwheels and write some of the most profound work you have ever come up with. I promise.

Register Now: http://www.hedgebrook.org/page.php?pageid=125

Bacon: Impossible

05 Saturday Jan 2013

Posted by woodzickwrites in Musings, Uncategorized

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bacon, humor, Whidbey

Crispy_bacon_1-1-

There are many ways to cure a hangover, but shame seems to be the most effective.

Waking up at 11:50 in the morning, I slowly sat up in bed and tried to make a plan for the day.

“You know what sounds great,” I thought to myself, “A bacon breakfast sandwich and some gatorade.”

Now, this was not a higher level defcom of hangovers. This was a mild, slightly dehydrated and craving greasy food kind of hangover.

The gas station is one mile from my apartment. I weighed my wardrobe options. If there were, indeed, still breakfast sandwiches at the gas station, the likelihood of running into someone I knew was relatively low, so staying in my pajamas and throwing a jacket over was a viable option. However, if they were out of breakfast sandwiches, I would have to traverse the parking lot and go into the grocery store in search of sustenance. The likelihood of running into someone I knew would exponentially increase and wearing pajamas might not be the best choice.

I decided to risk it.

Clad in my khaki and creme striped pajamas, I drove to the gas station. I was about to get out of my car when I saw one of my bosses fueling up his Prius. I ducked down in my car for a couple of minutes until I was sure he had left, then proceeded to enter the convenience store. I grabbed my gatorade and stared woefully into the sandwich case which held a lone cheeseburger.

“I was kind of hoping to get a breakfast sandwich.”

“Yeah, well, we usually don’t have those in the afternoon.”

Touché.

I shuffled over to the grocery store, where I immediately ran into two people I knew.

“What are you shopping for?”

“Um, a breakfast sandwich.”

“It’s kind of late for that, isn’t it?”

“Yep, yep it is. I was just over at the gas station–I thought I could get one there. But they didn’t have any, so, yeah, I’m over here. In my pajamas. Heh.”

“Well, sorry you’re having a hard time finding your breakfast sandwich.”

“I’m sorry you had to see me in my pajamas.”

The deli had breakfast burritos, but not breakfast sandwiches. So I trekked over to the frozen food section. There I found frozen breakfast sandwiches: in either croissant or biscuit form, filled with either sausage or ham. But I wanted bacon. I momentarily toyed with the idea of buying bacon and deconstructing a frozen breakfast sandwich and adding the freshly cooked bacon. But this was a hangover remedy. It was supposed to be effortless.

I brought the spoils of my quest home and consumed them.

Next time, I thought, I will have bacon. I will have bacon.

The Day After Thanksgiving

23 Friday Nov 2012

Posted by woodzickwrites in Poetry

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Friends, Thanksgiving, Whidbey

 

 

The day after Thanksgiving is for sleeping.

Residual traces of tryptophan and bubbles from sparkling wine linger inside.

Last night, I had a dream

that I found a book

that told me

how to use marketing principles

to convert male friends into boyfriends.

As I reached to pull the book off the shelf

I woke up

and realized I was hungry for leftovers.

Too many steps stood between me and the kitchen

and I decided to resume dreaming.

In my haze of mashed potatoes

and cranberry sauce

I slid down a slide

made of whipped cream

and lollygagged in pools of pumpkin pie.

Thanksgiving is a day for eating and giving thanks.

The day after Thanksgiving is for sleeping.

The plaster face.

30 Tuesday Oct 2012

Posted by woodzickwrites in Fiction, Uncategorized

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dreams, Whidbey, writing

The dream is always the same.  I start by clenching the carabiner.  I am already halfway  up the steep rock face.  I gasp.  I don’t rock climb, this isn’t me, what am I doing here?!  It clicks that this is a dream.

I carefully continue my ascent.  I find upper body strength I did not know I possessed.  Higher and higher.  The sun beats down, but it’s also windy.

Two thirds up the face, I discover super-human speed.  My arms and legs sprout sinews and climbing suddenly becomes second nature.  My climbing crescendos and I am nearly at the top when I see you.

You reach out your left had, smiling.  Slowly, I reach out with my right hand, but as soon as I make contact, you disintegrate into a grotesque confetti.  I am horrified.

I try to find hand holds and foot holds, but now what once were rocks are now paper mache, plaster and sea foam candy.

I grab harder, but the more force I exert, the more quickly the landscape disappears.  And then I am falling mercilessly backwards.

This is how the dream ends.  I wake up as though I have fallen into my bed.  I check to make sure I am in one piece and slow my breathing.

My fingertips taste sugary and I turn to tell you my dream.

But, of course, the bed is empty.

 

This flash fiction prompt came from the Whidbey Island Writers Association: http://www.nila.edu/wiwa/word_well/

Finding Freud

23 Tuesday Oct 2012

Posted by woodzickwrites in Poetry

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

NPR, Whidbey, women, writing

Washington State Poet Laureate Kathleen Flenniken answers questions at the Coupeville Library.

Tonight, I got to hear Kathleen Flenniken read poetry at the Coupeville Library.  Her last poem was entitled “Coyote” and played on the two pronunciations of the word.  Which triggered this poem for me:

Finding Freud

My buoyant 10-year old self

loves to hear the sound

of her own voice.

She will read anything

out loud.

The insides of slick CD inserts,

chapters in textbooks,

synopses of television programs

found beneath the nightly

schedule in the newspaper.

Her mother is inundated

with menus of summer camps

for precocious children.

Most outside of the price range

of possibility.

10-year old me

reads these brochures out loud

to get a taste

of where her hungry mind

might go.

In a description of a class

about psychology

she sounds out “Free-oode”

(instead of Freud.)

Her mother muffles laughter,

then guffaws.

10-year old me

stops in her tracks.

Her voice crumbles.

She smiles sheepishly,

goes to her room

pretending to have homework.

***

Three years later,

I win a contest

to be a guest announcer

on a quiz show

broadcast

on Public Radio International.

I practice privately.

My mother

makes me read the script

out loud to her.

I comply begrudgingly.

The flawless end is in sight

except for tripping

on Ter-kelle.

Studs Terkelle.

My mother gently corrects

my mispronunciation.

Her eyes are kind.

“Terkel.  Studs Terkel.”

***

Oral or aural history,

it doesn’t matter

there will be these inevitable slips.

Push past them

to find greater resonance.

Every girl’s voice

deserves amplification.

Youth is not a handicap.

Gender should not be used

as a plunger mute

to surpress the timbre

of trumpeting.

The minute I did it I knew I was in trouble…

20 Saturday Oct 2012

Posted by woodzickwrites in Hedgebrook Virtual Writing Group

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breakups, Whidbey

 

The minute I did it I knew I was in trouble. This is not how it was supposed to go down.  I had ordered a vintage postcard that said: “A lobster I am and always will be, But won’t you have pity and please marry me?” I was going to wait until our one year anniversary or second Christmas or some landmark relationship milepost and with some ceremony present it to him.  We had talked about getting married and having kids.  We had even talked about some names.  But recently, he had started to show some reservations about the relationship, concerns that we were “too different,” were at “different” places in our life journey.  He started to drop hints that it wasn’t going to work out like Hansel and Gretel dropped bread crumbs.  But I was oblivious–I thought he was kidding or that I could fix it.  And it wouldn’t be until weeks later, after he broke up with me, that he would tell me he had started seeing someone else.  This happens everyday, but it was a grotesque revelation that it could happen to me.  One day, your partner wakes up, runs into a woman he knew in high school and decides that she would be better, or easier, or whatever he decides that makes him start plotting his exit strategy.  I could feel that I was losing traction in the relationship and in a moment of desperation, I riffled through my closet and brought out the postcard to show him.  With my Midwestern naïveté, I showed him the vintage postcard and looked up into his eyes hopefully.  That postcard symbolized my commitment–he would see it and remember the best of the relationship and stay.  Instead he looked uncertain, uneasy, uncomfortable.  In retrospect, in that moment, he knew for sure he was going to leave.  He mumbled something about “I don’t think I’m ready for that,” changed the subject, and we somehow made love and fell asleep.  One of our last nights together.  If I hadn’t shown him the postcard, might it have extended our last days?  Probably not.  But the minute I did it I knew I was in trouble.

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  • RT @autistichoya: I have now received paychecks from Georgetown University for the net amounts of $0.00 and $5.27. Not unrelatedly, every… 10 hours ago
  • RT @lovethylua: trans murders increased by 6% in 2020 during lockdown, reporting 2020 to be the deadliest year to be a black trans woman.… 14 hours ago
  • RT @StarFeuri: Absolutely the worst thing about Sia's Music is how it irresponsibly normalizes prone restraint- Something that many autisti… 14 hours ago
  • RT @MelBrooks: Such sad news—Cloris was insanely talented. She could make you laugh or cry at the drop of a hat. Always such a pleasure to… 14 hours ago
  • RT @OldPappyThomas: If I was a Hedge Fund losing billions to Reddit shitposters, I would get a second job driving for Uber, cut out the Sta… 16 hours ago

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