This show is– I mean… there aren’t words. It has taken me 3 years of blogging to mention Starlight Express because it is nearly impossible to describe the tragic magnificence of this show. I WISH I liked it ironically, because then I’d be cool and hip and surely get invited to a bunch of artsy dance parties. But I honestly LOVE this piece of shit musical, right down to my bones. I love it like a child loves a retarded parent.

Before I go on, let me be clear - I am talking about the ORIGINAL LONDON production of the show. Every other production is pure crap - they later made it more of a kid’s show by taking out a lot of the weird adult stuff, and good songs. BOO!!

First of all, the show is about trains, so all the actors are on rollerskates. There are racetracks extending throughout the theater, and the stage is full of moving & revolving platforms. Yes, rollerskates AND moving platforms. WTF, right? Good lord, is this show amazing. Pyrotechnics, blacklights - it’s like the production designer was thinking “that Miss Saigon helicopter can suck my dick!”

The story is about a big train race, and Rusty, the little steam engine who hopes to win it. But, he’s just a little steam engine! There’s no way he can win! Unless of course he is the prophesied messiah train, The Starlight Express. Yeah, there is a messiah train. Oh, also all the engines are fucking the passenger cars, who look like sexy robot barbies. Rusty is much nicer than most of the other asshole engines, so he is hoping to get the newest passenger car, Pearl, to race behind him (read: fuck) but she is white, and he is black. I AM SO SERIOUS YOU GUYS! They are TRAINS with racial issues.

Now, twenty years later, I am still not sure what kind of car Pearl was supposed to me. The other sluts coaches introduce themselves with verses like:

My name’s Ashley - I’m the smoking car
I tried to quit the habit but my inside’s used to tar
I know that if I don’t give up I might choke or have a stroke
That scares me, and when I’m scared -
Boy I need a smoke.

Or:

Buffy at your service - ever open wide
My microwave is cookin’ to warm you from inside
A lotta locomotion will do the trick
Come and bite my burgers
I’m hot and cheap and quick

But Pearl’s cryptic introduction is:

My name’s Pearl, I’m a brand new girl,
my springs still bounce my fans still whirl
Ain’t gonna smoke, ain’t gonna drink
**What are you gonna do?**
Whattaya think?!

Wait, what? I still don’t know! WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO?? Is it dirty? As I child I assumed this meant she was the sexing car, but couldn’t find a punny justification in her name. In later productions they cleared it up by writing “Observation Car” on her costume. I am still confused.

The secondary plot is about Dinah, the dining car, who used to sleep with the deisel engine, Greaseball, before he started constantly trying to date rape her friend Pearl. Dinah is desperately trying to get Greaseball back, but he dumps her again - leaving her a dirty used up service car with terrible self esteem. She sings:

Was I corroded? Or overloaded?
Maybe I shamed him. Who would have blamed him?
If he thought me second class - went in search of chrome and brass.
Went to find some other fool like me.

But don’t worry - Greaseballs sidekick, C.B., is in love with Dinah. His song “There’s Me” is legitimately one of the most pathetic and touching songs in Andrew Lloyd Webber’s cannon. It’s about loving someone even though you know that you’re not the person they hoped would love them. Or the train they hoped would love them. Whatever.

Oh, also, there’s a rapping bisexual eletric train with a mohawk, who freaks everyone the fuck out.

Anyway, spoiler!! Guess who the Starlight Express really is!

YouTube Direktvideo link

(Please excuse Rusty’s whiteness - in later productions they took out the racial tension and started casting Rusty white. But his Poppa always remained black because, I mean…did you hear him say “powah with you…just believe in yoself…”? It’s locomotive song of the south.)

(Oh man, that clip made me cry a little, you guys. What? Yeah, I still live alone with a cat, why?)

I CANNOT reccommend this show highly enough. Is that because I first saw it as a 10-year-old child - it’s primary fanbase besides Germans? Probably. So what? I read Little Women as a kid - are you going to tell me that’s a shitty book?

At the very least, there is no half-assing in Starlight Express - they pull out ALL the stops - and that’s not something you can say for every musical. Just try watching this clip without thinking that Mama Mia should be ashamed of itself.

YouTube Direktvideo link

I’m doing another show in LA, and I’d be great if you came! In fact, if you don’t I might just be performing for a scuttingly heap of ketchup packets and rat babies. I want to work for humans!

“Both in her writing and in her nuanced performance, Skinner wrenches humor from awkward circumstances and cringe-inducing comments….you will love her.”
- Time Out New York

“She absolutely owns these characters: each one is deeply flawed but her performance is polished like a diamond. And the scenes are gut-bustingly hilarious, filled with truly memorable moments. ”
- RichmondVATheater.com

“Shameless is not to be missed … it’s hilarious and heartbreaking, and you’ll know that soon you can turn to your friends at a party and say “yeah, I saw her back when …””
- AndIAmNotLying.com

Tuesday, July 8th

8:00pm - 9:00pm
Comedy Central Stage at the Hudson
6539 Santa Monica Boulevard (cross street Hudson Ave b/t Highland & Vine)
Los Angeles, CA
Absolutely Free
****Reservations Required****
To RSVP, please call 323.960.5519
Street and Lot Parking Available

Photo by Anya Garrett

Tonight I Eat Pandas will be singing some songs, making some smiles, and changing some goddamn lives at Sweet. Why not make your life one of them?

Sweet
*hosted by the lovely and talented Seth Herzog*
The Slipper Room

197 Orchard Street (at Stanton)

8:30pm - $5

Just a lion.

I have been zipping through Orson Scott Card’s “Ender’s Game” books over the past few weeks (well, up until I got to Xenocide - yeesh! Snooze city, right dorks?) I mostly read on the subway or crouching in the corners of public restrooms, and I’ll tell you - people just can’t stop talking to me about all the “hidden meanings” and “Jesusy stuff” in these books. The same thing happened when I reread the Narnia series a few years ago - every asshole in the world wanted to make sure I knew they were all secretly about Christ and isn’t that super lame.

Here is how I feel about that: *fart*. I don’t care! So what?

All that proves is that the Bible contains some good stories, it doesn’t magically trick you into believing them as truth. Big surprise - Joseph Campbell could have told you that. Sure, these books bring up questions and make you ponder things like faith, betrayal, and leadership, but so does The Girls Next Door, and I don’t think that is making anyone more religious. Plus, the inspiration for a story doesn’t define it. If it did, Alice in Wonderland would be illegal.

I think the only reason to worry about that stuff is if you are so weak minded that you fear that you’ll unwittingly get brainwashed. Which is the exact reason I have never ironically read dianetics or spoken to a scientologist (beyond yelling “The power of Christ compels you!” as I push over their ‘free stress test’ stations).

YouTube Direktvideo link

If only it were real.

I am fascinated by my co-workers hair, or more accurately, their hairstyles. For the most part, it’s not actually their hair - or, it is, but in the sense that they have reciepts for it. Most of my co-workers are black women, and the break room is like a hair show. Their hair changes quickly and drastically - one woman just sprouted tawny blonde dreads overnight - while mine remains shoulder-length, tangly, and stinking of alcohol (partly my fault, I suppose) every day.

I was one of 3 white girls in my high school (actually, after Crystal Peters got in a tragic car accident with her boyfriend, 8-ball, one of 2) and was similarly fascinated with my friends’ hair back then. Honestly, calling them “my friends” is a stretch, but there is no good term for “the handful of girls on my bus who DIDN’T beat me up for being nerdy, white and a year younger than everyone.” None of them knew my name, but instead called me “white girl” and later, “funny white girl” - a term I am still pathetically proud of.

I lurked at the back of the bus, listening raptly to their complaints about relaxers and the hours (hours!) spent at the beauty shop getting perms and braids and incredibly ornate weaves, or about sleeping sitting upright so as not to crush a multi-layered hair fiasco. There was no way I was ever going to pull off wearing glitter and fingerwaves - I was lucky if I remembered to wash my hair more than once a week. (When I say “nerd” it’s not in the cute “I was such a gawky teen” super-model way. I was disgusting. I wasn’t just a National Merit Scholar, I played role playing games BY MYSELF and considered hygiene optional.) But even if I could, it sounded like a major pain in the ass.

I even tried once. I got a horrible haircut from a co-worker when I was 22, after he told me used to be “famous for hair” in Miami. (I actually let him cut my hair using only a cigarette lighter, because I was retarded until I was 25…or 28. Or about a month ago, really.) After a few days of hiding I found a place near the Queensborough Bridge that did hair weaves for cheap. Half-way through the truly painful process, as I imagined myself going bald from the tight braids and all the upkeep my new plastic hair was going to take, I started to panic. I jumped out of the chair babbling “I am not the type of person who can get a weave! I can’t do this!” and, crying, bought a lot of barrettes and waited.

But wigs - that’s a whole different story! Wigs take no time or commitment! I can be just like these ladies at work - a new me every day! I don’t have to worry about which haircut will make me look fat or manly! Now I can just slap on a…um…no. No I can’t.

My people cannot wear wigs. With white people, wigs signify disease, insanity, or othodox judaism. They are dirty secrets, hiding something, usually something very bad. White people see wigs as lies, and no one wants to walk around with lies on their head. There is no way I could wear a wig around without people interrupting every conversation with “so, um…a wig, huh? Are you ok?” No one would say that to a black woman in a wig, except an asshole or a white person.

But what if we’re not trying to fool anyone, but just have some fun with a goddamn wig?What is wrong with us, white people?? Can’t we just chill out and enjoy an accessory or two? Quit making fun of Britney’s wigs and Tyra’s wigtape - they know we know they’re wearing wigs! Who cares? Once we remove this wig stigma (go ahead, say it, you want to - wigma) we all benefit - especially bald dudes. Glennis put a picture of us in wigs on the internet and IMMEDIATELY a stranger asked to fuck me. That never happens with my real hair. This kind of attention can be ours, white people! Wigs are our land of milk and honey!

Let my people go (put on wigs)!

Originally posted 5/3/2007

Warning! Spoilers!

- the princess gets down on one knee and proposes to her Law School TA.

I would never be able to do that. I am too pushy and impatient to be a prize, but I also want to be the girl. I want to be adored and wished for by someone, but the second I get the whiff of it I knock the drink of his hand and shout “Hey, you like me! Right? RIGHT?? Let’s Karaoke! Look what I can do!!– ” Metaphorically. I mean, I can’t play “hard to get” - the closest I get is playing “previously unaware you existed, now rabid for your attention.” It doesn’t create the atmosphere for pining or poetry. I guess I’m just not the marrying type - I’m the living-in-sin type.

Which is not to say I don’t have my imaginary wedding laid out in great detail. I do. I mean, I haven’t been planning my wedding since I was a kid or anything. Instead, I spent a lot of time imagining freak school assembly accidents that would necessitate my saving the day by performing an awesome lip-synced dance routine to “Bad Boys” by the Miami Sound Machine. Or home alone, imagining surprise parties for myself to explain my lack of friends (”Surprise! Got you! We had to act like we didn’t like you for the past 3 years to set up this party! Gasp - Oh no! Katie broke her leg - can anyone lip sync?” ) I only started planning my own wedding when I started going to my friends weddings. It started as a list of Things I Would Do Differently (items #1-5: Open Bar!), but eventually I started adding other details. Assuming I’ll never actually GET married, what good is that? It’s a blog post, folks.

My Imaginary Wedding, by Eliza Skinner

1. Open Bar.
2. My groom is John Stamos. Hear me out! John has already been through one marriage, he’s humbled and realistic. Also, he clearly goes for smoking hot ladies - his last wife was Rebecca Romjim. If I’m marrying him, I am not only hot, but also the hot girl who “isn’t a bitch”. Plus, come on - everybody wants to bone Uncle Jesse! Have mercy.
3. I have a big white dress - corsetted top & tulle skirt - and John Stamos wears a white suit. The tulle underlayers of the skirt are bright turquoise. I have no more than 5 bridesmaids, and they wear Butter By Nadia dresses and cat ears. OOH - and paw mittens! Dave Coulier is not invited.
4. I walk in to “Back in Black” by AC/DC.
5. When the person officiating (who will be an astronaut. One who HAS gone into space, not a fake one.) says “I now pronounce you man and wife”, he will light flash power and produce a dove from his bible. HOW AWESOME WOULD THAT BE? John Stamos will love it.
6. The Ceremony is INSIDE & climate controlled - no bugs or sweaty hippy crap. Preferably at a museum or antique movie palace.
7. The reception is at a roller rink, where Uncle Jesse and I perform a choreographed “first dance” on golden rollerskates. After about an hour everyone can take off the skates and just dance.
8. At the reception, we have chocolate cake with buttercream icing. It should be in a novelty shape, but I will let Jesse John pick the shape. If he is indecisive, it will be in the shape of a panther wrestling a woman.
9. DJ and a coverband. NO ORIGINALS. (Unless the band is Journey.)
10. OPEN BAR.

Originally posted 5/4/2007

1. Flowers. Yes, it is that easy, and no it’s not cheesey or needy or whatever stupid thing you’re thinking. Buy a woman flowers, or better yet SEND them, and you are make her feel like something very special. Special enough to give lots of blow jobs. Cost - $10 and up.
2. To be told we are pretty. Or gorgeous. Luminous. Get creative! If the woman in question is single, she is looking for someone who thinks she’s amazing and is so attracted to her he (or she) will ravage her skillfully. Get the ball rolling by telling her you are so attracted to her (and then read up on skillful ravaging). If the woman in question is your girlfriend or wife, she has traded the compliments and possibility of ravaging from the rest of the world for you and your stained t-shirts. You better at LEAST tell her she’s beautiful, because unless she’s cheating on you, no one else is. Cost - Free.
3. Fancy/Thoughtful dates. You know what we do with friends? Grab drinks and go to movies. You know what we don’t do? Have sex with them in the bathroom during a party. Ok, well, sometimes. But for the most part if you want her to think of you as more than a friend, act like it. Man up - ask her on a real date, one you have planned, somewhere you think she might like. Nothing kills a ladyboner like the phrase “I don’t know, what do you want to do?” Like the flowers, a real date makes her feel special and what good are you if you’re not making her feel special? Cost - $0 and up.
4. Ass Grabbing. Not ALL the time. But enough to know that the ass in question is approved of and lusted after. I mean, we’ve got a lot to worry about back there - is it too big? Too small? Too flat or lumpy or wide? We don’t know! We can’t even see it! You grab it, passionately yet discreetly, and we are reassured. This is especially important if you are in any sort of long term relationship. If you’re in an LTR and you’re not already grabbing her ass regularly, you should go find your balls and figure out which of your friends she’s boning. Cost - Free.
5. To be heard & seen. Everyone wants to be understood, but that’s a tall order. Plus, sometimes the people who really understand you would be totally boring to date. You need a little difference & mystery - people don’t masturbate thinking of themselves. (Except James Woods. Don’t you think? I’m pretty sure.) Instead of worrying about total soul understanding, just let her know you see her & hear her, and notice things about her. Seriously, this can be as simple as “you wear a lot of blue” or as complex as “It sounds like people dump a lot on you because they think you’re strong. Must be tough.” Try to keep it positive, “your head is too small for your body” and “boy you talk about your cat a lot, is that because your relationships with humans are generally unsuccessful?” will not get you far. Cost - Free.
6. Surprises. Who doesn’t like surprises? Not like “birthday roast” or “cancer” surprises, obviously, but smaller benign surprises are magical. I have a friend who wistfully told me about how his mother used to surprise him with a new action figure left on his bed from time to time, for no reason other than to make him happy. He told me this 15 years after it happened. Surprises leave a special indelible imprint. Cost - $0 and up
7. Be on her side. Even if it means taking a punch. You only live once, don’t play it safe and don’t stand in the middle of the road. She’d be on your side, right? Otherwise, dump her. Cost - Free
8. A white camaro t-top with a big red bow on it. Hey man, I didn’t say “engagement ring” right? One or the other, dude, one or the other. Cost - check craigslist.

Basically, there are two rules of thumb here: be a hero, make her feel like a princess. When in doubt, do whatever will fufill either of these requirements.

Originally posted 1/5/2008 

Today, some of my best friends left for a bachelor party in Las Vegas. I am 100% terrified for them. Bachelor parties are about pushing extremes - but my friends are comedians, their boundaries are practically non-existent to begin with. Committing to taking this party all the way to Vegas pushes it into the realm of “something terrible will DEFINITELY happen”. I expect to get a call about a decapitated hooker any time between now and Monday.

I know, I have never been to a bachelor party, so how can I talk? Well, I have heard enough horrifying bachelor party stories to approach all of them with a degree of trepidation. I have friends who have done unspeakable things to women, themselves, and each other, and more than a few friendships have been ruined. No shit - one of my friends lost a ball. (Ok, that’s more of a euphamism than a literal truth, but it’s a euphamism for “got herpes from an illegal”, which is still pretty bad.) Isn’t there a way for men to bond with each other and say goodbye to their singlehood without completely raping their inner children in the process.

Basically, I think of this Vegas bachelor party the same way I think of my experience seeing the Bodies Exhibit at South Street Seaport. I looked forward to going for weeks. It was so cool and twisted -I was going to see the human body in states that most people only IMAGINE. Then, halfway through I started thinking about who these people really were before they became this exhibit, and how their parents would feel about them being displayed playing football with no skin, and why they left the eyebrows on them. By the next day I wished I could remove the part of my brain that had ever seen those things. But I can’t - I will forever have those sights inside of me, and know that I paid $50 for them to happen.

Enjoy the party! (My phone will be on.)

But, after a few years of inwardly reacting to other people’s good news with howls of “WHY DO YOU HATE ME SO MUCH GOD!?!??!” or “Oh no! They’re going to get famous without me and never invite me to parties! Or when they do invite me it’ll be weird and awkward and I’ll eat too much and cry and steal something from their bathroom.” I realized I was building a hate-diamond in my gut, one too large for even me to poop out.

As I thought about where my anxiety over my friends’ successes came from, I realized that it was almost always a panic about my own productivity. The people I was most jealous of motivated me more than anyone. Once I recognized that, I started thinking of us as members of team of asskickers - everyone pushing each other to better and better things. It made it so much more exciting every time someone did something great! It’s working! We’re winning! I started cheering for them and telling them how much I liked their work, leaving off the unnecessary “so much I want to shoot us both in the throat”.

Once that level of competition was removed, I was free to appreciate their work, celebrate their different strengths, and to learn from them. My conversations with lady comics stopped being about asshole guys, and started being about finding a good DP or which festivals to apply to. Now I am so grateful for all of them - I never would have done half of the things I’m proud of if I hadn’t had other people constantly raising the bar.

Sure, sometimes I still feel that sting of jealousy when someone else gets a job I wanted, or a review I wish I had gotten. But it quickly fades into an honest “yay for you!” as I see it as proof that a good person who works hard gets rewarded, and as I realize that no matter what, they don’t have my tits. Or my brain. And I like mine the best.