Do You Make the Same Writing Mistakes Over and Over? Try This.

Nice tip for those who write words their livelihood depends on.

Do You Make the Same Writing Mistakes Over and Over? Try This..

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How to play Neko Atsume

TR PETERSON. It’s a catlady walkthrough!

I wish this day would never end

I made a FAQ for some common questions I’ve come across recently! Please let me know if you have any additional questions or if you spot any mistakes.

Updated 5.26.2015: Minor updates with some frequently asked questions and a table with items and their translated names.

Also, if anyone is interested, there will be a character book for Neko Atsume that will be released on June 12.

If you have any more questions for me, please feel free to leave a comment! I’ll do my best to help you. (Because of some comments I received, I should clarify that I’m in no way affiliated with the developer and only translated bits and pieces of the game!) Also, if you can, please take screencaps if you have a question with text or something! It’ll be easier for me to understand what you’re talking about ;w;

Related posts: Neko Atsume walkthrough

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Jill Soloway adapts “The Rules” for women directors in Hollywood: you must cry at work

I love this statement and want to marry it and make manifesto babies with it. Then I want to lick it all over like the Jello Pudding Pops that Cosby ruined for me until they are restored to their former mass consumer dessert glory. After that, I’ll set fire to all the things I believe I can’t want because I’m not allowed to have them, and end it all with a GIANT FUCK YOU, I CAN.

Rain on the roof – My week in Comedy

I spent the weekend sleeping and finally feel like a person. That flu was awful and rendered me useless for a lot of the last two weeks.

Finally, I’m feeling human.

Jimmy Dugan was wrong: you can cure the clap with antibiotics; avoid the flu!

I rifled through a journal yesterday and found a great joke. I’m adding it to my set. I’m working on more material. I’ve almost figured out 3-year-old activist.

Last week I saw Ted Alexandro’s week at the Creek performance. It was an hour of new material. Some seriously political. Seeing Ted’s set reminded me of my preferences in standup and answered some questions I raised a couple of weeks ago.

  1. Breathing room
    • The audience needs time to think and process what you said.  If you’re throwing something tough at them, give them a moment to hear it.
    • Shit sandwich, that’s all I’m saying. The center can be a statement that will become a joke you just haven’t found quite yet if you’re talking long enough.
    • Funny observations around the serious observations makes the seriousness pop and seem more important.  Both are funny.
  2. Important points
    • See shit sandwich. It doesn’t matter if it’s funny. Sometimes you just need to say it.
  3. Saying what’s important to you
    • The core of everything I create.
  4. Saying what’s funny to you
    • The core of comedy, an intricate dance for me since I’m super serious. Thanks therapy for the seriousness!  Now I take my feelings seriously!

Directing, Creative Freedom, and Vandalism

I love to reinterpret writers work, but there’s a line that ought not to be crossed.

Bitter Gertrude

From endlessorigami.com From endlessorigami.com

Once upon a time I worked at a theatre that received two cease-and-desist orders in two seasons– one for copying dialogue from a Disney film word-for-word and performing it without permission, and one for rewriting the lyrics to Godspell. The artistic director of the company told me, “The New Testament is so boring! Stephen Schwartz would have LOVED what we did with it if he had seen it. Ours was SO MUCH BETTER.” She then proceeded to tell me that she had learned her lesson, and asked me to write a commission contract for a playwright that would give her “total artistic control” over what the playwright wrote. “It’s my idea to adapt [name of book she didn’t write nor for which she possessed the adaptation rights] into a musical, so I own it.” Instead of writing her contract, I quit.

Around this same time, Boxcar Theatre…

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Starting Over without the Expectation of Anything

I’ve been taking improv at UCB since last summer.  I go slow because I can’t afford to go fast.  I’m old. I have bills. I find it challenging.

I really loved my first class, and enjoyed the second. Met some nice people who were fun for the time. I met some people that may be around in the future.

It’s odd going to class when you reach the age that you longer imagine you’ll have your discovery moment and become the next…Gilda Radner or Kristen Wiig or Maya Rudolph.  I find myself surrounded by 20-somethings who are changing the course of their lives for it. I did that. I’m a secretary.

Clearly, I chose wisely. More wisely than a Nazi faced with a 1,000 year old knight but less wisely than, say, my friend with an MBA.

My boss likes to point out that I’m so much more than my job title, but my title is actually less powerful than the usual admin title. I’m a modern day secretary who uses excel; I’m not even an Administrative Assistant. That takes a psychic toll, the powerlessness.

Anyway, learning at this point in my life becomes much more about the process. It’d be weird to make a herald team or a house team, since it’s neither my aim, nor what I’m carefully planning.  I no longer carefully plan. I just try to have fun and feel alive for a minute. I’m both impressed by drive and repulsed by it. I vaguely remember my own drive in my early 20s and I missed as much life as I lived.

Mostly, I wish I could find that spot to relax and work and just learn. It’s hard when you’re surrounded by people who imagine they could & would & might…and fuck it…you just want to be better with people you can enjoy–building random fleets of beavers–without considering a career move, or whether someone will get me to the next place on the grand linear climb to fame.

That shit’s nonlinear. The next spot is not leading naturally at all to the next thing. 201 only leads to 301 in school. It makes me wonder, though, what I want and for now it’s to be better at improv.

For standup, I want to get fucking amazing at it.

No pressure.

Random notes from a workshop two weeks ago:

Marry yourself to the choice.

Don’t doubt it.  Stick to it.

Play the game, move on, play the game again.  Music, rest, music.

The game is the butterfly of the scene. It’s the first laugh. Grab it and run with it together.

Don’t argue; turn it into a positive for your position.

If you argue, because that’s what happens in reality, move on, come back to the premise underneath it.

Heighten the premise of the joke of the scene…the game of the scene.

I am fraglie. (It’s Italian.)

So, for three straight weeks, I’ve been doing stand up on Sunday night. Open mics, a class show. My joke writing is picking up speed. My ideas come faster. Not everything sounds like depression on tap.

I sigh with relief.

I worry.

I have 2 acts of a 3 act play written and its intense. I have to finish it this month. Cripes.

I fret.

This is the time of the year the sucks my soul dry.

I budget.

And through it all I mutter, “Why didn’t I get a degree in business?”

Then I look at that picture and go, “Oh, obvi…”

****

When I did my set, I did the best stuff from Sue Smith’s class show, and made a few changes – tightened it up here and made certain things more specific. Things got much better laughs.

Things like a joke about sexual abuse.

Things got weird feeling. I’m wondering as I tighten things up if I should insert other jokes into that line of jokes. Neither I, nor the audience, should feel like we’re married to Floyd Mayweather. Manny.  Why do boxers have names from 1956?

or Clifford Odets?

I felt exposed.

I felt fragile.

Power through or Decompress?

****

Anyhoo. Here’s to a Sunday filled with improv practice, joke writing and an open mic. This is now my DAY.

And a Saturday at the park with music and friends. Equally important.

And the dentist.

I DO WANT TO HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT MY TEETH AT–AND DURING–69.

ETA: My mom liked this post and then unliked it, I think she got the 69 joke.

Hi-Ho, the Glamorous Life: When Your Politics and Your Artistic Tastes Collide

Thoughts to ponder…

San Francisco Theater Pub

Marissa Skudlarek continues the Marissa Skudlarek Chronicles.

The current Broadway revival of The Heidi Chronicles will be closing this weekend after 80 performances. After the show announced its plans to close, The New York Times published an article analyzing why it might have flopped so badly. Much of the article discusses whether this play about a Baby Boomer woman speaks to women of younger generations, particularly those in “the lively world of online feminism.” (The fact that younger women just plain don’t pay attention to Broadway plays as much as older ones do only merits a parenthetical. Look, I’m doing it again!) Overall, the article implies that whether or not you like The Heidi Chronicles is a matter of whether or not you agree with its feminist politics – though with the added twist that, in the 21st century, many self-proclaimed feminists have trouble with the play’s message.

Well, I…

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Sex. On. Legs. Part 3 – 101, Day 7

Today’s Prompt: Write a post based on the contrast between two things — whether people, objects, emotions, places, or something else.

Today’s twist: write your post in the form of a dialogue.

This is a continuation of these posts:  Part 1 and Part 2

Champagne

The best choice I made all reception? The stolen bottle of semi-decent champagne cooling in my hotel ice bucket. On my second glass, my mood is much brighter. Maybe it’s the release of the tension of the party. It’s hard to spend a day worried someone will reference a past that I’ve put as far behind me as possible. I can’t recall feeling this uncomfortable in my skin. It’s just having this time of my life in front of me.

Class failure.  That’s me. Images and humiliation race through my head for a moment. It’s hard to fail at something that means so much to you. It’s hard to forgive…me.

All my champagne bubbles pop at once and I move to change the channel and find a RomCom to distract me. I flip channels with the agility of an office worker who spends their evenings relaxing with the boob tube. I’m no social commentator, but maybe some funny tweets during a live broadcast to feel creative and like a creative.

Like the people at the party I can hear outside.

I look at the silly, expensive shoes, my fancy dress in the bride’s color. At least it was my choice and not a total waste of money. My hard earned secretarial dough. I slug some more champagne to get the bubbles back in my head.

“Champs,” I giggle. For a second I picture the fussy, perfectionist Real Housewife who nicknamed champagne, champs, judging my life. “I think you need less of an onion ring life and more of a champs lifestyle,” myself as Heather DuBrow declares. I giggle hysterically.

The bus leaves at 12pm tomorrow and it’s 8pm tonight. This is gonna be a long night if I’m making bad housewives jokes and laughing at them. I send out texts to my favorite friends, the folks apart of my current life.

I see it then. A sheet of semiburned paper someone must have slipped under the door in the last few minutes. I’m fairly certain it’s my letter, but I’m hoping not. My letter should have burned up in the bonfire.

I stare at it as I walk up.  Bits of it are gone, but it is a fragment of my letter.

I love you….but that would…make you miserable…do not return my feelings…kindness and distance. We…again…wish you the best…life.

I hear my voice and I am screaming with the horror, “Oh my god, why isn’t this burned up??”

“Oh my god, who brought this to me?!?” That hits me harder. Holy hell, who saw this shit?

“I don’t know why I found it. I never knew it was a love letter.” HIS voice. From the outside of my hotel room. He is standing in the hallway by my door.

“Of course you found it.” I slide down the door in dread. “Oh course, you did.”

“It came to me, Jules.” No, his voice is down here. He’s leaning on the other side of the door, this cheap thin door that doesn’t feel as solid now that I am listening through it.

“It was so many years ago.”

“You’re the one hiding in your room.”

“I don’t belong here. Ry. I was so happy to be included that I didn’t think about how I’d feel going backwards.”

“How is a wedding going backwards?” His tone accuses me of stupidity.

“I’ve made a life that doesn’t include anyone here…I don’t think it could.”

“Then you should have turned it down and stayed away, like you always did.” His voice is moving, irritated and dismissive, as he stands.

“Ry! Why did you bring this letter to me?” I scramble to open the door enough to see him as I lean against the doorframe.

He turns and looks down at me. Confused, drunk, a little tired. “I guess I hoped you’d grown.” He turns and takes a step away.

For the first time, I react, not in anger, but in my own truth, “I did grow. I just grew in a different direction.”

He never turns. The only sign he heard is the noticeable shrug of his shoulder and the pause in his stride.  I watch my first love walk away from me, for good this time. After all this time, I can finally accept he never felt anything for me; and that relieves me. I stare at the elevator doors for a long while.

“I need bubbles.”  That’s when I notice; he left an offering. “Fuck the glass.”

I start drinking a near full bottle, laughing at the texts my friends back home are sending me. New York City life, not a soul has a car. The party and people and the past recede until I nod off in the doorway.

The next morning everything hurts. The empty bottle and dead cell phone are all tucked underneath me, an uncomfortable bed. I find the remains of the letter cluthced in my hand:

I love you…and…wish you the best…life.