A Few New Monologues.

So I’ve been writing a lot of performance stuff recently, and a few friends have asked me to write them up monologues for various occaisions and auditions. Also, my boyfriend just broke up with me, so please ignore some of the sappy emo-ness of some of them. It happens.


Monologue 1:

Okay, so, listen. I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right. Three of these and your collection is complete. But what if I told you that right now, I am willing to throw in a vintage 1987 yankee? And not just any Yankee, either. I’m talking a vintage, never before touched by human flesh Willie Randolph. The most acclaimed infielder of the ’87 season. Batting average .305, salary, $900.000  big ones. And all of this can be yours if you just ask my sister to the dance. Look, I know she’s not that smart. Or pretty, but she really wants to go. Last year she was sick and the year before that she had a broken arm and so this is her last chance at getting to go to the Starry Enchantment Under the New York Pyramids Dance. I’m on the committee, Mrs. Flynn said there wasn’t a budget for new decorations since the gym needs repairs and so we just pulled from storage but anyway, listen, Ricky. You’ve known me for a long time, I’m an honest guy. I’m fair. What if I threw in a 1980 Bobby Sprowl? Best pitcher the Astros ever had. Three seasons, not one error. Mint condition, Ricky. Mint. And I will include, in this once in a life time deal, this bag of Twizzlers. Cherry, Ricky. Cherry. Just please. Ask my sister to the dance or Mom says I’m grounded.

Monologue 2:

So there you are. And there he is. And then, suddenly, he’s not. And you’re sitting there and you’re thinking “what the fuck” because that’s all you can think and meanwhile everything around you is moving at the speed of light and you’re stuck in slow motion trying desperately to catch up, but you know that everything is going to be different by the time you get there. That’s what it’s like. Or something like it, I suppose. It’s different maybe, for others. A new series of factors: how long, how much, how little, that sort of thing. But in the end, you’re left with just you and this world that keeps on spinning no matter how desperately you wish it would stop for just one moment, just to let you catch your breath and figure out what the hell happened, where it went wrong, catch everything before it falls apart. But that’s not how the world works. No matter what we do, it just keeps moving. So we have to keep up. You have to keep up.


Monologue 3:

My neck hurts in the evenings and it is then that I miss you most. Not you–I stopped missing you before you were gone. Somewhere between your immeasurable sadness and my desperate need and inability to fix you, I ceased in caring because I couldn’t care enough. I couldn’t love you enough to fix you, so I forced myself to let go, because I knew in the end, it was coming. Which, I suppose, is what led to the end. So I have resolved not to miss you. But I miss your touch. Your arms, the sweat of your forehead–I miss you. Not you. Your person. The bits and pieces that I can recall when I shut my eyes. Your breath on my neck, me holding on desperately and knowing I’d have to let you go eventually. There was such beauty in those moments. Hope. A hope that maybe things would work out, that the fates would collide and the stars would allign and suddenly, you would be okay. You would be okay. Things might work for me, just this once. I knew they wouldn’t from the beginning. But still I hoped. I wanted it to. I think I needed it to. So I don’t miss you. I miss what we could have had.

Monologue 4:

There is this moment, just before the dawn, when the stars shine down and watch as the world vibrates its way to a new morning. There’s always been something about that moment. The way the whole world seems to stop and the stars hold their breath, waiting for that great rebirth. This sudden perfect stillness that gives way from velvet black  into the magnificent golden dawn. It’s as if we’re given a chance, another turn–as though nothing bad could happen because all of the energies of the universe are focused on creating the new day. Anyway, after he–after– I realized that that stillness is just the stars holding their breath,hoping that just for one night no such–abominations will occur under their timeless watch. Unfortuanately for those celestial beings, the men of earth strike at night. They use that perfect stillness to muffle screams and silence cries, and they use that beautiful velvet blackness to sneak away unseen night after night after night. It’s then that the dawn comes, but I know better.  And that, Daniel, that is why I write. To make sense of such beauty in an ugly, ugly world.

Dr. Phil

Dear Dr. Phil:

I don’t normally write letters. I have a natural aversion to drama if it’s not written by Mamet or Shakespeare and I don’t feel the need to clutter the in boxes of television personalities with my opinion, because lets face it, you will probably never read this letter.

However, yesterday on your show you said something that resulted in an outcry from a fair number of my friends (and several interesting phone calls). You see, I am one of the terrible members of society that you mentioned on your show–you know, the ones who don’t deserve friendship–the girls over 21 who have blue hair.

Fortunately for me, my friends are far more open minded then you are and were quick to assure me that they were, indeed glad that they had chosen me for a friend.

You see, my friends realize that I am more than just a hair color. I make the best chocolate chip cookies you’ve ever had and I can build you a set or fix your car. I am a writer and slam poet, and actor, musician, artist, director, computer programmer, video gamer and much, much more. The fact that my hair happens to be blue has absolutely no bearing on my worth–it merely means that I happen to really, really like the color blue. And it makes me look good.

I am not a menace towards society. I am employed by a Catholic high school and several other businesses at which I split my time between working and going to college. I’m a senior this year, and I’ve maintained a 3.6 or higher for my entire scholastic career (not to mention the straight a’s I got in high school). I am a scholarship recipient and am very blessed in both my professional and personal life. My mom approves of my hair color, as do the members of the church that I attend (and they even let me sing in the choir–imagine that) and the students that I work with.

Defining anyone based on ill-conceived perception–whether it be someone with a different hair color or someone with a different skin color–is wrong. Next you’ll tell me I should only choose white people to be friends with, or stop calling my disabled friends because they aren’t worth my time.

I have always believed that everyone has value and everyone has a story to tell. I have met fantastically interesting people from all walks of life by living by this simple motto–and I have never regretted a single interaction, whether it be from a soccer mom or a guy with hundreds of tattoos. Thanks to my involvement in theater (and my blue hair), I have met all sorts of people of all different ages and different backgrounds and personalities. I have had amazing conversations with Wal-Mart checkers and high powered attorneys who have stopped me to ask me about my hair.
I refuse to believe that I shouldn’t be friends with some of them because of how the look or whatever silly rules you might have about who you pick and choose your friends to be.

Lumping a group of people together to be written off as not worthy of friendship is terrible, but for something as trivial as an alternative hair color is absolutely ridiculous and reflects poorly on you. You should know that the most interesting guests are those with a unique story or talent to share–I have loads. I just happen to wear one of my most unique qualities on my head. And my friends are okay with that. And I am proud to be “that girl with the blue hair”, because as long as I keep meeting interesting people, I can keep making new friends.

Sincerely,
Catie Osborn

Amsterdamn Column (Published October 18, 2008)

So far, everything in England has been amazing. We’ve traveled a bit, seen the sights, but it wasn’t until last weekend that we decided to finally take the plunge and do some real European exploring. And what an adventure it was.

We decided on Friday that we were going to try and make it to Munich in time for the last weekend of Oktoberfest. So we hopped on a train to Liverpool, then from Liverpool to London. All good. There was a moment when an angry ticket agent asked us where we wanted to go. I said, “Munich”.

“You want to go WHERE?”

“…Munich?”

“NOT FROM HERE YOU’RE NOT!”

We were at the wrong station. We needed to go down the street…but I refused to leave the station until I got my picture taken in from of Platform 9 and ¾. It was probably one of the best moments of the trip.

After a quick visit to a pub to… warm up… we discovered that all of the trains from London to Germany were booked. So, on the spur of the moment, it was decided that we would go to Amsterdam instead. We bedded down for the night in the train station which, at the time, was a balmy 37 degrees. After making friends with a French guy named Thomas and getting asked out by three Spanish college students, our train finally arrived and we took off for Amsterdam bright and early and hating the world.

Upon our arrival, we were asked at customs why, particularly, four American college students would have the desire to go to Amsterdam. I told him: “the architecture, of course”.

The trip was fairly uneventful. I had never been so glad for the things my mom has taught me, nor have I ever been so glad that my mother was 2000 miles away. After spending an exciting day…looking at architecture….we got ready to head home. It was then that the trip took an interesting turn for the worst. The train workers in Belgium, where we had come from, were on strike, and because of this, the trains were running at odd times and being rerouted. We were stuck, at least temporarily, for the night in Amsterdam.

Finally, after nearly being robbed by an unscrupulous innkeeper (who would only have been creepier if his name was Norman Bates), we wound up in a respectable hotel with a courteous staff , hot water and clean towels–all things the previous choices charged extra money for.

After taking the early train out, we made a horrible discovery. We had been sold the wrong tickets for the train ride home, and because of the train strike, the trains were booked through to next week. We visited three different ticket agents, we still hadn’t gotten anywhere. The only thing we had been told was that all the seats were booked and that if a seat opened up, we would have to pay an additional 75 Euros per ticket. Not an option. We were still stuck, and I was terrified.

It was at this moment, stranded in Belgium, tired, hungry, broke and completely lost that I realized the seriousness of my situation. It was also the moment I remembered that I was a theatre major who can cry on cue.

We rode home, for free, in first class.

Lies, dorm rooms, the media and you

It’s my favorite time of year—back to school. The ads are out, the commercials are playing, and there is fear in the heart of every mother. Today, in the interest of every parent everywhere, I would like to discuss with you the lies the media tells you about what you need for college, and what you will actually need.

 

Lie #1: Matching everything. Every ad is the same—a beautifully coordinated dorm room with matching sheets, towels, blankets, rugs and accessories. You don’t need them. Trust me. Your towels and sheets will be stained and disgusting by the end of the year no matter how often (or how little) you wash them. Don’t bother getting the pretty

towels or those sheets. Your towels will inevitably end up in a sodden heap on the floor, and your sheets will become wrinkled, if they even stay on your bed at all. Get something basic and something that you don’t mind being having unspeakable acts done to. The same goes for rugs. You will never wash your rug. As much as you swear up and down that you will be responsible and wash your linens, you won’t. You will realize half way through the year that your dwindling supply of quarters could be better spent on food (2 ramen for .25 equals 8 meals for the price of a load of laundry, kids.) rather than on producing cotton-y fresh goodness for that little square of cotton that lives on the floor. Your towels, rugs and sheets will be spilled on, trodden over and generally mistreated for the better part of a year. Just get something cheap and bright and call it a day. Don’t get emotionally attached. I recommend burning at the end of the year.

     Decorative pillows seem like a good idea at the time. But trust me—after the 15th time of tripping over them as you fall into bed, they will be chucked into a corner and there rest for the duration of the year.

 

Lie #2: Stupid accessories. I don’t know what evil person came up with all of those stupid little desk organizer thingys they sell in various and assorted bright dorm-y colors, but here is my tip: don’t buy them. Baskets, boxes and bags and invaluable to you, but a stand-up book organizer will be used exactly twice: once on the first day of school when you proudly arrange your books on your desk, and then again as a doorstop and/or balancing stand for your PS2. You will not use paperclips or rubber bands enough to warrant little baskets for them in your desk. Instead, get a stapler. And tape. You will never have enough tape. And having a stapler means that you can be the kid who shows up prepared to class, instead of having to frantically search for one 15 minutes before your midterm is due.

 

Lie #3: An expensive computing/gaming/electronics/sound system. No one in the history of college has ever actually bought the ridiculous array of electronics that some stores try to peddle to innocent newbies. You do not need surround sound in your dorm. Trust me. You might like being able to “really feel like you’re in the movie, dude”, but the beat-down that your next door neighbors will provide about half way through semester one isn’t worth it. Also, buy a durable laptop. You might treat your laptop like it’s a newborn, but that won’t matter when your idiot roommate spills his beverage all over it at 2AM before your final paper is due. Invest in the warranty. It’s worth it.

 

Stay tuned for the next part of this two-part series. Next week: Dorm Dining and What Not To Wear.