Yesterday I got the first rejection letter from everything I sent out in November and December last year, so it's official -- the Februaries are off to a running start! Nothing like rejection, low self-esteem, and an inner voice saying that the only way your name will be in fucking lights is if they bury you with a neon tombstone to make you feel like, if the earth had a shoulder, it would shrug you off like the annoying bug you are.
Other examples of the Februaries: I'm at The Bitter End last night when this guy wearing a chckered cap leans over and says:
GUY IN CHECKERED CAP: Hey, do I know you?
ME: Not unless you know a lot of unproduced playwrights.
Ninety minutes later they announce a special guest, and up to the stage goes the guy in the checkered cap. Turns out he was Garland Jeffreys. This is what the Februaries does to me. It's the month when I'm guaranteed to make a snarky comment about the Schubert Organization while a Schubert is sipping wine at the next table.
And it's also February 2nd! And you know what that means -- today's the day when, if Anne Hathaway sees her shadow, we have four more weeks of Oscar speculation. That's right, Oscar noms come out today.
More on all this later, because really, what's a depressed writer stuck in a soul-destroying day job to do except escape into a discussion of why Avatar is the coming of the apocalypse, why Kathryn Bigelow is like Victoria Woodhull, and why Nine should be retitled "Four, With a Six Point Five From The Russians."