Come see me in Priscilla, Queen of the Damned!

Transylvania's only modern musical theatre group battles the undead in this uproarious mashup up of musicals and monsters. It takes a queen to fight a queen, so when the Vampire Queen next door abducts the second soprano section, a trio of cross-dressing crowd-pleasers turn hero and wage war. It's our 20th production, so we've pulled out all the stops for Priscilla. We've got fabulous costumes, beautiful princesses, spectacular dances, slapstick comedy, great drag performances, foreign accents, stairs, and beets. And of course drag queens versus vampires ... you know, for kids! The terrific score includes gems from such musicals as Legally Blonde, Shrek the Musical, and Dirty Rotten Scoundrels.

Preview - Wednesday 16, Performances - Thur 17-Sat 19thTo reserve tickets e-mail ashley.lm@ubc.ca or call 778-322-7182. Tickets are $20, and $15 for seniors, students, and children (and $15 for the preview night). All shows begin at 8:00pm.

Hooray for Aaron Sorkin.

OK, my fanatical love for Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip and, to a lesser extent, The West Wing, were reason enough to love Aaron Sorkin. However, he's now waded into the Newsweek magazine homophobia firestorm and his opinions are absolutely spot-on.



In case you haven't been following it, Ramin Satoodeh, theatre critic for Newsweek (and openly gay man) wrote a review of Sean Hayes' performance in Promises, Promises that turned into a general treatise on why gay people can't, and shouldn't play straight people. Kristin Chenowith (gossip note: Aaron Sorkin's ex as well as Sean Hayes' costar) wrote a passionate rebuttal in defense of her gay colleagues. A number of other people, including Ryan Murphy, co-creator of Glee, and Dustin Lance Black, whose acceptance speech for his screenwriting Oscar for Milk included a shout-out to all the gay kids out there, also waded into the mix. And now, Sorkin's letter. His point is - they've all missed the point. The issue is not whether Satoodeh was being homophobic, or whether gay actors have a right to play straight characters, but rather, that we've gotten to a lamentable point in society where the sexual orientation of any actor is public fare, such that it influences the way we, as the audience, view that actor's performance. He's totally right. Even I, the shameless gossip hound, know this to be true, and know as a performer how frustrating it feels to be limited in the roles you can play, and would never wish that on anyone else. Now Mr. Sorkin, please go write me a new series to be obsessed with. Thanks.

Addison Lemon

So I've been catching up on my Grey's Anatomy and Private Practice lately. I was totally into these soaps before I left for England, but while I was there, well, I pretty much didn't watch TV, so I'm catching up on a few seasons. Mostly I'm into Private Practice, because: 1) I really have a thing for Tim Daly (I know. Weird. But ever since Wings. I just can't help it.), and 2) I secretly want to be Addison Montgomery.

This woman is supposed to be "searching for herself." See? Me too. So far so good. Except while my searching for myself seems to involve a whole lot of actual real working, and maybe 5 minutes of searching when I get home at the end of the day, in between feeding my crazy cat and going to bed, and maybe getting my laundry done and catching up with friends with harried texts and the occasional email, SHE gets to be a fabulously successful "double-board-certified neo-natal surgeon" (I have concluded that this means sitting in your beautiful ocean side office and gossiping with your best friend approximately 7 hours a day), with a new hairdo every week and a seemingly endless Armani wardrobe. And she gets to kiss hot doctors week after week, never has to miss Pilates, and when things go bad in the search for self, she retires to her beach house in Santa Monica to stare balefully at the ocean while drinking red wine with her next door neighbour...uh, TAYE DIGGS.

You can see why I'm thinking being Addison Montgomery may be a better gig than being Dani Lemon. Someone get Shonda Rhimes on the phone.

Where do I go?

Where is the something

Where is the someone

That tells me why I live and die?


I have been listening to the musical “Hair” quite a bit lately as I’ve just auditioned (unsuccessfully, I’m sorry to say) for a regional production of the show. These lyrics, sung by Claude, a young American peace protester, as he wrestles with the decision over whether or not to go to Vietnam after being drafted, have struck a chord with me lately.


I never gave very much thought to what my life’s purpose was. I figured that it would become clear, eventually. Now, I find myself months away from 30, and not very sure where the something or the someone is. I am spending more and more time reflecting on how one even begins the search.


I should clear up the “someone” part first. I am an insecure person, generally. I don’t feel particularly smart, beautiful, talented, or well-liked. But somehow, by some miracle (and probably more than my fair share of mistakes along the way), I learned the lesson long ago that a “someone” couldn’t be my reason for living, the validation of my existence. I have always known deep down in my heart that a person, a relationship, could not give my life meaning, and that it was better to be alone than to be with the wrong person. That for all my “spinster sister” jokes, I am OK alone, just me. Sure, it would be lovely and wonderful to find the right person. But if I don’t find them? I will be fine. Disappointed, but whole. I have seen friends completely devalue every other part of their lives because of the absence of that “someone:” friends, careers, family, health - I have seen people literally shrug at these gifts because they did not have a relationship with which to define themselves. I feel very grateful to be so sure of myself, in this respect. I will never be desperate, I will never settle, and I will never compromise my values in order to be “loved.”


It’s the “something” that is really getting to me lately. I feel a bit like a jack of all trades, and a master of none, and this is becoming increasingly frustrating. I feel like I’m trying to match a piece to many different puzzles and never quite finding the right fit.


I know I’m a good lawyer. But I think that I might lack the drive and passion for the profession to really drive me to the top of my field. I do a good job, and I do what I need to. But I leave it at that.


I love to perform. I must have some skills, to have had the chances that I have had to be on stage. But, at the moment, the opportunities to sing, to be heard, just aren’t there, which makes me wonder if I’ve hit the “glass ceiling” of my talent: that I’m someone who has a nice voice, is an okay actor, and should realize this and stop overreaching or dreaming for more.


I enjoy writing. But again, I don’t know that I’m particularly insightful about anything other than my own life (and even there, sometimes the point eludes me). I certainly lack that spark of imagination that compels me to sit down and write the next great Canadian novel. I laugh at the pretentiousness of the odd poem I attempt to write. So, how far can the writing go?


I’m good at picking out pretty things. I have an eye for colour, can arrange furniture well, know how to build a stylish wardrobe, can spot a hot shoe a mile away, and can accessorize like a hot damn. But I can’t sew, or draw, or sketch a design, or explain why I make the choices I do.


I am a voracious reader, a theatre hound, an enthusiastic film goer, a pop culture savant in many ways. Nobody can beat me at “Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon” or “Finish the Lyrics.” But I lack the insight to really be an effective commentator on these things - my opinions just aren’t well-formulated or intelligent enough to forge a career in criticism or editorial writing.


All these unmatched puzzle pieces add up to...what exactly? What purpose? I can’t see the big picture that these disparate pieces form. I suppose I would have made a fabulous Renaissance woman - I mean, a real Renaissance woman. What Jane Austen would call “a woman of accomplishments.” But how does being relatively good but not astonishingly gifted at a number of things translate to one path I should take in life, one passion to pursue? I can’t simply shop, read, throw great parties and give good conversation (although that would be nice). Hence the frustration.


Would I trade being pretty good at so many things for being really, really good at just one thing? Sometimes, I think it might be easier to have fewer options. Now, I’m not asking, like Claude, whether I should live or die. I’m melodramatic, not suicidal. But the living part is certainly easier when you know what you’re living for, what your purpose is.


Are you there, God? It’s me, Danielle. Whenever you’re ready to let me know about that whole life’s purpose thing...well, I’d appreciate an answer. Not “THE” answer. I know a lot of people have been asking for THAT. Naw, I’d just like my own personal answer. Even a hint at this point would be welcome.

100 Things That Make Me Happy.


My friend Kinwa is probably the most positive person I know. It’s awe-inspiring, but also a little daunting, to be in her presence, as she seems to dwell permanently in the bright side. I’ve known her over a decade and have come to realize that her energy and her positivity aren’t an act. It’s a good thing for me to be around someone as sunny as Kinwa. For all the jokes I crack, I tend to linger in the darkness a little too long, especially at the moment, as I’m going through a bit of a rough patch in life, eager to make some big changes that I simply cannot make yet, for financial reasons. I’m having to practice patience every day, and breathe through the stress, knowing that somewhere down the line, I’ll get to where I want to be. K. just posted on Facebook the 100 things that make her happy (she said she actually got to 125), and I thought it would be a good exercise for me to try to do the same, something I can refer to on dark days like today, where I feel discouraged and unfulfilled. It’s taken over an hour, and I only got to 84, but here they are, in no particular order:


  1. My fuzzy grey cat Currie. I love when she runs to the door to greet me, I love it when she sleeps on my feet, or sits on my lap while we watch TV. I love it when she yells at me to feed her. I even love it when she bites my nose.
  2. A good hot shower, with plenty of time to reflect on the day ahead, or the day just passed (and sometimes both - sorry, environment).
  3. Hearing my mom or dad say “Hello” when I call them, even when I have nothing to say.
  4. Singing. Any song, any time, anywhere, whether there is someone to hear me or not.
  5. Listening to “As It Happens” on CBC as I make dinner.
  6. Talking through life with my brother, when we’re in a serious mood, or trading witty remarks about just about everything if we’re not.
  7. Surfing LaineyGossip every morning and taking delight in whatever celebrity gossip she is revealing.
  8. Sorry, I hate to say it, but having a Quarter Pounder from McDonalds and a Diet Coke after a night of partying.
  9. Combing through Broadway Market on a Saturday morning.
  10. Sitting in a theatre, program in hand, right before the lights go down.
  11. Wandering through a bookstore with fifty bucks to spare (otherwise it’s an exercise in frustration).
  12. Sipping a flat white from Monmouth Coffee in Borough Market on a Friday morning, knowing that the whole weekend is still to come.
  13. Saying hello to Frankie the cat at the local florist, and then saying hello to the mountains, every morning on my way to work.
  14. Opening my new Vanity Fair magazine every month.
  15. Sliding into bed after I’ve just changed the sheets.
  16. Wandering around Whole Foods.
  17. Spontaneous swims in the ocean.
  18. Hearing the Gastown steam clock chime while I’m lying in bed.
  19. Trading Facebook barbs with my witty friend Heather.
  20. Gossiping with my cousins.
  21. Baking beautiful cookies, breads, cakes and pies.
  22. Shopping for clothes, talking about clothes, helping someone else pick out clothes, reading about clothes (does that count as 4 entries?)
  23. Flipping through home decor magazines and ripping pages out for my “idea book.”
  24. Poking through second hand stores with my mom.
  25. Taking a road trip, where I get to drive (optional) and pick the music (mandatory).
  26. Sleeping in a hotel bed with crisp white linens and absolute quiet.
  27. Eating just about anything with my friend Karen, the world’s most enthusiastic foodie.
  28. Organizing my jewelry in clear plastic boxes.
  29. Buying beautiful journals.
  30. Feeling like I am part of a team.
  31. Looking at the same paintings over and over again in the National Portrait Gallery, London.
  32. Frolicking through IKEA and imagining an organized, colour-coordinated, space-efficient alternate reality.
  33. Lunch dates with girlfriends that go way past an hour.
  34. Finishing a really good run.
  35. Tax refunds.
  36. Eating Hershey’s Kisses while reading a good book in bed, and finding little pieces of tinfoil throughout the pages of the book at some later date.
  37. Talking to children. Not in a scary-stranger way. Children I know.
  38. Being complimented for my fashion sense.
  39. Clearing out my closet.
  40. Dancing to Motown.
  41. Saturday morning steamed soy-and-maple and an oatmeal cookie at Finch’s Teahouse.
  42. Being hugged my aunts (separately, not all at once).
  43. Laughing until I cry with Annie.
  44. Having co-workers barge into my office to gossip with me.
  45. Cooking for other people.
  46. Sleeping in a bed made by my mother. She gives good sheet.
  47. Listening to my dad make up the lyrics to songs.
  48. Watching Masterpiece Classic on PBS.
  49. Starting a new novel. Reading, not writing, although hopefully the writing will come someday.
  50. Watching documentaries on YouTube on just about anything.
  51. Sitting on a lanai at dusk in Maui.
  52. Going for a walk on a crisp day.
  53. Spontaneous drinks with my girlfriends, which are usually planned 4 to 6 weeks in advance, and still called “spontaneous drinks.”
  54. Playing a good practical joke.
  55. Helping plan weddings, or any parties, really.
  56. Writing personal messages in greeting cards.
  57. Really, really good sales at the Bay.
  58. Picking paint colours.
  59. Watching Ghost Whisperer and crying my eyes out (it’s not as satisfying without the cry, as it really is a shitty program).
  60. Being told by my parents that they are proud of me.
  61. Sleeping in a tent.
  62. Loving someone, whether or not they: a) know it or b) love me back. While this has its sad and lonely moments as well, all in all, to love is to be happy.
  63. Watching quirky British sitcoms.
  64. Hearing someone say, “Hey, where’s Dani?”
  65. The view from Granville Island towards Yaletown, with the Burrard Bridge to my left, on a sunny day.
  66. Having someone to say goodnight to.
  67. Fluevog boots.
  68. Crayola crayons - the 64 pack with the built-in sharpener.
  69. Watching the Fifth Estate on CBC, but only when Linden McIntyre or Bob McKeown host.
  70. The Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disneyland (not Disneyland Paris as there was no Johnny Depp! Sacre Bleu!)
  71. Dreaming that I have to suddenly step in and take the lead role in a Broadway show.
  72. Lining up birthday cards on the mantel (or the buffet, as I don’t have a mantel at the moment).
  73. Sitting in a lecture about a particular piece of literature and taking notes in several different colours of pen.
  74. Blogging, even when I have no idea if anyone ever reads what I wrote.
  75. Reading good-news stories in the paper.
  76. Watching that insanely cute YouTube video of the beagle puppy playing with the Rottweiler.
  77. Finding a really great pair of sunglasses.
  78. Listening to “Moon River” by Henry Mancini.
  79. Playing crib with Laura and beating her (never happens).
  80. Getting a good night’s sleep.
  81. Pancakes for breakfast.
  82. Hyde Park.
  83. Arriving at an airport for a trip and spending way too much money on reading material.
  84. The smell of my mother's perfume.


Feel free to comment. Maybe some of your happy-things make me happy too, and can fill up the last 15 spots.


Destined for Keyes and Kinsella?! Gulp. I hope not.

I’m trying to wade through Roberto Bolano’s 2666 at the moment for the second time, because every “best of” list hails Bolano a genius, and this novel in particular, as a masterpiece, and I feel like there’s something wrong with me, that I missed something the first time through since I was so underwhelmed by it. This sounds like a gross generalization, but I’ve never really enjoyed Latin American writing. I hate Marquez. I think he’s too dense, using 15 words when one will suffice. I fund Puig and Allende and Fuentes the same. It’s not that they are flowery or rambling; it’s a stark kind of density, if that makes sense. A level of detached, insignificant (to me) descriptive detail that I just don’t enjoy, a gut reaction that I also have to some Joyce, curiously. I’m 450 pages in to 2666, round two, and couldn’t really tell you who the characters are. I have always enjoyed the first part, which tells the story of four literary academics and their messed up personal and academic lives (maybe I find something in them to relate to), but the rest of the book is littered with characters that I don’t find memorable, so many that it’s hard to keep track of who is who, or why I’m supposed to care, what their significance is to the plot. Even in some of his less epic novels that I’ve read, like The Skating Rink and Distant Star, I’ve disliked most of the characters and felt little empathy with them. Sigh. Well, you can’t say I haven’t tried. I just can’t jump on the Bolano bandwagon. Maybe I really am destined to just be a chick lit writer after all.

Dani's Running Mix, Spring 2010

I'm always asking people to give me suggestions for great workout music. I'm training for the 10K season, back at square one - I doubt I'll be able to match my under-60 times from 2008 (of course, I was too busy working and being miserable to run anywhere in 2009). It's frustrating, but the music helps me through. Here is my latest mix. Let me know what you're listening to while you sweat. You know, in a G-rated way.

1) Bulletproof - La Roux
2) LoveGame - Lady Gaga
3) Disturbia - Rihanna
4) Don't Upset the Rhythm - Noisettes
5) Shining Down - Lupe Fiasco feat. Matthew Santos
6) Remedy - Little Boots
7) Forever - Drake feat. Kanye West, Lil Wayne and Eminem
8) Monster - Lady Gaga
9) Time to Pretend - MGMT
10) Dance Wiv Me - Dizzee Rascal
11) Bourgeois Shangri-La - Miss Li
12) Ascension to Virginity - Dave Grusin

Peanut Butter Rum Chewy Gingersnaps


Some folks from Facebook wanted the recipe for my nomnom Peanut Butter Rum Gingersnaps, so here 'tis:

Ingredients:
3/4 cup all-purpose flour
1/3 cup whole wheat flour
1 tsp baking soda
3 tsp cinnamon
1/4 tsp ginger
1/4 tsp salt
pinch of allspice or pumpkin pie spice (some people find a
llspice too strong)
1/3 cup peanut butter (you can use whatever kind you have around, I use crunchy)
1/4 cup Splenda
3 tbsp. margarine
1 cup brown sugar Splenda
1 egg
1 tbsp blackstrap molasses
1 tsp rum extract

1. Stir together flours, baking soda, 1 tsp of the cinnamon, and the rest of the spices in a bowl.

2. In a smaller bowl, mix together the remaining cinnamon and the white Splenda (for rolling cookies in later)

3. In another bowl, mix together peanut butter, marg
arine, and brown sugar for about a minute, then add the egg, blackstrap molasses and rum extract.

4. Stir flour mixture into the peanut butter mixture. I would get your hands in there and mix it all together.

5. Roll the dough into little 1 inch balls, then roll the balls in the cinnamon/Splenda mix. Stick 'em on a baking sheet and mush 'em down with a fork.

6. Bake cookies at 350 for 6 - 7 minutes. They will s
eem mushy to the touch but that will ensure that they stay chewy. Scoop them off the cookie sheet onto a wire rack right away to cool. Should make a couple dozen, if you keep your dough balls small. The cookies will spread quite a bit in the oven.