From Equity cots to Mainsions in the Woods: A Journey starring Patrick Murray

So according to my iCal I have been in Maine for over a week, which is absolutely insane. Also my inability to combine maine into insane is really bothering me especially when they rhyme. That main’t right.

So since my last entry we have moved into the cottage the theater company set up for us. We are off a dirt road we share with one other person. Apparently his name is Lee, and he lives in the house just up the hill from us. Now according to every scary movie people in houses on hills are evil rapist murderers. So I’m interested to see how I will be able to perform in mask while also part of a human centipede…aka the most important time to call shotgun. Am I right? Am I right?

I’ve also actually found myself giving directions to my new home and using the phrase “Just over the bridge, the dirt road on your right. If the swamp is next to you, you’re on the right road.” Now I never really imagined myself using a bridge or a swamp as a landmark for directions I much prefer being able to use the Empire State Building or at least Coyote Ugly, but thus is life.

As I mentioned we are in fact living beside a pond/swamp and here it is

This brings with it its own set of Pluses and Mainusis. The lovely plus is during the day I can look out and see all sorts of frogs, lovely chipmunks and even our resident heron. From heroine to heron a love story starring Patrick “front of the centipede” Murray. The mainus would definitely be that all these lovely creatures apparently take a whopping dose of steroids around 7 pm and become the loudest fucking things I’ve ever heard. First of all I was previously unaware that chipmunks could bark. They can. I was concerned when I saw what looked like a chipmunk seizure in a tree. But this was I guess some sort of evening mating song. A late night chipmunk booty call if you will. I tried to explain to Alvin that sexting was the way of the future but his horny ass just kept barking. Perv. Much less cute and much more disturbing is what our pond frogs turn into. Apparently Maine is populated with bullfrogs and in addition a much louder much bigger quacking frog. Their horrendous melodies wake me up at least thrice a night. Now I am no stranger to seemingly quiet seemingly cute things turning into screeching beasts in the night. The homeless man outside my East Village stoop will not even venture a snore, but once it hits midnight and he’s polished off his paper bagged bottle of Georgi all hell breaks loose. This I can fall asleep too. This doesn’t ever wake me. But somehow my sleeping brain rejects the sounds of pond life, which I’m pretty sure has its own track on the CD’s you can buy SPECIFICALLY TO FALL ASLEEP. Either sleep disc versions of pond life are a sham or my resting brain is city to the core. I’ll go with the latter and say hats off to you brain. For this week,

You are the Braine Event

Goodbye.