My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie "It's been quite some time since I heard music like that!" "Huh?" "The song you're listening to! I can hear it from your earbuds across the room. It's what the kids call a banger these days, no?" "Granny, please stop trying to be cool." "Oh, Branson - I don't have to try! Now, who's the band?" "Uh...they're not really that well known." "Please, honey. I've been to my fair share of underground punk and metal concerts!" "Granny." "It's true! I was always in the mosh pit." "Why am I not surprised...uh, they're called Switchblade. They're a local band." "Oh, my! Switchblade. Not a bad name, if I do say so myself." "Uh-huh." "You know any of the band members?" "Nah. My friends do, though." "Oh, how charming. I was very familiar with members of bands I listened to back in the day." ...

Stop Calling Them Females by Belinda Roddie Mr. Collins is absolutely a "nice guy." Pass it on.

Last week, I admittedly wrote a rather cynical and grim introspection, in response to the death of Supreme Court justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg. I also implied in that post that what I was doing as a performer, writer, and musician was not helpful in the slightest during these difficult, terrifying, and blatantly fascist times. This week, while still a clusterfuck of nonsense and horror, did result in my theatre company's third online script session. I had finished a rather silly and very gay ten minute piece in one night for it, and I just thought it'd be a fun read. I also, however, got some really lovely feedback. I was even compared to Nora Ephron(!!!) (and also Woody Allen, but fuck that guy). What tugged at my heartstrings, however, was a private message from a fellow actor friend thanking me for the stories I told because they were able to see a successful enby writer, performer, and educator. That is really one of my greatest strengths: Telling stories, as well as embolden...