West Palm Beach

So M and I did a pair of shows in West Palm Beach, Florida, and some of you sent your grandparents and in-laws to come see us. Thank you!


I'm a fan of older people. I grew up in a home with three grandparents, and my grandmother and I were about as close as could be and I miss her terribly. In fact, if any of you readers have leads on good places to volunteer in NYC in providing company to the elderly, please send them my way.

This pleasant preamble has an obvious "but" coming, doesn't it? And here it is: But having an audience that consists solely of people over the age of 70 is . . . challenging. They don't hear as well, they're not as comfortable with Mike's sailor tongue, and it feels like they don't have the lung capacity to laugh as loudly.


In any event, we had some clue as to what the houses would be like, and we did our best to keep up a good attitude. And after both shows we had great conversations with folks in the lobby who really connected with the material. And the sun was shining and we stayed at a hotel with a pool, so really, what is there to complain about?


Also, our dear friend Nancy decided to fly out and visit with us since her mom and sister live nearby, so we got to spend time with an old friend, too.


It's all about gratitude, people. At least today it is. That's why I'm not going to talk about the old man who crawled to the door in the middle of the show saying loudly, "I DON'T WANT TO HEAR ABOUT BILL GATES."

Instead I'm going to mention the butterflies, dragonflies, and curly-tailed lizards who hung out at the pool with us (anybody know what these guys are called?).


And I'm not going to dwell on the audio technician whose neck I wanted to wring, because in the end, I got to leave. And I got paid. And I still have my youth. (While not actually being a youth who has to live in West Palm Beach.)


And I even have a bit of a tan. Which is a remarkable accomplishment for me.


In fact, I'm in such a good mood I'm not even going to make a self-deprecating comment about how this photo makes me simultaneously crave a drumstick and a pedicure. Uh-uh. My mama taught me that if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all.


So goodnight, WPB, land of neon and sun. And thanks for the head start on summer.

Terrific News!

The Surprise--the show I worked on in March with Martin Dockery and winner of the coveted Audience Choice award at the 2009 Frigid Fest--is being transferred to the DR2 Theatre at Union Square as part of this year's soloNOVA Festival.

From the press release:

After winning the Audience Choice award at this year’s FRIGID Fest, New York storyteller Martin Dockery will once again team with director Jean-Michele Gregory (How Theater Failed America, If You See Something Say Something) to present his latest autobiographical monologue, The Surprise, at the DR2 space from May 7-13 as part of this year’s soloNOVA festival.

A veteran of the New York storytelling scene and frequent performer on the stages of The Moth, The Liar Show, and Speakeasy, this is Dockery’s third full-length monologue. Set amidst the ruins, cities, and beaches of South-East Asia, The Surprise is the true and comic story of an uncertain girlfriend, an enigmatic father, and a most epic game of emotional chicken. Told with equal parts humor and heart, it is the tale of a family rife with secrets, and clueless as to how to reveal them.

“The Surprise is funny, warm, and entertaining…. A superlative storytelling show, one that offers plenty to laugh about, relate to, and ponder long after the storyteller has left the stage.” —NYTheatre.com

“Dockery is a master at weaving his own personal life into his family saga. Travels, girlfriends, ecstasies and disappointments are masterfully layered with his own brand of neurotic, self-effacing humor.”—NYTheatre-wire.com

Tickets are already on sale here and at the DR2 box office (it's that big theater in Union Square that's doing Fuerzabruta). Just five shows, so don't delay!

Colorado Springs

Sometimes, dear readers, our bookings take us to parts of the world we never thought we'd willingly go. This March, we found ourselves in Colorado Springs, a place I'd only ever thought of as the base of the more creepy aspects of the evangelical movement--Focus on the Family, the Ted Haggard debacle, and everything depicted in The Civilians' brilliant docu-drama "This Beautiful City."


Political, moral, and ethical leanings aside, I'm not a mountain person. We did a show in Denver last spring and I had a headache from the altitude the entire time. I grew up in Seattle, a city that is ringed by glorious mountains but whose altitude is decidedly sea-level. Every day I'd see the enormous cranes that line the Port of Seattle as I rode over the West Seattle Bridge. And today I live in Brooklyn, about half a mile from the Redhook waterfront, so when I look west I still see cranes. Though they are less spectacular than Seattle's, it's funny how comforting to me they were in my first few years here.


It took about 48 hours for M and me to adjust to the altitude in Colorado Springs, 24 hours for the pug. (Is it just me, or does he look grumpy?)


Just in time for our first performance. And that was the million dollar question, of course: How would the audiences be? The show we were doing has secular content, but how would they deal with M's sailor tongue? I took it as a bad sign that I had to chase away a pair of missionaries who came to our door our very first morning there.


But when I got to the theater and saw some posters still hanging for Urinetown, I felt better. An audience who can appreciate that wonderfully bizarre show could probably also deal with multiple narratives about corporate creep in our lives, even if those threads were peppered with expletives.

(My new favorite phrase to warn audiences: Not "obscene" or "profane" or "mature," because I don't actually feel that the language is obscene or profane or particularly mature. No, my new favorite way to describe it is "unrestricted," as in, "This production contains unrestricted language.")


It turned out that the theater who booked us knew what they were doing. The audiences were slightly older and quieter than we typically work with, but the houses were full and judging from the conversations we had with audience members afterward, they really seemed to enjoy the show, unrestricted language and all.

After our first night, an unexpected development: Blizzard! In the last week of March!


I'll come clean and say that the picture above wasn't taken by me and isn't even of Colorado--it's from a spring blizzard in Norway two years earlier. I found it online when I searched for images using the word "blizzard." (It's a great photo, isn't it? Click on it to go to the photographer's website.)

And why don't I have any photos of my own of the blizzard that was bad enough that we had to cancel one show and almost cancel another?

Because I was busy being my own stereotype. Yes, if Colorado Springs did their part by sending me Christian missionaries, then I played the part of the liberal coastal girl by insisting that we drive to the Whole Foods on the other side of town "before the weather gets bad" because I wanted the gluten-free crackers and hummus I knew Whole Foods would carry. Seriously.

Long story short: five minute drive there, hour and forty-five minute drive home. As my husband said to me later, "I really hope you enjoy that hummus."

And I did.


Almost as much as I enjoyed using our suddenly-free night to watch all the episodes in the final season of Battlestar Galactica back-to-back-to-back, for one of the most intense eight-hour viewing marathons I've ever had.


And things just got better from there. The weather improved and a show that had been canceled became uncanceled, so we only lost one of our five scheduled performances to the blizzard.

My friend Krista--who moved from Brooklyn to Denver several years ago and for whom I've been pining ever since--drove down from Denver with her boyfriend Micah. He's such a good guy even I had to concede that he might be worth leaving New York for.


And my father and his wife Kathy drove up from their home in Albuquerque and spent some time with us. We discovered some amazing Korean BBQ in an unlikely place--the best I've ever had--and enjoyed a leisurely breakfast at Adam's Mountain Cafe in scenic Manitou Springs.

Their visit really made this trip special. For Michael especially, who'd been away from home for three months solid, it was a lovely ending to a very long tour.

Not a Coca-Cola Family

This photo was missing from my L.A. roundup. It's a picture of my great uncle and great aunt, Jan and Victoria, whom I got to visit with while I was in the area. Uncle Jan is my grandmother's youngest brother, a mischievous guy with a twinkle in his eye and a whip-smart wife and daughter--also named Victoria, though the family gets away with calling her by her childhood nickname, Pepsi, and somehow she doesn't hate us all for it.

When I was in Washington D.C. in January, Pepsi and her husband James came out for Obama's inauguration and we all spent some time together. Pepsi told us stories about her father's wild days, when he drove across the country with a gun in his glove box "just in case."

And James, who is Korean, told a very funny story about picking Pepsi up for their first date. He said he knocked on her door but instead of Pepsi answering this old Polish guy appeared. James was sure he had the wrong address but the man invited him inside and urged him to sit down, so James sat on the couch and watched television with Pepsi's (Polish) father and (Filipino) mother until she was ready to go.


I didn't get to see James and Pepsi this time around because they were vacationing in Acapulco, but I had a nice lunch with her parents at a Chinese buffet with signs that read "ALL YOU CAN EAT! Only take what you will eat or we will charge you extra."

At the end of my visit, Uncle Jan loaded up a bag for me with four bottles of water, a six pack of miniature Baby Ruth candy bars, and one orange and one lemon from their own fruit trees. I protested that I would only be traveling half an hour by car, but they insisted I leave with provisions "just in case."

I'll tell you something: That lemon was delicious. I drizzled it over the green beans Mike and I had for dinner that night and sliced up the rest to flavor our water. I hope to make it out to Los Angeles again soon, and maybe next time we can all go fishing together.

Los Angeles

A round-up of pictures taken while in Los Angeles. We were there for a week this March, doing a show at Center Theatre Group in Culver City. I was rather inconsistent with when I took pictures and didn't, so I'll start with what's not pictured:

--close-up of a lamb shish kebob backgrounded by the verdant green of Alissa and Chris's new hideaway home in the hills

--Davey, reaching for my iPhone and every other piece of technology in sight shortly before being whisked to bed by Hilary

--the sign at the Chinese buffet my great-uncle and aunt took me to that read "ALL YOU CAN EAT! Only take what you will eat or we will charge you extra"

--Baci, peeing on a palm tree

And now for the photos:

Matthew, Monika, and Zofia, hanging out in the lobby after the show.


Matthew & Monika's adorable progeny, Madison, who is being raised to eschew princesses in favor of pirates.


Paul and Lia, probably the world's most attractive couple.


Aaron, a former student of Mike's and mine, who is now running a new venue in downtown L.A. and has a business card that lists his title as "Empresario."


A strange wonder from the wonderfully strange Museum of Jurassic Technology. This place is a real gem, a curious oasis of weird that is hard to describe, but I will say that it has nothing to do with dinosaurs.


Director Steve, showing us a rough cut of the film we shot in the fall at the Public. It was neat to see how he's been shaping it.


Sandra and Andre, the rest of our tiny film crew.


And finally, the wall at the theater we signed before we left to mark that we had been there.

31 Days Later

Well, it’s almost up. My time alone in NYC, the time I thought of as a kind of retreat has nearly run out. Though when I look back on it, it seems to me more like an “immersion” than a “retreat.”

Over the past month I directed a brand-new solo show with Martin and saw twelve other productions (go see Our Town at the Barrow Street) (I know, I know, who needs that hokey old-school stuff, right? But seriously, I saw some damn fine theater this month, theater that renewed my faith and love and sense of play, excellent work by some of the finest minds at work in theater today, and it was this production of Our Town--a play I've never really liked--that stole my heart). I hosted a party, told a story at Speakeasy, met with new people and connected with old friends, and generally was a lot more sociable than I'm used to being.

When you’re coupled up, you can go for long stretches of time without seeing other people. When Mike is with me in NYC we’ll work at separate ends of the apartment all day, and when it’s time to stop working, it’s easy not to go out. Just give me my husband, my dog, a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and some Hulu, and why would I ever leave the apartment?

But with Mike gone, the allure of online television lessens considerably. Watching television alone has always made me sad. Besides, we have our core programs (Battlestar Galactica, Top Chef, 30 Rock, and The Office) and as sign of my fidelity I swore to Mike that I wouldn’t watch any of them until we were reunited. That way we can spend our first weekend of reunion in our king-sized L.A. hotel room bed . . . watching TV.

But it’s more than that. I’ve always been a person who loves the idea—if not the implementation—of transformation through structure. So after I said goodbye to Mike in Seattle, waving him off on his big South Pacific adventure, and then got onto my own plane to go home, I thought about the adventure that was waiting for me back in New York, my adopted city. I thought about the gift of time that stretched towards me with as much promise as a blank page. What would I do with it? What could I do with it?

I made an exuberant list: I would write every day. Practice my Spanish. Start each morning with a long walk. Stop drinking coffee. Eat lots of quinoa. Clean out the hall closet. Frame that photograph. Throw a party. Scrub the floor. Wash the dog. Etcetera.

But the more things I wrote down, the farther I got from what I really wanted to do with my time. Which was to figure out what I did with my time. Because it just goes, doesn’t it? And there’s a part of me that really believes that I can do it all. I can write the memoir and I can eat the quinoa and I can mount the show and I can speak the Spanish if only I had more discipline.

So like they tell people to do who want to make a big shift in their diet, I decided I would do something very unlike me. Rather than leaping into action and giving myself a series of mandates, I would first simply observe what it is I do with my time. And so I went out and bought a notebook and began the irritating but ultimately enlightening task of writing down everything I did all day.

Have you ever tried this? It’s maddening. It’s not so bad when you’re in the middle of a task, but once you’ve completed something and noted it--

10 – 10:15, walked dog

--you really want to know exactly what you’re doing next, because time is ticking. And it turns out there’s always transition time between one activity and the next. Time to pee, time to check the inbox, time to walk into the kitchen and think about what that smell is... and then it’s 10:21 and you’re left realizing you don’t know how to account for that lost six minutes. Alien abduction? What?

On the second day of this I spilled some salt and just left it there because I didn’t want it to screw up my metrics and I didn’t know how to account for it. Ditto for the stuck zipper I had to unstick before I could go for my walk. I felt so stupid scratching out “exercise” and writing down “unsticking zipper.”

But if you go ahead and try this experiment, you will find it gets easier over time. Because you figure out certain systems and shorthands. For example, taking a shower, putting on makeup, changing my clothes, brushing my teeth, all fall under “grooming.” And I learned to accept that the transition time was part of the activity, so rounding off into increments of 5 minutes made me much less crazy.

The fact of that transition time came with a lesson, though: The more I can focus on one task (or one kind of task) at a time, the better I do. I’m less scattered and I get more done and there’s a lot less of that transition time. Working offline is good for maintaining focus, because otherwise my monkey mind leaps to address whatever just popped into my inbox. (In the future I might try setting my email to come in at the top of the hour rather than willy-nilly. Because things are rarely so urgent that they can’t wait an hour, right? And if they are, that’s when people get on the phone, right?)

But speaking of monkey mind, I’m going to stop myself before this turns into a productivity seminar. Instead, let me tell you what I discovered over the three-plus weeks I tracked my activities.

1. The little stuff takes a lot of time. Sorting mail, cleaning up salt, it’s all unavoidable. It’s just part of life.

2. Left unchecked, Facebook takes even more than a lot of time.

3. I work a lot more hours than I realized. Maybe because I make a living doing what I love, I’m often unable to count it as work, so I’m constantly feeling like a lazy person because despite not having an office job to go to, I'm still not getting everything I want done. This experiment really showed me how wrong-headed that is. But it also showed me that when I treat it more like a job--working in 2-hour chunks, then taking a short break, then diving back in--I get a lot more done and I feel better about what I do.

4. I spend a lot of time reading. Though these hours will probably decline with the addition of Mike’s company.

5. I am really bad at making time for my writing. I guess I already knew that, but it’s amazing to see, in print, how I put everything else ahead of my writing even though I believe it to be my most important task and even though the days when I do get to my writing are always my best days.

6. Structure is my friend and 9-5 is a song for a reason. Days when I had rehearsal from 2-6 were the best, because the day automatically came divided into two chunks. And if I got through all my work-work in the morning before rehearsal, then the evening was mine to do with as I pleased. Which was great motivation for getting up early and working quickly and methodically. And it turns out that the age-old cycle of working during the day and doing all the other stuff at night is very pleasing to the psyche. Much better than cleaning out your inbox at 3 in the morning, which is something Mike and I end up doing all too often.


This experiment is over. Today is my last full day in New York, and it will indeed be full: I need to pack for myself, the dog, and Mike (because he’s only got summer clothes and no costumes), and I need to do laundry and clean my apartment because friends will be staying here in our absence. (I also discovered that I spend very little time cleaning. Very.) And there’s a bunch of work stuff that I have to take care of, too, of course.

On Friday our pack will be reunited in Los Angeles, and I’m looking forward to many “unproductive” hours of snuggling. But we’ll also be putting up two different shows and one new workshop in two different cities, which means we’ll be launched into show mode. Which is to say, the show demands whatever time and structure it demands, and Mike and I are its willing and servile handmaidens.

How will this experiment affect how I work when in show mode? How will it affect how I work when we return home in April? Will I ever learn to put my writing in its proper place? And what the frak’s been going on in Battlestar Gallactica? Only time—that beckoning blank page—will tell.

Stating the Obvious

The world wide web is cool. I love being able to video- and audio- and text-chat with Michael in real time, even though he's all the way in Melbourne, Australia, and all for the price of my regular monthly internet bill.

(He took the above screenshot yesterday and I thought it was neat.)

Ten Things Mike Learned on Tanna

The following is lovely, and copied directly from Mike's site. But what you won't find there is this TRAVELMONKEYS exclusive picture, taken by Mike, of the man who came to New York City and now tells stories in his homeland of this strange otherworld--not unlike what Mike will be doing for us once he returns to the States.

TEN THINGS I LEARNED ON TANNA:

—If someone tells you the reef is "flowering", it means it has neurotoxins that roll your heartrate down to 30 beats a minute and then kills you. Also, when people call a place "Shark Bay" it is not figurative—it means there are many sharks, which you can see from the shore.

—Kava is prepared by the plant being chewed by prepubescent boys, and then the pulpy mess is spat in a bowl, which is mixed with questionable water and then drunk. It tastes much like this description would imply.

—When the volcano explodes, you can see the shockwaves in the air rushing toward you in the moment before it strikes you, and then the sound that follows. It is like God has punched you, or His hand is bursting up through the earth.

—The John Frum celebrations are long: this year's lasted nine hours, with a dinner break in the middle...from morning until nearly dusk. They act out scenes, a kind of living theater, with history of the island, America and other sources intermingled into a tremendous soap opera.

—The many pieces of molten lava bursting from the volcano are the size of refrigerators and Volkswagon bugs. If one hits you the size won't be the issue, or even fire...the heat is so intense that you would disintegrate. This has happened to visitors recently.

—The Friday night celebrations, when the John Frum dance and sing all night til dawn under the deep night sky reflecting off Sulphur Bay, lit by the red glow of the volcano standing above the village like an angry God, is unforgettable. This I will carry to my grave.

—When hunting a wild pig for dinner, you have to strike the pig solidly on the side of the head to knock them down, and then beat them with the pole until dead or dazed...then someone will slit the throat and finish the job.

—A villager showed me his sacred Snoop Dogg amulet, I met people who worship Prince Philip of England as a risen god, and I talked with a man who had been taken by a documentary crew to New York City. He told me what he dreamed about, and the whole village sat together in silence, everyone naked except for penis sheaths and stone-age implements, listening to his stories of an alien land.

—I spent a day with students at a school without water or power, where every book is a rare blessing...but confounding expectation, one out of every four had a cell phone. They charge them with solar chargers, like to play snake, and IM their friends to get together.

—I learned a tremendous amount, made some lasting friendships, and reached across worlds just a bit. When I think about how alien this place seemed just weeks ago to me, I am surprised at my ignorance. It is an excellent lesson, and I am already missing this mysterious, primal island that has helped me a little to see our ordinary world in a new light.

Tonight.

The Surprise

This is Martin. This was taken during a rehearsal break. Lucy is his dog, but we also like to pretend she's the stage manager. She's a terrible stage manager, by the way, always letting us get off-topic and extend our break times with the business of getting more tea.

Despite her shortcomings, the rehearsals are going well, and I am looking forward to our opening next week. I am always describing Martin as "smart and funny," which he is, but it occurred to me yesterday that another word that should be in there is kinetic. He really knows how to move, and he uses his entire body to tell his stories, every ounce of him vibrating with it.

We worked on a show about his travels in West Africa last spring. This time he's telling us about some surprising family news that came his way not too long ago. I don't want to say much more, but I will say that the news takes him to the temple of Angkor Wat and the jungles of Vietnam. It's a hell of a story. I hope you can come see it.

The Surprise is being presented as part of The NY Frigid Fest, and as such the performance schedule looks as random as if you were to play Battleship with a calendar:

Weds, 2/25 @ 9
Sat, 2/28 @ 5:30
Weds, 3/4 @ 7:30
Sat, 3/7 @ 4
Sun, 3/8 @ 8:30
at
The Kraine Theater
85 East 4th Street (between Bowery & 2nd Ave)
$15 tickets @ SmartTix; click here
or call 212-868-4444

Breaking News!

In a surprising turn of events, Mike discovered there was free wifi at the airport on Vila, the main island of Vanuatu from which he would take his final leg to Tanna after a 16-hour layover. Especially surprising, he said, since the airport looks like "a glorified hut."

He used the opportunity to send me some quick notes on the journey so far, which I will share in whole with you. He also sent two pictures of signs written in Bislama, the creole language that is spoken to varying degrees across Vanuatu and uses English as its base. As a fun exercise, try reading the signs--you'll understand more than you think.


Now, the notes from Mike:

--The people ululating once we came in sight of Port Vila far below, a few lights against the dark sea.

--The white couple and their black indentured servant, and how she hissed at him when he didn't pick up all their many bags fast enough.

--A really fine cup of coffee and a french pastry while overlooking the bay.

--Reading bislama EVERYWHERE.

--My talk with the Vanuatu Red Cross office...they revealed that Frumians of all kinds come and pay homage at the office, due to the red cross. They happened to be down the street--glad I stopped by.

--Incredible weather--I have had unbelievable heat followed by a torrential monsoon in just a few hours. I'm soaked. I bought a huge umbrella at the supermarket, which does indeed have an ATM.

--The signs on the main street of Port Vila, filled with crap of all kinds, that shout CARGO! CARGO HERE!

I can't wait for the rest of the story.

I will say that I got one more quick message, I think sent from the plane just before he took off:

My pilot has a big scar down his face, a milky eye AND a big knife. Not joking. Will try to get picture without getting stabbed.

Hopefully that's not the last missive I ever receive from him.

Beautiful British Columbia

Back when M and I were Seattle-dwellers, we'd cross the border to Canada anytime we needed a breath of Europea on a day-jobber's budget. Vancouver B.C. felt so . . . international. That was the word we always used, and that one word seemed to contain everything we couldn't find back in Seattle: rapid mass transit, enormous Hong Kong-styled dim sum eateries, a legal drinking age of 18, French, strip clubs that were more sexy than sleazy, foreign currency, and daily newspapers that would print the word "fuck."


We never performed there, but we always wanted to, and on the last trip we took there, back at the tail end of 2000, we spent the whole train ride home hatching a vivid and fanciful plan for our triumphant return.


Cut to nine years later, and we're performing in Portland, Oregon at the T:BA Festival, when a man who runs a performing arts festival in Vancouver comes to see our show. He really responds to the work, but of course it's too late to book us for this year's festival, and next year the city will be hosting the Olympics, which means that maybe we can talk about a booking for 2011?


And here's what I love about my M. He knows that 2011 is a lifetime away. Who knows where we'll be by then, or if we'll even be at all. He also knows we're already going to be in the Northwest for a different gig at the same time as the festival is happening. So really, there must be a way to make this work, right? And indeed, there was.


But it involved a number of compromises. The presenter told us that the space wasn't ideal. All the theaters were booked, so we'd be in their after-hours club. Also, we'd have no idea what our audience numbers would be like as there'd be no advance sales. We were told several times that this new club space was a big "experiment."

I read between the lines and told M we should expect about 30 in a house that could comfortably fit over 200. We put out 50 chairs and held our breath.


But they came! All these beautiful, smart, good-looking Canadians showed up and filled up all the seats we'd put out and more. We used up all the chairs, and filled up the cabaret tables and bar with standing room. The audience got Mike's humor immediately, and when the story demanded quiet, they quickly supplied it. It was a great night for live performance.


Afterwards, we caught up with an old friend, Dennis, who left the States after Bush was elected in 2000, married a nice Canadian girl, and is now a proud and happy father and game designer.


And the next morning, Mike did a live interview with a local television show. The host had actually watched a tape of Mike's performance in advance and then talked to him about his work for almost twenty minutes. This is notable because where we come from, artists are rarely treated as people who might have something to say that might be of interest to the general public. It was strange and wonderful and sad and nice all at the same time.


Then Mike delivered a fiery and funny and passionate and moving manifesto to the festival attendees. (Again, unusual to hear a keynote from an artist. O Canada, is all of you so wonderful?) And then we ate a bunch more food from the outstanding Granville Island Market: smoked Polish sausage and savory crepes and apples and Indian food and doughnuts and strawberries that we dipped into maple yogurt as we sat admiring the spectacular view.


On Monday, M leaves for his amazing island adventure, so it was nice to spend this time together in this place we'd always wanted to return to.

We will be back.

Seattle Snaps

Some snapshots taken with my mobile phone over the last week:


(in the lobby of the theater pre-show)


(doesn't my brother look like a rock star with his new 'do?)


(Lincoln Park)


(peeing dog)


(the beach below my parents' home, where kids are building a fort-like structure)


(Bakery Nouveau, and the remains of a twice-baked almond croissant)


(EZ Street records; cheap and plentiful breakfasts, and they know how to do hash browns right)