Afterward, I headed off to Gibbs’ house with some other dramamates to watch the video her father had made on opening night. Amazingly, it looked, well, good. Even the choreographically-challenged managed to pull through the dances and, for whatever reason, there seemed to be no mistakes whatsoever. Everything looked deliberate, even when it wasn’t intended to (*cough* such as when the back row started turning the wrong way during “Anything Goes” *cough*).

So naturally, all the eager viewers had to pile onto the couch and stare and munch pineapple pizza and sing along and make comments, etc. Once everyone else had left, Gibbs, Hortensio, and I started watching the Tonys. That was interesting too, in it’s own way… Urinetown did well, which pleased me, as did Oklahoma!, which did not. Thoroughly Modern Mille, which I know next to nothing about, was intriguing, and Sutton Foster was flustered. Needless to say, sticking three high-school dramarats (still smudged with stage makeup, no less) in front of the Tonys a few hours after their own performance generates both inspiring and daunting feelings as well as a need to remark on practically everything. When the Millie tap dancers started hopping about, for one, we were staring wide-eyed at the screen, occasionally muttering, “Wow, they can really dance,” and other equally brilliant remarks, and Hortensio was slightly incensed by the preteen dancers in Oklahoma!

And, naturally, it all had to end. Gibbs’ couch was very comfortable, but alas, Medusa turned up in the middle of the night to drag me back home. Really, I could have spent the night quite happily on that couch . . .

Meanwhile, I’ve been taking finals. Seniors have been getting out of school at 11:35, which is quite nice indeed. I’ve been stealing rides from Amarette, which is far nicer than the alternative of being stranded at school until the buses come. Tomorrow, however, I plan to do just that, and to head over to the mall in search of graduation supplies. I have shoes now, and a white dress I made a couple years ago and almost forgot I owned. And on Tuesday, I get to dress up like an anemic llama and pick up a certain precious piece of paper. That is, assuming I don’t fall on my face first. The relatives will be coming soon, which is disconcerting, and still more relatives (mostly those I’ve never heard of) have been sending me things in the mail, which is even more disconcerting. Not that I mind checks and cards and the like, and I’m aware they’re only being nice, but, well, they don’t know me and I don’t know them, and, well . . . Never mind. No more faulty logic today. I took the Trig exam and therefore cannot think. Thankfully, the three finals I have yet to tackle aren’t worth studying for.

English and Env. Sys. have already been conquered, which is a shame, as they were pretty darn interesting. The former required each student to come to class as a character from one of the works the class had studied during the year. Each character had to deliver a little presentation on herself, discussing the work she was from, the author, the costume and props they had brought, etc. The prof had brought in drinks and cake, and set up the classroom to represent the tea room from “Master Harold”. . . and the boys. We were, presumably, supposed to seat ourselves and mingle while the prof went around the table and heard the presentations. It was definitely different, if nothing else, and I had altogether too much fun.

The guests were diverse, to say the least. For some reason, there were two Ophelias, one pre-madness and one post-madness. There were also two “hollow men” from the Eliot poem: she-who-shares-my-surname and she-who-shares-my-first-name—the former had a yellow hula skirt on her head to represent the “headpiece filled with straw,” and a Hollywood baseball cap to represent “LA, the valley of the dying stars;” the latter had smeared eye makeup and a small cactus—pardon me, prickly pear—and kept her watch set at five o’ clock. Tamie went as Cecily from “The Importance of Being Earnest,” who referred to her creator as “Daddy Wilde” in spite of the disapproval of both Lady Bracknell and Miss Prisim, and fretted over the lack of bread and butter, claiming cake was rarely seen in the best houses; Gretchen was Gwendolen, who demanded the needs of her “sister” be attended to and constantly brandished her diary. Bly, who occupied herself by jotting down the names of any eligible men as a favor to her friend the duchess of something-or-other, was Lady Bracknell. Simba was Sam from “Master Harold” and spent the period dusting the bookshelves and serving everyone else, including a sulky Hally who shocked all the British characters by using the word “bloody.” Drea was a very convincing Bertha Rochester, who spent the class convulsing under a desk and tearing at a tattered piece of lace that was meant to serve as Jane Eyre’s late wedding veil. Ros and Guil sat across the table from me, flipping chocolate coins, and, as Mr. Brocklehurst from Jane Eyre, I amused myself by condemning them (and between dear Mr. B. and Henry T. Dobson, I've had quite enough of being a Bible-thumper for now).

The atmosphere of this most interesting tea party was as follows:

GUIL: We were going somewhere to find Hamlet.

POST-MADNESS OPHELIA: Hamlet? Did you find him? I miss Hamlet… and I miss Polonius, but he is dead and gone, lady, he is dead and gone…

ROS: Yes, we were looking for Hamlet. I think. Were we?

GUIL: Do you think we were?

ROS: Statement! One-love!

PRE-MADNESS OPHELIA: Well, what happened to Hamlet? Tell me!

CECILY: Oh, don’t worry about this Hamlet, dear. Really, his name isn’t even Ernest.

LADY BRACKNELL: Now, now, Cecily, perhaps Hamlet it Ernest in Danish. (prepares to write in notebook) Is he eligible?

GUIL: Wait, how is Hamlet Ernest? Why does he have two names?

ROS: He must be confused, too.

GUIL: Yes, he must. Wait, that’s it, we were on a boat!

MISS PRISIM: A boat? You should have taken a train at Victoria Station.

GUIL: No, not a train, we were on a boat, sailing somewhere…

HOLLOW MAN #1: Was it on a tumid river?

POST-MADNESS OPHELIA: Polonius is dead!

LADY BRACKNELL (crosses out name in notebook): Oh, dear. I suppose that makes him ineligible then.

POST-MADNESS OPHELIA(sings): Twinkle, twinkle, little star…

MISS PRISIM: Will you kindly cease this singing?

MR. BROCKLEHURST: Yes, do. Don’t you know your Psalms? I have a little boy, six years old, who--

ROS (flips coin): Heads!

GUIL: You know, it really should be coming up tails every now and then, shouldn’t it?

ROS: Should it?

GUIL: Foul! Rhetoric! Heads!

HOLLOW MAN #2: Do you have a penny for the old guy?

BERTHA (violently, unexpectedly): He locked me in that stupid tower for ten years! Ten years! All because he thought I would turn into my mother! So he locked me up for ten years! Who’s crazy now? (retreats back under desk)

POST-MADNESS OPHELIA (holds out a violet): Here, have a flower.

BERTHA: Flowers, I hate flowers!

POST-MADNESS OPHELIA: But they’re such nice flowers, flowers for thoughts, from Denmark…

MISS PRISIM (indignantly): I beg your pardon! There are flowers in England as well!

CECILY: I didn’t know there were any flowers in the country.

GWEN: Oh, of course there are.

CECILY: I wonder what sort of flowers Ernest would like…

MISS PRISIM: I imagine he would be fond of flowers—which do grow in England!—after having come back from the dead like that.

ROS: He came back from the dead? He must be very confused.

LADY BRACKNELL: No, he didn’t actually come back from the dead. It was really Algernon who pretended to be Ernest while Jack claimed Ernest had died.

ROS: So why is he both Ernest and Jack?

GUIL: He has too many names.

ROS: Too much confusion.

GUIL: Breakdown of communication.

ROS: Is this a game?

MISS PRISIM: Well, really, if a person is going to die, he should stay dead. This business with returning is highly inexcusable.

MR. BROCKLEHURST: A person cannot return from the dead. It simply is not done.

MISS PRISIM: Well, it was! How dare you contradict me! I’ll have you know I have perfect diction!

Mr. B: Your diction, however, expresses things that are not the truth. (severely) And your blouse is of a poly-cotton blend isn’t it? Isn’t it? As Leviticus states, “There shall not come upon you a garment of two kinds of stuff,” therefore --

MISS PRISIM: I beg you pardon!

MR. B: And furthermore, you have a frivolous topknot upon your head! It must be cut off! (brandishes scissors) And still you claim this Ernest has returned from the dead—impossible. Ladies and gentlemen, this woman here is a liar!

Such was the English final. The Env. Sys. test is another long, scary story altogether.

This has been yet another Ivy babble-fest. At least there’s no studying to be done tonight; besides, all one can do in the abyss is talk, neh?

Happy June fifth, all.

Adieu.