I’ve made no secret lately that I was going to appear in Eve Ensler’s The Vagina Monologues, as Woman #1 (Calpernia Addams) in the…well it is not exactly a monologue, but rather a chorus…They Beat the Girl Out of My Boy…Or So They Tried.

The two-night run at Bloomfield College’s Van Fossan Theater is now over and I am exhausted and have a splitting headache from interacting with the stage lights.  I’m tired and I’m cranky.

Word on the street was that the event was not to be missed.  But then again, each night only had about 120-140 in the audience.

Part of the proceeds went to help combat the systematic maltreatment of women (and men) in the Democratic Republic of Congo in the quest for blood coltan, in what has become known as The Playstation War.  The remainder went to the The Safe House Shelter for battered women, which is affiliated with Clara Maass Hospital.

Affiliated with our production was a teach-in on the DRC and a Clotheline Project in March.

And one more presentation, which is the main purpose of this essay, against the backdrop of these other educational efforts.

There are Sundays when I don’t have much in the way of words.  At least not much in the way of my words.

This is apparently one of them.

I mean, I had a story just before I fell asleep last night and it migrated into a dream, I’m pretty sure, but as these things happen, when I woke up, it was gone.  I have a little suspicion of what it was about, but if I try to force it, I know I will be displeased with the result, that it wouldn’t end up being what it wanted to be.

So I’m going to leave that up to my subconscious to play and do with what it will.  Maybe the story will reappear and maybe it won’t.

Meanwhile, I’m supposed to be learning some lines from Eve Ensler’s The Vagina Monologues.  We have rehearsals Monday and Tuesday nights and it’s show time on Wednesday and Thursday.

Specifically, my part comes from They beat the girl out of my boy…or so they tried.

But I’ve spent most of the day with my art program instead.

I’ll be truthful with you.  But then, I always am.  So maybe I should say I’ll be truthful again.

I’m exhausted.  I got up early enough this morning and did some of my usual Friday morning things, but around 11 I fell asleep on the couch with Paula Deen and Giada De Laurentiis cooking who knows what.  Certainly not me, because I passed right on out.  And I slept for two and a half hours.

So now I am fuzzy-headed in the extreme, my eyes will hardly focus, and I have much less time than I usually do to finish my Friday column.

But I know I have a topic here somewhere, a topic that concerned my earlier comments.  Or at least I had one.

Last week I was told somewhere that Friday evening on the Internet is not the time or place for anything resembling serious discussion.  Really?  Who made that rule?