The Interest in a John Hancock

So it occurred to me when John Green’s new novel came out for pre-order today that I share a strange yet trivial fascination with autographs that most people have.

His latest book comes out in almost a year, but I pre-ordered it on Amazon. He promised via the internets to sign every single book that’s pre-ordered (yikes, Nerdfighters will give him carpal tunnel), and I was thinking to myself, “I like books. I like John Green. His book is on sale for $10. I should like it to be autographed.”

And I didn’t know why I should like it to be autographed. So I sat down and noodled it out and came to the conclusion, at least for John, that I liked having a little piece of him to keep with me. The man is just as important to me as the works he produces, so keeping some sort of token of his affection (most people say they love their fans–nobody loves their fans quite like the Greens) that can’t quite match my affection, but it can get pretty close.

I have a number of autographs. As mentioned before, I’m a patron of Dragon*Con. I go to see the famous people. Not to gawk or to take their pictures, but just to listen to them. There are two kinds of celebrities who attend conventions–ones who make connections and ones who make money. I like to think that I have only made the conscious effort to meet the ones who like to make connections. Those are the nerdy ones. The ones who would probably line up to see Carrie Fisher right with me. I like to have tokens of our mutual affection, and I suppose the easiest way is to have them sign something. It’s an easy enough memento.

Most of my autographs come with nice little stories.

Nathan Fillion was completely adorable. I couldn’t think of anything non-foot-in-mouth to say, but for a moment, I had his attention and he knew my name and he smiled at me and thanked me. And I don’t know why that’s important to the grand scheme of things, but it was important to me. How often do you actually have the courage to walk up to somebody you admire and tell them just that? How often do you get to hear them thank you? I’m too socially inept to do this to people I encounter on a regular basis anyway. So once a year I get up the balls to talk to famous people.

I did get to make a joke to Alan Tudyk. I don’t remember what it was. I remember it was really really stupid and he laughed anyway but all I wanted to do was headdesk because I was saying something stupid. I appreciated the laughter, genuine or no. It’s such a strange situation to be in, queuing up just to talk to another human being. The ones who put you at ease, who try not to work it as an assembly line, those are the ones worth looking for.

I was so flustered to meet Alan Ruck–who I discovered just as I discovered my love of theatre, and my mom had tickets to see him in the Producers and she went without me and I was so upset that she got to see him and I didn’t that I always wanted to see him–that I knocked like half the photos off the table he was at. Luckily it was just Taylor and I and we weren’t holding anybody up. But I scrambled to pick everything up and I was apologizing profusely and he was like, “Dude, it’s okay, chill,” and he bent down to help me even though the D*C person was like, “Stop touching stuff.” And then he asked me if I wanted my picture with him, and I was like, “Uh yes please” because 1) pictures in the Walk of Fame were expressly forbidden and 2) you had to pay extra to get a picture with someone and he was offering me a free one. So that was nice. He was so good-natured, it made me feel like my admiration for him was justified.

I don’t remember much of meeting Sean Maher, and I remember telling Matthew Lewis to feel better because he had mentioned in a panel earlier that day that he felt horribly sick but wouldn’t miss out on meeting his fans, and James Marsters told me about how happy he was to go to conventions because he fully believed in “letting your freak flag fly.”

My dad used to live in Greensboro, NC for a bit–I was not at all in favor of his move, but the silver lining to that was that Orson Scott Card (writer of the excellent Ender’s Game/Shadow series, and probably other stuff, but that’s all I’ve been able to get into) also lived there and he always did signings in local bookstores. So when “Empire” came out (I… haven’t read it. Still. It’s been like 5 years.) my dad got his autograph and talked to OSC about me. Which seemed crazy. They just had this whole dialogue about me. Dad mistakenly told him I wanted to be a writer for a living (egh) so OSC probably gave him sage advice to pass onto me, which I either never received or for the life of me can’t remember. OSC wrote, “Welcome to my nightmare” above his signature. Either it was a meaningful dedication to the nightmarish profession that is professional authoring, or it had significance to the plot of the book. I like to think of it as the former. It’s funnier that way.

Not too long after that, OSC came out with a mini-book, a Christmas-themed short taking place in the Enderverse. So again I dutifully sent my dad his way come book signing time, but this time with a special request–to get two copies, one for me and the other for my very favorite teacher from all of the public schools in all of the worlds, my 9th grade lit teacher. Doc had introduced me to the Ender series, taught me how to write like a college student even though I was a freshman (I write better than I do on this blog, I promise, I work in my university’s writing center and everything), and did all sorts of other inspiring work that was difficult as hell.

He was the kind of guy that was outwardly curmudgeonly (I had him the first year that House was on, and I swear to Joss Whedon, David Shore must know Doc, because they’re kind of photocopies) and walked around being cool and insulting and difficult as hell, but at the end of the day, he’d write you kick ass rec letters and the most inspiring and nearly cry-inducing, ego-boosting yearbook messages, and you hated his classes while you took them and only after you finished them did you actually appreciate how amazing and beneficial the whole thing was. We even wrote our final papers for him based off Dead Poets Society and just as the bell rang, my class got up on our wobbly round tables (very dangerous, I might had) and Oh Captain, My Captain’d him. For which he yelled at us to get down, but you could see that he was kind of affected. He was smiling.

So anyway I got him an autographed copy of this little book and gave it to him, making him the first teacher I ever gave a present to (I have since only given presents to two other professors in college who have literally changed my life, as I’ve always felt that presents were kind of crossing a weird professional line, but I don’t really care about that for these three people). And he appreciated it. And I hope he still has it. It’s been about 4 years. I don’t know. But I told my dad to tell OSC about Doc and how amazing he was, which hopefully Dad did do, so while Dad’s getting an autograph, both the signer and the signee are feeling some sort of appreciation for each other–a physical token of affection.

At Braves games, the club auctions off autographed things for charity, which we always try to get one thing about once a year. Unfortunately, as soon as we seem to win someone’s autograph, they get traded or they retire or whatever. The only hold out is Brian McCann, which we got the first year he played. We don’t dare try for a Chipper Jones. In this particular year, 2004 or so, my favorite player was Marcus Giles. So I urged Mom to bid for a signed hat. We bid quite often, but we rarely win. This particular one we did, and I was so incredibly pumped, but by the time we made it to the place where we could pick the hat up, the kiosk was shut down. Color me devastated. So Mom had to go through this whole phone tag thing with the Braves charity organization–she wanted to donate something and she might as well get a token from one of our favorites. It was this ridiculous comedy of errors trying to get the thing to us, but they didn’t end up being able to mail it, so we just decided to go to another game and schedule a time to pick it up. So Mom goes to the thing and makes the swap and she shows me the hat once before stuffing it in the plastic bag it came in and wouldn’t let me look into the plastic bag, and I thought that was particularly odd, but I forgot about it within like 20 minutes.

Fastforward six months to December. I’ve pretty much completely forgotten all about the bag thing. And I unwrap my Christmas present–a square shaped item. It’s an autographed baseball from Marcus Giles. Mom says, “This present has a story to it.” The guy who my mom was dealing with in the charity organization (this whole thing took like a month to sort out, mind) was telling this crazy comedy of errors story to Marcus himself about this mom who just wanted to get the hat to her daughter. I honestly would have told her to forget all about the hat if I had known how much trouble she had to go through. And Marcus, upon hearing this story, grabs a baseball and signs it for me, hands it to the guy and tells him he should give it to us with the hat as a token of appreciation for her diligence in trying to secure his autograph and only wanting to do so if it meant she could donate to their charity. So that day at the park, Mom had to hide the ball because she knew she wanted to present it at this time. And I unwrapped it and listened to the story and kind of cried a little because it was just a tiny act of kindness that made the world a bit of a brighter place.

So I don’t know what the deal is with autographs. There are some people who just collect them, probably intending on selling them or just wearing them as badges of experience. Been there, met them, did that. I’m just too hopelessly nostalgic and too obsessed with stories to let these photos written on with Sharpies by other human beings who may not be wholly important to people 500 years from now. They’re important to me now. They’re stories for me now. They’re little mementos from times I got to meet people who are instrumental to who I am and what I have become.

We’re a celebrity culture now, I guess, which isn’t all that bad as everybody cracks it up to be. These people are my 21st Century equivalent of getting to meet Shakespeare in his time. Would people know his works would stand the test of time? Certainly not. Did they think that would ever be a possibility? Hell no. Am I saying that Nathan Fillion is as important as William Shakespeare? Kind of. Deal with it.


Philosophical Wax from a Shipping Employee

So I work at a shipping store. And I don’t get the world’s greatest treatment from my customers or my superior. But right now, that’s immaterial.

I like my job. Or maybe I like the idea of my job.

There are probably a number of people who consider my job non-essential. I often count myself one of them. Nobody’s ever going to force you to ship something. There are about 7 different options to deliver something from Point A to Point B. I recognize that. The non-essential nature of my job [I say this in a very grand scale way, at the very end of time, are people going to look back and say, “Thank Joss we had shipping stores?”] is quite often why people complain about our prices. I can dig it. Shipping is expensive. But I challenge you to drive to California on only $14. Please do. Robert Downey Jr. couldn’t do it with or without Zach Galifianakis.

Maybe what excites me most is the fact that I get to use my imagination.

You have no. idea. the kinds of things people ship. It’s insane.

You get the regular business people who send businessy things. You get the regular online shoppers who won’t learn that home shopping network deals are too good to be true. You get the embarrassed guys who return Victoria’s Secret items for their ladyfriends (They actually disguise their company as VSM on the label, probably for the purpose of discretion. You can’t fool me).

Then you get people who send two foot by three foot tin sculpture of a flying pig. And people who send a package of bread rolls–just like regular grocery store bread rolls. People who send awards and photographs and newspaper clippings.

Point is, there’s a story in each of these items. For these particular examples, I know them.

A couple in Wisconsin purchased the pig online through someone’s Etsy store or antiques’n’things store or whatevs. This thing, it was HUGE. And kind of creepy. It was a little bit like a ‘found things’ sculpture. It was whimsical. And it took forever to package. I don’t know what the Wisconsinites were planning to do with it, but I secretly wish they would call me and let me know.

The bread roll lady was funny. Every year her whole family gathers up north for a big family Thanksgiving, and that year, she couldn’t make it. She would always be responsible for bringing the bread to dinner (that would probably be my contribution if my family ever did this…), so she was shipping a package of rolls she got from the grocery store next door just so her family would have a little piece of her at dinner.

Now I’m just getting sappy.

The point is.

Is there a point?

I think so. I get an insight into what people are like and what other people think other people would like. And that’s nice. I suppose I could just as easily ask people to tell me about themselves. But I like to involve my imagination. Besides. Fiction is always a little more fun than reality.

During “Die Vampire Die” I was all, “There are some people in the world who say–THERE’S HUNTER BELL”

Okay. Let me just take a moment. This is my last post about [title of show]. For now. I make no promises.

Andbutso. This weekend we performed. And. Well. Now I’m feeling post-show depression. So naturally I turn to the blog.

Remember that time a few days ago when I said…

[cue flashback lights and sounds]

“Is it wrong that I’m sort of relieved we’re so far away from New York that they can’t just pop in on us to see what we’ve done to their show? [Hunter’s from Atlanta at one point, as our Hunter pointed out to me, and that’s scary]”

So. Um. Guess what happened?


He was in the neighborhood and he and his brother–the same brother from the Ace of Death and A Puzzling Obsession story–casually popped on in and… well. They seemed to really love it. Which blows my mind. I can’t stop thinking about all the mistakes I made, lines I didn’t read properly, etc. And then I was talking to OgleHunter about my worries and he just kind of put it into perspective, “Were you playing Hunter with Hunter in the audience?” No. THANK JOSS.

You know what’s great? When your heroes come to see you in a play! (Word, Susan)

So. Let’s go the story sequentially. Adrenaline-fueled and possibly not very accurate. Let’s just assume all quotations are paraphrased and Kate-ized.

Lights up, everything’s going fine. Fast forward to the end of Development Medley. I’m running my chair from far stage left to far stage right–I’m not joking, I’m running–to hit my mark for the phone call (Zehnder-Oliver Capital, this is Susan) and just as I’m there for “Aaaah Off-Broad—” I twist the hell out of my left ankle. But at least I hit my mark for the lights. And so I finish my five lines and spend the next scene–Keeping the Ball in the Air, I think?–frozen on stage in lots of pain. Then I’m a mess during Change It Don’t Change It, I missed my mark for the next phone call and had to inch my way into the light. And then during “A Way Back to Then” I’m so overcome with ‘This is the last time I’ll hear her sing this song, this is the last time we’re on stage together, my ankle hurts a lot, I don’t ever want this to end, why don’t we have more than three shows?’ that I just start crying. And OgleHeidi is crying because she’s feeling the same thing I’ll bet–minus foot hurting–so we’re struggling to keep it together during Pre-Nine People’s. And then I just kind of lost it AGAIN during my solo talking about the goddamn Rice Krispie Treats because this stupid show was all totally life changing to me and I feel like my whole life has been validated within the course of three weeks. And I’m a gross crier, so I’m trying to come up with discreet ways to wipe my nose. And I get it together for the finale and then just totally lost it again during curtain call and hobbled back to the ASM to sit in a chair and cry while my mic is being removed. And the cast and everybody’s freaking out, like–can we ice your ankle do you need help OMJ what the hell–and I’m being stubborn and stupid and I’m crying partly because it hurts but mostly because it’s so damn embarrassing. And eventually I convince them to leave me and I take a couple of minutes to compose myself and wash my face and slap myself a couple of times to just snap out of it.

And then I’m walking toward the doors to leave and our Technical Director says, “Mummblemummblehunterbellmumblemuble.” And I’m all, “Wha…?” And then I limp into the lobby with my face all red and I’m still sort of confused.

And there’s Hunter Bell. And he turns around and just sort of holds his arms out for me and I think I literally started backing away in embarrassment. He introduces himself, he’s so cool just kinda casually like, “Hey I’m Hunter Bell you guys were so awesome” and I’m all, “Grglelagbler Hi I’m Kate.” And I shook his hand and then we probably hugged. And then the night became the greatest night of my life.

And he was kind of leading me up to where everybody else was, and, like the total sweetheart he is, asks me if I’m okay, and I have to stop panicking long enough to apologize that I fell after Development. And he’s all, “Somebody get her an icepack!” And I’m all, “NowhatnoI’mfineyou’rehunterbell.” And he’s all, “I gotta tell you about the time Jeff sprained his ankle during the show on Broadway”–which he does, eventually when things have calmed down.

And everybody’s freaking out. We’ve got cameras flashing left and right. I eventually hobble/ran as fast as I could to get my camera and he was totes game to stand there and take pictures with us for like twenty minutes. And so the audience members and cast/crew alike are just going camera-crazy and we grab every single person who worked on the show–actors, ops, management, directors, choreographers, designers, everybody who was there–and take pictures with him. And then he says he wants his own picture with the four of us. And I’m just dying of pure delight. A huge part of me wants to apologize for the mistakes I made but a smarter part of me was just like–dude shut up.

And you know what’s adorable? He totally apologized to us for writing the medleys. He apologized. And we were all, “Dudeshutupyou’reawesome. We love you no matter how hard it is to stage your show. I love you forever let’s be best friends.”

We kind of kept quoting him back to him–which I wonder whether or not that’s surreal, but you better believe how applicable all the things they said freaking out about Bernadette Peters or Kitty Carlisle Hart were definitely applying to him. Our Assistant Director even asked him, “Is it true that you don’t know squiddle about dibetes?” about which he was very tickled and responded appropriately and then OgleHeidi was all, “Me too dum dum me too!” WE’RE SO SELF-REFERENTIAL IT’S AWESOME.

Eventually we just kind of kidnap him for a bit and take him back to the green room to sign every poster our director could get his hands on. He was pressing us for questions and doling out praise for all of us like it was nothing. He loved our show. He signed everything we asked him to–including our stage manager’s callbook, because he said our SM called the show beautifully and then our SM cried a little because this was the happiest day of his life too.

He told us a bunch of wacky Broadway anecdotes, including how hard it was to know where to move the chairs during blackouts (WE HAD THAT PROBLEM TOO!) and how Jeff refused to stop doing the show even though he sprained his ankle before the Medleys. He was just the most complementary and loveliest famous real person I’ve ever met. I had to admit to myself–this day was even better than the day when I met Nathan Fillion, Alan Tudyk, and Matthew Lewis all on the same day.

He was pressing us for questions–he’d answer anything and everything that we wanted to know about [tos] or the [tos] gang. So we’re all, “Hey what’re you doing now?” And he explains to us that the four are work-shopping a show at the Vineyard around May/June and casually was all, “Yeah you guys should totally come see us.” And we’re all, “drool omj yes please school sponsored field trip?”

So after we commandeered him for what was probably over an hour he decided that he should probably head on home with his brother. As he was going, he said, “I’m going to report back to the others and tell them how awesome you guys are.” And all of us were like “AH HEIDI/SUSAN/JEFF ARE ACTUALLY GOING TO KNOW WE EXIST” more so than the “They put us on their website” excitement. And that was legit them doing the website stuff cause Hunter mentioned that Jeff thought the popcorn in our poster was funny or sommat like that.

I must have hugged him like seven times that night. I’m not a hugger. And I hugged the hell out of Hunter Bell and I didn’t mind in the slightest.


So even though Hunter’s left at this point, I’ll just keep telling the story because I cry some more and everybody likes to laugh derisively at people who cry.

We finally start the strike, which you think would take a short time what with us only having four chairs and a keyboard but that’s not true at all. Then duhduhduh-duhduhduh-duh-duh-duh-this is some time that has passed [only funny if you saw our production, I apologize]–strike’s over. We gather in the green room for pizza. People make lovely speeches about how awesome everything has been. I’m trying to not cry.

Throughout the rehearsal, we’ve tried to have an ongoing contest to see who can come up with the best drag queen names and since none of us but OgleHunter and the director were really that good at it, they decided to give us all like “Well you all failed so we’ll just give you all prizes so everybody feels special!” prizes. Word. Sample drag queen names include: Isadora Jar (which we put into the show), So Soo Me (she’s Asian–says our director), Shirley A. Man, Alotta Dix… yada. Our SM and ASM are handing out special prizes/notes that are specific to our characters. They ask us to read the card to everybody so we don’t see our prize ahead of time.

For OgleJeff, they give a powder-blue bowler hat with a large flower sprouting from the top, “His serious hat because he’s so serious.” Serious OgleJeff is so serious. I wish he’d wear that hat every day.

For OgleHeidi, she gets a pair of sparkly butterfly wings for “A Way Back to Then” because, let’s face it, she just kills that song. If she would let them, the audience would probably give her a standing O after that. She’s so kick ass.

Then they call up me, and I’m like on the verge of tears just watching how happy the other two are. And they hand me the note that says on the cover, “Because you ARE the Rice Krispie Treats” and I read it and start bawling immediately like a small child. On the inside of the card, “Now you’re shakin’ bacon!” And they gave me a box of Rice Krispie Treats and I’m just inconsolable because I’m touched and honored and happy and I don’t ever want to leave ever. And then SM’s like, “…you do like Rice Krispie Treats, right?” to which I respond, “I fucking love Rice Krispie Treats”.

And to OgleHunter they gave a mix CD of what I assume to be Broadway tunes, which they titled “A Little Night Mucus” (one of the potential titles for the show that he improv’d, though my favorite was, “What about ‘Spider-man: Turn Off the–AHHHHHHH IT HURTS’!”) to help inspire him whenever he needed monkeys driving on speedboats.

But anyway, so that’s the end of that. And I don’t want to wax poetical about how influential this show has been to me and how it’ll go down as probably my best college memory and I’ll talk about it for years to come. Yada.

But enough about [tos]…. Who’s up for more [title of show] talk?!

My brother’s fiancee’s nine-or-ten-year-old son (six degrees much) came to see the show on Friday and all I think he really got out of it was a lot of swearing and some mime violence during “Die Vampire Die”. He kept fake staking me with a toothpick all day Saturday. I said, “No, no, kid. I’m the vampire slayer; you’re not supposed to stake me.”

Also I keep making [tos] jokes to people who’ve only seen it once and then they don’t laugh because who the hell else remembers tiny details but I’m too busy laughing at how clever I am to care. Blergle.

This is the last line of my poorly constructed stream of consciousness definitely forgetting some awesome details blog post.

He told me to go back to the beginning. And so I have.

I should record my Art and Culture class. Although, I’m not sure this class is ultimately going to be good for anything (boo, Core requirements) but a laugh. I won’t say this is the most interesting professor I’ve ever had, but he’s certainly the strangest.

The first day of our class, the professor–Dr. Inigo Montoya, I will say, because I’m not exaggerating the physical similarity–opens with a fairly moving speech. Not more than a few weeks ago, we had a student pass in a very tragic accident. I didn’t know him (I know almost nobody on campus), but he truly seems like an amazing and influential person to the university. Dr. Montoya knew him pretty well and announced that he was dedicating all of his classes this semester to him.

That was fine. But he used this tribute as a springboard for a Sorting Hat-like speech about finding our passion. No, no passion, capital-p Passion. What started as a lovely tribute turned into a fire-and-brimstone warning about what happens to life if you don’t follow your passion. Dr. Montoya has apparently followed his passion all over the world, doing whatever the hell he wants.

He rails against money and materialism. He says, with all the judgment in the world, “I won’t judge you if you want to spend your life pursuing money–but you must truly find and follow your passion if you want to live life properly!” I’m told he drives a Jag.

“Find your bliss and the money will follow,” he says. Do the passion. Maybe not my passion. He asks people to raise our hands if we have a passion. I raised mine, he called on me, I said, “Dramaturgy!” And he hesitates because he doesn’t know what that is. And then he’s like kind of like, “…okay.” and moves on. Thanks for crapping on my passion, man.

He fashions himself as a bit of a Renaissance man, I think. An archaeologist, anthropologist, artist, art critic, scientist, philosopher. Whatevs. And he does seem to have a enormous wealth of knowledge. I would kind of love to see him on Jeopardy or something.

His neighbors think he’s strange because he does Tai Chi on his roof every morning. He also said his neighbors think he’s a businessman because he likes to dress nice.

Dude, if they’ve spoken with you for a minute or less, they definitely don’t think you’re a businessman.

He says he’s going to teach us to be elitist–not elite, like Aaron Sorkin would say–but elitist and proud. Such as, in the end of the class, we will become art snobs. Right now, we know nothing. But by the end, we’ll be able to spit on people who aren’t ‘artists’.

What constitutes being an artist? Beats the hell out of me. But I certainly know what doesn’t make you an artist:

  • Excessive tattoos
  • Strange piercings
  • Funky hair colors
  • Taking Oxycontin.

Lesson of the day: Crack is whack. Be above the influence. Also don’t take Oxycontin.

At least he’s very anti-drugs. I wonder why he’s so crazy about not taking drugs. He mentioned it multiple times.

Also, he doesn’t distinguish between subjects—Leonardo didn’t, so neither does he–so we’re not just in an art and culture class. We’re also in a science class, an astronomy class, a religion class, a _______ class. I know the Big Bang has had a considerable impact on culture, in that it created all life and y’know stuff like that. But nobody in the Paleolithic cave painting period did anything to depict it.

“It’s not naked; it’s nude…” he says. Has anybody else seen Calendar Girls? He has this whole tirade on the difference between pornography and nudes. He hates it when people consider ‘good art’ as pornography. And he almost shouts at us to eliminate our taboos about naming our “private parts”–he definitely wins the penis game. He was almost embarrassingly loud, shouting, “It’s a penis!” But that was intentional.

Sometimes my mouth says things aloud without checking with my brain to see if it’s a good idea. So sometimes I make jokes to myself or repeat funny things that people say. The purpose of this being I had a major Doctor Who nerd moment. Montoya says, “Why just a few years ago, we discovered the purpose of Stonehenge!” And I answered,–luckily only loud enough to myself–“Yeah, as a resting place for the Pandorica. Duh.”

Sometimes I feel like neither of us should be let out of our houses.

The class is hilarious. Despite the coursework, I look forward to the semester’s lectures.

Have Some Fun Quotes:

I watched a lion have sex once. It was boring. She didn’t seem to enjoy it, neither did he. They didn’t have dinner or anything.

Thumbs, we gotta have ’em.

Right now, we’re in the Dark Ages. [in context, given that we’re just destroying the world. Maybe in 10,000 we’ll get better at taking care of earth]

1 in 600,000,000,000,000 chance you’re in this room with me. You won the lottery.

I don’t teach boring classes. I don’t.

Do we live in caves? Have you lived in a cave? Have you been to a cave? You haven’t been to a cave? You should go to a cave. We would never live in caves.

[Question: What were they doing in the caves where they painted? He demonstrates Cro-Magnon dancing.]

The [Cro-Magnon] were dancing. They were dancing. Dancing always leads to sex! So I’ve heard.

We’re all walking cosmos.

What if the free-lance floating molecules of Mozart were in this cereal?

You know what you hear when you open the door to a woman’s bathroom? [he makes chatting motions with his hands and kind of goes, ‘blahblahblah’] They’re just gathered, chattering. Is that sexist? I don’t care.