Things I realized today...

The two theatre history classes I have every Tuesday and Thursday are, in fact, so similar that they could really be one class. I have a sneaking suspicion that, while one deals with African-American plays and the other with Asian-American plays, that 90% of our lectures/class discussions are going to be damn near identical.

I would rather be writing and watching baseball tonight than working at the theatre. On this particular evening, those things just feel more important to me.

The blog is heartbroken, but not me. And it stands to be mentioned that the only way to un-break a heart is to discover that it was never really fractured in the first place.

A frog is a poem. With long skinny stanzas that are designed for leaping and a tongue built for catching punctuation from the sky.

I am an impostor of a Californian.

the strange case of the man who went to the theatre...

So, its panic time whenever I hear something unusual coming over the speakers in the lobby or house manager's office. For instance, the entire cast of The Women is made up of women (15 of them, playing 33 roles), so I should never hear a man's voice during the show. Last night, the cue'd up a ringing phone, and I hear a deep voice:
"Heeeeello? Mummble mubbble."
A few seconds later:
"Mummmmmble mumbumble..."
And then, simultaneously, an usher and two patrons are in the lobby with horrified looks on their faces. Over the radio, the SM calls me up and tells me that something strange is going on in the house. I am told three things: A patron is talking. A patron is touching other patrons. Something about a stabbing. I radio security. I go in the theatre. Halfway down the aisle, there is some sort fo commotion. I get down there to make sure no one is hurt. It doesn't take me long to figure out that the man talking to the actresses from row H is smashing drunk. AND I get the feeling that he is a rather dramatic chap when sober. Here we go (keep in mind that there is a show going on thirty feet away, so I'm trying to keep this as low-key as possible):
Me: Is anybody hurt?
Lady: That guy is crazy. He's drunk.
Me Is everyone ok?
Drunk man: Yesssss.
Lady: He grabbed us, but we're ok.
(Ok. No stabbing. Whew.)
Me: Let me move you ladies to different seats.
Lady: Are you going to put us in the back row?
(I reseat the two ladies from his row.)
Me: Excuse me sir, you're going to have to follow me to the lobby.
Drunk Man: No. I'm not...
Me: Yes, you are. We need to get you out-
Drunk Man: NO!
(At this point, security has entered, and about a dozen patrons have turned around and are glaring at the drunk man, telling him to shut up. He's getting angry.)
Irene (Security): Ok. Sir, we're going to take you out to the lobby.
(I sit next to him and he looks at me with a lot of anger.)
Drunk Man: I'm not going anywhere with HIM.
(Ok. I'm going to leave this up to Irene... for now. She gets him to be quieter, but he still won't follow her out. She waves to me and another security guard. The three of us literally have to carry him out of the theatre, as he decides to resist us completely. Jesus Christ, he is heavy.)

The Lobby
We drop him on the floor just outside of the theatre door, which is not sound proof. He won't move, he just lies there. He suddenly bursts into tears. Turns out he is suicidal. So now we have a drunk, weeping, suicidal, flamboyantly gay man on the floor of our lobby. Our security people and a very understanding patron (I thinks he was a nurse) talk to him, and hold his hand until the police arrive. I am writing this sort of tongue in cheek, but at the moment we were all feeling for the guy. Apparently he'd just been dumped, and his credit card debt was piling up. We've all felt those frustrations, but this guy had completely snapped. When the police got there, we all breathed a sigh of relief. A few minutes later, a younger man shows up, wondering where his friend went. Turns out they came to the theatre together, but the younger man, recognizing his friend's drunkness, had left the show to get the car so that they could leave. He was asking if I could retrieve his friend's bag, which he had left in the theatre, so the police wouldn't arrest him. So I went and got the "bag" which was actually a designer purse.

It was a strange, strange night. Sometimes I think that they don't pay me enough.

tribute bands: worst idea ever

We are a culture obsessed with recapturing the past. Perhaps the best evidence of this is found in the pages of local 'scene' magazines, where schedules of small music clubs are packed with bands like Led Zep-again, the Fab Faux, and Mini-kiss. The last one is kind of an exception, since it is made up entirely of little people.
My point is this: every time I see a tribute band (usually on tv, like 'Rain: The Beatles Experience') I spend the entire time thinking "Wow. I wish this was the actual band and not some creepy and slightly out of tune tribute band." Do I have a problem living in the moment? Or have I just realized and accepted that the 'moment' passed with the original band?
I don't mind cover bands, provided that they play covers from several other bands, and maybe mix in a few of their own tunes.

Attican, continued

I could have kept on walking, head down, like I had done so many times before. Wasn\'t giving him a dollar enough? I didn't have time for stories. But it was what he said next, as I stepped off the curb and into the street, that made me stop, turn around, and catch a corner of some strange light reflecting from his eyes. it was a cloudy day, rainy, but I swear it was the sun. Like the wind coming across the bay, his voice rippled my mind, and for a moment I heard the whole universe:

Most people don't know, he's still alive. That was it. I don't get chills very often. A true love I passed in the crosswalk on one busy day downtown, come back to give me her secrets. A clear day in the middle of winter, mountains on both sides drowned in deep snow. These are the things that give me chills. And now, this. Most people don't know, he's still alive. He had me. His eyes were stormy, now, green and humid. His voice-wind rustled the needles of the old pines, trees long gone and replaced by streetlights. And now, as best I can remember, the story he told me:

It wasn't so long ago when everyone knew that Attican, who had grown to be a big old troll, lived happily here near the water. Many things that are alarming now were not alarming then. I need to tell you a little bit about trolls first, so that you understand. Creatures have reasons for existing. Some are simple. Worms feed Robins. Robins tell us when Spring has come. Sometimes purposes are forgotten. Creatures disappear, and we never do know how magical they might have been. So, the purpose of a troll is to answer questions. They lived long lives, you see, and grew up very slowly. A troll child stayed a child much longer than a human. And trolls never stop growing. Imagine all of the things a troll child could learn! And as they grew, a troll would embark on several journeys, to all the corners of the earth, and return with stories and secrets and recipes. They became the best chefs in the world. Any alarm caused by their appearance was quickly dampened by the amazing smells coming from their earthen homes. And people, being curious creatures, would follow their noses. And trolls, being kind-hearted, would invite them in for a dinner that would last deep into the night. And it was during these dinners, amidst oohs and aahhs and belches, that trolls began to answer questions...

a little tired this morning...

...thanks to Sir Lancelot. His mom is not home this weekend, which apparently makes him even more neurotic than usual. He is one of those cats who meows constantly, but doesn't really want attention. He only shuts up if you talk to him, or if you have nice long hair for him to play with. I was in no mood to chat with him all night, and my hair is apparently not up to his usual standards. I tried putting him in my roommates room with the door closed. A few minutes later, I heard this "thump. thump! THUMP!". My best guess is that he was literally throwing himself at the door, probably head first. So I resigned myself to my fate, took two shots of jack, and put on the Golden Compass audiobook. I dozed off once or twice, and missed some of my favorite parts, but i woke up just before the end, so that was pretty great. Nothing like the fate of Roger hanging in the balance at 6:45 am. I'm going to have to try to solve the cat problem tonight...

Under the bridge, you can hide from the rain

Certain things need to be believed in to exist. Like trolls. They are only there if you believe in them. And even then, in the case of trolls, it takes many, many people to actually bring them to life. But nobody knows what they are like when they come to life, because it has been many, many years since the last troll breathed his last breath. His name was Attican, and he is frozen beneath a tall, noisy bridge leading into a big, bustling city. Most of the young, hip people in this city zoom over Attican every day without every knowing he is there, and they laugh whenever the old, drunk man on the corner holds out his cup and asks them if they\'d like to hear a story about a troll. The old, drunk man is very, very old, and not drunk at all. His hair is grey, and braided, and reaches towards the ground like the roots of a magic tree. His jacket was green when it was new, and it had brass buttons the shined when the sun found its way through the maze of the Pacific clouds. But like the land itself, his jacket greyed and patches fell away, and it sagged as he filled its many pockets with bits and pieces of history. Things he deemed important, like a colorful stone or a mouse who needed rescuing from an angry chef\'s trap. And it is the most wonderful thing in the world to look into the old man\'s pockets. And for each pocket, he will tell you a story. And for each story, he will open up a door in your mind, behind which you will find something truly amazing.

So it was a rainy Tuesday, the day that I stopped at the corner and dropped a dollar in the old man\'s cup. Maybe I stayed a moment longer than I should have, or maybe he sensed that I needed to hear something specific. In either case, I had begun to turn away when I heard his voice, and the rattling of the stories in his pockets. \"This is the story of Attican, the last troll, who lives under the bridge...\"

 

Okapibama

We've entered the realm of dirty politics. I think the best way to handle this is to have made your mind up a couple of weeks ago, before the candidates had a chance to knock each other around. I don't like the way McCain/Palin are baiting Obama into insulting them, and then acting high and mighty. I don't mind that Obama is defending himself and his campaign, but McCain is a spin-master on par with that evil wizard from Lord of the Rings (Saruman?). You can put lipstick on Wormtongue...

In other news: They seem to have found some Okapis living in the wilds of the Congo. Very cool, considering we didn't know if there were any surviving outside of zoos.
Here is the article.

exit poll, part I

the reading was awesome. i mean, i felt very selfish, and then self-conscious, but it was a really neat experience for me. more later....

Iowan Drama Society, part II

what would it take to make Iowa like Disneyland? and i don't mean by building rides and selling enormously delicious corn dogs. i mean, is it possible to get as excited about going to Iowa as you would be about going to Disneyland?

i have a new play reading tonight, and i am excited and a little nervous. i really like the play, but hey, i wrote it. thats like saying "sure, i do like that funny looking freckled kid with the big glasses. after all, he is my kid." tonight is when i find out what other people think of my kid. i kind of hope he grows up to play some sort of instrument in marching band, and dates a pretty but awkward girl until the day after their high school graduation, when they discover that their puppy love has grown beyond them, and they spend the summer wild and broken-hearted before leaving for college. now that i think of it, maybe he is the one who gets excited about going to Iowa? makes sense to me.

'them there eyes' comes on in the coffee shop and makes me think of someone. a very specific someone.

the battle of pregnant second daughters

I am interested in Sarah Palin's speech tonight, for a number of reasons. John McCain has succeeded in creating a media circus surrounding an event that up until his VP pick announcement, was a non-event. Things that will be on my mind while watching:

Is Palin being used? What better way to counteract the historical nature of Obama's campaign then by nominating Palin? McCain knows that people love to see history being made in front of their eyes. It is exciting. It is different. Without Palin, he didn't stand a chance. Now voters get to choose between radical historical moments: Obama and an old white guy or An old(er) white guy and Sarah Palin.

But you have to remember that campaign managers and "consultants" are ruthless. Doesn't anyone else feel like Palin's image is being used? A number of things have been popping up in my mind: Obama is young, vigorous, and attractive. He has a young, healthy family. Where is the youth and beauty in the McCain campaign? As of this week, it is squarely on the shoulders of Sarah Palin.

Joe Biden has been a suprisingly successful choice for Obama. He has a comfortable image, as far as politicians are concerned. He's white, upper-middle-aged, with a great smile and frosty hair. Almost Bill Clinton-esque. He provides a certain amount of comfort to the change promised by Obama. He's like a big old political catfish, and he's been swimming in the bayou for a long, long time. So what does McCain do? He goes fishing using Sarah Palin as bait. And within a week, he gets a hit: headlines that blast Biden for calling Palin "good-looking". (nevermind that it was out of context) What a brilliantly underhanded way to portray him as your run of the mill sexist politician, and to remind the American public that maybe the "change" promised by Obama isn't really "change" at all, but a re-packaging of everything we've seen from Dems in the past. McCain did a wonderful job of making America wonder if Biden would cheat on his wife with Sarah Palin. This is politics.

Experience. McCain has pounded Obama for his "lack of experience". Which I think is laughable. Energy and vigor, intelligence and inspiration, these are the things that can make a difference. I also happen to believe that Obama's non-Washington experience is what makes him special as a candidate... being multi-cultural, having built up grass-roots organizations, that is what makes him special. But this post is about Palin. Does McCain figure that his girth of experience somehow levels Palin's lack thereof? Need I remind him that if he dies while in office, he's leaving the country in the hands of the VP. So what has Palin done? She has been a great Governor of Alaska. Which is our biggest state, but also one of the sparsest populated and quirkiest. That being said, George W. Bush probably had less experience than Palin when he was elected, and he managed to become the worst president in history. So at least I am convinced that Sarah Palin would run this country more efficiently than our current prez. So as far as experience goes, I equate it to a succesful mayor of a mid-sized Midwestern city suddenly finding themselves mayor of New York.

The pregnant daughter. As far as I am concerned, it is a non-issue. People get pregnant all the time. None of us would be here if people didn't get pregnant. And the daughter seems to be making responsible decisions regarding the situation. But I get fed up with the GOP pounding us with "this is really a non-issue. Its none of anyone's business. Forget about it." If Joe Biden had a pregnant teenage daughter, don't you think Republicans would be having a field day? They'd be lined up to take shots at the irresponsible youth of a liberal nation. If nothing else, the pregnancy of Palin's daughter should serve as a platform of pro-life (Palin) v. pro-choice (Obama). Biden is sort of iffy on the issue.

So what I am basically looking at tonight is something that convinces me that Palin is not being put up there to even out the attractiveness of the campaign. I do think that she is a better VP pick than the Dems have put up the past two elections. I just don't think that adding her to the equation gives McCain enough umph to top Obama. But tonight could go a long way towards convincing Americans either way.

an army of teachers...

I'm supposed to be making sure that my newly-minted play makes enough sense so that the actors aren't tripping over exposed spelling errors and un-deleted non-sensical monologues, but I decided I wanted to blog first.

I know this is back to school time, and students everywhere are groaning and trying to squeeze a few more precious drops of freedom out of the pulpy orange of summer. But I am reminded of something else, something I never really though about when I was growing up: the army of teachers who are gearing up, spending their own money on books and crayons and kleenex, reading Catcher In The Rye for the two-hundreth time, and decorating their classrooms with the help of husbands and children. They create safe spaces for young people. They are the dream-enablers of our world.

So to my sister, my friends, and every teacher I have ever had, from kindergarten to college, thank you!

Waiting for Ayn Rand

Ayn Rand must be the most-owned and least-read author of all-time. I have to admit that there is an old, beat-up copy of Atlas Shrugged living amongst a stack of old, beat-up paperbacks on my bedroom floor. I used to keep it on my bookshelf, but grew tired of the guilt I would feel every time I saw it. It cried out to me, “Fraud! You aren't a real reader- here I am, a masterpiece of everything literary, wallowing weary and unread, sandwiched between dog-eared copies of Stephen King and out-of-print Sci-fi collections!” So I moved it to the stack on the floor, where it now holds up copies of all the books I don't want to put on my shelf. Books like Love Story (“...true love means never having to say you're sorry...” That book was way off the mark.) and Screenplay by Syd Field. But this weekend, some hope for Atlas: a friend and I determined that there will be a moment in every person's life when he or she knows that it is time to begin. Be it Atlas Shrugged or The Fountainhead, you will deem yourself worthy of Ayn Rand, and you will take the plunge. Basically, she's like the quirky, smart, cute girl who works at the university library... you've fallen madly in love with her over the past three years, and your only conversations have gone like this:

You: Um...

Her: Do you have your card?

(You hand her your library card. She scans it. She frowns.)

Her: You have a fine.

You: Yeah, I know-

Her: Three-dollars and fifty-cents.

(Awkward pause. You dig through your bag for two quarters. Her glasses are on the bridge of her nose. She takes them off and lets them hang around her neck. She looks you in the eye. You want to tell her that she is beautiful, that you want to take her to the Library of Congress and make love to her amongst endless halls of priceless documents. You say nothing.)

Her: You know, someone else might have needed that book.

(Snaps her glasses back on her nose. Turns to do her filing. You watch her for a moment, and then decide that it might not be worth it. At least not today.)

And it has taken you three years to get that far. But what you do know, deep down inside, is this: that one day, she will keep her glasses off, and lean over the counter, kiss you on the cheek, and whisper in your ear, “Who is John Galt?” And that it will be something that you would never give up, not for the entire collection of the Library of Congress.