Tonight I surprised myself by attending a concert.
This makes two. Concerts.
I also attended a Billy Joel concert in the summer of 2014 but I couldn't be sure because I was sitting so far away. It may have been Billy Joel. It may have been a musical raisin.
It turns out that tonight's concert was a secret. So I will not tell you where it was. At least not online. I am only allowed to tell you if you take me to lunch. (That's what they said.)
I have two friends participating in this concert. I greet them. They instruct me to meet and sit next to a tall girl named Bethany on the section of damp grass nearest the front. I do so. Bethany likes my hot dog hat.
I think her name was Bethany.
I feel a poem-ish thingy is best for describing my experience this evening:
[Sidenote: this will be very free form. I did not pay any attention in Poetry Class.]
Buns of men stray to craniums,
Nomads from pants.
Grass tickles parts of me
I'm not happy discussing.
Your jeans look soft,
Your bun is long and stringy,
Trailing down your neck to tickle
Your tunic of national emblems.
Don't take photos! Don't take photos!
No social media! Trumpets a staunch blonde
Spilling his beer as he reaches for his phone.
Swans woven in lakes of cotton
Shelter your rhythm from the elements.
Wee husks devoid of tears crack at your ankle,
Mandy Patinkin drops the beats.
Women far afield will your lungs to know their worth,
We can't hear you! Their wails mix with the scuffle*
Of bicycle leaps and sweaty toddlers.
Vowels ooze - melodious fractions from Gemini,
Four blue orbs search you unblinking;
The downbeat your secret.
Will you share?
Well, that was fun. Now I've dried out my contacts.
Prosaically:
I sat in my oldest pink skirt from Old Navy on a thin and long patch of wet grass and watched a boy with a rat tail wearing comfortable looking jeans and a flag T-shirt sing some songs and recite some poetry very quietly for a bunch of ladies and gentlemen with man-buns while a dead ringer for Mandy Patinkin provided percussion from his swan fabric-draped drum and a maraca he had stuck in his shoe. Meanwhile my brown-haired, blue-eyed friends sat on a picnic table and sang oohs and aahs for backup.
*Hint.
Tuesday, May 31, 2016
A Memorial Day Vocabulary Lesson From Randy Honaker
"That's not a thing."
My brother and I are standing in the downpour under my fabulous many-kitten-faced umbrella staring at my father.
He is seated in his green rope porch swing holding court next to the grill.
He has just said a word I have certainly never heard before and I spent the first sixteen years of my life doing nothing but reading words in books and drinking Hardee's sweet tea.
I am almost skeptical. But not quite. My father is extremely smart. I am, however, curious.
"Say that again."
He cuts incredulous sky blue eyes to me and repeats himself: "I said be sure to champhfur* that pole before you put it in."
I look at Scott. He has never heard of such a thing either. I hold strong.
"I don't think that's a thing. But I'll look it up."
[Sidenote: I am SURE it's a thing. But I have no idea what it is and it sounds very uncomfortable, so this will be more fun.]
It's just as well we don't pursue this now- I am, after all, in charge of grilling the Memorial Day burgers for the first time since I was twelve and did a fine job of Frisbee-ing rock solid off-pink meat discs from Sam's Club onto the grill for the church youth group. I felt I did very well. This is a prime example of being lulled into a false sense of security about one's meat-handling abilities.
In the kitchen earlier on this Memorial Day 2016, my mother asks me to look up a baller burger recipe.
[She absolutely did not use the word "baller."]
I find one that has received like, 11 out of 5 stars, and reel it off to her. It involves eggs, which she finds questionable, but I've always adored breaking eggs, so we stick with it. We mash our thumbs deep into the patties as we gook them together because some newfangled trend suggests putting a hole in your pattie so it doesn't lift or bloat on the grill/in the oven.
[Sidenote: Frankly I feel that regardless of how many holes you put in your pattie- your own or someone else's- that pattie is going sizzle and suffer in the oven or grill and it won't matter one bit that it sported a cunning dimple while it was at it.]
My father has turned on the grill, per our request, about twenty minutes earlier. I stalk out onto the porch with my kitten umbrella and plate of dented patties in tow. I am pretending to be very confident. Even though no one is out there to see me except for Brody the destructive and brainless Australian Shepherd and Herschel the....something or other with large ears. They are entertaining themselves by racing full steam up and down the fence line in the backyard. In complete silence. Which is great. I love a silence. But weird when the creatures being so silent are enormous drooling gasping running dogs in hot pursuit of each other. They make a few passes, during which they succeed in removing all the petals from the pink knockout rose bush I purchased for my mother a few Mother's Days ago. I watch them for awhile. It's like watching hairy, silent tennis.
Back to the burgers. I lift the grill lid. It's warm-ish under there, but I see no fire, just steam, and I certainly don't get that feeling I usually get when lifting a grill lid that my eyes are liquefying and will presently be dripping down my chin.
I plop the burgers down anyway. I figure- cockily and completely incorrectly- I'll figure this out.
Fast forward twenty minutes to aforementioned conversation featuring the mystery word.
Scott places his cup of sparkling pink lemonade precariously on a newel post and inches out to the grill under my kitten umbrella.. He lifts the lid. I nudge in beside him to admire my handiwork.
Well, the burgers are in clumps. Sodden, brown, gelatinous clumps. The clumps are periodically falling loose from their mother burgers and dropping into the dark, steaming, lukewarm depths of the grill.
My father glances over. He sighs. "My nice clean grill....."
Scott flops of few of the crumbling beef mounds onto the plate I'm holding. Scott, ever tactful, neatly sums up the situation- "Well, we can always go to Hardee's."
I flounce into the house.
Over dinner- which was DELICIOUS, I might add- I seize a moment when everyone is silently involved in their potato salad to bring up the "champhur" debate.
I whip out my phone and, scrolling past the thirteen terrible photos I've taken of my cat in the past hour, bring up Google. Ready to search.
"How," I say sassily to my father, "do you spell that word?"
He tells me. I've pictured it incorrectly. That's irritating.
I bring up the Wikipedia article on "chamfering."
Definitely a thing. A thing you do to wood or pipes, or any material really, I suppose (except mashed potatoes or things of that consistency), where you sand or cut away a right angled corner to make a symmetrical sloping edge. Tom Width totally knows what this is, I'm sure of it. When I ask him about it, he will act surprised and off-put that I didn't know the word already. Like if I'd asked him if he'd ever heard of apples. Or feet. Tom Width and my father get along splendidly.
I read the three paragraph definition of "chamfer" to the table. It's very involved. Origin in Norse mythology, heavily featured throughout Pilgrim history and coming largely to prominence during the Industrial Revolution. My brain stopped paying attention.
Satisfied that he has been proven correct, my father takes a victorious swallow of his ice-cold sweet tea and continues his chamfer instructions to my brother (which I'd interrupted on the porch earlier with my disbelief): "So yes, just be sure you chamfer the edges of that pole before you put it in the hole and go ahead and grease up the O-ring just to be on the safe side."
My mother bursts into laughter.
My sister-in-law focuses hard on her potato salad.
My father's sky blue eyes twinkle.
I have so many more questions.
*Not the correct spelling, turns out. Keep reading.
My brother and I are standing in the downpour under my fabulous many-kitten-faced umbrella staring at my father.
He is seated in his green rope porch swing holding court next to the grill.
He has just said a word I have certainly never heard before and I spent the first sixteen years of my life doing nothing but reading words in books and drinking Hardee's sweet tea.
I am almost skeptical. But not quite. My father is extremely smart. I am, however, curious.
"Say that again."
He cuts incredulous sky blue eyes to me and repeats himself: "I said be sure to champhfur* that pole before you put it in."
I look at Scott. He has never heard of such a thing either. I hold strong.
"I don't think that's a thing. But I'll look it up."
[Sidenote: I am SURE it's a thing. But I have no idea what it is and it sounds very uncomfortable, so this will be more fun.]
It's just as well we don't pursue this now- I am, after all, in charge of grilling the Memorial Day burgers for the first time since I was twelve and did a fine job of Frisbee-ing rock solid off-pink meat discs from Sam's Club onto the grill for the church youth group. I felt I did very well. This is a prime example of being lulled into a false sense of security about one's meat-handling abilities.
In the kitchen earlier on this Memorial Day 2016, my mother asks me to look up a baller burger recipe.
[She absolutely did not use the word "baller."]
I find one that has received like, 11 out of 5 stars, and reel it off to her. It involves eggs, which she finds questionable, but I've always adored breaking eggs, so we stick with it. We mash our thumbs deep into the patties as we gook them together because some newfangled trend suggests putting a hole in your pattie so it doesn't lift or bloat on the grill/in the oven.
[Sidenote: Frankly I feel that regardless of how many holes you put in your pattie- your own or someone else's- that pattie is going sizzle and suffer in the oven or grill and it won't matter one bit that it sported a cunning dimple while it was at it.]
My father has turned on the grill, per our request, about twenty minutes earlier. I stalk out onto the porch with my kitten umbrella and plate of dented patties in tow. I am pretending to be very confident. Even though no one is out there to see me except for Brody the destructive and brainless Australian Shepherd and Herschel the....something or other with large ears. They are entertaining themselves by racing full steam up and down the fence line in the backyard. In complete silence. Which is great. I love a silence. But weird when the creatures being so silent are enormous drooling gasping running dogs in hot pursuit of each other. They make a few passes, during which they succeed in removing all the petals from the pink knockout rose bush I purchased for my mother a few Mother's Days ago. I watch them for awhile. It's like watching hairy, silent tennis.
Back to the burgers. I lift the grill lid. It's warm-ish under there, but I see no fire, just steam, and I certainly don't get that feeling I usually get when lifting a grill lid that my eyes are liquefying and will presently be dripping down my chin.
I plop the burgers down anyway. I figure- cockily and completely incorrectly- I'll figure this out.
Fast forward twenty minutes to aforementioned conversation featuring the mystery word.
Scott places his cup of sparkling pink lemonade precariously on a newel post and inches out to the grill under my kitten umbrella.. He lifts the lid. I nudge in beside him to admire my handiwork.
Well, the burgers are in clumps. Sodden, brown, gelatinous clumps. The clumps are periodically falling loose from their mother burgers and dropping into the dark, steaming, lukewarm depths of the grill.
My father glances over. He sighs. "My nice clean grill....."
Scott flops of few of the crumbling beef mounds onto the plate I'm holding. Scott, ever tactful, neatly sums up the situation- "Well, we can always go to Hardee's."
I flounce into the house.
Over dinner- which was DELICIOUS, I might add- I seize a moment when everyone is silently involved in their potato salad to bring up the "champhur" debate.
I whip out my phone and, scrolling past the thirteen terrible photos I've taken of my cat in the past hour, bring up Google. Ready to search.
"How," I say sassily to my father, "do you spell that word?"
He tells me. I've pictured it incorrectly. That's irritating.
I bring up the Wikipedia article on "chamfering."
Definitely a thing. A thing you do to wood or pipes, or any material really, I suppose (except mashed potatoes or things of that consistency), where you sand or cut away a right angled corner to make a symmetrical sloping edge. Tom Width totally knows what this is, I'm sure of it. When I ask him about it, he will act surprised and off-put that I didn't know the word already. Like if I'd asked him if he'd ever heard of apples. Or feet. Tom Width and my father get along splendidly.
I read the three paragraph definition of "chamfer" to the table. It's very involved. Origin in Norse mythology, heavily featured throughout Pilgrim history and coming largely to prominence during the Industrial Revolution. My brain stopped paying attention.
Satisfied that he has been proven correct, my father takes a victorious swallow of his ice-cold sweet tea and continues his chamfer instructions to my brother (which I'd interrupted on the porch earlier with my disbelief): "So yes, just be sure you chamfer the edges of that pole before you put it in the hole and go ahead and grease up the O-ring just to be on the safe side."
My mother bursts into laughter.
My sister-in-law focuses hard on her potato salad.
My father's sky blue eyes twinkle.
I have so many more questions.
*Not the correct spelling, turns out. Keep reading.
Monday, May 30, 2016
Part II: Brooklyn Dinosaurs At Hogwarts
It seems I must write on the subject of Brooklyn. Everything in my life for the past week has been tossing Brooklyn at me. So here are the points to be made:
1. Brooklyn is hot. Too many pieces of pavement.
2. I went to Brooklyn once six years ago to eat a Subway sandwich with my mother and father.
3. Barclays Center looks like an enormous solar-powered anthill.
4. I see a 4 year old there in a yogurt shop who is probably named Skylark Willoughby tell her au pair, "You know, let's just grab these to go and eat on the train."
5. My friend Jesse works there at a coffee shop with a poor title.
6. Your chances of survival are slim if you ever find yourself in Prospect Park and take a wild hair to try and cross the street.
7. I have my suspicions that the entire front of the library in Prospect Park is a discarded backdrop from "Aida."
8. Dinosaur Barbecue is a very good restaurant.
9. I did a play once at Barksdale Willow Lawn called "Brooklyn Boy." I had a wonderful time. My role consisted of lying on a big soft bed speaking in a nasal tone of voice and eating Gummi Bears and Kit-Kats with-
10. Dan Ruth: a very wonderful actor and friend of mine who has a brilliant knack for sniffing out all sorts of fascinating figurines and posting fetching photos of them on Instagram. Dan was in Richmond for the past two weeks performing a one man show he wrote about his time in....Brooklyn. He was WONDERFUL. I watched this play from a corner of chairs containing the likes of Robert Throckmorton, The Debra Wagoner, Janine Serresseque, and Bo Wilson*. I felt like I was in the Honorees Box at the Kennedy Center Honors.
11. A very informative conversation held yesterday in my apartment about Ali Thibodeau learning to pole-dance last month in Germany with a 40-year old woman named Fanny revealed the following facts about Brooklyn:
12. In the Broadway show "Brooklyn," an actress named Karen Olivo wore pair of olive green cargo pants I liked very much.
That's all I've got on Brooklyn at this time.
***************
After our dinner of barbecued dinosaur, I sprint to a trivia night at Waylon's on 10th Avenue and Jesse heads to a staged reading featuring one Dixon Cashwell.** But who wants to see that.
Trivia is hardcore. I will say no more. Classified information. Know that there was a tank top, a beautiful blond lady, and four brunettes who are inexorably bound for all eternity due to a period of eight weeks one winter when we all pretended as a unit to be Jewish. And at trivia- we don't fool around.
[Sidenote: There are two sailors at trivia this evening. It's Fleet Week. Once six years ago Alanna Wilson and I held a photo shoot in and around Times Square during Fleet Week. I was dressed as a naughty Dorothy Gale and we had a lot of fun. There were various set ups. Me peeping alluringly through gates, me dancing around street signs clutching my Frappucino and wearing my thick-soled black rubber Skechers Shape-Ups, me doing the Marilyn Monroe accidentally over a sidewalk grate in front of a wall with some high-handed graffiti, me seated uncomfortably in a stone sculpture of a catcher's mitt, and finally and finally relevantly, me posing between two sailors who were very good sports and not at all afraid (at least outwardly) of skanky Dorothy in her orthopedic shoes.]
After trivia, our leader- unyielding and bold in his tank top- hails us a small bus and we ride to what I at first assume is either the North Pole or at the very least Maine, but come to understand is actually Washington Heights. And it is lovely there. There are hills everywhere and gas stations serving grilled cheeses. There are steep stone staircases and a very beautiful and grand bridge named after George Washington which I believe was recently erected to commemorate the success of Lin-Manuel Miranda's first big hit musical, "In the Heights."
We climb some of these steep stone stairways and wind through bush-lined neighborhoods until we arrive at Hogwarts. Matt and Kara live at Hogwarts. Just old, grand, wise buildings made of flagstone (I'm guessing here- it was dark, but definitely flagstones in my mind's eye) which you are certain contain witches and wizards and very elderly retired classical musicians. I am impressed. There is a painting in the lobby. Kara takes stock of the developing bruise situation on her inner left knee which she acquired earlier in the day doing splits for strangers. Matt is pleased when I discover a surprise electrical outlet hiding behind his leather flip-flops.
We retire to their den and industriously consume six bags of chips while holding our cell phones up against our foreheads and humming wordlessly and aggressively at each other until timers go off. I have a grand time. I like them all a LOT.
I then take the train for the remainder of the month of May to arrive back in Long Island City just shy of 3:30AM. I enter Joseph and JS's apartment and immediately drop a heavy metal triangle on the floor just in case they were sleeping.
As I lie in the soft green cotton sheets near the embroidered narwahl pillow and try to drift off, I wonder about the tiny sylph** girl who boarded the train when I was about halfway home- around 7,764th St.- and sat directly across from me. She was garbed in a pinky flesh-toned sheer pantsuit covered neck to ankle in rhinestones. She crossed her legs neatly and her feet in their sensible black leather rhinestone studded flats were perfectly still through all the bounces of the train. In her lap she loosely gripped huge brown strappy stiletto heels lined all along the ankle strap with thick brown fur. She had an afro. And a tiara. We stared- each at the other. I wonder if she was as entranced by my topknot/Chuck Norris T-shirt/pink city scape poodle skirt/combat boots/pizza backpack look as I was by hers.
*Bo Wilson can form a playbill into the exact shape and size of a Pirouette cookie. He is also a talented playwright, but first thing's first.
**Dixon Cashwell is a very smart and talented actor/writer who looks intriguingly attractive in Instagram photos. We did a play in a museum basement once about the mating behavior of wildlife during the cold season. He wore cankles. I'm going to drink coffee with him this week. Whether he likes it or not.
***Sylph, as it turns out, is by one definition a type of hummingbird- the male of which has a long forked tail.
1. Brooklyn is hot. Too many pieces of pavement.
2. I went to Brooklyn once six years ago to eat a Subway sandwich with my mother and father.
3. Barclays Center looks like an enormous solar-powered anthill.
4. I see a 4 year old there in a yogurt shop who is probably named Skylark Willoughby tell her au pair, "You know, let's just grab these to go and eat on the train."
5. My friend Jesse works there at a coffee shop with a poor title.
- His manager allows him one joke per day. This in itself is not a joke.
- One of Jesse's duties as a barista here is doing laundry. Hmm.
- Upon taking in the sight of grouchy, overheated and bedraggled me beyond his front glass door, Jesse wordlessly goes to the back of the shop and returns moments later with an iced coffee and homemade walnut chocolate cookie.
- Jesse is a good fellow. See above. Even if he does leave paint splootches on the floor at the Mill.
- The coffee here is sort of like how I imagine it would taste if the sun itself urinated into a tinfoil cup full of battery acid and gasoline. Effective.
6. Your chances of survival are slim if you ever find yourself in Prospect Park and take a wild hair to try and cross the street.
7. I have my suspicions that the entire front of the library in Prospect Park is a discarded backdrop from "Aida."
8. Dinosaur Barbecue is a very good restaurant.
9. I did a play once at Barksdale Willow Lawn called "Brooklyn Boy." I had a wonderful time. My role consisted of lying on a big soft bed speaking in a nasal tone of voice and eating Gummi Bears and Kit-Kats with-
10. Dan Ruth: a very wonderful actor and friend of mine who has a brilliant knack for sniffing out all sorts of fascinating figurines and posting fetching photos of them on Instagram. Dan was in Richmond for the past two weeks performing a one man show he wrote about his time in....Brooklyn. He was WONDERFUL. I watched this play from a corner of chairs containing the likes of Robert Throckmorton, The Debra Wagoner, Janine Serresseque, and Bo Wilson*. I felt like I was in the Honorees Box at the Kennedy Center Honors.
11. A very informative conversation held yesterday in my apartment about Ali Thibodeau learning to pole-dance last month in Germany with a 40-year old woman named Fanny revealed the following facts about Brooklyn:
- This same Ali Thibodeau was asked on a first date in Brooklyn by a gent who claimed to be a professional saxophoner and turned to be not that;
- JS Fauquet (person extraordinaire and personal piano accompanist to one Jolly Pingbald) once found himself at a bar featuring poles and scantily clad women dancing upon them. He was taken to a back room and offered to be part of a dance in which his lap would be a featured character. Upon politely expressing he would not be interested in such a dance, he asked her name, found it to be Desiree, and proceeded to have a lovely and long conversation with Desiree about Desiree's struggles with her fledgling side career as a dental hygienist which culminated in a hug and an fulfilling evening overall.
12. In the Broadway show "Brooklyn," an actress named Karen Olivo wore pair of olive green cargo pants I liked very much.
That's all I've got on Brooklyn at this time.
***************
After our dinner of barbecued dinosaur, I sprint to a trivia night at Waylon's on 10th Avenue and Jesse heads to a staged reading featuring one Dixon Cashwell.** But who wants to see that.
Trivia is hardcore. I will say no more. Classified information. Know that there was a tank top, a beautiful blond lady, and four brunettes who are inexorably bound for all eternity due to a period of eight weeks one winter when we all pretended as a unit to be Jewish. And at trivia- we don't fool around.
[Sidenote: There are two sailors at trivia this evening. It's Fleet Week. Once six years ago Alanna Wilson and I held a photo shoot in and around Times Square during Fleet Week. I was dressed as a naughty Dorothy Gale and we had a lot of fun. There were various set ups. Me peeping alluringly through gates, me dancing around street signs clutching my Frappucino and wearing my thick-soled black rubber Skechers Shape-Ups, me doing the Marilyn Monroe accidentally over a sidewalk grate in front of a wall with some high-handed graffiti, me seated uncomfortably in a stone sculpture of a catcher's mitt, and finally and finally relevantly, me posing between two sailors who were very good sports and not at all afraid (at least outwardly) of skanky Dorothy in her orthopedic shoes.]
After trivia, our leader- unyielding and bold in his tank top- hails us a small bus and we ride to what I at first assume is either the North Pole or at the very least Maine, but come to understand is actually Washington Heights. And it is lovely there. There are hills everywhere and gas stations serving grilled cheeses. There are steep stone staircases and a very beautiful and grand bridge named after George Washington which I believe was recently erected to commemorate the success of Lin-Manuel Miranda's first big hit musical, "In the Heights."
We climb some of these steep stone stairways and wind through bush-lined neighborhoods until we arrive at Hogwarts. Matt and Kara live at Hogwarts. Just old, grand, wise buildings made of flagstone (I'm guessing here- it was dark, but definitely flagstones in my mind's eye) which you are certain contain witches and wizards and very elderly retired classical musicians. I am impressed. There is a painting in the lobby. Kara takes stock of the developing bruise situation on her inner left knee which she acquired earlier in the day doing splits for strangers. Matt is pleased when I discover a surprise electrical outlet hiding behind his leather flip-flops.
We retire to their den and industriously consume six bags of chips while holding our cell phones up against our foreheads and humming wordlessly and aggressively at each other until timers go off. I have a grand time. I like them all a LOT.
I then take the train for the remainder of the month of May to arrive back in Long Island City just shy of 3:30AM. I enter Joseph and JS's apartment and immediately drop a heavy metal triangle on the floor just in case they were sleeping.
As I lie in the soft green cotton sheets near the embroidered narwahl pillow and try to drift off, I wonder about the tiny sylph** girl who boarded the train when I was about halfway home- around 7,764th St.- and sat directly across from me. She was garbed in a pinky flesh-toned sheer pantsuit covered neck to ankle in rhinestones. She crossed her legs neatly and her feet in their sensible black leather rhinestone studded flats were perfectly still through all the bounces of the train. In her lap she loosely gripped huge brown strappy stiletto heels lined all along the ankle strap with thick brown fur. She had an afro. And a tiara. We stared- each at the other. I wonder if she was as entranced by my topknot/Chuck Norris T-shirt/pink city scape poodle skirt/combat boots/pizza backpack look as I was by hers.
*Bo Wilson can form a playbill into the exact shape and size of a Pirouette cookie. He is also a talented playwright, but first thing's first.
**Dixon Cashwell is a very smart and talented actor/writer who looks intriguingly attractive in Instagram photos. We did a play in a museum basement once about the mating behavior of wildlife during the cold season. He wore cankles. I'm going to drink coffee with him this week. Whether he likes it or not.
***Sylph, as it turns out, is by one definition a type of hummingbird- the male of which has a long forked tail.
Friday, May 27, 2016
Casting Announcement!
I've been holding an open casting for "Hamilton" in my brain for the past hour.
I'll be seeing people for as long as it takes me to type this essay.
No roles are pre-cast.
(The above is a lie. I'm playing Thomas Jefferson.)
More on the production: taking place in RVA, in my apartment, on my couch, right this very minute. Extended run through whenever I don't feel like thinking about this anymore. All local hires. AEA and Non-Equity welcome. Joseph Papa will be handling publicity. And doing it and doing it and doing it well. Some roles may be split due to thrilling abundance of talented friends and my unwillingness to not have Katrinah play both Hercules Mulligan AND Angelica Schuyler.
..........
I'm going to have to have at least three casts.
Cast 1:
Alexander Hamilton: Scott Wichmann
Aaron Burr, Sir: Eva DeVirgilis
George Washington: Tom Width
Angelica Schuyler: Katrinah Carol Lewis
Eliza Hamilton: Georgia Rogers Farmer
And Peggy: Paul S. Major*
Mariah Carey: Ashlee Heyward
Lafayette: Bianca Bryan
Jefferson: ME
King George III: Matt Shofner
Laurens: Maggie Roop
Philip Hamilton: Paul Deiss
Hercules Mulligan: Maggie Bavolack
James Madison: Joe Pabst
*Steadfastly refuses to listen to "Hamilton." Too bad. Born for the role.
Cast 2:
Alexander Hamilton:
Aaron Burr, Sir: Matt Zimmerman*
George Washington: Tom Width
Angelica Schuyler: Jessi Johnson
Eliza Hamilton: Matt Curiano
And Peggy/Mariah Carey: Durron Marquis Tyre
Lafayette: Aza Raine
Jefferson: ME
King George III: James Stover
Laurens: Deejay Gray
Philip Hamilton: Evan Nasteff
Hercules Mulligan: Katrinah Carol Lewis
James Madison: Lucas Hall
*AEA, but beside the point- in this case asterisk indicates that I am having a really hard time deciding whether Zimmerman would be best utilized as Aaron Burr, Sir, or as Eliza Hamilton.
[The role of Alexander Hamilton in this cast remains up for grabs. I'm trying to think of someone who would play really really well opposite Matt Zimmerman in a period piece set so long ago.....]
Cast 3:
Alexander Hamilton: JB Steinberg
Aaron Burr, Sir: JS Fauquet
George Washington: Tom Width
Angelica Schuyler: The Debra Wagoner
Eliza Hamilton: Robyn O'Neill
And Peggy/Mariah Carey: Janine Serreseque*
Lafayette: David Janosik
Jefferson: ME***
King George III: Jason Marks
Laurens: Ali Thibodeau
Philip Hamilton: David Janeski**
Hercules Mulligan: Cathy Shaffner
James Madison: Eric Stallings
*Has had previous experience playing Peggy. In a crinoline. Named after fabric.
**Cast not just because having him in the same cast/hemisphere as Janosik never fails to provide lots of entertaining mispronunciations.
***Beginning to consider hiring an understudy. Am getting jealous of these people who got the part of Hercules Mulligan.
(There's more. Who was I kidding.)
Cast 4:
Alexander Hamilton: Billy-Christopher Maupin
Aaron Burr, Sir: Steve Perigard
George Washington: Tom Width*
Angelica Schuyler: Felicia Curry
Eliza Hamilton: Aly Wepplo
And Peggy: Robert Throckmorton
Mariah Carey: Norman Payne
Lafayette: Chase Kniffen**
Jefferson: Carolyn Meade
King George III: Richard Koch
Laurens: Ian Page
Philip Hamilton: Axle Burtness
Hercules Mulligan: Gloria***
James Madison: Addie Barnhart
*Yes. In all four casts.
**Swing. Chase and I have a long history of swinging into roles we're completely inappropriate for and having a dandy time. Most notably as an ancient Native American soothsayer and Pocahontas. I'll let you guess who was who.
***Not her real name. I think her real name is Catherine Carol Walker.
Casts 5-20 will have to wait- I have to trot downtown real quick to give some Gummi Bears to an old friend jailed in a basement.
I'll be seeing people for as long as it takes me to type this essay.
No roles are pre-cast.
(The above is a lie. I'm playing Thomas Jefferson.)
More on the production: taking place in RVA, in my apartment, on my couch, right this very minute. Extended run through whenever I don't feel like thinking about this anymore. All local hires. AEA and Non-Equity welcome. Joseph Papa will be handling publicity. And doing it and doing it and doing it well. Some roles may be split due to thrilling abundance of talented friends and my unwillingness to not have Katrinah play both Hercules Mulligan AND Angelica Schuyler.
..........
I'm going to have to have at least three casts.
Cast 1:
Alexander Hamilton: Scott Wichmann
Aaron Burr, Sir: Eva DeVirgilis
George Washington: Tom Width
Angelica Schuyler: Katrinah Carol Lewis
Eliza Hamilton: Georgia Rogers Farmer
And Peggy: Paul S. Major*
Mariah Carey: Ashlee Heyward
Lafayette: Bianca Bryan
Jefferson: ME
King George III: Matt Shofner
Laurens: Maggie Roop
Philip Hamilton: Paul Deiss
Hercules Mulligan: Maggie Bavolack
James Madison: Joe Pabst
*Steadfastly refuses to listen to "Hamilton." Too bad. Born for the role.
Cast 2:
Alexander Hamilton:
Aaron Burr, Sir: Matt Zimmerman*
George Washington: Tom Width
Angelica Schuyler: Jessi Johnson
Eliza Hamilton: Matt Curiano
And Peggy/Mariah Carey: Durron Marquis Tyre
Lafayette: Aza Raine
Jefferson: ME
King George III: James Stover
Laurens: Deejay Gray
Philip Hamilton: Evan Nasteff
Hercules Mulligan: Katrinah Carol Lewis
James Madison: Lucas Hall
*AEA, but beside the point- in this case asterisk indicates that I am having a really hard time deciding whether Zimmerman would be best utilized as Aaron Burr, Sir, or as Eliza Hamilton.
[The role of Alexander Hamilton in this cast remains up for grabs. I'm trying to think of someone who would play really really well opposite Matt Zimmerman in a period piece set so long ago.....]
Cast 3:
Alexander Hamilton: JB Steinberg
Aaron Burr, Sir: JS Fauquet
George Washington: Tom Width
Angelica Schuyler: The Debra Wagoner
Eliza Hamilton: Robyn O'Neill
And Peggy/Mariah Carey: Janine Serreseque*
Lafayette: David Janosik
Jefferson: ME***
King George III: Jason Marks
Laurens: Ali Thibodeau
Philip Hamilton: David Janeski**
Hercules Mulligan: Cathy Shaffner
James Madison: Eric Stallings
*Has had previous experience playing Peggy. In a crinoline. Named after fabric.
**Cast not just because having him in the same cast/hemisphere as Janosik never fails to provide lots of entertaining mispronunciations.
***Beginning to consider hiring an understudy. Am getting jealous of these people who got the part of Hercules Mulligan.
(There's more. Who was I kidding.)
Cast 4:
Alexander Hamilton: Billy-Christopher Maupin
Aaron Burr, Sir: Steve Perigard
George Washington: Tom Width*
Angelica Schuyler: Felicia Curry
Eliza Hamilton: Aly Wepplo
And Peggy: Robert Throckmorton
Mariah Carey: Norman Payne
Lafayette: Chase Kniffen**
Jefferson: Carolyn Meade
King George III: Richard Koch
Laurens: Ian Page
Philip Hamilton: Axle Burtness
Hercules Mulligan: Gloria***
James Madison: Addie Barnhart
*Yes. In all four casts.
**Swing. Chase and I have a long history of swinging into roles we're completely inappropriate for and having a dandy time. Most notably as an ancient Native American soothsayer and Pocahontas. I'll let you guess who was who.
***Not her real name. I think her real name is Catherine Carol Walker.
Casts 5-20 will have to wait- I have to trot downtown real quick to give some Gummi Bears to an old friend jailed in a basement.
Thursday, May 26, 2016
Starting With A Russian Morning - Part One
Yesterday I needed to be out of the apartment by 11AM because a local actress whose name I'm not at liberty to disclose but rhymes directly with Jolly Pingbald was coming over to practice her audition piece at the piano in my bedroom. I considered just staying in bed for the occasion, but once I heard that the piece being performed was a jarring uptempo number about seafood and not a languid ballad, I decided to go out.
I fold my jeggings neatly before I depart.
Sam has offered, as an option for my morning activity, for me to sit in on the dance audition he is running today for "Natasha, Pierre & the Great Comet of 1812." This is a show coming to Broadway in the fall featuring Josh Groban- which gives it the great distinction of having the potential to be the first Broadway show Randy Honaker will be willing to see in his life. Randy Honaker is my father, and he is a BIG fan of Josh Groban singing "Oh, Holy Night." He would prefer it receive radio play year round, and can on rare occasions be overheard performing it in his shower in Hopewell, VA. But these occasions are extremely rare. Like me wanting more mayonnaise. Or a badger breeding with a unicorn. There has to be the perfect storm of events; i.e. you have been his daughter for over thirty years and just happen to be at home the third weekend of April 2014 looking for the cat on your hands and knees behind the thickly packed Outer Banks T-shirt Section in the hall closet at the same time your dad is taking a shower down the hall as he gets ready to take you over to your grandmother Rassie's house so he can show you how to use a post-hole digger.
But it can happen.
All this to say, I'm on my way to 500 8th Ave. This is what I've been told is the address of Pearl Studios, where I am to meet Sam. I arrive at a building with this number on the front. But this is clearly an abandoned office building from the 1920s. No labels or signs. I do what I always do when I need to think- I go to 7-11.
[Sidenote: Going to 7-11 is never the wrong call, but this time in particular it turned out to be a great, great thing because this 7-11, friends, this 7-11- is a Dine-In 7-11. Greatest discovery of my life. And- it's right across the street from Bellydance America. What more do you need.]
Feeling better now that I have my coffee and the knowledge of where I want to take my last meal, I cross back over 8th and observe this questionable building from a safe distance. Nothing. No one. But then there's a faint tremor in the earth beneath my excellent boots from Target and suddenly the front glass doors of 500 8th Ave. burst open and dozens upon dozens of slightly sweaty, vivid looking young people spill out onto the street. I squint through the sunlight and hot trash fog to quickly take their measure before they all scatter. Yep. I'm in the right place. Though the storefront is misleading, the fact that every single one of these people have unsettlingly toned thighs, very bright square teeth, slightly sloppy wet topknots, subtle but runny eyeliner, and are double-fisting water bottles and Clif bars leaves me no doubt.
I readjust my grip on my coffee cup and stride inside.
There's a burly fellow with a headset behind a desk deep in the dark recesses of the lobby. He likes my Chuck Norris T-Shirt. He tells me so. I deign to show my ID, have it scanned and then walk deeper into the building. I take a left behind a fellow with a partial blonde topknot. His topknot is pristine. He has clearly not yet been upstairs to do dancing or emoting or whatever else makes one sweat in this place. He holds the elevator for me.
Once I step off the elevator into the upstairs lobby I am more confident than ever I am in the right spot. I'm surrounded by more of the Hard-Thighed- all wearing wildly patterned leggings and tank tops. Fancy dancing shoes, high heeled prairie boots, no shoes at all. Every now and then there is a shrill burst of that gerbil-in-heat noise singers make when they're warming up their vocal chords. There are also robust grunts and hollers coming from behind the first door to my left.
I consult the two TV screens which list who is auditioning for what in what room. Yes- the grunting room is the room where Sam is.
I pop up on a tall chair and drink my coffee while I wait for high noon.
I befriend and take the photo of a snazzy girl named Ari who is sporting- no kidding- 9 topknots. Concurrently.
Noon. The door of the grunting room flies open and thirty of The Hard-Thighed stream out. Dripping sweat. Dripping sweat and beaming. I'm not surprised. I am fully confident in Sam's ability to make a room full of very nervous people have the time of their life even while being critically evaluated on their ability to pulse their fannies.
I walk to the doorway. Sam sees me, quasi-squeezes me while apologizing for his sweat, and escorts me to a seat behind some folding tables. I am introduced to a small brunette woman with immaculate sandals and brown toe-nail polish who is the co-director, the laser-focused stone-faced casting director, and Sam's two dance hench-ladies. One of them has excellent posture and a profile that should be on coins. The other is tall. She is wearing her long ebony hair in a ponytail and a grey fleece pantsuit. She walks directly up to me and says, "Who are you."
I explain.
Sam tells the dancers, "This is Audra. She will be observing today." I smile intriguingly at them from under my fedora.
We begin.
Sam kicks off this hour of dance auditions with a ten minute motivational speech. I get lost in thought for a second picturing John the Baptist in some Lyrca and LaDucas leading a Apostle Dance Intensive. I know Sam's been giving this same speech at the top of every hour all day, but he infuses it with the same zest and split leaps he's been giving since 9AM. Once everyone is whipped into a frenzy and wiping away tears, he begins warm-ups.
The song he is using for warm-ups is "Hold Up" from Beyonce's "Lemonade." I am SO excited. It's my favorite song from the album. I sit up very straight and criss-cross applesauce in my chair and
sing along from the corner.
[Sidenote: I love "Lemonade." I listened to it- in rotation with "Hamilton"- every other night for the past nine weeks in the dressing room at Swift Creek Mill Theatre with Ashlee, Katrinah, and Jessi while we beat our faces and got our lives.]
Sam has the dancers walk around the room in rhythm. He walks with them. He occasionally issues commands like, "Now after 10 counts stop where you are and pretend to be silently grinding in the library!" and "Now after 10 more counts stop where you are and grind noisily like you've suddenly been sexually attracted to someone standing by the card catalogue!"
My face aches from grinning.
When the song is over, the warm-up is over. Sam flickers an eyelash and wordlessly his hench-ladies take hold of the draperies that are covering the walls and in perfect synchronization, pull them aside to reveal the mirrors lining the room. Everybody now realizes that s*** is about to get real.
I watch very closely. This is a very good audition because every person in the room is so different from the others. I like that. There's leaping and kicking and shouting and pounding the floor with every available body part. Everyone there is so full of adrenaline and joy by the audition's end. With the exceptions of the casting director- who is being forced to scream the names of the dancers he wants to see next at the top of his lungs each time a group finishes the combination because everyone in the room is so hopped up on Russian jumping juice that they're giving each other standing ovations whenever a group finishes. And this casting director does not look like he enjoys raising his voice or drawing attention to himself. Ever. He'd much prefer to ice you down with his eyes and send you an email. The other joyless being in the room is the dear pianist man. I shouldn't say joyless. He was quietly smiling the entire time, but went mostly unnoticed from his spot stuffed into the corner behind his baby grand. He has played the same 32 bars of Russian Jock Jams at least 100 times in row by this point today and never once missed a note. Or played with an ounce less energy. I tell him on my way out how impressed I am. He smiles at me and sighs.
Anyway- after that I go with Sam for a quick sushi lunch. He has to be back to give another motivational speech in an hour. I tell him that two of the people I picked out as being very excellent dancers were one that looked like Kristin Chenoweth and one who was male and very accomplished at performing aerial maneuvers in full-length corduroy slacks. Sam concurs. He reassures me both of these individuals were granted callbacks and that I have a good eye as Kristin Chenoweth is currently the dance captain for "Wicked" and Jumpy McCorduroy is employed in the same capacity for "An American in Paris."
After this, I go to Brooklyn. I'll make that Part II. As a teaser- there will be dinosaurs.
Thanks, Sam and Jolly Pingbald, for an interesting morning.
There's a burly fellow with a headset behind a desk deep in the dark recesses of the lobby. He likes my Chuck Norris T-Shirt. He tells me so. I deign to show my ID, have it scanned and then walk deeper into the building. I take a left behind a fellow with a partial blonde topknot. His topknot is pristine. He has clearly not yet been upstairs to do dancing or emoting or whatever else makes one sweat in this place. He holds the elevator for me.
Once I step off the elevator into the upstairs lobby I am more confident than ever I am in the right spot. I'm surrounded by more of the Hard-Thighed- all wearing wildly patterned leggings and tank tops. Fancy dancing shoes, high heeled prairie boots, no shoes at all. Every now and then there is a shrill burst of that gerbil-in-heat noise singers make when they're warming up their vocal chords. There are also robust grunts and hollers coming from behind the first door to my left.
I consult the two TV screens which list who is auditioning for what in what room. Yes- the grunting room is the room where Sam is.
I pop up on a tall chair and drink my coffee while I wait for high noon.
I befriend and take the photo of a snazzy girl named Ari who is sporting- no kidding- 9 topknots. Concurrently.
Noon. The door of the grunting room flies open and thirty of The Hard-Thighed stream out. Dripping sweat. Dripping sweat and beaming. I'm not surprised. I am fully confident in Sam's ability to make a room full of very nervous people have the time of their life even while being critically evaluated on their ability to pulse their fannies.
I walk to the doorway. Sam sees me, quasi-squeezes me while apologizing for his sweat, and escorts me to a seat behind some folding tables. I am introduced to a small brunette woman with immaculate sandals and brown toe-nail polish who is the co-director, the laser-focused stone-faced casting director, and Sam's two dance hench-ladies. One of them has excellent posture and a profile that should be on coins. The other is tall. She is wearing her long ebony hair in a ponytail and a grey fleece pantsuit. She walks directly up to me and says, "Who are you."
I explain.
Sam tells the dancers, "This is Audra. She will be observing today." I smile intriguingly at them from under my fedora.
We begin.
Sam kicks off this hour of dance auditions with a ten minute motivational speech. I get lost in thought for a second picturing John the Baptist in some Lyrca and LaDucas leading a Apostle Dance Intensive. I know Sam's been giving this same speech at the top of every hour all day, but he infuses it with the same zest and split leaps he's been giving since 9AM. Once everyone is whipped into a frenzy and wiping away tears, he begins warm-ups.
The song he is using for warm-ups is "Hold Up" from Beyonce's "Lemonade." I am SO excited. It's my favorite song from the album. I sit up very straight and criss-cross applesauce in my chair and
sing along from the corner.
[Sidenote: I love "Lemonade." I listened to it- in rotation with "Hamilton"- every other night for the past nine weeks in the dressing room at Swift Creek Mill Theatre with Ashlee, Katrinah, and Jessi while we beat our faces and got our lives.]
Sam has the dancers walk around the room in rhythm. He walks with them. He occasionally issues commands like, "Now after 10 counts stop where you are and pretend to be silently grinding in the library!" and "Now after 10 more counts stop where you are and grind noisily like you've suddenly been sexually attracted to someone standing by the card catalogue!"
My face aches from grinning.
When the song is over, the warm-up is over. Sam flickers an eyelash and wordlessly his hench-ladies take hold of the draperies that are covering the walls and in perfect synchronization, pull them aside to reveal the mirrors lining the room. Everybody now realizes that s*** is about to get real.
I watch very closely. This is a very good audition because every person in the room is so different from the others. I like that. There's leaping and kicking and shouting and pounding the floor with every available body part. Everyone there is so full of adrenaline and joy by the audition's end. With the exceptions of the casting director- who is being forced to scream the names of the dancers he wants to see next at the top of his lungs each time a group finishes the combination because everyone in the room is so hopped up on Russian jumping juice that they're giving each other standing ovations whenever a group finishes. And this casting director does not look like he enjoys raising his voice or drawing attention to himself. Ever. He'd much prefer to ice you down with his eyes and send you an email. The other joyless being in the room is the dear pianist man. I shouldn't say joyless. He was quietly smiling the entire time, but went mostly unnoticed from his spot stuffed into the corner behind his baby grand. He has played the same 32 bars of Russian Jock Jams at least 100 times in row by this point today and never once missed a note. Or played with an ounce less energy. I tell him on my way out how impressed I am. He smiles at me and sighs.
Anyway- after that I go with Sam for a quick sushi lunch. He has to be back to give another motivational speech in an hour. I tell him that two of the people I picked out as being very excellent dancers were one that looked like Kristin Chenoweth and one who was male and very accomplished at performing aerial maneuvers in full-length corduroy slacks. Sam concurs. He reassures me both of these individuals were granted callbacks and that I have a good eye as Kristin Chenoweth is currently the dance captain for "Wicked" and Jumpy McCorduroy is employed in the same capacity for "An American in Paris."
After this, I go to Brooklyn. I'll make that Part II. As a teaser- there will be dinosaurs.
Thanks, Sam and Jolly Pingbald, for an interesting morning.
Tuesday, May 24, 2016
Hodor.
Hodor always knew his lines.
Born Willis, he was known for his unfailing generosity. If you were irresponsible enough to get thrown out of a tower for spying on sibling sex, he carried you anywhere you wanted to go following the resulting loss of your leg functionality. When it turned out that where you wanted to go was outer Namibia just to find an elderly man sitting pompously behind a large pile of sticks, he still carried you. He sat silently through endless arguments between you and the kid from "Love Actually" about who was coldest and most tired of hiking through the snow and avoiding bad guys. He even afforded a young actor a plum role by declining to play his younger self in Season 6 so Sam Coleman could do so. Self sacrifice at its best.
Even now, in what all signs/malicious Facebook posts point to being his deathisode, we cannot simply focus on Hodor. No. Instead we have to watch Sansa have yet another long, neck tendon-flexing conversation in the dark and then see Arya, who apparently has run out of contacts, re-enact yet another scene from "Mean Girls: Martial Arts Edition."
[Sidenote: the Arya subplot is interesting. Especially since now we've gotten involved with community theatre productions of "Game of Thrones" and the incessant lack of understanding among anyone she encounters that her name is Arya and not "Agirl." Having the last name "Honaker," I feel for her.]
At long last we give Hodor the attention he deserves. There's a short detour provided for us to find out that what happened to Arya's contacts is that her brother Bran has stolen them to use when he takes naps beside his old pile of sticks and that the way to become a white walker is to have a short girl dressed as a gargoyle insert an oversized arrowhead into your chest. But- Hodor.
Nope! I typed too soon. First we have to learn that Daenerys has both been to the salon and had some leather breeches fashioned for herself post-burning down the Dothraki teepee- perhaps made of the Khals themselves. Jorah reveals both his ashy forearm and his love for Daenerys and then begins to hobble down the hillside, but Daenerys, never one for laziness, commands him to traverse the world while his dry skin eats him to death and figure out how to prevent himself from dying due to lack of moisturizer so he can hang out with her some more in the friend zone.
Tyrion has installed more chandeliers and is having yet another conversation with a visiting dignitary- this one has exceptionally long eyebrows and shops at the same jewelry store as Melissthudre.
Next, Bran is taking another nap and dreaming about taking a stroll through the the world of blizzards, extremely thin horses and displays of morbid stage makeup.
He wakes up. As punishment for having a bad dream, the old man behind the pile of sticks tells Bran that now he has to sit behind the pile of sticks and forces him to put Arya's contacts in again.
Elsewhere, Jon Snow is having a production meeting. Melissthudre is there and sulking because she is no longer the only ginger in the room. Audra is having a hard time concentrating on the meeting because it turns out she kind of has the hots for Jon Snow.
Sansa presents Jon Snow with a new fur dress to wear. Nicklas of Tarth and the red-headed Wilding- having been on Facebook this week and seen the stir they've created, exchange a heated look to fuel the sexual fire they've created among their viewers.
Finally.
Hodor, having been promised bacon, is relaxing in the dark cave of roots when suddenly, he is set upon by all the extras from "The Walking Dead." Bran selfishly refuses to take out his contacts and join in the fight. White walkers and wolves are dying left and right.
Finally the time comes. Cactus Scalp approaches the old man in the tree. Through a previously recorded voicover, the old man in the tree tells Bran that the time has come and proceeds at once to disintegrate into a Deatheater from Harry Potter.
Mayhem. A dramatic exit away from claws and certain death into the snowy unknown. A lesson: forego your manners when pursued by zombies.
Willis Hold the Door.
R. I. P.
Born Willis, he was known for his unfailing generosity. If you were irresponsible enough to get thrown out of a tower for spying on sibling sex, he carried you anywhere you wanted to go following the resulting loss of your leg functionality. When it turned out that where you wanted to go was outer Namibia just to find an elderly man sitting pompously behind a large pile of sticks, he still carried you. He sat silently through endless arguments between you and the kid from "Love Actually" about who was coldest and most tired of hiking through the snow and avoiding bad guys. He even afforded a young actor a plum role by declining to play his younger self in Season 6 so Sam Coleman could do so. Self sacrifice at its best.
Even now, in what all signs/malicious Facebook posts point to being his deathisode, we cannot simply focus on Hodor. No. Instead we have to watch Sansa have yet another long, neck tendon-flexing conversation in the dark and then see Arya, who apparently has run out of contacts, re-enact yet another scene from "Mean Girls: Martial Arts Edition."
[Sidenote: the Arya subplot is interesting. Especially since now we've gotten involved with community theatre productions of "Game of Thrones" and the incessant lack of understanding among anyone she encounters that her name is Arya and not "Agirl." Having the last name "Honaker," I feel for her.]
At long last we give Hodor the attention he deserves. There's a short detour provided for us to find out that what happened to Arya's contacts is that her brother Bran has stolen them to use when he takes naps beside his old pile of sticks and that the way to become a white walker is to have a short girl dressed as a gargoyle insert an oversized arrowhead into your chest. But- Hodor.
Nope! I typed too soon. First we have to learn that Daenerys has both been to the salon and had some leather breeches fashioned for herself post-burning down the Dothraki teepee- perhaps made of the Khals themselves. Jorah reveals both his ashy forearm and his love for Daenerys and then begins to hobble down the hillside, but Daenerys, never one for laziness, commands him to traverse the world while his dry skin eats him to death and figure out how to prevent himself from dying due to lack of moisturizer so he can hang out with her some more in the friend zone.
Tyrion has installed more chandeliers and is having yet another conversation with a visiting dignitary- this one has exceptionally long eyebrows and shops at the same jewelry store as Melissthudre.
Next, Bran is taking another nap and dreaming about taking a stroll through the the world of blizzards, extremely thin horses and displays of morbid stage makeup.
He wakes up. As punishment for having a bad dream, the old man behind the pile of sticks tells Bran that now he has to sit behind the pile of sticks and forces him to put Arya's contacts in again.
Elsewhere, Jon Snow is having a production meeting. Melissthudre is there and sulking because she is no longer the only ginger in the room. Audra is having a hard time concentrating on the meeting because it turns out she kind of has the hots for Jon Snow.
Sansa presents Jon Snow with a new fur dress to wear. Nicklas of Tarth and the red-headed Wilding- having been on Facebook this week and seen the stir they've created, exchange a heated look to fuel the sexual fire they've created among their viewers.
Finally.
Hodor, having been promised bacon, is relaxing in the dark cave of roots when suddenly, he is set upon by all the extras from "The Walking Dead." Bran selfishly refuses to take out his contacts and join in the fight. White walkers and wolves are dying left and right.
Finally the time comes. Cactus Scalp approaches the old man in the tree. Through a previously recorded voicover, the old man in the tree tells Bran that the time has come and proceeds at once to disintegrate into a Deatheater from Harry Potter.
Mayhem. A dramatic exit away from claws and certain death into the snowy unknown. A lesson: forego your manners when pursued by zombies.
Willis Hold the Door.
R. I. P.
I Feel Weird. But I'm Clean.
One of my favorite parts of my friendship with Joseph Papa is taking a shower in his apartment.
We've had many apartments over the years- sometimes together- and it can never be said that one is hurting for reading material while showering.
In Joseph's shower since the dawn of time there have been many, many, many tiny bottles. Some medium sized bottles and occasionally a couple of large ones. Unsuspecting persons might step into Joseph's shower with confidence, assuming from years of shower experience that the potions contained in these bottles are shampoo, conditioner, etc.
Don't be so sure.
These bottles are very mysterious. Each has a very detailed label with chapters of information printed on it. This morning alone I learned about:
1. Tourmaline Charged Exfoliating Nettoyant Exfoliant- increases cell turnover and contains beads.
2. Kiehl's Amino Acid Coconut Oil - contains Protein and Wheat Starch. Can I achieve similar results washing whatever part of my body this is intended for with ground beef and pita bread?
3. Shampure - I've never seen that word before but this bottle claims to have 25 flowers inside.
4. A different bottle of Shampure- this one containing morikue protein. Also Lavandula Angustifolia and Linalool. Really.
5. An bottle with an orange label upon which 90% of the font is too small for me to read, but does have a quote from Abraham Lincoln printed on one side. He was big into exfoliation.
6. Cumming off buff. This claims to be a body scrub. You're not supposed to use it on your eyeballs or put it inside of your body.
I used my soap from Walgreens. Partly because I'm an excellent house guest and bring my own things and partly because heaven knows what would've happened to me if I'd tried Cumming Shampure Linalool Acid Protein on my face. Wait. I know what would've happened. I'd have emerged from the shower with flawless hair and skin. Just like Joseph.
(Please hold while I return all of these tiny, tiny bottles to the shower.)
Another observation about this particular shower which leads me into today's theme- "Things Which Made Me Feel Weird Today": the towel rod.
I brought up the ruler app on my phone and measured. This towel rod is seven feet off the ground. I thought about that for a while in between reading bottles. You should think about it too. I'm going to ask Joseph and JS about it when they get home tonight. Right after I ask them if I can have this "My Little Pony" coffee mug I just found in the kitchen.
The rest of the "Things Which Made Me Feel Weird Today" are as follows:
[Sidenote: weird- by definition- means mysterious, uncanny, unusual, supernatural. So these are not all unpleasant feelings, necessarily. Just feelings which I noticed when I felt them. If one of these was cause of a notably unpleasant feeling, I will document as much with an asterisk.]
1. The fact that a fantastic, super-athletic and very well choreographed pole-dance routine performed to Michael Jackson's "Billie Jean" by a snazzy looking dude on the subway this morning received zero applause and absolutely no attention. Except for from me, who was avidly recording the show and occasionally turning the camera on myself to make faces expressing my feelings on the performance so that when I sent the video to my brother and his wife, we would all be on the same page.
2. Le Pain Quotidien. This is the name of a pastry and bread shop. Which I only know because I looked it up. The title of the store itself made me want to do the opposite of approach. Sounds like math and suffering.
3. The third degree I received from a pert, smart looking lady in a thrift store near Union Square about my kitten brooch. I was in the store in search of a spring hat (an acceptable one of which I did not find in all of Manhattan) and a horse figurine. The lady running the store was very interested in my attire. I explained that my kitten brooch was a prize possession received from my brother who brought it back for me from his honeymoon. It was located at a small shop at the base of mountain which specialized in weaponry and fur kitten faces glued to safety pins. Good shop. She then wanted to know more about my "vintage" Honaker Redbud Festival T-shirt. Soon.
4. The row of adorable round and squishy wildly colored rice balls in the refrigerator display case at "Bread & Butter." Shops here are either titled with a vivid imagination at play- The Cure, Cabrini, Au Bon Pain; or with bitter practicality- Burgers & Cupcakes, Bread & Butter, Fork & Spoon. I almost walked into that last one to see if they also sold food.
[Sidenote: I had to pause here to cry on purpose because my right contact popped out while I was eating sushi wrapped in avocados and, lacking water to moisten it, had to stick it back in my eye dry and then weep at the muffin counter until it moistened back up and I no longer felt like I had an eye frittata.]
5. The gentleman sitting to my left while I wept. He had a tattoo on his upper right arm. All I could see of the tattoo was a man's legs and sandaled feet poking out of his shirt sleeve just above his elbow. I wondered about this tattoo until he whipped out his phone and brought up at top volume a podcast entirely en Espanol featuring a background image of Jesus Christ wearing a mahogany bathrobe. It was Jesus. As I wiped my fake tears I thought this fellow couldn't get any more interesting but then he cracked open a styrofoam box full of bologna and proceed to thoughtfully consume it one slab at a time with a plastic fork.
6. Every single woman I saw today was pregnant.
7. Except for the ones who were walking very quickly and very thinly looking very bereft in their white skinny jeans with their poodles.
8. The knockoff Cookie Monster with a black leather clutch prowling Times Square.*
9. The giant Kit-Kat bar in the Hershey's store. It had no dents, grooves, or sections. It's not a Kit-Kat without those things. Just a flat hard block.*
10. Matt Zimmerman.*
People I made feel weird today:
1. Matt Zimmerman.
2. Dixon Cashwell.
Happy Anniversary Joseph and JS. You had a pony at your wedding. I love you.
We've had many apartments over the years- sometimes together- and it can never be said that one is hurting for reading material while showering.
In Joseph's shower since the dawn of time there have been many, many, many tiny bottles. Some medium sized bottles and occasionally a couple of large ones. Unsuspecting persons might step into Joseph's shower with confidence, assuming from years of shower experience that the potions contained in these bottles are shampoo, conditioner, etc.
Don't be so sure.
These bottles are very mysterious. Each has a very detailed label with chapters of information printed on it. This morning alone I learned about:
1. Tourmaline Charged Exfoliating Nettoyant Exfoliant- increases cell turnover and contains beads.
2. Kiehl's Amino Acid Coconut Oil - contains Protein and Wheat Starch. Can I achieve similar results washing whatever part of my body this is intended for with ground beef and pita bread?
3. Shampure - I've never seen that word before but this bottle claims to have 25 flowers inside.
4. A different bottle of Shampure- this one containing morikue protein. Also Lavandula Angustifolia and Linalool. Really.
5. An bottle with an orange label upon which 90% of the font is too small for me to read, but does have a quote from Abraham Lincoln printed on one side. He was big into exfoliation.
6. Cumming off buff. This claims to be a body scrub. You're not supposed to use it on your eyeballs or put it inside of your body.
I used my soap from Walgreens. Partly because I'm an excellent house guest and bring my own things and partly because heaven knows what would've happened to me if I'd tried Cumming Shampure Linalool Acid Protein on my face. Wait. I know what would've happened. I'd have emerged from the shower with flawless hair and skin. Just like Joseph.
(Please hold while I return all of these tiny, tiny bottles to the shower.)
Another observation about this particular shower which leads me into today's theme- "Things Which Made Me Feel Weird Today": the towel rod.
I brought up the ruler app on my phone and measured. This towel rod is seven feet off the ground. I thought about that for a while in between reading bottles. You should think about it too. I'm going to ask Joseph and JS about it when they get home tonight. Right after I ask them if I can have this "My Little Pony" coffee mug I just found in the kitchen.
The rest of the "Things Which Made Me Feel Weird Today" are as follows:
[Sidenote: weird- by definition- means mysterious, uncanny, unusual, supernatural. So these are not all unpleasant feelings, necessarily. Just feelings which I noticed when I felt them. If one of these was cause of a notably unpleasant feeling, I will document as much with an asterisk.]
1. The fact that a fantastic, super-athletic and very well choreographed pole-dance routine performed to Michael Jackson's "Billie Jean" by a snazzy looking dude on the subway this morning received zero applause and absolutely no attention. Except for from me, who was avidly recording the show and occasionally turning the camera on myself to make faces expressing my feelings on the performance so that when I sent the video to my brother and his wife, we would all be on the same page.
2. Le Pain Quotidien. This is the name of a pastry and bread shop. Which I only know because I looked it up. The title of the store itself made me want to do the opposite of approach. Sounds like math and suffering.
3. The third degree I received from a pert, smart looking lady in a thrift store near Union Square about my kitten brooch. I was in the store in search of a spring hat (an acceptable one of which I did not find in all of Manhattan) and a horse figurine. The lady running the store was very interested in my attire. I explained that my kitten brooch was a prize possession received from my brother who brought it back for me from his honeymoon. It was located at a small shop at the base of mountain which specialized in weaponry and fur kitten faces glued to safety pins. Good shop. She then wanted to know more about my "vintage" Honaker Redbud Festival T-shirt. Soon.
4. The row of adorable round and squishy wildly colored rice balls in the refrigerator display case at "Bread & Butter." Shops here are either titled with a vivid imagination at play- The Cure, Cabrini, Au Bon Pain; or with bitter practicality- Burgers & Cupcakes, Bread & Butter, Fork & Spoon. I almost walked into that last one to see if they also sold food.
[Sidenote: I had to pause here to cry on purpose because my right contact popped out while I was eating sushi wrapped in avocados and, lacking water to moisten it, had to stick it back in my eye dry and then weep at the muffin counter until it moistened back up and I no longer felt like I had an eye frittata.]
5. The gentleman sitting to my left while I wept. He had a tattoo on his upper right arm. All I could see of the tattoo was a man's legs and sandaled feet poking out of his shirt sleeve just above his elbow. I wondered about this tattoo until he whipped out his phone and brought up at top volume a podcast entirely en Espanol featuring a background image of Jesus Christ wearing a mahogany bathrobe. It was Jesus. As I wiped my fake tears I thought this fellow couldn't get any more interesting but then he cracked open a styrofoam box full of bologna and proceed to thoughtfully consume it one slab at a time with a plastic fork.
6. Every single woman I saw today was pregnant.
7. Except for the ones who were walking very quickly and very thinly looking very bereft in their white skinny jeans with their poodles.
8. The knockoff Cookie Monster with a black leather clutch prowling Times Square.*
9. The giant Kit-Kat bar in the Hershey's store. It had no dents, grooves, or sections. It's not a Kit-Kat without those things. Just a flat hard block.*
10. Matt Zimmerman.*
People I made feel weird today:
1. Matt Zimmerman.
2. Dixon Cashwell.
Happy Anniversary Joseph and JS. You had a pony at your wedding. I love you.
Monday, May 23, 2016
Only Two Burgers
Today I almost went to Boston.
I boarded a train this morning at the Staples Mill Amtrak station shortly after the white-mustachioed, portly gentleman manning the ticket booth glanced at my ID and said to me very patronizingly, "I bet you didn't know there's a Honaker, VA." Oh sir. If only you knew just how much I do know about Honaker, VA.
[Sidenote: I'll probably start an entirely new blog just to deal with that topic.]
I was exhausted on the train. Departure time: 6AM. Not terrible, but when you factor in having to get out of bed early enough to find enough pairs of panties and sweatpants and jeggings to keep you cleanly clothed for four or five days and stuff them all into your pizza backpack in addition to your toothbrush and Chuck Norris T-shirt, you're looking at a 4:30AM rise and shine.
I love the train. I find a seat all by myself near the front of the first coach car. I fight to stay awake long enough for the conductor or assistant conductor or whoever it is to come by and scan my ticket, then I pull out my Agnes Gooch sweater, ball it up for a pillow, and am instantly asleep.
Until D.C.
I wake up briefly in D.C. because lots of loud announcements start coming over the P.A. system. We are stopping to switch engines, we will be without power for a few minutes and- most importantly- the snack car will now be closed until departure from New York en route to Boston. This will come in to play later.
Back to sleep. I dream lots of dreams. At one point I "woke up" to glance over and find a small ginger-haired girl sitting in the seat beside me speaking softly in Russian and swinging her sneaker-clad feet back and forth very very slowly. I am not sure in retrospect that I was actually awake when that happened. It's likely I dreamt her. She sure wasn't there when I woke up the next time.
I was really sleeping well. I awoke up to pure peace and quiet. I was slightly overheated because just inside Maryland I'd woken up long enough to put my Idaho sweatpants on over my jeggings. It's cold on trains. What has jolted me out of sleep is the P.A. announcement that ".....and the snack car is now open for business...." infiltrating my sleeping brain. I am very grateful for my affinity for food in this case. And most others. As I slowly come to, I think, "Great! Snacks!" Followed immediately by " Crap! Boston!"
I peek out the window and notice we are in what looks suspiciously like Penn Station. I can feel the train revving up to pull out. Slightly sweaty, topknot wildly askew, I launch myself across the aisle and terrify the woman sitting in the next seat to ask her which station this is. She says, "New York." So, I fling myself back to my seat, claw wildly through the seat pocket for my phone and charger, grab my pizza backpack and am headed for the exit when I remember about my fedora. You better believe I ran the risk of going to Boston for a few days to get that hat.
Success. I disembark as the train pulls away and- I am the only living soul that's not a rat or a really ripe piece of trash in the basement level of the train station. I think- my mother would be thrilled. As I am alone, and now really overheated due to adrenaline and the excessive amount of pant I am currently sporting, I remove my sweats. I check my phone. So many missed messages. Joseph I think believes I may have decided not to come after all.
I climb out of the station, hit daylight and think- I am HUNGRY. I walk one two blocks, turn a corner and see directly in front of me a restaurant titled, "BURGERS AND CUPCAKES." Turns out "ask and ye shall receive" is really a thing.
I have a burger and a cupcake. These things are served to me by a pleasant looking lady with electric blue eyeliner. I compliment her eyeliner but refrain from telling her about my field trip to Beauty-Full whereupon I also purchased an bit of electric blue makeup for my face (see recent Facebook photos).
I text Joseph that I am in root* to his apartment. He arrives shortly to let me in and we fall into the familiar and wonderfully comfortable dynamic of me lying on the couch reading books about movie stars while he works on his computer and makes phone calls to the producers of "20/20" regarding the flight plans of someone named LaGuardia.
We pop round to the corner coffee shop for teas. I fondle all of these cute wee wee coffee cup lids which are like the size coffee cup lid your cat would have if he or she ordered a coffee sized for cats. I bet the manager of the store was thinking, "I wish this girl in the fedora would stop fondling all my tiny lids."
While we wait for JS to come home, I take a nap (sometimes one must travel to another state to get a good nap) and Joseph coats the bathroom in blue poison. I'll let you wonder.
Freshly napped and poisoned, and with JS now in tow, we head to Chelsea, where we are going to watch a lady named Molly Pope sing in a cabaret club. We are hungry, and are headed directly to some organic vegan restaurant I couldn't understand the name of when we are brought up short by the sight of a Lucky Burger. The boys clap with glee and we unanimously agree to go there instead. Lucky Burger is good. Good enough that even though you've had a burger for lunch only hours before- you still eat all of this one. It is ORANGE in the Lucky Burger. Round donut-shaped orange lights and red counters and lots of glowing yellow smiley faces which look like they are chewing tobacco. Joseph almost missed dinner because he was determinedly pumping special Lucky sauce into no fewer than 12 plastic cuplets.
So then- to the cabaret. We walk in, pass the bar and are shown through some velveteen curtains into the private cabaret area in the back. This is the first time in my life I've ever been shown through velveteen curtains to a private cabaret area in the back. Immediately to my right upon entering is Georgia Rogers Farmer.
I was unaware Georgia Rogers Farmer was in New York. But she seemed pleased to see us, so we merrily crashed her party. We take seats at the awkwardly tall booth. We take a selfie to send to Paul Major and Tom Width.
Molly takes the stage just as I leave to use the restroom. The bathrooms are downstairs in the back of the club. Along with the kitchen and paintings of Goldie Hawn. I am having a run of the mill bathroom experience when, as I open the stall to go wash my hands, the door of the neighboring stall flies open and out staggers an extremely tall, extremely tan, black-haired woman who was no shorter than 6'2' and also wearing ABSOLUTELY NO PANTS OF ANY SORT. Nope. Not even underwear. She leaned toward me and wriggled her shirt down to just south of her navel as she said, "I'm so sorry! There's no toilet paper in there!" I agree with her that it is frustrating when that happens. She weaves across the bathroom in her stilettos to the paper towel dispenser and helps herself. But then she must've forgotten her original intentions on leaving the stall without her pants and instead of returning to finish her business, begins admiring herself in the mirror. She turns on the faucet and tosses a saucy look over her shoulder at me. "I feel like I'm Asian!" She exclaims.
I leave.
Back upstairs, Molly is singing. Oh, so well. She has a deep strong voice that is reminiscent of Judy Garland. I study her for a while. For the first three songs of her set. All of these songs are wonderful pieces and I'd love to get my hands on the sheet music. I turn to comment as much to Georgia, but Molly has got Georgia's focus on lockdown. This makes absolute sense. Georgia is a splendid cabaret performer and some of what Molly was doing was reminding me of Georgia's shows. Since Georgia's obviously not going to speak to me, I resume looking at Molly and finally figure out who she reminds me of. Molly = Bette Midler + Eva DeVirgilis. Great stuff.
She sings a medley toward the end of her set which I get really into because it starts out with a song about some lady breaking into someone's bathroom while holding a spoon in her mouth and then ends with a song about hominy. I know it's about hominy because the lyrics for the last 3 minutes are as follows: "Hominy. Hominy. Hominy, hominy, hominy. Hominy."
I wanted to know more about what happened to the lady who broke into the bathroom.
After Molly was done, the place turned into a piano bar. Our server, who may or may not have been Vicki McLeod, does a number. The pianist himself does several numbers because no one has signed up to sing. Joanna Gleason's son sings the song that played during the scene change before my part in "Brooklyn Boy" at Barksdale Theatre circa 2007, but I don't pay much attention because I am wondering the whole time how he is keeping his red wool hat on, wearing it at such a jaunty angle.
Molly re-emerges to sing again- having managed to change out of her cabaret dress, but not out of her cabaret hair. I am not surprised. This is a killer hairstyle, but I'll bet she went through about 3 cans of hairspray to make it happen and I almost volunteer to go home with her just to help her brush it out.
Meanwhile- Georgia makes the fatal error of going to the bathroom. While she is gone, her step-daughter and step-daughter's roommate sign her up to sing. I am nervous for when Georgia finds out about this- but secretly glad. Georgia's wonderful and I feel it'd be a shame if she didn't get up and sing on this stage at this club. She does. She sings "Working 9-5." They Joseph pulls the "it's my anniversary tomorrow" card and signs JS and I up for "A Whole New World." We know this song. What we don't know is that when this pianist plays it, it is in the key of Microwave. I haven't sung in that register since I was performing regular Sandi Patti concerts in my bedroom as a seven year old.
Joseph then signs Georgia and I up for "Suddenly Seymour," which I hadn't been banking on singing again so soon, but had a lovely time doing. There was step touch, octave hurdling, and Molly popping her head out from the backstage area to provide backup vocals when needed.
We try to get Joseph to sing as well, but he points out that he doesn't go around asking us to publicize books. Finally, JS hypnotizes the room singing "Stars" from "Les Miserables" and we're done. I tell Georgia to call me tomorrow. JS points out that due to such prolific posting this evening, Joseph may have crashed Snapchat.
Back at the apartment, I am given the tour of the refrigerator and instructed what items I am to eat because they just aren't going to eat them. I eat my first pickled brussels sprout. Then, just to cool down before bed, we perform the entire scores of "Wicked," "Songs for a New World," and "The Bridges of Madison County."
Now I'm going to read. I like to think of this guest room as: A Library Especially For Audra. I'm going to start with the Laura Ingalls Wilder tell-all about what went on behind the scenes out on the prairie. I'm hoping for lots of scandal. I'm certainly not sleepy. Richmond to Boston is a long nap.
*Preferred spelling.
I boarded a train this morning at the Staples Mill Amtrak station shortly after the white-mustachioed, portly gentleman manning the ticket booth glanced at my ID and said to me very patronizingly, "I bet you didn't know there's a Honaker, VA." Oh sir. If only you knew just how much I do know about Honaker, VA.
[Sidenote: I'll probably start an entirely new blog just to deal with that topic.]
I was exhausted on the train. Departure time: 6AM. Not terrible, but when you factor in having to get out of bed early enough to find enough pairs of panties and sweatpants and jeggings to keep you cleanly clothed for four or five days and stuff them all into your pizza backpack in addition to your toothbrush and Chuck Norris T-shirt, you're looking at a 4:30AM rise and shine.
I love the train. I find a seat all by myself near the front of the first coach car. I fight to stay awake long enough for the conductor or assistant conductor or whoever it is to come by and scan my ticket, then I pull out my Agnes Gooch sweater, ball it up for a pillow, and am instantly asleep.
Until D.C.
I wake up briefly in D.C. because lots of loud announcements start coming over the P.A. system. We are stopping to switch engines, we will be without power for a few minutes and- most importantly- the snack car will now be closed until departure from New York en route to Boston. This will come in to play later.
Back to sleep. I dream lots of dreams. At one point I "woke up" to glance over and find a small ginger-haired girl sitting in the seat beside me speaking softly in Russian and swinging her sneaker-clad feet back and forth very very slowly. I am not sure in retrospect that I was actually awake when that happened. It's likely I dreamt her. She sure wasn't there when I woke up the next time.
I was really sleeping well. I awoke up to pure peace and quiet. I was slightly overheated because just inside Maryland I'd woken up long enough to put my Idaho sweatpants on over my jeggings. It's cold on trains. What has jolted me out of sleep is the P.A. announcement that ".....and the snack car is now open for business...." infiltrating my sleeping brain. I am very grateful for my affinity for food in this case. And most others. As I slowly come to, I think, "Great! Snacks!" Followed immediately by " Crap! Boston!"
I peek out the window and notice we are in what looks suspiciously like Penn Station. I can feel the train revving up to pull out. Slightly sweaty, topknot wildly askew, I launch myself across the aisle and terrify the woman sitting in the next seat to ask her which station this is. She says, "New York." So, I fling myself back to my seat, claw wildly through the seat pocket for my phone and charger, grab my pizza backpack and am headed for the exit when I remember about my fedora. You better believe I ran the risk of going to Boston for a few days to get that hat.
Success. I disembark as the train pulls away and- I am the only living soul that's not a rat or a really ripe piece of trash in the basement level of the train station. I think- my mother would be thrilled. As I am alone, and now really overheated due to adrenaline and the excessive amount of pant I am currently sporting, I remove my sweats. I check my phone. So many missed messages. Joseph I think believes I may have decided not to come after all.
I climb out of the station, hit daylight and think- I am HUNGRY. I walk one two blocks, turn a corner and see directly in front of me a restaurant titled, "BURGERS AND CUPCAKES." Turns out "ask and ye shall receive" is really a thing.
I have a burger and a cupcake. These things are served to me by a pleasant looking lady with electric blue eyeliner. I compliment her eyeliner but refrain from telling her about my field trip to Beauty-Full whereupon I also purchased an bit of electric blue makeup for my face (see recent Facebook photos).
I text Joseph that I am in root* to his apartment. He arrives shortly to let me in and we fall into the familiar and wonderfully comfortable dynamic of me lying on the couch reading books about movie stars while he works on his computer and makes phone calls to the producers of "20/20" regarding the flight plans of someone named LaGuardia.
We pop round to the corner coffee shop for teas. I fondle all of these cute wee wee coffee cup lids which are like the size coffee cup lid your cat would have if he or she ordered a coffee sized for cats. I bet the manager of the store was thinking, "I wish this girl in the fedora would stop fondling all my tiny lids."
While we wait for JS to come home, I take a nap (sometimes one must travel to another state to get a good nap) and Joseph coats the bathroom in blue poison. I'll let you wonder.
Freshly napped and poisoned, and with JS now in tow, we head to Chelsea, where we are going to watch a lady named Molly Pope sing in a cabaret club. We are hungry, and are headed directly to some organic vegan restaurant I couldn't understand the name of when we are brought up short by the sight of a Lucky Burger. The boys clap with glee and we unanimously agree to go there instead. Lucky Burger is good. Good enough that even though you've had a burger for lunch only hours before- you still eat all of this one. It is ORANGE in the Lucky Burger. Round donut-shaped orange lights and red counters and lots of glowing yellow smiley faces which look like they are chewing tobacco. Joseph almost missed dinner because he was determinedly pumping special Lucky sauce into no fewer than 12 plastic cuplets.
So then- to the cabaret. We walk in, pass the bar and are shown through some velveteen curtains into the private cabaret area in the back. This is the first time in my life I've ever been shown through velveteen curtains to a private cabaret area in the back. Immediately to my right upon entering is Georgia Rogers Farmer.
I was unaware Georgia Rogers Farmer was in New York. But she seemed pleased to see us, so we merrily crashed her party. We take seats at the awkwardly tall booth. We take a selfie to send to Paul Major and Tom Width.
Molly takes the stage just as I leave to use the restroom. The bathrooms are downstairs in the back of the club. Along with the kitchen and paintings of Goldie Hawn. I am having a run of the mill bathroom experience when, as I open the stall to go wash my hands, the door of the neighboring stall flies open and out staggers an extremely tall, extremely tan, black-haired woman who was no shorter than 6'2' and also wearing ABSOLUTELY NO PANTS OF ANY SORT. Nope. Not even underwear. She leaned toward me and wriggled her shirt down to just south of her navel as she said, "I'm so sorry! There's no toilet paper in there!" I agree with her that it is frustrating when that happens. She weaves across the bathroom in her stilettos to the paper towel dispenser and helps herself. But then she must've forgotten her original intentions on leaving the stall without her pants and instead of returning to finish her business, begins admiring herself in the mirror. She turns on the faucet and tosses a saucy look over her shoulder at me. "I feel like I'm Asian!" She exclaims.
I leave.
Back upstairs, Molly is singing. Oh, so well. She has a deep strong voice that is reminiscent of Judy Garland. I study her for a while. For the first three songs of her set. All of these songs are wonderful pieces and I'd love to get my hands on the sheet music. I turn to comment as much to Georgia, but Molly has got Georgia's focus on lockdown. This makes absolute sense. Georgia is a splendid cabaret performer and some of what Molly was doing was reminding me of Georgia's shows. Since Georgia's obviously not going to speak to me, I resume looking at Molly and finally figure out who she reminds me of. Molly = Bette Midler + Eva DeVirgilis. Great stuff.
She sings a medley toward the end of her set which I get really into because it starts out with a song about some lady breaking into someone's bathroom while holding a spoon in her mouth and then ends with a song about hominy. I know it's about hominy because the lyrics for the last 3 minutes are as follows: "Hominy. Hominy. Hominy, hominy, hominy. Hominy."
I wanted to know more about what happened to the lady who broke into the bathroom.
After Molly was done, the place turned into a piano bar. Our server, who may or may not have been Vicki McLeod, does a number. The pianist himself does several numbers because no one has signed up to sing. Joanna Gleason's son sings the song that played during the scene change before my part in "Brooklyn Boy" at Barksdale Theatre circa 2007, but I don't pay much attention because I am wondering the whole time how he is keeping his red wool hat on, wearing it at such a jaunty angle.
Molly re-emerges to sing again- having managed to change out of her cabaret dress, but not out of her cabaret hair. I am not surprised. This is a killer hairstyle, but I'll bet she went through about 3 cans of hairspray to make it happen and I almost volunteer to go home with her just to help her brush it out.
Meanwhile- Georgia makes the fatal error of going to the bathroom. While she is gone, her step-daughter and step-daughter's roommate sign her up to sing. I am nervous for when Georgia finds out about this- but secretly glad. Georgia's wonderful and I feel it'd be a shame if she didn't get up and sing on this stage at this club. She does. She sings "Working 9-5." They Joseph pulls the "it's my anniversary tomorrow" card and signs JS and I up for "A Whole New World." We know this song. What we don't know is that when this pianist plays it, it is in the key of Microwave. I haven't sung in that register since I was performing regular Sandi Patti concerts in my bedroom as a seven year old.
Joseph then signs Georgia and I up for "Suddenly Seymour," which I hadn't been banking on singing again so soon, but had a lovely time doing. There was step touch, octave hurdling, and Molly popping her head out from the backstage area to provide backup vocals when needed.
We try to get Joseph to sing as well, but he points out that he doesn't go around asking us to publicize books. Finally, JS hypnotizes the room singing "Stars" from "Les Miserables" and we're done. I tell Georgia to call me tomorrow. JS points out that due to such prolific posting this evening, Joseph may have crashed Snapchat.
Back at the apartment, I am given the tour of the refrigerator and instructed what items I am to eat because they just aren't going to eat them. I eat my first pickled brussels sprout. Then, just to cool down before bed, we perform the entire scores of "Wicked," "Songs for a New World," and "The Bridges of Madison County."
Now I'm going to read. I like to think of this guest room as: A Library Especially For Audra. I'm going to start with the Laura Ingalls Wilder tell-all about what went on behind the scenes out on the prairie. I'm hoping for lots of scandal. I'm certainly not sleepy. Richmond to Boston is a long nap.
*Preferred spelling.
Friday, May 20, 2016
The Neighsayers
Today I deceived a horse.
It was not my intent- to deceive a horse. Mostly my intentions toward horses consists of having one, pressing my finger into the frog of their hoof to see if it is in any way spongy, and riding one bareback while napping on its back through or -better- past the toll booths on the Downtown Expressway. But today, I was naughty.
Today was whip class.
Whip class happens because:
1. Sometimes whips are used onstage.
2. Humans must be instructed in whippery before it is safe to let them use a whip.
3. Some humans have been trained to train other humans to use whips in pursuit of said safety.
4. Some other humans spend a lot of time on YouTube and have a lot of spare time during play practice for "South Pacific" at Virginia Rep in the summer of 2015.
5. Still other humans decide that whips are fascinating and thereby decide to hold a round of Secret Santa in the middle of July on the off chance that they will receive a whip of their very own.
Everyone: I did receive a whip. It is all the colors of birthday cake, much longer than I am tall, and, for its crowning glory, features the severed head of a brunette/blue-eyed baby doll with a top knot.
Now you're all caught up.
So this morning, I donned my snazzy red sunglasses and tossed my corn rows and headed out the door to Maymont Park for whip rehearsal.
I was on time to whip rehearsal today, but became sidetracked because the second I walked through the gates of the park I was stopped dead in my tracks- HORSES. I love horses. I have Breyer horses, I used to pretend my bike was a horse, I read all the books about horses, etc. This morning there were two horses. One was covered in straps and reins and pulling a carriage full of people. Due to this strappage, there was no available surface area for me to pat this horse, so I turned my attention to the horse coming up behind him. This horse was stark naked. Good. I skip across the lawn and cut behind an enormous evergreen tree to get closer. The lady walking the second horse has allowed it to stop for a snack of grass. The horse is very into his snack. Maymont can go ahead and cancel with their lawn-mowing company. She tells me I may pat the horse. He is the color of rust and very beautiful. I pat his side and shoulder. Wiry and hot. Horses always feel hot. His fur grows in a different grain along the dent of his hip. His head is the size of my car. The lady tells me that this horse used to be a racehorse and is new to Maymont, but is training to be a carriage horse. So she is walking him around the park today to get him used to the people and the noises of the park. I don't tell her that she is wasting her time as the horse is clearly not paying a bit of attention and is only interested in stripping all vegetation from the terrain. I like the horse and wish him the best. We are friends. I feel glad to know his story.
By now I'm ten minutes late to whip class. I find my fellow whippers under "the big tree," which is the only location detail I have been given and would've ordinarily and perhaps in the dark been a fascinating and appreciated game to play- finding exactly which big tree in a park full of them- but as I was already late, I focused my efforts and found them quickly.
Alexis Black is in charge of whip rehearsal.
Alexis has on a great whipping outfit. A sleeveless tunic and black leggings. Bare feet. Long hair fluttering in the breeze. Alexander's got on a flannel button down and is standing very straight. I've got on my orange T-shirt with a turtle on it which Georgia Rogers Farmer was going to throw out if I didn't want. And my corn rows.
[Sidenote: always in life get corn rows at least once. The level of bad-assery you've already acheived the second you wake up when you have corn rows is really fulfilling.]
Alexis teaches us some new whip tricks. I immediately nearly dislocate my wrist trying my new trick so I move right along to the ones I already know. Once I'm back in the swing of things, I try again, and am gratified to find that after only a bit of rehearsal I have a new fancy flailing swirling three-part wraparound overhead crack to my credit.
[Sidenote: it still needs work. But it's super cool, and I feel like I should be wearing a cowboy hat and very very high boots when I do it.]
[Sidenote to the sidenote: Maggie Roop wore just such boots in TheatreLAB/Yes And! Entertainment's recent production of "Venus In Fur." I really wanted to try them on until I realized that on shorter legs like mine, those particular boots wouldn't so much be boots as they would be waist-high crotchless leather pants. Less the look I'm going for.]
Hundreds of children are roaming free in the park today. With a few parents as chaperones. The children are curious about the cracks our whips make, but the parents of the children are visibly fascinated. They crane their necks to watch us as they process in their assembly line full of kindergartners up the path to the goat display which- let's face it- isn't going to be as interesting as three people and six whips getting frisky on the hillside.
Occasionally there will be a strain of children rolling down the hill. Children seem to enjoy that. Suddenly there are five year olds bumping prone down the hill all around me. Like hail. Or locusts. Definitely one of the plagues in Egypt.
One child gives me the evil eye as I nimbly bound across a small creek en route to the nature center to use the restroom. Her teacher has clearly forbidden her to cross this creek. I hope I am admired.
So, I've gotten a blister by this point, but whip class is still going strong when suddenly an official white park pick-up truck rolls up and idles in silence. We pause in our crackage. No one approaches from the truck. We wonder - are they going to taser us? We are pretty sure whipping in the park is legal. Minutes pass. Finally a young parkperson trots up the path to the truck and holds a brief and (I like to imagine) intense conversation with the driver- who is sitting up in the cab of that truck like the main bad guy in any movie who never really shows his face but just sits in the dark and whispers to his henchmen.
Young parkperson then approaches. He tells us that our whips are scaring the horse and that we must return them to our cars at once. This makes total sense. I imagine when your job is to have a creature of a totally differently species sit on a padded leather belt which is strapped around your stomach and to run as fast as you possibly can to nowhere around a oval of dirt while pieces of leather poke into your hips to encourage you to keep up the good work, you might get a little jumpy when you hear even longer pieces of that leather cracking upwards of 30 times a minute while you're just trying to have your damn snack.
I hope we didn't give him a complex. Alexis suggests next whip class take place just outside of Maymont in Byrd Park. I'm down for that. There's plenty of space, and the only animals around are joggers and those horrible geese which everyone knows will kill you as soon as look at you. And what do they do over there on that Goose Island anyway? It's like "Lord of the Flies" with long soft necks and hard orange noses.
Whips. Horses. Blisters.
What did I learn from today? Many things. But mostly: never - EVER - put toothpaste in an open blister.
It was not my intent- to deceive a horse. Mostly my intentions toward horses consists of having one, pressing my finger into the frog of their hoof to see if it is in any way spongy, and riding one bareback while napping on its back through or -better- past the toll booths on the Downtown Expressway. But today, I was naughty.
Today was whip class.
Whip class happens because:
1. Sometimes whips are used onstage.
2. Humans must be instructed in whippery before it is safe to let them use a whip.
3. Some humans have been trained to train other humans to use whips in pursuit of said safety.
4. Some other humans spend a lot of time on YouTube and have a lot of spare time during play practice for "South Pacific" at Virginia Rep in the summer of 2015.
5. Still other humans decide that whips are fascinating and thereby decide to hold a round of Secret Santa in the middle of July on the off chance that they will receive a whip of their very own.
Everyone: I did receive a whip. It is all the colors of birthday cake, much longer than I am tall, and, for its crowning glory, features the severed head of a brunette/blue-eyed baby doll with a top knot.
Now you're all caught up.
So this morning, I donned my snazzy red sunglasses and tossed my corn rows and headed out the door to Maymont Park for whip rehearsal.
I was on time to whip rehearsal today, but became sidetracked because the second I walked through the gates of the park I was stopped dead in my tracks- HORSES. I love horses. I have Breyer horses, I used to pretend my bike was a horse, I read all the books about horses, etc. This morning there were two horses. One was covered in straps and reins and pulling a carriage full of people. Due to this strappage, there was no available surface area for me to pat this horse, so I turned my attention to the horse coming up behind him. This horse was stark naked. Good. I skip across the lawn and cut behind an enormous evergreen tree to get closer. The lady walking the second horse has allowed it to stop for a snack of grass. The horse is very into his snack. Maymont can go ahead and cancel with their lawn-mowing company. She tells me I may pat the horse. He is the color of rust and very beautiful. I pat his side and shoulder. Wiry and hot. Horses always feel hot. His fur grows in a different grain along the dent of his hip. His head is the size of my car. The lady tells me that this horse used to be a racehorse and is new to Maymont, but is training to be a carriage horse. So she is walking him around the park today to get him used to the people and the noises of the park. I don't tell her that she is wasting her time as the horse is clearly not paying a bit of attention and is only interested in stripping all vegetation from the terrain. I like the horse and wish him the best. We are friends. I feel glad to know his story.
By now I'm ten minutes late to whip class. I find my fellow whippers under "the big tree," which is the only location detail I have been given and would've ordinarily and perhaps in the dark been a fascinating and appreciated game to play- finding exactly which big tree in a park full of them- but as I was already late, I focused my efforts and found them quickly.
Alexis Black is in charge of whip rehearsal.
Alexis has on a great whipping outfit. A sleeveless tunic and black leggings. Bare feet. Long hair fluttering in the breeze. Alexander's got on a flannel button down and is standing very straight. I've got on my orange T-shirt with a turtle on it which Georgia Rogers Farmer was going to throw out if I didn't want. And my corn rows.
[Sidenote: always in life get corn rows at least once. The level of bad-assery you've already acheived the second you wake up when you have corn rows is really fulfilling.]
Alexis teaches us some new whip tricks. I immediately nearly dislocate my wrist trying my new trick so I move right along to the ones I already know. Once I'm back in the swing of things, I try again, and am gratified to find that after only a bit of rehearsal I have a new fancy flailing swirling three-part wraparound overhead crack to my credit.
[Sidenote: it still needs work. But it's super cool, and I feel like I should be wearing a cowboy hat and very very high boots when I do it.]
[Sidenote to the sidenote: Maggie Roop wore just such boots in TheatreLAB/Yes And! Entertainment's recent production of "Venus In Fur." I really wanted to try them on until I realized that on shorter legs like mine, those particular boots wouldn't so much be boots as they would be waist-high crotchless leather pants. Less the look I'm going for.]
Hundreds of children are roaming free in the park today. With a few parents as chaperones. The children are curious about the cracks our whips make, but the parents of the children are visibly fascinated. They crane their necks to watch us as they process in their assembly line full of kindergartners up the path to the goat display which- let's face it- isn't going to be as interesting as three people and six whips getting frisky on the hillside.
Occasionally there will be a strain of children rolling down the hill. Children seem to enjoy that. Suddenly there are five year olds bumping prone down the hill all around me. Like hail. Or locusts. Definitely one of the plagues in Egypt.
One child gives me the evil eye as I nimbly bound across a small creek en route to the nature center to use the restroom. Her teacher has clearly forbidden her to cross this creek. I hope I am admired.
So, I've gotten a blister by this point, but whip class is still going strong when suddenly an official white park pick-up truck rolls up and idles in silence. We pause in our crackage. No one approaches from the truck. We wonder - are they going to taser us? We are pretty sure whipping in the park is legal. Minutes pass. Finally a young parkperson trots up the path to the truck and holds a brief and (I like to imagine) intense conversation with the driver- who is sitting up in the cab of that truck like the main bad guy in any movie who never really shows his face but just sits in the dark and whispers to his henchmen.
Young parkperson then approaches. He tells us that our whips are scaring the horse and that we must return them to our cars at once. This makes total sense. I imagine when your job is to have a creature of a totally differently species sit on a padded leather belt which is strapped around your stomach and to run as fast as you possibly can to nowhere around a oval of dirt while pieces of leather poke into your hips to encourage you to keep up the good work, you might get a little jumpy when you hear even longer pieces of that leather cracking upwards of 30 times a minute while you're just trying to have your damn snack.
I hope we didn't give him a complex. Alexis suggests next whip class take place just outside of Maymont in Byrd Park. I'm down for that. There's plenty of space, and the only animals around are joggers and those horrible geese which everyone knows will kill you as soon as look at you. And what do they do over there on that Goose Island anyway? It's like "Lord of the Flies" with long soft necks and hard orange noses.
Whips. Horses. Blisters.
What did I learn from today? Many things. But mostly: never - EVER - put toothpaste in an open blister.
Thursday, May 19, 2016
Hey Baby. Those Are MY Pants.
I hadn't seen Reagan Story for a few months. I can't say the last time we parted was on good terms. There's some animosity. So today, as I sat on her front stoop drinking my orange Monster and being grateful for even the tiny sliver of sunshine which was visible, I was feeling trepidatious about our forthcoming encounter.
Her car pulled up. She emerged from the backseat and instantly began staring me down. I rose somewhat shakily to my feet and tried out a smile. I waved tentatively. Silence in response. She stared unblinking at me with her customary furrowed brow and remained stock still as the light breeze wafted through her auburn mohawk and clouds began to gather ominously in the distant sky.
My friend Hannah, who had been driving the car, broke the silence. She invited me into the house and as she and Reagan walked past, I noticed that Reagan and I had on the same pants. Was this some sort of power play? Last time I saw her, jeggings weren't her style. She's also got on some pretty fly jewelry. The bling, the jeggings, the mohawk- I think she's trying to gain the upper hand early on today.
In the kitchen the silence continues. Hannah has to go in to work for a couple of hours, so it's just going to be me and Reagan. Alone together. Until 2:30PM.
I quickly ascertain that Reagan and I still aren't on speaking terms when she starts to use Hannah as our conversational go between. Hannah informs me that Reagan will probably want a snack and then to go nap for quite awhile (ostensibly in an effort to avoid me), but that if she had to, she'd probably go along with me on a walk- her participation was almost guaranteed if I use the contraptions Hannah then provides me with to either strap her to my chest or restrain her into a chair on wheels.
Whatever. I don't know why she just won't tell me herself.
Hannah leaves. Reagan remains seated in her spot on the floor and without breaking eye contact, slowly brings a blue rubber lizard to her mouth and begins to chew.
Personal feelings aside, I simply cannot allow my friend to inflict physical damage to herself by ingesting the face of blue rubber lizard from Dollar Tree, so I stride smartly over and remove it from her grasp. Thwarted only momentarily, she reaches around and immediately grabs hold of a wooden hammer with which to fend me off. I manage to deflect her blows onto a pygmy xylophone which happens to be nearby. Ruffled but not beaten, I retreat into the kitchen for the previously agreed upon snack. Screams of rage accompany my exit. I quickly grab said snack (Reagan's on this new liquid diet fad right now, so it's handily encased in a bottle) and drag her kicking and screaming up the stairs to her room. After a brief struggle which for a moment even involved a balding black tomcat, we collapse into a rocking chair by the window. We both take a moment to regain our breath. I offer the snack. Thankfully, it is accepted. Reagan eats her snack in peace- only taking small breaks to pat the cat aggressively on the face using her feet. I'm hopeful that this is a good sign, and perhaps the brunt of her fury has been shifted to the cat, when suddenly she reaches up and tries her level best to peel my cheek off my face using her tiny tiny fingernails.
In a last ditch attempt to bring some peace to the room, I begin reading aloud to Reagan from "The History of the Saints." The last time I visited, my oral performance of this book brought Reagan almost instantly into a comatose state. My how the times have changed. Reagan wrenches the book from my grip, tears off the lower left hand corner with her two bottom teeth and one incisor, and hurls it to the floor. "Are You My Mother" and "Giraffe, Giraffe, Your Pants Are On Fire" (or something) suffer the same fate.
Clearly a nap is out of the question. Let's try the walk.
I rummage through several deep bureau drawers until I find a sweater which almost matches what Reagan's wearing. Upon reflection, I realize part of our quarrel may stem from the fact that the last time I was here, I was forced to assemble Reagan's outfit for the day and, due in part to my not knowing where all the clothes were and partly due to my "whimsical" fashion sense, she ended up looking like -- well, I'm struggling to come up with a comparison. Every description that comes to mind ends with "on 'shrooms." This may not be Reagan's ideal style. So I am hoping this muted, sensible green sweater will help mend fences.
I strap her on. There are plastic buckles and carabiners in places I'd rather not discuss. I try and take a selfie to show Hannah that we're sort of getting along, but Reagan refuses to give in with a smile.
We walk. Since she's still not speaking to me, I tell her all about things I see. I describe honeysuckle and how to eat it, litter, fallen brambles, gas prices, and overpass traffic (for the record, Reagan is one friend of mine with whom I feel COMPLETELY comfortable passing beneath an overpass on foot. Alone, I might be nervous, but he or she who abducts me with Reagan strapped to my body will RUE THE DAY). As we near the end of our walk, I really start to open up. I tell her about the show I'm in currently, my summer plans, and how terribly excited I am that tonight before "Little Shop of Horrors," Ashlee Heyward is going to cornrow my hair. I've been to the large yellow beauty supply store to pick up the proper rubber bands and everything. Reagan is the perfect listener and I'm starting to think we've really patched things up when we arrive home and I turn her to face me. She's asleep. I've bored her to sleep. I forget about my hurt feelings though, when I realize that the tips of my middle fingers turning purple and going numb as they did halfway through the walk was due to her casual grip in her sleep. Ripped baby fists.
Well, I've now given away that Reagan is a baby. But that will make it make more sense when I go into how difficult it is to stuff a baby into jeggings. Babies will, as we all know, occasionally need their diaper changed. Usually I can tell when this is imminent with Reagan by certain audio cues. But today, Reagan was seated in her lilac rubber throne on the kitchen island wriggling and squirming against the rubber as she reached for her grape halves and I didn't realize the noises I was hearing were diaper change warnings and not the natural squeak of her rubber chair. Eventually though, after a moment when she looked particularly lost in thought, I caught on.
Diaper changes are no big thing. I've done plenty of them over the years and they usually go off without a hitch. This was no different until it came time to replace her pants on her body. First- her pants had been kicked to the floor. I retrieve them- one hand carefully on her stomach to prevent her from flinging herself from the changing table as I know babies will do because I did it- and start to stuff one foot into one hole. That's not hard, but when I go to reach for the other foot, she somehow has it up above her ear because all babies are born fully prepared to enter Olympic level rhythmic gymnastics. By the time I've coaxed her out of her split, the pants have been hurled again to the floor. Repeat. Finally both feet are through the holes and I cram her thighs into the pants one at a time. So she's panted up to about mid-thigh. And staring up at me with a mirthless twinkle as she waits to see if I'll be able to pull this off. I can't see any way to pull her spandex baby pants up to her waist from this position. If I try it with her flat on her back, I may well jostle the only three teeth she has out of her head and Reagan's father, John, is a police officer, so I don't want to do that. Seated won't work either. So, I pick her up, toss her over my shoulder, grab the waistband of the jeggings and shake her down into them like you shake a pillow into a pillow case. Or a cantaloupe into a nostril. Success.
Having now proven myself to Reagan, we adjourn downstairs where she takes a seat in her spring chair suspended from the ceiling and happily re-enacts "The Creation of Adam" with me over and over again until Hannah gets home.
Being friends with a baby is an accomplishment. I'm proud of it.
Her car pulled up. She emerged from the backseat and instantly began staring me down. I rose somewhat shakily to my feet and tried out a smile. I waved tentatively. Silence in response. She stared unblinking at me with her customary furrowed brow and remained stock still as the light breeze wafted through her auburn mohawk and clouds began to gather ominously in the distant sky.
My friend Hannah, who had been driving the car, broke the silence. She invited me into the house and as she and Reagan walked past, I noticed that Reagan and I had on the same pants. Was this some sort of power play? Last time I saw her, jeggings weren't her style. She's also got on some pretty fly jewelry. The bling, the jeggings, the mohawk- I think she's trying to gain the upper hand early on today.
In the kitchen the silence continues. Hannah has to go in to work for a couple of hours, so it's just going to be me and Reagan. Alone together. Until 2:30PM.
I quickly ascertain that Reagan and I still aren't on speaking terms when she starts to use Hannah as our conversational go between. Hannah informs me that Reagan will probably want a snack and then to go nap for quite awhile (ostensibly in an effort to avoid me), but that if she had to, she'd probably go along with me on a walk- her participation was almost guaranteed if I use the contraptions Hannah then provides me with to either strap her to my chest or restrain her into a chair on wheels.
Whatever. I don't know why she just won't tell me herself.
Hannah leaves. Reagan remains seated in her spot on the floor and without breaking eye contact, slowly brings a blue rubber lizard to her mouth and begins to chew.
Personal feelings aside, I simply cannot allow my friend to inflict physical damage to herself by ingesting the face of blue rubber lizard from Dollar Tree, so I stride smartly over and remove it from her grasp. Thwarted only momentarily, she reaches around and immediately grabs hold of a wooden hammer with which to fend me off. I manage to deflect her blows onto a pygmy xylophone which happens to be nearby. Ruffled but not beaten, I retreat into the kitchen for the previously agreed upon snack. Screams of rage accompany my exit. I quickly grab said snack (Reagan's on this new liquid diet fad right now, so it's handily encased in a bottle) and drag her kicking and screaming up the stairs to her room. After a brief struggle which for a moment even involved a balding black tomcat, we collapse into a rocking chair by the window. We both take a moment to regain our breath. I offer the snack. Thankfully, it is accepted. Reagan eats her snack in peace- only taking small breaks to pat the cat aggressively on the face using her feet. I'm hopeful that this is a good sign, and perhaps the brunt of her fury has been shifted to the cat, when suddenly she reaches up and tries her level best to peel my cheek off my face using her tiny tiny fingernails.
In a last ditch attempt to bring some peace to the room, I begin reading aloud to Reagan from "The History of the Saints." The last time I visited, my oral performance of this book brought Reagan almost instantly into a comatose state. My how the times have changed. Reagan wrenches the book from my grip, tears off the lower left hand corner with her two bottom teeth and one incisor, and hurls it to the floor. "Are You My Mother" and "Giraffe, Giraffe, Your Pants Are On Fire" (or something) suffer the same fate.
Clearly a nap is out of the question. Let's try the walk.
I rummage through several deep bureau drawers until I find a sweater which almost matches what Reagan's wearing. Upon reflection, I realize part of our quarrel may stem from the fact that the last time I was here, I was forced to assemble Reagan's outfit for the day and, due in part to my not knowing where all the clothes were and partly due to my "whimsical" fashion sense, she ended up looking like -- well, I'm struggling to come up with a comparison. Every description that comes to mind ends with "on 'shrooms." This may not be Reagan's ideal style. So I am hoping this muted, sensible green sweater will help mend fences.
I strap her on. There are plastic buckles and carabiners in places I'd rather not discuss. I try and take a selfie to show Hannah that we're sort of getting along, but Reagan refuses to give in with a smile.
We walk. Since she's still not speaking to me, I tell her all about things I see. I describe honeysuckle and how to eat it, litter, fallen brambles, gas prices, and overpass traffic (for the record, Reagan is one friend of mine with whom I feel COMPLETELY comfortable passing beneath an overpass on foot. Alone, I might be nervous, but he or she who abducts me with Reagan strapped to my body will RUE THE DAY). As we near the end of our walk, I really start to open up. I tell her about the show I'm in currently, my summer plans, and how terribly excited I am that tonight before "Little Shop of Horrors," Ashlee Heyward is going to cornrow my hair. I've been to the large yellow beauty supply store to pick up the proper rubber bands and everything. Reagan is the perfect listener and I'm starting to think we've really patched things up when we arrive home and I turn her to face me. She's asleep. I've bored her to sleep. I forget about my hurt feelings though, when I realize that the tips of my middle fingers turning purple and going numb as they did halfway through the walk was due to her casual grip in her sleep. Ripped baby fists.
Well, I've now given away that Reagan is a baby. But that will make it make more sense when I go into how difficult it is to stuff a baby into jeggings. Babies will, as we all know, occasionally need their diaper changed. Usually I can tell when this is imminent with Reagan by certain audio cues. But today, Reagan was seated in her lilac rubber throne on the kitchen island wriggling and squirming against the rubber as she reached for her grape halves and I didn't realize the noises I was hearing were diaper change warnings and not the natural squeak of her rubber chair. Eventually though, after a moment when she looked particularly lost in thought, I caught on.
Diaper changes are no big thing. I've done plenty of them over the years and they usually go off without a hitch. This was no different until it came time to replace her pants on her body. First- her pants had been kicked to the floor. I retrieve them- one hand carefully on her stomach to prevent her from flinging herself from the changing table as I know babies will do because I did it- and start to stuff one foot into one hole. That's not hard, but when I go to reach for the other foot, she somehow has it up above her ear because all babies are born fully prepared to enter Olympic level rhythmic gymnastics. By the time I've coaxed her out of her split, the pants have been hurled again to the floor. Repeat. Finally both feet are through the holes and I cram her thighs into the pants one at a time. So she's panted up to about mid-thigh. And staring up at me with a mirthless twinkle as she waits to see if I'll be able to pull this off. I can't see any way to pull her spandex baby pants up to her waist from this position. If I try it with her flat on her back, I may well jostle the only three teeth she has out of her head and Reagan's father, John, is a police officer, so I don't want to do that. Seated won't work either. So, I pick her up, toss her over my shoulder, grab the waistband of the jeggings and shake her down into them like you shake a pillow into a pillow case. Or a cantaloupe into a nostril. Success.
Having now proven myself to Reagan, we adjourn downstairs where she takes a seat in her spring chair suspended from the ceiling and happily re-enacts "The Creation of Adam" with me over and over again until Hannah gets home.
Being friends with a baby is an accomplishment. I'm proud of it.
Wednesday, May 18, 2016
You Wish You Knew What Went On At The Omni.
Today I went to the Omni Hotel and ate Reese's Peanut Butter Cup cake and avoided toilets.
I am unable to go to the Omni anymore without thinking about the fact that a football team camps out there and drives large rectangular black buses to and from their playground behind the Science Museum once a year. I've never seen or confronted one of those football players in real life, but that's probably because they don't frequent 7-11.
At the Omni I pull up very regally to the valet parking station. I wait very regally in my car for just shy of five minutes before I realize that I need to remove myself very regally from my car and let someone know that I would like them to park it for me instead of just sitting there making very regal assumptions. The valet attendant-person gives me a beige scrap of paper with a red number printed on it and takes my keys. I was considering removing my knife from my key ring, but it's too late now.
I look presentable. I have brushed my hair and teeth, showered and applied to my person a charming taupe sweater and some slacks. Slacks is the term my Grandma used to refer to pants. Slacks or "britches." Mostly she wore seersucker capri britches. More on that Grandma later. These britches today were also capris. They are pants bequeathed to me by the unfailingly brilliant and generous costume shop personnel at Virginia Repertory Theatre. I was supposed to play Charlotte A. Cavatica in these britches, but it turned out that clambering across a floor-to-ceiling rope net in snug fitting capris provided some less than appealing views to audience members, so the pants were scrapped and passed on to me. These are important pants because I wear them in any and all situations in which I am called upon to look "professional."
[The aforementioned costume shop deserves and will receive an entire essay all their own. My breasts owe them a great debt of gratitude. Each.]
Anyway- I've got on my slacks, sweater, sensible ballet flats AND a business blazer (again- costume shop/bless you Sarah Grady). I feel itchy and like an imposter. But I do some business acting. I incline my head to the reception desk staff and pretend-to-be-Julia-Roberts-near-the-end-of -"Pretty-Woman" my way all the way up the staircase. I stop dead. There is an omelet station. I love this job. I stash my pizza backpack under an elegant armchair and survey the perimeter. Bagels, tiny boxes of cereal, creams, jams, jellies, fruit, coffee, tea, and big bowls of peanut butter and Peanut M&Ms. I am hoping at this point that they realize I'm not going to be doing any actual work today. After I finish all available breakfast food, I hurry to place my lunch order and then set about locating my folder of paperwork for the day which will tell me what I'm actually supposed to be doing there.
I carry out my morning mission. This is a top secret mission, but suffice to say that I am given a briefing and then shown into rooms with various unsuspecting people and encouraged to behave in an insubordinate manner until either someone starts crying or a timer goes off.
It's fun. I arch my left eyebrow and huff a lot.
Finally it's lunchtime. Magically appearing in front of me is an elegant drawstring bag containing gorgonzola cheese and salmon. There's also some lettuce and carrots and tomatoes, but those are inconsequential. My partner in today's mission, Nancy, and I retreat to a floor higher in the Omni where we show ourselves into a inexplicably unlocked suite and take off our professional shoes. We eat lots of cheese and use hand towels for napkins and watch something on TV which, in retrospect, may have been a hallucination but seemed very much to be a TV show starring Tim Allen and one of the Jonas Brothers.
I head downstairs where I am blindsided by a (not even exaggerating) 6-tier Reese's Peanut Butter Cup cake. So I ate that.
Afternoon mission: going along nicely. I'm in a groove until a petite Russian woman surprises me with her phone alarm and I nearly have my pancreas sucked out my rectum by the notably overzealous Omni toilets.
I attend my de-briefing and ring for the car to be brought round. I always pretend I'm in Great Britain when I do that.
I encounter a woman in the restroom on my way out who tells me as she is squinting to put on her eyeliner that the light fixtures in the bathroom are in the absolute wrong places and that on days when she's asked to wear her T-shirt to work she shouldn't be bothering with her makeup anyway. Fully in agreement, I say "Chapstick," and walk out.
I am unable to go to the Omni anymore without thinking about the fact that a football team camps out there and drives large rectangular black buses to and from their playground behind the Science Museum once a year. I've never seen or confronted one of those football players in real life, but that's probably because they don't frequent 7-11.
At the Omni I pull up very regally to the valet parking station. I wait very regally in my car for just shy of five minutes before I realize that I need to remove myself very regally from my car and let someone know that I would like them to park it for me instead of just sitting there making very regal assumptions. The valet attendant-person gives me a beige scrap of paper with a red number printed on it and takes my keys. I was considering removing my knife from my key ring, but it's too late now.
I look presentable. I have brushed my hair and teeth, showered and applied to my person a charming taupe sweater and some slacks. Slacks is the term my Grandma used to refer to pants. Slacks or "britches." Mostly she wore seersucker capri britches. More on that Grandma later. These britches today were also capris. They are pants bequeathed to me by the unfailingly brilliant and generous costume shop personnel at Virginia Repertory Theatre. I was supposed to play Charlotte A. Cavatica in these britches, but it turned out that clambering across a floor-to-ceiling rope net in snug fitting capris provided some less than appealing views to audience members, so the pants were scrapped and passed on to me. These are important pants because I wear them in any and all situations in which I am called upon to look "professional."
[The aforementioned costume shop deserves and will receive an entire essay all their own. My breasts owe them a great debt of gratitude. Each.]
Anyway- I've got on my slacks, sweater, sensible ballet flats AND a business blazer (again- costume shop/bless you Sarah Grady). I feel itchy and like an imposter. But I do some business acting. I incline my head to the reception desk staff and pretend-to-be-Julia-Roberts-near-the-end-of -"Pretty-Woman" my way all the way up the staircase. I stop dead. There is an omelet station. I love this job. I stash my pizza backpack under an elegant armchair and survey the perimeter. Bagels, tiny boxes of cereal, creams, jams, jellies, fruit, coffee, tea, and big bowls of peanut butter and Peanut M&Ms. I am hoping at this point that they realize I'm not going to be doing any actual work today. After I finish all available breakfast food, I hurry to place my lunch order and then set about locating my folder of paperwork for the day which will tell me what I'm actually supposed to be doing there.
I carry out my morning mission. This is a top secret mission, but suffice to say that I am given a briefing and then shown into rooms with various unsuspecting people and encouraged to behave in an insubordinate manner until either someone starts crying or a timer goes off.
It's fun. I arch my left eyebrow and huff a lot.
Finally it's lunchtime. Magically appearing in front of me is an elegant drawstring bag containing gorgonzola cheese and salmon. There's also some lettuce and carrots and tomatoes, but those are inconsequential. My partner in today's mission, Nancy, and I retreat to a floor higher in the Omni where we show ourselves into a inexplicably unlocked suite and take off our professional shoes. We eat lots of cheese and use hand towels for napkins and watch something on TV which, in retrospect, may have been a hallucination but seemed very much to be a TV show starring Tim Allen and one of the Jonas Brothers.
I head downstairs where I am blindsided by a (not even exaggerating) 6-tier Reese's Peanut Butter Cup cake. So I ate that.
Afternoon mission: going along nicely. I'm in a groove until a petite Russian woman surprises me with her phone alarm and I nearly have my pancreas sucked out my rectum by the notably overzealous Omni toilets.
I attend my de-briefing and ring for the car to be brought round. I always pretend I'm in Great Britain when I do that.
I encounter a woman in the restroom on my way out who tells me as she is squinting to put on her eyeliner that the light fixtures in the bathroom are in the absolute wrong places and that on days when she's asked to wear her T-shirt to work she shouldn't be bothering with her makeup anyway. Fully in agreement, I say "Chapstick," and walk out.
Tuesday, May 17, 2016
G.O.T. Episode 4. Over An Egg Bagel.
While I find it unfortunate that "Game of Thrones" episodes are now limited to half an hour due to recaps and opening credits, I still do enjoy them. Despite also the fact that they take place almost entirely in the dark and in places that look very cold and where the women wear nothing but leather. Which also looks cold. I'm going to conduct an experiment right now: I'm going to start the opening credits and see how much I can get done while they're playing. I'll pause and report.
Report: I used the restroom, got a nectarine out of the hydrator drawer, ate most of it (fumed at how frustrating I find nectarines and re-swore never to buy them again), tossed the pit, returned to my den, and still had time to perform an improvised modern dance routine to the third chorus of the theme after the final key modulation.
We begin. Oh look, a sword. That's surprising.
The episode begins at The Wall- the location which is probably the chilliest and most without lightbulbs-iest.
Jon Snow has learned a lot of lessons recently. You can tell because now he is wearing a chignon. Everyone knows that when you are on TV or in a movie and are wise and esteemed, you wear a chignon. Like all the dance teachers in "Step Up" parts 1-360,751,004. We also find Jon Snow here wearing a leather quilt. Next level leathering. He tries to make a joke but is shut down and realizes that even though you got resurrected from the dead you still don't get to make funnies at The Wall. He and his mirthless companion hear someone playing a tuba in the front yard and pop their heads on the window to see what's going on. Joyful day! It's a very well set up shot of three riders coming through a gate. One is that small acorn-toned boy who seems to have a lot of gel in his hair and whose name escapes me, one is Sansa, and one is who I really wish Nick Aliff would go as for Halloween this year - Brienne of Tarth.
[Sidenote: I have a funny story about tartar sauce. Remind me.]
Jon and Sansa give each other a hug- viewers at home all feel suspiciously warm and cozy for a second, but remain on guard- this is "Game of Thrones" after all. They haven't seen each other since they left their house made entirely of rocks on the Northside after recently adopting a litter of genetically mutated puppies. They have a fireside chat (the first of its kind) and eat a soup made from old toenails and seashells until they get a note from the short attractive man who really should've been in "The Lord of the Rings" who is currently renting their house made of rocks telling them that he's got their baby brother in the dungeon and has killed one of their puppies. Really riled up now, but still not daring to advance his voice above a whisper, Jon Snow agrees with his sister that it'd probably be best that they go do something about that. Meanwhile Nick Aliff and the attractive man with hair like fire are teasing viewers by sort of seeming like they have the hots for each other but not quite pulling it off because everyone who has read the books knows that Brienne and Jaime probably ought to get together and - at the very least- bang it out.
Meanwhile, out on the porch, Melussthudre or Melaninthiph or whatever her name is (the lady who only wears red and has a seemingly never-ending supply of Garnier Nutrisse Color Sensation 4.26 Burgundy) is lost in thought. She hasn't quite been about to wrap her mind around the fact that she exposed one of her greatest secrets to so many people two weeks ago. That secret being- all you have to do to bring someone back from the dead is give them a mullet and rub their pecs for a second.
Elsewhere- a boy is aiming an arrow directly at camera. His uncle steps in and gives him a parakeet to distract him from the terrible job he is doing running his ravine and eventually talks him into invading someplace or other. But this isn't very threatening because as far as I can tell it's just the uncle, the kid, the parakeet, and one guardsman who looks like Grimace from McDonald's if he had real arms and was made of metal.
Still elsewhere in One Of The Two Places Where Some Colors Are Allowed, Tyrion is having a grand time in his ornate chair drinking wine and entertaining guests. Secure in the knowledge that he is the only person on the show who makes us feel like giggling is OK, he's feeling extra generous and loans some prostitutes to his visitors while he goes downstairs and has a long, pivotal conversation with members of the town council of which he understands not a word.
On the mountain, Ser Jorah like, really needs lotion and is continuing his desperate search for a Walgreen's with that guy who's rather hot and has a really large belt buckle. They decide it'd probably be best to rescue Daenerys out of the tepee in the middle of the city made of CGI and do so with little problem. They only have to break one guy's neck, stab and then crush the skull of another and rob some gas station to acquire enough gallons of gasoline to make Daenerys' exceptionally dramatic tepee trick go off without a hitch. More on that shortly.
Somewhere in here Anne Boleyn is sitting on the floor in a temple discussing accidental mis-interpretations of fairy tales with a pleasant looking older gentleman. She's still struggling with her choice to leave the Tudor Dynasty for King's Landing. But this goes on for hours.
Cersei interrupts a meeting with her son and a man who is obviously concealing jingle bells under his robes to have a heart-to-heart in front of a window and really drive home the point that she and her youngest could actually be twins.
[Sidenote: A+ to the person who puts Lena Headey's hair under that wig. Well, well done.]
In still another place of greyness and sadness and drizzle and furrowed brows, a brother and sister re-unite. It's grey and sad and dank and furrowy.
Attractive Hobbit Wannabe on the Northside stabs a woman to death for interrupting his eating an apple by attempting to have sex with him. This makes it very clear that he is indeed spoiling for a fight and it will be a good thing when Jon Snow and Sansa arrive to do whatever it is they're going to do to get their brother out of the basement.
Finally, Daenerys gets yanked out of her widow tepee slumber party to go to a meeting of Order of Brunette Men Who Braid Each Other's Beards. She was starting to have a good time at the party, so she's sort of peeved, and that on top of the fact that they have taken from her all of her blue gowns made of hankies stitched together and made her wear a potato sack proves to be too much. She burns the place down and then steps casually out onto the front porch where all the extras from the series have gathered because they've heard she's shooting this scene nude.
Next week I hope the dragons come back. They must be shooting something else
Report: I used the restroom, got a nectarine out of the hydrator drawer, ate most of it (fumed at how frustrating I find nectarines and re-swore never to buy them again), tossed the pit, returned to my den, and still had time to perform an improvised modern dance routine to the third chorus of the theme after the final key modulation.
We begin. Oh look, a sword. That's surprising.
The episode begins at The Wall- the location which is probably the chilliest and most without lightbulbs-iest.
Jon Snow has learned a lot of lessons recently. You can tell because now he is wearing a chignon. Everyone knows that when you are on TV or in a movie and are wise and esteemed, you wear a chignon. Like all the dance teachers in "Step Up" parts 1-360,751,004. We also find Jon Snow here wearing a leather quilt. Next level leathering. He tries to make a joke but is shut down and realizes that even though you got resurrected from the dead you still don't get to make funnies at The Wall. He and his mirthless companion hear someone playing a tuba in the front yard and pop their heads on the window to see what's going on. Joyful day! It's a very well set up shot of three riders coming through a gate. One is that small acorn-toned boy who seems to have a lot of gel in his hair and whose name escapes me, one is Sansa, and one is who I really wish Nick Aliff would go as for Halloween this year - Brienne of Tarth.
[Sidenote: I have a funny story about tartar sauce. Remind me.]
Jon and Sansa give each other a hug- viewers at home all feel suspiciously warm and cozy for a second, but remain on guard- this is "Game of Thrones" after all. They haven't seen each other since they left their house made entirely of rocks on the Northside after recently adopting a litter of genetically mutated puppies. They have a fireside chat (the first of its kind) and eat a soup made from old toenails and seashells until they get a note from the short attractive man who really should've been in "The Lord of the Rings" who is currently renting their house made of rocks telling them that he's got their baby brother in the dungeon and has killed one of their puppies. Really riled up now, but still not daring to advance his voice above a whisper, Jon Snow agrees with his sister that it'd probably be best that they go do something about that. Meanwhile Nick Aliff and the attractive man with hair like fire are teasing viewers by sort of seeming like they have the hots for each other but not quite pulling it off because everyone who has read the books knows that Brienne and Jaime probably ought to get together and - at the very least- bang it out.
Meanwhile, out on the porch, Melussthudre or Melaninthiph or whatever her name is (the lady who only wears red and has a seemingly never-ending supply of Garnier Nutrisse Color Sensation 4.26 Burgundy) is lost in thought. She hasn't quite been about to wrap her mind around the fact that she exposed one of her greatest secrets to so many people two weeks ago. That secret being- all you have to do to bring someone back from the dead is give them a mullet and rub their pecs for a second.
Elsewhere- a boy is aiming an arrow directly at camera. His uncle steps in and gives him a parakeet to distract him from the terrible job he is doing running his ravine and eventually talks him into invading someplace or other. But this isn't very threatening because as far as I can tell it's just the uncle, the kid, the parakeet, and one guardsman who looks like Grimace from McDonald's if he had real arms and was made of metal.
Still elsewhere in One Of The Two Places Where Some Colors Are Allowed, Tyrion is having a grand time in his ornate chair drinking wine and entertaining guests. Secure in the knowledge that he is the only person on the show who makes us feel like giggling is OK, he's feeling extra generous and loans some prostitutes to his visitors while he goes downstairs and has a long, pivotal conversation with members of the town council of which he understands not a word.
On the mountain, Ser Jorah like, really needs lotion and is continuing his desperate search for a Walgreen's with that guy who's rather hot and has a really large belt buckle. They decide it'd probably be best to rescue Daenerys out of the tepee in the middle of the city made of CGI and do so with little problem. They only have to break one guy's neck, stab and then crush the skull of another and rob some gas station to acquire enough gallons of gasoline to make Daenerys' exceptionally dramatic tepee trick go off without a hitch. More on that shortly.
Somewhere in here Anne Boleyn is sitting on the floor in a temple discussing accidental mis-interpretations of fairy tales with a pleasant looking older gentleman. She's still struggling with her choice to leave the Tudor Dynasty for King's Landing. But this goes on for hours.
Cersei interrupts a meeting with her son and a man who is obviously concealing jingle bells under his robes to have a heart-to-heart in front of a window and really drive home the point that she and her youngest could actually be twins.
[Sidenote: A+ to the person who puts Lena Headey's hair under that wig. Well, well done.]
In still another place of greyness and sadness and drizzle and furrowed brows, a brother and sister re-unite. It's grey and sad and dank and furrowy.
Attractive Hobbit Wannabe on the Northside stabs a woman to death for interrupting his eating an apple by attempting to have sex with him. This makes it very clear that he is indeed spoiling for a fight and it will be a good thing when Jon Snow and Sansa arrive to do whatever it is they're going to do to get their brother out of the basement.
Finally, Daenerys gets yanked out of her widow tepee slumber party to go to a meeting of Order of Brunette Men Who Braid Each Other's Beards. She was starting to have a good time at the party, so she's sort of peeved, and that on top of the fact that they have taken from her all of her blue gowns made of hankies stitched together and made her wear a potato sack proves to be too much. She burns the place down and then steps casually out onto the front porch where all the extras from the series have gathered because they've heard she's shooting this scene nude.
Next week I hope the dragons come back. They must be shooting something else
Sunday, May 15, 2016
4000 Great Things About Irene.
Irene Ziegler used to have a wolf. She also has currently a baller headshot and is wonderful in the play she's doing, but we'll come back to that, because I know you want to hear more about the wolf first.
I think it was around 2005 when I first met Irene Ziegler. She rang me up while I was at Swift Creek Mill Theater standing next to the coffee pot dressed as a rabbit to ask me if I could fill in for someone that evening last minute at Virginia Arts & Letters Live. I felt myself at once to be very fancy and accepted. I didn't know what Virginia Arts & Letters Live was, per se, but I had heard of Irene Ziegler and knew I wanted to do whatever it was she asked of me. It turned out to be a wonderful experience- I got to read a very long story out loud on the Novempire stage from behind a podium to a wonderfully responsive audience using funny voices and dressed very elaborately in black. One wears all black when one is doing a reading. Everybody knows that. (Well, maybe a tasteful brooch. Of a quill or an alligator taking tea or something.) Irene was pleased with my work, and so after that- we were friends. Soon it came to pass that I was cleared to house/pet-sit.
Now- Irene used to live in a sprawling, dark-wooden, renovated barn-palace next to the river surrounded by forest and accessible only by drone. Or by humans in a car if they are a. excellent drivers, b. extremely determined to get there, and c. possessing of 20/.05 vision which allows them to spot her address post from where it sprouted from the underbrush on the side of the road while driving 60mph down Route 5.
I've forgotten the specifics of where the barn-palace came from but it's something about it being flown over from Budapest or Romania stone by stone from the location where it was originally erected by the Pilgrims. Or Thor. Or someone like that from back in the day. But- I found the house. I was coming over to receive the rundown of alarm codes, keys, dog feeding schedules, the norm.
But friends, Irene didn't have a dog. She had a wolf. A wolf hybrid. I was SO excited about this. Whenever my brother and cousin and I played animals growing up I was always the lead wolf. An extremely bad-ass thing to have- a wolf. This wolf was named Maya*. Maya's shoulder topped out just south of my boobs. Maya fancied herself a Shih Tzu and would happily sit on your lap, which was great until all life and breath was pressed from your body inside of 20 seconds. Maya gently scratching at the glass back door to be let in was a lot like the velociraptors gently scratching to be let into the kitchen in "Jurassic Park." She was silver and grey and white and beautiful and loving and spirited and exciting. She liked to sleep next to you (which was awesome for taking cellphone photos with which to alarm your parents). She liked to stand silent and still as death at one end of the cavernous night-black upstairs corridor and glint her eyes at you in the moonlight glowing in from the skylights at 3a.m. and utterly eliminate any chance you had of working up the nerve to go past her to the bathroom because no matter how much you knew she had a personality akin to a spunky Popple, facing off with a wolf in the woods in the middle of the night all alone just didn't seem wise.
[Sidenote: I did go past her to use the restroom that night- at last. I was very brave. I felt like She-Ra that night.]
Maya passed several years ago. But I'll not forget her. She was, after all, the only wolf I've cuddled with. So far. And by a long shot the most fascinating pet-sitting experience I've ever had. Nothing beats being ushered into the kitchen to see the location of the dog treats and being shown- instead of a cheery plastic container decorated with puppies containing bacon flavored niblets- a freezer full of gallon Ziploc bags containing bloody, bony cow hips fresh from the butcher.
All this to say- Irene's in a play right now. "4000 Miles." And in it, she is grand. If I didn't know Irene was a fit and brilliant woman with great teeth who wears sexy black leather leggings and cunning boots to sushi restaurants in the fan for lunch and hears every single thing you say, I'd totally think she was a stooped grandmother in her eighties who is hard of hearing and favors dressing in nearly matching pastel leisure suits.
The theme of this play is this: If you are in love with your sister, need to deal with it, and also have a grandmother- you can hang out at her house and eat all her snacks until you are done thinking it over.
That said, you should also know that this particular play features:
1. Funding by tomatoes.
2. A young lady with the last name of Ukrop who is curiously NOT related to the Ukrops of Quirk Hotel and Grocery fame and therefore the subject of so much discussion over brunch at The Savory Grain this morning that Matt Shofner completely forgot to place his to-go order for chocolate chip waffles.
3. The best hand-acting I have ever seen in my life.
4. A grandmother whose name is either Vera or Grandma, but we are never quite sure.
5. An aging miniature pumpkin which calls to mind the question- how many miniature pumpkins are required for a show with a four-week run to prevent rotting?
6. Someone named Micah.
7. Cereal. Cereal the type of which I couldn't make out and thereby became thoroughly incensed.
8. A very, very long monologue about cross-country road trips, bicycling, over-ambitious amateur photography, and a chicken truck.
9. A very entertaining performance by an actress whose name I learned today is "Anne Michelle Forbes" and not, in fact, "Not Carolyn," which is how I'd been referring to her ever since I saw her in production photos for a different show a couple of years ago and thought she looked like Carolyn Meade but did not know her actual name.
10. An excellent curtain speech by Laine Satterfield.
Overall- you should go. And now you know all these things about Irene. So as you watch her do delicately nuanced geriatric phone cord/marijuana performance art you can secretly know that she is a mistress of wolves and be even more impressed than you already are.
*Maya was not AEA (that I know of). I'm just not certain I'm spelling her name correctly.
I think it was around 2005 when I first met Irene Ziegler. She rang me up while I was at Swift Creek Mill Theater standing next to the coffee pot dressed as a rabbit to ask me if I could fill in for someone that evening last minute at Virginia Arts & Letters Live. I felt myself at once to be very fancy and accepted. I didn't know what Virginia Arts & Letters Live was, per se, but I had heard of Irene Ziegler and knew I wanted to do whatever it was she asked of me. It turned out to be a wonderful experience- I got to read a very long story out loud on the Novempire stage from behind a podium to a wonderfully responsive audience using funny voices and dressed very elaborately in black. One wears all black when one is doing a reading. Everybody knows that. (Well, maybe a tasteful brooch. Of a quill or an alligator taking tea or something.) Irene was pleased with my work, and so after that- we were friends. Soon it came to pass that I was cleared to house/pet-sit.
Now- Irene used to live in a sprawling, dark-wooden, renovated barn-palace next to the river surrounded by forest and accessible only by drone. Or by humans in a car if they are a. excellent drivers, b. extremely determined to get there, and c. possessing of 20/.05 vision which allows them to spot her address post from where it sprouted from the underbrush on the side of the road while driving 60mph down Route 5.
I've forgotten the specifics of where the barn-palace came from but it's something about it being flown over from Budapest or Romania stone by stone from the location where it was originally erected by the Pilgrims. Or Thor. Or someone like that from back in the day. But- I found the house. I was coming over to receive the rundown of alarm codes, keys, dog feeding schedules, the norm.
But friends, Irene didn't have a dog. She had a wolf. A wolf hybrid. I was SO excited about this. Whenever my brother and cousin and I played animals growing up I was always the lead wolf. An extremely bad-ass thing to have- a wolf. This wolf was named Maya*. Maya's shoulder topped out just south of my boobs. Maya fancied herself a Shih Tzu and would happily sit on your lap, which was great until all life and breath was pressed from your body inside of 20 seconds. Maya gently scratching at the glass back door to be let in was a lot like the velociraptors gently scratching to be let into the kitchen in "Jurassic Park." She was silver and grey and white and beautiful and loving and spirited and exciting. She liked to sleep next to you (which was awesome for taking cellphone photos with which to alarm your parents). She liked to stand silent and still as death at one end of the cavernous night-black upstairs corridor and glint her eyes at you in the moonlight glowing in from the skylights at 3a.m. and utterly eliminate any chance you had of working up the nerve to go past her to the bathroom because no matter how much you knew she had a personality akin to a spunky Popple, facing off with a wolf in the woods in the middle of the night all alone just didn't seem wise.
[Sidenote: I did go past her to use the restroom that night- at last. I was very brave. I felt like She-Ra that night.]
Maya passed several years ago. But I'll not forget her. She was, after all, the only wolf I've cuddled with. So far. And by a long shot the most fascinating pet-sitting experience I've ever had. Nothing beats being ushered into the kitchen to see the location of the dog treats and being shown- instead of a cheery plastic container decorated with puppies containing bacon flavored niblets- a freezer full of gallon Ziploc bags containing bloody, bony cow hips fresh from the butcher.
All this to say- Irene's in a play right now. "4000 Miles." And in it, she is grand. If I didn't know Irene was a fit and brilliant woman with great teeth who wears sexy black leather leggings and cunning boots to sushi restaurants in the fan for lunch and hears every single thing you say, I'd totally think she was a stooped grandmother in her eighties who is hard of hearing and favors dressing in nearly matching pastel leisure suits.
The theme of this play is this: If you are in love with your sister, need to deal with it, and also have a grandmother- you can hang out at her house and eat all her snacks until you are done thinking it over.
That said, you should also know that this particular play features:
1. Funding by tomatoes.
2. A young lady with the last name of Ukrop who is curiously NOT related to the Ukrops of Quirk Hotel and Grocery fame and therefore the subject of so much discussion over brunch at The Savory Grain this morning that Matt Shofner completely forgot to place his to-go order for chocolate chip waffles.
3. The best hand-acting I have ever seen in my life.
4. A grandmother whose name is either Vera or Grandma, but we are never quite sure.
5. An aging miniature pumpkin which calls to mind the question- how many miniature pumpkins are required for a show with a four-week run to prevent rotting?
6. Someone named Micah.
7. Cereal. Cereal the type of which I couldn't make out and thereby became thoroughly incensed.
8. A very, very long monologue about cross-country road trips, bicycling, over-ambitious amateur photography, and a chicken truck.
9. A very entertaining performance by an actress whose name I learned today is "Anne Michelle Forbes" and not, in fact, "Not Carolyn," which is how I'd been referring to her ever since I saw her in production photos for a different show a couple of years ago and thought she looked like Carolyn Meade but did not know her actual name.
10. An excellent curtain speech by Laine Satterfield.
Overall- you should go. And now you know all these things about Irene. So as you watch her do delicately nuanced geriatric phone cord/marijuana performance art you can secretly know that she is a mistress of wolves and be even more impressed than you already are.
*Maya was not AEA (that I know of). I'm just not certain I'm spelling her name correctly.
Bellini Ball
Yesterday I started putting makeup on my face at 3:30PM. I finished putting makeup on my face at 5:45PM. I am now out of makeup.
When you get to sing in a stadium, you see, you get to draw outside of the lines of your lips- preferably with red Sharpie. You get to attach whole tarantulas to your upper eyelids. If you are like me, you get to have a lot of creative license with your eyebrow pencil and try to make yourself look like Count Chocula.
To explain- The Bellini Sisters received the opportunity to sing the National Anthem at the Flying Squirrels game last night. (For those of you who don’t know, the Bellini Sisters are neither sisters nor cocktails and are in fact just three women who like to dress up like the Andrews Sisters and walk in a clump around the Greater Richmond area trying to induce passerby into thinking they have either time-traveled or are hallucinating.) The Bellini Sisters also sing and bevel and wear very smart fitted little dresses. You should hire them.
So, go-time for singing was 6:35. Those of you who know me and know my facility with makeup application will understand that 3:30PM was a perfectly reasonable hour at which to begin the process.
I take several deep breaths. I put on my yellow rubber shoes and walk to the green convenience store four blocks from my apartment for a Monster energy drink to get me through what I know is coming. I pull Queen Latifah’s “Last Holiday” up on Netflix and plug in my curling iron. I’m ready to begin.
[Sidenote: the curling iron is not for makeup application- I’m not that inexperienced. I also have to curl my hair.]
I have a lot of hair. I have hair like the under-conditioned tail of a Budweiser Clydesdale. And it’s coarse. One could cut oneself. So curling ALL of it is a daunting task. It takes me until about the part in the movie when Queen Latifah is winning big at roulette at the casino in Switzerland or wherever she is to finish. Then- I cannot find my snood. A common problem, I know, but a problem nonetheless. I try to substitute my wig cap from “Little Shop” which was stuck to my mascara and therefore accidentally taken home with me from the theater. That doesn’t work. So I stick it all up in an elaborate top knot/hairy beach ball and decide to deal with it later.
Makeup. Foundation- easy. Tan lipstick for covering dots and shadows- easy. Eye shadow- more challenging, but as I don’t really have eye sockets to speak of, hard to tell if I’m doing it right or not. Eyebrows- we’ve already been over this. Blush- blush is for some reason a dream to apply to my left cheek. A very clear “apple” and smoothly up and into my ear canal, as I’ve been led to believe is the way. But my right cheek. No sir. I apply with the same exact motions but never fails to looks splotchy and scattered, like if you were trying to rouge up the asphalt.
EYELINER. I would like to take this moment to thank Robyn O’Neill, The Debra Wagoner, Ashlee Heyward, Hannah Zold Story, Mr. Paul Major, Maggie Roop, Eva DeVirgilis, Matt Shofner, Nicole Oberleitner, Liz Blake-White, McLean Jesse, and I’m sure countless others for contributing to the 15-year eyeliner tutorial session which has been my theater career thus far. I’m pleased to report that I am finally starting to get a grip on it. I know now, thanks to Ashlee’s advice during “Shrek,” to yank my eyelid skin sideways toward my ear as hard as I can until my eye is nothing but a wrinkle-free, impenetrable slit and to start with the eyeliner tool of choice drawing from the outside in. Or inside out. Either way works. I am better able to accomplish Amy Winehouse when I work from the outside in. You have to be very thorough though, because if you aren’t, when you let the skin go and it lashes back into place, the liner on the natural bumps and wrinkles of the lid can resemble a lie detector print-out. False eyelashes: these are sort of fun- mostly if you get the kind with blue feathers and studded with tiny rhinestones for when you are playing a spider- but a task to apply. Hannah Zold Story is brilliant at it. I am getting better and have been made aware only in the past week that you do not, as I had been, glue the false lash midway down your upper eyelid, but in fact to the lash line itself. This is one of many invaluable life lessons I have learned sharing a dressing room with Ashlee Heyward, Katrinah Carol Lewis, and Jessi Johnson. Another being- don’t get snatched bald eating corn off a drill or four ladies in Colonial Heights will play “Hamilton” music in the background while they watch you do it and potentially miss their entrances.
Anyway- I did it. Got lashes on. Applied Bellini under-pinnings (which we won’t go into as I wouldn’t want to make anyone cry), shoes, earrings. Nicole graciously wound my hair into something reasonable. We used a lot of hairspray, which got me through the night, but resulted in my standing under the shower head for no fewer than four minutes today before the water could infiltrate the charred burlap my hair had become.
We go to the stadium. I smile using all my teeth and charm my way into dandy parking spaces for the three of us. I am not permitted to either go into the dugout, hit a baseball, or put on Nutzy’s squirrel head. But we stand in a row with Nutzy and Nutette or whatever the gray (is it a ferret?) girl mascot is called and smile for photos. I become privately irate that they will not speak and consider pinching their lower backs where my arms are around their waists for the photo to see if I can elicit a verbal reaction. Probably not. Mascots are well trained. My cousin (who shall remain nameless for security mascot protocol reasons) was the Hokie Bird for years and was so good at it he is now allowed to be in charge of the entire Cirque de Soleil.
After we sang, I made sure the stack of business cards stuffed into the front of my dress was secure, donned my hoodie and found my brother and sister-in-law in the gold seats aka the thermosphere. We eat all the sauces at the ball field - they have honey mustard and barbecue sauce in giant squirt bottles which I really think would fit in my pizza backpack. We have the opportunity to catch no fewer than 30 fly balls. I feel the Squirrels should have a rehearsal for hitting the ball forwards. I think about how much I liked the San Francisco Giants before Tim Lincecum cut his hair.
So- a good night. I think we get to do it again. Brace yourself, Nutzy.
Stretch. Seduce. Smoke.
Alexander has been taking Pilates. This is because in the Deep South, as everybody knows, when a gentleman courts a lady, his best plan of attack is to stride confidently deep into the personal space of the lady in question and boldly set his foot atop the piece of furniture nearest her. This is all very simple when the furniture at hand is say, the lip of a fountain or a handily placed settee. Challenges arise, however, when said gentleman abruptly finds himself in the thick of the courting and, frantically scanning the room for a suitable foot rest, finds his options limited to a wheeled desk chair, a refrigerator, or the young lady herself. A suitor’s flexibility could be called into question. Not the case here. Pilates has paid off.
[Side note: the author does not actually know if Alexander has been taking Pilates, and does not really want to think about it.]
Whereas it is very clear that some participants in this production have been doing their level best to prepare- see Thomas Cunningham’s cunning facility with every accent in the world (in this play alone he can be heard speaking in dialects ranging from Eastern Kentucky to Northern Dothraki) and Charley Raintree’s fastidiously groomed and sleekly cemented bangs as examples, some others - mostly named Luke - have obviously been busy doing muscular things in the wings and have therefore forgotten to strike the ghostlight prior to the performance. Tsk tsk tsk. But things swiftly get underway after the commercial before the show (Hulu streaming issue), and we find ourselves transported back in time to a upscale yard sale being held in a park in front of a fountain. Some of the cast has received misinformation that the show tonight is “Equus” and for several scenes sit onstage even though it is not their turn and amuse themselves by pretending to watch fireworks, but one by one, they realize the error and inconspicuously vanish into the wings. With the exception of Charley and Nellie Oleson from “Little House on the Prairie.” Charley was in “Equus,” so this makes sense, but I am puzzled momentarily by Nellie Oleson’s appearance and a bit doubtful that she’s real, but then, sure enough, people begin referring to her as “Nellie” and my instincts are proven correct. I then notice that she is wearing my Tzeitel boots and get a little nostalgic and cranky- those were really good boots- but that’s neither here nor there. The fountain is lovely- I did not have to visit the restroom as I feared I would from listening to the water running- and there is a very striking angel who has either a very small forehead or did a hasty job of putting his wig on.
[Side note: VA Rep is SET for the opening number of “Beauty and the Beast” with that fountain already in existence. That thing is sturdy. They could even use a few live sheep in addition to all the singing and dancing ensemble and Belle. I digress.]
I start to notice the periodic appearances of characters from other stories. There is a small golfer at one point. Anne of Green Gables standing in the shadows downstage right at another. A lady covered entirely in lace with a soothing throaty voice (I don’t know what she’s from), and Vampire Charlotte from “Charlotte’s Web.” When she entered, I was so taken with her costume that I thought, “Who is that?”, and knew I was on the right track because immediately one of the actors asked the very same question. It turns out that Vampire Charlotte was one of the people who was going to do hanky panky with Alexander in the downstage left section of the yard sale later on, but first there was a scene from “The Music Man.”
It seems that the throaty lacy lady believes herself to be the Widow Paroo and insists periodically on recruiting members of the town into re-enacting the Amaryllis piano lesson scene around the piano down-yard sale right. A charming brunette woman has agreed to play Marian and Nellie Oleson does Amaryllis duty. They are just getting ready to launch into “Goodnight, My Someone” when suddenly Thomas storms in and gives lace lady a tongue-lashing because he knows she’s taken the white-plumed hat which belongs to the woman playing Marian the librarian. The lace lady refuses to leave even though she was promised ice cream and, in a frustrated, moss-wiggling huff, Thomas leaves because he moonlights as an umpire and has to get into uniform for the game later that night.
“The Music Man” re-enactment having come to an awkward close, some sort of quilting bee starts taking place in that same area. This is led mostly by Robin Harris who I’ve missed seeing onstage and enjoyed watching as she relished her role of leaning casually against the piano and making caustic commentary.
[Sidenote: it should be mentioned that this is the same piano which fell on top of Chase Kniffen seven hundred years ago during a production of “James Joyce’s The Dead” at Barksdale Willow Lawn. We remained in a blue-out scene shift light long enough for the boys to lift the piano off him while Robyn O’Neill and The Debra Wagoner and I stared and then resumed the play while Chase propped his crushed leg up in the dressing room and Bridget Gethins burned sage to expel the something or others.]
Around this time everyone realizes they are all wearing beige.
I spend some time thinking about the fact that I would only need one marker to draw a full color picture of the Alexander’s Act I costume. The lack of color- while fully period-appropriate- has been frustrating the other characters as well, and- with the exception of Nellie Oleson, whose dress has colors but that’s cheating because she stole it from the wardrobe department of “Little House on the Prairie”- they all start sneaking colorful items into their wardrobes. Marian Paroo, for example, dons a blue skirt! Alexander changes into a tie that matches his skin! Things are really starting to simmer.
Over in the downstage left section of the yard sale, there is a lot of action. Many of the actors have congregated offstage and are competing to see who can win the RTCC Award for “Most Impassioned Off-Stage Left Voice Acting.” Charley is giving serious consideration to purchasing what he thinks may have been Tyrion Lannister’s dressing screen, and some townspeople are starting to feel concern that there are partial doorframes hovering in mid-air.
We learn that the town doctor is well qualified for his job, being a marvel of modern medicine himself as the only known case of a male achieving sexual maturity and fathering a child while still in utero. This is a lot for his son Alexander to live up to, and that pressure coupled with his growing frustration over owning no primary colored articles of clothing, sends him spiraling into a pit of misery. He lies on one of the oriental carpets for awhile then pulls himself together enough to get his hands on a fedora (word has it these are very effective hats) and take Marian Paroo on a date.
The couple visit a lovely little restaurant illuminated by lovely paper lanterns with a lovely view of the volcano visibly erupting just behind them to the left. This doesn’t seem to concern them. They are very wrapped up in the moment and each other. There is even a moment when, thoroughly charmed by Alexander’s arabesque as he leans to kiss her, Marian almost gets carried away! But we are interrupted first by intermission and then by Vampire Charlotte and Thomas and some zesty bullfighting music (which reminds me to get my whip fixed). Things spiral quickly downhill. Charley gets shot, Widow Paroo descends so far into madness she wanders unattended onto the stage eating what is either a snowcone or a cactus, Alexander gets pushed to the brink because Marian the librarian is simply NOT interested in looking at his gross poster.
[Sidenote: the author became so engrossed in the goings-on of the play at this point that she forgot what she was thinking about- well done, all.]
We can rest easy. The town returns to a semblance of normalcy. Alexander is now the doctor,
and operating on a much more even keel though he still harbors feelings of frustration that his doctor coat is plain white- and after all he’s been through. The angel continues to stand sentinel in the middle of his fountain, waiting patiently for all eternity for Paul S. Major to come and fix his wig. And, most of all, “The Music Man” re-enactments resume, sadly without the now institutionalized Widow Paroo, but with the welcome addition of Charley in the role of traveling salesman Charlie Cowell.
We end having learned that- when in emotional distress and high on sleep-aids, always go clubbing with strangers.
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