There's a cat in my hair.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. It may not be a cat.
Rewind.
Picture it- Tuesday night. Fourth of July. I'm really living it up- partying hard- watching "Dawson's Creek" Season 4 on Hulu and pounding chocolate milk. Suddenly- a message from a guy I grew up with and hadn't seen in fifteen years. There's an abandoned week-old kitten in his garage. Would I be willing to raise it since its mother apparently couldn't be bothered?
I take a swig and ponder.
Sure, I decide. Raising kittens is always fun and I need something fun right about now. And, you know, it's always a plus to one's self worth every day that a completely blind helpless and dependent creature doesn't die under your care.
I truck out to Wal-Mart after being condescended to by the phone operator at Target when I asked whether or not they carried kitten formula.
Tiny baby bottle- check. Kitten formula- check.
I drive home and bounce on my toes in front of my house waiting for my friend. I'm excited.
He pulls up. Wordless and stone-faced, he pops the trunk of his SUV. I step closer. This seems, for some reason, quite dire. A huge box. Several towels. Brandon slowly lifts and points a foreboding finger. Like the Spirit of Christmas Future aiming Scrooge in the direction of his tombstone.
I squint. Oh dear.
Oh dear.
It's been years since I've seen Brandon, but I had not heard of his apparent mental demise. That's not a kitten in that box. That's a severed, furry thumb.
I paste on a smile and pick the thumb gingerly out of the box. Weightless. Gulp.
"Bye, Brandon!" I trill nervously. He drives away.
I go inside. Place the item in question on the couch.
Poke.....prod.....oh....hmm.
This thumb seems to have four tiny twigs sprouting off its underside with.......four miniscule needles affixed to each one.
Weird. Further inspection.
Two triangular fur flaps cover two tiny holes on the tip of the thumb. Two teensy slice marks frame a rough pink patch. There's one cream colored swatch of hair just where the thumb nail should be.
Well hell. If this were my thumb I'd have amputated it too.
Convinced it's as harmless as it is peculiar, I lift it to my face for a really good look.
"WRAAAAAAAAAAEEEEEEEEEEKKKKKKKKK!!!!"
I drop it. I catch it. My ears ring.
So.....not a thumb, then. Clearly a living creature. Likely an animal of some sort.
I post a photo to the world wide web. I'll need expert opinions. My friends are instantly on the task. Otter? Sloth? Kristen Bell? My brother comes closest, I think, with- binturong. Look it up. If you dare.
Whatever it is, it is furious. You could wring the righteous indignation from this critter like body wash from a loofah. And just what, I think, what do you have to be righteously indignant about? One doesn't simply acquire the ability to be righteously indignant until one has had a few life experiences beyond simply popping out of a vagina-- oh. Well...hmm. On second thought, I grant it its indignation.
I make it a drink. Shaken, not stirred. I noodle around on its face with my pointer finger to try and discover if it has a mouth. Aha! A flap opens with what appears to be a teeny tiny tongue flapping around inside. I insert the bottle.
Suddenly, without warning, all sixteen of the aforementioned miniscule needles sink into the flesh of my hand. Vacuum-caliber sucking noises. This thing is sucking on the bottle so hard its ears are flapping. One flap per suck. Flap, suck, flap, suck.
Then, just as suddenly as it transformed into a ravenous velociraptor, it goes completely limp. Head collapses backward. Milk sprays up and dribbles across its face. Needles retract. Um.
I squeeze it. Still alive. Just comatose.
Clutching the unconscious and unidentified critter in one hand, I wander my apartment looking for something to put it in. I settle on the trash. On the trash can as a bed, that is. I don't usually get fed up with things that quickly.
Night passes. Radio silence from the newest tenant of my wastebasket. Dawn breaks.
"WRAAAAAAAAAAEEEEEEEEEEKKKKKKKKKK!!!!"
And I'm up. I snatch the creature out of the garbage. I'm starting to think it might be a kitten. Kittens are notorious for thinking they know exactly when humans should wake up in the morning and not being a bit afraid to let them know it.
I put it in the sink. Some soap. Warm water. I smirk, smug. Little Mr. Righteous Indignation does not look so tough now that he's dripping wet. More like a pinkie now, aren't we?
I towel it off. Lovingly construct it a house out of an old and charmingly colorful cardboard frozen popsicle box. Generously donate one of my favorite yellow socks I got from my Dad for it to use as a snuggle buddy. Is it grateful? Nope. Further screaming, writhing, twisting-- this cat is like the Seven Dwarves. The lesser known seven- you know: Screamy, Twisty, Scratchy, Climby, Wriggly, Leaky and Opinionated.
But, this'll be fun. It will be adorable watching it learn to walk and having it tumble and frolic around my apartment. Unless it does something surprising. Like turn out to be a Tyrannosaurus.
Friday, July 7, 2017
Monday, July 3, 2017
Some Hamilton; Some Babies
People are parking in the poison ivy.
On purpose. Leaning out their car windows shaking their heads and muttering, but doing it anyway. You know why?
'Cause tonight is "Hamilton" LIVE at The DELL.
Things you need to know:
1. "Hamilton" is a little musical about the founding of this country written by a chap named Lin-Manuel Miranda. It's quite good. Most people don't know that Scott Wichmann was a founding father, but no one is really surprised, once word gets out.
2. The Dell is Dogwood Dell- a beautiful old ampitheatre located next to the Carillon in RVA's Byrd Park where, if so inclined, you can go on almost any night of the summer and experience both heatstroke and a very exciting artistic evening. For zero dollars.
I've had a long history with Dogwood Dell. One of my very first theatrical ventures was at the Dell. I played a blind, mute, and crafty hooker under the direction of Joe Pabst. I would sit on the upstage side of the scenery while Janine Serresseque and Jacquie O'Connor sang their duet from "Jekyll & Hyde" and have rapturous fits. I also had a fine time gazing up at my then boyfriend- who was running spotlight/hanging out with/defending his life from the pigeons in the light grid.
The following summer, I delivered lots of dour monologues about life as a corpse and sang one zesty duet about Missouri downstage right with Sam Pinkleton, who has since capitalized on that experience by getting himself nominated for a Tony Award. Dogwood Dell trains you well.
I once pretended to do P90-X on the Dell stage with Scott, Josh Marin, Brittany Simmons, and other people I can't remember due to my brain's having drowned that day in a sweat monsoon.
I occasionally walk to the Dell during the off season and go onstage and just sing and flit around to my heart's content.
Fireworks happen at the Dell every July 4th. Huge event. Packed. I once sang the national anthem to kick off said event with The Bellini Sisters. It went well. Aside from the fact that lead Bellini Nicole Oberleitner threw her neck out jerking in shock because no one told us that CANNONS WERE GOING TO BE FIRED directly following, "And the rocket's red glare---" BOOM. Off to the chiropractor we go.
Overall, it's a great RVA place.
Tonight though- it's especially special. This poison ivy parking is next level. I've arrived a bit early, and as such, am very lucky to secure a seat on a lovely patch of grass directly behind the entire theater. In the woods. But conveniently next to the port-a-potties.
So many friends are there- so many members of the arts community. A breeze. You can hardly smell the bug spray. I hang out with an especially chunky baby wearing enviable sandals and take a walking tour of the premises. Everyone is friendly, chatty, delighted to be there. People usually get excited when you know you are at THE PLACE TO BE.
The first set is Samson Trinh and his big band orchestra. They're grand. Samson is one of those impishly talented people who just has IT. That thing when an artist so instinctively understands their craft that they don't even need to think about it and are therefore free to leap and boogie about the stage looking very dapper like you'd expect anyone made mostly of music and pixie sticks and 500 volt batteries to do while very successfully leading an entire orchestra at the same time. Samson also has the distinction of being the first human to introduce me to the Tres Leche cake at Kuba Kuba. So- he's a winner.
Then- it's time for "Hamilton." The baby I'm hanging out with has eaten half a pound of grapes. I'm both jealous and impressed.
Everyone takes the stage. I can't see them, but I'm confident of their presence because they've all been live on Facebook for the past half hour. Cheers. Applause.
I see Samson bouncing up and down. Good. We've begun. Scott takes the mic- a solid, confident voice- the crowd goes nuts. This is now guaranteed to be an excellent evening. There's rapping, riffing, black T-shirts, and a very solid set of bangs.
Then Matt Shofner makes his entrance.
So you know- I've been blessed to play opposite Matt Shofner many times in my life. As an egg, a stepsister, a knife-wielding orphan, and a delusional Mormon drug addict. Always a good time.
Tomorrow, in fact, I will start rehearsals to play opposite him as an emotion. Neither of us have read the script, but that will make things, if anything, more fun.
I sprint across the lawn to squat precariously on a cobblestone. This I gotta see up close.
Matt takes the mic. His stance has the audience riveted out of the gate. He proceeds to deliver a performance that has 5,000 people on the edge of their towels. My friend Phil swats me on the arm to whisper, "You should tell Matt that he's not supposed to be better than the recording."
It's thrilling to watch all those people watch Matt. And he commands them in a way that deserves it.
The baby I am hanging out interrupts to alert me that she is done with her peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Now we're on to the "Hamilton" ladies.
There is much slaying. I scream "YAAAS" a few times.
Desiree Roots, Desiree Dabney, Mallory Keene, Lucretia Anderson, Anthony Cosby....it goes on and on and gets better and better. (Also if anyone is down for teaching me how to make the accent mark on a laptop computer, I'll give you a quarter and write a flattering story about you.)
Scanning the crowd occasionally, I am moved by the fact that 5,000+ people have chosen to spend their evening here. Music, laughter, singing along to music we all love. And just an appreciation and gratitude for the arts and the joy therein. Frankly, quite heart-warming. I don't even mind my heart being warmed in the 90 degree heat.
At this point I realize that I would not be at all surprised if Lin-Manuel himself coasted in on a helicopter.
The finale arrives- it's Jerold Solomon (who- I'll proudly have you know- I once watched eat Chinese food while I babysat his cousin). He's incredible. He sings the song about George Washington forcing Alexander Hamilton to write him a monologue because he's tired and figures he's going to die soon.
We are deafened by the amounts of pins we hear dropping.
My friend is in tears. "Move, Dad," her daughter hisses. "I can't see Mom tearing up!"
And there- in that old stony grassy ampitheatre- we are all enjoying. Together.
That's the best.
I'll probably go back for the fireworks July 4th. Or I may just stay now. The fourth is only three days away and now is a wise time to place my chair if I want a good spot. That won't cause a rash.
On purpose. Leaning out their car windows shaking their heads and muttering, but doing it anyway. You know why?
'Cause tonight is "Hamilton" LIVE at The DELL.
Things you need to know:
1. "Hamilton" is a little musical about the founding of this country written by a chap named Lin-Manuel Miranda. It's quite good. Most people don't know that Scott Wichmann was a founding father, but no one is really surprised, once word gets out.
2. The Dell is Dogwood Dell- a beautiful old ampitheatre located next to the Carillon in RVA's Byrd Park where, if so inclined, you can go on almost any night of the summer and experience both heatstroke and a very exciting artistic evening. For zero dollars.
I've had a long history with Dogwood Dell. One of my very first theatrical ventures was at the Dell. I played a blind, mute, and crafty hooker under the direction of Joe Pabst. I would sit on the upstage side of the scenery while Janine Serresseque and Jacquie O'Connor sang their duet from "Jekyll & Hyde" and have rapturous fits. I also had a fine time gazing up at my then boyfriend- who was running spotlight/hanging out with/defending his life from the pigeons in the light grid.
The following summer, I delivered lots of dour monologues about life as a corpse and sang one zesty duet about Missouri downstage right with Sam Pinkleton, who has since capitalized on that experience by getting himself nominated for a Tony Award. Dogwood Dell trains you well.
I once pretended to do P90-X on the Dell stage with Scott, Josh Marin, Brittany Simmons, and other people I can't remember due to my brain's having drowned that day in a sweat monsoon.
I occasionally walk to the Dell during the off season and go onstage and just sing and flit around to my heart's content.
Fireworks happen at the Dell every July 4th. Huge event. Packed. I once sang the national anthem to kick off said event with The Bellini Sisters. It went well. Aside from the fact that lead Bellini Nicole Oberleitner threw her neck out jerking in shock because no one told us that CANNONS WERE GOING TO BE FIRED directly following, "And the rocket's red glare---" BOOM. Off to the chiropractor we go.
Overall, it's a great RVA place.
Tonight though- it's especially special. This poison ivy parking is next level. I've arrived a bit early, and as such, am very lucky to secure a seat on a lovely patch of grass directly behind the entire theater. In the woods. But conveniently next to the port-a-potties.
So many friends are there- so many members of the arts community. A breeze. You can hardly smell the bug spray. I hang out with an especially chunky baby wearing enviable sandals and take a walking tour of the premises. Everyone is friendly, chatty, delighted to be there. People usually get excited when you know you are at THE PLACE TO BE.
The first set is Samson Trinh and his big band orchestra. They're grand. Samson is one of those impishly talented people who just has IT. That thing when an artist so instinctively understands their craft that they don't even need to think about it and are therefore free to leap and boogie about the stage looking very dapper like you'd expect anyone made mostly of music and pixie sticks and 500 volt batteries to do while very successfully leading an entire orchestra at the same time. Samson also has the distinction of being the first human to introduce me to the Tres Leche cake at Kuba Kuba. So- he's a winner.
Then- it's time for "Hamilton." The baby I'm hanging out with has eaten half a pound of grapes. I'm both jealous and impressed.
Everyone takes the stage. I can't see them, but I'm confident of their presence because they've all been live on Facebook for the past half hour. Cheers. Applause.
I see Samson bouncing up and down. Good. We've begun. Scott takes the mic- a solid, confident voice- the crowd goes nuts. This is now guaranteed to be an excellent evening. There's rapping, riffing, black T-shirts, and a very solid set of bangs.
Then Matt Shofner makes his entrance.
So you know- I've been blessed to play opposite Matt Shofner many times in my life. As an egg, a stepsister, a knife-wielding orphan, and a delusional Mormon drug addict. Always a good time.
Tomorrow, in fact, I will start rehearsals to play opposite him as an emotion. Neither of us have read the script, but that will make things, if anything, more fun.
I sprint across the lawn to squat precariously on a cobblestone. This I gotta see up close.
Matt takes the mic. His stance has the audience riveted out of the gate. He proceeds to deliver a performance that has 5,000 people on the edge of their towels. My friend Phil swats me on the arm to whisper, "You should tell Matt that he's not supposed to be better than the recording."
It's thrilling to watch all those people watch Matt. And he commands them in a way that deserves it.
The baby I am hanging out interrupts to alert me that she is done with her peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Now we're on to the "Hamilton" ladies.
There is much slaying. I scream "YAAAS" a few times.
Desiree Roots, Desiree Dabney, Mallory Keene, Lucretia Anderson, Anthony Cosby....it goes on and on and gets better and better. (Also if anyone is down for teaching me how to make the accent mark on a laptop computer, I'll give you a quarter and write a flattering story about you.)
Scanning the crowd occasionally, I am moved by the fact that 5,000+ people have chosen to spend their evening here. Music, laughter, singing along to music we all love. And just an appreciation and gratitude for the arts and the joy therein. Frankly, quite heart-warming. I don't even mind my heart being warmed in the 90 degree heat.
At this point I realize that I would not be at all surprised if Lin-Manuel himself coasted in on a helicopter.
The finale arrives- it's Jerold Solomon (who- I'll proudly have you know- I once watched eat Chinese food while I babysat his cousin). He's incredible. He sings the song about George Washington forcing Alexander Hamilton to write him a monologue because he's tired and figures he's going to die soon.
We are deafened by the amounts of pins we hear dropping.
My friend is in tears. "Move, Dad," her daughter hisses. "I can't see Mom tearing up!"
And there- in that old stony grassy ampitheatre- we are all enjoying. Together.
That's the best.
I'll probably go back for the fireworks July 4th. Or I may just stay now. The fourth is only three days away and now is a wise time to place my chair if I want a good spot. That won't cause a rash.
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