Imperiling our geezer cred

David and I watched what I called the epilogue to "The Office" last night and while he was getting the DVD loaded, a video was finishing up on whatever channel he'd left the cable. After a few seconds, I asked "Is that Nick Lachey?" David thought it was and a few seconds after that the end credit for the video confirmed it.

While I am certainly disturbed that I could recognize the former Mr. Simpson, the really scary part is that I did it in under 5 seconds. It takes me longer than that to recognize some of my relatives.

I'm thinking that I'll have to put in some time getting back into my geezer zone - I'll work on saying things like "these kids today!" and "back when I was a girl..." (as though I had been rendered gender-neutral during the great march of time).

Nick Lachey. Good grief.

Parent Clean

There are many kinds of clean, as we all know. My most consistent is the sort of clean that's attained by tidying up on weekends if I'm home. (A big "if," I'll grant you.) I guess that's my Baseline Clean. If the basket is full, the laundry gets done; the trash gets collected and taken out; the carpet gets vacuumed; clean clothes get put away; stray papers (I seem to be a magnet for stray papers) get collected and put .... oh, somewhere; maybe the sheets get changed; Pekoe gets brushed; plants get watered; the patio gets weeded; the compost gets emptied; the recyclables get taken to the bin; the bathrooms get cleaned; etc. If I'm feeling extra energetic, the kitchen, bathroom, and entryway floors gets washed. I can do a pretty good Baseline Clean in a couple of hours, which is one of the things I like about living in a smaller place.

The other two extremes that I am likely to encounter are Tech Week Dirty and Parent Clean. Tech Week Dirty means that things (clothes, shoes, junk) got dumped onto the nearest flat surface when I came in; mail has piled up but dishes haven't because if I'm living at a theater, I'm certainly not cooking at home; Pekoe feels neglected; and - a given - somewhere in my condo is a half cup of tea that has gone moldy. (Tea is possibly an even better growing medium for mold than PDA.)

Parent Clean, on the other hand, is that blessed state where even the dusting is done. Clutter has been dealt with. Surfaces sparkle or gleam as appropriate. The condo is largier, arier, smells good, and somehow has its own Mozart-y Haydn-y maybe even Bach-y sound design*. Absolutely nothing in the home makes one's parents suspect that they've raised a slattern.

On the morning of a Sunday matinee for The Winslow Boy, I had to try to take the condo from Tech Week Dirty to Parent Clean. I didn't completely succeed, but at least we got to Baseline Clean and when you consider that I was already rehearsing another show and had recently taken a third show out of town, that's no small feat. No dusting happened and precious little vacuuming, but the flat surfaces were clear and my folks could be taken on the tour. You see, this was Dad and Audrey's first visit chez moi. They live about 80 miles from me and have a dog that is pretty old, so what with one thing and another, they'd never been here.

I gave them the big tour (wear comfy shoes!) which can take as long as 3 minutes if there's a big crowd, showing off my favorite bits of the condo, like the pantry (where my washer-dryer lives) that is actually pantry sized, so that my canned goods have more elbow room that I have, and the nice view of the soccer field across the road, and my patio.

Audrey and I discussed how my putting the dining table and chairs in the alcove instead of the "dining room" made sense (there is enough room for either the table & chairs or the china cabinet & buffet). We also discussed the bent wood rocker that I keep in the dining room so that someone visiting me can sit comfortably while I do food prep. The caned seat had separated from the frame and Audrey suggested that I show it to Dad to see if he could fix it. I did and, after a pause, he told me that it was beyond repair and said, "You know, if you really like this chair, I'd throw it out and buy one that looks like it."

Then we had a lovely - if hastily prepared - dinner and the folks headed back to West By-God Virginia to let the dog out. (Who lets the dog out? My parents, that's who.)

Audrey mentioned during dinner that in my efforts to manage their expectations, I had led them to believe that I lived in a scary hovel. So they probably would have loved my place even if I had not gotten it as pretty as Baseline Clean merely because they didn't have to run in to the building through a rain of bullets or dodge collapsing walls during dessert.

And now that I'm not working on a show, perhaps I can maintain something between Baseline Clean and Parent Clean for a while. Wouldn't that be nice.


* But no Chopin, lest the folks worry about my serotonin levels.

First-Timer

Michael, one of the reviewers on Show Biz Radio, had his first audition.

It’s one thing to be a Monday morning quarterback and tell the world what the team did wrong. It’s quite another thing to offer to suit up and take your hits with the team. Well, I offered to suit up, now it’s up to the coach to decide if he wants to use me or not.

The Virtual Foundation

I got an e-mail from my theater friend Erika this morning that said:

This is a very interesting website, which shows hundreds of projects from around the world which need financial support. The projects all solve local problems of environment, human health, poverty alleviation or economic development and many projects need as little funding as a couple of thousand dollars. You are able to search by country or type of project and you can also see how much funding they need and how much they have already received. It's a great place to look if you or a group you belong to are looking for a way to make a difference somewhere.

With a link to The Virtual Foundation.

So I did some mousing around on their website and found out that many of the donors give in the amounts that I do - $10 here, $18 there. Then I wandered around the web and to see what I could find about their bona fides.

The Open Society Institute (George Soros’ organization) says:

History: The Virtual Foundation was created to develop and encourage online international philanthropy, to provide a new source of support for NGOs and civil society building activities, and to develop new NGO funding resources. Founded in 1996, the Virtual Foundation has demonstrated its feasibility, especially in the areas of environmental and health grant-giving. With an international network of Consortium Members and efficient and responsive administrative grant review structure, the Virtual Foundation presents an optimal opportunity to develop Internet philanthropy. There has been considerable enthusiasm and support for the Virtual Foundation in the NGO and private foundation communities.

The Internet Program is supporting the Virtual Foundation in its efforts to attract active donors to the Virtual Foundation website through a media campaign, employing both traditional and electronic media outreach efforts. The Internet Program grant will also be used to encourage first time Virtual Foundation donors through the use of matching funds.

Population Targeted: Private foundations, individual donors, NGOs, the Internet community in general.

Philanthropy News Digest says:

An online program that supports grassroots initiatives around the world. The foundation screens and posts small-scale proposals on its Web site, where they can be read by potential donors. It was founded in 1996 by ECOLOGIA, an international nonprofit organization that has supported environmental movements and groups across Eurasia since 1989.

Philanthropy News Digest also has links to other on-lines charities, if you'd like to direct your money closer to home or just check out a charity to make sure that your money is going for programs not perks.

And the answer is

Liza asked five friends five questions. Below are the ones that she asked me. (Eep - back in May.) and tonight I am home for the first time in quite a while. I've missed my home. I had dinner with David in Bethesda before he went to see a show; opened the windows to let in the it-just-rained air; took a nice, long, hot shower, made a nice, hot cup of tea, and settled down to actually answer the questions. You know, before the end of the year, or anything. So here we go....


In a parallel universe where Silver Spring & MoCo do not exist, where do you live?

Boston or Candada. It's funny, but even though I was born in California and feel happiest outdoors in 75 degree weather soaking up the sunshine, I never dream of relocating somewhere sunny like Florida or Spain. My thoughts always turn lightly to cold climate places like New England or Scandanavia or the Maritimes. Probably because I have a far too romantic view of those places. What makes this even sillier is the fact that I am too lazy to wear a coat, let alone scarves, gloves, mufflers, caps, or anything else that would keep me alive in any of those areas after about mid-September. So if I did move to Boston, I'd be dead from hypothermia before Thanksgiving. If I were to live somewhere warm, it would be the south of France. I love New Zealand but couldn't live there because it's too far from everywhere else and I love to travel too much.

If you could direct anyone, in anything, who? what? where? why?

Hmmmmm..... I'm not sure. I've done enough directing lately that staying out of the driver's seat for a while (well, after the one acts) is the biggest temptation. I like to direct but I love to act.

If you could be cast in anything, what? where? with whom? why?

As Emma in Pinter's Betrayal. As Julie Cavendish in Edna Ferber & George S. Kaufman's The Royal Family. As Eleanor in The Lion in Winter. As practially any woman in practically any play by Craig Wright. As Karen in Dinner with Friends. As Ruth in Collected Stories. As Anna in Burn This. As Sally in Talley's Folly. As Abby in The Mercy Seat. As Abigail in 1776. (Some of those roles are never gonna happen because, oh, I'm too old and never looked like a dancer at any point in my life. Some of them are still possibles for the future.) Because they are good chewy roles about interesting women who have brilliant dialogue written for them.

With whom? Oh geez, that list could go on for a while. I know some truly amazingly good folks to work with. Talented, generous, and fun. Laura and Sally and I keep hoping to find a project to do together. I love playing in small spaces where a change of posture or expression carries to the back of the house. My only regret about community theater is the sheer number of compromises that we have to make because there's no money and we're doing the best we can as willing amateurs. So I'd love to work in a pro house just for the resources.

What are you most proud of yourself for doing?

Right now? Getting on airplanes even though I am a nervous flier. Reading Dick Francis all these years has taught me that being afraid is not a good enough reason not to do something. Be afraid and do it anyway. Do it with knees that feel like Slinkies and guts that have turned to gravy. Do it wishing that you were somewhere else. It doesn't have to be done gracefully, it just has to be done. But don't let fear stop you.

What do you wish more people knew about Celiac Disease?

That most people who have it exhibit none of the "Big Symptoms." That more people have it than you realize and that if 1 in every 133 people has it, more folks should get tested for it. That I am better informed about this disease that a lot of the medical community, many of whom believe that it's a children's disease or that it is very rare.

Undeniable

A few years ago I turned 30 and had a party to celebrate. My friend Andrew had prepared a speech. Near the top of the second paragraph of this speech is probably the truest words anyone ever spoke about me:

"...just try to avoid becoming friends with Leta if she puts her mind to it."

My kingdom for a slip

Oh Tempora, Oh Mores.... (Or, as David believes that I think the phrase goes, "Oh Tempura, Oh Mores")

Well, I can only say that I am glad that neither of my grandmothers lived to see this day.

Yesterday I was wearing a light blue skirt that Mom gave me. Pretty skirt. And in my bedroom completely opaque. But around ten o'clock I went to the ladies' room and in the full-length mirror, I saw that apparently my bedroom light is not the most discriminating light there be. Because I could very clearly see my underpinnings through the skirt.

Ack! This was clearly (oh, tooo clearly) a job for a slip.

So I told my boss that I needed to run out for an hour and I went to the local mall. I searched throughout Ladies' Lingerie at Target and found no slips. I did find a sales lady who told me that they no longer carry them and referred me to Macy's. No luck at Macy's. So I headed up the mall to Penny's, where the sales lady told me that they also no longer carry them because they weren't selling. She said that about a year ago they put all of their remaining slips on clearance and that was then end of them.

I resigned myself to looking more liberated than I intended and I avoided windows and backlighting for the rest of the day. And I checked with my pal the internet. Sears - no slips. LandsEnd - no slips. Victoria's Secret - duh - no slips.

Admittedly, I didn't know this until just now because I have always been resistant to wearing slips because if one is going to celebrate a lovely summer day by wearing something light and airy, it seems counterproductive to wear a plastic bag beneath the lovely, airy dress, rendering its airiness pretty much a concept. I also, by the way, pretty much eschew dressing gowns and, until recently, slippers, not because I did not believe in them but because I am lazy.

And if you were wondering why this would only be of interest to my grandmothers and not my mother, I refer to the time when I told her that I could see her bra through her blouse (I was a teenager and very conservative about how my parents should dress) and her reply was that at least she was wearing a bra. That's why.

Amazon.com carries slips and I found some links for places like American Intimates which also carry slips. But who knows for how long? They had very few varieties. So I'm going to check my slip inventory and order one or two because clearly the retail day of the slip has passed.

At long last, I am going to get right with my grandmothers, always models of clothing opacity. Of course, this is just another sign of my continuing slide into geezerhood. Or maybe my slipping into cronedom, but frankly, if I wanted people to see my underpinnings, I would spend more money on them and make them worth the view.

A Drink with Something In It

A Drink with Something in It -- Ogden Nash

There is something about a Martini,
A tingle remarkably pleasant;
A yellow, a mellow Martini;
I wish that I had one at present.
There is something about a Martini,
Ere the dining and dancing begin,
And to tell you the truth,
It is not the vermouth —
I think that perhaps it's the Gin.

There is something about an old-fashioned
That kindles a cardiac glow;
It is soothing and soft and impassioned
As a lyric by Swinburne or Poe.
There is something about an old-fashioned
When the dusk has enveloped the sky,
And it may be the ice,
Or the pineapple slice,
But I strongly suspect it's the Rye.

There is something about a mint julep.
It is nectar imbibed in a dream,
As fresh as the bud of the tulip,
As cool as the bed of the stream.
There is something about a mint julep,
A fragrance beloved by the lucky.
And perhaps it's the tint
Of the frost and the mint,
But I think it was born in Kentucky.

There is something they put in a highball
That awakens the torpidest brain,
That kindles a spark in the eyeball,
Gliding singing through vein after vein.
There is something they put in a highball
Which you'll notice one day if you watch;
And it may be the soda,
But judged by the odor,
I rather believe it's the Scotch.

Then here's to the heartening wassail,
Wherever good fellows are found;
Be its master instead of its vassal,
And order the glasses around.
Oh, it's Beer if you're bent on expansion,
And Wine if you wish to grow thin,
But quaffers who think
Of a drink as a drink,
When they quaff, quaff of Whisky and Gin.

Understanding my calendar

Bob, an old medievalist pal, wrote this for Clam Chowder and it gets stuck in my head whenever my schedule gets too full.

The Harried Leisure Class
© Bob Esty and Clam Chowder

(With, sigh, my apologies for any transpositions, paraphasing, or other errors. I'm typing this at my desk during lunch, whaddaya want from me?)


We run about from place to place as if we're on a quest,
So occupied with having fun that we've no time to rest.
There's lots of things to do and see and we must get there fast
for we have no time to waste in the harried leisure class.

Our parents sat upon the porch and watched how life went by,
but we are much busy for there is so much to try.
We spend our weeknights getting set for our big weekend blast -
And sleep at work next day in the harried leisure class.

So much there is to do and see there simply is no way -
We're so tired out from running about I'd scarcely call it play.
We'll die before we're forty 'cause our bodies just can't last -
But we'll cram in a lot of fun in the harried leisure class!

Of dollhouses and coat racks

One year around Christmas time - I think I was 8 or so and Sara was 5 - my Dad was building something in the family room. When we asked what it was, he said that he didn't know, maybe a bookcase, maybe a dollhouse, maybe something else. And, as this was still a few months before books completely won the battle for my soul and for the available space in my home, I said "Oh, please, make a dollhouse! We don't have a dollhouse!" Dad said "We'll see," which even then I knew meant "no," and I'm pretty easy to fool, so I figured that it would be some dumb ol' bookcase (see how much my life has changed?) instead of a dollhouse and I went on my way.

Cut to Christmas morning. The tradition in my family is that one gift gets opened on Christmas Eve and the rest on Christmas Day and that gifts from Santa Claus aren't wrapped. (It was Santa who gave me all of the Little House books the following Christmas thus sealing my doom as a book person. Santa is a pusher. Or maybe an enabler.) Ånyway, there under the tree was a our beautiful dollhouse which was made not only by Dad, but by Mom and my grandparents. Dad built the three-story townhouse-style house. He put hardwood floors on all three levels, but the kitchen floor is - of course - not sanded smooth and varnished gleaming as the upper two floors are. The kitchen also has a beamed ceiling. My mother hung the wall paper on the upper two levels, and made a stained glass window for each of the upper two levels. My grandfather made the four poster bed and my grandmother sewed all the bedding for it. It had furniture and people and even art because my mother took a very small picture of me as a baby and framed it to hang on the wall. She - or Dad - also made "records" by cuting out the pictures of records that the record clubs would have on the blow-in cards in magazines.

It was a truly wonderful dollhouse and I played with it often. When I was in 7th grade, Mom took the smallest of my school pictures and framed it. By sheer chance it looks - at a very quick glance - like a famous artwork and people would look into the dollhouse, see my picture on wall, and say "Oh, you have the Mona -- no, you don't." So we called the picture the Mona Leta.

When my nieces were little, they played with the dollhouse and because Cheryl, clearly, is more closely related to me than to any other member of our family, she elbowed Angela out of the way and dominated all dollhouse-based activity. Mom eventually created an alternate dollhouse for Angela by clearing out a small bookcase and filling it with other doll furniture. If the subject of the dollhouse comes up and someone refers to "you girls playing with the dollhouse," Angela will point out that *Cheryl* played with the dollhouse, she (Angela) played with a *bookcase.*

When Mom was downsizing to get ready to move from the 3-bedroom house to the 1-bedroom apartment, she asked me what I would like and I said "The piano, the lamp that you made, and the dollhouse." "Well, I have to check with the girls." "Why? It's my dollhouse." "Yes, but they played with it, too." "Yeah, and it's my dollhouse." So it came to me and lives with me in the condo and I still love it.

Recently I was explaining to the girls about the trust provisions in Mom's will for them. (Those lucky girls will inherit two generations of debts and crap, one day from Mom and then later from me.) They will get half of Mom's estate and all of mine (the poor dears). So we were talking about how they would inherit, among other things, my condo, at which point Angela suggested that I leave *her* the condo and leave Cheryl ... the dollhouse.

*This year* for Christmas Dad made me a lovely coat rack/shelf to put in my front entryway. Its made from poplar and has brass hooks and fits nicely between the front door and the closet. Because I am (all together now) never home, it hasn't been hung, but it will be.

(Warning: this paragraph contains my hazy memory of what people said/suggested/thought/indicated and is probably chock full of misinterpretation and poor recall. Just sayin'.) David and I are still debating the best way to install it. Dad recommended drilling holes into it and putting a bolt though the holes and into the studs. David opined that a condo built in 1988 (or so) probably has eight studs in any given building, and that drilling though the front would lack aesthetic pleasingness, but John (make a point of doing shows with contractors, plumbers, electricians, etc. You'll learn a lot) said that no, there would still be a stud every 18 or 24 inches. So I suggested that we ask Andy if he could route two key-holes into the back and we can hang it thus. David agreed that this might work. And there we remain. Because Andy's theater schedule is as busy as mine.

But my lovely coat rask will get hung one day. And everytime I see it, even now as it leans up against the wall, waiting to be installed, I'll think of my Dad, who makes beautiful presents.

Maybe Angela will inherit the condo and Cheryl will get the doll house and the coat rack....

Amazingly cool

My friend Bill was pictured in Boing Boing. I am not now, nor ever have been, worthy.

And, of course, this precludes Emily from ever asking that the basement be repurposed from the Maryland Branch of the Computing Museum. I'd start lobbying now for bigger displays and more wall text.

Yay, Bill!

Tablework

"Hey, you asked. I'm willing to tell you.... In fact, I will tell you." Kess, Independence, Act II, scene i.

A long time ago, someone I know mentioned a lack among her performer friends' blogs for any kind of discussion of process. We seem to be all about costumes and blocking dilemmas, but not so much on what the characters think and feel.

One term for this process is tablework. It's when the actors and the director sit around a table (because where else are we going to put our coffee and assorted snacks?) and talk about the play.

Naturally, everyone's process is different and every show's process is different. Some directors believe in a lot of tablework, some in getting the show on its feet and letting the emotions follow the blocking. One of the things that I appreciated most about Independence is how much table work we got to do, even if we weren't sitting around a table. As we would finish working a scene Maura might say "See, Sherry seems so angry there, but she's really hurt. Why isn't she welcome in her own family?" which would start a several minute discussion between us about that question.

But Independence is very relationship-driven. And Lee Blessing (the playwright) gives us lots to work with within the four corners of the script. So I looked at the ways that they talk to each other. Kess's first scene with Jo looks like an interrogation. "Why would Mom hit you?" "Did anybody see it?" Why is Kess interrogating Jo? Why doesn't she believe her? They haven't seen each other in four years, where's the hugging and how are yous? Where's the sympathy over the neck brace?

Evelyn, Kess and Jo's mother, is both manipulative and crazy. And Jo, whether she sees it or not, is also a manipulator. "Having you here has been so great. I feel much calmer. And I know Mom's happier." In other words, do what we want and everyone stays happy and calm. Every time I heard something from Evelyn's head come out of Jo's mouth, Kess would get suspicious and shut down. Not shut down completely, but there would be a posture change, a drawing in. Some things you decide to do and keep, some thing you find yourself doing and decide to keep.

Tablework gets everyone on the same page, which means when I threw that ball, Sharon would know where to go to be under it and vice versa. Do enough tablework and you'll never have to worry about the trajectory of the ball because before it left your partner's hand you knew where it would go. Not enough and you'll find yourself in the middle of Tech Week hearing people ask "why is it that so-and-so does such-and-such?" and not in a good way.

Ten minutes of good tablework is worth an hour of rehearsal, a belief I got to put to a practical test working on Perfectly Good Airplanes. When the director and both actors are rehearsing other shows, rehearsal time is very limited. We had a total of about 5 rehearsals to get that puppy ready (I credit how well it went to the quality of my actors) and we spent the first rehearsal completely on tablework. We read the play, we talked about the play, we read it some more. We talked about it some more. We came up with a bunch of questions for Steve, the playwright. We all hoped that the cast would learn all the lines (it's about a 47-page script) but I knew that we would live and die on the relationship between the father and the daughter. So we dug into the whys and the wherefores of that relationship.

I'm now working on a redaction of David Mamet's "A Life in the Theatre" and we are similarly pressed for time, but we still spent our first two rehearsals going over the script line by line, asking questions, bouncing thoughts off of each other, and because it seems that Jeff's brain tracks in a similar manner to mine, wandering off onto tangents and non sequiturs. Josh has already remembered how non-linear my conversation is and is probably having flashbacks to Sneakers rehearsals. In that respect, he'll relate perfectly to his character, but it seems a pretty high price to pay.

Anyway.

And next rehearsal we move from one of my favorite parts of prepping a show to one of my least favorite parts - initial blocking.

Some people are just so needy

Jeff, Jeff, Jeff, Jeff, Jeff.

And Josh.

What? I don't hear anything

This morning was not a good time to work in our office. No, no, we didn't have ravaging executives screaming at cowering underlings or anything like that. Nor did we have tense, silent, ominous awkwardness. No, we had something worse.

We had air hammers.

The building is being refurbished, sort of. Construction guys (or contractor guys or someone) have been putting a new "face" on the building. And today was the day that they were attaching some of the new facing. With the air hammers.

So our office sounded like the inside of a steel and concrete tree being attacked by gigantic woodpeckers.

Every so often it would stop for a few minutes and then start back up. I assume that this was while they reloaded the hammers. It turns out that it takes about as much time to reload the hammers as it takes for me to untense, which was probably humorous to watch if one could turn the sound down.

I told Ira that everytime they had to reload, I felt like I was in an episode of M*A*S*H - you know, one of those ones with lots of shelling:

"Listen!"
".....What? I don't hear anything."
"Yeah. It stopped."

One of our staffers (at least one, rather) went home with a headache around 10:30. They stopped for the day - or because some poor office worker pushed them off of their scaffold - around 11:45 or so.

But the temperature was okay at least.

Southern England?

For The Winslow Boy I had to learn a second English accent. In addition to my generic RP English accent, I was taught (by our vocal coach, John, a Scot) a passable generic cockney accent.

And, in general, once I learned how the shape the words, I just had to pay attention to the usual things like saying them in the right order, putting the stresses in the right places, etc.

So Saturday night there I was, up on stage, minding my own business when I said:

"But I saw him in this room as big as life with my own eyes before y'all came back from church."

Yep. Violet the cockney parlormaid said "y'all."

I mentioned it to Anne, our AD, a little later and she told me that I should have said "youse."

A couple of good reasons to go home early

The air conditioning is out at our office. Or at least working in a very minimal, lethargic kind of way. Which would be fine if the weather were damp and chilly as it was on Monday morning, but it's now a sunny and warm 75 degrees (which, according to Weather.com, feels like ... 75 degrees). Or rather, it's 75 degrees outside. Inside, here at my desk, it's 80 degrees, which is only 2 degrees cooler than Tempe, Arizona.

Remember when I was too cold because it was 60 degrees at my desk? Yes, I agree, there is no pleasing me sometimes.

The other fine reason to go home early is because the construction guys next door have accidentally (I can't believe they deliberately) cut a water main. The water was turned off to the building, bottles of water were delivered to the building's lobby desk, and two port-a-potties were set up in the alley.

A couple of thoughts on the port-a-potties: 1. I actually described the one I used as "nice" because it was clean; didn't smell like a port-a-potty; and had toilet paper. Kind of like how regular cells are nicer than the ones in lock-up. (But that's a story for another post.) 2. Considering that "our" port-a-potties" were sited in the alley and many of our staffers have a nice, clear view down there, I'm pretty grateful that said potties are completely enclosed, roofs and all. Much better not to see or be seen in that circumstance.

All-in-all, pretty well handled. And a definite shout out of thanks to the new building guy who is so much more on-the-ball than the two useless building guys he replaced. And he's pleasant instead of surly.

So why am I still at work if today is an excellent day to leave early (especially as it really is 75 degrees and sunny)? Because I am not going home after work, I'm meeting a fellow cast member at his house to run lines and there's no point in getting to his place before he does, especially not when I could be typing a blog post.

I'm sure that my fellow cast member believes that I have offered to help him run lines because of my dedication to the show and because I'm such a fine human being. Well, of course, both of those are true, but the other reason, the for-real reason is that he is A. lots of fun to hang out with, so why would I pass up that opportunity; and B. Scottish, so he talks with an accent so delightful that I could probably spend vast amounts of time just listening to him, especially if I am not required to answer intelligently. I don't normally get all gushy about UK accents, but a Scot and a Baritone? It's too much happiness.

Ooops, time to go!

December 31

The game is to find 3 events, 2 births, and 1 death that happened on your birthday. "Gakked" from John & Liza.

Events

1946 - President Harry Truman proclaims the end of hostilities in WWII (The Big One).

1862 - President Lincoln signs an act admitting West Virginia to the Union.

1600 - Queen Elizabeth II grants the Royal charter of the British East India Company.

Births

1738 - Charles Cornwallis, 1st Marquess Cornwallis and British General (died 1805).

1572 - Emperor Go-Yozei of Japan (died 1617).

Death

1460 - Richard Neville, 5th Earl of Salisbury (executed along with Richard Plantagenet, 3rd Duke of York and Edmund, Earl of Rutland - Neville's brother and nephew - after the Battle Wakefield).

* * * * *

The truly perspicacious, or, more likely, those who have been unable to block out my incessent chatter, will notice that one of these things is not like the others, one of these things doesn't belong. All but one relates to the things I prattle about at greath length, given the opportunity. Can you guess which thing is not like the others before I finish this song?

I'd like to teach myself to sing

This is an official "I should be doing other things, so I think I'll type up a blog post" post.

What should I be doing? Let's see.....

1. Washing my hair so that it looks nice tomorrow. I won't have time tomorrow because I'll be getting up extra early.

2. Pulling scores from what I laughably consider my music library. I have one and half shelves of assorted G&S and other choral music, a couple broadway scores, and a fair bit of random sheet music. (F'rinstance, I have a lovely copy of "Nobody Loves a Fairy When She's Forty" that Larry gave me. As a birthday present.) Tonight I need to pull my scores for Pinafore, Princess Ida, and Patience. I've already pulled the Sorcerer score and printed out the Rose of Persia excerpts that I'll need.

3. Taking stuff out of the car that I don't need and putting into the car the things do I need. I've already found - and removed - an apple that clearly got lost under the seat quite some time ago.

4. (This is the big one.) Learning the damn music. I actually have been working on it this week, but only one song of the five in which I have solos sounds ready to sing in front of people that I like. Two more are about halfway there and the final two are ready to sing in front of.....no one. The best way for me to learn music to work on it with my music teacher, but she's been unavailable, so I've been working on my own, listening to the recordings and going over the printed music. I generally prefer not to work from recordings for the same reason that I don't model my theater performances on videos of other people's work, but I'm positive that the folks tomorrow would far rather hear my second-rate Marcia Bellamy or Claire Henry than experience what I would have done without them to lean on. (And while we're at it, a big thanks to Ann Hood, too!). As you go about your business tomorrow, spare a thought for the folks who will be hearing me sing. Send them your support, think kindly of them, and use your psychokenetic powers to prevent them from killing me. If they do kill me, you might as well alibi them, for they pushed to it, they truly were.

And now to work...

I've been served

As I suspected, Brett rose to defend Mark Trail. His eloquent, even lyrical, defense can be found here. Of course, this means that now it’s on.

I’m going up against a much better – and better prepared - opponent, but perhaps my defeat will provide the lyric poets of tomorrow with inspiration. Maybe, even, a really great blues song will be written about it. Best of all, of course, would be a ballet with a whole flashback sequence where “Mark Trail” throws his Amazing Stick while “Leta” and “Brett” watch and then “Leta” dances the dance of despair, acknowledging the superiority of Mark Trail.

Hmm. Come to think of it, that sounds like more fun than several actual ballets I’ve seen.

Mogg!

When I got the Washington Post every day, I read all the comics, including stuff I would skip today like "Mark Trail" and "The Phantom" and "Rex Morgan, MD."

(The odd, howling sound you hear is Brett's anguish that anyone would skip "Mark Trail." Well, I would. I like the Partridge Family and I don't like Mark Trail, but it takes all kinds, doesn't it? I'll still probably be re-educated under the Brett Regime, but that was going to happen anyway, so we can add my lack of the proper understanding of Mark Trail to the list.)

But the one thing that made those comics worth the ink it took to print them were the odd little captions. My absolute, bar none, favorite is one from "Rex Morgan, MD," a strip more firmly rooted in a 1962-aesthetic than the Ford Fairlane. But in random attempts to be cutting edge and current - or just to provide me with a laugh - Rex and June would tackle some medical issues in the news, like, oh, say, drug abuse. So we have the black and while line drawing of a woman in a Chanel-style suit with pillbox hat sprawled on a tile floor with the caption "While snorting cocaine in the ladies' room, Claudia Bishop passes out!" (Soap Opera comics spend most of their production money on exclamation marks, which they purchase by the truckload.) Somehow the sight of the Jackie Kennedy stand-in and the 1980's PSA text hit me just right. I vowed never to snort cocaine in the ladies' room *and* and I laughed hugely, pointed to the strip, and repeated "While snorting cocaine in the ladies' room, Claudia Bishop passes out!" until I pulled myself together.

"The Phantom," however, is really just a fever-dream. I mean, really, I ask you, does that strip make sense to anyone? Not to mention that during the period when I spent the most time trying to figure out what the heck was going on, "The Phantom" made Tarzan look too PC by half.

So one day, Mr. Walker* had trounced some white devil bad guys and their non-caucasian, stereotype-laden henchmen, including a pretty scary dude named Mogg. And in the coming attractions box at the end of the strip - which, by the way, due to the completely non-linear storytelling of "The Phantom," never actually clued us in to the real coming attractions, but rather seemed to be just random enouragements to keep reading the strip, sort of a "d-r-i-n-k y-o-u-r O-v-a-l-t-i-n-e" for the print media set ....where was I? Oh, yeah -- in the coming attractings box it said "Coming Next - More Mogg!!" Which also made me laugh hugely, although this time I really couldn't explain why. I still have no idea. But I still find it funny.

Coming Next: The Countess of WATCH!!

* For the Ghost Who Walks