As a favor to the many folks who have come to see me in shows over the years, I post this helpful how-to which ran in the Stanford Daily. You're welcome.
Holt's Harangue: How to survive a college theatrical production
February 22, 2007
By Chris Holt
A lot of my friends are theater people, and thus I’ve been invited to go to quite a few theatrical productions on various college campuses. In retrospect, I wish I had more friends who were adult film stars. Subsequently, I’ve observed some easy ways to make the experience better for the audience.
Immediately, college students think that the best way to survive a production is to be drunk. I think that’s only fair at the Friday night show, when you know the cast itself has a higher blood alcohol level than you. Personally, I have difficulty following the plots of productions while sober, so altering my mind is only going to complicate things. I have no idea why that person is gesturing off stage, why every character is now holding hands and bowing to us or why people see anything written by Gilbert and Sullivan.
People often talk of heckling, but that’s never really been my thing. I’ll heckle art that doesn’t feature living people in front of me trying their best. To tell someone who put so many long hours into rehearsing that he sucks is just really cruel. That’s why I prefer the more humane tactic of beating up a capella groups after their concerts. Come on Testimony, quit shirking the challenge; let’s rumble.
My experience in heckling is usually limited to media that demand passive interaction with the audience. This translates into mocking something when I know they can’t hear me. At movies I fancy myself a bit of a wit, I’m brutal at zoos (especially to those no-talent penguins), and I’m terribly clever when I watch filmed lectures alone in my room.
Inevitably, I always know at least a few people in the chorus. Unavoidably, in these big ensemble musicals, there are lots of huge stumbling numbers. When the entire chorus comes on for one of the big opening numbers which may have a reprise in the closing number, I don’t try to make out the words. This will only bring you pain and misinterpretation: Did they just say they wanted to go back to “Smoklohama?” Most choruses comprise of everyone involved in the production. The leads, the set people and even the janitor can usually be spotted mimicking the motions of the chorus as they all belt out lyrics as articulately as Joe Biden rapping. Foreign films have subtitles, so why can’t large college musical numbers?
My best advice is to just let the sweet off-key song pass over you like a warm blanket. Don’t interpret the words; the song isn’t there to further the plot. I know I won’t have this many smiling people in front of me somewhat rhythmically dancing until I form that B-52s cover band.
I have a reputation as a harsh critic of culture, which is a reputation this column seems to reinforce. But really, my own behavior is much more mild-mannered. I usually am really personable and even overly laudatory in real life. I’m so willing to please I have difficulty saying no to people; this is why I ended up on yearbook my freshman year or voted in any election.
It’s good to be able to see the positive because I’m often asked what I think of student written, directed and choreographed pieces. You can’t say “That was awesome. Was this your first time directing?” Or “I haven’t seen an effort this adorable since middle school.” Instead you concentrate on the positives. The lighting. This typo-less program. It was shorter than you thought it would be.
I asked my theater friends what else I don’t notice as a member of the audience. They explain that theatrical productions have more drama than a Mormon temple in the Castro district. There is always sexual tension within the cast of these productions; people hook up with one another and tempers flair. I’m never perceptive enough to know the gossip, so I’ll accidentally compliment someone else who has just dumped the person I’m talking to. “Oh Chris, you’d think that was a good performance. But you haven’t seen him say that he loves you.” I really feel like having production notes on who is hooking up with whom would make the audience’s job a lot easier. That way I can intentionally screw with my high-strung theater friends.
Well, with winter and spring productions on the horizon, I’m looking forward to seeing the best that motivated, talented Stanford students have to offer. That’s why I’m going to the basketball games instead.
Chris respectfully thanks his friends for the help he received on this column. He is actually a patron of Stanford theater, so don’t ask him what he thinks of it. Send complaints to cholt@stanford.edu.
Posted with Chris Holt's permission.
24 February 2007
20 February 2007
Hilda's question
I took Stage Manager Samantha and her good friend Hilda to see Ruddigore on Sunday afternoon. The show was great fun and the girls enjoyed their backstage tour and the Q&A with the cast very much as well. Big kudos to VLOC for instituting the "Children's matinee" where any full freight adult can get two kids in free. This is definitely the way to raise the audience of the future because after the curtain calls both girls said that they wanted to see Pirates in June. Or rather they wanted to see Pirates until they heard that the director is looking for some kids to be in the show, so now Hilda wants to be in it and Samantha wants to work backstage, wear a headset, and paint stuff. Did I call it or did I call it? Stage Manager.
Anyway, during the Q&A, Hilda - who is, let us remember, about 9 - had a question. Her question: "What do you think is the message that people should take from this show?" I think that Hilda's question followed something like "How do you chose how is going to be what character?" so it was great fun to watch the Q&A panel change gears and go into, like, SAT mode. I don't even remember the answer but I'll never forget the looks on folks faces as they came up with it.
So now we have Stage Manager Samantha, Producer Charles, and Theater Critic Hilda. At this rate, I really am growing my own theater company.
Anyway, during the Q&A, Hilda - who is, let us remember, about 9 - had a question. Her question: "What do you think is the message that people should take from this show?" I think that Hilda's question followed something like "How do you chose how is going to be what character?" so it was great fun to watch the Q&A panel change gears and go into, like, SAT mode. I don't even remember the answer but I'll never forget the looks on folks faces as they came up with it.
So now we have Stage Manager Samantha, Producer Charles, and Theater Critic Hilda. At this rate, I really am growing my own theater company.
Abby someone. Abby who?
Quaker makes these very tasty maple brown sugar multi-grain cakes (yes, they are wheat-free). And thank goodness for the yummy maple brown sugar taste because they look and crunch pretty much exactly like freeze dried cross sections of human brain.
MMMmmmm.
MMMmmmm.
14 February 2007
My Peanuts identity
You know all those silly internet quizes (SIQ) that ask "Which cartoon character are you?," "What sports car are you," "Which inane internet quiz are you?" Over the years I've taken a few of them and they always have complex or compound-complex true/false questions where half of the clauses apply to me and the rest don't, so I'm never entirely happy with the result.
I know, I know, these are SIQs, not the Myers-Briggs,* but their imprecision always bothered me. (Big hint: If I remember correctly, I'm an ESFJ. Or an ENFJ. Anyway, there's a buncha "J." Can you see why I might take SIQs too seriously?)
So, anyway, today I was mousing around looking for the correct spelling of "Babboo," as in "Sweet Babboo," Sally Brown's endearment for her beloved Linus (Yep, checking the spelling of "Babboo" - much "J"), and I found Wikipedia's description of Sally. And, you know, if you skip over the blond curly hair part, that's a pretty darn good description of me.
I'd spent years trying to figure out of I was more like Lucy or Sally, because there's some Lucy in me and there's a world of Shroeder in the men I like, but now I know for sure. I'm Sally. And there's a world of Linus in men I like, too. They are taller than either Linus or Shroeder and older and none of them carry blankets, but that doesn't matter. And that fact that I couldn't get many of them within a hundred miles of elsewhere? Just further proof.
Your friend,
Sally Brown
*One day, I'm going to go to that entry and correct the spelling of "extrovert." Sigh.
13 February 2007
Liberal Leave
I love to joke that "Liberal Leave" means that Liberals can stay home, but conservatives have to come in to the office. As a moderate, I get to come in late.
Several years ago I worked as a temp at a company owned by... well, by someone who now owns a major local sports franchise. One January day it was snowing pretty heavily and then it began to freeze and eventually we ended up with a pretty nasty ice storm. CEO and his assistant were off at a series of dog-and-pony shows and the assistant would call in every so often to pick up messages and check in. Around 10:30 I told her that it was getting icy and that staff were starting to leave, she told me that yeah, that happens, but that they go and she stays. We agreed that I would stay until about 4:00 (instead of my usual 6:00) so that I could go home before dark and I returned to surfing the internet, playing Freecell, reading, and taking messages for CEO. (In a job that had a fair number of ups and downs, being allowed to play with the computers was a definite up.)
The staff had been leaving steadily all day and the last real staffer left at 2:30, leaving me and the security guard. Did I mention that I was a temp? I could have cleaned out the place and fled and all they could have done was sued Kelly Services. Good grief. At 2:45 the security guard left. And so at 3:00, did I. I actually felt bad that I was leaving early, although why I couldn't tell you. CEO's assistant did make the very good point that in situations like that it pays to leave last because then everyone else is off the road and she was right - outside of being scary slippery, my commute home was much easier than it would have been had I been sharing the road with the genius drivers we get around here.
So today we have had snow. Now we have sleet and freezing rain. Some people think that "IRS audit" are verys scary words, but they are nothing on "sleet and freezing rain." At least not around here.
The worst commute home I ever had was a big winter snow storm when I was in college. Now, as we all know one of the hallmarks of the geezer is the unfavorable comparison of going to school in bad weather then and now and I'm totally owning my geezerhood. "These kids today!" There. I said it. "Uphill all the way!" Check. "They didn't just cancel school willy-nilly when I was a girl, no, sir!" Blah, blah, blah, yadda, yadda. We were nearly eaten by bears every day, too. And we didn't have these fancy-pants computers, no we didn't. We carved our assignments out on big stone slabs. Etc.
But it is true that back in the day the University of Maryland didn't close for sissy stuff like weather because - back in the day - there wasn't a microwave in every dorm room and if the university closed, the dining hall staff didn't come in and the dormers wouldn't get fed. So we hauled our sorry butts to school back in the day, unlike these kids today. Hmph.
Well, one storm was bad enough that the University closed around 1:00 pm. The snow was coming down in cubic feet rather than flakes and the prospect of several thousand commuter students taking over the student union for the duration was too much even for Chancellor Kirwan and President Toll, so the University ---- closed. At the time I lived about 7 miles from campus and those 7 miles took 6 hours to traverse. Oy. Now, of course, they close the campus if it gets overcast. These kids today.
Of course, I am one of the "kids" the previous generation would kvetch about, so it's all part of life's rich pageant. And I remember back when I was a teenager and Mom worked for the State of Maryland. If Mom wanted to be out of the office, she had to get a signed leave slip which was pretty much a permission slip for grown ups. Her supervisor would have to sign it and it had to be submitted well in advance of the requested time off.
This always created a problem on snow days because if the difficulty in time travelling that they had back then, so the government (or ... someone, I dunno) created "Liberal Leave," meaning that staffers could simply call in and take leave without advance permission rather than experiencing whatever punitive measures they would otherwise incur.
I'm so used to the modern day private sector that for me "Liberal Leave" is just the set up to a fairly lame joke and our new staffers here at the office, who are all young, very, very young have never worked in an environment where they had to get permission to be out of the office. But the federal government still uses it and it still has meaning for them.
So here's to whoever thought up "Liberal Leave." And as a moderate, I'm going home early.
Several years ago I worked as a temp at a company owned by... well, by someone who now owns a major local sports franchise. One January day it was snowing pretty heavily and then it began to freeze and eventually we ended up with a pretty nasty ice storm. CEO and his assistant were off at a series of dog-and-pony shows and the assistant would call in every so often to pick up messages and check in. Around 10:30 I told her that it was getting icy and that staff were starting to leave, she told me that yeah, that happens, but that they go and she stays. We agreed that I would stay until about 4:00 (instead of my usual 6:00) so that I could go home before dark and I returned to surfing the internet, playing Freecell, reading, and taking messages for CEO. (In a job that had a fair number of ups and downs, being allowed to play with the computers was a definite up.)
The staff had been leaving steadily all day and the last real staffer left at 2:30, leaving me and the security guard. Did I mention that I was a temp? I could have cleaned out the place and fled and all they could have done was sued Kelly Services. Good grief. At 2:45 the security guard left. And so at 3:00, did I. I actually felt bad that I was leaving early, although why I couldn't tell you. CEO's assistant did make the very good point that in situations like that it pays to leave last because then everyone else is off the road and she was right - outside of being scary slippery, my commute home was much easier than it would have been had I been sharing the road with the genius drivers we get around here.
So today we have had snow. Now we have sleet and freezing rain. Some people think that "IRS audit" are verys scary words, but they are nothing on "sleet and freezing rain." At least not around here.
The worst commute home I ever had was a big winter snow storm when I was in college. Now, as we all know one of the hallmarks of the geezer is the unfavorable comparison of going to school in bad weather then and now and I'm totally owning my geezerhood. "These kids today!" There. I said it. "Uphill all the way!" Check. "They didn't just cancel school willy-nilly when I was a girl, no, sir!" Blah, blah, blah, yadda, yadda. We were nearly eaten by bears every day, too. And we didn't have these fancy-pants computers, no we didn't. We carved our assignments out on big stone slabs. Etc.
But it is true that back in the day the University of Maryland didn't close for sissy stuff like weather because - back in the day - there wasn't a microwave in every dorm room and if the university closed, the dining hall staff didn't come in and the dormers wouldn't get fed. So we hauled our sorry butts to school back in the day, unlike these kids today. Hmph.
Well, one storm was bad enough that the University closed around 1:00 pm. The snow was coming down in cubic feet rather than flakes and the prospect of several thousand commuter students taking over the student union for the duration was too much even for Chancellor Kirwan and President Toll, so the University ---- closed. At the time I lived about 7 miles from campus and those 7 miles took 6 hours to traverse. Oy. Now, of course, they close the campus if it gets overcast. These kids today.
Of course, I am one of the "kids" the previous generation would kvetch about, so it's all part of life's rich pageant. And I remember back when I was a teenager and Mom worked for the State of Maryland. If Mom wanted to be out of the office, she had to get a signed leave slip which was pretty much a permission slip for grown ups. Her supervisor would have to sign it and it had to be submitted well in advance of the requested time off.
This always created a problem on snow days because if the difficulty in time travelling that they had back then, so the government (or ... someone, I dunno) created "Liberal Leave," meaning that staffers could simply call in and take leave without advance permission rather than experiencing whatever punitive measures they would otherwise incur.
I'm so used to the modern day private sector that for me "Liberal Leave" is just the set up to a fairly lame joke and our new staffers here at the office, who are all young, very, very young have never worked in an environment where they had to get permission to be out of the office. But the federal government still uses it and it still has meaning for them.
So here's to whoever thought up "Liberal Leave." And as a moderate, I'm going home early.
07 February 2007
Alton Brown Comes Through for Me
Last night, after posting about Mom's instant Hot Chocolate Mix, I caught an episode of "Good Eats" on the Food Network. Mom didn't use cayenne pepper (or, probably, cornstarch), but check out those first three ingredients. Mom was - as always - ahead of her time!
"Dutch Process," by the way, means cocoa powder that has been treated with an alkali to neutralize its natural acidity. Dutch Process cocoa is darker and milder and, according to Mr. Brown, a better choice for recipes that don't contain enough fat to tame the acidity. I believe that the antique cocoa powder that I got from David is has been Dutched because it's brown rather than red and it tastes good in my hot chocolate.
Thanks, Alton!!
"Dutch Process," by the way, means cocoa powder that has been treated with an alkali to neutralize its natural acidity. Dutch Process cocoa is darker and milder and, according to Mr. Brown, a better choice for recipes that don't contain enough fat to tame the acidity. I believe that the antique cocoa powder that I got from David is has been Dutched because it's brown rather than red and it tastes good in my hot chocolate.
Thanks, Alton!!
Hot
Show: Good Eats
Episode: Art of Darkness II: Cocoa
1 cup cocoa (Dutch-process preferred)
2 1/2 cups powdered milk
1 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons cornstarch
1 pinch cayenne pepper, or more to taste
Hot water
06 February 2007
Better Hot Chocolate
Speaking of cold, it's the time of year when I drink lots of hot chocolate. Not as much as I drink tea, of course, or even coffee, but more than usual. One of the things that has always disappointed me about most hot chocolate mixes is that they are thin (not very chocolaty), sugary, and kind of gray colored. A glance at the ingredients for the Nestlé Rich Chocolate Hot Cocoa Mix explains why: "Sugar, Corn Syrup, Vegetable Oil, Dairy Product Solids, Cocoa Processed with Alkali, Salt, Cellulose Gum, Sodium Caseinate, Potassium Phosphate, Sodium Alumino-Silicate, Mono- and Diglycerides, Guar Gum, Artificial Flavors, Sucralose." Uhm, to quote RaRay, "Yummo."
When my sister and I were voracious teens and my mother blanched both at how much sugar we consumed and how much the hot chocolate mix cost, she decided to create her own mix. The ingredients were: Hershey's Cocoa, powdered milk, powdered sugar. I don't remember the proportions, but with just three ingredients, it shouldn't be that hard to figure out.
I take my tea completely without additional ingredients (the way the Good Lord intends it), but I like to crap up my coffee with things like a dash of vanilla extract or cinnamon or (uh oh) nutmeg. And for hot chocolate, it's basically just open season for crap, especially when I get my very favorite hot chocolate: Starbucks (or Cosi) whole milk hot chocolate. It's my favorite because the ingredients are steamed milk, mocha syrup, vanilla syrup, and whipped cream. (I usually get the nonfat milk, however, because of the 70 calories, 90 fat calories, and 6 grams of saturated fat difference, but looking at Starbucks' nutrition info, I learn that if I went with nonfat milk and no whipped cream, I'd save another 80 calories, 60 fat calories, and the remaining 5 grams of saturated fat. Oh dear. Bye-bye, whipped cream.) Once I have my cup of wintertime joy, I crap it up with lots of cinnamon and nutmeg. MMMMmmmm.
But that's only at Starbucks or Cosi. At work I have the aforementioned Monsanto via Nestlé stuff. Thin. Sugary. Gray.
When I discovered that David had a can of Hershey's Cocoa that he wasn't using, I requisitioned it. Now when I make hot chocolate at work - it's pretty cold here a lot - I add a tablespoon of the Hershey's powder first. Now it's much more chocolaty. And less sugary. And brown. And now cocoa is the first ingredient instead of the fifth.
I can' t do the rest of the math because the can that David gave me is so old that it does not contain any nutrition information (and let's remember that the Nutrition Labeling and Education Act was implemented in 1994) and is actually a metal can. So it's sort of like having a yummy hot drink and time traveling simultaneously.
When my sister and I were voracious teens and my mother blanched both at how much sugar we consumed and how much the hot chocolate mix cost, she decided to create her own mix. The ingredients were: Hershey's Cocoa, powdered milk, powdered sugar. I don't remember the proportions, but with just three ingredients, it shouldn't be that hard to figure out.
I take my tea completely without additional ingredients (the way the Good Lord intends it), but I like to crap up my coffee with things like a dash of vanilla extract or cinnamon or (uh oh) nutmeg. And for hot chocolate, it's basically just open season for crap, especially when I get my very favorite hot chocolate: Starbucks (or Cosi) whole milk hot chocolate. It's my favorite because the ingredients are steamed milk, mocha syrup, vanilla syrup, and whipped cream. (I usually get the nonfat milk, however, because of the 70 calories, 90 fat calories, and 6 grams of saturated fat difference, but looking at Starbucks' nutrition info, I learn that if I went with nonfat milk and no whipped cream, I'd save another 80 calories, 60 fat calories, and the remaining 5 grams of saturated fat. Oh dear. Bye-bye, whipped cream.) Once I have my cup of wintertime joy, I crap it up with lots of cinnamon and nutmeg. MMMMmmmm.
But that's only at Starbucks or Cosi. At work I have the aforementioned Monsanto via Nestlé stuff. Thin. Sugary. Gray.
When I discovered that David had a can of Hershey's Cocoa that he wasn't using, I requisitioned it. Now when I make hot chocolate at work - it's pretty cold here a lot - I add a tablespoon of the Hershey's powder first. Now it's much more chocolaty. And less sugary. And brown. And now cocoa is the first ingredient instead of the fifth.
I can' t do the rest of the math because the can that David gave me is so old that it does not contain any nutrition information (and let's remember that the Nutrition Labeling and Education Act was implemented in 1994) and is actually a metal can. So it's sort of like having a yummy hot drink and time traveling simultaneously.
Making a better argument
When I stay overnight at David's, he seems to have some trouble getting me out of bed in the morning. And the basic reasons that he has any kind of interest in getting my lazy butt up and going are two:
1. When I should be getting up, I'm usually curled up with my head on his shoulder, pinning him down; and
2. He likes to spread out diagonally across the mattress and having Limpet Girl adhering to him noticeably slows that process.
And for the last several days it's been cold here the in DC area, so I'm even less inclined to bounce out of bed and start the day. In fact, just yesterday, Diagonal Man was trying to get me up when I made the following extremely subtle, sophisticated argument: "It's cold out there. It's warm in bed. QED."
My unintentional Wham! quotation aside, he still wasn't moved by my argument and, in fact, completely failed to acknowledge just how D it was, bringing up irrelevant rules of argument and logic. Again, not likely to pry me out from under nice, warm covers in Frigid February. David has yet to learn how to persuade through compliments and effusive flattery. Pity, that.
Anyway, for the past few days I've been thinking that he'd probably have no trouble at all in getting me up if he'd just invest in a Bacon Alarm.
*All syllogisms have three parts :. this is not a syllogism.
The credit: I got the link from Shelly.
1. When I should be getting up, I'm usually curled up with my head on his shoulder, pinning him down; and
2. He likes to spread out diagonally across the mattress and having Limpet Girl adhering to him noticeably slows that process.
And for the last several days it's been cold here the in DC area, so I'm even less inclined to bounce out of bed and start the day. In fact, just yesterday, Diagonal Man was trying to get me up when I made the following extremely subtle, sophisticated argument: "It's cold out there. It's warm in bed. QED."
My unintentional Wham! quotation aside, he still wasn't moved by my argument and, in fact, completely failed to acknowledge just how D it was, bringing up irrelevant rules of argument and logic. Again, not likely to pry me out from under nice, warm covers in Frigid February. David has yet to learn how to persuade through compliments and effusive flattery. Pity, that.
Anyway, for the past few days I've been thinking that he'd probably have no trouble at all in getting me up if he'd just invest in a Bacon Alarm.
*All syllogisms have three parts :. this is not a syllogism.
The credit: I got the link from Shelly.
01 February 2007
In the dusk with the light behind him
The joys of having your friends come to see you shows are without number. So are the opportunities for said friends to make fun of you from their seats. Case in point: I am kind of chatty. (We now pause as the Readership contemplates the immensity of that understatement.) Years ago, I was in a production of Blithe Spirit, playing the doctor's wife and at the end of one of our scenes his line was "Come along, Violet, you're talking too much -- as usual." Not normally a laugh line. Unless a half dozen or so of my friends in audience, in which case it's a real howler. (Sigh. I am so put upon.) The crew backstage couldn't figure out why that line got such a big laugh until I said that I had friends in the audience. "Ahhhhh."
Last night seven or so of us went to see David (not my David, yet another David) in a very sweet memory play called Sleeping Arrangements. We were lucky that he sang on his first entrance and we applauded (he sings very well) because it meant that he forgave what happened a few minutes later: Another character, looking him over, asked his age: "You're 38? You could pass for 28!" at which point our group laughed. Rudely. (Although, it should be noted, without pointing or snorting. We're a classy bunch.) David is, by just a few years, the oldest of the bunch of us, a fact we never let him forget.
The rest of the show passed without any further editorial comment from the stalls and we all went out for drinks afterwards. Happy ending.
But there was one more part of the show that I particularly enjoyed - the same character who gave us our laugh line had a repeated insult that I just loved and am considering adopting as my own. So from now on just think of me as the "no-good, Blondie, shiksa, bum, tramp, ham girl." Ham Girl, for short.
Last night seven or so of us went to see David (not my David, yet another David) in a very sweet memory play called Sleeping Arrangements. We were lucky that he sang on his first entrance and we applauded (he sings very well) because it meant that he forgave what happened a few minutes later: Another character, looking him over, asked his age: "You're 38? You could pass for 28!" at which point our group laughed. Rudely. (Although, it should be noted, without pointing or snorting. We're a classy bunch.) David is, by just a few years, the oldest of the bunch of us, a fact we never let him forget.
The rest of the show passed without any further editorial comment from the stalls and we all went out for drinks afterwards. Happy ending.
But there was one more part of the show that I particularly enjoyed - the same character who gave us our laugh line had a repeated insult that I just loved and am considering adopting as my own. So from now on just think of me as the "no-good, Blondie, shiksa, bum, tramp, ham girl." Ham Girl, for short.
30 January 2007
If I had $400
You know that Bare Naked Ladies song? "If I had a Million Dollars"? Well, if I had $400, I'd buy David a present. I'd get him one of these.
29 January 2007
Paula Prentiss, c'est moi
After having three consecutive directors ask me not to cut my hair, I have finally cut it. I convinced Chuck (my director for Anton) and Kendal (our hair and make-up designer) that Casey just needed shorter, less "processed" hair to look plainer than the dewey Lisabette or the TV-glamourous Holly.
This wasn't a hard sell because Kendel had her hands full creating separate looks for the three women playing men. All three of them have to make quick changes from one character to another, so the wigs and mustaches that they might wear have to be easy to get on and off and secure when they are on. I think that as long as the subtext to my hair was that it wouldn't require any help from anyone, it was going to be acceptable.
So I went to see Stephen, my hairdresser, and told him what I wanted. Stephen is also a director and theater hair designer, so all I usually have to do is tell him the charater I'm playing and when the show's set. I had had about four inches trimmed off after we closed Boy Gets Girl, but it was still pretty long. I told Stephen about Casey and mentioned that I'd like to look good in the 163 hours in the week when I wasn't on stage, and what could we do? Then I shut up and let him get to work. The first close of the scissors took off about 7 inches.
The result is your basic bob, slightly longer in the front than the back, and shorter than it has been since I was in elementary school. Because my hair is pretty thick, cutting off that much automatically makes it look fuller and gives it more volume. I can style it pretty easily and it's right for both New Yorker Casey and li'l ol' me. I love it. I wore a longer bob a couple of years ago that I called my "Cherry Ames, Student Nurse" haircut.
This one is my Paula Prentiss haircut. I don't have the bangs, but the length and general cut is right. It should be noted that this haircut is so good that the engineers and accountants I work with have complimented me on it. More than once. One cast member told me that I now looked too young and pretty to play Casey (I thanked her and asked her not to repeat that where Chuck could hear her.)
In fact, I'm considering using this photo of Ms. Prentiss the next time I'm asked for a headshot. The percentage of headshots that actually look like the the people they are supposed to depict is small enough that I have no moral qualms about this at all. None. My hair looks like hers, so who cares if her cheekbones are incredible and mine, uhm, aren't. And, oh yeah, she has brown eyes and I have grey eyes. And she seems to be in black and white, but I can fake that at auditions with the right wardrobe.
And besides, like David (and Ann-Margret*), she attended Northwestern, so maybe I can impress him that way.
*And, like David, but not like A-M, she graduated. Of course, it should be noted that A-M was busy making Bye-Bye Birdie, her 3rd movie, in the year in which she would have graduated. I'm just sayin'.
This wasn't a hard sell because Kendel had her hands full creating separate looks for the three women playing men. All three of them have to make quick changes from one character to another, so the wigs and mustaches that they might wear have to be easy to get on and off and secure when they are on. I think that as long as the subtext to my hair was that it wouldn't require any help from anyone, it was going to be acceptable.
So I went to see Stephen, my hairdresser, and told him what I wanted. Stephen is also a director and theater hair designer, so all I usually have to do is tell him the charater I'm playing and when the show's set. I had had about four inches trimmed off after we closed Boy Gets Girl, but it was still pretty long. I told Stephen about Casey and mentioned that I'd like to look good in the 163 hours in the week when I wasn't on stage, and what could we do? Then I shut up and let him get to work. The first close of the scissors took off about 7 inches.
The result is your basic bob, slightly longer in the front than the back, and shorter than it has been since I was in elementary school. Because my hair is pretty thick, cutting off that much automatically makes it look fuller and gives it more volume. I can style it pretty easily and it's right for both New Yorker Casey and li'l ol' me. I love it. I wore a longer bob a couple of years ago that I called my "Cherry Ames, Student Nurse" haircut.
This one is my Paula Prentiss haircut. I don't have the bangs, but the length and general cut is right. It should be noted that this haircut is so good that the engineers and accountants I work with have complimented me on it. More than once. One cast member told me that I now looked too young and pretty to play Casey (I thanked her and asked her not to repeat that where Chuck could hear her.)In fact, I'm considering using this photo of Ms. Prentiss the next time I'm asked for a headshot. The percentage of headshots that actually look like the the people they are supposed to depict is small enough that I have no moral qualms about this at all. None. My hair looks like hers, so who cares if her cheekbones are incredible and mine, uhm, aren't. And, oh yeah, she has brown eyes and I have grey eyes. And she seems to be in black and white, but I can fake that at auditions with the right wardrobe.
And besides, like David (and Ann-Margret*), she attended Northwestern, so maybe I can impress him that way.
*And, like David, but not like A-M, she graduated. Of course, it should be noted that A-M was busy making Bye-Bye Birdie, her 3rd movie, in the year in which she would have graduated. I'm just sayin'.
25 January 2007
I thought about the game
I like sports. Well, I like sporting events. I like going to "the game" more or less no matter what game I'm going to see, because sporting events are pretty much just big theme parties. There's food, whose expense is only exceeded by its unheathfulness; there are people, many of whom have had multiple beers; there is the costume, mainly jeans and a ballcap; and there is cheering. There are also the quasi-religious superstitions and rituals. And there is also some kind game, too, of course, let's not forget that.
Among my favorite games to attend are baseball games with Brett and football games with John and Mattie. I like going to games with them because they are knowledgeable about the games we are going to see and invested in them. They want their teams to win. I want to eat hot dogs and sit in the sunshine. (For hockey, I want to eat hot dogs and sit in a nice, warm arena.) Winning is nice, too. Definitely better than losing.
As you may have guessed from the above, I'm not the most informed fan out there. But I still have opinions (not knowing anything has never stopped me from having an opinion) which I share with the team. Not at the top of my lungs, like John, but more conversationally. (I love to point out that if the rest of the stadium would just shut up, the team could benefit from John's advice.) So when attending, oh, say, hockey games, I'm likely to say - not shout - things like "As this is a team sport, and your teammate is open, perhaps you should consider passing the puck to him."
David seems to find this a bit odd? entertaining? I dunno, but noteworthy anyway, and so he sent me this the other day in an e-mail that he titled "Head Coach Leta." And, you know, damned if it's not pretty much exactly what I would say. I mean, compare this random quote with the sample, supra, of my form of "cheering": Now, this is important. If he gives you the ball, run toward our goal and try not to get tackled.
Among my favorite games to attend are baseball games with Brett and football games with John and Mattie. I like going to games with them because they are knowledgeable about the games we are going to see and invested in them. They want their teams to win. I want to eat hot dogs and sit in the sunshine. (For hockey, I want to eat hot dogs and sit in a nice, warm arena.) Winning is nice, too. Definitely better than losing.
As you may have guessed from the above, I'm not the most informed fan out there. But I still have opinions (not knowing anything has never stopped me from having an opinion) which I share with the team. Not at the top of my lungs, like John, but more conversationally. (I love to point out that if the rest of the stadium would just shut up, the team could benefit from John's advice.) So when attending, oh, say, hockey games, I'm likely to say - not shout - things like "As this is a team sport, and your teammate is open, perhaps you should consider passing the puck to him."
David seems to find this a bit odd? entertaining? I dunno, but noteworthy anyway, and so he sent me this the other day in an e-mail that he titled "Head Coach Leta." And, you know, damned if it's not pretty much exactly what I would say. I mean, compare this random quote with the sample, supra, of my form of "cheering": Now, this is important. If he gives you the ball, run toward our goal and try not to get tackled.
22 January 2007
I don't shop enough
Well, Anton in Show Business is up and we didn't have a Sunday matinee, so, being me, I scheduled some stuff. I called David Saturday night (from the theater) to confirm plans:
"Okay, tomorrow I'm having brunch with Sally and Laura and then I'm seeing Jeff and Andy in I Hate Hamlet and then I'll come to your house and we'll go shopping for my new coat and then we'll clean the bathroom!" That "we'll clean the bathroom," actually meant that I would clean the bathroom, a consumption-free gift that I gave David just because he's my sweetie.
Instead of greeting my fabulous plan with cheerful agreement or offers to come to see the play with me or anything like that, David said* "Uhm, shopping after the play?"
"Yeah, sure. Is that okay?"
"I don't think anything will be open then."
"The malls aren't open until 9:00 on Sundays?"
"Not when it's not Christmas shopping season, no."
I opted to go to the play and then do the bathroom cleaning. It probably says something about me that I regard seeing a play as a higher priority than going shopping for a present for me. I just think that the something that it says may be a little odd.
As it turned out, we probably wouldn't have gone shopping anyway because it was snowing yesterday afternoon and the roads were unusually slippery and icy, which I discovered when I was about half way to the theater.
It rarely snows here when the temperature is below freezing, but we had a mix of snow and ice that was truly frightening and not made any better by the way that people in the DC area "drive" in the snow. At one point on my way to the theater, I was in an area where people were braking on up-hills. Yes. Braking. On inclines. You'd think they wanted to spend the afternoon getting me pulled out a ditch or something. The brakers-on-inclines were ahead of me and the don't-leave-enough-roomers were behind me. I've never been so frightened behind the wheel and I was actually shaking at one point.
So I went to see a play (which I enjoyed) and cleaned a bathroom. And, yes, I made sure to point out to Andy and Jeff that I chose seeing their play over shopping for a present for me. No point in risking of life and limb for community theater if you're not going to get any credit for it. And maybe a flower or two when they come to see my show...
* Note: As neither David nor I remember precisely what he said, I am making up his dialogue. So feel free to assume that he was more clever/less clever, nicer/meaner, soberer/drunker, or whatever than I have portrayed him herein.
"Okay, tomorrow I'm having brunch with Sally and Laura and then I'm seeing Jeff and Andy in I Hate Hamlet and then I'll come to your house and we'll go shopping for my new coat and then we'll clean the bathroom!" That "we'll clean the bathroom," actually meant that I would clean the bathroom, a consumption-free gift that I gave David just because he's my sweetie.
Instead of greeting my fabulous plan with cheerful agreement or offers to come to see the play with me or anything like that, David said* "Uhm, shopping after the play?"
"Yeah, sure. Is that okay?"
"I don't think anything will be open then."
"The malls aren't open until 9:00 on Sundays?"
"Not when it's not Christmas shopping season, no."
I opted to go to the play and then do the bathroom cleaning. It probably says something about me that I regard seeing a play as a higher priority than going shopping for a present for me. I just think that the something that it says may be a little odd.
As it turned out, we probably wouldn't have gone shopping anyway because it was snowing yesterday afternoon and the roads were unusually slippery and icy, which I discovered when I was about half way to the theater.
It rarely snows here when the temperature is below freezing, but we had a mix of snow and ice that was truly frightening and not made any better by the way that people in the DC area "drive" in the snow. At one point on my way to the theater, I was in an area where people were braking on up-hills. Yes. Braking. On inclines. You'd think they wanted to spend the afternoon getting me pulled out a ditch or something. The brakers-on-inclines were ahead of me and the don't-leave-enough-roomers were behind me. I've never been so frightened behind the wheel and I was actually shaking at one point.
So I went to see a play (which I enjoyed) and cleaned a bathroom. And, yes, I made sure to point out to Andy and Jeff that I chose seeing their play over shopping for a present for me. No point in risking of life and limb for community theater if you're not going to get any credit for it. And maybe a flower or two when they come to see my show...
* Note: As neither David nor I remember precisely what he said, I am making up his dialogue. So feel free to assume that he was more clever/less clever, nicer/meaner, soberer/drunker, or whatever than I have portrayed him herein.
15 January 2007
Betsy's scrapbooks
My cousin, Betsy, is a much better scrapbooker than I will ever be. (It should also be noted that she is a much better letter writer than I have ever been. I have a lovely, handwritten 2-page letter from her that has been in my "Oh, I should answer this" pile for years now. Right on top of things, aren't I?)
For the record, I should mention that Betsy has been Elizabeth for some time now, but I still think of her as Betsy.
Over the past couple of years she has taken old pictures of our grandparents and great-grandparents and made lovely on-line scrapbook pages for them. Using layouts, some that she creates herself and some that she gets from other scrapbookers, she frames the pictures and then adds her own memories or a quote or a discription of what the picture is all about, like her mother's first car, or a bit of family history like this picture of my grandparents, which made me laugh.
I love looking at old family photos, searching for resemblances, looking at the clothes. Family pictures are history made personal. I used to think that my Dad looked like his mother, but as I look at the pictures, I see more of his father in Daddy.
When my grandparents downsized before they moved out of the house they'd been in for about half a century into a little two-bedroom apartment (that was closer to town and easier to maintain) Gram would ask me what I wanted. I'd point to something, a picture, a side table, whatever, and was always told that Betsy had asked for it first.
This wasn't unreasonable; Betsy lived much closer and saw our grandparents more often that I, who was a thousand miles away, did. The only picture I have is this one, because Betsy copied it and sent it to me, had it gone the other way, I would have spent decades intending to copy and send it to her.
I love this picture because one doesn't often get to see one's grandmother looking like a glamour girl, but check out the bobbed hair*, the great shoes, and Gram's gams. If you look closely, you can even tell that she's wearing silk hose because nylons just don't have the same look. And that's genuine 1930 Alabama in the background. Eat your heart out, Barbara Stanwyck.
Of course, of all the pictures in the collection, the one that really catches my eye is the one of my grandparents as I knew them.
Betsy also has pictures of her adorable daughter, so I can see how my first-cousin-once-removed looks like her mother and grandmother. She even has Betsy's red hair, a family trait. Interestingly, She also looks like my red-haired friend, McCall. Maybe if we count back far enough, McCall and I are related...
I hope that over time, Betsy will scrapbook all the pictures because then we'll both have them. And I won't feel guilty about not sending her copies.
*I got my hair cut the other day and it looks remarklably like that picture right now.
For the record, I should mention that Betsy has been Elizabeth for some time now, but I still think of her as Betsy.
Over the past couple of years she has taken old pictures of our grandparents and great-grandparents and made lovely on-line scrapbook pages for them. Using layouts, some that she creates herself and some that she gets from other scrapbookers, she frames the pictures and then adds her own memories or a quote or a discription of what the picture is all about, like her mother's first car, or a bit of family history like this picture of my grandparents, which made me laugh.
I love looking at old family photos, searching for resemblances, looking at the clothes. Family pictures are history made personal. I used to think that my Dad looked like his mother, but as I look at the pictures, I see more of his father in Daddy.
When my grandparents downsized before they moved out of the house they'd been in for about half a century into a little two-bedroom apartment (that was closer to town and easier to maintain) Gram would ask me what I wanted. I'd point to something, a picture, a side table, whatever, and was always told that Betsy had asked for it first.
This wasn't unreasonable; Betsy lived much closer and saw our grandparents more often that I, who was a thousand miles away, did. The only picture I have is this one, because Betsy copied it and sent it to me, had it gone the other way, I would have spent decades intending to copy and send it to her.
I love this picture because one doesn't often get to see one's grandmother looking like a glamour girl, but check out the bobbed hair*, the great shoes, and Gram's gams. If you look closely, you can even tell that she's wearing silk hose because nylons just don't have the same look. And that's genuine 1930 Alabama in the background. Eat your heart out, Barbara Stanwyck.
Of course, of all the pictures in the collection, the one that really catches my eye is the one of my grandparents as I knew them.
Betsy also has pictures of her adorable daughter, so I can see how my first-cousin-once-removed looks like her mother and grandmother. She even has Betsy's red hair, a family trait. Interestingly, She also looks like my red-haired friend, McCall. Maybe if we count back far enough, McCall and I are related...
I hope that over time, Betsy will scrapbook all the pictures because then we'll both have them. And I won't feel guilty about not sending her copies.
*I got my hair cut the other day and it looks remarklably like that picture right now.
12 January 2007
L my name is Leta
This actually came as a surprise to me. So far in my life (cue that Beatles song) I've met two people with my first name - one was the grandmother I'm named for - and I've heard of a couple of others, like Leta Armstrong, daughter of Heather "Dooce" Armstrong; and some nice lady in Simcoe-York in Ontario. Most Google returns for my name have to do with me, except, thank goodness, the ones that refer to cemetaries.
The "How Many of Me" site says that there are 11,999 people in the U.S. with my first name and that 99.9% of us Letas are female. So if one of y'all could name a child "Leta" it would push the Leta-colony up to 12,000 after which it would only be a matter of time before we hit that Top Ten Names thing that my sister, Sara, was always on and I was never on and maybe, just maybe, one could then find kid's bicycle licence plates and jewelry that said Leta which I never could when I was a kid and when it *mattered* to me NOT THAT I'M BITTER ABOUT THAT!!
When I was in college there were so many guys in Markland named John that they would huddle together and chant about how they were John, they were a colony creature. The Borg always kind of reminded me of the John Colony, come to think of it. But it's really hard to be a colony of one. An Army of one, sure, but a colony of one? You just look like some weirdo chantiing to herself and I get that enough already.
You know the real reason that more people aren't named Leta? It's because if one is named Leta one either has to work with engineers, who don't voluntarily read anything that doesn't have a diagram, or one has to spend one's entire adult life having this conversation:
Them: Leda? Like Leda and the Swan?
Me: No. Not like that at all.
Not to mention all the hours of my life I could have back that I've spent spelling and pronouncing my name to people.
Gakked from Shelly's Cyber Chocolate.
10 January 2007
Egg noggy goodness
Maureen and I are on the same off-topic list for G&S geeks, SavoyNot, wherein she asked the other day if one could cook or bake with egg nog.
Yes. Yes, one can.
(At this point, the screen should get that wavy thing going on that would happen in 60s and 70s sit-coms to indicate a flash back. If yours isn't doing that, check with your ISP and request the Flashback patch.)
Many years ago, when Brett and I were renting rooms from Chort, Stacey (Brett's sister) came to visit from Hawaii for Christmas. I hadn't met her before, but she seemed very nice and she put up with my mindless prattle and puppy-like friendliness, so we got along fine. Anyway, one morning I was making breakfast - muffins, scrambled eggs, probably bacon, the usual sort of weekend breakfast fare - and realized that we were out of milk. Thinking quickly, if not necessarily clearly, I figured that as egg nog is pretty much just gussied up milk, I could substitute it for the missing cow juice.
Stacey and I were the only ones up at that point and she was keeping me company while I cooked. (Being from Hawaii, she was also - if I remember correctly - quietly freezing.) She didn't raise any objections to the egg nog, so I figured it would be okay to use it.
In those days, Brett's description of how to make scrambled eggs was to break some eggs into a bowl, whisk in some milk, add this mixture to a pan with hot butter, and as the eggs were setting, start adding cheese. Keep adding cheese. Then maybe a little more cheese. This was not because Brett was such a huge fan of cheese (although who isn't?) but because he didn't much care for the taste of eggs.
So I made the egg noggy muffins and while they were in the oven, I made the egg noggy scrambled eggs. All of which tasted just fine to me, in fact, egg nog in muffins is really quite nice, especially if one likes a little zip of nutmeg in one's muffins.
Brett came downstairs and the three of us ate in companionable silence, largely because Brett was not Mr. Morning in those days and I would repress my normal chatter from some kind of sense of basic humanity. The aforementioned companionable silence was broken when Brett mentioned that the eggs had a rather --- odd --- taste and that he couldn't get that taste out of his mouth even when he followed it with some muffin.
At which point two things happened: Stacey started to smile pretty much exactly like the Grinch at the point in the story when he gets his wonderful, awful idea and I began cheerfully explaining my culinary stop-gap. I kept eating because, evidently, I like the taste of nutmeg in my eggs, but Brett put down his fork and decided that a Dr. Pepper would be breakfast enough that day.
It seems that while eggs are a dish best served hot, revenge is still a dish best served cold.
Some years before this particular breakfast, when Stacey, Brett, and their Dad all lived together each of them was responsible for making dinner every third day or so. One night Brett wanted to go hang out with his friends and was informed that until he had finished making dinner for his loving parent and adoring sister, he was a prisoner of the kitchen. So he finished making their dinners and fled.
When he returned, it was to find said parent and sister waiting for him in the living room with visions of mayhem dancing in their heads because their hamburgers contained - besides, ground beef, salt, and pepper - a fairly large portion of cinnamon. Brett claimed it was unintentional, but his family never really believed him and Stacey knew that time was on her side. Eventually fate would deliver vengeance into her hands. Vengeance, it seems, thy name is Leta. Or possibly egg nog, I'm not quite sure.
So, the short answer is yes, use the left over egg nog for anything that requires milk and will be improved with dash of nutmeg or allspice. For Brett's sake, perhaps it should be omitted from scambled eggs.
Yes. Yes, one can.
(At this point, the screen should get that wavy thing going on that would happen in 60s and 70s sit-coms to indicate a flash back. If yours isn't doing that, check with your ISP and request the Flashback patch.)
Many years ago, when Brett and I were renting rooms from Chort, Stacey (Brett's sister) came to visit from Hawaii for Christmas. I hadn't met her before, but she seemed very nice and she put up with my mindless prattle and puppy-like friendliness, so we got along fine. Anyway, one morning I was making breakfast - muffins, scrambled eggs, probably bacon, the usual sort of weekend breakfast fare - and realized that we were out of milk. Thinking quickly, if not necessarily clearly, I figured that as egg nog is pretty much just gussied up milk, I could substitute it for the missing cow juice.
Stacey and I were the only ones up at that point and she was keeping me company while I cooked. (Being from Hawaii, she was also - if I remember correctly - quietly freezing.) She didn't raise any objections to the egg nog, so I figured it would be okay to use it.
In those days, Brett's description of how to make scrambled eggs was to break some eggs into a bowl, whisk in some milk, add this mixture to a pan with hot butter, and as the eggs were setting, start adding cheese. Keep adding cheese. Then maybe a little more cheese. This was not because Brett was such a huge fan of cheese (although who isn't?) but because he didn't much care for the taste of eggs.
So I made the egg noggy muffins and while they were in the oven, I made the egg noggy scrambled eggs. All of which tasted just fine to me, in fact, egg nog in muffins is really quite nice, especially if one likes a little zip of nutmeg in one's muffins.
Brett came downstairs and the three of us ate in companionable silence, largely because Brett was not Mr. Morning in those days and I would repress my normal chatter from some kind of sense of basic humanity. The aforementioned companionable silence was broken when Brett mentioned that the eggs had a rather --- odd --- taste and that he couldn't get that taste out of his mouth even when he followed it with some muffin.
At which point two things happened: Stacey started to smile pretty much exactly like the Grinch at the point in the story when he gets his wonderful, awful idea and I began cheerfully explaining my culinary stop-gap. I kept eating because, evidently, I like the taste of nutmeg in my eggs, but Brett put down his fork and decided that a Dr. Pepper would be breakfast enough that day.
It seems that while eggs are a dish best served hot, revenge is still a dish best served cold.
Some years before this particular breakfast, when Stacey, Brett, and their Dad all lived together each of them was responsible for making dinner every third day or so. One night Brett wanted to go hang out with his friends and was informed that until he had finished making dinner for his loving parent and adoring sister, he was a prisoner of the kitchen. So he finished making their dinners and fled.
When he returned, it was to find said parent and sister waiting for him in the living room with visions of mayhem dancing in their heads because their hamburgers contained - besides, ground beef, salt, and pepper - a fairly large portion of cinnamon. Brett claimed it was unintentional, but his family never really believed him and Stacey knew that time was on her side. Eventually fate would deliver vengeance into her hands. Vengeance, it seems, thy name is Leta. Or possibly egg nog, I'm not quite sure.
So, the short answer is yes, use the left over egg nog for anything that requires milk and will be improved with dash of nutmeg or allspice. For Brett's sake, perhaps it should be omitted from scambled eggs.
30 December 2006
The things I carry
I don't actually keep a cup of coffee in my purse - or my foot for that matter - but when I did what I call a "core dump" the other day, David took a picture of the stuff that I consider essential for daily life. I could still weed out a bunch of that and get through the day, but the reason I carry as small a purse as I do is because of my tendency to fill it to capacity whatever size it is. Whenever it won't close, it's time for another dump-n-ditch. The one thing missing is a script - I usually have one with me, but Chuck gave me mine in a binder which won't fit in my purse. Years ago, Leslie, Naomi, and I wandered around San Francisco and by the end of the day my left shoulder was aching. I figured out quickly that the reason was the eight-pound textbook hidden in the much larger purse I carried back then. My current purse - and all its contents - weighs just under four pounds.
When we went to one of the Smithsonian museums recently, the guard was impressed with how orderly and efficient my purse was and asked if I could teach his wife my purse management system.
Squirrel rampant!
Brett is concerned that we are going to be subjugated by the family Sciuridae. His posts about our "mutant squirrel overlords" can be found here. And you know, Brett is a good guy and one of my best friends and if he wants to have paranoid fantasies about cute little woodland animals, I'm totally willing to back him up on that. Of course, considering how many things one can find on the net, or even on Wikipedia, merely by typing in the word "squirrel" perhaps "paranoid" is an ill-chosen word here.
Anyway, David and I were at the Blackwater National Wildlife Refuge yesterday and we learned about the endangered Delmarva Fox Squirrel. We saw them scampering about and, because they are both cute and endangered*, we found adorable Delmarva Fox Squirrel objets d'tourist in the gift shop. At David's prompting, I purchased a Delmarva Fox Squirrel stuffed animal/finger puppet.
I found the fiercest, most terrifying, one they had - you'll note his agressive and warlike demeanor in the picture (left) - and named him Rampant. It is impressively easy to make him look as though he is about to, oh, savage an innocent family. In fact, Rampant really looks as though he is about to burst out of the computer and savage anyone reading this post.
Our original intent, and the reason that we leaned more toward the red of tooth and claw look than the wearing a sweater look - and there were sweater-wearing stuffed animal squirrels at the BNWR gift shop, make no mistake - is that we were thinking of presenting Rampant to Brett as a gift. But as we rode along homewards, Rampant and I bonded as I showed him the rest of Dorchester county and allowed him to make bone-meltingly terrifying faces at the truckers we passed. So now I'm not sure that I want Rampant to go live with Brett. Especially as there is the possibility that Rampant would be used to provide some kind of horrible example to the big city squirrels of P.G. County. I can just see some form of gibbet in Brett's backyard with Rampant swinging in the breeze after he'd been given to 'Jira (Brett and Cate's 600-foot-tall-fire-breathing-lizard disguised as an elderly black lab) as a plaything. No kind of fit ending for as noble a warrior as Rampant.
Besides, did you see how cute he is?
*My own first law of zoology is what I call "Survival of the Cutest." Species that are cute have a better chance of having stuffed animal avatars in the gift shop than icky, scary ones. Which means that they get more fundraising dollars, their kids go to better schools, etc, etc, etc.
Anyway, David and I were at the Blackwater National Wildlife Refuge yesterday and we learned about the endangered Delmarva Fox Squirrel. We saw them scampering about and, because they are both cute and endangered*, we found adorable Delmarva Fox Squirrel objets d'tourist in the gift shop. At David's prompting, I purchased a Delmarva Fox Squirrel stuffed animal/finger puppet.
I found the fiercest, most terrifying, one they had - you'll note his agressive and warlike demeanor in the picture (left) - and named him Rampant. It is impressively easy to make him look as though he is about to, oh, savage an innocent family. In fact, Rampant really looks as though he is about to burst out of the computer and savage anyone reading this post. Our original intent, and the reason that we leaned more toward the red of tooth and claw look than the wearing a sweater look - and there were sweater-wearing stuffed animal squirrels at the BNWR gift shop, make no mistake - is that we were thinking of presenting Rampant to Brett as a gift. But as we rode along homewards, Rampant and I bonded as I showed him the rest of Dorchester county and allowed him to make bone-meltingly terrifying faces at the truckers we passed. So now I'm not sure that I want Rampant to go live with Brett. Especially as there is the possibility that Rampant would be used to provide some kind of horrible example to the big city squirrels of P.G. County. I can just see some form of gibbet in Brett's backyard with Rampant swinging in the breeze after he'd been given to 'Jira (Brett and Cate's 600-foot-tall-fire-breathing-lizard disguised as an elderly black lab) as a plaything. No kind of fit ending for as noble a warrior as Rampant.
Besides, did you see how cute he is?
*My own first law of zoology is what I call "Survival of the Cutest." Species that are cute have a better chance of having stuffed animal avatars in the gift shop than icky, scary ones. Which means that they get more fundraising dollars, their kids go to better schools, etc, etc, etc.
Anton in Show Business
In response to urgent questioning of the masses:
I'm appearing as Casey in Jane Martin's Anton in Show Business at Port City Playhouse. We have performances January 19 - February 3, with an "actor night" on Tuesday, January 30.
The show satirizes the conflict between art and commerce in theater and is lots of fun.
Y'all come!
I'm appearing as Casey in Jane Martin's Anton in Show Business at Port City Playhouse. We have performances January 19 - February 3, with an "actor night" on Tuesday, January 30.
The show satirizes the conflict between art and commerce in theater and is lots of fun.
Y'all come!
25 December 2006
Why David is my man
Because at 8:25 in the morning - before coffee - he says things like "Ahh, that's better. [X] and [Y] constellate more closely."
No. Of course, he doesn't say things like "[X] and [Y]." Don't be silly. He says constellate.
No. Of course, he doesn't say things like "[X] and [Y]." Don't be silly. He says constellate.
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