Countdown: Two Nights

As I've mentioned before, I spend the vast majority of Act One sitting silently. I'm lazy enough to enjoy this and let someone else do the heavy lifting this time. But becuase I have to use an accent, this onstage downtime works against me. Normally, I'd practice backstage before going on. If I had a proper entrance, I would pace backstage, tighten my accent, wait for my cue, walk onstage, and make with the British blabber. In this play, I don't have that immediate prep time, and our speakers aren't using true accents. I can't vicariously keep my accent muscles ready by listening to them. I start talking cold.

I've concentrated on my accent over the last few days. I can hear BBC Radio over the internet. I have a British author audiobook for the commute. I've even played with mixing dialects, moving from Michael Caine to Ricky Gervaise and Hugh Grant and Patrick Stewart. Cratchit can't be refined. He's low class compared to Scrooge, but Scrooge is only successful middle class. He's not aristocracy, which may be the most subtle trick of the original story. Scrooge is marginally higher in station than Cratchit, but he's hoarded his money. The middle class, then, can be comfortable and successful without being born into money. Scrooge has earned it but with such focus that he became a miser. He has no servants or coachmen. Scrooge represents the potential of wrong in all strata of society. A Christmas Carol is not class warfare. It's the "prodigal son" story if the dad went bad.

One more note about British accents. Almost all us amateur actors make the same mistake when they slap one on: They get airy. They push the voice high and powdery, and they lose projection. The cultural association is that British speakers have no vocal bass. It's wrong, but there it is. I had to bring my voice down when I really tried Cratchit the first time. It remains the first trick for me to keep in mind. Then I work on selective enunciation -- "and" becomes "n" and "men" becomes "m'n." But certain syllables are drawn out for that dry texture. And then of course there's the "r" pronunciations. Yes, it's a lot to work with, and this is why I wanted the accents dropped when we did the spring play, and it's probably why the major characters don't have them for this play.

But let's get back to the rehearsals.

Here's when you know you're in real trouble: The director makes Xerox copies of the script for the lead actors who have not had one clean rehearsal. The script is enlarged to a loose-leaf format to be easily read at a glance. They can be kept onstage and used throughout the show. No more awkward pauses and obvious requests for lines. She holds them out to the actors. They refuse them. Now -- right now -- you're in trouble. The actors claim their notes are sufficient. These are the same notes that have failed them all these weeks. These are the same notes that befuddle them as they run scenes. These are ineffective notes, and the actors clearly state they prefer them to the full script which they can refer to any time during the show.

I was in the same position -- the exact same position -- last year. I had a shitload of lines in a courtroom play. I had notes. I had a near-disastrous open rehearsal where I confused my cues at the exhibit table and blanked hard for what seemed like eight years. But that was my lone boo-boo, and I expanded my onstage notes. If someone had offered me a full script, I would have refused. And I think I did. But I tightened my notes, and I didn't have that hiccup with an audience, and that error happened just once. Once.

The judge is told to arm himself onstage with the script to cue the actors when trouble arises. he explains it will confuse him. He's already reading half his lines from his bench, so I don't know what the problem might be.

Anyway, we have our first audience Thursday night, and we there isn't one scene without line trouble. Doc says he did the math and realizes we'd be fine if we had Wednesday rehearsals. I agree. Tonight's practice is not bad for a show that opens in a week, but it's scary for a show that opens this weekend. Whole pages are skipped. The four-page climactic argument is rearranged. The defense attorney only halfway stands up during objections because he's not sure if he should object or on what grounds. Mrs. Cratchit reads her great comic interjection as a weepy monologue. The costume chief wants us to reblock the last scene because she doesn't like the sight of the empty witness gallery. The tech board operator petitions to add music we hadn't planned for. The circuit breaker cuts off our lights randomly through the show.

The director asks if we can add a rehearsal Thursday afternoon, and I say I can't make it. I have to work. Other voices echo mine. The stage manager says the judge and attorneys should meet up and run lines, something I thought of about two weeks back.

Here's what I can do: Prepare my lines (only takes five minutes to run them), and treat this show as an exercise in improv. Stay on my toes. Worry only about my stuff. Nail my scenes and stay light.

As I type this, there are ten hours before we take the stage for invited guests. Then we have three nights of performances until Monday's wings and beer. Wings and beer are my tunnel light. Wings and beer are my Christmas spirits. A chance and a hope.

A chance and a hope, Ebenezer.

Picture of the Day
Inconceivable.

Countdown: Three Nights

I forget that I've shaved until I pass a mirror and -- WHAMMO -- I'm Victorian. It's very much a bad look for me. I hope the director lets me scale back the chops to slacker-cool sideburns. Once this show is done, I'll shave everything and start from scratch.

I went to the local costume shop and found a mesh mask. The only ones that had were all framed by a colorful fringe, but I at least found one the matches the purple trim of the ghost robe. I hope we can cut it off. And by "we," I mean the costume chief.

Three words for tonight's practice: Gee. Zus. Christ.

Twice I had to ad-lib to save Doc, the defense attorney. Both times I was on the witness stand. It's really difficult to leapfrog chunks of dialogue when all of your lines are dependent on the other actor. It's even trickier when you are a wordless character who can only hope your translator can pick up on your pantomiming and feed that attorney a cue.

Oh. Oh God.

The attorney is working with notes in two locations: his table and the judge's bench. He has index cards with shorthand cues. When he blanks, he can turn away from the audience and reset himself. Unless, of course, he forgets what that shorthand is supposed to mean. Or he can't read the writing. We struggle through this throughout the rehearsal.

We started off on the right foot. Even though we dress for Act One, we start with the last third of Act Two. We sit and run lines. Then we take our places and run those same lines. Then we start the play properly. When we reach the play's end, then, it makes the third time that night we've run that scene. And it still requires copious cues from the stage manager.

The director finally asks the cast what more can be done to help.

"Cheat sheets," says the costume chief.

"Give them them the scripts," I say.

And we mean it. The attorneys and judge can have the entire script on their tables. It will looks like appropriate props. This was our option for the last courtroom play, and Doc had virtually his entire script then on note cards. Legible, clear note cards. Why not do it again? The director calls our state "appalling," and it's true. Friday is both our first official night, and the ribbon-cutting ceremony for our new stage space. It would be very bad to suck that day.

I finally get to take a photo of Scrooge for the magnet design, but I still need a photo of me as the ghost. I bought a mesh mask Tuesday, and that night's rehearsal was the first pass at using it. It worked OK, I think. By adding another layer between me and the audience, it goosed me to make my gestures bigger, which I like.

It also means I have on seven layers when I take the stand in that scene -- t-shirt, dress shirt, vest, black shirt, robe, hood, mask. I am dying under there. The stage lights and heaters only make it harder to concentrate. Thankfully, there's no way we we'll be onstage so long when we have an audience. Of course, by then they may have burned down the stage in protest.

Picture of the Day
Measure for measure.

Countdown: Four Nights

We get our first audience Thursday night -- invited folks who otherwise wouldn't pay to attend. Monday's rehearsal means we have three more nights to clean up our act.

A number of us are sick with various degrees of crud. I'm doing much better. Brick and Doc are bad off. Mrs. Cracthit and Past Christmas are sniffling. 'Tis the season.

I put on the Cratchit jacket, gloves, and scarf because I want to mark the time needed to take those off and put on my ghost costume. I find I have plenty of time even when I figure in the time for the mesh mask I have to buy Tuesday. Because I'm feeling better, I take my place in the onstage witness gallery for the entirety of Act One. I speak for about eight pages and spend 40 just sitting behind the defense attorney.

It's nerve-wracking to watch actors struggle with lines, and I remind myself that, just a year ago, I was in their shoes. I was roaming a stage for the entire play, desperate to recall the dialogue, while the majority of the cast sat and watched and waited for their short bits of stage time. I can tell you honestly that I prefer being in this position now. This is the comfort of a bit part. Also, I make myself relax. I'm have sympathy pains for them but this isn't my cross to bear. Not this time.

If we don't tighten up the lines in three nights, we will open our brand-new digs with a parade of incompetence. We have major, major problems, and the best thing we can do is run scenes multiple times to hammer them into shape. Scrooge assures us he'll be ready, and I hope he is. I don't want any of the actors to fall on their face. And I want the theatre to have a grand opening to their new season. And I don't want to be so worried about them that I make a stupid mistake.

It's entirely possible that the Future Ghost will steal the show. Not me. The ghost. I just have to do the role justice. But I discovered last night that it's impossible to overdo the part.

As I write this, I have shaved myself an anti-goatee. I have muttonchops, and there's a very good reason they went out of style.

Picture of the Day
A fashion photo reminiscent of the horserace scene in My Fair Lady.

Rehearsal Sixteen: Tech

Normally a tech runs like so: The crew get the script, and the actors walk through any moments that require sound or light changes. The director sees the effects and makes adjustments based on technical options or artistic wallop. With all the cues set, the entire play is rehearsed to lock down the tech stuff. In a full-sized three-act show, this can take literally all day. This show, however, is practically black box. Aside from the opening and close of tech show, the only effects are for the ghost entrances. This tech runs differently.

Our Scrooge is the effects guru, and he spends the entire rehearsal adjusting lights and teaching the new person running the effects board. She was the director of the courtroom show last fall. She doesn't seem to adjust well to the board controls. Maybe it's a stodgy set-up. I dunno. Anyway, instead of nailing down the cues, the director has us run the rehearsal as normal with the effects popping in on those rare moments that call for them. Meanwhile, the crew move among the actors to move lights. At one point, Marley is in the witness box reciting lines as a light guy wobbles on a ladder right behind him.

We go to the warehouse before the rehearsal to grab our costumes. The new theatre green room is in shambles. The exiting partitions are gone, wiring hangs from the ceiling, the floor is filthy, and there's no heat. One could argue this is method preparation for Victorian characters. We have a small space heater running, and a few free-standing screens to use for changing clothes. But it's freezing in there, and we'll be here mostly when the sun goes down. Thankfully, most of the actors are onstage the entire play. If they stayed in the room for the play, they'd get sick. Like me, with the Klingon death flu.

The director asks if I should go back home, and I argue that I get shaky just thinking of missing a rehearsal this close to the show opening. I sip some home-brewed tea and pop my cough drops. The director reads for Scrooge, and I read for him when it's her character's turn to take the stand.

My Cratchit costume is just right. I hate the five-button fly though, and I can see now why the Victorians earned their reputation as prudes: It would take too long to get out of the clothes to have any fun. The ghost costume doesn't reach the floor, and the hood shows too much of my face. I'll go to the costume store and buy a mesh mask. But I enjoy wearing the get-up, and the gloves allow me to make broad muppet-like gestures. I'm just this side of waving my arms over my head like Kermit. Brick looks downright jaunty in his costume, but he's unsure about his fake sideburns. I have to ask when we're to shave down to the muttonchops.

We end about three hours after we start, unheard of for techs. I'm not complaining. I'm headsick, and the director tells me outright to stay home if I'm not any better Monday night. Frankly, I'd have to be bedridden to stay away. We need to tighten our lines. We get an audience in four nights.

Rehearsal Fifteen: Sick Sick Sick

I tried my best to stay healthy. After we spent the day around Brooke and her cough, I would run to the hotel and wash my hands. I used very hot water. Hot enough to melt the skin and reveal the titanium alloy of my 21st-century cyborg knuckles with which I can track down Sarah Connor and Thumbkin.

But I am sick, and it is bad. I’m in the sick bed, and my skull is a wet loaf of bread. I can only sleep with the help of my beloved NyQuil. I would love to try that nasal douche y’all talked about in Birmingham. I have cut back on my cough drops because the sugar hurts my teeth already sore from the cold. But I couldn’t stay away from the rehearsal.

We knew that the new stage area – the local legion hall – would need a floor waxing, and that would keep us from working there. We also knew the hall would house a craft fair for the weekend Christmas festival. What we didn’t know is the fair would be left in place overnight. We walk into a bazaar, and some booths have sprawled onto the stage. There is a fair watchman sitting in the back of the room, making sure we don’t mess stuff up. I think he’s connected to the theatre too, but he’s there on behalf of the fair. He stays in the back, watching TV. There’s some tense discussion about moving the sound table nearer to the stage for the time being, and our courtroom director is here to man the sound and light table.

I am sick as a dog and armed with soup, a hankie, DayQuil, and cough drops. I ask the director if I can stay out of the witness gallery so I won’t ensickify the other actors. I don’t think I can do the ghost voice tonight. A number of us are already coughing and sniffling. At least this is hitting me now and not next week when we open. Oh, yes, we open next week.

It’s decided that the green room is useless, and we’ll do make-up and costumes at the warehouse. I don’t know if this means I’ll carry around my ghost costume between shows. The rehearsal is fairly smooth until we again hit the 30-page threshold. The lines fall apart. My accent gets a bit better because of the cold, oddly enough. Marley behaves himself better, but the constant correction of lines by the stage manager knocks us all out of a groove. Mrs. Cratchit nails her lines tonight, and I yell out “that’s my baby.” We try some simple sound and light cues for the ghost entrances.

It takes a few years to get through Act One, and Act Two is a constant call for lines and awkward silences as folks struggle to remember. I even forget a ghost mumble – the easiest thing to do in the history of ever – and it cracks up the crew. Then, my ghost translator forgets his line, and I offer “hey, I clearly said ‘mumblemumblemumble.’ ” The cast is a little goofy tonight; we might all be drunk on cold medicine. I am the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Breathe.

The director announces we will not meet again until Sunday’s tech, but she commands us to run lines at home. And I shall, from the comfort of my undersized intensive-care cot as I slowly drain my brainswamp. Counting Sunday, we have four rehearsals before we have our first, invited audience. Scrooge, the judge, and the attorney really need to sit down in a coffee shop and run lines.

Picture of the Day
David vs. Goliath

Rehearsal Fourteen: Bad Move

It's Tuesday afternoon.

1:15 I get a call from the director, saying we won't have a line-through. We will have the stage for a full-on rehearsal. Great! We can carry along whatever momentum we developed last night.

3:40 Another call. Nope, crossed wires. We're doing the line-through after all. #!%@.

The local paper ran our press release, including a photo. Look at this.


It doesn't suggest anything Scroogey, and we're not wearing any time-appropriate costumes. Doc and I are doing nothing. Why would anyone comes to see this show based on this photo? Also, I have luggage under my eyes.

The line-through starts with some notes. The costume chief wants us to dress up before Thursday's rehearsal, but the duds are at the warehouse. Do we meet there, dress up, and drive to the new stage area? It's never made clear. It appears this will, however, be the procedure for preparing our make-up as there is no functioning green room at the stage. We did this for last year's courtroom play. We sat at the warehouse for make-up and drove to the play location while praying we weren't pulled over for any reason.

The rehearsal starts fairly smoothly, and we get a groove going for the first 20+ pages. Then it crumbles. I have to work on my accent consistency. The rehearsal goes as before until we reach the second act. Some cast members peel off into the night as their work is done. But among them is Marley. He gathers up his daughter and walks out the door. The director, apparently unaware of any early deadline, calls after him, reminding him he still has lines. He doesn't respond. He's out the door and gone.

It's possible, and I want to give the benefit of the doubt, that he arranged an early departure with the director, and she forgot. It's possible he got an emergency call, and he left in a hurry. But without more evidence, it's also possible that he pulled off a dick move.

He likes to grumble. He makes comments throughout the play constantly. He doesn't like the pace, doesn't like the line problems, doesn't like this and that. I obviously have my concerns too, but I don't mumble them as the actors are struggling. I don't flop my hands about in a gratuitous display of misery. I don't throw around a trump card about years of experience.

Best case scenario for the matter: He had no choice.
Worst case: He's a dick.

The director reads his lines when we get to his Act Two material. We really and truly have to work on Act Two. It requires so much more energy than the first act, and it throws a lot of plot at the audience. The director ends the rehearsal by saying she's not concerned now with exact recitation of the script so long as we get the point across. But, she explains, we can't look for an exact cue from our fellow actors. Unfortunately, a lot of these cues are questions we are to answer. Hopefully we won't have to rework the original dialogue into our response to fit the inaccurate question we were asked. If we change our lines, then that scrambles the cue someone else needs. We make a chain of increased confusion.

Script: "How long have your worked for Misters Scrooge and Marley?"
Attorney: "Um, Bob, ... what is your opinion of Mister Scrooge?"
Me: "If I understand you right, sir, you want to know how long I worked for Scrooge and Marley, and the answer is ten years."
Attorney: "Ah, yes. yes."

It seemed to go somewhat better tonight, but it's an incremental improvement. There's small discussion about uncovering the Future Ghost's face to show my expressions. But the director poo-poos that. And I'm glad. I hope Thursday to rehearse that scene in my ghost costume.

Rehearsal Thirteen: Stagecraft

It's our first night at the theatre's new stage location: a leased American legion hall. It's old and needs massive renovation, but for this small show it will do fine. The set pieces are already in place, and the stage looks small. It's maybe 15 feet deep, but it's 30ish feet wide. Seen from the audiences, it looks huge. Onstage feels crowded. But we do have a large judge bench taking up a quarter of the stage.

We're told immediately that we won't be able to have our usual Tuesday rehearsal here because the crew will wax the floors. A vote is taken to keep the Tuesday date, but outside schedules force us to make it another line-through. Whatever progress we make tonight with props and stage movement will be lost tomorrow as we again stare at each other and yank lines from our brains. The consensus says we need as much rehearsal time as possible. Maybe we'll meet Friday as well. Schedule debates leads to frustration and grousing among the cast members who showed up. We have no bailiff or Marley tonight.

The stage is a catalyst. You will either grow meek or expand to fill the space. Cratchit's demeanor changes a bit, and I project the lines for the back row. Now it feels like we're acting, like we're in a real show. It's fun again. I think of Judi Dench's accent when I speak my lines. I like her lilt. Mrs. Cratchit can't get her lines out on two tries. Her THREE lines. Because we don't have the bailiff or Marley, I offer to read them aloud, and I discover another line hiccup: There's a huge amount of paraphrasing. That might rattle folks relying on specific cues.

So I go up to read Marley, the best character in the play, the best character in the original story. I love Marley. He has the most memorable lines ("Business?! Mankind was my business!"), and there is no chance of overdoing the part. You have carte blanche, and I went for it. I shouted the lines and gave it bass and went from anger to exhaustion and misery to regret in five pages. And above all, he gets to be scary. He is harbinger, the spooky-ass Obi Wan, the damned version of Hamlet's dad. Even in a comedy, he is not there to delight. He does not visit Scrooge. He haunts him.

Just look at this. Here's the definitive screen Marley from the George C. Scott version of Christmas Carol. I'm a Dickens. I can make such pronouncements. This is THE Marley:



You can find this DVD dirt cheap, and it's a sterling adaptation. Great cast. I watch it every year since I was in high school.

Anyway, I'm halfway through the scene when I hear people whispering on the wings that I'm doing a good job. We have people who don't whisper subtly, so you hear everything they try to say in confidence. I finish and walk to the other sitting actors. The director pulls me aside and says she wishes I could do that part too. I got to do it once. I'm happy with that.

As the first act ends, I stroll the audience space to check the acoustics, and they are right nice. The dialogue is clear even along the back wall. The stage movement does help with line cues. It at least seems like a smoother rehearsal, but we still have major line problems. MAJOR line problems. The judge asks for a copy of the script during the play, and he can have one. No one can see his desktop, and he could cue folks who have line trouble. We tried this in the last courtroom play, and I have no problem with this. Heck, I might blank onstage.

At the end of the play, the question of publicity posters comes up. As in, we don't have any. There's concern that we won't get the word out about the play in time for people to make room in their holiday plans. If I'm one of the actors with mucho lines, I want to ensure the largest number of possible folks see my effort.

Rehearsal Twelve: Toil

We got back home Saturday night around 7. Your Sis picked up Brooke's cold, and she took it easy. School was snowed out this morning, and she needed an extra day to get back into the groove. We watched The Incredibles Saturday night with junk food, and I rehearsed Sunday.

Because so few of us are off-script, the director called for a special weekend session to run lines. We won't move around. We will sit and recite lines. This is usually a measure done only between performances. A theater will open the show, hold four shows, take a few days off, have a line-through, and then reopen the show.

In my previous three plays, this practice happened thusly:
Cat: 29 rehearsals and three performances
January 16th: 29 rehearsals and three performances
Murder Game: 24 rehearsals and three performances

We are trying this instead two weeks before we open and less than a week since we officially were to be off book. Also, we've scattered to the four winds for Thanksgiving. Who would run lines during the holiday? It just can't go well.

A note on rehearsals, we have 19 scheduled rehearsals. Total. That's all. And we're supposed to be off script after 10 2-hour rehearsals. That's impossible. I can't begrudge my fellow actors anymore. This is bad planning.

Most of us assemble on time. Some of us arrive late and confused as they didn't get the email announcing the Sunday practice and its location. We meet at the director's retirement community activity center, and we sit in a circle facing each other. This is standard line-through procedure. I did one such practice where we rolled a ball to the next person to speak.

We can't start with a full cast. Our Scrooge arrives half an hour late, our judge about 20 minutes later, Mrs. Cratchit/Belle has been gone for more than a week. Who does this help? Are the actors to be shamed into learning lines? Then why do we skip the opening arguments today?

Again making things difficult is our stage manager and director failing to properly follow along when we need line cues. They say we've said the wrong dialogue only to apologize when we back up and try it as they just suggested. Now we're learning lines incorrectly. Christmas past makes no pretense of reading her lines for the second rehearsal, even as the director seated to her right tells her to close the book. This would be diva behavior in other plays. But, with these older actors, I think they don't register the rules. They're oblivious. Also in opposition to learning lines, we skip the end of Act One.

In some scenes, the actors are asking for complete versions of every line. They don't have the words in their heads. They're struggling and frustrated and confused, and I feel for them. They're asked to do too much too soon. They each go through the five stages of grief:

Denial -- I know this. I know this.
Anger -- Don't give me the lines until I ask for it!
Bargaining -- OK, give me the first part, and I can get it.
Depression -- Oh God, I'll never get this right.
Acceptance -- Alright, I've got to work on these before tomorrow.

All in about, 30 seconds.

We depart angry and bruised. Monday night, we rehearse on the stage, and we're told all subsequent rehearsals will last until we do the finish the whole show each night. So now we'll be frustrated and tired. Great.

Picture of the Day
The aquarium in a new Dubai Mall.

Rehearsal Eleven: The Absolute Nadir

I've been in theatre productions since high school. One could reach back to elementary-school stuff, but let's not. Let's leave that be. Since 1989, I've done 16 plays. I've directed a short play when I was 17. I stage managed a musical when I was 30. Let's combine all those plays into one big pot of rehearsals like the communal pile of french fries when friends order McDonald's meals. That's a lot of practices in the past 20 years. So believe me when I say, unequivocally, sincerely, and unhappily, that last night was the worst rehearsal I've been a part of since I wore a Members Only jacket and a stunning glop of hair mousse.

When we get to the warehouse, we find a set. A judge's bench and a witness stand are screwed to the same flat riser. This is based on British court design, and the witness area has a railing on the front. It's always fun to see a set piece for the first time, and we marveled and walked around it and on it. Then the complaints hit. The bench is too tall of our judge. The witness stand can't be seen from the left-seated audience. These complaints have easy answers. One, the judge can stand or sit on a high stool. Two, the witnesses will stand for their testimony; they can clearly be seen. This did not placate the complainers. Not even when one uses the "I've only been doing this for 36 years" card.

Then we see the wheels attached to what was to be Scrooge's bed, which will carry Marley onstage in Act Two. Now, remember, we have a new Marley. He's bigger than our first. He fits on the bed OK, but also remember that our youthful-lad bailiff is being played by a bent-over senior who walks with a cane. He's supposed to bring the bed onstage. Our actor can't move it. The wheels are taken from office chairs; not the standard theatre casters normally used. You can't drive it in a straight line. It wobbles and fishtails.

I suggest again the Fred Flintstone trick: Cut leg holes in the bed and have Marley walk the bed into place. Make leg shapes under his blanket, and audiences will never know. This idea doesn't fly. The director says we'll get a gurney from the local hospital. Someone suggests the funeral home. Can our bailiff move a loaded gurney? The rehearsal space is now incredibly crowded, and we never measured the new stage to recreate the dimensions. We quickly walk all over each other. We're told the next rehearsal will be on the stage, and that will be the Monday after Thanksgiving. That will give us less than two weeks and only five rehearsals until we have our first audience. The judge tries on his English court wig, and it looks good. The nephew and translator actor tries fake muttonshops, and they look OK.

Those complaining about the stage quickly petition for more rehearsals. Let's have one Tuesday night, they say. I'm not for it. The missus and I have made plans. Half my brain says we should have more rehearsals, but I agree with the director that we should wait until we're on that stage. Using this altered rehearsal space will do more harm than good. A read-through does nothing to help people learn lines, and a sit-down recital removes the physical cues that spark memory. We were told at the beginning of rehearsals that we were to be offbook last Thursday. Then we were told tonight. We had extra time to learn our lines. And tonight, we will not have scripts. The stage manager and director will cue us if we ask for it. And so we start.

The first scene is between the judge and bailiff. It's about two pages, and then the defense attorney and Scrooge take their tables. I carpool with the judge actor, and he said he ran the lines with his wife this afternoon. He takes the stage, and he is lost immediately. It takes a very long time to get through those two pages. The two men have some business with a coal bin and the oven. Offstage mumbling declares we need tongs instead of a shovel, as if that will solve anything with lines. The trial starts with a long opening statement from the attorney, and this is played by Doc, my opponent in last year's courtroom drama. Back then, he used index cards for his lines. Tonight, he has no cards, and he does pretty well for the first time off-script.

I'm the first witness, and I have my lines down. Cold and solid. Doc has trouble once I take the stand, but it's not entirely his fault. The judge and Scrooge interject often -- at least, they're supposed to -- and when they stumble and juggle their lines, it throws off Doc. We backtrack and repeat swatches of dialogue. At one point, the director tells me I messed up a line, and only after we do the scene again does she realize she was reading the wrong part of the page. When Doc calls for lines, there is often no response as the director and stage manager aren't really following along. Once I and Brick are done, the rehearsal goes down the drain. I kept track. No more then three sentences are said by anyone without a call for lines. It's a trainwreck. It's as if we got our scripts last week. The clock is speeding around to our 9 p.m. deadline, and we're clearly not getting to the second act tonight.

The Marley actor doesn't realize what he's supposed to do as a ghost. You say the lines with a spectral affectation. "Bound and double ironed" becomes "BooOOUUnnd AAAAaaand dooOOOUUBBBBBbble iiiIIIIRRRrronnnNNed."He doesn't get this. He's speaking his lines (which he's reading; he is a last-second replacement, after all) in a normal voice and then adding a vocal sound like Elmer Fudd impersonating a goat. We hear "bound and double ironed ... uhuhuhuhuhuhuh." I'd be charitable if he hadn't tossed around the 36 years' experience as a trump card earlier. But you play that card, and you better be sterling. He's playing a ghost. We all know what stage ghosts sound like. Kids can make ghost voices. Yet, this 36-year-veteran can't. And have I mentioned I'm one of only four people actually trying a British accent?

The Ghost of Christmas Past carries an elongated cap onstage, and we quickly see that the actress has her script tucked down into it. She's cheating. She has only seven pages in the first act. The director rewrote two pages of that scene but this ghost doesn't have those new pages. The actors don't have their scripts in hand. Neither the director nor the stage manager have those new pages. The actors stumble through awkwardly. The costume manager is so anxious about the rehearsal that she calls out lines from the script before they are asked for. Scrooge has to shush her. Marley makes one-liners about the other actors' progress. The actress playing the act's last character isn't even here tonight, and someone reads her part onstage.

It's ten til 9, and the director says "you know, I think we should rehearse on Sunday," and we all settle on a timeframe. We'll allegedly move to the actual stage.

The stage manager talks to me about the rolling bed. She wants someone to help the bailiff wheel the bed out in Act two, and she's clearly looking for me to volunteer. She doesn't know that my character is on the witness stand at the time. My character doesn't even want to bed onstage. The only ones not onstage at the time are her and the director. She suggests she could wheel in the bed. OK, I ask, and which character will you be? She gets mad. She thinks I'm trying to stymie her. What I'm trying to say is that we can't have an unidentified person appear onstage. If you have someone appear onstage, they have to be identified. They can't just walk on and walk off. It distracts the audience.

I pass her off to someone else and walk out with the judge back to my car. I feel like I escaped a hanging. This was the Hindenburg hitting the Titanic. We are in total disarray, and we didn't touch Act Two. I frankly ain't sweating anything beyond my lines and scenes. Other people are in charge of decisions and choices, and I'm not going to be a backstage director.

We clearly should have started rehearsals earlier in October or added more nights to our schedule or rehearsed longer each night. We are two weeks before we open, and we are screwed. No, we're passed that. We are so far from Screwed, it would take the light from Screwed billions of years to reach us. I know we picked a good play. I know we have actors who can do this. But they gotta learn those lines. And they have to learn them now-ish.

Picture of the Day
Heart shoes! Who doesn't want heart shoes?

I'm Sort Of A Winner

The annual theatre awards banquet is new for me. It's been held, I understand, each of the company's 58 years, and the last occurred before the courtroom drama opened. It was held this year at a local church assembly hall. A dinner was offered, but I preferred to skip that and give myself an easier transition from work commute to the banquet.

I arrived as the dinner wound down and sat with the spring director, his wife, another member of the script committee (that made four of us seated there), her spouse, and two actors I worked with in the courtroom play. We made chitchat before the award section began. A program listed a number of categories and nominations. I was up for best actor in a lead role along with Doc, who played the opposing attorney in the courtroom play. The directors of each of the previous season's plays were to speak, but only half were in attendance. Those who were there included our original Marley, who directed a farce, my spring director, and another script committee member who directed the summer kids show.

The director of the annual playwriting contest production spoke at length about the new facility and what he wants to do with next year's contest winner and then he segued into a tirade about the lack of new blood in the theatre. He bemoaned the company's ability to lure youngsters on- and backstage, and he went on for a while. Eventually, a voice from the back called out to remind him he was supposed to talk about the previous show. He finished up and sat down. The wife of the summer musical director continued his comments and pointed out that none of the awards were for crew. That, she said, might have something to do with the inability to attract new people. The room tensed up after this, and the spring director assured her she wasn't alone in her notion, and the matter would be corrected next year.

They undercut my planned comments as I was hoping to acknowledge the crews during my acceptance speech. It's a good thing they spoke out because I never got a chance to accept anything. I didn't win. I'm OK with that. I don't do this for awards, and I clearly recognize that I'm a rookie for these folks, and they don't know me enough to toss me a trinket. Those who did win deserved the attention.

The theatre higher-ups choose a best play, and public ballots allow audiences to pick their favorite. Now, it's a given that the last show of the year -- and a musical, to boot -- will win the people's choice award. And it did. That show can't be dismissed; it did so well, it was held over for an extra performance. That's incredibly rare in community theatre. But we were told that a computation mishap resulted in an initially incorrect winner, and a second award was given. That went to our spring murder play. My director and I were the only ones present, and we had our pictures taken with the award which he rightfully will place on his mantle.

A special award was given to our original Marley. He's undergoing chemo for leukemia, and the award and ovation felt like a eulogy. The theatre properly offered gratitude for his work, but also said implicitly is the fear he's not going to be around this time next year. He choked up, and my heart breaks for him. I still don't see how he can direct the next play.

Your Sis emailed me to mention a pajama/book donation drive created by a high-school senior. The local fishwrapper didn't run the press release, and she feared a low turnout. I skipped over to KMart and bought an armful of PJ sets for boys and girls. I made sure to buy something Your Sis would be willingly to give a young girl, so no cutsey-wootsey animals or princess themes. When I got to the bookstore, I ran into some teacher buddies. I also bought two kids books by Adam Rex. I discovered his books earlier this year, and had eight-year-old me found them, he would have thought them the bestest thing in the history of ever. I also offered to read from them at the local elementary school. (Stop the press: I just read on his blog that he received the North Carolina Book Award for his latest book earlier this month.)

I dropped by the new theatre space to see the new paint and chat with some backstage folks. We won't get a new stage curtain for our Christmas show, but I commented that we have such a simple set, that we may not need a dramatic unveiling. But I have no say in the matter.

I worked a bit on the origin page of a comic project and mulched the leaves. I stacked them in the compost pile which is now towering and swaying in the wind. I fed Your Stuffed-up Sister and tucked her into bed early. She slept most of Sunday, and I tackled grociers and laundry. Didn't look at the script once, and I plan to review it before Monday's rehearsal.

Picture of the Day
The theatre ballot chief (left) hands the second-best people's choice award to me and the director (right).

Rehearsal Ten: What the Hell?

The evening started with the question of Saturday show scheduling -- matinees vs. evening. I was the only one present with a handy phone number to call someone who would make that decision, and I contacted the spring director. He said the president had made the same argument I did: evening shows will allow patrons to enjoy dinner and a show. So, evenings it is. They are. Whatever. I got off the phone and announced this to the cast as if I had anything to do with it. We still await to learn when we can get to the stage and rehearse; we're waiting for the lighting system to be installed.

I didn't even pick up my script on Wednesday, but I wrote down my lines earlier in the day, and this is becoming my favorite way to cement lines in my head. If I know them well enough to dictate them to myself, I'm solid. And I am during the rehearsal. Any anxious vibrations are gone. I'm almost arrogantly calm. The printed schedule said we're to be off-book tonight, but the director said we were to aim for next Monday. Most of us are trying to forgo the scripts, and it makes for halting work. The older gents have a difficult time. Our oldest guy often won't say his line even when the rehearsal is stopped to remind him it's his turn AND he's told repeatedly what the line is. I'm sure he'll be just fine when we have an audience. Just fucking fine. Oh, and our Scrooge unexpectedly departs at 8 p.m. No reason, no warning. Off he goes. Three different people read his role for the rest of the practice, and it doesn't help the other actors who are used to the the Scrooge actor gives. When Brick reads the lines, I give him kudos. "Good Scrooging ... way to Scrooge."

The director keeps the rehearsal moving as she's determined we won't stay after 9 again. I am dying to shave this brillo beard I've been assigned. I use the skeleton gloves for teh first time as I determine which way to move my hands. The gloves only have bones on the back of the hands, and I don't want the flat black palm side to show as I gesture. I'll spend 30 minutes of stage time making Mr. Magoo noises and hand dancing. And this stupid fun is what gets me through each practice.

Picture of the Day
OooooOOooooo. Ghost hands.

Hey, Get This: I'm Old.

With Your Sis off to Ra-Ra for the workshop, I busied myself with bachelor junk.

But first I called Duke Power to ask about the street light on our property. When we moved to the house, we learned the light was on the account of a house down the road. Our house's previous owners didn't control the light, and we gave the other house a check for $25 every August. The light has sporadic service: it hasn't run every night for months. And now it's out. I discovered that the house we gave the checks to is now empty; the family moved some months back. I thought the dark light meant the light was deactivated. Duke Power told me instead that it's controlled by the new owner of that house, and the light is supposed to be on. It might have burned out.

My secondary question was about us taking over the light account. It's on our property. I have to mow around it. It breaks up an otherwise nice stretch of flat land along the street. Why isn't the house on our account? I can only guess that the house's original owners wouldn't pony up the dough. When I rented a house back home, I took over that property's street light, and the payment was broken up throughout the year's bills. It couldn't have been more than an additional $10 a month, if that. I was told the light can't be transfered without the permission of the current account holder. But they won't say who that is. The other house stands empty. I don't know how to contact the landlord. I can only wait until the house has new occupants and ask them if we can take over the light.

The thrills of homeownership. This wouldn't be so worrisome if we didn't live far enough from the city to have utter darkness when the sun sets.

With that done, I cooked the first of the Little Caesar home-backed pizzas. It was a disappointment. It smelled just like a fanchise-made pie and tasted like one from a school cafeteria. I drowned my sorrows in videogames before watching a Country Music Television concert matching the current Britney with Def Leppard. There's no way to avoid the presentation of my favorite rock band: They were a nostalgia act. The new girl was raving about them, saying her mom loved them and listened to them when the kid was an even younger kid. She's younger than their biggest CD, Hysteria, by a few years. They sang her songs, she sang their songs, and I felt like a geezer. But I sang along to the TV and probably terrified the neighbors who thought drunken, tone-deaf hobos had settled down on our night-shrouded road.

I sketched out a comic page to hang in the hallway while talking to Your Sis. I could hear her fall asleep. I ran my lines in the shower and during my commute. I've turned that corner where I have my lines and the anxiety decreases by 80 percent. I'm actually looking forward to the rehearsal tonight.

Picture of the Day
The show comes back January 21. Just two months away.

Rehearsal Nine: Cold Comfort

The director called the cast after Monday's rehearsal to ask if we could change the Saturday shows into matinees. We learn later that this was traditional for Christmas shows because they so often featured a large kid contingent, and bedtimes trumped showtimes. I have no problem doing an afternoon Christmas show, but it seems counter to our greatest rationale for nabbing the new performance space: Patrons could access easy parking at night, grab dinner, and stroll to the show. I suppose they could just reverse that and eat after.

We start with Act Two tonight. The director is still unsure about character rationale, and I figure out why I'm so dismayed about this show so far. I advocated it in committee. I'm emotionally invested it in beyond my norm.

It's a better night. Many of us are trying to avoid our handheld scripts, and we all stumble a bit. I run my Act Two ghost lines without the script of the first time, to my relief. To prepare for my costume limitations, I kept my head bowed for those scenes. The costume is opaque, and my head will be hidden. I can't make eye contact to cue myself or others. I will have to rely on sound. The cold warehouse space helps me make ghost noises. I decide to cut back on Cratchit's timidity to speed up those lines. I can suggest his meek nature, but I do want him more confident when he speaks of Tiny Tim's ailment.

We run the whole play in reverse order and stretch past our planned rehearsal time. I don't mind at all. During my extensive Act One downtime (I spend 40 pages just sitting onstage) I sketch out ideas for this show's magnet.

Your Sis leaves today for Raleigh, and it's the bachelor life for me. I watched UNC roll past Kentucky last night after the rehearsal, and it was a late night for both of us.

Picture of the Day
A new image from Where the Wild Things Are, a film that might never see the light of day. The studio thinks it's too dark.

Rehearsal Eight: A Bad Night

We knew we would have headshots made tonight, but it wasn't common knowledge that we'd do publicity photos too. My spring director was there for the former, and the original Marley was there for the latter. We menfolk are in sloppy shape as our muttonchops-to-be are right scraggly. Still, we smiled for the birdie.

The publicity photos for this company are commonly sad. We stand in front of a blank wall with a prop or two in various degrees of costumes. For instance, I was posed in my everyday clothes while wearing a Victorian jacket. I am a slacker waiter, your skater-d for the evening. All the photos are taken from the same distance with the same stiff poses. We never look natural or caught in an organic moment. We are taxidermed. I'm glad this guy feels healthy enough to come out and take our pictures, but we need a new photo philosophy. Maybe creative lighting or selective focus.

The cast tries on different jackets and dresses and hats. The director says she'd like to use props on Thursday, and I hope that means I'll wear the ghost costume. We were told last week to be offbook for this Thursday, but, just as we take the staging area, she announces Monday is the new deadline. I'm glad to get four more days to nail down my lines, but I busted my tush this weekend to learn my lines. For a time it looks like we'll have our first full-cast rehearsal. But halfway through Act One, the director reads a part. Did we lose an actress? Is she reading for someone otherwise occupied this evening? I never learn.

Various conversations offstage prove distracting for those of us trying to remember the script, and well begrudgingly check our scripts and look around the room at the peripheral babble. I screw up in my Act One paragraph, but otherwise get through it OK. We're supposed to to the whole play, but a late start makes Act Two impractical tonight. Instead, we run through the busiest part of Act Two. Unfortunately, because we haven't yet measured our stage space, we're crammed together, and walking space is rare. It's awkward staging, and I don't know what benefit it can have. We're learning the wrong dimensions and movement.

We end at 9 p.m., and Act One has taken over an hour. It's still early in the rehearsal time, but we're dragging through the play, and I don't know if the comedy can survive. We need to pick up the pace and stop overworking the lines. This is a long skit, not a true acting piece.

Maybe it's the obligatory low point of any production in progress, but the night is sloppy, and we make no headway. I'm deflated. The atmosphere is too casual, too rudderless, and I'd appreciate some disciplined organization. It makes me cranky.

Picture of the Day
Only the hot hotness of retro disco toys can assuage my grumpiness.

A Bonding Weekend.

I drove back to the old stomping grounds for Jared's wake. The gang used to go to a local bar for trivia nights and beer. It was bliss. That bar became an Irish tavern some years back, and the wake was appropriately held there. The organizers had reserved a back room, and I entered to find more people than I expected. His wife, Chris, and mom were there, as were relatives and the comic gang. Some couldn't make it, and they didn't think I could either. I was a surprise for everyone.

Between the wide and mom was a chair angled against the table, saved for the missing guest of honor. We passed around pictures of Jared and his family, ordered drinks, and then the announcement was made: This is a wake. There is no crying at wake's. Let's start trading Jared stories. And we did. Lasted about an hour and a half. I made sure Chris had my numbers and reminded her I'd be in town once a month to visit Mom as well. If she needed anything or just wanted a distraction, she should call. And then I went to Mom's house to sleep.

We had a long Waffle House breakfast with two of her friends from the hospital. We all get along famously. One of the waitresses passed around fundraising Christmas cards that resembled Thomas Kincade works, and I remarked how much I despise his stuff. Mom was surprised, and I asked if she had seen the Kincade store in the next county's mall. She hadn't. A road trip ensued. We mall-shopped for a while before returning home for my small list of repairs. It didn't take long. I also showed Mom some more of the internet, explaining Facebook and eBay to her, before I went back home.

I assured Your Sis we would watch the new Bond film on opening weekend and encouraged her to see it first with a gal pal while I was tending to widows. They both enjoyed the shirtless parts of the first film, and they hadn't seen each other in forever. We watched Casino Royale again Saturday night to refresh our memories (and it's a good thing, this new film relies heavily on Royale). She did schoolwork Sunday while I had another hourlong mentor meeting, and we saw the new film that night. She's fighting a bug and staying in the sick bed. She has another state workshop to attend later this week, and she's trying to clean off her to-do pile before Thanksgiving.

I read my script throughout the weekend to brand the ghost dialogue into my brain, and it seems to have worked. I have the rough outline of those scenes in memory, and I still have four days before we're to bee off-book. Watching two Bond films helped my British accent, I think. The annual theatre award supper is this Friday, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't expect to get something.

Quick Review: The plot that continued from Royale is great; the new story with the obligatory corporate villain is thin. It's two-thirds of a great movie.

Picture of the Day
A New York protester against the Mormon Church and its efforts against gay marriage.

Rehearsal Seven: Hello Again

I got a call from the current artistic director (and the director of the spring murder play). He's still pursuing me to take over his job, and I'm curious about it. I need to learn just what kind of manpower, equipment, and money we have before I design a set. This new position might not start until next year. I don't know. He's asked me about this for most of the year now. I don't want to bury myself in this company. I want the freedom to run to Asheville if they're doing a great play. had I not been neck-deep in the script committee, I may have tried out for Misery. I didn't get to even see that one.

I have about four pages of ghost mumbling down, and I have about eight more to go. This new deadline to bee off-book has rattled me, and I'm cramming to learn the lines. When we arrive, we meet a new techie: the courtroom director. You might remember that she and the guy who was to play Marley butted heads in ugly fashion last year, and now I have to begrudgingly whisper thanks that he bowed out. Not that I'm in any way happy he's sick, mind you. The courtroom director will be our soundboard operator.

We're informed our playbill bios are due right before Thanksgiving, and I'll probably just recycle my bio from the spring show. I spend more of my commute playing with the accent. I was in an Agatha Christie show a few years back, and we all had British accents, and we all sounded like actors fumbling through British accents. Well, except for the lady who actually was from England. She was fine. The spring show was originally set in England, but I asked to dump the accents out of fear that they plus the script load would be too much to wrestle with. And I'm sure I was right about that. We menfolk are also under direction to grow muttonchops. When the costume director asked me if I was doing that, I said I'm puffing out my cheeks as hard as I can.

We run through Act Two once and then run the second half of it again. That means I did my ghost lines twice, and that will help me learn this stuff. I hope to be in costume before Thanksgiving so I can focus on what's essentially puppetry. I can't make eye contact, and I have to talk with my hands.

Moving Picture of the Day
The new trailer for Watchmen, the end-all and be-all story for comics-as-literature. If they keep the book's ending, I'll be shocked.

Randomness

I can't figure out the magic potato equation. I always use too many or too few when making mashed potatoes. We must have thrown out a pound of them last night after wolfing down another pound. Your Sis bought 25 pounds of taters from a student as part of a fundraiser. And we'll eat them all. We proved last year that no potato goes ungobbled in this house. I want to fry some for homemade chips.

In the News
AP Wire: Marrow Transplant Cures AIDS in Patient

By PATRICK McGROARTY
Associated Press Writer

BERLIN -- An American man who suffered from AIDS appears to have been cured of the disease 20 months after receiving a targeted bone marrow transplant normally used to fight leukemia, his doctors said Wednesday.

While researchers - and the doctors themselves - caution that the case might be no more than a fluke, others say it may inspire a greater interest in gene therapy to fight the disease that claims 2 million lives each year. The virus has infected 33 million people worldwide.

Dr. Gero Huetter said his 42-year-old patient, an American living in Berlin who was not identified, had been infected with the AIDS virus for more than a decade. But 20 months after undergoing a transplant of genetically selected bone marrow, he no longer shows signs of carrying the virus.

"We waited every day for a bad reading," Huetter said.

It has not come. Researchers at Berlin's Charite hospital and medical school say tests on his bone marrow, blood and other organ tissues have all been clean.

However, Dr. Andrew Badley, director of the HIV and immunology research lab at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minn., said those tests have probably not been extensive enough.

"A lot more scrutiny from a lot of different biological samples would be required to say it's not present," Badley said.

This isn't the first time marrow transplants have been attempted for treating AIDS or HIV infection. In 1999, an article in the journal Medical Hypotheses reviewed the results of 32 attempts reported between 1982 and 1996. In two cases, HIV was apparently eradicated, the review reported.

Huetter's patient was under treatment at Charite for both AIDS and leukemia, which developed unrelated to HIV.

As Huetter - who is a hematologist, not an HIV specialist - prepared to treat the patient's leukemia with a bone marrow transplant, he recalled that some people carry a genetic mutation that seems to make them resistant to HIV infection. If the mutation, called Delta 32, is inherited from both parents, it prevents HIV from attaching itself to cells by blocking CCR5, a receptor that acts as a kind of gateway.

"I read it in 1996, coincidentally," Huetter told reporters at the medical school. "I remembered it and thought it might work."

Roughly one in 1,000 Europeans and Americans have inherited the mutation from both parents, and Huetter set out to find one such person among donors that matched the patient's marrow type. Out of a pool of 80 suitable donors, the 61st person tested carried the proper mutation.

Before the transplant, the patient endured powerful drugs and radiation to kill off his own infected bone marrow cells and disable his immune system - a treatment fatal to between 20 and 30 percent of recipients.

He was also taken off the potent drugs used to treat his AIDS. Huetter's team feared that the drugs might interfere with the new marrow cells' survival. They risked lowering his defenses in the hopes that the new, mutated cells would reject the virus on their own.

Anthony Fauci, director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infections Diseases in the U.S., said the procedure was too costly and too dangerous to employ as a firstline cure. But he said it could inspire researchers to pursue gene therapy as a means to block or suppress HIV.

"It helps prove the concept that if somehow you can block the expression of CCR5, maybe by gene therapy, you might be able to inhibit the ability of the virus to replicate," Fauci said.

David Roth, a professor of epidemiology and international public health at the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine, said gene therapy as cheap and effective as current drug treatments is in very early stages of development.

"That's a long way down the line because there may be other negative things that go with that mutation that we don't know about."

Even for the patient in Berlin, the lack of a clear understanding of exactly why his AIDS has disappeared means his future is far from certain.

"The virus is wily," Huetter said. "There could always be a resurgence."

Product of the Day
A Darth Vader toaster. You can buy it here.

Rehearsals Five and Six: Change and Concern

We got an email earlier Monday saying our Marley had to drop out. It's not a shock; I expected to lose him to focus on chemo and recovery from leukemia. He says he'll still direct the next show, and I hope he can, for his sake. But I don't think it's likely. Again, the script calls for the Cratchit actor to double as Marley, but I, as Cratchit, can't take on that role. I don't look like a contemporary of Scrooge.

No fear, as we met the new Marley, the father of the murderer from the spring play. He's a theatre pro, and he'll be a fine addition. We also finally got our Fred/translator as Brick from Cat arrived. He asked if we're doing accents. He didn't look thrilled with that. I get approval on the skeleton gloves I bought Friday, and we're given an updated schedule.

Currently, we meet at 7, run an act once and go home. That's roughly a 90-minute night, and I'm not comfortable with this. It's too casual. Too easy. We open in a month. We need to hammer these details. The director asks us to imagine what our characters want when they're onstage. Again, I think she's overthinking the play. She later suggests Scrooge is too mean, despite the script making it clear that he's playing up his gruff reputation to set up the revelation that he's still reformed and trying to prove a point. She asks that Scrooge and the defense attorney make their movements more distinct. That note is fine, Scrooge isn't a proper lawyer; he shouldn't move like one.

Learning the lines is easy. The accent and ghost pantomime aren't. Dan and I quickly get into our roles and enjoy teh ghost/translator scene. The judge actor and I are carpooling to the rehearsal; he lives one street over from me.

Rehearsal Six
We run Act One, and I meet the actress playing my wife. She's 70. I hope they don't decide to age Cratchit. He needs to be younger than Scrooge. Everyone does. Scrooge should be the closest to the death cursed by his inhumanity. He is rescued from the grave. We need to emphasize that. I have my Act One and Two lines down, except for the ghost yodeling. That will come as I practice with Brick. We're all told to flatten our accents more, and I worry I'll fall into caricature.

Short rehearsal again, and we're supposed to be off book next Thursday. NEXT THURSDAY?! We've had seven rehearsals! Seven 90-minute rehearsals! Thank God I hammered down my Cratchit lines already. I thought I was jumping the gun. I'd hate to be the other actors, those with reams of script pages to learn. Then again, I have to be onstage with them; I may have to cue folks with improvised lines.

Picture of the Day
We'll need all our space-age technology and courage to get this play right.

A Speedy Weekend

It just flew by because we stayed busy.

On Friday, we attended a birthday party, and Your Sister belted out karaoke. I stayed on the sidelines and evaded it. But I was reminded that I had done it a few years back ("Time Warp" from Rocky Horror), something I completely forgot. Earlier in the day, I bought skeleton gloves for the play. They're stylish, I want to wear them everywhere.

On Saturday, she did school work, attended a baby shower, and we both went to a teacher party that night. I spent the day with laundry and line memorization.

On Sunday, she did more schoolwork, and I encountered a slew of high-school and college people on Facebook. We ate a homemade beef stew Your Sis made. It was yummers.

Picture of the Day
A few thoughts on taxation.

Rehearsal Four: No-Shows

I bring my cassettes of a full-cast recording of Hamlet made for BBC Radio. I've had these for years and years -- hence, cassettes -- and the director requested them to help folks with their accents. I hope to see the tapes again, but I'm half-resigned that they are cast to the winds.

The costume expert gathered some Victorian clothes for us to try, and I find a suit that fits just about perfect. It's my first time with a high-waist button-fly, and slapstick ensued. The suit lapels are tattered, and I like that; it fits Cratchit. She also bought a Halloween costume for the Future Ghost to wear, and I try it on. It's small. The hem is at my shins, the belt is laughably tiny, and the gloves don't fit (you must acquit). I suggest a trip to the remaining Halloween stores for cheap clearance sales. I'd like gloves with skeleton designs to make my hands visible and spooky.

The ghost is a comic character here. He speaks in a vague spectral yodeling until Scrooge unveils the ghost scam: They didn't show him his future; they made it up to spook him. My ghost faints when the jig is up, and he blanches at direct questioning. We play with my voice for the best comic effect. The translator actor isn't here tonight, and another person reads along with me. In fact, a lot of folks aren't here tonight, and we run a full act with four people and the director. It's disappointing.

I'd like to memorize my Act Two Cracthit lines this weekend. That's five pages. The ghost has eleven-ish pages of noises, but all my pages combined are still barely a quarter of the entire play.

+ + +

You can follow the presidential transition at change.gov.

Picture of the Day
This is the ghost costume as it's sold. We're ditching all the purple and probably the mask. The hood will cover my head entirely. The pimp medallion is gone too. I'd also prefer to have the robe drape the floor to hide my shoes.

Dumb-ass Rebuttal

Those who lost Tuesday count among them those who must redeem themselves. For instance:

+ Your Sis said that her and other classes were beset by white students vocal and angry about the election. One class had white kids claiming -- out loud, mind you -- that the black kids would be getting all the white families' money because of welfare.

We grew up in this region, and we know that high-school students tend to repeat what they hear at home (in kind, a repeat of what the parents might have gotten from elsewhere). But even in middle-school, I knew what was racist horseshit. Her school has a huge white majority; this whole region is a big white majority. They felt safe showing their ass because the black students are simply outnumbered. And sore losers fall back on racism pretty damn quick.

+ The local radio preacher claimed this was the end times. He also compared his flock to Christians in China and Russia -- persecuted and threatened.

+ Mike Duncan, the head of the Republican National Committee, claimed yesterday that Obama won on a moderate Republican platform. Just one day ago, Obama was a radical and the most liberal Senator in Congress. Now, he's Eisenhower.

+ Limbaugh well and truly lost his shit. It was fun to hear.

Your Sis spent the entire night, from when she arrived at home to bedtime -- with a short supper break -- editing a beast of a paper written by an administrator. It was apparently a disaster. In fact, Your Sis said she was the second teacher to be given this paper to fix and that the first teacher's notes were rejected, presumably because the administrator's feeling were hurt that there were so many. I remind her of stuff like this when she asks me to consider being a teacher.

I spent much of the day taking in talk shows dissecting the election. I've just about reached my saturation point, and I ended the night watching a mixed-martial arts show. It was a compilation of one foreign-born black guy beating a string of white guys. Coincidence? Probably.

I wish I could find a certain editorial cartoon from the beginning of this year. It showed a white kid in the early '80s with a Michael Jordan poster, the same kid a few years later with a Tiger Woods poster, and the same guy now in his 20s with an Obama poster. I think there's gospel truth here.

More than any previous American generation, those born after 1976 have grown up with prominent black cultural figures. Sure, some of them were throwback minstrels -- the Wayans Brothers, for instance -- but when music, sports, TV, and movies are dominated by black participants, the shock of color is diluted. So, no, Obama doesn't scare us. Considering he follows two black Republican secretaries of state, his pigment scare any thinking conservative either.

Picture of the Day
Just the thing for winter.

Well Holy Shit

I come from a family where racism is a cultural habit. I never saw it displayed as hate, but I heard the constant jokes. I heard the long stories that ended with some black man being stupid. I grew up with this. Most of those people are gone now, and I had formed my own opinion about those comments when I was pretty young. I remember my dad telling me in fifth grade that he was most surprised by my ability to have black friends. Given that I was surrounded by institutionalized racism, he couldn't figure out how I had escaped it. Here's the trick: When you grow up as a frail, sickly kid with noticeably wonky eyes and teeth, you think before you call names.

Anyway, as I watched ABC's Charlie Gibson literally count down the seconds to 11 p.m, when the west-coats polls closed, and heard him say a few moments later that the network was officially calling the race for Obama -- when I flipped the channels to see Spelman College erupt in joy on MSNBC, Chicago's Grant Park turn into Woodstock, New York City's Time Square behave like it was New Year's -- I had to admit that I never thought this day would happen so early in my life. We have a black president, and he earned the office with a goddamn walloping of the previous national polticial map.

The black correspondents for the news networks, to a man, all said the same thing: my family would never believe it. Even FOX News's Sheperd Smith was caught up in the seismic shift. And then our state did it's level best to turn bright blue. The first female governor, Dole booted, a full Democrat contingent on the Bumcombe county council. Our county voted a straight Republican ticket for county commissioners, and our top school-board vote-getter is a hairdresser, but you can't win 'em all.

But you can be prepared to roll up the sleeves when you do win, and that's what comes next. Work will ensue, and it won't be pretty.

Rehearsal Three:
We learned earlier in the day that our Marley -- the backstage reporter from the courtroom show -- was diagnosed with Acute Myeloid Luekemia. His email said he would pull out of the Christmas show, but he announced at the rehearsal that he would gut it out. Good for him. He felt good after his first chemo treatment, but subsequent doses will only become more difficult. I don't know if he can stay in the show. I don't want to see him weaken to that point.

The director emailed me last week to say Monday's rehearsal was canceled. I answered that I would have my Act One lines memorized by then. I could fire them off at whim all weekend. But it's always a different story to try those lines from memory for the first time in a rehearsal. I was nervous. I also spent much of my commute listening to a Neil Gaiman audio CD in hopes of picking up his accent. After a quick soup supper (when I try out the accent on the cats), I arrived at the warehouse and chatted a bit with Marley. He's trying to stay positive, and I want to see him perform this show's full run. The script calls for Cratchit and Marley to be played for the same actor, and this was altered by the director. I don't want to play Marley at his expense; I don't want the role that way.

We learn that we will indeed perform the show on the stage at our new home because the lighting would not accommodate a floor performance. This requires us to rework the set a bit, but it will remain a group of simple furniture and props. The director hopes we can rehearse on that stage before Thanksgiving. Doc uses a copy of Christmas Carol to affirm how much of our script quotes the story. Our script, however, skips Fezziwig, Scrooge's childhood boss. We also have a new stage manager; she's a friend of the director.

My Act One lines span six pages, and I get them out pretty well. Not perfect, but good enough considering I'm a week into the role. I try out my accent, and the director shocks me by calling it delightful. Scrooge jokes that I make everyone else look bad. I'm trying to keep Cratchit nervous around Scrooge -- the witness stand is right next to his courthouse desk -- but I don't want to turn into Hugh Grant.

We run through Act One and call it a night. Everyone is eager to get home to watch the election coverage, and I'm home around 8:30.

Picture of the Day
This is a close approximation of our local radio preacher upon hearing the news.

I Almost Forgot

No, not the election. I set my clock early to arrive at what I suspected would be a jam-packed polling station. I had a book to read and extra cough drops and everything. But I was the only one there. No line. I double-checked my registration card to verify I went to the right place. The volunteers said I missed the crowd at 6:15. I voted for the names I definitely preferred, relied on my notes for the local school board candidates, and randomly picked names for the half dozen races I had never heard of. And out the door I went. I was the first one to show up at the office. I intemd to stay up tonight until the election is called, and that might be as soon as 11:15. If Virginia, New Hampshire, and Pennsylvania go for Obama, it's over.

No, I forgot to mention another mentoring session on Sunday. The student had met with the church folks to talk logo ideas, and I showed him quickly how to cobble that design together in Illustrator. He isn't taking notes, and I doubt he can retain most of this, but that's not my concern. I would of course prefer he heed my every word and soak up as many masterful skills from me as possible, but he's got that teenage blase attitude. I do what I can.

We have our first rehearsal this week tonight, and we have learned that our Marley -- the backseat director from the courtroom show -- as Acute Myeloid Leukemia. The average life span after diagnosis is 18 months. He's backing out of the show. I certainly don't want this for the man. He apparently still plans to direct the next show, the hotel noir drama.

Andrea is on Facebook now under her full name.

Picture of the Day
Fanboys is about a gang of guys trying to sneak in their terminally ill friend into Skywalker Ranch to see a print of Phantom Menace before he dies. The poster was released this week.

It's Almost Over

Here's what happens when you are a registered independent in a swing state: Everyone wants to be your friend. Not only did we have two live callers woo me for Obama, but an Obama volunteer drove to our house from Buncombe to win my vote. We got one robocall for McCain in the same time period. We're buried in mailers and robocalls for local elections and the governor and senate races. Your Sister voted Friday before school, and Your Brother called to discuss voting last night. Your Sis delighted in tossing him all my pro-Obama talking points (Why would a Muslim attend Rev. Wright's church for 20 years? Either he doesn't believe in Wright or he doesn't believe in Allah. Please pick one conspiracy theory to disregard.), and their debate stayed good-natured.

I just want it to be over, and from the CNN coverage, it might be over very, very early on Tuesday. According to their Saturday projections, McCain can only win if he wins swing-states Florida, Pennsylvania, Ohio, North Dakota, Montana, Illinois, Missouri, Colorado, Utah, Nevada, New Hampshire, and splits the electoral votes from Maine. In that case, according to their numbers, McCain can only tie Obama with 269 electoral votes and hope a newly GOP-led Senate will vote him in. Obama can cruise to a win; McCain has to work for it.

I'm voting tomorrow. I await the Christmas Eve atmosphere of the crowds.

I have fought a cold for a week but managed to memorize my dialogue spread out over six pages in Act One. I can't tell you how easy this is compared to the last two plays. Actually, I can. It's DELIRIOUSLY easy. I even took the time to start memorizing my first Act Two pages. I intend to go to the rehearsal tomorrow and shocking the other actors. And I will happily congratulate any others who learned their lines. I still have to iron out a credible accent.

We sadly tucked away the Halloween items and happily gobbled leftover Halloween candy. We watched 300 from the safety of our couch, and Your Sis did the usual schoolwork.

Picture of the Day
Starbucks is giving away a tall cup of brewed coffee tomorrow to anyone who says they voted. All you have to do is say you voted; no proof required.