The Big Birthday Present

I now own a PlayStation 3.

I am a loyal Sony consumer, stretching back to the PS1. I got a PS2 on its launch day as part of a young-reporter effort at the daily newspaper. About eight of us tracked them down as they hit the shelves, and we all wrote about it for a mega-article. My model works to this day. Its built-in DVD player was too good to pass up, and I bought the Fight Club DVD before owning a player.

The PS3 has a Blu-Ray, and that too sealed the debate between this console and the Microsoft competitor. The PS3 also has free WiFi access, and we have it coursing through the house. It was financially too good to pass up. We bought Dark Knight on Blu-Ray today and will try it out tonight. It will be the first HD viewing on the fancy-shmancy TV we got for Christmas.

Your Sister asked that whatever we get still allow us to play Guitar Hero. I assured her that would happen. She was content with that, and we bought the new gizmo.

Back Home

But first, Thursday.

I started my 37th birthday sore as hell from the surf class. I ran for at least 3 miles on the beach, this time with shoes. The refreshingly flat terrain should have made the run far easier than my usual route, but the varying stability didn't help. Still, I ran farther than I did when I was a mere 36. Take THAT, Gregory 36!

The overcast day encouraged us to hit the ocean for longer than before. Mom slept under the pier (which makes her sound like a hobo) where we had relaxed during the entire week in the sand. We found a Barnes & Noble, and Your Sis swiped my books before I could pay for them. I cursed her scaly hide.

We drove an hour away for the kayak tour. Mom was freaked, but she found it fun and relaxing when she accepted the fact there were no rapids. It was a nice tour, similar to our Outer Banks kayak trip last year. Oddly enough, it also took place on my birthday. A late Cracker barrel dinner led to ice cream, and I had birthday-cake flavor.

We lit out at 9 this morning and dropped Mom off a little after 1. We got home around 3, and we're already unpacked and laundered. Tonight: beer, wings, and rasslin.

I'll post trip pics on Facebook later this weekend. Promise.

Surfing Bird

Your Sister and I surfed today. Compared to your session, she said we faced much heavier waves. It was harder to get to our stationary guide, and we rode back to shore for much longer. The paddle out to the guides was brutal stuff. I was a horrible study during the first batches of surfing. However I picked it up quickly after a short break.

We were out there for three hours, learning the pop-up method with our boards on the sand. Then we paddled a few times to get the hang of it. I was given a skinny board and rolled off constantly. Before I got to crouching on a board at sea, I was beat up and frustrated. Worse, My Mom was watching. Doesn't everyone hate failing in front of mother?

But the hang was gotten (all ten of them), and I managed at least five good surf stands before our time was up. The guide would aim us at the shore, wait for the right wave, yell for us to paddle, and shove us free. Then, usually, we'd hop up and fall off and gobble ocean and limp back to him, growing more tired each time.

It's less than four hours later, and I am beat up. My ribs are bruised from fighting the board with my torso. My arms are jelly. I don't think I'm burned. I'll take that victory. I knew I was hungry after. The cheeseburger at Denny's never had a chance.

The downpours started an hour ago, and the kayak tour was delayed til maybe tomorrow. I'm grateful for the rest. I am all kinds of sore.

Delayed

It was a tough day for Mom. It's Dad's birthday, and it hit her hard throughout the day. We tried to help. Nothing seemed as effective as letting her talk it out, and we would interject with a vague affirmation every five minutes or so.

The kayak trip was postponed at the last second by a whopper of a storm. Tomorrow looks the same, and the surf class will probably be a washout. I hope the rescheduled class and kayak tour aren't on the same day; I'd fall apart before collapsing into bed that night.

I'm reading a lot; the new Rolling stone, the latest Esquire (the best monthly magazine in North America), a West Wing script book. I'm not tanning much. I blame Your Sister's SPF Cardigan lotion.

Mom wanted spaghetti, and an Italian restaurant was unearthed, and we ate our weight in various dishes. I type to you as a beached sea creature, painfully drawing breath over my distended belly regions.

Sorry you can't rendezvous with us, but Allah knows you've done your share of traveling lately.
We caught about ten minutes of Star Wars last night before calling it a night. It was the Mos Eisley scene. Wretched hives and jedi mind tricks and Greedo shooting. So you're with us in shiny blue spirit, if nothing else.

The Day Flies By

We journeyed to the Ripley's Museum for an hour or so. The pictures I took are too huge for this laptop to allow me to edit, but I'll post them next week. I petted a horseshoe crab. Whoo.

The hotel owns a bar next door that offers free buffet on Monday nights. We availed ourselves. We availed a bit early though and had to kill 90 minutes before the spread was unveiled. That's why we packed our chessboard, and Your Sis and I went head-to-redhead for a surprisingly long game. She's deliberate (read: oh-so-slow) and till withered before a masterful checkmate. Then we gorged on Southern cooking.

I also went head-to-Cromagnon head with the bartender over Mom's drink. She can't have alcohol, and I ordered her a virgin daquiri. The barkeep made a real one. We didn't notice until I checked the receipt and repeated my order. He claims I didn't specify. After some manly growling, we truced our way to the right order. We three called it an early night, and Your Sis and I just returned from walking the night surf.

It was a light day. We're trying not to burn. The plan is to sign up for a surfing class for Wednesday morning at 9 in Myrtle Beach. As Your Sis is planning it, I have no further details. Call her if you can be-bop down.

Mom insisted on buying me 'sand shoes' after watching me empty out my old Converses. And so I am newly shorn. No, wait. Shod. Newly shod. Your Sis says I now look like I'm on a vacation. My Hobbit feet apparently sing with relaxation. And Red Stripe beer.

I'm typing this in front of a desk mirror, and I agree with her: I do look relaxed. Younger even. I look like I'm up to something.

Another Week, Another Town

We arrived in Surfside Beach Saturday around 4. My Mom packs a lot for one person. For three people, too. We barely all fit in the Matrix. The beach is also crammed as folks get in their last vacation time before the SC schools go back in. We assume the hotel will thin out tonight and tomorrow, and already we can see signs of departures. More ocean for us.

This is where Mom and Dad vacationed for almost 20 years. They came here every year, and Mom's is trying to shake the hesitance and enjoy the time. The place is haunted by Dad. They had a routine: eat, beach, eat, walk, sleep. They didn't hit the sights nor did they go tourist. They came here to do very little and enjoy every minute of it. They considered moving here to such an extent that they even priced golf carts, the mode of transportation for the locals. I walked with Mom this evening, and every block had a story of their onetime plans to relocate.

She's handling it well. There's was a moment of despair soon after we arrived, but she collected herself after I joked that we could go back home. She's looked forward to this too much. She's a beach baby from her high-school days, and this is a return to what she was before Dad and her days as Mrs. Dad. It's heady for her.

So we're spoiling her. We take the receipts before she can grab them at meals, and we make her choose the local eateries. She reclaimed her favorite spot under the pier. She introduced us to the hotel staff whom she knows by name. This land is her land, this sand is her sand. We're here to introduce her to short tangents of activities. We're looking at a kayak tour and varying coastal cruises. Your Sister is checking out the surfing classes for me, but we may skip them to give Mom as much downtime as possible. We don't want to overschedule the trip.

As a symptom of how few brains I have, I ran on the morning sand barefoot. Now I'm reunited with my old friends, the sand blisters. It's as bad as the Washington trip. Having survived that, I know I can live through this stupid pain. We also suffered through a Sunday beach serenade by an acoustic performer who changed every song into the slow tempo of American Pie and didn't actually play that song. He also blew out his voice in the first three songs and relied on his back-up musicians to carry the load for the next 90 minutes. Also didn't know the lyrics to all his songs. When you ask people to sing along with the music, it helps if you can join them. I ducked out and hit the water. Your Sister joined me. Together we drank a league of salt water. Cheers.

If I nail down a surf-class date, I'll let you know. Mom would be thrilled to see you on her territory. The weather looks perfect all week, but we're rationing our sun-and-water time to minimize the sunburns. Tomorrow morning, we're going to the aquarium. I hope to have some pics available here later in the day.

Yo Joe

I completely forgot to thank you for the Africa candy because I have no brains. Mrs. H.S. Ball's Chutney chips are hysterical. I want to eat them, but I don't want to rupture the sanctity of the Simba bag.

In our few days of doing little, we saw the GI Joe movie. Of course we did. It's much like the cartoon in that it involves many small scenes lined up toward a giant climatic battle. It also doesn't require a brain to watch it. It's simple and humble in the dialogue, and it relies on the '80s cartoon and comics for the character relationships. If I were a ten-year-old, I'd be all over this. If not for the copious expletives, this would be a fine boys' movie. If you, like me, watched the film way back then, you might enjoy this too. As a lifelong fan, I'm in no way bothered by the alterations and updates. I did notice how much tech porn is on display. The film loves to show off mechanical design. One segment smells like a ripoff of Iron Man, and it has no comic/cartoon/toy precedent.

We watched Raiders of the Lost Ark last night. It mostly holds up. It's surprisingly lean, not dawdling at all, and a modern version of this film would include at least ten minutes more of needless dialogue. The opening credits, for example, speed by like they have to catch a bus. Not complaining. Just unprepared for that by modern filmmaking. Your Sister had maybe seen this film once before, and that would not stand. She liked the film as all humans do.

Picture of the Day
Draws for your hands!

Recovering

Twas indeed a packed convention. While it blurs together into a compact mush, I feel every minute of it in me bones. I've been back since Tuesday night, and I'm still weary. I'm also noticeably thinner; I expected to pack on calories with bad snacks, but the constant movement burned them away. The Photographer's Diet may be the next big thing. Also, my camera trigger finger can lift a truck.

The new camera worked beautifully. The 16G memory wafer contains 3,400 photos, most of them redundant copies. I'll whittle those down over the next month for online and print publications.

We unwisely packed up the office truck the same day we flew back home. I knew that much heavy shoving mixed with hours of flight time would lock up my muscles, and yes, I'm sore and stiff. I ran this morning to help loosen up. My feet still won't speak to me.

I got to see some of Chicago. We drove through the city to get to the pier. The skyline is massive. Intimidating, even. The outing on the pier saw perfect weather and many tourists. I strolled alone past fast-food booths and souvenir stands. I ate a Chicago hot dog (survey says: meh) and chugged the rare Pepsi. Eighties music wafted above as people screamed in the ferris wheel and a vaudevillian did a magic routine on an outdoor stage. Honestly, I could have been on fire in a pile of feathers and been happy. I got to see the sky for once, and I was finally in the city I've watched through WGN since I was in middle school.

It was a good convention, I think. Mostly smooth and peppy. The attendees were patient as I took all those photos, and the musical skills on display were genuinely impressive. It's a good crowd of folks, and I collided with the same five or six faces every hour. We took over the hotel for five days, and the staff were helpful and polite. I did get to swim in the heated pool the day before shipping home. I caught some TV. I got more sleep than my fellow staffers. And most important, the dreaded dinner of honors only lasted half as long as the last convention's. I was shocked with glee (sheed? glocked?).

I got home around 8:30 Tuesday night sans a suitcase that decided to sightsee in Atlanta for a night. Your Sister drove me home and bought me Lucky Charms for the next morning. I took it very easy. But today, I'm running and laundry-ing and blogging. We're operating at 80%, I think.

Your Sis hopes we can surf next week. I wanna try it, I does. Sounds like fun.

Picture of the Day
I found a Chicago museum brochure that also served to remind me of Your Sister. It stood on the hotel bedstand the entire convention.

New Toy

I mentioned yesterday that I got a new digital camera. It's another Sony, the same brand that Your Sister bought me more than five years back. I knew that I'd need another one before this convention, and I planned for one since last year. I did the homework. I had no luck getting the office to spring for one. I decided to buy it myself and own it outright. The advances in miniaturization are shocking. A 16 G memory stick is half the length of my thumb and as thin as a credit card. My previous camera's memory stick is 126 MB. The new camera is 10 megapixel, twice that of the other camera. This card will hold more than 3,800 photos at the maximum resolution. Madness.

I had no brains when I opened the camera and didn't see the AC adapter. I thought I had been hornswoggled by the salesperson. Your Sister figured out how it worked within the hour. I now can fit the charger, a backup batter, a back-up memory stick, the camera, and a USB cord inside one small belt pack. MADNESS. My old camera is a brick in comparison. I adore it. It's been a boon for comic reference pictures and vacations. But this new camera will be the new favorite, and we'll keep Old Reliable on the bench until it's needed.

The only downside to the new camera is it requires lithium-ion batteries and will not accept any alkaline. I can't power it with batteries from a grocery store. But those batteries can be recharged quickly with a wall outlet, and two batteries can power through about 5oo photos. There's no way I can go through both batteries in one day. Not even at a museum.

I'm in such a lockdown mental mode to prepare for the trip that I can't get thrilled by this brilliant new toy. I plan to download photo copies to the work PCs at convention each night just to be safe.

In Maine, Your Sister visited a comic store and bought me three original Star Wars figures. All evil. A Death Star gunner, an Imperial commander, and a Darth Vader. A real, old Vader with a plastic cape. He's going with me to convention as a good-luck totem.

I've spent an obscene amount of money for this work convention, and I wonder how much I can write off on taxes. The camera and the suit were things I needed, but both expenses within a month is a serious budgetary bump.

I won't be able to post anything for the blog until next week. The only PC access I'll have is to upload photos copies.

You and Your Sis are gonna surf. Have fun.

Picture of the Day
The newsgirl for the science-fair-esque display I made for the convention. The title is "Read All About It" and markets the company publications.

Tranquility

I spent all of Saturday girded for war, and it was for naught. When the two tech folks arrived, I walked them through the headset usage and tested their volumes. Right before we began, the tech lady, to my shock, apologized for missing cues. I told her Friday was an off night for everyone and to forget it. Also, I fielded tons of calls from actors warning me they would be late and updating me on their progress. Also, you and I talked briefly.

We had some rain. That cooled down the hot theatre air greatly. Also, the Legionaries we're in full swing on the other side of the stage wall. We had a very smooth show tech-wise thanks to copious formalities and courtesies, but my cast had line troubles. Seems everyone did. The whispering actress didn't realize her mic was unplugged for her play, causing her much distress. The third play had a line hiccup, and we shared stage horror stories as the fourth play hit the stage. We somehow finished up earlier than normal, and I got home right after Your Sister did.

Sunday, I was dead tired. My eyes watered, my back ached. I was beat. I was eager to get the show going and over, and the day dragged by. My cast got off to a stumble and never hit a groove. I stayed on the wings, reading a Chuck Palahniuk book. I couldn't read Sons and Lovers anymore; it hit a rut. I usually sit there and read each night. I keep an eye out for tech troubles.

After setting up the second play and getting them started, I went into the green room to congratulate my guys for ending their work. The mom actress was livid. She stormed to me and asked why I was reading the script offstage. I told her I wasn't. And wouldn't. We talked about this a few nights before. I hadn't cracked open the script since we moved to the theatre space. Once the show starts, the play is between the actors and audience. It would be an insult to follow along with the script, and she took it that way. Livid, I say. I even showed her the book. Couldn't calm her down. She was riding a mad, and I couldn't dissuade her. I didn't try. Screw it.

Intermission was spent coordinating the production party with pizza options and cataloging the reservations. This was done by others, and I greatly appreciated their command of it. The show finished without incident, again a little early, and we killed time before the party started. I cleared the stage of tape and furniture and boxed up my play's props into the car. I killed time by calling Your Sis and My Mom.

My theatre liaison attended to begin the disassembly of the set pieces. He also, in the span of an hour, asked me to consider three positions with the theatre. I told him I'm not saying "yes" to anything. I'll be gone for two weeks starting Wednesday, and my brain is mush. I was flabbergasted when one of the actors publicly presented me with Visa gift cards paid for by the cast and a signed card. Floored. Stunned. I gave a short thank-you speech and thanked the tech guys for their work too. The liaison sketched out the new green-room design, and the theatre plans to have new curtain systems installed before September. They're moving forward. But we still don't know if there will be any shows after Christmas. The script committee hasn't met to consider plays or scheduling.

Best moment of the last day? Giving the keys back to the whispering actress. She was the one who handed them to me the day I said I'd stage manage. I think she was shocked. She may have intended me to keep them as a gesture of being brought into the inner circle of the theatre. I didn't see it that way. It's my hope that some other new person is taped to stage manage. The liaison and I have talked about making a stage-manager manual for the next sucker. It's needed.

I left at 7. Monday morning, I stopped by the warehouse to stash the props and officially, finally, decisively end this play, four months after I first agreed to do it.

I packed for the convention last night. The suitcase will go on our office truck today or tomorrow. We picked up a new digital camera, and Your Sister found it included an AC charger, saving me about $40 I would spend on one. We have two nights together before I fly off to Chicago, and I'll be gone a week. I'm ready to get that over with too. We spent last night watching On Her Majesty's Secret Service, the Bond film starring George Lazenby. It's very dated; they adopted the style of the day in everything from fashion to sound effects.



Picture of the Day
A German fan at the Tour de France.

Showdown

Late in last week's shows, some one asked about a cast party. That was quickly corrected to a "production party" to highlight that the backstage crew would take part as well. I thought that was understood. Semantics. But again, no one would step up and say "I'll make this work like a champ." So I'm doing it.

The theatre liaison called me before Friday's show to see how rehearsal went and to to ask if the set is holding up and oh-by-the-way who's doing the cast party? Guess that's me. Again. One of the actresses is also working with the concession booth, and I'm hoping she can wrangle us some leftover drinks. This party will be after the last show, and we'll hold it at the performance hall. What hasn't been sold might be available to us. Otherwise I'll have to collect money from everyone and buy the drinks. What I'd like to see happen is to use that actress to get the food (probably pizza) and the drinks during the second half of the show. I'll be stage managing, and her work will be done in the first half. But this is the complaining actress I'm relying on. Will she step up? Who knows?

I was also asked to help take apart the set during the cast/production/whoever else party, and I'm OK with that if it goes quickly. I plan to also go quickly. Of course the size of the party will depend on how many people stay once their play is over. Most everyone takes off when they leave the stage.

I'm surprised that the theatre hasn't made arrangements with a local pizza place: the production parties use their business and the pizzeria gets a deal on playbill advertising. The company can't do big-cast plays so each show will have a dozen people tops. That's, what, five large pizzas for cast and crew and invited families. Maybe seven large pizzas. Let's say the theatre does eight shows a year: winter, spring, July 4 weekend, summer, broadway revue, kid's musical, and two fall shows. That's 60 pizzas a year guaranteed for a reduced advertising rate. That's gotta be worth a deal. And yet there's none in place. At least as far as anyone has told me yet, and it's possible someone will confirm such an arrangement as soon as the purchased pizzas arrive.

I'm a liberal-arts major. Why am I coming up with small-business deals that a board of directors made with local shop owners and lawyers hasn't put in place? There's probably a pizzeria owner on the board, for crying out loud.

...

I'm now typing this after the performance, and I almost killed the sound woman. She consistently plays a song earlier and earlier each night. Tonight she was way too early. Then she cut the song off entirely during the set change. As my back was turned to the audience to turn the set towers, I called her to start the song again. Eventually, it faded back in. Maybe an odd night, I thought.

No, she fucked up all night long. Songs were too quiet or too early or barely in time. During the intermission, I walked to the table and reminded her when the song is to start in the first play.

"I know," she said. "I heard you." She was dismissing the comment. We both knew it.

"Good," I said. "It shouldn't happen again tomorrow." I walked off, and she was giving me the eye. Except her "eye" is to smile while she's cursing me mentally. She thinks this fools people.

As I wanted to start the second half, I stood right behind the curtain and said "music off" into the walkie. The music continued. "Music off." Still nothing. Repeat and repeat. Then I say "turn the damn music off" loudly enough for the audience to hear through the stage mics. They chuckled. I threatened, like a parent, to go out to the sound table to say face-to-face to turn the music off. As I approached the stage door, I couldn't hear the song. I stopped. I thought it was over. I walked back to the curtain. Then I heard it again. As I marched to the door again, the light guy called "the music's off" over the walkie. We opened the curtain, the play started, and I darted into the green room to cool off.

But as I described what happened to the actors, I got more angry. They were surprised to hear me talk this way. You know, vulgar. They never hear that. I'm even-keeled in this office. But this was intentional. She was getting back at me for confronting her about the song. I know this. One of the actresses who is also a director asked why she is repeatedly asked to do this gig when this happens every show. She's a warm body pushing a button, that's all. That's the criteria for the theatre. I fumed backstage and made a deal with myself that, when I confront her about this after the show tonight, I'm prepared to fire her, as much as one can fire a volunteer. I would do sound if I had to. I had decided.

I stayed backstage as she fumbled more cues through the show. When the show was over, I stood at the stage door and counted to ten. The last two actors left the stage and thanked me. They listened to me rant aloud before their play, and they knew I was losing it. I wanted to be calm. Another actor had earlier argued that she couldn't be doing it on purpose, that it would be too petty. He's a kind man. He doesn't want to accept that. I told him I'd rather believe she was incompetent, but after two weeks, this kind of screw up has to be intentional.

"I know she was here Wednesday."

"She was here last weekend," the actress/director said.

So I stopped counting and opened the door. I bee-lined to the tech table.

"Can you hear me through the handset," I asked. The tech people use one walkie sitting on the table. The light guy controls it because he knows how to use it.

"I can hear you when you talk into it." That's a yes.

I won't transcribe the whole conversation, but here's the gist: She's bored, and she's fiddling with the cues to amuse herself. I told her that she would get her own handset, sitting right in front of her for the last shows. She would clearly hear me, and this would remove her alibi for not following the cues. She asked again to explain the cues throughout the show. I did.

"Oh, so I'll see you onstage, changing the set?"

"Yes, as you have for two weeks." Playing dumb wasn't working, she realized. So she fell back to the bitch mode last seen when she directed the courtroom show and went mental.

"I will follow the cues you say if they're given in a civil tone. An uncivil tone makes me angry." There was the smile again.

"And inconsistency makes me angry." The smile went away. "We have two nights left. We've done this for two weeks. Let's get through this and be done with it."

She started to pack her items up, and now she was fuming. I wanted to end this in the civil tone she just asked for.

"Let's start over tomorrow night. We'll come in and go from scratch."I smiled. She smiled back. And she left quickly.

I told the light guy about our conversation in case she acts funny tomorrow. He sighed and told me some things she did tonight, all of them squirrely as hell. I again think she's bored. The light guy gave a soft defense that the sound program has acted up, and she has more to keep track of. I blocked that excuse, saying she has plenty of time between sound cues. This is why I can believe she is bored. But she volunteered. Even the diva actress apologized for her tonight as I was Hulking out. The light guy agreed about the sound lady, and said, "you know, it's always someone else's fault with her." Yep.

Let's see how she is tomorrow.

Not that this was the only problem. The set frames are about to die on us, and tonight we had to adjust the top halves so they would accept the cloud panels we attach to them for the third play. As I fixed one, I knocked over the Coke can for that play and spilled water on the stage. I was mad at that too; they should wait for us to fix the set towers before bringing out their set stuff. The set towers will have larger gaps from now on. Their contact is destroying them.

When the show was about to begin, the mom actress spilled her coffee on the green-room staircase. I cleaned that up too. There is a standard rule that you can only drink water backstage. That way it can't stain if it's spilled on costumes. I should have presented that rule earlier, but then she should have remembered that too. Not that the coffee helped. She and the play were dragging tonight. I wasn't going to give any notes, but I was asked, and I told them the play was slow. But I congratulated them on certain lines.

Maybe this was our worst night, the nadir every show goes through. Maybe we cruise through the last two performances. Maybe maybe.

Contact

Until you buy something new, you have no idea how many variations there are. For instance, nails. I wanted to reattach the baseboards to the walls. These were pried off when the water heater died and leaked. I checked the nail remnants, and it looked like a simple matter to replace them. Until I went to Lowe's and discovered a quarter of an aisle devoted only to nails. Dozens of types and lengths.

This is good. Carpenters and contractors need a variety of them. But Lowe's should have a simplified store section for people like me. One can go to the regular aisle to get exterior galvanized 3 and 1/4 inch nails with countersink heads. Or one can go to the simplified section where you find hundreds of one box style marked NAILS. That's what I wanted. What I bought seemed to work OK, but we're missing some baseboards. I reattached what I could. Then I ran for two miles.

Your Sis called last night to affirm she is still alive, but she would spill no beans of what I suspect are multiple adventures featuring bears and platinum mines and handsome lumberjack colonies. She's having a fantastic time, and I'll see her after the show on Saturday.

This weekend is the annual Comic Con, North America's biggest and most important pop-culture convention with news of future events spilling about like marbles. Somewhere in the midst of it is a comic story I made. That's heady stuff.

The last three shows begin tonight. Hard to believe I'm finally at this point. The local paper ran our "review," which uses the default newspaper template of simply naming all the performers. We have brought in more people than the three-act debut play in May, and plans are afoot to buy a new curtain set for the stage. Deck chairs and Titanic and all that.

Picture of the Day
One such revelation is the teaser poster for a remake of the Elm Street franchise. I dressed up as Freddy one Halloween while in high school. I had never seen the movies so my costume was very wrong. I'm not as annoyed as others my age by all the remakes. I like the idea of franchise cycles, and I fully expect to see a Star Wars remake before I'm twice this age.

Mid-Week Rehearsal

It doesn't feel like much of a break from the show, and I suppose that's by design. We can't forget anything if we're only away for a few days. I told the gang to ignore costumes as I'm focusing on tech and lines. I pre-set the stage after Sunday's show so we could start immediately. My cast arrives on time, but the mom actress wants to discuss her character. Uh oh.

I dislike changes this deep into a production. We're halfway done. She wants to add layers to the character. That's fine. She wants to moderate the character's tone. That's fine too. I'm concerned about those changes in delivery throwing off the other actors. She's concerned the audience doesn't like her character and won't invest in the show. I argue they have invested. We get good reactions. They laugh. That's what we want. I also tell her we can't make the play something it isn't. It's a thin sitcom. Nothing more. It has many weaknesses, and we can't reconstruct the script with three performances left. She said she knew I'd say that. Well, sure, it's what I've been saying all along.

I suspect that she's spending too much time reading the play. This sounds counter intuitive. I believe that once the lines and stage business are set in memory, you chuck the script. Looking at it will confuse you. At this point in a show, the script and the onstage material are distinct. Going back to the script once an audience has reacted to you throws you off and leads to just this overthinking. She now seees her script as an audience representative instead of as a theatre representative. Of course we have to consider the audience when doing a show. Sure. But we do that in rehearsal. If we do it now, we invite chaos.

The play goes breezily, and the actors enjoy the relaxed mood. The mom is kinder onstage, and I don't mind the change so long, again, as it doesn't throw off the actors who are accustomed to weeks of the previous delivery style. I tell them afterward that the quick, light style is funny, and funny is what we want. I pat them on the heads and send them on they're way. I still call them "my guys" to the otehr actors. I explain that I've worked with them longer. I love my foundlings, but these are my firstborn, and I'm prejudiced. I don't love them more; I love them more often.

The rest of the show doesn't get the same degree of attention from me. I keep an ear out for sound and light cues, and they go fine. We skip the intermission and finish about 15 minutes early. A third-play actress decides to sneak backstage, and she clobbers our set. I try to sound OK with it and chuckle it away. We're lucky she didn't break our backdrop. As she's leaving the stage, she goes the same way and does it again, and now I want to put her in a catapult. She apologizes a lot.

Just three more times with this show, and we're really and truly done and did and finished and over.

It's almost daylight as I leave to grab fast food and watch the president talk healthcare. He fucking nails it, deflecting every talking point talk radio has used against him for weeks.

I've begun plinking away at the piano using the old starter books. The cats are hypnotized by the resonant wooden box that meows louder than them.

I slept in and missed my run window. I'll do that once I get home tonight. It's rained, and the air is cool.

Picture of the Day
Spacewalking.

Bachelor Life

The bachelor life hasn't extended this long since I married Your Sis. We did have the long break right after I moved here, and she left to visit you in Snazziland. The shift would be more jarring, I suppose, if I hadn't been gone so much last week with the play. It got us accustomed to not seeing the other.

It's a big house for one person. I'm hyper-aware of having so much space to myself. I'm also sticking largely to our old routines. I wake up at the same time, etc. The freedom of schedule is almost unsettling what with no wife and no play, both temporarily.

I need to do something to commemorate her return, but I haven't had the inspiration yet. On Sunday, she told me she'd be out of communication for a few days, much like an astronaut on the dark side of the moon. She's my prairie-naut, shacked in a log-cabin space station.

I ran yesterday when I got home. I haven't run in the evening in months, but the clear air made it feel like the morning run. The time away from running (almost two weeks) worried me, but my body seemed eager to get back at it. My feet are still swollen from the play work. Still, they didn't bother me during the run.

More high-school folks are contacting me through FaceBook, and I chatted with an especially close old friend last night. We traded stories from the past decades and cringed over our prom picture.

Picture of the Day
A online conversation about the moon-landing anniversary reminded me of when Oscar the Grouch's pet worm went to space:

Third Show

You never know what Sunday crowds will be like. The common notion is that they will be stuffy blue-hairs, few and prim and too polite to laugh. We didn't have that this show. It was a small crowd, but it swelled with eight walk-ins, making for a much better audience than we had any right to expect. This is another no-name show, and we're happy if we have more than 15 people. These people were vocal and attentive. We can't ask for more.

Some theatre regulars were there. The house manager, with whom I coordinate the beginning of the first and second acts, was my wife from the murder play. Her husband is one of the highly regarded directors. He also runs the committee for choosing the debut plays competition. When we last met, he gave me the sales push to joining the committee. This time, he tries to get me to take over the committee next year, relieving him of the burden. I don't bite. He and others joke that I am the theatre at this point. They see my director stint as a potential spark to revive the theatre. I suppose my departure at the end of this play will hit them hard. I don't feel bad about that anymore. I'm no local-show Jesus.

One tech slip occurred when the stage lights were turned on much too early for a show transition. The light guy immediately apologized as soon as intermission started. I told him he was due for a couple of mistakes to balance out the sound problems.

We had a much bigger issue outside. The actor bathrooms were flooding into the sidewalk on the other side of their wall. They were horrified. While the first play ran -- my play, the play I want to listen to every day -- I called around to get a contact for the building. While the show continued, someone arrived to address the situation. We didn't see them, but we could tell someone was there. The actors can use the regular bathrooms at the back of the hall. They prefer to not be seen in costume offstage, but when you gotta go ...

My curtain speech was probably a bit quick. To make up for that, the mom actress went back to her old habits of extending her lines and adding vocal noises before speaking. We don't get "Rochelle will visit me. Rochell loves me." We get "Oooooohhhh, um ... Rochelle ... Rocheeeeelle loves me, and Rocheeeeelle will visit meeeeeeeee." She doesn't talk like this offstage. She's clear and bright and considerate in conversation. She's a smart cookie. But she's determined to make Mom a tragic caricature. She wanted to do Glass Menagerie this season and petitioned the script committee to choose it. I think she's trying to turn a 30-minute sitcom into Tennessee Williams.

She knew she screwed up. She didn't get the reactions she did Saturday, and I hope the time off (the blessed, glorious time off) will set in her head the clear results of listening to the director (oh hey, that's me).

Everyone else was good, and we ended again right at 2 hours and twenty minutes. It's not my doing that hits that mark each day. It's happenstance.

I got home before 6 and mowed the yard and put out snail bait. Your Sis called to say she's enjoying her unplugged cabin experience. I'm sprawling like a proper bachelor, but I did the laundry. I woke up to beat to run, and I plan to do two miles when I get home tonight.

Picture of the Day
This is the first look at Scarlet Johannsen as Black Widow, the Soviet spy who flirts and flights with Tony Stark. I watched Downey in Zodiac last night, and he's good as always.



The comic character traditionally looks like this:


I don't know where they got the Raggedy Ann curls.

Second Show

Cooler air helped the show start on a lighter note. The concession folks hooked up a popcorn machine before everyone arrived, and the hall held that aroma the entire night. The previous two nights finally cemented a routine, and I was relaxed. I think we all were. That was a little worrisome; this is when mistakes happen. We were taping tonight too.

The board president arrived just in time to do his speech. He's not a great conversationalist, at least with me. We're still getting to know each other. But when he took the stage, he had shtick, and it went over great. He warmed up the small audience, and I appreciated it. Before we officially began, I told my cast to enjoy themselves. I particularly wanted the mom actress to settle down and get her lines out quickly. She nailed it. She was a one-liner machine, and the audience went crazy for her. It was her best performance yet, and I lavished her and the others with praise. It was a shame the audience was too polite to guffaw; the cast earned a reaction similar to Friday night.

I read more and chatted more during the show, and it went smooth until intermission. The sound lady warned me that the computer was acting weird. I attribute all such comments to her competence. Also, she continues to add flourishes during the intermissions. She's playing more music and different music. I suspect she's asking the computer to do stuff without realizing it will now behave differently. Rehearsals are to establish routine, and she's removing that. So of course, when we got to the end of the third play and its required thunderclap, we got classical music instead. Luckily, the cue was supposed to be a sign from God. But still.

As the fourth play was set to begin, the lights stayed down. The audience knew something was wrong. I was just offstage whisper-screaming into the headset to hit the lights. The computer had to be rebooted, I was told. But the computer only controls the sound, not the light. Hit. The. Lights, I hissed. Finally, they came up. I stormed to the dressing room. The third-play actors were joking about the cue screw-up. The actor turned to me as I walked in.

"Hey, Gregory ... " he said.
"Don't worry. She'll die."

That got a laugh. I was Hulking out a bit.

When the show ended, I bee-lined to the tech table, and she began her tale of woe. The words "something" and "doohickey" were used, and I got enough to understand that she rebooted in time to give us sound for the fourth play. I thanked her for that. But I warned her to stop doing new stuff if it's going to lock up the PC.

Speaking of locking up, I got to close up the theatre around 11 and made the short drive for a Burger King drive-thru.

Things always screw up when we tape a show. Always. But Sunday's show is the end of a long week. I'll get to go home in daylight and take a few days off.

I got up this morning to weed the garden, tie up the tomato plants, and water the garden. I have to put out snail bait tonight, and I might mow the yard while the sun is still out. I'm willing to do anything once the play is done today. I can reshingle a roof if it means doing something different. I mean, besides washing all my stage-manager clothes. I have a pile of black to hose down.

First Show

Mom called me a few hours before the show. Her gall bladder will need to be removed but not now. What she has now is an ulcerated stomach. I'm not surprised. Her diet went to hell once Dad died; she ate rarely and badly. I had stomach ulcers as a child, and we all lived through that bland diet. She has medicine now and a diet sheet, and once this is over, they'll tackle the gall bladder.

I'm relieved for many reasons. But right now it means I don't have to add a long drive and visit to my play schedule.

I arrive a half hour before the actors are scheduled to. I thought the light guy and I would clean up the hall, but it's already done. The tables are arranged to welcome the audience and a concession table is decked out in summer props. The extra time isn't empty though, as I'm suddenly running around with things I haven't had to tackle before. The box-office table can't figure out why their equipment isn't getting power from the wall outlet. The sound guy and I spend ten minutes playing with the circuit breaker before we discover the box-office ladies didn't plug in their gear.

The sound guy hooks up a second mic for the ailing actor. His co-star in the third play doesn't arrive until half an hour after the actors are scheduled to show up. She's the newest face for me, and I never get an explanation for her absence. I remind her to call us next time. She doesn't go on for 90 minutes into the show, but I can't spend that 90 minutes hoping she shows up.

The light guy, the sound lady, and I debate a backstage light to help us work walk around to open the curtains. The light lady says its distracting to the audience. I say I prefer that to us knocking over the set pieces with our knees. We compromise by taking the light down to half. Why did everyone want a stage manager if they're gonna argue my decisions?

My liaison gives the curtain speech (after we quickly delineate the sequence of light changes with the light guy), and we're off. The sound lady blows her first cue; apparently the darkness and curtain speech didn't inform her that the show was starting. I'm screaming into the headset to hit the first sound. Finally it comes. We're a minute into the show, and I'm ready to kill. The actor with the mic didn't connect it properly, and his arm movements cause hi mic to cut out during his play. I have no chance to fix this; he doesn't leave the stage after the walks on.

The actress with the mic has now gotten so lazy with her voice that the mic isn't picking her up properly. To my shock, instead of telling her to talk above a mumble, the liaison and sound guy adjust the stage mics and give me new settings for just her play. I don't like getting more technical stuff to juggle.

It's still dead-air hot during the show, but now the Legionnaires are throwing a party on the other side of the wall. The cast and crew can hear them from the stage. What, the theatre folks didn't bother to remind them we're doing a show this weekend? Why am I not surprised?

I have a book to read backstage (Sons and Lovers), but my nervous energy keeps me tiptoeing backstage and checking the show's progress. The audience is 40-strong and vocal. They enjoy my cast, but my mom actress is slow. It sounds like she's unsure about the lines, and she in fact blows a couple. The others recover well. I ask her during the second play if she realizes what's she's doing. She says no. She then tries to dissect the line trouble, and I tell her to relax, enjoy the audience reaction and pick up her cues quicker. She's taking this way too seriously, and I regret saying anything. I don't want to be one of those directors who give notes after each performance. I won't do it again unless it's solicited.

We wrap up right on time at 10:20, and a free food reception encourages conversation. Some actors have stuck around for the food. The mumbling actress and the sound lady are conspiring to ad more music between plays. I don't care as long as they run it past the directors first. And then tell me. If I hear new music while moving sets, I'll freak out a bit. We don't add new stuff once the show opens. That's a practical rule.

I lock up at 11:20, a full five hours after I showed up, and I am beat. My feet are burgers. My clothes are chalky from dust and sweat.

The next morning, I have to convince my brain that we only do this twice more this week. I'm so accustomed to seeing the play as an endless tunnel stretching months into the future. We've actually trudged forward, and this patchwork A-Team hang glider is airborne. My ailing actor called to say his voice is better, and I assured him we can adjust his mic as need be.

I should point out the compliments I'm getting from everyone. It's mixture of relief that someone is doing the work, and that I'm so far not biting off heads.

Your Sis is safely in the hinterlands and enjoying doing nothing.

Last Rehearsal

The liaison called me earlier in the day to apologize about the tickets for the open rehearsal. Said he forgot them in the car. I told him we had all arrived at a consensus about limiting ourselves to inviting two people each. That's the pattern from previous shows. Not that it mattered. Only three people showed up to watch last night.

I also got an email about the curtain speeches. Friday and Saturday will be handled by board people, and that's all that could be wrangled together. The support for their volunteers is, well, about what I expect. I'll handle the rest of them with my speech notes on a clipboard.

I packed up my black uniform and drove straight to the theatre from work. I got there just after 6 and geared up for a four-hour slog.

We ran at 2 hours and 15 minutes with a shortened intermission. We hit intermission at 9:20 and ended at 10:15. I took the stage at 8 on the dot. Using the walkie-talkie, I cued the tech crew for sounds and lights. We'll need to have some sort of onstage lighting for set change and curtain movement. It's pitch black otherwise.

An actor in my play and another has lost his voice. He came to rehearsal with a bare whisper. He and the second-play actress shared the mic, and we'll ask the soundmaster to hook up a second mic so they won't have to trade off. With a mic, he's clearly audible. I told him to pantomime kissing his onstage fiance and warned her to watch out for the mic when they hug.

My cast may have peaked too early. They're having line trouble. They can cover it well enough as proof of their experience. But they're losing punchlines, and I want them to enjoy as much laughter as they can. They've worked for it. I won't give any more notes to them starting tonight. It was us sculpting a play in a warehouse for three months. Now, it's just them and the audience. A bad last rehearsal is a good omen, and I hope that holds true.

The actress again heard some complaints that she wasn't audible. I walked to the back of the hall and could hear her from the center exit door. That's about fifty yards away. She did admit she may have not adjusted the mic to her mouth correctly when she got it from the sick actor. I don't care what she says; I can hear her clear as a bell and told her so. She explained that the sound warps around the building, and my ears shut down. She's on a mic, the volume is cranked. If you're afraid you can't be heard, talk louder. When in doubt, shout.

The theatre has yellow handheld fans we give out for promotion, and we certainly need them. The hall is a sauna. It is roasting in the hall, no matter how many doors we open or fans we crank up.

Our above-door exit signs don't light up. I think that's bad.

The cast has been told to arrive at 7, an hour before our curtain opens. They feel it's early, and I'm telling them to bring a book. It does feel early, but I'd rather them be bored than late.

Someone suggested that we have transition music between the third and fourth play, and I agreed. The actress went on to say I needed to choose a song, and I stopped her. I pointed out that was a director decision, and I called that director over. I told her the suggestion. She agreed. I then told her to talk to the sound lady about picking music. I reminded them that I tried this earlier in the week, and third director didn't like the song I chose. I'd rather not pick a song for the opening night that the second director won't like. She needs to pick it, and I'll make sure it plays at the right time. That's what a stage manager does.

I always expect something dramatic to happen backstage. It always does. For my first play here, the director lost her brains. For the second, an actress lost her dad. For the third, the leads lost their lines. I tried to gird myself for it, whoever it happened to. But it happened to me.

Ten minutes before the play started last night, my mom called to say she might be facing gall bladder surgery. She's been ill for a few days now. She's seeing a doctor today, and they've talked about such an operation for years now. This might be the time. She's going to call me this morning after talking to the doctor.

I do not want this to interrupt the show, and she and I made some provisions for the weekend. If she's facing surgery, I can drive down Saturday morning and be back that night for the show. But there's a possibility -- just a possibility -- that I might miss a show for this. I'm going to try to avoid it as much as I can. And the doctor might tell her good news that could make this consideration null and void. But I warned my liaison this morning. Two actors know about it; I took the call backstage, and they were in earshot.

If I do miss a show, it should be easy to replace me. I have detailed notes for preparation, and the cast is helping to move items through the show. A replacement should have no trouble. As long as they can carry the park bench, that is. That sucker is lead.

Your Sister bought me an extra pair of black pants and a pack of black t-shirts so I won't have to do laundry. She's a fantastic wife. I woke her up when I got home to tell her about Mom. She woke me up four hours later before she left for her vacation. I tried to talk to her, to say goodbye, but I was mostly asleep. Here's an interactive moment for the blog: Gently pound your keyboard with the back of your hands. That string of gibberish is exactly what I said to her.

I haven't run since the rehearsals started at the hall, and I'm feeling it. I'm stiff and sore. I gotta run again.

...

Mom just called. The doctor's office can't see her, and she was directed to the ER instead. She's waiting for a diagnosis as I type. The earliest I can get down there without causing total backstage havoc is Saturday morning.

One of the two actors who overheard the call last night called just a second ago to get an update. I told her I plan to be there tonight. Scrooge had to do his show with a bout of food poisoning and a father in intensive care.

In the News
Lightsaber chopsticks. You want these.

A Day Off

And, man, did I need it.

I realized something yesterday as I was cataloging my manager checklist. My notes are written on the back of business cards, and I've gone through ten of them as I take notes, scratch out bad info, and make notes on new cards. It took a while to remember the last time I did this, but it hit me last night. It was Dad's death last year.

I followed Mom with pockets full of lists of things to do. I had few certain activities and otherwise kept my ear out for things to take care of at the proper time. I kept my head down and jotted everything I needed to keep in mind. That's what I'm doing now. And I feel the same now. Yesterday I was so anxious that I was afraid to eat. I settled on a simple sandwich for dinner and an ice-cream dessert to keep my stomach quiet.

I'm embarrassed to have this association flying around in my gut. I didn't expect those echoes to linger. But at least I know it's not the show filling me with dread. It shouldn't. I've done a dozen shows. I don't have to memorize anything for this one. I'm backstage virtually the entire time. My heavy work is done. I prepared the cast and provided them with props and movement. They have to perform. I only need to show up and stay alert.

I also realized that my curtain speeches will be much easier if I approach them as a stage manager instead of a formal member of the theatre. Stage managers wear all black casual clothes. They have checklists. My speech notes are a checklist. If I put them on a clipboard, I can make them into an in-character presentation. "Hi, I'm your stage manager tonight. Stage managers have checklists for everything, and I have a list to ensure I welcome you properly." I won't have to memorize it. I'll have one of the three easiest jobs each performance -- the tech guys just have to hit the lights and sounds with the scripts in front of them.

Also, we watched the director's cut of Aliens last night. A good action-horror movie is great for perspective. Yes, I may feel a twinge of nerves right now, but I'm not on a desolate moon pursued by a hive of walking acid sharks while the clock ticks down on a nuclear reactor. It always good be worse.

So, good. I'm all settled. Bring on the show.

Your Sis and I enjoyed our last evening together before she hoofs it to somewhere in New England, or as we call it, New VerMaiMassicutt Island. She almost put down the younger cat last night, and after getting the bill, she wishes she did. That's a horrible position to be in. I assured her the cat, who lost five teeth to a common cat disease, will be fine. She can still eat regular food. I'll give her the prescribed medicine while Your Sis is gone. The cats will be here when she gets back. It's just the kind of drama one doesn't need before a big trip. I always play at hating the cats, but they're good pets, and they pre-date me in the household.

Your Dad finished the drywall repair yesterday, and he met me at the office this morning. He said he was glad to do it, to see if he still could. He is a drywall champion. That wall is textbook. He also brought a box of blueberries I'll bag and freeze this weekend.

In the News
Lost made the cut of Emmy nominations again. It's up for best drama, editing, supporting actor (Ben), sound mixing, and writing. In the last category, Lost is the only other show against four episodes of Mad Men.

Picture of the Day
The audience can't see you but they see what you do.

Getting Better

I really will try this without so much of the whiny pout-pout.

I was the first to get the hall and open it up. When the lights and fan are off, the hall is pleasantly cool. But once we crank up the stage lights and computers, the broiling begins. I suspect the ceiling fans are set to push down warm air.

I tried out my new sound file, and it worked slightly. What sounded like an even volume at home was again at three settings at the hall. I showed the sound tech how to work it, and it's at least easier than juggling three files in under a minute.

I also loaded up my WWII-song to finish the play. As I told the sound tech this, she showed me her CD of sax music. The last play mentions sax music, and I had heard the liaison mention using sax music to end the play and show, but it was never played during rehearsals. I asked the director (who's also acting in the play) about closing with some sort of music, and she seemed fine with me bringing in some music. I went with We'll Meet Again. It's a great tune. But last night, when given the choice, the director picked the sax music chosen by the sound tech. It's a light jazz version of I Will Always Love You.

I reminded myself that it's the director's choice, and that I'm not the director. The song isn't a bad idea, itself -- the title does fit with the reunion plot -- although it's about letting someone go to love someone else.

The actors asked a number of questions I couldn't answer or could only answer via whim.

When do we set up for make-up? Let's not wear any. Y'all look fine in the stage lights.

What about tickets for the open dress rehearsal? I've heard nothing about them.

Aren't we supposed to tell actors to park somewhere else? Are we? I guess so.

Why aren't the board members giving the opening speech? Why are you doing it? You've got too much to do. The assumption was that I'd do it. I'm trying to weasel out of it. But I've got my notes ready.

Why do the backdrop pieces look so ramshackle? They weren't designed to be backdrops, and we'll be lucky if they last the entire production.

Why aren't you doing (theatre tradition)? I didn't know about it.

This is why I insisted that I needed to apprentice before doing stuff like directing or managing. This is my fourth show with this company, and two of them were in a courtroom and a country-clubhouse. Everyone else knows more about what I'm expected to know. It's like a total-immersion language courses. Or shepherding older shepherds. Someone with more experience should do this. I answer so many questions with "I guess so" or "oh, right." Dammit, Jim. I'm a set mover, not a producer.

The show did run smoother last night as we tightened the set changes. I recruited two people to help me open curtains as the show opens and closes. And when the show actually begins, I'll have much less to keep track of. I'll be behind the curtain like the Wizard of Oz. Handing out trinkets and calling people "good deed-doers." When I did other shows with extended time backstage, I read books. This time, I need to keep an ear and eye out for tech trouble.

I make stage managing sound like shitwork. It's not. Not really. But it's a hundred times smoother and easier when the routines are established sooner in the rehearsal process. When I stage managed before, I had a blast doing it. I got my actors ready. I was their cheerleader. They knew I had their back, and the director knew I would make the play go like clockwork.

This is so slapdash and last-second that a veteran hand is called for. People appreciate my effort, but they are unsettled as things work differently because I don't know the precedents. I don't mind being overruled. I want this to go right. I'm obviously as out of the loop as they are.

Cripes, I AM Jack from Lost.

Picture of the Day
This is from the Saturday rehearsal. This is my play. The guy is proposing with a toy ring that's about to accidentally squirt his fiance with water. Behind them are the triangular towers. The gaps between them are unavoidable.