| "Pack a Parasol" |
[03 Nov 2009|12:47am] |
I checked the weather to see if I needed to bring a jacket to school tomorrow and I saw this.
I saw this...ridiculousness.
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| "My Lingering Strands of Sanity Evaporate" |
[25 Oct 2009|09:08pm] |
I've been reading Chekhov non-stop for the past three weeks. So, I decided to write an account of my Friday night as if Chekhov had written it. What follows is an incomplete first act.
ACT I
(ALEXANDER ALEXOV STEFANOV, ABREYAVNA SAVORINA, and JORVAN ILYICH MACHADAMIAN sit at a booth in a pub) STEFANOV: Yes, yes. Why do we always come here? I don’t really like this place. So, so… ABREYAVNA: Katrine and Andrei Andreyich will be late. Oh, how I worry when people say that they will be arriving late. I worry that they will not come at all. STEFANOV: Three dollars for a beer! Outrageous…it will not do. I am not a rich man. I could have been, but I have chosen a life of education.
ABREYAVNA: This table will serve well for us. Oh, but what if too many come? Or too few? If too many of our friends arrive, some will not be able to sit down. If too few of our friends arrive, then people will think we are selfish to have a table that has more room than we require. Why could we not all arrive at once? STEFANOV: My books have been my currency! Learning is the most important aspect of living. If I had been a mechanic, or perhaps a plumber, I would have looked back at my life in my old age and thought how empty and useless it all was. ABREYAVNA (to STEFANOV): You are intolerable today, Alexander Alexov. How you upset me! (to MACHADAMIAN) And you are so quiet, Jorvan Ilyich… MACHADAMIAN: Yes? (confusedly) Oh, yes, sweet Abrina, my little dove. I suppose I am lost in thought. (sings softly) “The coachmen neglects the horses, and the bear comes along and eats them…” ABREYAVNA: I do hope the others come along soon. Was that the door? I think that was the door just now. STEFANOV: That could be anyone. Other people come into this bar, you know. (GREYSKI DESTOV-JESUS, BREEZHNA NATALYA and BROOKANA NOVANOVA enter) DESTOV-JESUS: A booth! How fantastic! I do love booths. I told Broona before we arrived that I would so love to sit at a booth. STEFANOV: Have you brought along the Colonel, Brookana Novanova? BROOKANA NOVANOVA: He should be arriving shortly. With Moira Rimana. BREEZHNA: I don’t care much for this place, I must tell you. They made me tie up my dog outside. ABREYAVNA: How horrible! What if he is struck by a bicycle? BREEZHNA: That wouldn’t faze him. He’s as strong as steel. DESTOV-JESUS (feeling the table): Remarkable! BREEZHNA: But he dearly loves to eat the peanuts on the floor. MACHADAMIAN: I wonder if I have the money for a beer today. STEFANOV: You have a beer in front of you, Jorvan Ilyich. MACHADAMIAN (responding to his name): Yes? (confusedly) I suppose it wouldn’t be impossible. Perhaps when I go home I shall look it up… STEFANOV: I had no money in my purse for a beer today. But then, I had no money in my purse for a beer yesterday, either. I never have money, but I don’t need it. What I have is of much more value. I have many more valuable things. DESTOV-JESUS: I shall buy you a beer, Alexander Alexov! STEFANOV: You may do as you wish. DESTOV-JESUS: You are in the booth, Alexander Alexov, do you see? But I am in a chair! Part of the table is for the booth, and this part is for the chairs! The table accommodates both! BROOKANA NOVANOVA (to DESTOV-JESUS): You haven’t the money to buy Alexander Alexov a drink, Greyski. ABREYAVNA: I’m sure Moira Rimana will pick up the tab for us all. But where is she? Why must she take so long to arrive when she knows it infuriates me so? (MOIRA RIMANA and COLONEL CHRISTO DURKOYONO enter) STEFANOV: She appears to have heard her cue. BROOKANA NOVANOVA: And with the Colonel, as well. Perhaps things will liven up now. MACHADAMIAN (sings softly): “Don’t cry, little coachman, the bear has eaten your horses…” MOIRA: Sweet, tender Abrina, and you’ve brought so many dear friends! MACHADAMIAN (musingly): “My little dove…” MOIRA: I do hope no one has paid for anything! I would love to treat you all. It would bring me so much joy! And dearest Breezhna, I knew you would be here too—I saw your little dog tied up outside. BREEZHNA: As small as he is, he is as strong as an ox. DESTOV-JESUS: Colonel! Sit down! You may sit in a booth or a chair! Or both, if you like! STEFANOV: He cannot sit in both. CHRISTO: Yes, I believe I would like to sit down. How tiring this day has been. To sit down and settle my bones at the end of a long day is what I require most in the world. I used to think that military service would be all I needed to be a strong, happy man. Now all I want is to sit down. How strange it all is, to want one thing but then to want another, seemingly contradictory thing. But what can I do? I cannot change who I am right now. I should like nothing better than to sit. MOIRA: Then sit, by all means, Christo. (to WAITRESS) Please bring another round of beers. I have a tab at the bar. Moira Rimana. Finish up your beers, friends! I have ordered another round. CHRISTO: When I was a young man—and I am not old, by any means—but when I was a Corporal, I felt that a life of military training and discipline would serve to make me the man that I would be when I am the age that I am. And I believed that the man that I would be when I was as I am now would be happy…and strong. Now I am as I am now and I find the man that I am wants to sit down more than anything else. The Corporal that I was couldn’t have imagined such a thing. It’s funny, don’t you think? And yet I can’t help being who I am. I would like to sit down and have a beer. MOIRA: I have ordered you a beer, Christo. It should be coming soon! BROOKANA NOVANOVA: But you still have not sat down, Colonel, for a man that wants it so badly. DESTOV-JESUS: You may have my seat, Colonel! I’m thinking of moving to another. Wherever I sit, I get a different view of things around the table! Splendid! CHRISTO: But then, this day has been particularly tiring, after all… (KATERINE DUVA-WEEPNA and ANDREI ANDREYICH enter) MOIRA: Katya! And Andrei Andreyich! But this is wonderful! You must go to the bartender and order two more beers on my tab! BROOKANA NOVANOVA: You mustn’t keep buying everyone’s beers, Moira Rimana, you haven’t the money for it. ABREYAVNA: But if she does not, who shall pay? Surely I cannot buy myself beers! They’ll throw me out in the street! STEFANOV: She may buy me beers, or she may not. I have no need of beers or the money to buy them. MOIRA: I know I should not, but what can I do? I’m terrible with money. I just want you all to be happy, the way things have always been! If that means giving everything I have, then why not? You all are thirsty, and you must have beer. Whatever I have with me to help me belongs to you! I would’ve given my entire purse to the homeless man outside if Druski Hutchenbach hadn’t stopped me. BROOKNA NOVANOVA: You came with the Baron as well? But where is he? BREEZHNA: There is a homeless man outside with my dog? ANDREI ANDREYICH: The Baron is speaking with the homeless man. Perhaps he is talking some sense into him. ABREYAVNA: But if Druski Hutchenbach is here as well there aren’t enough seats. I knew this would happen. Did I not I tell you this would happen before everyone arrived, Alexander Alexov? STEFANOV: Hm? Well, maybe I shall go. Or at least go and use the restroom. Then there will be enough seats at least until I return. You mustn’t be so out of sorts, Abrina. MACHADAMIAN (contemplatively): “…my silent joy” MOIRA: Jorvan Ilyich! I hadn’t noticed you sitting there. You had better finish your beer before the waitress comes with another round. MACHADAMIAN: Yes? (lost in thought) Yes, perhaps that’s true. I suppose it is best that I be going. There are a few things that require my attention. To pass the time…Abrina, my little dove. And to all the rest. STEFANOV: I’ll walk out with you, Jorvan Ilyich. But only as far as the restroom. BROOKANA NOVANOVA: There you are now, Colonel, there are plenty of seats to choose from. STEFANOV: You mustn’t take mine! I am only going to the restroom. BROOKANA NOVANOVA: Of course not, but the Colonel may take Jorvan Ilyich’s chair. DESTOV-JESUS: No, let me have his chair and he shall take my seat in the booth! How wonderful! STEFANOV: Let us walk, Jorvan Ilyich. MACHADAMIAN (sings softly): “But how shall the coachman ride, with his horses all eaten up…” (STEFANOV and MACHADAMIAN exit) CHRISTO: It is true I am tired on my feet after today…only but to sit down would bring me the greatest joy. BROOKANA NOVANOVA: Then you should sit, for God’s sake. KATERINE (to Andrei Andreyich): What did you mean before? ANDREI ANDREYICH: When? KATERINE: What did you mean before, when you said “talk some sense into the homeless man”? BREEZHNA: How frightful! Out there with my dog? Of course, he’s as tough as nails. ANDREI ANDREYICH: I meant what I said. Rarely do I say other than what I mean. In fact, I never do that. MOIRA: How strange that the beers haven’t arrived! I suppose they’ll be along shortly. Poor dear, the waitress, probably been running around all night…I shall have to tip her extra, poor dear, poor dear…oh, and Colonel, you should sit, Greyski has moved from his seat again… DESTOV-JESUS: Yet each seat is more exciting than the last! How beautiful and easily understood it all is! CHRISTO: Yes, so strange that nothing should bring me greater joy. But the young Corporal I was would’ve laughed at the prospect…then again, I am not so very old, not very old at all… BREEZHNA: No, you are not old. Your hair is not even gray yet. In dog years, my little Heinrich is much older than you. But how strong he is! And solid. Like a brick with legs and a tail. KATERINE: Andrei Andreyich, how can you say such things about the homeless! Do you think they choose to be that way? They haven’t had the privileged upbringing that we’ve had! ANDREI ANDREYICH: That you’ve had, perhaps. I got where I am through hard work. You have cared for nothing but lack of work and being waited on like all privileged youth. Your father is an ambassador. Mine was an apprentice to the manager of a comic book store. He died before he could run the store himself. But before he died he taught me that by working seventeen hours a day you could be as rich as a Senator. So could anyone. All it takes is hard work. KATERINE: I adore you so, Andrei Andreyich. Why must we be so different? It is so cruel, so cruel… (KATERINE sobs) BROOKANA NOVANOVA: Oh, how tiresome you are, Andrei Andreyich! You talk and talk of hard work so much it seems your hardest work goes into these speeches. ABREYAVNA (sobbing): How can I work? I haven’t learned any skills! MOIRA: Please stop that, sweet Abrina, you know how pain saddens me! (MOIRA begins to sob as well. The WAITRESS arrives. MOIRA abruptly stops) MOIRA: How wonderful! Our beers are here. Everyone clear your hands and let her set them down! (She pulls out some cash) Here’s a little extra for you, poor dear. I’ll tip you more on the card. Come now, everyone, drink up, drink up—but wait, did she bring enough? Has everyone gotten one? CHRISTO: Ah, yes, just what would hit the spot… (CHRISTO takes the beer and pours it over his head) ANDREI ANDREYICH: Well, now we have one less. BROOKANA NOVANOVA: Colonel! What is the matter with you! MOIRA: He wanted it so badly, the poor dear. (to WAITRESS) Please fetch some napkins. What a long day you must have had, Colonel. CHRISTO: Yes, it was a tiring day on this day in particular. And so cold, too…I can feel it now… ANDREI ANDREYICH: It’s cold because you have poured your beer on yourself, you fool. MOIRA: I’m having the waitress fetch some napkins. Please do sit down, Colonel. BROOKANA NOVANOVA: He shouldn’t sit down now. He’s all wet. ABREYAVNA (sobbing): But he can’t simply stand there! People will see! BROOKANA NOVANA: He’s been standing this long; he may as well stand a while longer. (DRUSKI HUTCHENBACH and STEFANOV enter, followed by the WAITRESS with napkins) DRUSKI HUTCHENBACH: The Colonel’s hair is all wet. ANDREI ANDREYICH: He has poured his beer over his head, Baron. DRUSKI HUTCHENBACH: Oh-tch-tch-tch. Such a waste. ABREYAVNA: And now that the two of you are here there aren’t enough beers for everyone! MOIRA: I shall order more, Abrina, only don’t be sad. STEFANOV: Jorvan Ilyich has left but his beer is still there, untouched. And now he has a second. DRUSKI HUTCHENBACH: I shall drink them both. MOIRA: There now, you see, Abrina? All is well. BREEZHNA: Did you see my dog outside, Baron? DRUSKI HUTCHENBACH: Indeed. He was tied to a parking meter. BREEZHNA: Or rather the parking meter was tied to him. He is as sturdy as a stone. ANDREI ANDREYICH: Why were you wasting your time with that homeless man, Druski Hutchenbach? DRUSKI HUTCHENBACH: He stank of Vodka. I wanted to know if he had any more—or at the least, where he had gotten it. STEFANOV: What do you have against that homeless man, Andrei Andreyich? He came from the same humble beginnings that you did. ANDREI ANDREYICH: Yes, but see where he is and where I am, Alexander Alexov. You have proven my point before our argument has even begun! KATERINE: Why do I adore nothing as I do you? STEFANOV: Were we to have an argument? BROOKANA NOVANOVA: Not in my presence—not tonight. (to DESTOV-JESUS) Please call us a cab, Greyski. DESTOV-JESUS: A taxi? But of course—how wonderful! I believe I shall sit in the front! (DESTOV-JESUS rushes out) ABREYAVNA: Surely you’re not leaving so soon, Broona? What a terrible night this has turned out to be! CHRISTO: And yet the day was longer than most. DRUSKI HUTCHENBACH (to WAITRESS): Two more, please. (the WAITRESS, who has just finished drying off CHRISTO, goes out) MOIRA (yelling after): Put those on my tab! STEFANOV: But you’ve not finished the two beers you have, Baron. DRUSKI HUTCHENBACH: One never knows how long a waitress may take, Alexander Alexov. It is best to manage one’s time wisely. MOIRA: There now, Colonel, doesn’t it feel good to be all dry again? CHRISTO: I feel much as I did before… BROOKANA NOVANA: Before you were wet, you mean? STEFANOV: That’s logical. You are no longer wet. MOIRA: I often wish that things had been as they were before. I think that’s why I feel the Colonel and I have so much in common. ANDREI ANDREYICH: And yet change is part of life, Moira Rimana. No, not only a part of life, but essential to it. And how much more exciting it is! Can’t you see that? Industry! In two hundred years, three hundred years, we will have no need to even go to bars. DRUSKI HUTCHENBACH: Not go, you say? Absurd. ANDREI ANDREYICH: Social networking will be done from the comfort of our own home. But it will not be easy. It will take hard work. STEFANOV: We are so much the same, Andrei Andreyich, and yet we are even much more the different. You say in two hundred years we will have no need for bars? I say I have no need for bars in the present. And if you had received a formal education, you wouldn’t have need for them, either. DRUSKI HUTCHENBACH: I can drink from the home, if that is how it is to be in two hundred years. ANDREI ANDREYICH: So by your reasoning all the homeless man needs is a formal education, Alexander Alexov? STEFANOV: I suppose. But I was not defending the homeless man, Andrei Andreyich. I was merely objecting to the objections that you have to his being homeless. Unfortunately for him, there is no hope for his element—the uneducated. Whereas for myself…my grandfather was smart, my father was smarter, and now I am smartest. ANDREI ANDREYICH: Yes, yes, and in two hundred years your descendents will be even more smartest! Don’t you see? We’re of the same mind. In two hundred years the homeless element will be weeded out and only those with the drive will press forward. Hard work! The accumulation of wealth! My grandfather was homeless, but he worked hard and became a sanitation worker! My father was an apprentice to a comic book store manager! BROOKANA NOVANOVA: Curse your wretched father! I’ve told you I will not sit here for this! CHRISTO: Oh, my, that’s strange… (CHRISTO collapses to the floor) BREEVHNA: The Colonel’s collapsed! MOIRA: Oh, no, Colonel! He wanted nothing more but to sit down, you see! ABREYAVNA (sobbing): What a scene we are making—all of us! STEFANOV: He doesn’t appear to have lost consciousness. Stand back. I am a doctor and a lawyer. (DESTOV-JESUS re-enters) DESTOV-JESUS: The taxi’s arrived! I believe I may now like to sit in the back. (He looks down) The Colonel is on the floor. And with a perfectly good booth! How sexually aroused I’ve become! BROOKANA NOVANOVA: All the more reason for us to go. (DESTOV-JESUS and BROOKANA NOVANOVA exit) MOIRA: Colonel, speak to me! Do you have the strength to stand? There are plenty of chairs to sit in. CHRISTO: I had thought sitting would’ve been preferable to lying down. (He sits up) Ah, yes, that will do. STEFANOV: You can’t sit on the floor. They’ll throw you out. ABREYAVNA: They’ll throw us all out! MOIRA: Don’t start in, Abrina, you know how fragile I can become! (MOIRA begins sobbing; WAITRESS arrives with two more beers; MOIRA stops abruptly) MOIRA: Ah, more beer’s arrived! Wonderful! Colonel, a beer is what you need! WAITRESS: That man can’t have any. And he has to get off the floor. DRUSKI HUTCHENBACH: Those are both mine, anyhow. MOIRA: Come now, Colonel, do you hear? You must get off the floor! ABREYAVNA: Get off the floor, Colonel! You’ll ruin us! STEFANOV (to MOIRA): How could you allow him to have so much to drink in the first place? ANDREI ANDREYICH: The Colonel hasn’t had a drop tonight, apart from what he poured on his head.
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| "Bit with a Dog" |
[10 Oct 2009|10:39pm] |
I'm having a great time, by the way, here in California. I'm constantly confronted with the problems that I have (smoking, drinking, falling down and bonking my head) but I'm also coming to understand that, hey, I'm not too bad at what I do. They cast the November and February shows for the MFAs at the The O l d G l o b e, and they made it clear before the auditions that the 2nd year students would get priority casting over the 1st year students. Still, for the November show (which is the money show), I got the best part of the 1st year students, and arguably one of the best comedic parts that Shakespeare has to offer. It has the potential to be the most memorable part in the show. Actually, the only thing that can (and probably will) steal the show out from under my feet is a DOG.
The part is Launce, and the show is Two Gentlemen of Verona. See, Launce is this comic servant, and he has a dog. An ACTUAL dog, named Crab, that he brings out onstage. I initially didn't even want to read for the part--for one thing, I thought it would go to a second year; and for another, I have a history of frightening animals with my natural "stomping" way of walking and my jarring, clumsy movements. I didn't think I would be able to control a real live animal onstage. The director (who is the head of the program) suggested that I might look at the part before the audition and of course, after that, it was all I wanted to play. Launce has a lot of funny stuff to do and of course these giant monologues about his dog. According to the Arden edition of Two Gentlemen of Verona:
"Whatever the dog does onstage, even if it is nothing, the audience will attribute human qualities to it, so that it will simultaneously seem to engage on the level of the play (showing interest or boredom) and on the level of natural animal behaviour."
AND, referring to when the play was performed in the past...
"Upstaged by a dog, [the actor] would have found it necessary to improvise, as he so often did, while also sticking to a witty script...The human actor usually comes off second-best, however, and in the few productions when Crab's scenes are not particularly funny, the dog rarely gets the blame."
See that? It's a lose-lose situation for me, clearly.
Here's a picture of a dude playing the part.
The part works best when the dog is docile and sedate. From what I hear the dog they have for me is hyperactive and "freaks out" around lots of people. Lots of people...like...an audience? Greeaaaat. So we don't really know what the dog will do until opening night.
Sooooooo, I've grown pretty loopy over the past few weeks. Yoga is no more fun that it was to begin with. I've been reading three or four plays a week, tried to focus on my body alignment and crap, and tried to get used to driving up really big hills. I'm about to go experience Octoberfest. I think it's going on outside. PEACE.
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| "Smiles und Sunshine" |
[18 Sep 2009|11:19pm] |
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Wow, I totally moved to San Diego and went to grad school. What the hell was that about? Now I get to spend two years learning all of the exercises and techniques that I used to make fun of other actors for using in a strange city where I know no one and am given a workload that for the most part keeps me busy twenty-four hours a day. Anyway, after my Epic Road Trip (which I photo-chronicled on the Facebook) with Cubby I arrived in LA and crashed at his place, saw some friends, etc. It was Monday. I knew I had a meeting with the head of the program and my new classmates on Thursday at the Old Globe in San Diego. (Actually, it was on Friday, but at the time, for some reason, I thought it was on Thursday.) That gave me only three days to find a place. You see, originally, I had it figured that I could stay in San Diego for the entire month of September Rent-Free: I would stay at my friend Hassan’s place until Labor Day, and then I would stay at my friend Kate’s place for two weeks because she was housesitting for the two weeks after Labor Day. These were the only two people I knew in San Diego. While I was staying at their places, I would find a place of my own. Well, by the time I rolled into California, I was already tired of living out of The Truck—and it had only been FOUR days. I wasn’t about to go another month like this. So, on Tuesday, in LA, knowing I had my first meeting in San Diego only two days later (though actually it was not), I checked Craig’s List for a place in the area of San Diego where the Program People advised me that I should live. I found an ad for a dude who was renting a room in his condo-type place. It was in the right neighborhood. It was $750 a month, including utilities. I’d have my own bathroom, washer/dryer, etc. He put up this detailed description of himself that said he was looking for someone in my age range and described himself as “college-educated, laid-back, neat” and that he maintained an “active lifestyle”. I responded and described myself as “laid-back” and “respectful” and “likely to be extremely busy”. It was a little after that when I saw that my meeting was on Friday, not Thursday. The guy who wrote the ad, Scott, called me the same day. I told him I would come in the next day and see the place. I figured I’d drive to San Diego, drop my stuff off with Hassan, and then go see the place. Okay, this is all sort of tedious information. The bottom line is: I looked on Craig’s List, responded to the first ad I saw for a place in my target neighborhood, and decided I would drive down on Wednesday so I could see it and insist that the guy let me live here. I would stay at Hassan’s place on Wednesday and Thursday night. And so I drove to San Diego, on Wednesday, for the first time in my life. I called Hassan to ask him what his address was so I could program it into my GPS (my new best friend—the GPS, not Hassan) and he told me what I must have ignored all the other times I’d talked to him: He lives in Levine, not San Diego. “Levine” is about forty-five minutes South of Los Angeles, and about one hour North of San Diego. (Cubby later told me that Levine is technically a suburb of Los Angeles—Hassan vehemently denies this.) Anyway, I decided then that I would not insist, but demand, that the Craig’s List guy would rent me his room, and then I would drive back up to Levine and stay with Hassan. So I drove into San Diego. I actually went and saw my campus. It’s something like the "sixth prettiest Campus" in the country or something. It's on top of a giant hill. Here’s a picture I took between classes a week or so later:
So I arrived on Idaho Street (which is in between Oregon Street and Utah Street and just down from Texas Street) to see my potential new place. I met Scott—the Craig’s List guy—and he instantly reminded me of a guy I knew waaaaay back when I lived in Old House at UT named Travis Griffin (he was this amiable, Republican/Christian dude who used us as sort of his “sinful lifestyle outlit” and lived with Dave’s twin brother, Chris, and who whenever you said “hey Travis, I think you have a drinking problem” would without fail pour his drink all over himself as an homage to that scene in “Airplane!”. Also, I once watched him smoke a tampon that he had found on the ground at Trudy’s in West Campus.) It wasn’t so much Travis’s lifestyle or personal habits—since I hadn’t gauged those yet—it was just his way of speaking, mannerisms, and sort of the way he looked that Scott reminded me of Travis. Anyway, he asked me if I’d like anything to drink. I said that I’d love a beer. He gave me one and showed me the place. He did indeed keep a tidy, beautiful home. I said that I liked him and I wanted to live here. I told him I’d be back on Friday with a check. He said he was working Friday but would be happy to let me move in on Saturday. I said that was super. I told him I would drive back to Levine and stay there a couple nights and then move in on Saturday. (Scott told me that Levine was statistically the safest city in the entire country, according to the FBI.) And so it was that I came to San Diego and took the first place that I looked at. After all, it was furnished, gave me my own parking spot, and was situated under a bunch of trees that made it feel like the place was air-conditioned. (NOTE: no one, save the rich folks, has air-conditioning in San Diego. I absolutely despise any sort of heat, so I was very distressed about this. I have since discovered that if you have air-conditioning in this city you are wasting your money. If you live in San Diego, all you need is a screen over your window and you are living at 70-75 degrees all the time. If you live in San Diego your air-conditioning is provided free of charge by GOD.) So, after Scott agreed to take me on (I later found out that he had seen another guy that same night, but the fact that I asked for a beer clinched it for him that he wanted me to live there—it turns out he is part-Canadian) I drove back up to Levine to stay with Hassan. Hassan is a high school friend who is now a lawyer. He has a twin brother named Marwan who is also a lawyer. Hassan is Muslim, and wasn’t eating until sundown because it was Ramadan. It was after Sundown when I got to Levine so he had just gorged on a bunch of Sushi and took me to this sports bar. Hassan isn’t exactly the most observant Muslim. Apart from throwing back beers with me at the bar, he smokes weed like there’s no tomorrow (though he correctly insists that “the Koran says nothing about not smoking weed.”) I crashed on his floor that night. The next night we went out with one of his fellow lawyers. He drank a fruity martini. I had his friend take a picture and he made it clear that I couldn’t post it on Facebook because he couldn’t have his brother or anyone else see him drinking for religious reasons. But since nobody reads THIS, I figure I can post it here:
 Then we went back to his friend’s place (this girl had quite the Levine apartment) and back to his place. This time I didn’t sleep on his floor, but actually in his bed with him. The next day I went to face my destiny. THE PROGRAM I arrived on Friday to meet my fellow San Diego Masters Program people at the meeting. They had all obviously been in San Diego longer than I had, and some of them had even moved there a month and a half before the program began. So, I met my other six people. You see, each year the program takes seven people—four guys, three girls. I not only met the other three guys and three girls but I also met the seven people who were a year ahead of us AND the seven people who were on their way out. I immediately took to the people who were on their way out (or the “third years”), which was kind of sad because they will be gone after the beginning of October. That night I went out with the rest of my group (Group 23 we are called—the second years being called “Group 22” and the third years “Group 21”) to this bar in the area where most of us lived. I wasn’t supposed to move in with Scott until the next day, so I hit up the only Group 23 person I had already met—Bree, who just happens to be from Houston—to crash on her couch. Here’s a picture of them at the bar. I’m not in it because I took it.
The next night I went and played poker with the “third years”. None of the second years were there. Only one of my fellow Group 23 people was there. There were also a bunch of non-program equity actors there, since The Program involves doing professional shows with professional actors at The Old Globe, which is where our first meeting was and is located right next to the San Diego Zoo. They played $20 buy-ins, which was more than I was used to, but what the hell? Cubby, whom I had just left in LA, drove down to hang out and ended up playing as well. He bought in twice and lost forty bucks. I went until there were only five of us left (out of sixteen, maybe?) and then got knocked out as well. You know what? It was a blast. So, on Tuesday, classes began. Here are my classes: Modern Theatre This class is COMPLETELY different from the rest of my classes, but it was the first one I experienced. This is the only class that involves sitting at a table, poring over text and discussing stuff with an occasional lecture thrown in to get us talking. Basically, it’s the only class that resembles any specialized undergraduate class. It also may be my favorite class. We read things like A Doll’s House and Brecht and discuss the history of Realism vs. Epic Theatre and other such things. This is stuff I can get a handle on, because it’s stuff I can read and comprehend. Then we have… Voice I thought, hell, this should be a cakewalk! My voice is my strongest asset! Uh…well, I kind of feel like this class should be called something else. We haven’t done much with our voice yet. We’ve mostly been studying anatomy and bone structure and doing a shitload of MOVING. We’ve only just now gotten to exercises involving the voice: You know that warm-up where you bend your knees, then inhale while bringing your hands over your head, then exhale while bring your hands and body down while bringing your voice from the top of your range to the bottom as you descend? No? You’ve never heard of that? What are you, RETARDED? Well, I’ve totally learned that before and have seen many actors do it as a warm-up. But my instructor claims to have invented it. I find that hard to believe. You seriously haven’t seen that before? It looks kind of like this: 
Actually it doesn’t really look like that at all. Then I have… Acting Well, I would hope so. This class is taught by the head of the program and brings me back to the basics that I either never bothered to learn or openly rejected during my time in undergrad and before. THIS is where I stop acting purely by instinct and start learning my CRAFT!! This is where I study Stanislavsky, and learn that objective, obstacle, action, and given circumstances are the keys to ACTING!! Actually, this may be my second favorite class, because I like the professor and so far it involves the most interaction with my fellow classmates. Also, I’m hoping it will eventually give me the opportunity to act more. That’s really what I like to do. That’s my Tuesday. My Wednesday classes are… Yoga Yes, that’s right. The class I was most afraid of. This “class” is taught by a German man with an astonishing sense of humor (he’s super-friendly even by non-German standards) and invitingly imitable accent who also teaches at UCSD and is some kind of California Yoga God. I put “class” in parentheses because it’s not that, really, it’s just basically doing Yoga every Wednesday and Friday morning, for an hour AND a half. So I don’t call it Yoga class. I call it Torture class. I also call it “Germany Invades Dru-topia”. Or I was toying with calling it “Yo—gaaaaaah!” The truth is I haven’t made up my mind yet. Anyway, the German man is relentless in having me bend my body into the most uncomfortable position possible, holding it, and then walking over and guiding my body into a more uncomfortable position because the position I had been in wasn’t nearly painful enough to reach supreme Yoga-level discomfort. I’ve already developed a knack for realizing that if I’m not in extreme pain, I’m not doing it right, and I’m able to maneuver my body into “extreme pain position” before the German man can come over and correct me. Still, you know how everybody who does Yoga says that they feel so refreshed or whatever afterwards? They’re right. After I’m done with Yoga class, I feel sooo refreshed and relieved that it’s OVER. It’s like going to the gym, basically. You feel like you’ve accomplished something. But who knows? Maybe eventually I’ll be shaped like a perfectly-symmetrical Muscle Torpedo like the German man is. Movement Yeah, they put Movement right after Yoga. Isn’t that hilarious? Actually, it works. After Yoga, I don’t give a damn what the movement teacher does. Throw whatever you have at me, sister; I’ve already seen the worst shit. It’s like getting a job as a security guard after returning from Vietnam. I kept getting Yoga flashbacks while in Movement class: “no! no! I HAVE to breathe through my nose! And I have to breathe with every movement! And I have to be in paaaaaain!” It turns out that the rules in Movement class are looser. So far we’ve been doing lots of, you know, connecting with our body, realizing that my head is connected to my ass, that my ass is connected to my ankles, that my legs are a couple off fuckheads who won’t cooperate with the rest of my body and simply move of their own accord NO MATTER HOW MANY TIMES I say “stay still, stupid legs, stop tripping all over the place and listen to what my brain is saying!” One day they’ll listen. This is actually the most important class for me, and is the main reason that I thought I needed grad school. It doesn’t mean I have to necessarily LIKE moving around. I’ve never liked that. It will be a long time before I do. But I’m getting there. These California people seem to enjoy their “active lifestyles” (like my roommate). I’ll give it a shot, one little step at a time.
 Voice Then I have this class AGAIN. So far, as I said, it’s a lot like movement. Except the instructor doesn’t play fun New Age/hippie music while we move around. My Thursday class schedule is…exactly the same as my Tuesday class schedule. My Friday class schedule is the same as my Wednesday class schedule, except instead of Voice, I have… Alexander Technique So, on Friday, I have Yoga, followed by Movement, followed by this class. So Friday is sort of a body-focused extravaganza! Actually, scratch all I said before. This might be my favorite class. But I’ve only had it twice so far, so I couldn’t possibly judge that. It’s the only class we have once a week. Whereas Modern Drama, Acting, Yoga, and Movement are all twice a week and Voice is a whopping three times a week. I knew nothing about Alexander Technique before I came to this program (much like Yoga, Laban, Michael Chekhov, Anton Chekhov, Chekhov from Star Trek, etc.) but apparently it’s the acting world’s equivalent of faith-healing. You see, instructors in Alexander Technique have to have studied for three years and 1600 hours directly under someone who was taught by F. Matthias Alexander himself in order to be approved to teach Alexander Technique (I made none of that up, it’s all true.) Our instructor, whom I love, brought each of us in front of the class, asked us what our pet peeve was regarding our movement when acting, adjusted our body slightly, and WHAM! We were healed. Then in our second class this past week she met with us each individually and gave us massages. All hail the Alexander Technique. Alexander must have been like Jesus. You can read about him! These classes are about two hours apiece, from 10AM to 5PM Tuesday through Friday. Oh, but my schedule doesn’t stop there, nooooo. On evenings Tuesday through Friday we have… Evening Workshops These are about three hours long and so far have involved scansion and basically reading Shakespearean text. This is the only thing I’m being taught that I already know a thing or two about, if I do say so my damn self. In fact, I’ve spoken up like an asshole to correct the instructors once or twice already. “Uh, excuse me, but you say it scans like this, but wouldn’t it actually work better if it scanned like this?” And so forth. This is where I actually geek out. Wow, I actually enjoy endless sessions of picking apart lines of Shakespeare! Why do we have to take turns reading it? I want to read it all! Aw, she didn’t read it right. I’ve played that part before; let me show you how you read it! I know how to draw comparisons and inflect my voice, asshole. Really, I’ve always loved talking about, but actually more speaking, Shakespearean text. So it was that and a half-ass desire to improve my movement that made me think that this program would be good for me. These workshops only last another week or two, then they will be replaced by rehearsals. I will be cast in Two Gentlemen of Verona. It’s already been arranged. The fix is in!! I believe they’ve cut it so thereare fourteen parts. There are seven of us, and there are seven second-year students. It’s likely that the second-year students have an edge. I mean, I know if I would be pissed if I’d already been there a year and I got a shittier part than some asshole who’d only been there three weeks. Plus they’ve already got a year’s training in the above classes and workshops up on us. But still, you know, game on and stuff.
Apart from that, so far my weekends have been booked up with "voluntary" events revolving around the company and all of the journals, plays, exercises, and assignments I'm supposed to keep up with during my free time. Oh, and Patrick Swayze died. R.I.P.
This weekend me and the rest of Group 23 are going camping. The idea is that we will bond. If you never hear from me again I was eaten by a bear.
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| "Hooray for Theatre Camp, Part IV" |
[16 Aug 2009|07:40pm] |
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Yeah, so when I was at Theatre Camp, I went with Aaron to the theatre one day to discuss the “free show” with the artistic director. It was 2 in the afternoon on a Wednesday, and since the shows had already opened we had the day off. But not everybody had the day off. The intern actors were opening the children’s show—Rumpelstiltskin—at that very moment. As soon as I saw him—the artistic director—he said: “Hey, Andrew. There’s a photographer from the Tyler Morning Telegraph here. He wants to get a picture of an actor wearing a Tartuffe costume.” Aaron wasn’t in Tartuffe. My costume was downstairs outside the dressing rooms. I was the only actor in the building who would be able to do it. So I said “okay.” The photographer wanted a picture of me in my costume with people doing my makeup while I was trying to memorize my lines. So, we set up shot downstairs in one of the dressing rooms. The Rumpelstiltskin actors were all giving me funny looks since I was walking around backstage wearing a Tartuffe costume while their show was still going on. I didn’t have a Tartuffe script handy, so we took a Rumpelstiltskin script and slapped a “Tartuffe” label over the title. He grabbed a girl who worked at the box office to play the makeup artist, and even recruited Aaron to play “guy putting my shoe on.” The following Friday, this picture appeared on the cover of the “Marquee” section of the Tyler Morning Telegraph: 
I guess it was ridiculous to put the full costume on anyway, since it's barely visible in the picture. When I opened the Marquee section, though, I was delighted to find another picture of me, and an actual review of Love's Labour's Lost (totally unrelated to the cover picture) on the inside. What's funny about that page if you click on it is that they spell my last name correctly, then incorrectly in the same caption. In that same caption they say I'm from Houston, and then in the caption underneath the other picture they say I'm from New York. Still, the review had the following to say about me, which I thought was pretty nifty:
The play is an ensemble with no one character truly taking the spotlight, but in my opinion, the standout performance belongs to Andrew Hutcheson as Ferdinand. Much can be said of Hutcheson's resonating voice and strong stage presence, but what impressed was how animated his face was, particularly his eyes. I could be something as simple as an arched eyebrow or the widening of his eyes to comedic effect, but the range he displayed and the fact that it was visible from several rows up was truly impressive.
What I like about it is that it's the first review I can remember that mentions something other than my voice, which is something that was given to me and I honestly have no control over. I also find it amusing that what I assume is the theatre critic at the Tyler Morning Telegraph says that "my schedule only permitted me to take in one of the five plays the festival offers." Now, this Festival is the only professional theatre in East Texas. What else, exactly, did this guy have on his agenda that prevented him from driving to the next town over more than once during the entire month of July?
Still, last year at theatre camp, do you know how many of the shows were reviewed--in any publication? Zero. So I guess I shouldn't complain since there were, in all, THREE reviews of two of the five shows this year. Two for Love's Labour's, one for Romeo and Juliet. Of course, the only two reviews other than the one above were written by the same person. But she liked me too! If you'll indulge my boastfulness for another minute, here's what she said about me in her Romeo and Juliet review:
Andrew Hutcheson is undoubtedly regal as Escalus, the Prince of Verona, and has been a hallmark of this company for two seasons in a row. Mind you--I was playing the goddamn PRINCE. I was onstage for a total of five minutes, tops, in the three hour show. Obviously, her reviews of both shows were sort of an "everyone gets a mention!" kind of thing, which I'm sure no actor minds. Then she says in her Love's Labour's review:
Actor Andrew Hutcheson’s deep baritone voice imbues the role of the King with a courtly quality that served him equally well in the part of Julius Caesar last season. Yeah, neither of these are as good as the one way up above, but reviews for the shows at Theatre Camp are totally unexpected after my experience last year and therefore welcome.It's nice to have something to hold onto.
*UNRELATED TO THEATRE CAMP UPDATE*
So, on Monday, August 24th, my buddy Cubby arrives in Houston. On Wednesday, the 26th, we're driving to Austin. The next day we're driving to Santa Fe. Then we're driving to Las Vegas. And then LA. I'll probably hang out in LA for a few days before I go find a place in San Diego. Epic road trip!!!
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| "Part III, Part III" |
[16 Aug 2009|06:30pm] |
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Continuing from the past two entries. So the three of us—Romeo, Angie, and me—had blatantly cut and run from Simpson after he tumbled over a fence when we were all trying to escape. Now we were waiting at my truck wondering what to do. We considered moving the truck. After all, if they decided to walk up the drive with their flashlights they would see it for sure. But if we drove off they would hear us. But maybe that didn’t matter because they may have already seen us running. But I had no where this drive went or if it even led out of the cemetery. But even if it did lead out of the cemetery we couldn’t very well go home with Simpson still somewhere in the cemetery. I texted him “we’re at the truck”. No response. We heard something that sounded like a coyote. I saw a light pop up down the drive by the gate. We all hid behind the front of the truck. Simpson had a light—maybe it was him. Or maybe not. We waited. It was pretty clear that whoever had the light was trying to see up the drive. It must have been one of them. After a minute, the light disappeared. I volunteered to walk down the drive to the gate and see what I could see. I figured they must have left by now, right? Nope. I couldn’t get too close to the gate because I still saw their flashlights on the other side. And there was still no sign of Simpson. But then, finally, he sent me a text back. “Damn you.” I wasn’t sure what he meant. I assumed he was responding to us being at the truck. I told the others.
“Maybe he’s upset because he thinks we’re giving up.” Romeo said. “I’ll go find him.”
Before we knew it, Romeo had dashed off into the part of the cemetery next to the truck, presumably back to the fenceline to find Simpson. Me and Angie looked at each other.
“What should we do now?” She asked. All I really wanted to do was go home and shower. We were all filthy and exhausted. But we couldn’t go home. So I said,
“I guess we should follow him.” Romeo was already long gone, so we just went in the direction that we assumed he went. Once we’d crossed the field to the fenceline, we caught up with him again. We asked him if he’d found Simpson. He shook his head. We were all crouched behind another tree, watching the flashlights on the other side of the fence.
“I think we should do a scream.” I whispered.
“What?” Romeo asked.
“I think we should go over there and have Angie scream.”
Romeo thought about it for a minute and nodded his head. Angie and I retreated far back into the field, deep into the back of the cemetery. We looked around and finally I said: “Okay, scream.” Angie looked down at the ground for a minute then counted down from three on her fingers. “AIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE…” She let out this obscenely awesome scream. Angie has an incredible character voice and one of the best singing voices I’ve ever heard. This scream was horror movie perfect. I realized at once that it might be too perfect. Then I realized that I was thinking all of these thoughts and she was still screaming. “…EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE…” I tried to cut her off using the “cut off” hand signal. But she wasn’t really looking at me. Finally she stopped on her own. “…EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!” I nodded at her and gave her a thumbs up. Now that had to make something happen in this God-forsaken cemetery. Maybe they would finally leave, so we could find Simpson and go. But of course that’s not what happened. We ran back over to the fence to see what sort of hornet’s nest we’d stirred up. We caught up with Romeo. His eyes were wide and he was pointing down to the right. The people were at the gate. They were opening the gate. They were slowly, cautiously walking up the drive with their flashlights. We watched in horror. “They’re going to find my truck.” I said. “Yes, they are.” Replied Romeo. They only needed to walk another ten feet and they would catch it with their flashlights. But then they stopped. They turned and walked back a few more feet. Could it be they’d given up on whatever may lie up the drive? Suddenly, a giant beam of light shot up the drive and right onto my truck. Someone had brought their car up to the gate and turned their lights on. Then we heard:
“That’s Dru’s truck!”
“That is Dru’s truck!”
“Ah, hah!” Dammit. The car lights hadn’t only blown our whole scheme, but they also illuminated why the scheme hadn’t worked to begin with. There were at least twelve people walking up the drive.
“I guess that’s it.” I said. “Let’s go.”
“Wait a minute!” Romeo said. “You go. You and Angie. As far as they know it was just the two of you.”
“Um…sure, okay.”
“I’ll find Simpson and we’ll scare ‘em.”
“Gotcha.” And so it came to pass that Angie and I revealed ourselves to the group that was marching its way towards my truck. There were a lot of them. There may have even been fifteen of them. It wasn’t just Ian and Stacy, but a couple of carpenters, several costume people, the Director of Education, and a few people who were just friends in town. They applauded us. I asked Ian if he was mad. “No way, that was great! You know what’s even scarier than something creepy happening is knowing that someone is behind a tree and they’re trying to fuck with you and you don’t know who they are.” Here’s the thing: YOU CAN’T “SCARE OFF” A GROUP OF FIFTEEN PEOPLE. If it had been four people (like it was the first night) they would have run away screaming at our little “light/branch/sobbing” bit. But these people, bolder by their numbers, just stayed and figured that someone was trying to fuck with them but didn’t know who. Maybe some crazy locals? Who knows? So, they tried to investigate who it was and so we, the hunters, became the hunted. The scream had made them even bolder. “The scream was great.” Ian said. “It totally made us all jump. But after a minute I was like, ‘okay, that’s a trained voice.” Plus it indicated that we had a girl with us, so by then they were pretty sure it was someone they knew. Then Ian asked:
“Did you close the gate?”
“Yeah, we wanted to make sure you didn’t drive in and see the truck.”
“You know what’s crazy? We were here last night and this truck drove up and went up the drive and stopped. It was really scary.”
“Huh. How about that.” Ian looked at me a minute. “Was that you?”
I looked down. He asked again: “That wasn’t you, was it?”
“Yeah, I guess it was.”
“No, it wasn’t!”
“Okay, it wasn’t.”
Stacy the Stage Manager still assured us that we had accomplished quite a fete.
“Which one of you had the light?” she asked.
“What light?”
“Don’t fuck with me.”
“I promise you that neither one of us had a light.” This was true. I figured I’d build up some sort of spookiness to help Romeo and Simpson give everyone a final scare. Ian had led a few people to another part of the cemetery when we all heard the rifle shot in the distance. I guess someone had shot the coyote. Either way, it was time to get the fuck out of there. We all decided to leave at once. Everyone started walking down the drive back to the gate while me and Angie tentatively made our way back to the truck. We were looking about for Romeo and Simpson but saw no sign of them. So, we decided to get into the truck and drive down to the gate anyway. When we reached the gate, we saw them. They had popped out from behind Stacy’s car and scared the group in the front—sort of. Again, the problem was that there were so many people there that the two guys jumping out from behind the car could’ve been with the group. So that was that. Oh, and here’s what happened to Simpson:
The group had approached the fence right after Simpson had jumped over and we had run off. When he reached the other side of the fence, he saw that he was no longer in the graveyard. He was in someone’s backyard. So, he jumped an adjoining fence and ended up on the ground behind a tree. That was when the group approached. If he had moved, he would have been seen, so he was basically stuck there until they moved on. They didn’t move until the scream—which, since he didn’t know we were doing it, scared the crap out of him. Despite everything, I thought it was pretty funny that the one frightened the most by the scream was him.. Pirtle Cemetery holds no more terror for me now. After visiting for three days and stumbling around endlessly in the dark, it practically became my second home. But that’s my story. I realize it was longer than it needed to be with no real payoff, but after I started I had to finish it. It was a good last night, though—a lot better than a bunch of last-minute packing and teary goodbyes.
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| "Part III, Part II" |
[12 Aug 2009|10:57pm] |
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This entry is a continuation of my last one. Call it “Secret Ghost Scheme, Take 2”. On a side note, before our first failed trip, I found out that I was actually the second person Darrin had asked to pull off this trick. The first was the guy who played Lord Capulet. Lord Capulet, like Simpson, was sure that it was actually some elaborate prank being played on him, and so he declined. Besides, Lord Capulet had his own problems to deal with during his time at Theatre Camp. But I’ll tell you about that another time. So, the four of us—Simpson, Romeo, Angie and myself—had resolved to take another stab at scaring Ian and whoever else he might bring with him at Pirtle cemetery. It was Tuesday—our last chance. The first problem we faced this time was that we didn’t have a mole on the other side. Last time we’d had two—Darrin and Romeo. Now Darrin was gone and Romeo was going to be with us. Now, it wasn’t as if having Romeo be with the other group had done us any good last time, but the problem was that we didn’t know for sure when exactly they were leaving and getting there before them had been the big problem on the last run. On the way back from the BBQ place we decided that since Ian had said they were going at midnight, we would go at 11:30, just to be safe. I went to my room and packed up some of my clothes. At around 9:30, I stepped outside my room to have a smoke. Justin, one of the carpenters, wandered over from where he was smoking. He looked tired. I asked him how he was doing. “I don’t know. I was going to go on this ghost hunting thing but now Stacy says they’re going at ten. That means I’ll have to pack afterwards instead of before. I’m not sure I’ll still go.” “They’re going at ten?” “That’s what she said.” If he hadn’t wandered over, or if I hadn’t been sitting outside my room, the plan would’ve failed right then and there. It was a very lucky break. Even luckier, Romeo walked by right after Justin had gone back to his room. I told him they were going at ten, not midnight. “Oh, God, we have to go.” He said. “I know.” We hurried over to Simpson’s room and told him. He said, “oh, that’s perfect, I have to by Wal-mart before eleven to return my pillow. Can we run by there first?” I was flabbergasted. “We can’t go by Wal-mart first! It’s already 9:40! Don’t you remember what happened last night?” “We’ll have time! It’ll take me two minutes!” Simpson insisted. “Do you really have to return your pillow?” “This pillow was thirty bucks. I can buy food tomorrow with that.” “Fine!” They both headed to my truck and I went to grab Angie. I found her in her room. “Hey, they’re leaving at ten. So we have to go right now! Oh, but we’re going to stop by Wal-mart first.” “Oh, great! I need packing tape.” “You can’t get packing tape. Simpson is going to quickly return his pillow and that’s it. We don’t have time for all of this!” “I know right where it is!” “Fine!” We tore off to Wal-mart. I told them that they had four minutes and that was it. It was 9:46. They both came out at 9:50. Angie had her packing tape but Matthew, tragically, had encountered too long a line at the return counter. We tore off again and for the third time I was on my way to Pirtle Cemetery. Our first and greatest fear was removed when we arrived at the cemetery and found, happily, that this time there was no one there waiting for us. Now the problem was that, without a mole on their side, there was no way of stopping them from driving up through the gate and up the drive to park if they decided to explore a different part of the cemetery besides our set area in front of the tree. I knew that Ian had already been there twice, and he might be tired of walking over to the same area. When we pulled up we realized how to solve this problem. We closed the gate behind us. That way they would have to park at the front. We just had to hope they would come over to our area before they decided to go anywhere else. We drove up a little ways, parked, and then hiked back down to the gravesite/tree. We stood there for a little bit and worked up our plan. Simpson had a little flashlight. We had people stand in front of the tree and see what it looked like. We finally decided that if he cupped his hands around it, it looked like an eerie, red, hovering glow. I would be the dude shaking the tree, if necessary. Angie would be on “light sobbing” duty. We stood in front of the tree to hear her little whimpering noises and decided they worked perfectly. Romeo would be the lookout. We knew they would have flashlights, especially if Stacy was with them (stage managers are always prepared), so we shined our light from the grave and saw that it was impossible to see anything behind the tree. Perfect. “At what point do we jump out and laugh at them?” Simpson asked. Romeo looked at him sternly. “Never. We never tell them what happened.” “Why? I thought that was the whole point.” “This is a gift.” Romeo explained. “A gift that we’re giving them that they can take with them for the rest of their lives.” I think Simpson had been excited about the plan from the very beginning for the exact opposite reason. I started to wonder if there were more people out there like Romeo and every ghost story I’d ever heard had been because of people like him. Before long, headlights appeared and we all dashed behind the tree. I took my position by the good “shaking branches”, Angie on the ground next to me prepared to sob, and Simpson furthest to my left with his little light. I couldn’t see anything, so I had to rely on Romeo. The first thing that he seemed to indicate was that they were parking in the front. After that I heard him whisper: “They’re coming this way.” Good. This seemed to be working. Simpson put his hand around the light and quietly started moving it around through the bushes. Then, Angie started sobbing really, really quietly. We waited. All I heard was murmuring. I saw a flashlight pop on, maybe two. We waited a little longer. Simpson kept moving the light; Angie kept up with the quiet sobbing. Finally I started shaking the tree. I heard more murmuring and saw the flashlights move so they were pointing right towards us. I wasn’t worried about this because we’d tested a light on the tree and I knew they couldn’t see shit. I looked over at Romeo and tried to get his attention because I wanted to know what they were doing. He looked like he was listening too intently to notice me. I decided to shake the tree harder. Well, why not? Finally, I got Romeo’s attention. “What are they doing?” I whispered, in italics. “I think—I think they might be on to us.” Romeo whispered back. We waited a little longer. I shook the tree a little more. Simpson never stopped vigilantly moving back and forth with the floating light, nor did Angie stop sobbing—though it sounded more like a series of yawns at this point. It didn’t really matter because it still sounded spooky. After another minute or two, Romeo came back over to me. “I think they were on to us, at first, but now they’re not sure.” I heard more murmuring and flashlights moving around. The flashlights were moving in closer. Simpson and Romeo got as close to the ground as they could. I was well-shielded by the stump of the tree. Angie had been sitting the whole time. I then saw to my dismay that one of the flashlights seemed to be making its way around the tree to the side I was nearest to. I didn’t know what to do, so I shook the tree again, really fucking hard, in the hopes of scaring the person away. It seemed to work. The flashlight backed off and joined up with the other flashlight and the rest of the group. Then I saw the two lights move in the direction of the other side of the tree. This freaked out Simpson, who was on that side, so he came over and joined the rest of us. We waited. They seemed to be moving further to our left, down a hill or something. We realized that we had to get out of there and this was our only chance. The problem was that the truck was far off to our right, on the road next to the deeper cemetery. There were only two ways to get there: 1.) Run down through the front part of the cemetery and past where the other people had parked, which was all lit up by the moon and we would almost certainly be seen, then through the gate we had closed and up the drive to the truck, or 2.) Climb over the fence that divided the two parts of the cemetery, then navigate our way through the deeper cemetery in the dark and then all the way over to the drive where we’d parked. Well, we didn’t want to be seen, so we decided to go for Option 2. So, we dashed over to the fence. Simpson was in front, so he went first. He scaled up the front of the fence, but then got stuck. I don’t know if it was his shoe, or if his pants were caught, but he seemed to be struggling. Finally, he sort of toppled over the fence upside down and landed badly on the other side. The rest of us looked at each other. Simpson was easily in the best shape of all of us, and climbing the fence seemed to be a problem for him. Plus we weren’t a hundred percent sure that the other side of the fence necessarily led us to a place we would be able to get out of. So, the three of us quickly revised our plan and decided to go with Option 1. We ran as quickly as we could under the light of the full moon across the cemetery, climbed through the gate, then an up the drive to the truck. We were all filthy, and Angie and I being smokers were desperately gasping for breath. Also, we had no idea where Simpson ended up after he tumbled over the fence. We were kind of hoping he would show up at the truck. He never did. TO BE CONTINUED…
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| "Hooray for Theatre Camp, Part III" |
[11 Aug 2009|06:20pm] |
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When I was at Theatre Camp (here we go) there was a small group that liked to go “Ghost Hunting”. Apparently, there are a lot of spooooky sights in East Texas where spooooky stuff happened and if you went to these places in the middle of the night then it’s quite possible something spooooky might happen. One of the more famous spooky places near Kilgore is Pirtle Cemetery. According to spooooky myth: A boy died in the cemetery and he was afraid of the dark so his mother sat at his grave every night for a year holding a lantern. Then she died and every night the light would still appear. From time to time the lantern still appears in the far corner of the cemetery. Wait, so the boy died in the cemetery? How, exactly? What was he doing there to begin with? Maybe whoever put together that website made a typo. Or maybe the boy was in the cemetery for the same reason I was—three days in a row. Let me explain. The leader of these Ghost Hunting trips was Darrin, the only actor in the group who was middle-aged, married, and had kids (he played Lord Montague, Don Armado, etc.). Darrin would take an exclusive group that consisted of himself, Ben and Mary (Romeo and Juliet—I’ll refer to them as such from now on), and Ian, who like me is one of the three returning actors and the dude is absolutely obsessed with ghostly goings on (he also loves Golden Girls and the youtube video of the turtle humping the shoe.)
One day, Darrin tapped me on the back after a dance call. He said he had a favor to ask of me. A super secret favor. “You know how we’ve been going on these Ghost Hunting trips?” “Sure” I said. For a second I thought he was going to invite me to go along on the next one. “Well, we’re going to go on one last one on Monday after the strike. We want to give Ian and Mary [Juliet] a really good scare. That’s where you come in.” Monday was the last night everyone was going to be together. Many of the people who were driving were leaving on Tuesday morning (like Darrin, and Juliet), although the people who were flying weren’t leaving until Wednesday (like Ian and Romeo). Anyway, Darrin told me that they’d already visited this one place called Pirtle Cemetery, and it was the only place they’d visited so far where they’d “felt something”. Apparently they were approaching this one area, deep into the cemetery, when there was some kind of “cold chill” and deep feeling of dread. Or something like that. Darrin said they were going back to this cemetery on Monday, and he wanted me to be waiting for them. He said that Romeo was in on the whole scheme. They wanted to scare Juliet and Ian. Not only that, he wanted to scare them and never, ever tell them about it. Apparently Darrin and Romeo were insistent on this point. I said, sure, why not? It sounded like fun. On Sunday morning, Darrin drove me out to the cemetery to show me the spot. On the way he told me the story of the little boy who died and the mom who stayed by his grave with a lantern. According to Darrin’s story, it was the mother who died in the cemetery, while sitting next to her son’s grave. Either way, it was supposed to involve a lantern and a grieving mother, I guess. I wrote down the directions as we went. 
Where I parked was going to be key. There was an area to park right at the front of the cemetery—which was where they were going to park—and then there was a drive that went up through a gate, deeper into the cemetery and down a little road, out of sight. That was where I going to park, then hike to the specific gravesite. I told Darrin that Ian would probably want to take the little road deeper into the cemetery and park there this time, but if they did that he’d see my truck (which he’d recognize instantly). So he had to make sure to park at the front, no matter what Ian insisted. Darrin and I walked to the giant tree at the back edge of the graveyard behind the spot they’d visited. It was perfect. I could hide behind this tree, shake it, make sobbing noises, shine lanterns, what-have-you (I hadn’t worked this part out yet), and there’s no way they would see me. He said he’d prefer loud crazy screams and stuff, but Romeo had told him that “less is more”. I told him I agreed with Romeo. Loud crazy noises would expose me immediately. On the way back something else finally hit me. “Uh, wait a minute,” I said “You want me go to an actual haunted graveyard around midnight by myself and hike to a tree behind a gravesite so I can wait to scare some people when they arrive later? You realize that it’s people who do that who get killed first in horror movies, right?” “Yeah, I know.” Darrin said. “Since you and Romeo are co-conspirators, do you mind if I enlist a partner for this?” “Sure—who?” “Simpson?” “Perfect.” Simpson really was perfect. The youngest member of the regular acting company at twenty-two, but the oldest soul, Simpson was the second best friend I’d made this time around at theatre camp. Here’s a rehearsal picture of the two of us: 
Thick as thieves, we was! Simpson was just the type who would go for this type of thing. Also, he was in the same grad program that Romeo was and the two were good at making mischief together, so it was ideal that we had one on of them on each side for this elaborate escapade. My first best friend and partner in crime for everything else was Angie, but this wasn’t the type of job I was sure I could trust Angie to pull off without telling anyone. The only problem was that I hung out with Angie 24/7, and it would be next to impossible for me to disappear at 11:30PM on one of the last nights of the festival without telling her where I was going. But I figured I would worry about that later. I talked to Simpson and he was even more enthusiastic then I thought he would be. “Oh, hell yeah—let’s do it.” I told him the story about the boy and the lantern and he started formulating ideas. The plan was that after the strike on Monday we would sit around and party like everyone else. Around 11:30, we would get a text from Romeo indicating that the ghost group was about 20 minutes from the graveyard (they were going other places first) and that’s when we would head over there. Romeo would be doing the texting because Darrin would be doing the driving. The place was about a ten minute drive from the quad, and so we’d have an extra ten minutes to set up for the scare. I eventually broke and told Angie about our plan. She said that sounded like fun, but I couldn’t yet bring myself to tell her that she couldn’t come. Monday came along and the strike went by without a hitch. People came out to the quad to sit and party by the baby pool Aaron had bought from Wal-Mart when they weren’t intermittently cleaning their rooms. At some point the original Ghost Group went off for their hunt. Simpson and I sat around eagerly awaiting the text from Romeo. At one point I pulled Angie aside and told her the full details of the plan. Then I said, “Um, so, I think…and don’t be upset…I think it would be better if you didn’t come.” “Oh.” “I’m sorry.” “No, I mean, you’re your own human being. I don’t have to follow you everywhere.” It didn’t help that she had a very open schoolgirl crush on Simpson. So I, her BFF, was going on an adventure without her on one of the last nights we had together and I was taking her imaginary boyfriend with me. “It’s just that, if me and Simpson disappeared for an hour, people might not think it was that unusual. But if all three of us left, people might suspect something. I need you here to cover for me.” She said she understood, but I could tell she was kind of hurt. 11:30 came and went and we hadn’t heard from Romeo. We texted him and he said it would be a little while longer. I was getting drunk. It wasn’t until around 12:30 that we got the text: “It’s go time”. I was lightly smashed at this point. We were so blatantly mysterious about leaving the festivities that someone later told me that they thought we “were going to buy coke, or something.” I drove, as best I could, out to the cemetery. This was when all of the plans fell apart. When we pulled in we could see that there were people out by the gravesite. “Oh, my God, is that them?” I asked. “I can’t tell.” Simpson replied. We quickly tore up the road past them, through the little gate, and on down the drive into the deeper cemetery. I turned off the car and we opened and closed our doors simultaneously—I guess to minimize the sound. We stood outside the car and texted Ben to ask if that was them. We received no response. In the distance we saw whoever it was get into their car and drive away. Was that Darrin, Ian, Romeo and Juliet driving off? By the way, here's a random picture of our little Romeo and Juliet:
 Why did I even suppose that it was possible that it was some OTHER group of people out in an isolated East Texas cemetery at that specific gravesite in the middle of a Monday night? I’ll blame it on the booze. Still, ever hopeful, we hiked over to the gravesite, hid behind the tree, and kept trying to text Romeo. Once again, we heard nothing back. We heard noises in the distance, and both concluded that it was an airplane. I thought about how we were standing in the area where they said they’d felt a cold chill. I didn’t feel anything. I asked Simpson. “Do you feel anything cold here?” Simpson’s eyes went wide and he grabbed me. “You motherfucker!” He said. “I knew it! You are not doing this to me!” “Whoa, whoa, calm down!” I said, “doing what?” Simpson later confessed to me that his paranoia had been getting the better of him and the further along we went with the plan the more he suspected of it all being some elaborate prank that I was playing on him. Apparently while we were wandering through the cemetery he had been coming up with ways to “take me out” if necessary. He never elaborated on what that meant. It was a little scary. I couldn’t decide if he’d make a really good Survivor contestant or a really bad Survivor contestant. Eventually, I texted Darrin and he immediately texted me back that, yes, that was them and that he was really sorry. It was all bad timing. Or rather, it was all Romeo's fault. We had been ready to go forever but Romeo had overestimated the amount of time it would take for them to get to the cemetery. Also, his texting wasn’t working properly, and we were getting texts from him long after he’d sent them. He was extremely disappointed. We all were. The plan was a massive, massive, failure. The only silver lining, if there was one, was that Ian reported back to the people at the quad that they were standing in the graveyard and this “mysterious truck” came barreling down the road, through the gate into the cemetery, and stopped. Then they heard doors slam and got the hell out of there. Still that story was hardly worth all the trouble compared to what we could’ve accomplished. We chalked it up as a colossal FAIL and went back to the quad. I said goodbye to the people who were leaving the next day, including Juliet, never telling her about the bungled nefarious scheme to scare the pants off her. She left the next morning. I never even saw Darrin again. He had gone straight to bed and drove out early Tuesday morning before anyone was up. * * * The next day the remaining company members went to a “famous” BBQ place near Tyler for a final dinner. It was the first elaborate dinner I’d been to with all of these people (about thirty or so of us remained) that wasn’t already bought and paid for. I sat next to Angie, and across from Romeo and Simpson. We played pool, drank large beers, and ate delicious brisket, sausage, and ribs (Angie, being vegan, had an order of all the sides). At one point Romeo and Simpson were off playing pool when Ian came by our end of the table to visit. We were all gushing about how we’d miss each other when Ian said: “I’m going back to Pirtle tonight.” “Pirtle?” I had legitimately forgotten what the place was called. “The cemetery.” He looked so excited. “I got Stacy to go.” Stacy was the production stage manager. They were planning to go around midnight again, possibly with one or two others, straight from the quad. He asked me if I wanted to come. “No thanks. I think I’m just going to take it easy tonight.” After he had gone and Romeo and Simpson had returned. I wrote on a napkin “Ian is going back to Pirtle tonight”. I passed it to Romeo. He looked at the napkin and then back up at me, brow furrowed, lips pursed, and gave a hesitant nod. He passed it to Simpson. Simpson looked at the napkin and said, “Yes. Yes. We have to do this. It’s a sign. Redemption!” Angie figured out what was going on. “You guys are going back, huh?” “I want you to come too.” I said. “Oh, yeah?” “Yeah, it was probably bad luck leaving you out the first time.” “Well, that’s what I said.” We were going to do this—the four of us. We were going back to Pirtle Cemetery one last time, for one last chance. And this time there would be no mistakes. TO BE CONTINUED…
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| "Hooray for Theatre Camp, Part II" |
[10 Aug 2009|10:04pm] |
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I'm in Houston for a few weeks. I went to a bar called "Poison Girl" the other night. I'd never been there. They had a line of pinball machines that nobody was using. I also saw that they had a picture of Leigh on the wall. Now that Theatre Camp is over and I’m stuck in Houston limbo, I will try to recount my experiences as best I can. They’ll all start with “when I was at Theatre Camp…” or “at Theatre Camp this year…”. So… At theatre camp this year there were five Chinese students. You see, there was some benefactor in China who paid for them all to come over to Kilgore so they could experience the festival and take classes that some of the actors taught. There were supposed to be six of them, but one of the guy’s mom HID HIS VISA when he was about to go and wouldn’t tell him where it was. He was heartbroken, everyone tried to convince her to give him his visa, but she completely refused. Why did she do this? Well, he’s her only son and she was absolutely convinced THAT HE WOULD DIE OF SWINE FLU. In Kilgore, TX. Crazy, no? As a result, there were only five of them. Three girls and two guys. They all had American names that they had picked for themselves over the years while studying English. I fell in love with one of them. Well, I say “fell in love” because it’s so dramatic, but I was certainly taken with her. Her name is Lydia. They’ve all gone back to China now. I think I have a picture of her here somewhere. 
Lydia wrote me a letter before she left. She must have worked pretty hard on it because her English was probably the shakiest of the lot of them. She would generally just grab my arm and say “strong!” or feel my shirt and say “wet!” (well, Kilgore makes me sweat even more than usual) or touch my face and say “pale!” (or even, sometimes, “handsome!”). Anyway, her letter was so sweet and surprisingly articulate considering her English. I’ll transcribe it here for you (I won’t bother with the “[sic]s” but I’ve transcribed it exactly as she wrote it): Dear Andrew, You are my happy angel. The first time I saw you in the Tartuffe. Your eyebrow made an deeply impression on me. I like them. When I saw your photos on the wall, I found real you is more handsome, tender and cute. In the Monday event, I saw you played water volleyball so well and found you are so humorous. Your smile is lovely and warmly. I [heart sign] you Andrew. I want you [looks like “drilling”] your pocket, follow you to anywhere. Because you always make me happy. I want to see you everyday. Remember that smoke little, keep your healthy and strong for me for yourself. I’ll miss you! Yours, Lydia It looks like she said “I want you drilling your pocket” but I thank she meant something like she wants to hide in my pocket and follow me where I go, because we had talked about that. I wrote her a postcard (actually I wrote all of them postcards) before she left and gave it to her when she gave me that note. It basically said that I’d miss her and she had a beautiful smile and floated across the stage like a fairy. I wrote my e-mail address on the postcard, and a few days ago I got an e-mail from her: Honey Andrew: I can't help to miss you everyday! How is everything since I leave you? Are you happy when you remember me? When I remember you I'll be so sweet and a little grieved because I miss you very much. That day,when I on the way to the air-pot,I held the card you gave me,and I read it time and time again till my tears can't be more,I used up my all tears ,because I can't be willing to part with you,I want to see you every moment. Now,I come back to my home,but when I close my eyes,I can see you,I can see Kilgore ,I can see all of you......Andrew,angel,I wish you happy and all of your dreams can come true! Yours Lydia I didn’t even know I could receive e-mails from China. They were funny looking with Chinese characters in the address box and a funny background image behind the words (she’s probably more computer savvy than I am) but they worked just fine. So now we’ve started corresponding. I don’t expect anything to come from this, so maybe that’s what makes it so easy to talk about. Even if she did go back to Kilgore next year, I won’t be there. Based on the e-mail I got from her today, she seems to think I’ll see her again in “ten months”. Maybe she knows something that I don’t. Anyway, if you were to meet her—she’s totally precious. When she was saying goodbye she had tears in her pixie eyes and made everyone else want to cry.
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| R.I.P. Frank McCourt |
[20 Jul 2009|01:51am] |
I'd actually met this man. Upper West Side resident. Book store frequenter. Fiery old Irishman. Now he'll get the posthumous sales bump. I only hope to live as full a life.
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| "Hooray for Theatre Camp" |
[17 Jul 2009|02:11am] |
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Okay, so as soon as the shows opened, I found myself deeply involved in writing a show of my own. You see, last year, there was this guy who was here who decided that we should spend our idle time after the shows had opened putting on our own little show about the city of Kilgore, TX, for the city of Kilgore, TX, done in the style of Commedia del arte (interspersed with people singing songs, cabaret-style, that were unrelated to the show itself). This was a free show that we put up ourselves the Wednesday before the last weekend of our regular shows for anyone who wanted to attend. Anyway, it was a giant hit and the house was packed to the brim and people were handing the artistic director huge checks. So, this year, after the first company meeting, the artistic director of course suggested to the three of us that had returned that we do a show again. Of course, the guy who did the show last year wasn’t here. The only experience I’ve had with these things are the senior shows I used to write with Sleazy back at UT. So that’s exactly what this has turned into. Instead of a tribute to Kilgore it’s basically a spoof-like revue of the shows that’s we’ve put on with a plot through-line tying them all together. In this case, it’s a “film noir” through-line (someone else’s idea but it serves perfectly well. So I’ve spent the past two weeks writing this little show with a few other members of the company. This is my excuse for not writing a livejournal. Truthfully, I’ve been busy as hell. Which is a shame, because there are certain things I should be doing (*cough*finding a place to live in San Diego*cough*no, seriously, I still haven’t actually done that*cough*nor have I*cough*made sure my financial aid is in place*cough*) Oh, but speaking of money… I discovered something this year which I was aware existed last year but didn’t explore…
 There is a place, only an hour from Theatre Camp, and that place is Shreveport, Louisiana. Shreveport has a bunch of these things called “casinos”. Now, I had never gambled in a Casino before. I’d been to one in New Orleans during a tour, but never actually put money in anything outside of a slot machine. A few weeks ago I took a trip with a few company members and decided to play Roulette. I did. And I won eighty dollars!
So, a week later, I went back. And I won two hundred dollars. Still, strictly playing Roulette.
The next week, I went back again, and within an hour I was up two hundred fifty dollars on the Roulette table. I decided to put away a hundred (on top of the forty I had originally put in) and go back to the table to gamble with the rest. Of course, I then lost all of that, save ten dollars. So after my third trip I was up a hundred and ten dollars. This brought me to a grand total of $390 up after three trips to Shreveport. I was going to go this week, but I had to write that stupid show. Yes, I know, I know. I told everyone I went with that I already had every vice in the book except for a gambling addiction, and so it might be best if I don’t develop one. But come on! Three weeks in a row and nearly four hundred up? I’m totally going back next week. I may have frequently done stupid things in my life, but I’ve always been lucky. I’ve also been doing shows! Here’s a picture:
 It’s from Tartuffe, and the girl to my left, Angie, has become my new best friend out here this year. That’s not to say I haven’t still kept my friends. Aaron of course, is still my friend, but he has (shhhh!) fallen in love with and is maintaining a relationship with one of the interns, as you can see here:  Those of you who know Aaron know that he prefers not wearing a shirt if he can help it. But the girl is great, and a knockout. It is a great group of people. I probably have the closest relationship with both Aaron and Angie, though. Here’s a picture of all three of us at the Drama Prom (yeah, there's a drama prom--it really IS a theatre camp), where the theme was “Hooray for Hollywood.” I think Aaron was James Dean, Angie was Marilyn Monroe (on pills and drunk-era), and I was Vincent Vega from Pulp Fiction.
 But I was Vincent Vega for a very specific reason. This next picture will illustrate. You see, Kendrick— who is the only black guy in the company—and myself, apparently had some drunken discussion about going to the prom as Jules and Vincent from Pulp Fiction. And eventually that’s what happened. The wig really played, I felt. But we weren’t the best costumes at the prom. The best costume at the prom was without question Ben, the guy who plays Romeo. See, he looks like a little kid--twenty-three but looks fifteen. That’s why he’s perfect for Romeo. We also discovered that if you bunch up the sides of his hair, find a pair of overalls and a striped shirt at the Salvation Army, and then give him a potted plant (with booze hidden inside), he looks almost exactly like Drew Barrymore in E.T. So here’s me, Kendrick, and Ben:
 I've also been teaching classes (well, I taught one, and attended one panel discussion) which is not something that was done last year and all in all it's been more of a packed schedule than it was last time. But I'm having a great time and thought I'd give an update. And I DO have one (maybe two) entirely unique, messed up stories about stuff that has never happened to me before in my life that I am dying to share. I will post them as soon as is humanly possible.
I miss anyone who might be reading this.
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[01 Jul 2009|07:53pm] |
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In the middle of the final tech week right now. 18 hour days and such. (23 hour days for the carpenters.) Shows open over fourth of July weekend. Then I will have a LOT more free time. Eager to update. Below are some dead people. Update soon.
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| "Nerdlinger's Bra Bomb, Part Two" |
[11 Jun 2009|11:48pm] |
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You should probably read what I wrote below before you read this, as this is a continuation of that. If you follow. Actually, you might not, since that's not clear. What I mean is the separate entry below this one.
I sort of remembered my point to listing of the number of actors from last year’s Theatre Camp versus this one. I think it was to say that of the 32 actors in last year’s company, only 3 have returned this year. One is myself, the second is Aaron, and the third is Ian. Aaron is familiar to many of my New York friends, since he stayed in our apartment (“The Marcy Project”, right?) in Williamsburg for about a month after I came back from Theatre Camp last year. We became fast friends during the festival last year, and I was of course delighted that he was coming back with me. Ian, also, became one of my closest Theatre Camp friends last year, so I was, like, doubly happy or something. The thing about being here again is that I find myself saying “oh, well, last year this” and “last year that” to all of these new people. I try to stop, but during those early awkward weeks it’s the easiest thing to talk about. Aaron and Ian and I, of course, are sad that certain people aren’t here again. One is Ryan, who strung up colored lights inside of his window in the Quad (“friend lights” we called them) and when they were lit it meant that people were free to come over, drink boxed wine, and bullshit all night. This year there is no such person. Nor can we really hangout in the main thoroughfare outside of where his room was, as it is now populated with the most extreme of the sensitive actor types. As a result, the area outside my room has now become the spot for late night congregation. I have the same room as I had last year, and so do the other guys. So, since Aaron is once again my next door neighbor (and since he is an insomniac and I am a drunk) and the building next to our side is for some reason abandoned, we have the ideal outdoor late night drinking/bullshitting party place. So it has been. Of course, the people who stay up the latest and drink the most even though they have the earliest call, the longest day, and the heaviest amount of work the next day are not the actors. They are what we call “the technicians”. So this little nightspot has become a natural haven for them. On Thursday nights the technicians all go to a little pool hall in “Downtown Kilgore” called Show Room, so their being gone and all the actors fleeing has left me free to write this. Soon I’ll try to write some amusing story.
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| "Nerdlinger's Bra Bomb, Part One" |
[11 Jun 2009|11:12pm] |
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I just lent the guy who plays Romeo my car. So, I’m in Kilgore, Texas—back at Theatre Camp. I’ve been here two weeks. It’s different from how it was last year, but not necessarily in a bad way. For one thing, there are fewer actors. You see, last year there were 22 actors—19 guys and 3 girls—as well as about 10 acting interns—8 guys and 2 girls. (The difference was that the intern actors were given minor roles—many of them non-speaking—but also had to rehearse and put up a children’s show when the regular actors got days off. Also, the interns were paid half as much to work twice as often as the regular actors, plus the interns share rooms in the Quad while the regular actors get their own rooms.) This year, there are 15 actors—10 guys and 5 girls—and then 6 acting interns—4 guys and 2 girls. I forget where I was going with this. The interns have a lot more lines than they did last year. Also there is a higher percentage of girls in the acting company as a whole. Here’s one way I am different from a lot of actors: most actors are healthy, uptight/slightly kooky vegan-types who go to the gym every day, go to bed early, and don’t smoke and only occasionally drink. However, in my experience, these actor-types fall back into their former habits of staying up late, smoking (all healthy actor types are former smokers), and heavy drinking with only the smallest series of nudges over a couple of weeks. Once I provide that series of nudges, I find myself back in my partyland comfort zone. I plan to elaborate more on this shortly (I have a day and a half break coming up) but I just wanted to post something—anything—to let anyone who might be reading this know that I’m still around. Of course, three quarters of the people I know think I’m already in California, but I’ll try to clear that up somehow. Doing great! I will write more coherently next time.
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| "Buhm Buhm BUHM" |
[29 Apr 2009|11:08pm] |
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Hello. Um… … I called out of work on Sunday and went to the emergency room instead. I tried to go to work, but by the time I got to the subway the pain in my leg was so intense that I decided to call out and go to the ER instead. I’ve had this thing with my back for the past week that has eventually traveled down to my leg. It could be Sciatica, or it could be some other sort of pinched nerve, or it could be some general soreness, and it could last between a week and a half and six months, depending on who you ask (and dozens of people have given my advice on this). Anyway, I was in the ER waiting room for several hours, but it was fine because I was reading this book: 
It’s the third in a series of fantasy novels by George R.R. Martin. Now, I don’t read fantasy novels, but I picked the first one up because I was told it was the best of the best (of all the books in the genre), and I like to read a little bit of everything. And well, yeah, it is pretty awesome and perfectly suited for an HBO series like Deadwood or Rome (except with zombies and dragons—that’s right, both) and guess what? They’re totally mothafucking making an HBO series of it.
Look, it's not a nerd book. I realize it looks like a big ol' nerd book but it's really not. Really. I swear.
Anyway, the most disappointing thing about going to the ER was that at no point did any paramedics burst through the doors pushing a stretcher with someone bleeding and screaming as the music swelled. When I finally saw the doctor, he told me that I’d hurt my “flexers”. He suggested that I wasn’t taking enough pain medication. He suggested more Advil than I was taking. That was it. He didn’t give me any drugs, or even ask me to take my pants off. Still, I really wanted to believe that he was right. So far, I’ve been taking more Advil, and trying to not exert myself, and wearing heating pads and crap, and it actually has gotten better. It only really hurts in the morning now, and not as much as it did. I don’t know why I mention this, because it’s really not a big deal. But I’m not sure what else to write about. I’m really excited about Wolverine. I mean, I’m pretty excited. It has Gambit, and Deadpool. And that’s pretty cool. 
Oh, BBQ on Sunday. Eric is leaving. Laura is leaving. Sophie is leaving. And I am leaving. (Though I think they are leaving first.) Also this is Junebug’s final practice round before he and his crew head out to participate in mothafuckin’ Memphis in May, the World Championship of Barbecue, dude.
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| "Escalator Temporarily Stairs" |
[16 Apr 2009|12:42am] |
I feel like I should say something.
The weekend was really nice, despite everything. Bittersweet/happy day followed by ugly/hangover day followed by bittersweet/happy day followed by ugly/hangover day. Crying feels so much better when you're drunk.
As for how I am right now, I have to quote Mitch Hedberg:
“An escalator can never break: it can only become stairs. You would never see an Escalator Temporarily Out Of Order sign, just Escalator Temporarily Stairs. Sorry for the convenience.”
I've been thinking about that quote and smiling for the past few days. I've been smiling because it's funny. I've been thinking about it because, I don't know, right now I feel like my escalator is temporarily stairs.
But hopefully, only temporarily.
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