Intro to Theatre Is A Gateway Drug

         You start easy enough. The first one is free. Sign up for Intro to Theatre as a freshman. That is, if you can get it, space is limited and some unluckies don't get in until senior year. You walk into the strange room labeled simply "146". You enter a room that would make Fred Sanford happy. Is it a junkyard? Or your Crazy Aunt Martha's living room? It appears somebody lives here, there is a fridge, coffee maker, hot tea pot, microwave and...one...two toasters. The red microwave has a note taped to it that says "Chairman Mao" and the white toaster is labeled "Sexy Bob". 
   You look at the black walls around you. Shouting and singing from the brick walls are the plays and musicals dating back fifteen years. At closer inspection you realize some of the show paintings have googley eyes glued to them, giving the Harlequin posed on A Company of Wayward Saints a dimension you are compelled to continue staring at.
    The woman who seems to be more of an installation in this gallery than a human being tells you to cop a squat and makes you demonstrate your double joined pinky when she calls your name. Fascinated and out of your comfort zone, you sit back and watch as others roll their tongues, do the splits or make bird calls. Everyone around you is behaving in a manner that would get them kicked out of any other class, and nobody is asking them to stop. In fact, it would appear that such ridiculous behavior is encouraged.

  See, that's how we get you.
  That's how she gets you.
  "She" being My Master.
  This Amazon Bitch called Theatre.

    You can't help but return for the next class. You willingly keep a spare pair of sweats in your locker in case yoga or stretching is required that day. You turn off your cell phone and leave it in your backpack because you believed it when you were told if you brought it on stage it would fall into the Pit Of Despair never to be seen again. She makes you work with people you don't know well or at all. She laughs at you when you are funny and laughs with you when you take a chance. You create fairy tales with combat, mime scenes badly and laugh at yourself when you stumble through a time step.
    After an exhilerating eighteen weeks of physical work, mime, tap dancing, scene work, song interpreation, theatre tech and truly ghetto power point lectures, you realize you want more. Kids who are enrolled in the higher level theatre classes have cubbies and keep their lunch in the fridge. They do their homework and noisily drill and saw, creating sets and props and costumes during their off periods. You want to do that.
   And that's it. You're hooked. Intro the Theatre is the gateway drug.
   Before you can say "Anne Bogart" you find yourself strung out on verbs. You are roaming the halls, desperate for eye contact so you can practice repitition. You walk from 146 to your math class leading with your left shoulder because you want to understand how John Wayne managed. You answer questions in lit with a British accent, stand in the kitchen and eat cookies while isolating only  your head and build a pannier in your basement with garden edging.
   
      See, that's how we get you.
      That's how she gets you.
      "She" being My Master.
      This Amazon Bitch called Theatre.
     

Family Reunion (written 6 July 2010) worth a revisit

6 July 2010

         I think I shall title this entry:
          Family Reunions Explain A Lot About Me or Why I Can Never Be Yoda

          So this weekend I dragged my family—Jim, Genoa and Harper---out to Genoa, Colorado for a family reunion. I usually avoid these events, since as a child I was dragged to several such gatherings per summer. There were the Wyckoffs (my father), the Preslers (my grandmother) and the Suttons, who …I have no idea who they are, but they had a reunion every year in Genoa and we would go. I liked that reunion the best as they hooked a tractor to some troughs ( they may have been wagons, I was nine) and would drive the kids around the property. Pretty sweet deal when there was nothing around for miles but dirt road, wheat and cows. Lotta cows.
            I’ve never forced Jim or the girls to attend any family reunion, ever. But this was the 100 year celebration. The Wyckoff homestead is 100 years old and my Uncle Reggie still owns it. He also owns the land my grandparents had, so it’s a whole thing. The last time I remember seeing most of these people I was 13 or 14 and we were out there for my father’s high school reunion---all 11 of them who graduated in his class at the Genoa-Hugo school. I spent that weekend with my older cousin Leigh, Reggie’s daughter, whose primary form of entertainment was chugging Kahlua and milk directly from the milk jug while driving at high speeds up and down dirt country roads. How my death did not end up on the news is still a mystery.
            We’ve been out there to bury both Grandpa and Grandma, but at funerals you don’t really socialize. At least I don’t.
            So if you’ve never driven to Kansas or are not yourself from eastern Colorado, you have no idea the wonders that await you! There are the bankrupt farms, of course. The empty pastures and seemingly empty wheat fields. And of course, the Genoa Museum, home of the Wonder Tower where you can see across Six States!! They have a two headed calf in their museum! Better than Rilpley's!
            There’s also the blue sky for miles and miles, which is more beautiful in Eastern Colorado than anywhere else. The random clumps of trees signifying a farm house, the Cow Breaks---okay,they’re not Cow Breaks, they’re metal pipe drain things in place to keep the cows from crossing the road, ‘cause they won’t cross if they can see under their feet. Ultimately, it is truly beautiful out there. Flat. Sad—the towns are dead. But beautiful.
            But somehow the Wyckoffs have held on, and are now proud to boast their 100 year status. As stated today by my Uncle Reggie:
            “I get to go to the State Fair---I’m pert near seventy and haven’t been to the state fair before. They have a certificate for us that I have the honor of receiving, and I will shake hands with the Governor. I hope nobody takes  a picture, ‘cause I’ve never shaken hands with a Democrat.”
            But let’s back up. We decided to stay in Limon the night before, since it’s always a good time to be in a hotel room. You can play in the pool and eat chocolate and ginger snaps while watching The Wizard of Oz at midnight and it doesn’t matter, ‘cause you are in a hotel room. So we checked in that afternoon, and the young lady---soon we realized everyone who works at the Limon Holiday Inn are in high school---over heard me talking to Genoa, whose name is Genoa, so I called her "Genoa". She said “You were raised here?” to which I replied “No, we just spent our weekends at my grandparents’ farm.”
            “Really? Which farm?”
            “Wyckoff.”
            “OH MY, really? We had a farm right by them, Yowell! You must be with Mrs. Phillip.”
            I nodded, having no idea who Mrs. Phillip was and knowing only the neighboring Anderson farm. “Yes.”
            As we headed to the room I just laughed and repeated the old adage “You can’t swing a cat in Genoa without hitting a Wyckoff, or someone who knows a Wyckoff.”

            So we got lost trying to find the farm. Damn farmers can’t give directions to save their lives. The written directions said “From Limon, go 24 miles north on 71, then 5 miles east, then one mile north.”
            No road names, CR numbers, nothing.
            So OF COURSE we got lost.
            I called my sister who had found the farm, and she put my dad on the phone. “We are at CR 3 and Road J.” said I.
            Not kidding. Those are the names.
            My dad goes “We’re on road M.”
            “I am not. I am at the juncture of CR 3 and Road J. Which way to M?”
            “Well, keep going east and there’s a hill, at the hill you should turn south.”
            “Great. So. I am at CR 3 and Road J. How do I get to road M? There’s nothing out here, dad, just dirt road. Wait. There’s a cow. Hold on, the road is turning, now we’re going south. Are we supposed to be going south?”
            “Well, if you go east M will go east and then there’s a hill.”
            “Right. But the road turned, it turned…”
            At this point I’m laughing manically and relaying the conversation to the entire car. Jim chimed in “I think we’re going around some farmer’s land, it’ll straighten out again.”
            “Yes, but we’ll still be on CR 3…WAIT! Look! Road K! We’re making progress!”
            “Go east to the hill…”
            At this point my father has enlisted the help of Reggie, who I can hear in the background asking “Where are they? Tell them to go east, there’s a hill.”
          
            We arrived and it was approximately 200 degrees. I forgot how freaking HOT it gets out there. OH, and the flies bite. Why? Because they are pissed off---it’s 200 degrees out!
            I arrive  knowing those I love for whom I named my daughter have passed on---my Nana and Grandpa. But I’m looking forward to seeing an aunt and uncle I haven’t seen in a very long time and hopeful that the other cousins my age will also be there.
            As we tumble out of the truck and head for the house, all eyes are on us. Not because we are cool or were anticipated, but because Genoa’s  hair is pink.
            My aunt Virginia walked up to her and said “Well, we know whose daughter you are!"
            Sigh.
            I surveyed the group and realized that we looked like we were from the city. G and her hair, H and her hair accessories, mini skirt ,tank top and rain boots, and although my hair is growing out now and not doing anything funky, I’m still wearing a vest and weird Savers gauchos.

            I had a conversation in the garage---that’s where the food was set up---with a guy I later found out belonged to Virgil’s family---see, my grandpa was one of 7 kids, oy vey, and Virgil was one of his brothers. Anyway, he and I talked about the Frog Eye Salad and he said his mom made it all the time, and then he asked Harper “Are you friends with the girl who looks like she fell in a cotton candy machine?”
            Harper---not understanding he was referring to the pink hair---just smiled awkwardly and I piped up “Yep, it’s her sister. We’re very proud.” Either he had no sense of humor, didn’t understand our sense of humor or was a judgmental jerk, because he sneered and snorted and turned his attention back to the beans.
            My cousin Amy, Reggie’s youngest, is MRS. PHILLP and teaches physics and chemistry at Limon high school. That’s why the girl at the desk said “Mrs. Phillip.” And Amy’s two daughters work at the hotel as well! One is 14 and one is 17, so clearly they have no concerns about hiring underage kids. But the best part…the best part is that Amy married a man of color. Yep. He’s black as night, and his family was with him---all the way from New Jersey. Where I suspect the flies to do not bite nor do the people serve pot lucks in the garage, as his brother Carlton seemed very distraught at the arrangement. My sister was beside herself going “FINALLy some color in this family” and I was like well, A) Virginia married a Mexican and B) I tried to get you a husband in Chicago---several, in fact, all of whom were gorgeous black men, but you weren’t having any! And so my point was that brown is a color, and I’ve always wanted a black brother in law but ultimately it’s Karie’s failure and her fault that our reunions look like Aryan meetings.
            But the best story of the day I have saved for last.
            My cousin Leigh and I finally got to chat. Leigh is the Kahlua  and milk, crazy driving host I rode with  thirty years ago. Still refreshingly plain spoken, a divorced  mother of four ( “Marriage is overrated, who needs it?”) who cusses just like me, we struck up an easy conversation. Doesn’t matter if you are related to people, sometimes they are just stiff or boring or whatever. But not Leigh. We were chatting about how racist we are and our issues with illegal immigration, and of course she looks at my uncle, Bob. Bob is Mexican, and married my aunt Virginia 150 years ago. He used to have this great crazy sense of humor about being Mexican---he called us all Gringos, and would threaten to cut off our ears and make tacos. Whenever in the kitchen he would grab two knives and hold them up, declaring they were Mexican credit cards. In our family Christmas photos from the farmhouse, his two boys (from a previous marriage) were always wearing Mexcian ponchos or sombreros or some crazy thing. In his old age he’s not so much fun any more, he talked to me for 20 minutes about his hernia and the evils of socialized medicine. Now he’s just like everybody else. I kinda miss fearing the fate of my ears. ** Addendum, we talked a few years later at my sister's house, and he was definitely the Old Bob. Maybe it was the heat and the biting flies that day **
            Anyway.
            So Bob and Virginia only have one child, Dawn Marie, but Bob had two kids from a previous marriage, so we’ve had our share of sombreros at our reunions, and they are the extent of any “color” in the clan. I should not have used the word “clan” in that context, should I? HA!
            Leigh told me a story she said she heard a lot growing up. I was present when it happened, but I don’t remember it, ‘cause I was like 5 when Bob and Virginia got married. I was a flower girl, but still, I don’t remember much, except I think I scraped my knee. Wait, that could have been Carlton and Sharon’s wedding. Argh. However this story snapped a light bulb over my head and explained to me Why I Am The Way I Am!
            The story:
            Virginia is my dad’s sister, so my grandpa’s family was in attendance, including his sister Laura. Aunt Laura had Alzheimers at the time. Clearly the wedding was not all white, as Bob’s family is Mexican. It happens, since he’s Mexican, so are his parents and aunts and uncles and cousins. Crazy how that works. Well, Aunt Laura stood up in the middle of the ceremony and said “Who let all these Mexicans in here?!”

            I laughed so hard I almost peed.

            And now you, after reading this, have a deeper understanding of who I am, why I am the way I am, and why I can never be Yoda.
            ‘cause Yoda is not racist.

Legally Blonde Tips When You Don't Have A Fly System.

           I haven't written in a while, I've been trapped under a musical. It's not unlike being trapped under a refrigerator: It's heavy, I can't breathe and I can't get anyone to turn off the music. Maybe that last part only happens to me.
        Legally Blonde has dragged up every insecurity I have. This is my fifth musical, and in general directing musicals is not my forte. I was raised in a black box with Albee and matured in an experimental wearhouse. I don't sweat Brecht, or Beckett and my ghetto stage fits those shows nicely: There is no fly system, no grid over the house, the distance from the stage to the grid is 12', there are only two ways onto the stage from the shop and classroom that are larger than 8' high and both were built with a freaking ramp- we call it the speed bump -that knocks rolling platforms wonky.
     For you non theatre readers, the above translates as "a challenge".
     The previous musicals I have directed I have been able mold and shape around the "challenges". Legally Blonde has a beauty shop, two different department stores, a sorority house with a staircase(do THAT with no height on your stage), a trailer,a courtroom, a Harvard courtyard and a Harvard Classroom. Of course in the Broadway production they just flew everything in or it came up from the trap door. HA! We don't need no stinking trap door. I should have just done it all with blocks. As Eric likes to say "Two cubes and a scoop". Theatre kids know what I'm saying.
        Since I'm not a set designer, I  have hired a very talented LHS and CSU alumni to create the design--everything is on castors and it rolls and turns around. Most of the pieces are used several times and built with dual sides. Which is sooooo awesome, until you realize there is nowhere to store anything when it's NOT on stage, unless you can get it over the speed bump. Seriously, who designed this place?
      Today they finished all of the pieces and I sat on stage and went "Well crap, now where do they go?" We took down the upstage traveler so we could fly in the walls of the beauty shop. Took down the torms to fly in windows. Which works great, but now there are no curtains to mask anything. Not to mention Open Sight Lines.
      This would have worked if I could have just done it Brechtian. An Epic Legally Blonde, one ungelled scoop throwing side light and the sorority girls holding placards that say "Sorority House, OOOhhh" and "Harvard, AHHHHHH". Elle opens her mouth to sing in an expressionistic pose but nothing comes out.
      Theatre people are laughing right now.
       Anyway, insecurities. I started with insecurities.
       All of these things are not my problem. Kaylen (LHS/CSU alum designer) has thought them through. I can sit on the stage and mumble, but ultimately I'm not the one who is going to have to fix this. She's got it.
      On every show I have directed over the last five years---musicals and plays alike---I have had somebody let me down on the tech end. I've come to accept this as part of educational theatre, and
I can do costumes and lights all day, but sets make me crazy. And it's hard to find someone to take it on. I'm used to picking up slack, somehow, somewhere. From building saloon girl skirts to programming the light board to ripping apart gangster jackets so they fit small hipped, wide shouldered boys and, finally, turning the set design for Guys and Dolls into a light design because I CAN'T DO SET DESIGNS.  I'm used to filling in and picking up slack.
      That is not happening on Legally  Blonde. Kaylen's set design is not only practical, but my kids actually built it. On time. I haven't seen all the costumes yet, but what I've seen is well constructed and organized and coming in on time. Props-on time. Lights. On Time. Sound? Yop. Actually ahead of schedule. Choreography by LHS alum Eric Pung is creative and doable by kids who aren't really dancers. His assistant, LHS Sophomore Nick L, runs all choreography before rehearsal and has adjusted when we lost two cast members, cleaned it up by moving two kids out of a number and is...On Time.
     Suddenly I'm a neurotic mess! I can't focus on anything because I don't have to focus on everything. I'm not directing, there's nothing to direct on a musical! Jim Farrell has the vocal music taken care of and everything listed above is done. Character work is complete and the kids continue to make new choices (when I can get them to stop freaking out about choreography).
     I am insecure because everyone is actually doing their job, and I am beginning to suspect somehow I am not doing mine. I told Farrell on Friday that all I do is yell at people to shut up and fire them. I'm not a director, I'm a...producer! I DON'T WANNNNNA BE A PRODUCER!!!
     So. With so much time on my hands as I pretend to have my focus pulled from set to lights to costumes to choreography to the dogs ---OHYA, I have a kid who is the "Dog Whisperer" and he has two assistant "Dog Wranglers" to manage the dogs on the show---I'm really just Not Doing Anything.
Well, on the surface I'm Not Doing Anything. Under the surface my webby duck neurosis is in full paddle questioning my ability to do this at all. I'm not inspiring anyone to do anything if I'm telling them to shut up all the time, I'm not building better actors when I have to remove a kid from the show for being suspended.
     So. I Do Not Like This.
     I need anarchy. I need someone to bail. I need to sit in my chair and hand stitch fringe to the bottoom of a dress.
    Because the fringe is not so much the show as it is my own cray cray Monster sitting on my chest.
    Well.
     There it is.
     It's settled. On Monday I have to go in and destroy something so I can rebuild it.