Summmmmer Tiiiimmmeee

  
  11 am   So last night and this morning, for just a few hours, I thought it was summer.
    I put the bike rack on the back of the FJ. G rode her bike up the street, albeit briefly. H jumped on the skateboard and coasted down the driveway.
    It felt like summer, I felt like I'd been asleep all of June and finally, I woke up and it was summer.
    Then nobody wanted to do anything today, Harper took my car and I cleaned the living room, did laundry and some IB training....just like every other day "off".
    Awesome.
    G is watching Breaking Bad, she's experiencing it for the first time. It's hard to watch since I know how it ends.
     The kitten is sleeping, the dog is panting even though he has done nothing today. He is just old.
      I offered to make G a grilled cheese, but we're out of cheese. I could go to the store in her car, but I hate her car. Nobody wants to go to the store in her car, including her.
      I kinda hate summer.
      It was okay when I was doing Hairspray, Jr. 'cause I was doing something. It'll be okay next week when I have the DCPA 'cause I'll be doing something. If you can't afford a vacation then at least you should be doing something. IB Training online is okay for a few hours, but it's mostly frustrating. At least it's doing something.
       G's job is only two days a week, and H has kinda given up on her gig. It's a long way to go to Aurora, even for $12 an hour. She's trying to find a "real" job here in Lakewood. 'cause a job is at least something to do.
       We dug hanging out yesterday at City Park, I suppose that counts as something to do. But you can't do that every day.
        So this was fun. Remember Diana how you said I should write a book 'cause I'm funny? Clearly that is what I should do...
___________________________________________________________________________________

  1 pm. Apparently I'm watching Breaking Bad with Genoa today.
  1.20 Tried to turn on the sprinkler thing. It won't rotate. Of course it won't. Why would it?

_____________________________________________________________________________________
7.19 pm.
              Went to the store in Genoa's car. We both hated it.
              Came home, put Breaking Bad back on. Poured a glass of wine. Went outside.
              It is no longer hot. It's a nice night.
              Made Genoa write two thank you cards.
              Put the kitten on her leash. Which is attached to the water can. Which goes "Clamp-CLUMP" every time she tugs on it, frightening her. It is funny to me.
              Outside is really nice. Wine is really nice.
              Walter White running over homies with his Aztec. He is not so nice.
               Clamp-CLUMP.
               This is nice.
                I tried to put on the sprinkler earlier, evoking summer. But someone stepped on it, it does not rotate. I got depressed and turned it off. I turned it back on. Who cares if it's broken? So am I.
                But if it's on, the kitten doesn't want to go to that part of the yard so much. Just to the grass where she can graze. Because she is clearly not feline, but bovine.
                 Clamp-CLUMP.
                 Sippy the wine. Ahhh...
                 The sound of our neighbor's toddler singing in her yard. Summer candy.
                 Clamp-CLUMP.
                 The sound of the water in the sprinkler. The hell IS it about that sound that makes it summer for me?
                  And of course it's broken, everything I own is broken. My freaking THEATRE is broken and it's not even mine. Well, it's not mine when the Principal wants it, but I think it's mine when it's broken.
                   Clamp-CLUMP.
                   Sippie.
                   Sound of neighbors behind me. They have a pool.
                   I hate them.
                   Neighbors on the other side, sound of guests chatting. Smell of bar- b- cue.
                   I hate them, too.
                   This is why I have no friends. And I'm ok with it until I have no friends and other people have friends. And a pool. And I can hear them.
                   Clamp -CLUMP.
                   Kitten has no friends. She just wants away from the terrible Tin Meanie so she can graze in peace.
                  kryssi has no friends so she listens to a drug cooking science teacher while torturing her kitten and hating her neighbors.

                     Yop. It's summer.

             

Community Theatre

   Tina Fey on her community theatre experience growing up: "We should strive to make our society more like Summer Showtime: Mostly a meritocracy, despite some vicious bacikstabbing. Everyone gets a spot in the chorus. Bring white shorts from home."

    Kryssi on community theatre: "Community Theatre is where young actors are born and where old actors go to die."

   I almost did  a show with Lakewood Players back in the day. Halfway through rehearsals the director quit. I never tried community theatre again, I thought that my experience was the norm:  All directors are prima donna assholes, and it's weird for a fourteen year old (me) to play "Electra" in Gypsy,( who is a stripper), with full grown women playing the other strippers. And mostly full grown men in the male roles. It was too weird, so I stuck to shows at school. Everyone I did shows with, however, had been in ACT shows and had warm, accepting experiences in community theatre. Even if Reno Sweeney was 14 and Sir Evelyn was 28.

   When I was hired to do Hairspray, Jr. as a two week summer camp for 7-12 graders, the age thing was not on my mind. Mostly on my mind was doing Hairspray in Highlands Ranch with one black kid, who was bussed in from Arvada. The hell? But I was willing to just go with it, as I seemed to be the only one consistently giggling when the white girl playing "Motormouth" sang "The night is black as my skin."

    During a final rehearsal we had a kissing class. 'cause Tracy and Link need to kiss, and Seaweed and Penny should kiss. Seaweed and Penny came to me during lunch,  Penny deeply concerned about kissing because Seaweed is "so much older than I am. He's four years older than me."

          And of course, the delightful demon in  my head began jumping and clapping and singing "And he's black! Mostly it's because he's black! You don't want to kiss the black kid!"

    To his beautiful credit, the kid playing Seaweed was very supportive of her and agreed he thought the age thing made it weird. Penny had not had her first kiss in real life yet. Rather than explain at great length that she's acting and stage kisses do not count, I let it go. In addition to the cavernous difference in their ages, he was about three feet taller than she was. That made him look older.

    Also, he's black.

    I kept trying to tell myself that she really was worried about the age thing, because it's HAIRSPRAY and the whole show is about race. Well, the whole whole show is about race. In the "Jr" version they remove huge chunks of story line, so truly, unless you're paying attention you could miss it, particularly when there is only one black actor.  So I smiled and made it work for them, and they were happy.

    Theatre camps are a thing now. When I was a kid we had community theatre. That was it. Theatre Camps were back east, or in the Catskills, where the richie rich kiddos went for a summer of theatre instruction and performance. I imagined they were like the movie, CAMP. (Which everyone in theatre should watch, by the way. Those are your people.) And those camps still exist, and they go all summer. But they aren't community theatre-esque. They are a different beast. They are expensive and full of truly talented, Broadway bound kiddos. Or so I imagined. I do not know for a fact since I never attended such a camp.

    Theatre camps seemed to have taken the place of community theatre. We still have community theatre, yes, but it's  moved toward young adults and adult teachers who do theatre over the summer. Teenagers get left out unless they are a true triple threat. Theatre camps have taken that spot. But you have to pay tuition for the camp, so it cannot truly be "community" theatre when many kids cannot afford to attend.

    Which reminds me of the immortal words of Edward Albee: "Theatre is too fucking expensive."

    I really dug the way things were set up with Hairspray, Jr.  It felt like a real community theatre, everyone got a spot in the chorus. But not everyone got to be a part of it, because it is tuition based. My friend Dr. Megan did several shows with ACT in high school, and she said they sent home what your costume needs were and your mom made it. Her mom drove her all over Lakewood for rehearsals, and after the shows they would all go to the Organ Grinder. It was truly community. Everybody got to do it and nobody paid tuition.
   
      Clearly I  haven't been "out there" in a while, as I'm struggling with the new definition of "community theatre" as it exists with theatre camps. I'm also struggling with the way working on this has altered my thinking about how I teach, in general.

     I was flabberghasted at how willing and eager these kids were to learn theatre. Since it's a "community camp", it's weird. The kids who sign up aren't necessarily theatre kids. Their talents are all over the map. I had assumed--and every time I assume I'm wrong--that because it is called a Performing Arts Academy, there would be a level of experience and talent among the kids. Nope. We had kids who had never been on stage before in their lives. And several who were practically raised in this program, who use it as their theatre outlet because they are in sports or clubs at school that prevent them from doing theatre. And everyone in between.

     And every single one of them was respectful. Kind. Willing to help. Excited to learn something new. Jazzed about being on stage. The camp runs two shows -Aladdin, Jr. was second through sixth grade and they shared time and lunch with Hairspray, Jr. So the older kids mingled with the younger ones, ate lunch and snack together. Started and ended their day as a big group. Everyone showed up happy and left happy.

    Nobody was a prima donna. Nobody was rude or tried to direct another actor. When Genoa came in to give them instruction on how to create hair and makeup for 1962 they were attentive, and excited and willingly did their research.

    They gave me candy and love notes. They asked if I was coming back next year. They thanked me.

     This "camp" was the closest thing I have ever experienced to a true community theatre. It doesn't mean that other programs do not exist, I just haven't worked for them. There were bumps and issues, mostly attributed to the fact that this program is growing. So what? Growing pains are not a bad thing.

     I'm not sold on a "no cut" show at the high school level, but I did love feeling appreciated. It was gratifying to see them work so hard, even if they did not have the talent to pull it off. Even if there was not enough time between class and performance for them to synthesize, they still did the work. I told Eric after the show that's what was frustrating for me, but I know what they learned on this show will show up the next time they do a show. An Acting Grenade. I pulled the pin, but it didn't quite blow up yet. That's ok. It's waiting to go off.

   If the lights in my own theatre do not get fixed, this is my back up plan: Work this camp and the DCPA. There is no retirement plan, so I'd have to teach Lit at LHS. My husband is very wound up about my retirement plan.

     Or I can just take what I've learned, and return to this next summer. If the lights at LHS do not get fixed, my kids can bring flashlights from home instead of white shorts.

      So I got that going for me.
    
  
    

Act 1: The Theatre Is Dark

    May 2014
  School has been out since 22 May. G's graduation was 23 May.
    It is promptly 2 June, and I'm presently aware that it is summer.
    In those 10 Days, Genoa has graduated from high school, I logged in my final grades, pulled my desk out of my office and did the first office purge in 3 years, went over the set design for "Hairspray, Jr.", worried about the set designs for Harvey and Beauty and the Beast, had a sad budget meeting with the department chair, attended "New Teacher Training" at the DCPA, attended the Bobby G Awards, received a phone call from our instrumental music teacher which began with "I can't get the theatre lights on and it smells like something is burning", threw Genoa a graduation party, started lesson plans for both St Luke's and DCPA, checked and rechecked my calendar to make sure I wasn't missing something...and oh ya...briefly wished my husband HAPPY 25TH ANNIVERSARY.

     In the tradition of Gruesome Playground Injuries by Rajiv Joseph, I will tell the story out of order. Broken. Like my memory. And my spirit. ;)

     
      Thursday afternoon, 29 May, as I was cleaning the house and watching Bar Rescue, my cell phone rang.
      "Hi kryssi, it's Don. I'm in the theatre and I can't get the stage lights on. I was wondering if I was missing something."
       EXPOSITION: The dimmers started failing in October. We walked in on Halloween to a completely dark theatre. Many light instruments had melted as it appeared there was a power surge right before the dimmer(s) popped. This event killed our Stage Manager box and three dimmer packs. Since then you have to switch on three dimmer packs, a newly installed "oven switch" hard wired to the house lights, travel to the lights booth to get the stage lights on and flip the master switches for the work lights.
       The dimmer packs are old and the company that built them is out of business. They cannot be repaired except, according to the theatre light professional trying to fix the debacle, by some phantom man who lives in Canada. He is referenced as "There's a guy who lives in Canada who can repair these", but then nothing more is said. Or done. It's neat. And that is the abbreviated exposition.
        Also Note: I am not an electrician. But I play one daily at school.
        I know Don knows this routine, so I suspect he's done everything except check to see if any of the fuses were tripped. This is a thing that happens when the dimmer packs go blooey. "Did you check the fuse box by the dimmers?"
        "Yes, one of them has been tripped. I should reset it. Also I smell something burning."
         My brain is yelling "shit" at this point.
        "Don, it sounds like the dimmers are going again. Maybe you should just leave."
        "I have marching band on stage."
        Okay...
        "Try the fuse box in the light booth, the one on the wall."
        "Right! I didn't try that one."
         "Or, just leave. Something is burning."
         "I'll go try the one in the lights booth. Thanks."
         Don is one of the most positive people I know. He will flip every switch and reset every fuse before admitting defeat. Even if he smells something burning. Not snow nor rain nor searing heat, nor something burning that is likely electric will stop marching band rehearsal.
         "Call me back if it doesn't work, k? See you tonight."

         I did  not hear back from Don, but I did receive an email from our principal entitled "Theatre Lights: DO NOT USE" which began "Dear Friends". It ended with "Let's hope someone in the continental United States can fix this..." Somewhere in the middle of the email it is mentioned, casually, that there is ash by the dimmer packs, it smells of burnt "something", it appears one of the dimmers may have melted and the principal has now locked the dimmer cabinet.

         Now if you recall from the beginning of this post that this issue began in October. If you look at your calendar, it is June. In those seven months we managed to put up a musical, the seniors put up Lend Me A Tenor and we had Choir Pops, Instrumental Pops, Performing Arts Awards and Senior Convocation. We did it by turning on three dimmers, the oven switch, running to the booth, troubleshooting and backup planning when an electric failed, or turned itself on and off...and on again... and buying flashlights as a backup light source. Within days of school being over, the system decided to complete its death throes. Of course I can only hope that the district electricians shut down all power to the theatre before locking the wood doors six inches from failing, melting electrics.

       One of the reasons I had to clear out my office is that my floor is made of asbestos tiles. They must be waxed yearly, and according to the district environmental guy asbestos is misunderstood, and only dangerous if it is chipping, which my floor is, and waxing it yearly keeps the danger at bay. They haven't waxed my floor in three years. I can rest assured that if the theatre burns down, my office floor will be safe.

        So I got that going for me.