Wednesday, May 31, 2017
Audition Log 2017
The clicker turned back to "1" for this audition. A year ago I ventured out: 4 auditions, cast in two roles. Not bad odds, much better than when I left 150 years ago.
WHICH IS A THING. Everyone out there is freaking 30. I quit at 30. I chose to stay home with my children and then teach. And now I'm coming back, now I'm 51 and for the second callback in twenty years I'm read for a role thirty years OLDER THAN I AM.
Not even remotely considered for a role for someone at least in their forties.
The director---a very nice man, I would like to work with him--- said "I need a character actor, which is why I called you back." Which was meant as a compliment but...UGH.
I chatted with the two actresses I read with, both are stupidly optimistic and gigging hard. Nice people. One is gigging at this very theatre as a children's theatre actor and teacher. One is stressing at not having booked anything for next season. The third, with whom I read but did not chat, is currently in their production of Cabaret. I sat watching these reunions and accolades and kissing and remembering when I was one of them.
Fuck. Just fuck. I was a character actor in my 20's not getting called back for anything because I was a CHARACTER ACTOR and some how incapable of being an ingenue. Or even just NOT comic relief. So I quit, only to return twenty years later to the same issue. I can be Mme Tourvel, dude, I'm not that fucking old. I'd give ten years of my life to be the Marquis but she was precast. So I shot for Volanges and got called back for Rosemund. For those of you confused, SHE'S THE GRANDMA.THE SCRIPT SAYS SHE'S 80.
UGH, yet I'm enough of an actor to be grateful for the opportunity.
Which is the sad end to this rant.
UGH. I was happy teaching and directing. I was so busy I didn't actually miss acting.
Then things changed, and I was thrown out to look for other gigs. Turns out I LIKE acting. I really kinda missed it, I was just too tired to notice. But now I'm apparently too old, again, and the list of roles is steadily shrinking.
I would still love to play the Marquis. Martha in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf. The Witch in Into the Woods. That's about all at this age, I suppose. When I was younger I really loved Fifth of July. Of course Sally in Cabaret. I suppose I could still do Mrs. Clackett in Noises Off. Speaking of Carol Burnett, Miss Hannigan is on my list. I'm auditioning in July but it's a long shot. Like I have a shot against other actors between the ages of 30 and 50 who actually stayed in the game? But it'll be fun to go. I kinda suck at musical auditions. OHHH, Cori's mom in Barefoot in the Park. though technically I'm not old enough for THAT one yet, either. The issue is I'm 51 but honestly, I look mid forties. It's an issue. If only I looked mid THIRTIES, that'd be ok. But, as is the story of my life, I'm "at an awkward age". If anyone did August: Osage I'd be interested.
Sigh. So long Yitzhak. So long Mme. Tourvel.
Is that IT? Really? I have no roles? Hmmm....Gwen in Fifth of July, I remember being really bummed when I didn't get it. I was read for Shelby in Steel Magnolias when I was 27 and overlooked for it. But that's OK, 'cause I got to be Ouiser 24 years later. Meg in Crimes of the Heart, I came really close with that one but then didn't want to rehearse on Sundays. That was a sign....
When I quit acting there were a series of signs. I was up for a role AND a teaching job simultaneously, and the teaching job called first and paid more.
Then I couldn't take a part due to conflicts, then I just....stopped auditioning. It became too much of a hassle to rehearse if I didn't really want to do the part. So I went into teaching and....
So I came back out. Acted a bit. Put in directing proposals: zip. Got a few teaching gigs. Directing K-3 rd grade. No high school directing gigs:zip.
It's fine. I'll wait. Something good is bound to happen. I didn't purge my office of 13 years of love notes and photos to have nothing new happen. It's fine.
I'll wait.
Like Harvey said "I can always drive a cab."
PN
Fiction
We all make our choices. When I graduated from high school last year, I knew I did not want to go into debt for college. I knew I hated school, but also knew I liked learning. The issue for me was, I didn't learn much in high school. Which sucks cause my mom's a teacher. But it's not her fault, she is one of three or four teachers in that building that actually taught me something. I chose to go to community college, pay as I attend, and burn off my gen eds. I chose to work at PN. I chose to change my path in May and attend massage therapy school instead. I regret one of these choices: the job.
The bakery is near the Colorado Mills, in a newer open air strip mall kinda thing, with nothing but restaurants. I am fortunate that I don't work in the Mills, as those poor guys were all fired last week when they closed the stores. That hail storm was a drag, but we didn't get any damage. Our buildings are outside, built by a different contractor. The Mills was pretty much a Tuff Shed. I worked at a shoe store in there in high school, it's pretty lame. I am glad I am not associated with the architects contractors who built the Mills, as I am not a lawyer, either, but I figure somebody's getting sued. Big Time. Every Single Store had to close for business, including Target.
Last week a group of kids came into the bakery who had just been "fired", their word, from their store in the mall. I don't know which store. They had final paychecks and paperwork and were all planning their next move and weren't angry, they were just...out of a job, right before summer. Then I heard on the news later that day that a bunch of retailers from all over Colorado are reaching out to hire these guys. They're trying to absorb as many displaced employees as they can. I started crying. Seriously, I did. Sometimes even corporations can surprise you. I'm 19, and I worked in the mall in high school, and I know those managers are making enough to barely get by. This had to shatter them. I really hope all the managers found jobs. That would make me happy.
After I heard that on the news, I went to Petco to get my cat a toy. There was a year and a half old momma kitty whose kittens had been adopted out, but she was left behind. She was shy. Her cage said "I can't be around children, dogs or several other cats." Then it said "Scheduled to be destroyed" with tomorrow's date. Her fee was waived. She was free. So I adopted her. And today I went in to work, as usual, kinda hating it but accepting that I need to work while I'm in school to pay my rent. Oh ya, I also chose to get an apartment with my boyfriend.
There's this kid that works with me who harasses a few of us. Girls, he harasses girls. He sent me a nude pic last week. I told my manager. He said "There's nothing we can do, it didn't happen at work."
I said "Ok, I'm blocking his number."
"You can't do that, he's a co worker. What if he needs to get a hold of you?"
I paused. "Or I can call the police."
So I blocked the number, and last week he showed up at work with flowers. "I don't like you, this makes me uncomfortable." He just stood there smiling. I refused the flowers, and the manager told him he couldn't do that any more.
Word in the Bakery is that he fires on the spectrum. I see it. I went to high school with kids like him. He's not fully aware that he's being creepy. But three of us have filed complaints. Three of us have blocked his number and spoken to him about how creepy he his. Twice he has waited for girls by their car after their shift. The complaints have piled up and nothing has been done.
I filed another complaint, and called the District Manager. He said he's aware but the kid isn't doing anything at work. I said "He's stalking us. He waits by our cars. We feel unsafe at work."
"But that's not on site. He isn't doing anything at work."
I talked to the other girls and discovered he has send dick picks to all of us. Management talked ot him, but he only stops sending to whatever girl he likes at the moment. So, Management talked to him again yesterday.
Then last night my phone blew up. I got texts and calls from unknown numbers asking to call, saying "I'm responding to your Craig's list." I did not post on Craig's list. In five minutes I found the ad: "Hot teenage girl looking to make extra money!" with my number. I know exactly who did it, who else would retaliate like that?
Today I left work and he was at my car. I asked Katie to walk me. On our way, he stood between us and my car. I asked him to move. He did not. I said "move or I'll move you." Every step we took to get around him, he countered, literally chasing us around my car. I stopped. I nodded at Katie and she got out her phone, training the camera on us.
I looked at the kid, "Did you put that ad on Craig's list?."
He walked over to me, smiling. "Katie," I say. She nods.
I make eye contact with him and muster my courage."What is your deal?"
"You're pretty."
"You've been spoken to by management, you know this is inappropriate. Katie, Mary and I have all filed complaints against you, blocked your number and asked you to stop. Yet you continue."
"I don't understand why it's wrong, we're just talking."
"One step closer and I will punch you."
He laughed. He thought I was joking.
He took a step closer. Then he reached for me.
I have a green belt in Tae Kwan Do, it was no contest. I did not punch him, it was a spin kick. It's all video taped. However Katie and I were both fired. We were told he's special, he doesn't understand and that we acted carelessly. We were wrong.
That's what you think PN, there's this thing called social media and guess who's posting the video, along with copies of our complaints and the address of the bakery?
Just because I adopt doomed cats and am quiet and kind, does not mean I'm going to take this.
They thought they escaped the hail storm. They have no idea.
May 2017
kryssi martin
We all make our choices. When I graduated from high school last year, I knew I did not want to go into debt for college. I knew I hated school, but also knew I liked learning. The issue for me was, I didn't learn much in high school. Which sucks cause my mom's a teacher. But it's not her fault, she is one of three or four teachers in that building that actually taught me something. I chose to go to community college, pay as I attend, and burn off my gen eds. I chose to work at PN. I chose to change my path in May and attend massage therapy school instead. I regret one of these choices: the job.
The bakery is near the Colorado Mills, in a newer open air strip mall kinda thing, with nothing but restaurants. I am fortunate that I don't work in the Mills, as those poor guys were all fired last week when they closed the stores. That hail storm was a drag, but we didn't get any damage. Our buildings are outside, built by a different contractor. The Mills was pretty much a Tuff Shed. I worked at a shoe store in there in high school, it's pretty lame. I am glad I am not associated with the architects contractors who built the Mills, as I am not a lawyer, either, but I figure somebody's getting sued. Big Time. Every Single Store had to close for business, including Target.
Last week a group of kids came into the bakery who had just been "fired", their word, from their store in the mall. I don't know which store. They had final paychecks and paperwork and were all planning their next move and weren't angry, they were just...out of a job, right before summer. Then I heard on the news later that day that a bunch of retailers from all over Colorado are reaching out to hire these guys. They're trying to absorb as many displaced employees as they can. I started crying. Seriously, I did. Sometimes even corporations can surprise you. I'm 19, and I worked in the mall in high school, and I know those managers are making enough to barely get by. This had to shatter them. I really hope all the managers found jobs. That would make me happy.
After I heard that on the news, I went to Petco to get my cat a toy. There was a year and a half old momma kitty whose kittens had been adopted out, but she was left behind. She was shy. Her cage said "I can't be around children, dogs or several other cats." Then it said "Scheduled to be destroyed" with tomorrow's date. Her fee was waived. She was free. So I adopted her. And today I went in to work, as usual, kinda hating it but accepting that I need to work while I'm in school to pay my rent. Oh ya, I also chose to get an apartment with my boyfriend.
There's this kid that works with me who harasses a few of us. Girls, he harasses girls. He sent me a nude pic last week. I told my manager. He said "There's nothing we can do, it didn't happen at work."
I said "Ok, I'm blocking his number."
"You can't do that, he's a co worker. What if he needs to get a hold of you?"
I paused. "Or I can call the police."
So I blocked the number, and last week he showed up at work with flowers. "I don't like you, this makes me uncomfortable." He just stood there smiling. I refused the flowers, and the manager told him he couldn't do that any more.
Word in the Bakery is that he fires on the spectrum. I see it. I went to high school with kids like him. He's not fully aware that he's being creepy. But three of us have filed complaints. Three of us have blocked his number and spoken to him about how creepy he his. Twice he has waited for girls by their car after their shift. The complaints have piled up and nothing has been done.
I filed another complaint, and called the District Manager. He said he's aware but the kid isn't doing anything at work. I said "He's stalking us. He waits by our cars. We feel unsafe at work."
"But that's not on site. He isn't doing anything at work."
I talked to the other girls and discovered he has send dick picks to all of us. Management talked ot him, but he only stops sending to whatever girl he likes at the moment. So, Management talked to him again yesterday.
Then last night my phone blew up. I got texts and calls from unknown numbers asking to call, saying "I'm responding to your Craig's list." I did not post on Craig's list. In five minutes I found the ad: "Hot teenage girl looking to make extra money!" with my number. I know exactly who did it, who else would retaliate like that?
Today I left work and he was at my car. I asked Katie to walk me. On our way, he stood between us and my car. I asked him to move. He did not. I said "move or I'll move you." Every step we took to get around him, he countered, literally chasing us around my car. I stopped. I nodded at Katie and she got out her phone, training the camera on us.
I looked at the kid, "Did you put that ad on Craig's list?."
He walked over to me, smiling. "Katie," I say. She nods.
I make eye contact with him and muster my courage."What is your deal?"
"You're pretty."
"You've been spoken to by management, you know this is inappropriate. Katie, Mary and I have all filed complaints against you, blocked your number and asked you to stop. Yet you continue."
"I don't understand why it's wrong, we're just talking."
"One step closer and I will punch you."
He laughed. He thought I was joking.
He took a step closer. Then he reached for me.
I have a green belt in Tae Kwan Do, it was no contest. I did not punch him, it was a spin kick. It's all video taped. However Katie and I were both fired. We were told he's special, he doesn't understand and that we acted carelessly. We were wrong.
That's what you think PN, there's this thing called social media and guess who's posting the video, along with copies of our complaints and the address of the bakery?
Just because I adopt doomed cats and am quiet and kind, does not mean I'm going to take this.
They thought they escaped the hail storm. They have no idea.
May 2017
kryssi martin
Tuesday, May 30, 2017
Marie Antoinette
NonFiction contains hyperbole and truth. You've been warned.
One of my colleagues, a history teacher, had messages from kids on his whiteboard. My favorite: "I will miss you like Marie Antoinette misses her head." He is retiring after 200 years.
We have no evidence that Marie Antoinette actually missed her head in the first place. Medically speaking, once her head was separated from her body she was only cognizant for a moment before death. So in the second place, she cannot, currently, be missing her head, unless she's haunting France like some cheap 1950's superimposed movie ghost endlessly searching for her head. But how would she look for it? She has no eyes. Is she reaching out with her soul? Is she just stumbling around in her panniers with her hands in front of her, hoping she kicks her head? Which brings me to the third place: Clearly he was a crappy history teacher if this is what kids think is happening.
This is the kind of shit I think about the first day of summer break.
If only I could get paid for my thoughts I would be a rich woman.
I know nothing about Marie Antoinette. She doesn't come up in theatre history much. Moliere is our guy, and Louis XIV and his red heeled hooker shoes. Seriously, Louie, all drag queens should thank you. I do enjoy your total look.
_______________________________________________________________________
So today he ,"K", was taking down his maps and such in his room as I sat on a desk and watched. Knowing it was his last day, I deliberately did not shower. I then spent three hours digging out my bookcases---not just dust but ketchup --I know, gross, teenagers suck--to insure that I was as rank as humanly possible before climbing the stairs to his lair, where I hugged him tightly so he got a good, stiff nose full. He appreciated it.
See, I've been in that building 13 years. He's been there since the Hellmouth opened and released him into Littleton. My first day teaching---ever---I was walking down the hallway, unsure what I was supposed to be doing to "set up". I didn't have a lang arts room yet, and the theatre door was locked, and everyone seemed to think I knew what I was supposed to be doing. I tried the door to 146 three different times, it was locked. Well, I couldn't open it, anyway. Turns out it's a trick only the other theatre teacher knew. So I was wandering the halls searching for a friendly face to tell me what I should be doing. When He walked toward me, he looked me straight in the eye and flipped me off. The kind of flipping off that is Aliens "Look into my eye", so that nobody else could tell. Flipped. Me. Off.
I had no idea who this guy was.
And so it began. One time there was a faculty gathering. I walked in, saw him, and ran to the trash can. I barfed loudly and deliberately (I was an actor before I was a teacher), and then left, too ill to stay. Performance Art. Only He understood, everyone else thought I was sick.Tell me I can't commit. The principal thought it was hilarious. Several teachers checked on me later to make sure I was OK.
It was a great moment.
We have had many of those moments throughout -mostly the first seven years. As he aged and his cloven hooves began to pain him, he would send messages to me through students instead of clomping down the stairs himself. Even demons can age.
"I have a message from K--," the student begins.
I throw up on their shoes.
They leave confused.
Maybe two years ago he broke one of his hooves. It was HILARIOUS, he had to clomp around for weeks. Somebody looked at him and his foot broke,or he stepped off stair and broke his foot or some such. I'm pretty sure he had it coming.
He told the kids I did it. Put a witchy spell on him with my hellish heathen ways or some such.
I plead the fifth.
I also expect better accusations from a guy who taught Philosophy and Religion.
Last summer when I was directing an outside show that was renting the space, he clomped down to stare through the door at me. He caught my eye, squinted and flipped me off. I sought him out later, after finding a note on my desk that said "EVIL ONE--I'LL STOP BY LATER".
"What?" I asked after ascending the stairs to his lair.
"The hell, I thought you were just here dicking around. You're actually working. Hard." His voice and face expressed surprise and ....admiration? Can't be.
"And..."
"I dunno, wanna talk?"
__________________________________________________________________
As I sat today, my stench permeating his room, he started removing stickers holding up his various maps. He labors under the delusion that he can save some of this stuff, to then ...put in his garage. Awesome. He mangled a sticker of Vishnu. He apologized and said "I can't save this," as he threw it in the trash.
"Vishnu forgives you,"I said.
He smiled.
He began to explain to me the origin and purpose of his world map which features China as the center. "I use it to teach bias to the kids," and then he said a bunch of other words that were in his native Satan language that I couldn't quite catch. Then he laughed. "You know what? I'm gonna be that old guy on the bench, telling the pigeons they don't understand bias."
"It's fine. I'll be on the next bench, poisoning them. You can help them find religion before they die."
Scene.
-- To GK With Love
kryssi
30 May 2017
One of my colleagues, a history teacher, had messages from kids on his whiteboard. My favorite: "I will miss you like Marie Antoinette misses her head." He is retiring after 200 years.
We have no evidence that Marie Antoinette actually missed her head in the first place. Medically speaking, once her head was separated from her body she was only cognizant for a moment before death. So in the second place, she cannot, currently, be missing her head, unless she's haunting France like some cheap 1950's superimposed movie ghost endlessly searching for her head. But how would she look for it? She has no eyes. Is she reaching out with her soul? Is she just stumbling around in her panniers with her hands in front of her, hoping she kicks her head? Which brings me to the third place: Clearly he was a crappy history teacher if this is what kids think is happening.
This is the kind of shit I think about the first day of summer break.
If only I could get paid for my thoughts I would be a rich woman.
I know nothing about Marie Antoinette. She doesn't come up in theatre history much. Moliere is our guy, and Louis XIV and his red heeled hooker shoes. Seriously, Louie, all drag queens should thank you. I do enjoy your total look.
_______________________________________________________________________
So today he ,"K", was taking down his maps and such in his room as I sat on a desk and watched. Knowing it was his last day, I deliberately did not shower. I then spent three hours digging out my bookcases---not just dust but ketchup --I know, gross, teenagers suck--to insure that I was as rank as humanly possible before climbing the stairs to his lair, where I hugged him tightly so he got a good, stiff nose full. He appreciated it.
See, I've been in that building 13 years. He's been there since the Hellmouth opened and released him into Littleton. My first day teaching---ever---I was walking down the hallway, unsure what I was supposed to be doing to "set up". I didn't have a lang arts room yet, and the theatre door was locked, and everyone seemed to think I knew what I was supposed to be doing. I tried the door to 146 three different times, it was locked. Well, I couldn't open it, anyway. Turns out it's a trick only the other theatre teacher knew. So I was wandering the halls searching for a friendly face to tell me what I should be doing. When He walked toward me, he looked me straight in the eye and flipped me off. The kind of flipping off that is Aliens "Look into my eye", so that nobody else could tell. Flipped. Me. Off.
I had no idea who this guy was.
And so it began. One time there was a faculty gathering. I walked in, saw him, and ran to the trash can. I barfed loudly and deliberately (I was an actor before I was a teacher), and then left, too ill to stay. Performance Art. Only He understood, everyone else thought I was sick.Tell me I can't commit. The principal thought it was hilarious. Several teachers checked on me later to make sure I was OK.
It was a great moment.
We have had many of those moments throughout -mostly the first seven years. As he aged and his cloven hooves began to pain him, he would send messages to me through students instead of clomping down the stairs himself. Even demons can age.
"I have a message from K--," the student begins.
I throw up on their shoes.
They leave confused.
Maybe two years ago he broke one of his hooves. It was HILARIOUS, he had to clomp around for weeks. Somebody looked at him and his foot broke,or he stepped off stair and broke his foot or some such. I'm pretty sure he had it coming.
He told the kids I did it. Put a witchy spell on him with my hellish heathen ways or some such.
I plead the fifth.
I also expect better accusations from a guy who taught Philosophy and Religion.
Last summer when I was directing an outside show that was renting the space, he clomped down to stare through the door at me. He caught my eye, squinted and flipped me off. I sought him out later, after finding a note on my desk that said "EVIL ONE--I'LL STOP BY LATER".
"What?" I asked after ascending the stairs to his lair.
"The hell, I thought you were just here dicking around. You're actually working. Hard." His voice and face expressed surprise and ....admiration? Can't be.
"And..."
"I dunno, wanna talk?"
__________________________________________________________________
As I sat today, my stench permeating his room, he started removing stickers holding up his various maps. He labors under the delusion that he can save some of this stuff, to then ...put in his garage. Awesome. He mangled a sticker of Vishnu. He apologized and said "I can't save this," as he threw it in the trash.
"Vishnu forgives you,"I said.
He smiled.
He began to explain to me the origin and purpose of his world map which features China as the center. "I use it to teach bias to the kids," and then he said a bunch of other words that were in his native Satan language that I couldn't quite catch. Then he laughed. "You know what? I'm gonna be that old guy on the bench, telling the pigeons they don't understand bias."
"It's fine. I'll be on the next bench, poisoning them. You can help them find religion before they die."
Scene.
-- To GK With Love
kryssi
30 May 2017
Sunday, May 21, 2017
Gatos Diablos en Bebe May 2017
First, if you are new to my world, I regularly slaughter non English languages. It's funny. So I think I'm saying "Devil Cats and the Baby". My previous Gatos Diablos posts were inadvertently deleted last year during a panic attack.
Spring at the Martin house has arrived. After the hail storm that ruined the new roof we just had fixed in August, and the snow killed our neighbors' flowers, the cats have put me on notice: Feed us on time, or this can happen to you.
Last week, between storms, Strumph paraded in with a dead baby bunny clenched in her teeth. As per their trademark, they kill the rodents and then show them to me to demonstrate the great power of their gang. "Gimme a treat or dis could be you, get me?" Sometimes they will disembowel them and eat the internal organs, leaving blood smeared across the patio. My summer mornings begin by hosing off the gore, not unlike a Jersey shopkeeper.
We had four cats. Then Genoa came back from school and we had five. Then Harper moved out and took a cat with her and we had four. Four seems to be the lowest number we can attain. The newest gang member is "Poe", she is black and was the runt, like Strumph, so is very small. The kind of small you look at and see the word "smol" for some idiotic facebook reason.
Jim texted one morning last week to tell us---we have an ongoing group text between the four of us, that's normal, right?---that Poe was pissed because he wouldn't let her in the house with a dead mouse. So she sat outside the doors and pouted. What is the point of being a Gatos Diablo if the humans won't even let you in?
She is just learning, Jim calls her Aiden's "Mini Me", as Aiden has been a killer her entire life. Ask the ghost of any lizard Genoa tried to own, as well as most birds in the neighborhood. We have no nests anywhere near our house and we are a no fly zone. The problem is the birds are too dumb to figure out that the cats are mobile and travel outside our yard. It is just their home base, their Jersey butcher shop where they sit out front in lawn chairs and chat each other up over espressos, but nobody ever bothers the guy who owns the butcher shop. Birds don't watch many mob movies. They probably should, it would increase their life span.
Poe --who I am currently watching through the window as she carefully stalks her way through the tall grass---we should mow the lawn, oh right, there's snow--- what is she stalking? She's crouched low, watching intently, damn am I about to witness a mouse murder? She leaps up...to catch a bee. It's a bee, she's stalking a fat bee. Her jaws snap shut and she falls back to the lawn, sans bee. It does not appear that the bee stung her because she didn't recoil. But she is doing that cat thing where she acts like she really didn't want the bee in the first place, so she's slowly walking away.
She has returned to my line of sight and is again hopping and leaping at the bees. Should I intervene? Bees are endangered. She can kill all the mice she wants. I do wish she'd stop with the baby bunnies, but frankly we are over run with them. I thought I heard fox pups about a month ago, but I haven't heard them since. If there are no fox, again, this year, then the bunnies are gonna start getting uppity. Which is when Gatos Diablos step in and keep those pesky hoppers in their place.
I started this because when I opened the door this morning for the changing of the guard--two cats in, two cats out, dog out (he doesn't quite know where he fits in yet)---I noted a disemboweled baby bunny on the patio. It's still too chilly for me to get the hose and spray it off, but if I leave it all the cats and probably the dumb dog will treat it as a buffet all day long. So I'll wait until it warms up a bit. The night watch has crashed on the dining room chairs, their furry faces showing no sign of the murderers they are.
Strumph just opened one eye to look at me.
I see you. Your food bowl is full whenever you choose to go down and eat.We understand each other, you go ahead and sleep.
Wednesday, May 17, 2017
Shoniqua.1
Two years ago I laid down my motorcycle. It was my fault, no other vehicles were involved and I was wearing my helmet. I got quite a bit of mileage out of the story,as it turns out it's actually funny. Or I am. Not sure which.
My beloved Jon Bon Shoniqua-her full Christian name- had her brakes abruptly locked up by an unfocused ass gnome rider. We slid about 20 feet, locked in a violent embrace, before we parted ways.My helmet saved my life, and really that's all that matters. With the weird May weather this spring, I have had some issues with my left hip, shoulder, knee, ankle and foot...pretty much my entire left side which was dragged along underneath my beloved. While I skidded along, she relieved herself of the contents of the saddle bags, liberating them to live their slappy smashy last moments on the asphalt of South Kipling.
My helmet saved my life, did I mention that? When I realized I was going down, I said "Shit" and the next sound was my helmet hitting the asphalt, right at my temple.
Now, the funny part of the story is how I immediately crammed by body against the retaining wall and started barking orders at the concerned drivers who were directly behind me when I went down. It never occurred to me how lucky I was that they were slowing down for the left turn when I went down. Any other street at any other speed...
I pointed at the first guy and told him to call my husband. The second guy had my daughter's phone number yelled at him. When nobody related to me answered their phone, I pulled mine out of my back pocket and called the assistant principal's secretary. It went something like this:
"Hi, it's kryssi. I'm in the middle of Kipling, I laid my bike down. I think someone has called and EMT, so I I'll be late."
In case you need more information about Who I Am, there you go.
Somehow my husband was located and I insisted that the EMT 's not take me to the ER because I have Kaiser. I may have said that more than once:
"Don't drive me anywhere, I have Kaiser, I can't afford the ambulance ride. My husband is on his way, he'll take me. I'm not getting in there, I have Kaiser, " and so on and so on until they finally just picked me up and put me in the ambulance saying I couldn't stay in the street any longer, I was holding up traffic. The helpful police officer who rummaged through Shoniqua's yard sale asked where my license might be. I pointed to the mustard colored wallet on the yellow line, but told him "I don't have a motorcycle endorsement, so don't bother. I took the class and passed the test but got heat stroke because it was a hundred degrees that day so I didn't go back for the second day and then on Monday I went to Hawaii. That was eight years ago, did you know you can't go to the DMV and just get an endorsement any more?"
I began to think I may have a concussion.
They drove me to an apartment parking lot and waited for my husband, who was texting me while driving to determine my location. One the the EMT's---who it goes without saying was Babe-a-liscious, there's a hottie requirement for these guys---asked quietly:
"Is your husband texting?"
"Ya, he has no idea where we are."
"Is he driving?
"Ummmm...."
"Can he not?"
My husband finally locates us and takes me to the ER, where I immediately burst into tears because he was supposed to go play golf or shoot or something with a client and now he can't. Every time I look at him I start to cry and apologize for bothering him.
In the ER I received a text from Eric that said "Are you dead?" If you needed more information about Who Eric Is, there you go.
The ER Doc enters and my husband immediately asks "Can you check for a concussion? I'm pretty sure she has a concussion." To which I start crying, and then ask Jim if he's still going to work.
Now, kids, for the reality check in our story.
AS funny as this is, and as much fun as it is to tell people I dropped the bike because there was a bear with a baby in its mouth running across the street, I am OK. My biggest issue is that my hip hurts when the weather changes and my shoulder is not really in the joint any more. I can think, I can recount this story with humor and I understand how fortunate I am.
Be careful out there, people.
________________________________________________________________________
NYC/CO
"Marty!" I flop out of the house, rolling my eyes at my sleeping husband, who cannot see me because he is asleep. His dog is so small it wrangles its way out of our tiny yard at least once a day. We're only a block off of Colfax, and he would get flattened. And it's not my dog, I have been clear about that. I don't have a dog. I don't need a dog. That dog is going to cause a divorce one day, I'm sure of it. "Marty!" I call into the neighborhood. I don't see the stupid furball anywhere.
"Marty!! Ugh." Two women I don't recognize are walking up the street toward me. Here in Murderville--- which is how we refer to our neighborhood--people don't generally stroll down the street. However, this patented suburban behavior has been on the rise in the last year. Our property values increased and our neighbors began to take on a different hue. The new homeowners, many who swooped in and paid cash, have painted, planted and even get their cars fixed after the hail storms. Probably because they drive Jeep Liberties and not 1990 Honda Accords. It's fine, our home increased in value by a hundred grand this year. That sounds so great, but when the values in Highlands Ranch and Boulder are up at 1.2 million, all it means is that we could get more for our house than we paid for it and then...move to Wyoming. We can't afford to leave our neighborhood. It's fine. We like our little house.
I yell the dog's name again, and both women take a step toward me. "Is he a little dog? Fuzzy little brown thing?" I immediately recognize her accent: Brooklyn, like none other. It's been years since I've heard it, and I've never heard it here in Colorado. Without intending to do so, I respond in kind.
"Ya, he's a little creep. I have no idea how he escapes."
"Oh, I know--" it's all one word in that accent "ohIKNOW"-- "I have one too, My husband took him for a walk and let him off the leash. He found his way home, but I was so angry I didn't let my husband back in the house when he got home." She looks at her friend and raises her eyebrows in confirmation. The look is returned and I am swept back to a time when I was only 22 and sharing an apartment in Flatbush with two other dancers. I lived in the same building with these types of women. Hell, based on their age, I suppose it could have been them.
"Are you a native?" she asks me. Without waiting for an answer, she says "Why do you people walk down the middle of the street? There are sidewalks, you know. It's like every daily constitutional is a the freaking Easter parade here."
"The hell does that have to do with being a native? You never walked down the center of East 95th on a Sunday?"
She smiles and stops walking.
"Also," I continue, "what are ya doin' right now, huh? Walking down the center of the damned street like it's a parade."
I am a Colorado native, on a technicality. I wasn't born here, but my parents are natives. I was adopted across state lines and brought here like Smokey and the Bandit running Coors. And I am not old enough to use that reference, but I am old enough to use that reference. My parents just wanted a healthy baby boy to raise and send to college. They got gypped. I got cancer when I was 18 and I skipped college to be chorus gypsy. Lived in New York, missed birthdays and anniversaries because I was in shows. I am quite the disappointment. Also, I'm gay, but frankly that doesn't seem to bug my parents too much, so I don't count that on my list of "Things I've Done To Be A Disappointment To My Parents".
I met my husband when I was working in New York. He is a "real" Colorado native. True farm boy, his family still has horses out in Parker, his license plate is a "Pioneer" plate, which most idiots think has something to do with DU hockey, but whatever. Most people are idiots, doesn't matter what state you live in. He walks the damned dog straight down the center of the street and does the same with his horses at home. We have chickens in Denver, which seems odd but it turns out its a common theme with our people. Chickens, I mean. Gays like fresh eggs. Irony? Could be. Or it's just him:You can take the man off of the farm but you can't take the farm out of the man, and such and thus, Or is it thus and such? Who cares, I dance, I don't grammar. Or farm. Fuck you, where's the dumb dog?
"MARRRTEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!" I bellow without much commitment. The women begin to call for him too, smooching their lips in kissing noises and looking in yards. Their accents are killing me. If I was Marty I'd from from those bright vowels. To me, the sound is a trigger of a different life.
In 2008 I was dancing ensemble in Curtains with David Hyde Pierce, and I let my swing have the role one night so I could go see Spring Awakening. It's virtually impossible for us to see one another's shows, but I had seen Johnathan Groff at Starbucks and he was looking so fine and nothing was keeping me from that show. I waited for him at the stage door with all the other fan boys and girls. I noticed an old guy was there, also hovering . He seemed too old to be hanging around with us kids. At 22 I still considered myself a kid, even though by gypsy standards I was practically middle aged. I kept staring at him, trying to figure out his deal. I do this thing when I see people, I make up their history in my head. He was at least thirty, dark hair and eyes. Not ugly, not a troll at all, actually pretty handsome and it looked like he kept in decent shape. He seemed distant, he wasn't there to meet the cast, that was obvious, he stood to the side. Maybe his kid is one of these fan girls, maybe he's just being a dad, patiently waiting for her to get her autograph. That was it! I was sure. I looked at the faces surrounding me for a trait similar to his: eye color, posture. Nothing. She must look like her mom. I look back at him again, maybe one of the boys is his son. But those sideburns he's sporting....ugh. Seriously?Who wears sideburns, Johnny Bravo? I survey the boys: no sideburns. So if he's a dad, he must have adopted his kid. I get bored. Lea Michele comes out and chats with me--we met doing a "Miscast" thing last year, she's sweet. I hardly say fuck at all when I talk to her.
Then Johnathan emerged, and I got all clammy. I started nervously babbling to Sideburns about the show,and if he'd liked it or not. He was polite, but kept crossing his arms and staring at the ground. I couldn't figure out why he was there, he showed no interest in talking to anyone in the cast. I was only talking at him because I didn't want to look like a loser standing there panting over Johnathan. So instead, I kept babbling at Sideburns. I was starting to think he was maybe retarded, and when I turned around fucking Johnathan was headed straight for me. I actually think I made a sound, like a chicken "peep" or "eep" as he approached, because Sideburns looked up from the ground to see what was happening. Well Goddamn, now I'm the 'tard. Way to go, genius.
I didn't have a program for him to sign, because a signature wasn't why I was there. I stood facing the guy I came there to...see...talk to ...flirt with... take home....lick until he screams...staring into his eyes wondering...exactly why was I there? He easily struck up a conversation, he said he'd seen me at Starbucks and asked which show I was on. Even if we haven't seen each others shows, we recognize members of our own tribe. He was clearly exhausted, that cast was known to leave everything on the stage on every performance. Sideburns still hovered, speaking to no one and looking at the ground. Johnathan finally asked me to get a drink, it took him forever. I was starting to think I had suddenly lost my mojo. I said sure, sweaty palms and high voice notwithstanding. I asked where.
"I just live up there."
Shit, at his place? He just invited me to his place?
Suddenly my brain seized. Dear God, was this happening? I could go home with Johnathan Groff? I could go home with Johnathan Groff. I can't breathe. But it's physical, it's not the prospect of Groff, he's what I cam here for. Something else has gone wrong. Sometimes I have these weird chemo flashback moments, nowhere near as cool as Acid flashbacks, and I feel lightheaded and dehydrated and I start to gray out---
When I came to, Sideburns was bent over me, fanning me with his program. There was a coat or shirt under my head. Johnathan was nearby, apologetic and concerned. They got me sitting upright, and I looked at Sideburns for the first time. His eyes were deep brown and he had these beautiful full shaped eyebrows and sideburns that should be ridiculous in 2008, but weren't at all. "You look like Johnny Bravo," I said.
"Thank you," was his only reply.
He handed me a bottled water.
"Can you get home OK?"
I shrugged, "I live in Astoria."
"That means nothing to me. I'm from Denver."
"I mean, not Astoria, that's where I lived when I first got here. I'm from Denver, too." I take a sip of water and try to clear my throat. I'm still squeaking. What is wrong with my voice? "I live in Flatbush," I manage.
"I saw that movie. Fonzie was in it, right?"
See? Old. Ugh.
I drink my water. "I'm good, I can get home." I stand on wobbly legs. Sideburns helps me stand and watches my face closely.
"My hotel is right there-" he points across the street to the Belvedere.
"Really? That place is a rat hole."
He shrugged. "I didn't come to New York to stay in a hotel. I came to see the city. I only sleep there."
Johnathan emerges from the stage door with a stage manager who is holding a first aid kit. He stops briefly and nods at Sideburns, then holds his hand out to me. "You good?" The SM looks me over, I smile and nod, he scurries back through the door.
Sideburns waves at us as we part ways, like he is our dad and we're going on a field trip. "See you later."
__________________________________________________
The next morning I have no choice but to hit the Starbucks in Time Square. Turns out Johnathan Groff has a weird coffee maker I cannot figure out, something German with individual portions. It was annoying so I left. As I am on my merry way, I pull around the tourists clogging the sidewalk. I speak out loud to no one and to everyone "Can we just get two sidewalks, please? One for us and one for the fucking tourists?" A woman in yellow crocs and beige culottes shoots me a dirty look and I give her a blank stare.
"Whatever, " I mumble as I push past her.
"Ugh," she says and looks me in the face. We both stop.
I break into a smile. I knew she was here this week but didn't expect to run her over on the sidewalk.
It was my high school theatre teacher. The same woman who brought me to the city on a field trip in 2004. My parents still blame her for my life choices.
"Seriously, the fuck with the Crocs?"
"Seriously, the fuck with your mouth?" Without pausing, she turns to her group of students. "This is Jared. We're seeing him tonight in Curtains." The kids immediately begin to crowd around me like I'm a celebrity or something. I shake my head with faux disdain."What'd you tell them?"
"That you're a star and I taught you everything you know." She grins. "And that you used to have braces and pimples."
I regard the kids and hold up my coffee as if in a toast. "Beat it, trash." And with that, I make my exit.
They are all laughing, delighted, which tells me they knew I would do that. Dammit, I hate being beaten to the punch. My hand catches hers as I leave, before I look down at my phone for any changes to the schedule. Back in the day I missed a brush up because I didn't check my email two hours before the call. Who checks their email compulsively like that, anyway? And now, I wonder who even checks email? Never mind I almost got fired for that. I'm much better with checking texts now, at least a change will be sent to me, directly, I don't have to go schlepping around my emails or a website or thus and such. Or is it such and thus? Who cares?
I run into Sideburns. Literally. Straight into him.
"Why don't you fucking look where you're ---- oh." First of all it's my fault, clearly, but he's from outta town so I get to act like it's his fault. "Oh. Hi."
"Hi. How was your night?"
"Better than yours I'm sure."
"I moved from the Belvedere. I have a friend with a place in Washington Heights. He's out of town. I wouldn't have thought of it if you hadn't said something."
"Ya, cool. That's nice. I gotta get to rehearsal."
He doesn't move, and again I consider the possibility that he is retarded. He is just standing there, in my way, like a tree. There are NYC mounted police who are more graceful than this guy.
"So....did you like Spring Awakening?"
"I liked Curtains better," he smiled.
"Hey, I dance in that sho----" his smile only brightens. "Are you stalking me?"
"Little bit."
I have no response to this. I've never been stalked before. At least that I know of. You know if you're being stalked, right?
"Okay, that's a little creepy," I push past him. I can feel him watching me with those brown eyes. They are pretty nice eyes, and he's not as old as I thought originally. I turn back. I don't know why. Something...I want to touch him. I want to know if his arms are as strong as they look. I like the way his eyes go straight to his soul and then look into mine.
"Hey, I have rehearsal until one then my call is at 5. I got nothing in between. Wanna get lunch?"
The hell am I doing? I've never asked anyone out before, that's not my gig. I am asked out---even Groff asked me, man, I didn't ask him. Stop talking, Jared. Just stop--walk away. I start backing away, thinking it'll be easier to run if I do it that way.
"I can meet you after your rehearsal, " he doesn't try to follow me. He doesn't take a step toward me or even increase the volume of his voice. He is just planted there, his eyes zoomed into mine. Nobody else exists. I stop moving so I can hear him more clearly. "I'm a good cook, I can make you something at my friend's house if you don't mind schlepping to the Heights."
"Did you just say 'schlep'?" I can't help the smile that is warming my face, so I hide it by sipping my coffee.
"We have Jews in Denver. I know the word."
______________________________________________________
After rehearsal I find him at the stage door, as promised. He is holding a rose and a Starbucks. It's an iced frappachino, my afternoon curse. I squint up at him. His face is smooth, not nearly as old as I had thought the night before."Okay, Creepy, how did you know?"
"They are gifts. You want them or no?"
I take the rose and put it in my teeth. "Lead on, Creepy. I'm sure I'll regret this."
______________________________________________________
"I think your creep has come back," I'm jarred from my thoughts by the woman with the accent, waving her arms at my open door. Sure enough, the dog has returned. Is he smiling at me?
"Oh my god, you are a creep," I say to Marty. My accent is getting thicker. I should probably go back in before she thinks I'm mocking her. "Thank you." I wave at her, " you have a lovely walk." She probably thought I was commenting on how she walked, my emphasis was all weird trying to drop the accent. I shouldn't talk. Ugh.
She waves and continues on her way with her friend. I hear her say the word "handsome" to her friend and I chuckle. that is not a word I hear as a descriptor for myself any more. I'm old and broken and fat. I turn to Marty. I scoop him up and shut the door behind me. I pad to our bedroom, where my scruffy husband is snoring away. He got rid of the sideburns a few years ago, but I still see them in my mind's eye. I think about throwing the dog on the bed to wake him up, then change my mind. I set the furball on the floor, run a toothbrush through my mouth, splash my face with water and climb back into bed. I have to wiggle and snuggle for almost a full minute before he even stirs. He rolls over and wraps his arms around me. "Is there coffee?"
"Are you even awake?"
He nods blearily. He is not awake.
"Remember when we met?" My voice is weirdly thick, it feels like I have cotton in my throat. I'm not a kid who reminisces. Forward is the only direction. He mumbles, "You went home with Johnathan Groff first." I realize he's awake, looking straight to my soul as he has always done.
"You let me," I counter.
"Right, I was going to stop you."
"When I passed out, I woke up with your coat under my head. Did you catch me?"
"Did you fall?"
Through the open windows, I hear the women continuing their walk and loud gossip up the center of the street.
---Kryssi Martin 16 May 2017
"Marty!! Ugh." Two women I don't recognize are walking up the street toward me. Here in Murderville--- which is how we refer to our neighborhood--people don't generally stroll down the street. However, this patented suburban behavior has been on the rise in the last year. Our property values increased and our neighbors began to take on a different hue. The new homeowners, many who swooped in and paid cash, have painted, planted and even get their cars fixed after the hail storms. Probably because they drive Jeep Liberties and not 1990 Honda Accords. It's fine, our home increased in value by a hundred grand this year. That sounds so great, but when the values in Highlands Ranch and Boulder are up at 1.2 million, all it means is that we could get more for our house than we paid for it and then...move to Wyoming. We can't afford to leave our neighborhood. It's fine. We like our little house.
I yell the dog's name again, and both women take a step toward me. "Is he a little dog? Fuzzy little brown thing?" I immediately recognize her accent: Brooklyn, like none other. It's been years since I've heard it, and I've never heard it here in Colorado. Without intending to do so, I respond in kind.
"Ya, he's a little creep. I have no idea how he escapes."
"Oh, I know--" it's all one word in that accent "ohIKNOW"-- "I have one too, My husband took him for a walk and let him off the leash. He found his way home, but I was so angry I didn't let my husband back in the house when he got home." She looks at her friend and raises her eyebrows in confirmation. The look is returned and I am swept back to a time when I was only 22 and sharing an apartment in Flatbush with two other dancers. I lived in the same building with these types of women. Hell, based on their age, I suppose it could have been them.
"Are you a native?" she asks me. Without waiting for an answer, she says "Why do you people walk down the middle of the street? There are sidewalks, you know. It's like every daily constitutional is a the freaking Easter parade here."
"The hell does that have to do with being a native? You never walked down the center of East 95th on a Sunday?"
She smiles and stops walking.
"Also," I continue, "what are ya doin' right now, huh? Walking down the center of the damned street like it's a parade."
I am a Colorado native, on a technicality. I wasn't born here, but my parents are natives. I was adopted across state lines and brought here like Smokey and the Bandit running Coors. And I am not old enough to use that reference, but I am old enough to use that reference. My parents just wanted a healthy baby boy to raise and send to college. They got gypped. I got cancer when I was 18 and I skipped college to be chorus gypsy. Lived in New York, missed birthdays and anniversaries because I was in shows. I am quite the disappointment. Also, I'm gay, but frankly that doesn't seem to bug my parents too much, so I don't count that on my list of "Things I've Done To Be A Disappointment To My Parents".
I met my husband when I was working in New York. He is a "real" Colorado native. True farm boy, his family still has horses out in Parker, his license plate is a "Pioneer" plate, which most idiots think has something to do with DU hockey, but whatever. Most people are idiots, doesn't matter what state you live in. He walks the damned dog straight down the center of the street and does the same with his horses at home. We have chickens in Denver, which seems odd but it turns out its a common theme with our people. Chickens, I mean. Gays like fresh eggs. Irony? Could be. Or it's just him:You can take the man off of the farm but you can't take the farm out of the man, and such and thus, Or is it thus and such? Who cares, I dance, I don't grammar. Or farm. Fuck you, where's the dumb dog?
"MARRRTEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!" I bellow without much commitment. The women begin to call for him too, smooching their lips in kissing noises and looking in yards. Their accents are killing me. If I was Marty I'd from from those bright vowels. To me, the sound is a trigger of a different life.
In 2008 I was dancing ensemble in Curtains with David Hyde Pierce, and I let my swing have the role one night so I could go see Spring Awakening. It's virtually impossible for us to see one another's shows, but I had seen Johnathan Groff at Starbucks and he was looking so fine and nothing was keeping me from that show. I waited for him at the stage door with all the other fan boys and girls. I noticed an old guy was there, also hovering . He seemed too old to be hanging around with us kids. At 22 I still considered myself a kid, even though by gypsy standards I was practically middle aged. I kept staring at him, trying to figure out his deal. I do this thing when I see people, I make up their history in my head. He was at least thirty, dark hair and eyes. Not ugly, not a troll at all, actually pretty handsome and it looked like he kept in decent shape. He seemed distant, he wasn't there to meet the cast, that was obvious, he stood to the side. Maybe his kid is one of these fan girls, maybe he's just being a dad, patiently waiting for her to get her autograph. That was it! I was sure. I looked at the faces surrounding me for a trait similar to his: eye color, posture. Nothing. She must look like her mom. I look back at him again, maybe one of the boys is his son. But those sideburns he's sporting....ugh. Seriously?Who wears sideburns, Johnny Bravo? I survey the boys: no sideburns. So if he's a dad, he must have adopted his kid. I get bored. Lea Michele comes out and chats with me--we met doing a "Miscast" thing last year, she's sweet. I hardly say fuck at all when I talk to her.
Then Johnathan emerged, and I got all clammy. I started nervously babbling to Sideburns about the show,and if he'd liked it or not. He was polite, but kept crossing his arms and staring at the ground. I couldn't figure out why he was there, he showed no interest in talking to anyone in the cast. I was only talking at him because I didn't want to look like a loser standing there panting over Johnathan. So instead, I kept babbling at Sideburns. I was starting to think he was maybe retarded, and when I turned around fucking Johnathan was headed straight for me. I actually think I made a sound, like a chicken "peep" or "eep" as he approached, because Sideburns looked up from the ground to see what was happening. Well Goddamn, now I'm the 'tard. Way to go, genius.
I didn't have a program for him to sign, because a signature wasn't why I was there. I stood facing the guy I came there to...see...talk to ...flirt with... take home....lick until he screams...staring into his eyes wondering...exactly why was I there? He easily struck up a conversation, he said he'd seen me at Starbucks and asked which show I was on. Even if we haven't seen each others shows, we recognize members of our own tribe. He was clearly exhausted, that cast was known to leave everything on the stage on every performance. Sideburns still hovered, speaking to no one and looking at the ground. Johnathan finally asked me to get a drink, it took him forever. I was starting to think I had suddenly lost my mojo. I said sure, sweaty palms and high voice notwithstanding. I asked where.
"I just live up there."
Shit, at his place? He just invited me to his place?
Suddenly my brain seized. Dear God, was this happening? I could go home with Johnathan Groff? I could go home with Johnathan Groff. I can't breathe. But it's physical, it's not the prospect of Groff, he's what I cam here for. Something else has gone wrong. Sometimes I have these weird chemo flashback moments, nowhere near as cool as Acid flashbacks, and I feel lightheaded and dehydrated and I start to gray out---
When I came to, Sideburns was bent over me, fanning me with his program. There was a coat or shirt under my head. Johnathan was nearby, apologetic and concerned. They got me sitting upright, and I looked at Sideburns for the first time. His eyes were deep brown and he had these beautiful full shaped eyebrows and sideburns that should be ridiculous in 2008, but weren't at all. "You look like Johnny Bravo," I said.
"Thank you," was his only reply.
He handed me a bottled water.
"Can you get home OK?"
I shrugged, "I live in Astoria."
"That means nothing to me. I'm from Denver."
"I mean, not Astoria, that's where I lived when I first got here. I'm from Denver, too." I take a sip of water and try to clear my throat. I'm still squeaking. What is wrong with my voice? "I live in Flatbush," I manage.
"I saw that movie. Fonzie was in it, right?"
See? Old. Ugh.
I drink my water. "I'm good, I can get home." I stand on wobbly legs. Sideburns helps me stand and watches my face closely.
"My hotel is right there-" he points across the street to the Belvedere.
"Really? That place is a rat hole."
He shrugged. "I didn't come to New York to stay in a hotel. I came to see the city. I only sleep there."
Johnathan emerges from the stage door with a stage manager who is holding a first aid kit. He stops briefly and nods at Sideburns, then holds his hand out to me. "You good?" The SM looks me over, I smile and nod, he scurries back through the door.
Sideburns waves at us as we part ways, like he is our dad and we're going on a field trip. "See you later."
__________________________________________________
The next morning I have no choice but to hit the Starbucks in Time Square. Turns out Johnathan Groff has a weird coffee maker I cannot figure out, something German with individual portions. It was annoying so I left. As I am on my merry way, I pull around the tourists clogging the sidewalk. I speak out loud to no one and to everyone "Can we just get two sidewalks, please? One for us and one for the fucking tourists?" A woman in yellow crocs and beige culottes shoots me a dirty look and I give her a blank stare.
"Whatever, " I mumble as I push past her.
"Ugh," she says and looks me in the face. We both stop.
I break into a smile. I knew she was here this week but didn't expect to run her over on the sidewalk.
It was my high school theatre teacher. The same woman who brought me to the city on a field trip in 2004. My parents still blame her for my life choices.
"Seriously, the fuck with the Crocs?"
"Seriously, the fuck with your mouth?" Without pausing, she turns to her group of students. "This is Jared. We're seeing him tonight in Curtains." The kids immediately begin to crowd around me like I'm a celebrity or something. I shake my head with faux disdain."What'd you tell them?"
"That you're a star and I taught you everything you know." She grins. "And that you used to have braces and pimples."
I regard the kids and hold up my coffee as if in a toast. "Beat it, trash." And with that, I make my exit.
They are all laughing, delighted, which tells me they knew I would do that. Dammit, I hate being beaten to the punch. My hand catches hers as I leave, before I look down at my phone for any changes to the schedule. Back in the day I missed a brush up because I didn't check my email two hours before the call. Who checks their email compulsively like that, anyway? And now, I wonder who even checks email? Never mind I almost got fired for that. I'm much better with checking texts now, at least a change will be sent to me, directly, I don't have to go schlepping around my emails or a website or thus and such. Or is it such and thus? Who cares?
I run into Sideburns. Literally. Straight into him.
"Why don't you fucking look where you're ---- oh." First of all it's my fault, clearly, but he's from outta town so I get to act like it's his fault. "Oh. Hi."
"Hi. How was your night?"
"Better than yours I'm sure."
"I moved from the Belvedere. I have a friend with a place in Washington Heights. He's out of town. I wouldn't have thought of it if you hadn't said something."
"Ya, cool. That's nice. I gotta get to rehearsal."
He doesn't move, and again I consider the possibility that he is retarded. He is just standing there, in my way, like a tree. There are NYC mounted police who are more graceful than this guy.
"So....did you like Spring Awakening?"
"I liked Curtains better," he smiled.
"Hey, I dance in that sho----" his smile only brightens. "Are you stalking me?"
"Little bit."
I have no response to this. I've never been stalked before. At least that I know of. You know if you're being stalked, right?
"Okay, that's a little creepy," I push past him. I can feel him watching me with those brown eyes. They are pretty nice eyes, and he's not as old as I thought originally. I turn back. I don't know why. Something...I want to touch him. I want to know if his arms are as strong as they look. I like the way his eyes go straight to his soul and then look into mine.
"Hey, I have rehearsal until one then my call is at 5. I got nothing in between. Wanna get lunch?"
The hell am I doing? I've never asked anyone out before, that's not my gig. I am asked out---even Groff asked me, man, I didn't ask him. Stop talking, Jared. Just stop--walk away. I start backing away, thinking it'll be easier to run if I do it that way.
"I can meet you after your rehearsal, " he doesn't try to follow me. He doesn't take a step toward me or even increase the volume of his voice. He is just planted there, his eyes zoomed into mine. Nobody else exists. I stop moving so I can hear him more clearly. "I'm a good cook, I can make you something at my friend's house if you don't mind schlepping to the Heights."
"Did you just say 'schlep'?" I can't help the smile that is warming my face, so I hide it by sipping my coffee.
"We have Jews in Denver. I know the word."
______________________________________________________
After rehearsal I find him at the stage door, as promised. He is holding a rose and a Starbucks. It's an iced frappachino, my afternoon curse. I squint up at him. His face is smooth, not nearly as old as I had thought the night before."Okay, Creepy, how did you know?"
"They are gifts. You want them or no?"
I take the rose and put it in my teeth. "Lead on, Creepy. I'm sure I'll regret this."
______________________________________________________
"I think your creep has come back," I'm jarred from my thoughts by the woman with the accent, waving her arms at my open door. Sure enough, the dog has returned. Is he smiling at me?
"Oh my god, you are a creep," I say to Marty. My accent is getting thicker. I should probably go back in before she thinks I'm mocking her. "Thank you." I wave at her, " you have a lovely walk." She probably thought I was commenting on how she walked, my emphasis was all weird trying to drop the accent. I shouldn't talk. Ugh.
She waves and continues on her way with her friend. I hear her say the word "handsome" to her friend and I chuckle. that is not a word I hear as a descriptor for myself any more. I'm old and broken and fat. I turn to Marty. I scoop him up and shut the door behind me. I pad to our bedroom, where my scruffy husband is snoring away. He got rid of the sideburns a few years ago, but I still see them in my mind's eye. I think about throwing the dog on the bed to wake him up, then change my mind. I set the furball on the floor, run a toothbrush through my mouth, splash my face with water and climb back into bed. I have to wiggle and snuggle for almost a full minute before he even stirs. He rolls over and wraps his arms around me. "Is there coffee?"
"Are you even awake?"
He nods blearily. He is not awake.
"Remember when we met?" My voice is weirdly thick, it feels like I have cotton in my throat. I'm not a kid who reminisces. Forward is the only direction. He mumbles, "You went home with Johnathan Groff first." I realize he's awake, looking straight to my soul as he has always done.
"You let me," I counter.
"Right, I was going to stop you."
"When I passed out, I woke up with your coat under my head. Did you catch me?"
"Did you fall?"
Through the open windows, I hear the women continuing their walk and loud gossip up the center of the street.
---Kryssi Martin 16 May 2017
Tuesday, May 16, 2017
The Third Reason We Don't Have Children
Fiction
There are three reasons I do not have children.
1) I do not want children.
2) I'm a high school teacher. I've seen the job, and I don't want it.
3) I will explain...
My husband and I are perfectly happy without kids. We both knew when we got married that we did not want children. Both of our parents are divorced, and neither one of us is exactly stable, mentally. And being artists, we aren't really financially equipped. We also don't want the pressure of being Colorado parents and having to Do The Things. Neither one of us were raised with The Things, and we're natives. My family are all farmers and his dad was an entrepreneur. No rock climbing, rabid skiing, etc. He skiied in high school while stoned, but that's not specific to Colorado, and not something we want to raise our kids with so much.
My family didn't see a ski slope until I was thirteen. 1979. I borrowed a puffy jacket from a more outdoorsy friend, and my sisters wore their regular knee length winter coats made of knit and fake fur. We looked so Colorado, dude. My sister complained the entire time, and when my mom said "Quit your bellyaching", our German ski instructor stopped with concern. "Does she have a stomach ache?" Classic for my family, not classic Colorado. And a solid reason Not To Have Kids: I Have Sisters.
I have made friends with some of my parents over the years. One is hopelessly in debt for life because her son was was admitted to 72 hour forced psych eval four times in one year. And when they do that, they do it at the closest hospital, not the hospital that takes your insurance. In addition to the financial toll, the emotional hit she and her husband took was heartbreaking.
Nope. I'm good. I'll buy you beer and listen to you and support you, but you are definitely a poster child for birth control.
Sadly, that is not a unique story. I had one year with four different kids who were put on psych lock down. Six that I knew of were cutters, one had attempted suicide more than once. Their parents looked hollow, shaken, haunted. They could not focus. All they did was worry. Why would I sign up for that? Why would anyone with the same information that I have, reproduce?
I also have seen kids on the other side.I have a coworker who books her kids to the teeth. There is no down time, ever, they are always running from practice to practice to a game to a scheduled, supervised play date to some music lesson for which they have no talent. Dude. They're miserable, and they have no talent for any of The Things you are forcing them into. I'm pretty sure the youngest is actually a talented artist, but there are no art lessons on his agenda.
Back in 2008, my husband and I were considering adoption. We were in our forties, stable financially--as stable as a theatre teacher and accountant can be. We had mutated---mutated or evolved?--from an actor and a photographer to a teacher and an accountant in the name of health insurance and retirement. We took a vacation to Kauai and returned home having a conversation about adoption. I have no idea how that transpired, what in the world Kauai had to do with children I cannot put my finger on. But there it was, we were talking: I had friends who had adopted from China and from...well, less fortunate single moms. I don't want to be politically incorrect, let's just say they adopted children who did not possess their same skin tone.
I was also working in a young building, and every other teacher was pregnant for about two years. They weren't pregnant for two years, they are not elephants, but over the course of two years, many teachers became pregnant and gave birth.
We had started the adoption paperwork, ignoring all of the issues we had been citing or years. If we adopted, we were not in danger of creating anyone as screwed up as we were: bonus. And through all types of helicopter, high strung, wound up parents on one end, and at the other end, parents who barely even showed up to raise their kid, and everything in between, we decided that We Could Do This, because I Had Seen It All from All Sides and we wanted to give someone a home who didn't have one.
Then, in September of 2010, one of my former students, someone I had nurtured and fed and walked to counseling and loved and got through high school, committed suicide. He was 21.
We dropped our adoption pursuit. Two weeks later, my husband's company was sold and he lost his job. He spent the next three years as an unemployable MBA.
So, we don't have kids.
Reason Number 3. And four, I suppose.
It's fine.
----------Kryssi Martin 14 May 2017
There are three reasons I do not have children.
1) I do not want children.
2) I'm a high school teacher. I've seen the job, and I don't want it.
3) I will explain...
My husband and I are perfectly happy without kids. We both knew when we got married that we did not want children. Both of our parents are divorced, and neither one of us is exactly stable, mentally. And being artists, we aren't really financially equipped. We also don't want the pressure of being Colorado parents and having to Do The Things. Neither one of us were raised with The Things, and we're natives. My family are all farmers and his dad was an entrepreneur. No rock climbing, rabid skiing, etc. He skiied in high school while stoned, but that's not specific to Colorado, and not something we want to raise our kids with so much.
My family didn't see a ski slope until I was thirteen. 1979. I borrowed a puffy jacket from a more outdoorsy friend, and my sisters wore their regular knee length winter coats made of knit and fake fur. We looked so Colorado, dude. My sister complained the entire time, and when my mom said "Quit your bellyaching", our German ski instructor stopped with concern. "Does she have a stomach ache?" Classic for my family, not classic Colorado. And a solid reason Not To Have Kids: I Have Sisters.
I have made friends with some of my parents over the years. One is hopelessly in debt for life because her son was was admitted to 72 hour forced psych eval four times in one year. And when they do that, they do it at the closest hospital, not the hospital that takes your insurance. In addition to the financial toll, the emotional hit she and her husband took was heartbreaking.
Nope. I'm good. I'll buy you beer and listen to you and support you, but you are definitely a poster child for birth control.
Sadly, that is not a unique story. I had one year with four different kids who were put on psych lock down. Six that I knew of were cutters, one had attempted suicide more than once. Their parents looked hollow, shaken, haunted. They could not focus. All they did was worry. Why would I sign up for that? Why would anyone with the same information that I have, reproduce?
I also have seen kids on the other side.I have a coworker who books her kids to the teeth. There is no down time, ever, they are always running from practice to practice to a game to a scheduled, supervised play date to some music lesson for which they have no talent. Dude. They're miserable, and they have no talent for any of The Things you are forcing them into. I'm pretty sure the youngest is actually a talented artist, but there are no art lessons on his agenda.
Back in 2008, my husband and I were considering adoption. We were in our forties, stable financially--as stable as a theatre teacher and accountant can be. We had mutated---mutated or evolved?--from an actor and a photographer to a teacher and an accountant in the name of health insurance and retirement. We took a vacation to Kauai and returned home having a conversation about adoption. I have no idea how that transpired, what in the world Kauai had to do with children I cannot put my finger on. But there it was, we were talking: I had friends who had adopted from China and from...well, less fortunate single moms. I don't want to be politically incorrect, let's just say they adopted children who did not possess their same skin tone.
I was also working in a young building, and every other teacher was pregnant for about two years. They weren't pregnant for two years, they are not elephants, but over the course of two years, many teachers became pregnant and gave birth.
We had started the adoption paperwork, ignoring all of the issues we had been citing or years. If we adopted, we were not in danger of creating anyone as screwed up as we were: bonus. And through all types of helicopter, high strung, wound up parents on one end, and at the other end, parents who barely even showed up to raise their kid, and everything in between, we decided that We Could Do This, because I Had Seen It All from All Sides and we wanted to give someone a home who didn't have one.
Then, in September of 2010, one of my former students, someone I had nurtured and fed and walked to counseling and loved and got through high school, committed suicide. He was 21.
We dropped our adoption pursuit. Two weeks later, my husband's company was sold and he lost his job. He spent the next three years as an unemployable MBA.
So, we don't have kids.
Reason Number 3. And four, I suppose.
It's fine.
----------Kryssi Martin 14 May 2017
Sunday, May 14, 2017
The Story of kryssi and the dog.
So, I have never had a dog that is mine.
We had a dog as a family, a little dog my friend said looked like Toto with shaved legs. His name was Bimbo. But he was not my dog. He was largely my mom's dog, and in his later years he took to peeing in the dining room which reeked so badly you couldn't even be in there without feeling like your pores were burning with urine.
In Texas we had a dog. Mecklenberg was a border collie stray that Jim brought home from work. Again, Not My Dog. Jim took him to the Dumb Friend's League about a year after Genoa was born. He was used to herding cats, and when Genoa would not herd he would knock her over with his big dumb skull. We put him outside, but he sailed over the six foot fence and went gallumphing all over the neighborhood. It broke my heart, but we didn't have the time or resources to retrain him with a baby.
When the girls were about four and five, we ended up with Sundown. His full Christian name was Sundown Macaroni. He was a full black lab with papers, whose need to be social got him booted from his home in Conifer. He was not an animal that could be left outside alone. The first month we had him, the police were at our house three times because he would sit in the house and cry when we were gone. If we put him outside, he cried. Apparently we had a neighbor who was home all day and was annoyed. We had to go to court and pay a fine because we couldn't stay home with the dog all day. Eventually, he mellowed out and we discovered he liked being crated. It was like his little den. We had him for 13 years, through losing the cartilage in his back leg from a car accident, to blowing out what remained of his tendons on a walk, through seizures and cataracts, he was a tank. He made it through it all, only to die peacefully in his sleep on the floor at the foot of the bed. We had to haul him out, wrapped in a tarp, literally removing a body from our house down our front steps in the middle of the day. Nobody called the police.
A year before Sundown died, Harp decided she wanted a dog for her 18th birthday. So we went to the shelter, and after a debacle with a pit bull mix who tried to eat her clothes, she saw a little black pug thing. He had not been at the shelter the day before, because he was still in the infirmary. He had done something---God Knows What---to pop out his eyeball. They had to put it back in and make sure he was OK before putting him up for adoption. He is clearly part pug, but his nose is too long and his legs are too long. He can jump four feet straight into the air from a seated position. He is a small dog, and so therefore suffers from the small dog licking disorder.
Then Harper moved out with her boyfriend, started massage therapy school and did not take her dumb dog with her. So now I have this dog. That jumps and licks. And I had to have dewormed and who looks like Satan with his pug eyes and not pug nose and freakishly long, spindley legs. And I have to take him for walks, and give him a bath. He can't be outside because our fence is such a wreck, no matter how we try to ghetto rig it, the wind will blow or the hail will pound and it will lodge open just enough for Dumb Ass to escape. If I put him out and leave, he will escape and come looking for me. Even if Jim is home, he will get out--some how---and try to find me. He is not my dog. Why is this happening?
So now I'm stuck. I have to find the money to fix the fence so Not My Dog doesn't get hit by a car, which will upset Harper who doesn't even live here.
We had a dog as a family, a little dog my friend said looked like Toto with shaved legs. His name was Bimbo. But he was not my dog. He was largely my mom's dog, and in his later years he took to peeing in the dining room which reeked so badly you couldn't even be in there without feeling like your pores were burning with urine.
In Texas we had a dog. Mecklenberg was a border collie stray that Jim brought home from work. Again, Not My Dog. Jim took him to the Dumb Friend's League about a year after Genoa was born. He was used to herding cats, and when Genoa would not herd he would knock her over with his big dumb skull. We put him outside, but he sailed over the six foot fence and went gallumphing all over the neighborhood. It broke my heart, but we didn't have the time or resources to retrain him with a baby.
When the girls were about four and five, we ended up with Sundown. His full Christian name was Sundown Macaroni. He was a full black lab with papers, whose need to be social got him booted from his home in Conifer. He was not an animal that could be left outside alone. The first month we had him, the police were at our house three times because he would sit in the house and cry when we were gone. If we put him outside, he cried. Apparently we had a neighbor who was home all day and was annoyed. We had to go to court and pay a fine because we couldn't stay home with the dog all day. Eventually, he mellowed out and we discovered he liked being crated. It was like his little den. We had him for 13 years, through losing the cartilage in his back leg from a car accident, to blowing out what remained of his tendons on a walk, through seizures and cataracts, he was a tank. He made it through it all, only to die peacefully in his sleep on the floor at the foot of the bed. We had to haul him out, wrapped in a tarp, literally removing a body from our house down our front steps in the middle of the day. Nobody called the police.
A year before Sundown died, Harp decided she wanted a dog for her 18th birthday. So we went to the shelter, and after a debacle with a pit bull mix who tried to eat her clothes, she saw a little black pug thing. He had not been at the shelter the day before, because he was still in the infirmary. He had done something---God Knows What---to pop out his eyeball. They had to put it back in and make sure he was OK before putting him up for adoption. He is clearly part pug, but his nose is too long and his legs are too long. He can jump four feet straight into the air from a seated position. He is a small dog, and so therefore suffers from the small dog licking disorder.
Then Harper moved out with her boyfriend, started massage therapy school and did not take her dumb dog with her. So now I have this dog. That jumps and licks. And I had to have dewormed and who looks like Satan with his pug eyes and not pug nose and freakishly long, spindley legs. And I have to take him for walks, and give him a bath. He can't be outside because our fence is such a wreck, no matter how we try to ghetto rig it, the wind will blow or the hail will pound and it will lodge open just enough for Dumb Ass to escape. If I put him out and leave, he will escape and come looking for me. Even if Jim is home, he will get out--some how---and try to find me. He is not my dog. Why is this happening?
So now I'm stuck. I have to find the money to fix the fence so Not My Dog doesn't get hit by a car, which will upset Harper who doesn't even live here.
Saturday, May 13, 2017
Yitzhak.17
I have dreamed of being Yitzhak for years. Ten, exactly.
Since I was overlooked for the role because I was "too old"--that is
what the director told me, anyway. And his word is law. At twenty fucking six I
was too old. Whatever. My friend got it, and it was fine, we're fine. But I
tucked Hedwig away.
Not really knowing why, I associate it with too much vulnerability and pain.
A year ago a local company--a dinner
theatre of all things---bravely chose the show. I was not leaving
the audition without that part, age be damned. I had attended Lena Hall's
performance in NYC before she won the Tony. I then watched her interviews, her
recounting of her audition. I was obsessed, pretty much stalking her. But her
audition story stuck with me. She showed up with her guitar player, but she
carried in the amp, guitar and cords -in character as a roadie, as Yitzhak.
There are a million "I was not leaving without that part so I did
this____" stories that end in not getting the part. But hers ended with
"I got the part and also a Tony", and we fly stories like hers like
carrots in front of a plow horse, Barbra Striesand and the gum....Lena and the
roadie bit. We use them to give us hope, but in reality those stories are the
minority of successes. Ask any waiter/actor.You're right for the part, or you
aren't. The End.
Auditioning is like dating.
You're right or you aren't, you try a different monologue or song, you attempt
to fit the show or the role or what he or she is looking for. It's exhausting.
Which is why I quit dating years ago. Auditioning is enough rejection for me,
thank you. I couldn't find anyone with whom I fit for more than two dates, male
or female. Yes, I tried both. I have no filter or preference or whatever. When
I direct I cross gender cast. I did the same with dating. You're right for the
part or you aren't. The End.
I did not pull a full Lena at
the Hedwig audition, but I showed up as
roadie looking and masculine as my 5'7" fairy curvy frame would allow. I
shaded my jawline, wore a binder and Docs, followed direction and committed and
won the role. Elated, I embarked on what I consider to be the role of a
lifetime. Which speaks to who I am, really. My dream role is a supporting part
playing the opposite sex in a Denver dinner theatre. Go Me. Living the dream!
______________________________________________________________________
He waited for me after the
show. I thought it odd, as primarily gay boys and fan girls wait for Hedwig,
played by my fabulously talented friend Brian. Only my friends wait for me, and
none of them were here tonight. It was an awkward exchange, as I thought
he was gay and waiting to talk to Brian. But Brian's fan girls dissipated, and
this guy stayed to talk to me. He asked me out for the following night, after
the show. I agreed, but pointed out that I needed thirty minutes to get
out of makeup. I was, after all, a drag queen by the end of the show. I
showed up at the bar after the show the following night in my jeans and an
oversized shirt. I don't really "dress" before a show, why bother? I
need to be comfortable to then get into makeup. I also don't date much,
so it never crossed my mind to bring clothes to go out after the show. Friday
and Saturday post show dates consist of Brian and I hunkered over beer
and sandwiches at Brothers Pub. I figured at least I could reapply some female
looking street makeup so I wasn't on a date bare faced. He asked for a second
date,and said it was fine it I chose not to wear any makeup. I didn't remember
complaining about reapplying, but cool. Less effort for me.
Actors as a breed are
very compliant, accommodating people. We follow direction, we learn our lines
and do as we are told, Of course we make choices, but those are within the
story or character and are confirmed or denied by the director, who is God and,
frequently, male. Sometimes, especially when you're in the middle of a
show, it is difficult in life to differentiate between men and directors. So
being asked to show up to a date without makeup did not raise any flags or
concerns with me. And sometimes,I tend to get so into roles that they
bleed into my real life. I played a lesbian once and found myself shoving my
tongue down my friend's throat to prove some point that has since be lost. She
was a bit surprised, being straight and married, but she went with it. She's an
actor. It's what we do. I wasn't directed to kiss her, but I was in character
so I made a choice and she went with it. Commit or go home. In life and on
stage, it's what we do.
So I met him the following
night sans eye makeup. "You look so different."
"I hope so. I'm not a
guy."
He laughed it off. I was just
happy to have someone pay attention to me. Yitzhak is a rough gig, and I love
Bri and we work together beautifully, but I take a lot of abuse on stage every
night. I have no defenses after a show, the vulnerability still lingers.
It was a week before I
heard from him again. I had let it go, I was busy with the show and my own
life. He called and asked if we could go to The Grove on Monday, my only night
off.
"The Grove? Is that even
still open?"
"You know it?" He
sounded excited? Hopeful?
"I went here in high
school with a friend, yes."
The Grove was notoriously
sketchy gay bar that waxed and waned between trendy and dangerous. Back in the
day, when 18 was the drinking age, I had gone there with a co worker--we both
worked at Casa Bonita, God Bless Us Every One--sporting buttons that shouted
"PLEASING YOU PLEASES ME". He was stretching his legs as a gay boy,
and I was emerging as a hag. Later, in college, I preferred the term
"Fruit Fly", and as an adult I referred to my kind as
"Renfield". Dracula fans get me. Anyway, this guy wanted to go to a
sketchy gay bar? I thought he was gay when we met, but he pays attention to me
on dates and doesn't ask a lot of suspicious questions about Brian.
"Can you come as
Yitzhak?"
I paused. "Is it a costume
thing that night?
He was quiet a moment.
"You're so hot on stage."
I shook my head and
sighed. Well, shit. Fruit Fly or Renfield, I'd appreciate it if he'd just be up
front.
"Look, I'm a woman. I have
a vagina. I may not be what you want." Being an actor had made me
accommodating, yes, but it also gave me no patience for bullshit. Also, I'm 36
and unattached. I have no time for games.
"What? I think it'd be
funny."
"It's not. I'm Yitzhak
five nights a week. I don't want to be Yitzhak on my off nights. My name is
Leigh. I want to be Leigh. If you want to be with Leigh, cool. If not,
cool."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean
to upset you. Let me apologize with dinner."
"No, I'm sorry. I still
carry the vulnerability after the show for a few hours. It's hard to
shake." But I'm becoming concerned about who he's attracted to. If it's
Yitzak, this is going to end badly. I remember falling for a fellow actor years
ago, she was Lenny to my Meg in Crimes
of the Heart. I fell- I thought- head over heels for her. After a
night out with her I realized I was in love with her talent, her depth and ability
to commit so wholly to the role. It wasn't her OR her character: it was her talent.
So maybe that's what's happening here? Is it fair to judge him so early on?
I agree to dinner, because I'm
36 and single and an actor in Denver and I like food.
Discovering Yitzak was one of
the most delightful character journeys I have ever taken. First I had to
understand men--Just Kidding. I had to connect to a drag queen, someone who was
the best of the best and who walked away from it all for love and the
freedom of coming to the United States, only to be stifled and bullied by the
one I loved. Just that character analysis alone took me 200 pages of
journaling, researching Croatia, drag queens, sex change operations
and of course, the show itself. While I was developing Yitzak I realized I had
become more victim-y in life. He handed everything--his heart, his
power--over to Hedwig. I became more accommodating than usual with the
director, and even became needy. I was a needy actor. I have never been a
needy actor, I have two middle fingers and a mohawk, I got this. It was weird.
If I didn't get notes I would ask for them. Please give me notes, please
validate me. Brian and I did character work that was heartbreaking and
beautiful and, we both agree, has changed us on a molecular level. We hope the
change is for the better, we both do volunteer work with transgender teenagers
now, and find ourselves more conscious of putting kindness out there.
But there are moments, when the
character crashes with my life. It happens on every show, but this time it's
different. When Yitzhak crashes with me, it feels like melted butter in my
veins instead of blood. Of course it happens with Brain, but I have moments at
the grocery store when I suddenly purchase food I know Hedwig would eat, or I'm
shopping vegetables to put in goulash, but Hedwig won't eat carbs, why do I
even bother to make it. Other moments too, where I'm standing in a mall looking
at a mannequin, admiring her hair and wishing I could get a wig that looks just
like it, but then where would I hide it, I agreed when I married Hedwig that a wig
would never touch my head again. And I sigh, and my shoulders droop and I go
home and take a nap, because I'm depressed , I miss being a drag queen, I miss
the female part of myself. And my head tells me that I'm just too close to
Yitzhak, that he's depressed, not me. But my heart tells me no: It's me. I'm alone and
I'm depressed and I am Yitzhak. There is no barrier,
no more Leigh. Yitzhak has taken over.
___________________________________________________________
Dinner is nice. We go downtown
to a nice and not trendy restaurant, which is a relief. I've estimated his age
at 28 at the most, so I expect trendy. The bartender and waiter recognize me,
largely because they are young actors in town, and I feel like a celebrity for
five minutes. My date seems to enjoy it.
"How do they know
who you are?" he asks.
"This is a small, teeny
tiny, itsy bitsy town," I smile back. "They probably saw the
show."
"But, you look completely
different. How do they recognize you?"
Twelve responses rush through
my head, none of which will get me another date with this guy. I settle for
"Small town, we all see each other's shows and cross paths at auditions
and workshops. It's not like they're fans. They're colleagues."
He is clearly a theatre newbie.
So I ask.
"Have you seen a lot of
shows in town?"
"No, actually, yours was
the first one."
Awesome. Next he's going to ask
me how I learn all those lines.
"How do you learn all
those lines?"
I catch myself: Kindness,
Leigh. Be kind.
"They're put to music, it
makes it much easier."
"I came back. Did you see
me? I've seen it three times now."
I had seen him. In fact, I
targeted him for two specific moments in the show. Clearly he didn't notice, or
is being polite. I thought we made eye contact during The Long Grift. "Cool,
it has the effect on people. I've been obsessed for ten years."
"Really?" He's
genuinely interested. Ok. Usually talking about a show with a non theatre
person is tedious, they don't get half of what you're talking about and it
takes so long to explain A Thing that by the time you get there The Thing
has lost all meaning and you wish you would have just stayed home.
"It was done years ago by
a small company I was gigging with. I was overlooked for the role. But this was
different, it wasn't the usual 'Oh well, next audition.' I really get Yitzhak. Of course playing a man
is a great challenge, but the show...." I look in his eyes. I'm not losing
him, he's with me. "It infects you."
"Yes!" He's almost
yelling. I smile, a true, genuine, honest response to a beautiful moment.
"Why does it do that? I'm not gay, I didn't go through a botched sex
change, I'm not an immigrant (he indicates me) trapped by my "Barbie
doll" parts wife who is doing to me exactly what was done to her....but
damn. I get it." He pulls off a piece of bread from
the basket for emphasis and chews harder than the bread requires.
Well, OK then I think. But I
don't want to bore him or wear out the beauty that is Hedwig and the Angry Inch, so I
allow a pause as I check his eye color more closely. Bright blue. I wonder if
he has to wear sunglasses during the day, blue eyes like that are so
vulnerable.
"What do you do for a
living?" I ask.
"I teach second
grade."
"No freaking way! I was a teacher once for about ten minutes."
"No freaking way! I was a teacher once for about ten minutes."
"Really?"
"High School. Theatre.
Couldn't take the administration."
"It's probably worse in secondary. I only have to worry about state testing, not grad requirements."
"It's probably worse in secondary. I only have to worry about state testing, not grad requirements."
He tells me about his students,
his colleagues.I like hearing about his job. It's refreshing to talk to non
actors. And he really is nice. A little delicate, a little picky about his steak
and broccoli, but perfectly nice. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he's straight and
just fine. I mean he just said
he was not gay.
I had enough faith to invite
him in after dinner. Coffee, chatting. Then he wrapped his arms around me, from
behind, and began to whisper in my ear.
And suddenly the show crashed
with my life. I felt that moment of falling, but it isn't scary, it just is.
The moment you know you're going to use a line from the show you're in and it
fits, it fits perfectly. I tried to turn around and face him,
but he switched back, back to spine.
I turned again, and faced him.
"Love the front of
me."
And that feeling of melted
butter in my veins warmed me up, but this time I wasn't depressed.
_____________________________________________________________
Tonight a group of my friends
made a Big Deal of coming to the show, and staying after, and taking me out
drinking, and pouring me into an Uber. They made a pact to start attending
regularly and to be my "body guards."
"It's weird that he still
comes to the shows, Leigh. He's a stalker." Stephanie.
"He is one of us, you know
that,right? He plays for my team, not yours." Eric.
"She knows, shit wit. She
spotted your pink ass months before she even met you. She has a gift."
Mary.
"If she knew she wouldn't have gone out with him, Ass
Gnome." Eric.
"I'm right here. Thanks.
It's fine. Pretty sure I knew, I just didn't want to know. A girl's gotta
eat." Me.
"Well, it's still
obsessive for him to keep coming. We got your back." Stephanie.
"I was too much man for
him to get over, and more woman than he could handle." I laugh
uproariously at my own wit.
So he is in the audience every
Wednesday and Friday like clockwork, and he never stays after the show.And
every Wednesday and Friday, when Hedwig says to Tommy "Love the front of
me", I understand her pain. And I for a moment, I allow myself to be
lonely. Then I sing The Long
Grift and I sing it to him
and something clicks. Something falls into place that is my life and the
character's life and I am vulnerable but not afraid. And every Wednesday and
Friday I go home, and let myself into my house.
________________________________________________________________
"What is taking so
long?" I shout in the general direction of my bathroom. I am using Yitzhak's
heavy Croation accent.
"You are so
impatient," the voice shoots at me with a hint of a smile. Same accent.
I tuck my hair farther back and
check my lowlights in the mirror. My jaw looks strong, masculine, but my eyes
are lashed and lined. I came home straight after the show.
He emerges from the bathroom,
his hair slicked back. Heavy boots and sparkled tights, cut offs. We both
laugh. He holds up a lipstick, asking me non verbally if he should apply it to
himself. I cross to him and take the tube, apply it to both of our mouths.
He kisses me. I choose not to
think too much about any of what is going on, or how completely weird my
friends would find it. Who cares what anybody thinks?I am not lonely, I
feel whole. What else matters?
"My friends think you're a
stalker."
"You could put a
stop that, you know." He kisses me.
"But why? It keeps them
occupied."
"Love the front of
me."
We face each other and begin to undress one another.
__________________________________________________________________
Tuesday, May 9, 2017
The Hedwig Angry Rabbit Hole
9 May 2017
Early last week, in my search to show an opening class video to my acting one kids....hold on. Is too much. Let me sum up: In the name of inspiring young theatre kids, I open Acting 1 every day with a video interview or compelling moment: Obsessed with Seth Rudesky is a favorite. We watched Iaian Loves Theatre a few times as well: delightful. Last week we watched Iaian's review of Hedwig and the Angry Inch. My Littleton, Colorado Acting 1 kids have no frame of reference for many things theatrical, which is why they have me. So I showed them NPH and Lena Hall on The Tony's performing "Sugar Daddy" from Hedwig. No real context, just actors admiring the skills of two performers playing the opposite gender.
Then I watched it again.
And again.
And I sat through two class periods compulsively clicking "play". I couldn't be stopped.
And I started to hate my age. And my weight. And arthritis.
It was Lena Hall. I became obsessed with her commitment, the way everything in her character is present in just a 4 minute 29 second clip. I mean--damn, who is this woman?
So I watch her Tony acceptance speech.
Then I look her up to see where she trained.
Then I watch NPH's acceptance speech.
Then I watch the video again. And again. And again.
Dude.
And I began to regret almost every life choice I have made.
Then I look up still photos from the show and discover Lena Hall switched and became Hedwig for some tour dates. Well damn, Skippy, you just keep getting cooler.
More Tony viewings ensue. I try to distract myself with Cabaret to no avail: I want Hedwig.
All weekend I troll the show.
And all weekend I sink more deeply into a familiar and frustrating ennui.
I toddle downstairs to see if I can find my copy of the movie, because I know I had it. I bought it back when LIDA was doing it.
Arrow stab. Suddenly I realize I'm depressed.
I will never play Yitzhac. I am too old.
I was too old---according to the producer---years ago. "Theatre is for the young, " he said.
I was 36.
I became a teacher at 37.
Monday I realize there is pirated NPH Hedwig on You Tube. So I watch it. The Entire Thing. My students are rehearsing, I have a laptop, it's not hard.
I miss acting. I miss it a lot.
I'm a theatre kid. Always have been.
I then start clinking around the film version, comparing scenes from the original off Broadway with John Cameron Mitchell and Miriam Shor to NPH and Lena Hall. I become obsessed with "Midnight Radio", and compulsively click between the three versions, falling in love with both of the women who played Yitzhac.
So I think.
I'm not a theatre kid. I'm theatre's bitch. Always have been.
Today, we started Acting 1 with the film version of "Midnight Radio". This time with more information about the story of both Hedwig and Hansel who became Hedwig, and the meaning of the final moment when he releases Yitzhac. Now clearly, JCM and Miriam Shor had been working together in these roles for two years, but I still used the moment to wave my arms and yell "connect!" I said "These moments are why we do this! It's like melted butter in your veins instead of blood. And you're missing it! Fear, social media, fear...it's all in your way. If you learn nothing else from me or never see me again, please learn that!" I was on a roll.
I then worked closely with the kids doing Fool For Love and they discovered their connection and took their scene to the next level.
I know why I had to binge on this show. I know why it depressed me, why I lashed out at my age and my life situation, and why I finally came to acceptance today as the lesson was synthesized first through my students, and then through me.
I'd still give ten years of my life to play Yitzhac. Or even to just sing "The Long Grift" as a guy. That's it, really.
I get it. And again...or still....everything is revealed to me through theatre.
Because I am Theatre's bitch. Always have been.
And can you hear Lena's voice? I can. "Lift up your hands....lift up your hands!"
Lena Hall
Early last week, in my search to show an opening class video to my acting one kids....hold on. Is too much. Let me sum up: In the name of inspiring young theatre kids, I open Acting 1 every day with a video interview or compelling moment: Obsessed with Seth Rudesky is a favorite. We watched Iaian Loves Theatre a few times as well: delightful. Last week we watched Iaian's review of Hedwig and the Angry Inch. My Littleton, Colorado Acting 1 kids have no frame of reference for many things theatrical, which is why they have me. So I showed them NPH and Lena Hall on The Tony's performing "Sugar Daddy" from Hedwig. No real context, just actors admiring the skills of two performers playing the opposite gender.
Then I watched it again.
And again.
And I sat through two class periods compulsively clicking "play". I couldn't be stopped.
And I started to hate my age. And my weight. And arthritis.
It was Lena Hall. I became obsessed with her commitment, the way everything in her character is present in just a 4 minute 29 second clip. I mean--damn, who is this woman?
So I watch her Tony acceptance speech.
Then I look her up to see where she trained.
Then I watch NPH's acceptance speech.
Then I watch the video again. And again. And again.
Dude.
And I began to regret almost every life choice I have made.
Then I look up still photos from the show and discover Lena Hall switched and became Hedwig for some tour dates. Well damn, Skippy, you just keep getting cooler.
More Tony viewings ensue. I try to distract myself with Cabaret to no avail: I want Hedwig.
All weekend I troll the show.
And all weekend I sink more deeply into a familiar and frustrating ennui.
I toddle downstairs to see if I can find my copy of the movie, because I know I had it. I bought it back when LIDA was doing it.
Arrow stab. Suddenly I realize I'm depressed.
I will never play Yitzhac. I am too old.
I was too old---according to the producer---years ago. "Theatre is for the young, " he said.
I was 36.
I became a teacher at 37.
Monday I realize there is pirated NPH Hedwig on You Tube. So I watch it. The Entire Thing. My students are rehearsing, I have a laptop, it's not hard.
I miss acting. I miss it a lot.
I'm a theatre kid. Always have been.
I then start clinking around the film version, comparing scenes from the original off Broadway with John Cameron Mitchell and Miriam Shor to NPH and Lena Hall. I become obsessed with "Midnight Radio", and compulsively click between the three versions, falling in love with both of the women who played Yitzhac.
So I think.
I'm not a theatre kid. I'm theatre's bitch. Always have been.
Today, we started Acting 1 with the film version of "Midnight Radio". This time with more information about the story of both Hedwig and Hansel who became Hedwig, and the meaning of the final moment when he releases Yitzhac. Now clearly, JCM and Miriam Shor had been working together in these roles for two years, but I still used the moment to wave my arms and yell "connect!" I said "These moments are why we do this! It's like melted butter in your veins instead of blood. And you're missing it! Fear, social media, fear...it's all in your way. If you learn nothing else from me or never see me again, please learn that!" I was on a roll.
I then worked closely with the kids doing Fool For Love and they discovered their connection and took their scene to the next level.
I know why I had to binge on this show. I know why it depressed me, why I lashed out at my age and my life situation, and why I finally came to acceptance today as the lesson was synthesized first through my students, and then through me.
I'd still give ten years of my life to play Yitzhac. Or even to just sing "The Long Grift" as a guy. That's it, really.
I get it. And again...or still....everything is revealed to me through theatre.
Because I am Theatre's bitch. Always have been.
And can you hear Lena's voice? I can. "Lift up your hands....lift up your hands!"
Lena Hall
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