Say A Simple Sentence

   
         I'm sitting in the little wood grained, exposed brick coffee shop that shares a wall with a small indie thrift store. Everything feels like it did in the 1990's before Things Got Cray Cray in Colorado, until I look up from my computer at the construction workers outside of the car dealership. The dealership isn't new, this has been Dealership Row along Broadway here for years. But the construction workers make me nervous. They have a lot of steel cords. Their orange vests and giant spools give me PTSD. It is never good. It used to be I 25, which was constantly under construction, and then they finally "finished" it, only to have parts of it flood in the first big rain storm. Sigh. I love my state, but sometimes I dunno how bright they are. And this was before pot was legal.
         I like this stretch of Littleton, it reminds me of Denver. I was raised in what is now the Trendy Highlands. It didn't used to be trendy, and there was nothing heightened about it. Mom got us out after high school, and I went to Kansas for college. I know, freaking Kansas, right?  I loved that it was not crowded and felt safe. But I didn't stay, going to school there was fine but after four years I was ready to come back. I'm hanging in Littleton today after making sure mom is OK. We moved out here into a tiny, blonde brick house on a block of tiny brick houses near the elementary school. We don't have a garage, which is a weird thing for Colorado, but to us it was heaven. I live in Lafayette, which also used to be not trendy, but now they have a Bar Louie. Somehow in the last few years Boulder has just annexed Lafayette and Nederland. Oh well. At least we held on to our identities, it feels the same. and frankly, there's no where else to build.
     I come down every day during the summer to spend the morning with my mom, get her coffee and chat. She's not sick or anything, but her mind is starting to slip a bit. She's OK once she's up and around. Our neighbors have been on one side have been the same for years, and the new family that moved in on the other side has small kids that love to come over and play in her garden. She has this epic rose garden out back, it takes up most of the yard. The kids think it's a blast to come over and weed and water, and mom lets them pick their favorite rose to take home. They will choose before it blooms,and then check it every day until it's ready to be plucked and displayed in a tea cup on their coffee table.
         It's only ten a.m. and already it's eighty. Sheesh. The last few summers have been ridiculous. It's crazy hot and I guess we have hail storms now. It must suck to be any kind of construction worker in this state. Last summer I hung out up in Gunnison and Montrose, my cousin lives in Delta and I like to go visit her. There's no construction up there, nobody wants to live on the Western Slope or the Banana Belt. Coming back down it looked like Grand Junction had some growth going on. They have wineries now in addition to all the fruit. We use to joke about what a pit Grand Junction was back in the day, but now it looks freaking gorgeous compared to the steel and glass monstrosity that Denver has become. Every time I visit my cousin I threaten to move up there. But then, what would I do for a job? That's the catch. She works for social services, some kind of dispatcher. She has a nice little house and it's just so quiet up there. She said last year she bought a snow shovel because they got about an inch. An inch. Banana Belt, dude.
          My phone is going off. I look down, it's mom.
          "Hey, what's up?"
          "Something is wrong. I've called the ambulance but I wanted to call you in case," that's my mom, over communicating and making sure the entire planet has all the necessary information.
           "I'm on my way."
           I arrive at mom's house, the ambulance isn't there yet. No reason for it to have beat me, I was across the street. I let myself in and mom is sitting at the dining room table. Her driver's license and insurance card are on the table. There is also a handwritten note. I pick it up: My name is JW and I feel dizzy. Her meds are lined up next to the note.
            "Mom?"
            "I think I'm having a stroke but I can't be," she starts lifting both arms over her head "say a simple sentence."
             "The hell are you doing?"
             "If it's a stroke I shouldn't be able to say a simple sentence. Or to put my arms up level."
             "I'll call the ambulance off, I can take you."
             "No, I want the medics to see me before I leave the house. Nothing personal."
             I shake my head at her. She knows I was an EMT for ten years. Yet for some reason, that isn't medical training in my mom's eyes. I also work part time as a nurse in Boulder Valley Schools, but again, it doesn't count.
              "Mom, the ambulance medics have the same training that I do."
              "Yours is old,  you haven't done it in years. There's new technology and treatments."
              "Not for strokes there isn't," I sigh. I hear the ambulance drive past our house.
              "Will you go out in the walkway and make sure they know which house."
              I do as asked and wave down the ambulance. I give them the 411 on mom, her meds, her symptoms, her history. They're really young, these guys, I swear they get younger all the time. I'm only thirty, but these EMT's look like middle schoolers. One of them looks at me longer than the other. When I'm done and they unload the gurney, he smiles. "I know you. You taught anatomy at the massage therapy school, didn't you?"
                I nod. "One of my many gigs, yep."
                "Steve," he shakes my hand. I realize that if he was in MT school when I was teaching, he has to be at least 28. "Your stories are one of the reasons I became an EMT."
                 "Did you dump massage?"
                 "Not even remotely, I do that part time on my off days. I love it."
                  We enter the house together, and my mom looks at me. "Are we done flirting now? Can it be about the woman having a stroke?"
                    ____________________________________________________________
             
                   At the ER, mom continues to raise her arms and repeat "say a simple sentence", much to the nurse's amusement. They get her hooked up and settled and she asks me where her meds are.
                  "I put them in your purse. When the doc gets here we'll give them to him."
                  "If he ever gets here, how long have we been here?"
                  "Twenty minutes."
                  "This is an ER? Nobody's here, where are the nurses? Where's the doctor?"
                   I shrug. She isn't going to like my answer based on her politics, so I just shrug.
                   "Say a simple sentence. It wasn't a stroke, I didn't have a stroke."
                   The nurse enters. "We have you in line for a CAT scan, it may be about an hour."
                   "Is this an emergency room? An hour for a CAT scan? I could die."
                   The nurse runs more diagnostics, asks her questions, checks her head and eyes. "The specialist on call is in the building, hopefully he will be down in the next half an  hour."
                   "This is an emergency room? In the suburbs? This is as bad as Denver General used to be. I do have insurance."
                     The nurse warily smiles and takes mom's blood pressure.
                    "I have to go the bathroom," my mom states. She's only 68, but right now she sounds 80.
                    "Let me unhook you," the nurse begins to adjust the IV so mom can wheel the bag with her.
                    "I'll walk you down," I volunteer.
                    When we get back from the restroom, the room is empty. I get mom resituated with her IV.
                    "Where are my meds?"
                    "In your purse. I've told you that twice now. You don't remember asking?"
                    "Say a simple sentence. How long have we been here?"
                    "Forty minutes."
                    "This is an ER?"
                    This same conversation, almost verbatim, repeated over the next two hours. The nurse came in twice in that time, both times assuring us that the specialist was in the building.
                     I looked at the nurse, "This is America, right?" referring to the ridiculous amount of time we have been waiting to see a doctor.
                     At hour four, the Doctor appears. He asks her to say a simple sentence.
                     He asks her to raise her arms simultaneously.
                     He says there is a line for the CAT scan and it will be about an hour.
                     He then left.
                     "Where are my meds?"
                     "I gave them do the Doc when he came in. You watched me do it."
                     At hour five they arrived to take mom to the CAT scan.
                     They brought her back and thirty minutes later, the doctor reappeared with a clip board.
                     "Well the CT scan doesn't show any abnormal bleeding, but we need an MRI to tell. The ER does not have an MRI, but you should schedule one down at the Franklin location as soon as possible. Or we can admit you for the night, and do an MRI upstairs in the morning."
                       "Let's do that, please. I'd like to know if my mom had a stroke."
                       "Allright, let me put in the request."
                       Thirty minutes later, another nurse--shift change--appeared to tell us that the hospital is full and there are no beds available. We will have to wait here in the ER for a few hours for a bed to open.
                        "Or, we can go home and schedule the MRI at Franklin," I say.
                        She nods sympathetically.
                        "Mom, you wanna stay?"
                        "Nope, this is ridiculous, are we in Russia? Am I not an insured American citizen?" I start to laugh, because usually this is my role. Whatever has happened to mom's brain has changed her personality, at least for the moment. "How long have we been here?" she asks me, looking at the clock as if it's Greek text.
                         "Five hours."
                          My  mom looks at the nurse. "Clearly I am fine, let me out. Say a simple sentence."
                          As I put mom in the car, she loses consciousness. Like a ragdoll, she just slumped. I ran back in and got the attendant.
                         She had an aneurysm. The doctor said "There is no way we could have seen it coming."
                         I replied "That sounds like a simple sentence."
                         

Fiction
 22  June 2017

fruit salad

 The story you are about to read is true. The names have not been changed to protect anything.

 When I was going to school on Planet Houston, I was fortunate to have a few magnificent people in my life. One of them was Paul. Paul was kind, Paul was funny, Paul was a fellow playwright. Paul was a rare bird with his own house. Paul paid my bond to keep me out of jail when I went to South Padre instead of court. Paul is still my friend, and is now a fellow educator, and he has no recollection of this tale. Which is a damned shame, because I tell this at parties and it kills. And for some reason I tell it in the present tense.

 Paul invited Mr. Albee over for dinner. Mr. Albee accepted, and let Paul know that he drinks only Caffeine Free Diet Coke and eats skinless chicken breasts. So Paul did all the shopping and cooking, and invited me over, saying he was too nervous to be alone with Mr. Albee. I have no money to contribute to the meal, so he asks me to bring a six pack of Caffeine Free Diet Coke. That I can do. The six pack plus the gas to get to Paul's eat my budget for the week, but it's worth it. I am in Mr. Albee's class with Paul, but I would never have the balls to ask him to dinner! I did have lunch with him once at the school cafe, he wanted to chat more about my play. He told me when we arrived that it was his treat so "eat well, dear".

 When I arrive Paul greets me and looks grumpily at the six pack. "That's all you brought?"
 "That's all you asked me to bring." I do feel bad, but I honestly am stone broke, I barely have gas to get home from dinner.

  Flustered and annoyed that nobody on the planet is helping him, he returns to the kitchen. I hover and ask if I can do anything? He says something but I can't hear him, so I just fluff pillows and clean off the coffee table. He comes plowing out of the kitchen clutching a salad bowl. He shoves it into my face.
   "Does this salad look fruity?"
   I look into the bowl. There is no fruit.
  "No."
  "No, look. You didn't look. Does it look fruity?"
   I look into the bowl again. I look up at him and declare "tomatoes." Tomatoes are technically a fruit, right, they have seeds? Is that the game? I don't understand the game, and poor Paul is almost hysterical.
 "Dammit, kryssi. Look at it. Does it look FRUITY?"
  I am so confused and hurt that I seem to be making Paul's night much worse than it needs to be. So I really look deeply into the salad he is holding out to me.
  "Cucumbers."
  "KRYSSI!"
  "PAUL! There is no fruit in this salad. What are you asking me?"
  "Can you tell a faggot made this salad?"
  There is no other option but to laugh. To gufaw. To barf humor. As I begin to do all of these things, I look into my friend's frenzied eyes. He is hosting a dinner in his tiny house for a man he worships. A man who has three Pulitzers, Tony Awards and a Kennedy center, as well as a string of other awards.     He is a Big Deal. And Paul is making him dinner.
  I put my hand on Paul's wrist and hold his eyes."Honey. It's a salad. All he requested is no dressing. He is not going to judge your sexuality on your salad making skills." I allow a smile "Also, honey, he's gay too. Remember?"
 We maintain eye contact for a moment, and I see a moment of peace click in Paul's blue eyes. Then he huffs and clutches the salad to his chest. "Shit, it's faggy, it's  a fruity salad." He stomps back into the kitchen and slams the bowl down, turning his attention to the skinless chicken breasts and mumbling. "Skinless chicken is pretty gay, isn't it? "

I can't.

EPILOGUE  The dinner for Mr. Albee was successful. We ate on the couch with our plates on our laps, as Paul's tiny little table could hold only the food. Paul made Mr. Albee watch A Fish Called Wanda because....I don't know why. Mr. Albee had never seen it and Paul insisted it was the greatest movie ever made. Mr. Albee had to leave "early" as he was meeting  his manager for drinks, but he was phenomenally kind and gracious. Best quote of the evening:
   Paul had a computer game called "Sim City" where you built a city, and then a giant dinosaur creature destroyed it. Paul walked Mr.Albee through the game, and Mr. Albee growled "What's the point?" He was not unfriendly, Mr. Albee just growls, that's his voice.
    Paul, shocked, did not hesitate. "To build a city and have it destroyed."
    Mr. Albee "Why bother with the city? Just release the beast."
    Paul "But then what does it destroy?"
    Mr. Albee "Why does it need to destroy anything?"
    Paul "That's the game."
    Mr. Albee "Again I ask, what's the point?"

I sat on the couch watching this exchange. Watching the gleam in Mr. Albee's eye and admiring his ornery questioning. Paul twitched and sputtered and I felt badly for him, but not for long. We were used to being grilled by this man about our plays. He would sit you in front of the class and fire questions at you, demanding answers for "why" you made the choices you did. And if you couldn't take it, well then, maybe you should get out of playwriting. Paul handled defending his play beautifully in class, but in his own home he sputtered when asked "why" about a computer game. A game he did not even create. 

Poor Paul. I asked him if I could write about this and blog it. He said he has no memory of the evening, so it's fine. It was likely too traumatic to commit to memory. I'm glad I was there to record it for him, now he has a record of making dinner for a Great Man.

That One Time I Subbed In A Junior High--And Never Again

        In the early 90's, so early it was almost the late 80's, because it actually was the late 80's, I decided to sub while going to school on Planet Houston. I was hired in La Porte, a city south of Houston and known for being a bit "rough" at the time. The city was largely blue collar workers, etc. Those neighborhoods are always considered rough, but let me tell you, that after 13 years of teaching in a suburban school, blue collar kids are not "rough". They're just big, and sometimes multi colored and not always scholarly. But they don't shoot each other. Just saying.
        The one and ONLY time I ever subbed at the junior high school, this is what happened: I put on my one suit, I drove to the school. I checked into the office, the friendly secretary welcomed me warmly, I received a campus map, a schedule, a room number and lesson plans. I walked to the classroom, settled in behind the desk and waited for the kids.
         The desks were neatly lined up, five rows across and six deep. Every desk was taken, the kids sat in their assigned seats, answered "here" when called upon and in general were just fine.
         It's fine, they're fine, stop looking at me.
         I was learning quickly that the subs during this time left me a lot of in class reading and writing. Which likely had more to do with language arts than anything else. So the kids had their heads down, working on their assignments.
          A fairy portly young man in the second from stage right row, second seat, seemed a bit fidgety to me. I didn't hear any voices, nobody was talking, but he kept looking over his left shoulder at a kid in the fourth row, fifth seat back. As if they were communicating telepathically. Or maybe he heard voices. As long as they were quiet, what did I care?
          I sat on the edge of the desk watching the class and memorizing a monologue for my own class, when the Portly Young Man leapt from his seat with a mighty cry. I thought maybe he had been stung by a bee, which is how much logic is applied in these situations. There was  no explanation otherwise.
          In addition to springing to his feet, he twisted his body around to the left and vaulted from his second row seat to the fourth row, fifth seat back, grabbing that kid by the throat.
          The entire class jumped to their feet and immediately took sides, splitting the room and shouting encouragement, depending on their allegiance. The portly boy seemed heavily favored.
          In the few seconds I had to piece together that he was not stung by a bee, I realized he was attacking his oppressor. This kid had been bullied for years,and had chosen today to fight back.
           It's fine, I'm fine.
           Knowing there was a helpful phone right behind me that I could pick up and raise an administrator, I instead made the decision to intervene.
           There had been very little "sub training" past filling out paperwork. The only thing they really said was "Do not touch the students." They had said that a lot when I was hired.
           Adhering tightly to this sage advice while deciding if I was going to let this kid whale on his oppressor, I hopped into the fray. All 120 pounds of menacing theatre student/sub, pencil skirt and all.
           I did, after all, hold a green belt in tae kwon do. I know, I know, no autographs please, I'm telling a story.
           I grabbed the oppressed kid first, getting him in a headlock. I was being  kind when I called him "portly", as he outweighed me by at least forty pounds, maybe fifty. The other kid was smaller, so I grabbed him by the ear. I'm not kidding. It was hilarious. Well, hilarity is relative to time. It's hilarious now.
           I pulled them over the desks to the front of the room. I looked back at the class who were all frozen with dumbfounded looks on their faces. I nodded my head at a girl and said "Please pick up that phone and tell them to get down here."
           As she called, the bullied was still trying to get to his bullier. I may have been little, but I was strong, and he couldn't get his head out of my lock.
           When the girl hung up the phone, she told me what I already knew. "He's been bullying Bobby* since kindergarten."
            Two male administrators in ties appeared at my door. Both stood frozen, much as the students had. I imagine it was quite a scene: tiny blonde in a pencil skirt and jacket with a digruntled junior high boy in each arm. I smiled, "These two have an issue," I rotated my shoulder so they could see Head Lock's face. "Would  you please deal with it?" They nodded silently and each man took a boy with him. Neither administrator touched either boy.
             I turned to my class and smiled. "It was nice to meet you. I'm fired."
             As one gush of breath and pent up emotion, they all laughed and  then told me stories of what they had witnessed over the years between these two boys. I listened, I let them decompress, and after about ten minutes they were ready to resume their classwork.
             I returned to my perch on the desk, wondering if they would send an administrator to escort me off the premises. I had, after all, broken the only rule I was given when I agreed to this job. Do Not Touch The Students.
            The two administrators never returned, but the boys did. The smaller one had an ice pack on his face---Bobby had gotten him good---but Bobby just looked tired. They both schlepped back to their desks, took out their work, and resumed.
            We held that tableau until the bell rang.
             The next class started, no administrators emerged.
             Probably there is nobody else to teach this class, I reasoned. They'll fire me at the end of the day.
            After my last class, I walked to the office to turn in my paperwork. The secretary smiled at me in the exact same way that she had in the morning. "How was your day?"
             "Ummmm....you didn't hear?"
             Her smile did not falter. "No....?
             "Today is the day Bobby decided he's not taking it any more. He attacked his bully. During my class."
              "Oh my goodness, that is terrible. Are you OK?"
              I couldn't help staring at her as if she had guacamole on her face. "Yes....I'm fine. I didn't even rip my skirt."
               "Well, I hope this isolated incident does not effect your impression of our school. We'd love to have you back."
               I looked over her shoulder at the administrative offices. All the doors were closed.
               Unsure if I was being stopped in the parking lot on the way to my car, I waved at her as I left as if I were in a fog. Surely someone was going to fire me. I'm not supposed to touch the kids.
               At my car, I actually paused and looked around for police officers, or a truck with nice young men in clean white coats.
               Instead I saw Bobby, head down, getting on his bus. And his bully getting into a car with his dad.
              When I got home, nobody was waiting for me. There were no messages on  my machine.
               I kept expecting a call from the district, telling me I was fired. When I did get a call, it was a week later, when the Junior High called to ask me to sub. I declined.
               They called on a day I had school. I couldn't have done it.
               Even if I had wanted to.







* Probably not his real name.
Non fiction I swear.
kryssi
19 June 2017

This One Time When I Was A Sub-La Porte HS

      Many years ago, in a city far, far away, called Houston, I was working on my degree and decided it'd be fun to substitute teach for extra money. My school schedule left me two days a week without classes, and I had tech in the afternoons. Why not? What could go wrong?
       I was 23 years old. I  was 5'7" and weighed 120 pounds and owned a single suit, purchased when I needed to start applying for jobs after we moved from Denver. I had no clothes due to the Thieving Bastards of Arlington, Tx, but that's another post.
       We lived in Seabrook, but Seabrook didn't have a school district that I could sub in. Or maybe their standards were too high, who knows. I can't be expected to remember everything. I do remember that Houston Independent School District had requirements I did not meet. Also teachers were being stabbed and bullied in HISD, so I got hired in La Porte, down the road, a district willing to hire a young college student to substitute teach. I had zero classroom experience as a teacher, but of course I had fifteen  years of classroom experience as a student in addition to years of babysitting and I was willing to do it. How hard could this be?
      My very first day subbing at the high school, I was befriended by an imposing woman named Letisha Jones*. Even in my stupid suit I was under dressed next to Letisha. She was awesome, she showed me my classroom, introduced me to admin as I walked through the halls looking up at the students. These kids were mostly giants and Letisha was at least six feet tall in her heels. They must put something in the water in La Porte. She shepherded me to my room, where the large blonde wood desk sat with the blackboard right behind it. I flashed to the movie Teachers and imagined I would be as cool as Nick Nolte. Letisha told me I would enjoy my day, they were mostly upper level Language Arts kids, and her room was right next door. She also indicated the phone on the wall, and told me to pick it up in an emergency and an administrator  would be right down. I would need to know about this phone later at the junior high, but that's another post.
        The day went smoothly through lunch. I was surprised at how nice all these kids were to a sub. I remembered giving the subs in high school a hard time: switching seats, pretending to be someone else, talking incessantly. My band friends would switch instruments on sub days. Choir kids tried sitting in the wrong sections, but that wasn't nearly as funny as the band kids. They always were more clever.
        I walked to the teachers' lounge during lunch. Somehow the giants seemed less threatening when they were in the classroom, out here in the hall I felt exposed without Letisha's arm around my shoulder. I started having a panic attack. I darted through the holes in the human sea and ran into the teacher's lounge, unwittingly slamming the door behind me. Then I leaned against it and looked up to find everyone staring at me. A Voice from the Teacher Clump said "Dear, this is the teachers' lounge. Are you lost?"
        Confused, I squinted through the smoke at the Coke machine and took a few steps toward it. As I did, an imposing arm placed itself around my shoulders. Letisha's booming voice emerged "This is Ms. Martin, she's our new Lang Arts sub. Also theatre, right Ms. Martin?" The clump of teachers' expressions changed and a few "Hi's" and "Welcome's" were mumbled as they returned to crying and smoking, which everyone knows is what you do in the teachers' lounge. Letisha bought me a Diet Dr. Pepper (I weighted 120 pounds for a reason)and despite her friendly smile, I bolted as fast as I could back to my classroom. The teachers' lounge was dark and smokey and...they thought I was a student! That's what happened! How funny! I don't even look like an adult.
         The class after lunch was going along, and I gave them their writing assignments. A young man in the up stage right corner of the room, dressed in a long black duster, black Chistian Slater hair falling in his face, lankily wore his desk as a costume piece and just stared at me. I asked if he needed anything, and he just whispered. The rest of the class silently watched the show. I asked him to repeat himself, I couldn't hear him, and he said, loud and clear "Sex".
           "I can't help you with that, sorry."
           The class burst into laughter.
           Christian Slater Wannabe did not.
           The rest of the period, he lounged in his up right spot and whispered "sex" under his breath. By about ten minutes into class, we became bored and just ignored him. This did not effect his determination, he continued to whisper "sex" at specifically timed intervals until the bell rang.
            At the end of the day, Letisha came by to ask me how it went. I told her about Christian Slater and she shook her head. "Oh, Jake," she said and chuckled as she whispered "sex".
            "I didn't know what I was supposed to do."
            "Well, other subs--when he bothers to show up---have just picked up that phone and had him taken to the office. You may be the only one to just ignore him."
             "Is he in one of your classes?"
            "Not this year, I had him last year. I just ignored him. All admin does is make him sit in the office. At least if he's in class he may accidentally learn something."

            After I subbed in La Porte, finished college, started a theatre company, had children and became a teacher, I found myself adhering to Letisha's advice when it came to these types of kids. And to this day, unless they are somehow dangerous or truly unruly, I just ignore it and keep going.
            Maybe they'll learn something by accident.



*Not her real name, but close.
non fiction
kryssi
19 June 2017
           

This Is Why I'm Like This:This One Time When I Was Nominated For A Thing

 

    The Friends episode where Joey is nominated for a "Soapy" has me reminiscing....

     Years ago, Denver had an award called the Denver Drama Critics Circle Award. It was long enough ago that we had two major newspapers and a smattering of smaller papers with full time theatre critics, and the beautiful Holley Bartges was one of Denver theatre's fiercest advocates, God Bless Her Soul, I truly miss her.
      It was long enough ago that I was bumbling through my own theatre company's identity, raising two beautiful toddlers and being a teacher was not even on my radar.
      It was long enough ago that  I was a functioning member of the Denver theatre community instead of Schleppy the Clown, which is how I refer to myself as a teacher.
      The category was "Best Original Play", and I had written Paul's Place,  which was pretty much Waitress without music years before Waitress. I have a singular gift for writing things way before they are popular. I have begun to suspect that someone is following me and stealing my ideas, and then rewriting them and getting rich. Or just doing it better than I can. There is a precedent: In 1989 my first play, Legalize Wisdom was produced by Edward Albee. It was essentially Will and Grace  nine years before they even aired. I'm not kidding, happy to give you a copy if you don't believe me. It was produced again in Denver in 1995. Just saying.
       So the entire cast and I decided we'd make a night of it at the Arvada Center, where the awards were to be held. I really wanted to wear a velvet skirt/tank combo, but I wanted to look better, so logically I did not eat for two days before the awards.
       Upon arrival to the ceremony, with an empty stomach,I proceeded to pound chardonnay like I was one of my children and it was a juice box.
        I lost to a show that had been written by women ( I recall two women accepting the award)and produced in Boulder. The other nominee that I recall in the category was my friend Brian who had created The Merchant of Auschwitz, a reconstruction of The Merchant of Venice. We talked briefly before the awards, I think, I may not have made any sense. I have a vague sense that he just smiled at me a lot.I also think we were at odds at the time, or something, over something stupid, I'm sure.
        When the winner was read, I celebrated as if it had been me. I'm not sure if I was excited that another female playwright won, or that we had enough playwrights in Denver to qualify as a category in the first place, or empty stomach + chardonnay + adrenaline. Likely the later.
         In my recollection the entire cast stared at me and laughed. I don't think that reaction is in fact impacted by "it was long enough ago" or "I was drunk". That's pretty much how people respond to me at public events. People stare and laugh. At least they used to. Now they just fire me.
         It was long enough ago that I had friends willing to drive my sodden ass home, while I lay in the back of the car and asked them to please, stop turning right and driving over speed bumps.
         I left the only proof of this event---my certificate declaring that the play was nominated---under my seat at the Arvada center.
         So I could be making this up.
         I suspect I could also tell you that I won, as it was 1999 and there is no way to prove any of this even happened.
         It was, after all, long enough ago...

      Scene.

From Left Director Kelly Westback, Todd Black, Julie Freshman, Amy  Rome, Shannon Sterrett, Chris Guerrero, Ashley Grainger, kryssi, Charles Wingerter and on the bar, Mary Gay Sullivan.

Trash Pandas

     It was the screaming, not the scurrying, that jolted me awake at four a.m.
     It sounded like a puppy. It was definitely not a cat, thanks to Gatos Diablos I know the sound of cats in distress. And thanks to the mountain lion that lives in open space, I know that a mountain lion sounds like a child crying when it kills a deer. The deer make no sound at all. Creepy? Yep.
      So at first I thought that the coyotes I had heard earlier in the evening, or the fox I keep hoping will appear, had caught one of the Diablos outside my bedroom window. It sounded like a child screaming at first.
      I shot up, and was fully awake enough to register that A) the motion sensor had not turned on the light on the side of the house and B) that was the victim screaming, not the attacker.
      Quite logically, I then chose to bang on my screen window and bellow "Hey, knock it off."
      The motion sensor light had not triggered, which made me feel eerie.
     When they did not knock it off, I ran to the spare room's window. G had crashed there after a late night of summer shenannegins, and my yelling into the darkness on the side of the house woke her up, even though she had been home less than an hour. I convinced myself that it was a fox pup, and it sounded more and more canine, but what in the world would kill a kit? Not the Diablos, they have a contract with any fox family that lives within four houses. They agree to kill the birds and mice and leave them for the skulk, in exchange for protection.
       You are undoubtedly impressed by my grasp of the fox vernacular. I would like to take this moment to thank google.
       I took off down the hall yelling to all of the nobody assembled "Count the cats, where are all the cats?" That got G out of bed like a rocket, she immediately started calling for Poe. Jim remained asleep, as he is wont to do in these situations.
       I ran into the backyard, barefooted, assuming whatever was going on would cease when a human came schlepping outside. It did not, primarily because I was in the back  yard and the murder was taking place in the side yard. I had to go back through the house and out of the front door to get to the side of the house. I did not have shoes, and therefore was not going through the back yard and deal with our ghetto fence, which would simply fall down if I touched it, smashing all the animals not quick enough to run away. This would be the second time at four a.m. that I applied logic to this event.
       G joined me out the front door, and we stomped to the side of the house. I could hear scrambling and the crying was more faint---I think the victim was being dragged into the back yard, where I just was. It made no sense unless they were dragging the victim over the fence. Who drags a dying animal over a fence? The motion sensor light continued stubbornly to not turn on, so G turned her cell phone flash light into the darkness. We saw a fat thing waddle away, and G said "It was cats?"
        I know that fat waddle. I know these guys.
        The guys Harper calls "Trash Pandas".
        Raccoons.
        I hate raccoons. Raccoons once broke into my house. They have power tools.They probably disconnected the motion sensor on the light! Years ago, they multiplied when they got into my kitchen, and they do not exit the same way they enter. They hiss and snap and are defiant. I had to open the kitchen door with a broom from several feet away, the broom handle hovering over their nasty beady eyes. They had broken in through the screen but were having none of going back out that way.
         I see you, Trash  Panda.
         As we stood trying to listen, another Trash Panda lumbered down the tree, gave us a dirty look, and slowly climbed up the neighbor's exterior wall. Not in any kind of a hurry at all, he was the size of a lab puppy, or a really fat corgi. When he looked back at me I heard a voice in my head "I know it was you Fredo."
         It was raccoons. Trash Pandas. "Bandits" to those who think they're cute.
         They are not cute. They are giant rodents. They are the real ROUS'.
         But what did they attack?
         We did not see a body. Or fur. Or blood splatter.
         We came back into the house, all four cats and the dog accounted for. Poe immediately tried to dart outside to see what all the ruckus was about. Being the youngest, (her gangsta name is "Smol"), she is also the boldest. Or perhaps "the dumbest", as in "too stupid to know there is danger".
         We couldn't see clearly in the dark, and in the morning there was no sign of a corpse.
         All four Diablos were in the house, sound asleep when the attack occurred. Unlike the Diablos, the Trash Pandas do not leave a corpse behind for me to hose off of my patio. So this is not about me, then, is it?
           I sense a turf war....

6 June 2017
non fiction

The Tony Awards 2017

 The Tony Awards 2017. Thank you Kevin for doing your best to give it some flavor, I dig the old school crooner vibe. But other than that.....UGH.  What a lame, sad, lame year.
   Although Jim watched a lot of it with me this year, which made it more fun. It was lame enough that there were people nominated he'd heard of due to an infusion of Hollywood names in shows (re: lame, they're trying to pull audiences with actors not stories).
   This is the first year in a few I have seen them do more than throw a rock at the straight plays. I suppose that tells you how rough the season is.
   They also removed "Actress in a Revival" and combined it with musical. Again, that tells you how few shows there were.
    Also the namby pamby feel good high school show Dear Evan Hansen won. Ugh. I don't have to see the show to know it's less cool than The Comet of 1812. 
    Positive: They did parade out the playwrights of nominated shows. They had to buy a tux or dress or whatever pant suit Paula Vogel was wearing, and get their makeup done and say words. Always good for a laugh--not all playwrights are Edward Albee, you know. It was really nice to get a glimpse of what each show was about.
     Bette won Best Actress in a musical, beating Patti Fucking LuPone. Which was kinda fun. She also told the band to "shut that crap up" and talked right through her playoff. Patti, you lost the middle name, hon. She is now Bette Fucking Midler.
     Kevin Kline won. Yes. Fucking Yes. With Phoebe Cates sitting right  next to him. I really can't believe they stayed married. KEVIN. I'm not disappointed! When he won Jim said "Vietnam was a tie!"
      Laurie Metcalf! Yes! All of the dues paid and training with Steppenwolf, yes. Yes.
     Negative: Costumes, lights and sets didn't even warrant Main Stage time. All were given "earlier this evening". Really, Tonys? Have you forgotten that your shows would be naked in the dark on a bare stage?
      When "Best Play" was announced, they used only the title, leaving out the playwright's name.
       Even Choreography was kicked off the Main Stage! What? We worship musicals, what is going on here?
      Some new guy (who may be good, I dunno, I didn't see the show but I get to rant my opinion) with a lame acceptance speech won over Danny DeVito, Nathan Lane and Richard Thomas.
      DARTH VADER was given his LIFETIME ACHIEVEMENT in a separate ceremony "earlier this evening"? Why? Because he is elderly and needs to eat so he can take his pill? SHAME ON YOU TONY AWARDS. SHAME.
      And trolling the reviews today I see "Uneven" and "Kevin Spacey is stuck in the 90's" and to that I say Fuck you, bad writing prevailed---why did his entire opening apologize for not being someone else? And as for "stuck", fuck you  it's called being classy you nit.
       I'm just saying.

Namaste My Ass

Kryssi Martin

Timeline

Recent

Recent20172016201520142013201220112010200920082004199519841965

StatusPhoto/VideoLive VideoLife Event

Friends

Kryssi Martin

3 mins · Lakewood · 

Good Morning, Summer Routine:
8 am
Yoga on the deck while coffee brews.
Breathing beautiful June air, grass, flowers. Bird song. The slant of the light at this hour is stunning. It's not too hot yet, truly beautiful--
Lasts ten minutes before dog starts to whine. Why am I outside and not paying attention to him?
Bee.
Return to yoga. Peaceful. Birds singing. "Da Bear" watches me from her perch on the retaining wall. I am grateful for the lack of intestines and headless bunnies on the deck this morning.Maybe tomorrow I'll schlep to the park and yoga by the pond.
Dog got out. Yell for dog.
Bee.
I can't yoga tomorrow morning at the pond I have to go to training for my 6th job tomorrow.
Also there's a Dr appointment in the morning before job training.
Return to yoga.
Think about trying headstand.
There's glass on the deck.
Dog?
No headstand today.
Finish poses.
Namaste. Ahhh.
Coffee.
Computer: time to write.
First check calendar for anything I'm supposed to be doing that I am not doing right now.
Check calendar for everything children should be doing.
Send children bossy text.
Dog got out the other gate. Both gates are broken. Need 7th job to get fence fixed.
Bee.
Find shoes.
Go to other gate.
Using Herculean strength and theatre engineering, rebalance broken fence and block opening with pieces of broken shale steps.
Wow, this side of the house is ghetto.
Look briefly for the corpse of raccoon attack victim. Don't see anything.
Dog watches cat leap effortless over ghetto rigged gate.
Dog applies dog engineering, does not get through the gate.
I'm smarter.
Return to computer.
Bee.
Watch neighbor in trendy mom tennis skort walking her lab allow her lab to poop on my neighbor's lawn without scooping it up.
THE DECLINE OF COLORADO IS ON YOU, BITCH.
9am.
Namaste.
Is the pub open yet?

Los Gatos Diablos: The Cast

1 June 2017

Gatos Diablos: The Players

“Da Bear”.  The oldest of the cats, she has buffed up and her winter fur puts ten pounds on her stocky body. She’s aging and not as agile as she once was, but she can teach the youngest how to kill. Since Harper moved out, she has taken to sleeping directly on my head. Her purr sounds like a bird song.

“Smol”. Not yet a year old, jet black like Da Bear  but agile, lanky and able to leap four feet directly into the air for no apparent reason. She will also tear from the back yard into the house, fur poofed crazily, fleeing an unforeseen predator. She is very focused while stalking, and has been seen with animals almost her own size clenched in her jaws.

“Sock”. Is a tortie we refer to as “Jim’s unemployment cat”, as he got her when he lost his job in a company buy out. He named her Sock, which is totally lame but better than what G and H weirdly call her : "Sockie Lockie Artichokie", which does not rhyme . She is eight years old and the quietest of the killers---which is why she remains “Sock”, the miceies and bunnies do not hear her coming. Also she plays mercilessly with her prey, she gives them a head start, and then pounces, looking confused as to why they don’t run any faster. Don’t they know she’s right behind them? No, they don’t, because she’s silent. Sock. To add insult to injury, Sockie Lockie has been witnessed actually eating her prey. If one is unfortunate enough to be on the patio writing one's blog and hears what sounds like the dog gnawing on a bone, one should not look up to confirm the source of the sound. It is not the dog, and there are bones, plural. Ugh.

“Strumph”, also a tortie or maybe a calico mix and also her real name. “strumph” is German for “sock” or “stocking” (we think), so we have a pair of socks. Jim calls her "Bitey", you can pet her exactly three times before she chomps on your hand. She kills unemotionally and quickly, rarely playing with her prey. We don’t even see her stalk, only because she has walked into the house with a dead mouse in her mouth do we know she is a killer. Which is circumstantial and will never hold up in court.

“The Dog". His name is Marty (Feldman) and he is a mix of Pug and Something Satanic with Long Legs. He can jump straight up four feet in the air from a standing position, like Smol, but is more unnerving because he’s a dog. He is not sure what his role is. He has been with us a year and a half, what they now call a “rescue” instead of “pound puppy”, which is accurate: we sprung him from the joint where he was recovering from having his eye pop out. He is from Kansas and that is all we know. His first year he just followed the old lab Sundown, whose job it was to chase the cats when outside and bond and snuggle with them inside. He learned nothing at all from Sunny D, and instead leaps and lunges at the cats and bullies them off of the bed. Then he has the nerve to yipe when they swat at him. He sniffs the corpses thoroughly, to insure that they have expired, before leaping off in another direction. Occasionally he takes a taste to sample the cuisine, but it is never to his liking.He follows the cats leads when on the hunt and hunkers down to watch them. He has learned enough to not interfere, but not enough to not try and pounce 

  "Sir Not Appearing In This Story". Emma, aka "Fatty Fat Fat", has gone to live with Harper and so is not featured in the current stories. She is fat and black and fat. Emma is technically Genoa's cat, but when it came time to shove someone into a carrier to be Harper's Kitty, Harper's Kitty Aiden (aka "Da Bear") was not having any. So Emma went because she didn't fight.

And there you have them, ladies and gentlemen! Playing Daily In Lakewood!