Theatre Camp Stories (Two Different Camps)

July/Aug 2017

Today at a theatre camp: It was "goth" day, so everybody was in black. I laughed and said "Looks like a techie convention." A 13 year old girl, a veteran of the camp AND a student at a local "performing arts" school, batted her eyes at me and asked simply "What's a techie?

After I came to, I confirmed that she was not, in fact, kidding. The small circle that had gathered around my unconscious body were all mouthing the same question to one another "What's a 'techie'? Did she say 'techie?'"

I passed out again. This time, upon re entry, I sat in the middle of the circle and explained the word, like Jane Goodall communicating with the chimps. One girl perked up, "Oh, ya, them.Why do we need them?"
With all the snark and fire I could muster, I made eye contact with the ten year old who had spoken and responded, "Because without them you are naked, without makeup, standing in the dark on an empty stage, holding nothing."

Good thing I only have one day left at this camp.

So, last week of theatre camp for me. We're doing combat fairy tales, and a kid says "Let's do Shawshank Redemption, that's my favorite fairy tale."
Me too, kid.

These are late. It's fine. 101 Dalmatians Postcards;

*One of the students "snuck in", as he is only four years old and not old enough for the camp. We will call him Steve. Steve can read and write, which is helpful when rehearsing a show, but he cannot and will not sit still, learn choreography, focus, etc. Instead he crawls under chairs during music rehearsal, insists that it is snack time always, takes my cell phone and returns his score to the producer daily stating "I won't be back". Unfortunately, the next day he comes back. The final time he tried to take my phone I said "Steve, stop. This is my phone, I'm tired of telling you." He slinked back under the chairs and looked up at me and said calmly "I could ruin your life." The SM and Props mistress, who were seated next to me, burst into laughter.

One little girl knew her lines, just not where they went, even after being taught by yours truly what a cue line is. Sometimes she would say the line in the right place, sometimes she wouldn't say it at all, it was a new journey every time. When she finally got her costume, she would not leave her tail alone. Both performances she managed to pull her tail off of her body. What're ya gonna do? As a dalmatian, she was trapped in Cruella's vault, both nights holding her tail aloft in some sort of canine solidarity power pose. On the second night, she was quietly fidgeting with her detached tail, and sometimes remembering her lines, as Cruella said "Bash them over the head, I don't care", and her tail immediately shot straight into the air over her head. She seemed to be demonstrating Cruella's cruelty! Look! She will rip off our tails! Funny, but wrong. But funny. And she said her line, in the wrong place, which was "Shhhhh!". I was not the only adult who had a Norma Rae Flashback, imagining a silent Sally Field holding up her sign UNION.

A girl asked me why I don't get my phone fixed-it has a cracked screen. I said simply "I don't have the money." She replied, just as simply "Why don't you get a lemonade stand?"

The Science of Traffic

          I don't want to bitch about the traffic in Denver any more. We're now LA and it sucks. Scene.

          Since October of 2016, we have been owners of the fussiest, most glitchy car in the world. It is a 2010 VW Beetle. It was not a car we wanted, it is a car we blustered into when He Who Shall Not Be Named wrecked Harper's perfectly perfect Honda Accord. The insurance only gave us $5 grand for the pristine used car, so that's all we had to get another car. And the Bug was available and the right price. It was also at Auto Nation, who we now hate--DO NOT BUY A CAR THERE --and not Planet Honda who we love --BUY A CAR THERE.

          The standard behavior on this thing is to die. If it's too hot out: it dies. If it's stuck in traffic: it dies. It dies while in motion, and it remains dead if you wish to restart it. In the ten months we have had it, it has been in the shop more times than the cars we've had for ten years. However, the Cost The Most To Fix Prize this year goes to the 10 year old Chevy Silverado, who needed new spark plugs, new brakes, engine service and the engine blocks themselves have come loose, meaning we have to spend a thou to have it remounted. Super Exciting. 

           I spent this summer dealing with the cars. Some of it was maintenance: oil change, brakes, new battery. Some was major like the Chevy, and the Bug, who was first misdiagnosed by our now former mechanic, and then diagnosed correctly and inexpensively by an expert (again I sing the praises of Doug at Paddock Imports. He is my new best friend.)

            It was a fine way to spend my summer, and I was grateful for the timing. I wasn't "working" ( I work, but not 8 hours in a building) so I had time to schlep, save, rescue, retrieve. And by this comingThursday, all the cars will have been serviced, and fixed and braked and new tires on the FJ for Genoa. Also a perk, our credit has recovered enough for me to qualify for a real credit card that is now "The Car Card" for all of our servicing needs. In Gratitude: this could have been so much worse.

           I have never been a kid whose car died on the off ramp. Or on the freeway. Or on the hill…. or anywhere. The only time I have had a dead car was because it was hit by another car, or it was my Ford Escort, which didn’t really die in transit. It just didn’t always start or run well. Man that car was a piece of poo. When we finally saved enough money to trade it in for a new car, we had to take it in shifts. We drove it half way to the dealer the first day, and the rest of the way the second day. “Push, pull or drag” was their slogan. We pretty much dragged. The point is that I have never been sitting in a dead car with people blaring their horns around me. I am the kid who would pull over and help if your car died. It seems like the right thing to do.

           The first of the Bug’s incidents resulted in getting the clutch rebuilt. Then it started dying again, and Harp, who has nasty anxiety, just couldn’t take having an unreliable car in what was becoming an overcrowded, hostile city. Not the Denver she was raised in at all. Horns blared, people shouted, threw things at her and cussed her out because her car died. It’s hard enough to not panic when the engine sputters and dies, but then when nobody will help you...in fact, instead, they wish to attack you, it’s too much.

           And so, I had no choice but to drive the Bug, because two middle fingers and a Mohawk. And it started sputtering and dying and I had to restart it on the road. I was disappointed in the number of people who blared their horns at me, pulled up deliberately close to my bumper and then sharply whipped around my dying vehicle, while blaring on their horn. Or passed me while blaring their horns. Or flipped me off while blaring their horns. When the Bug died on Harp out by I25 and Arapahoe, someone threw a hamburger out their window at her as she stood by her dead car. Are you kidding me, people?

             It has never been proven by engineers that blaring your horn from a nearby car will restart a dead engine. Science has never proven that blaring your horn from behind a stalled car reignites a dead battery. Scientists are still investigating the effects of an airborne hamburger hurled at a stalled vehicle’s owner, but so far their results indicate that this approach does not restart an internal combustion engine, either.

            The moral code of humanity, however, does indicate that while, scientifically you may not be able to restart an internal combustion engine, you can slow down and see if the stranded motorist is on a cell phone and fetching help. You can stop behind them so that they can safely exit their vehicle. You can pull behind them and exit your own vehicle to ask if they need assistance moving their dead car to the breakdown lane. These choices take exactly the same amount of time and effort that slowing down to cuss out or hurl fast food takes. While none of these things will refire the dead engine, they will bring comfort to the human being whose day has just been jacked by a stupid machine.

          So my conclusion, after much personal research, is that those of you blaring your
 horns, do not believe in science, because you seem to think your horns, obscenities and hurled meat will help the situation. You appear to also not be very interested in being a member of the human race. Which is unfortunate, but at least now I know what we’re up against.