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.

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."

"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."

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.

__________________________________________________________________

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

Godspell Part 1

22 Feb 2017

  Back in November--ish, I thought it'd be fun to go audition for a musical again.
  Not a real musical, not professional or semi professional or regional. not Arvada Center or anyone who pays, nothing hard core. I don't want to feel stupid and get rejected, I just want to get out there again and maybe feel stupid OR get rejected.
  Community theatre. Like, real, genuine, working out of a church everybody builds and strikes "I have a Mr. Microphone and you have a barn, let's do a show, Skippy" and age is no barrier Community Theatre.
   Originally this group, who are associated with PAA-or at least with the Methodist Church- was doing Oklahoma. I did not sign up for auditions, because I Hate Oklahoma.
   I am not the only one who feels this way about Oklahoma, apparently, as they changed the show to Godspell due to low audition sign ups.
    I also, by the way, hate Godspell. Hippies in clown face telling bible stories is not my idea of a good show.
     However, it's not Oklahoma, and I'm looking for audition experience. I haven't auditioned for a musical in ...dinosaur years. I feel like getting back into it after Steel Magnolias. Sure, why not? I signed up. The worst that can happen is I don't get cast. Cool. I don't want to get cast, see the above paragraph. I just want to get back out there again and work out the rust and kinks, and distract myself from the fact that I'm not directing the LHS musical. And Community theatre people I sort of kind of know is a great place to fail.
     I show up for my audition. There are about ten people, ages ranging from 10 to 70. Cool. Community theatre.
     The director stands up. Shit. She's a parent. I directed her daughters.
     The musical director stands up. Shit. He's My Boss at PAA. Shit. Shit. I can't escape, there are only ten of us.
      The musical director then says "This is a no cut show, so relax. You all have a part."
      Shit. Shit Shit shitshitshitshitdoubleshit.
      It's OK to cuss, this is a Methodist church.
      Fine. Fine.
      There is an entire family in the front row. Is that mom and dad with...four kids? All auditioning. They are known to the directors, apparently they are veterans of this company.
      A delightful elderly couple-veterans of this company- stand and sing  the National Anthem with harmonies.
      I almost cried.
      I'm in.
      They had me at the National Anthem.
____________________________________________________
      The cast list comes out. I am given a role called "Morgan". I have an entire song to myself.
      Shit.
      I look it up online, it's a sexy song.
      Shit.
      Me? Well....Community theatre.
      I consider declining. I'm given the opportunity to do so. I hear Nathan Lane in my head "I'm a short, fat, insecure thing." This is true, and I cannot  do this song.
      There was very little dancing at the audition, and even though there is a choreographer she assures us the dancing is minimal. God I hope so: MC/ACL reboot + arthritis + motorcycle accident = I move like I'm 80.
       I do not decline. I accept.
       I do not fetch my script over Christmas as instructed, as I can't read music and I'm not sure what good the script will do me. Also, this show is written for 9-13 people and it appears there are over 20 on the cast list plus about ten children. Likely they'll break up the lines, anyway, so no worries.
       The first rehearsal in January I sit in a giant circle of what seems like 100 people, unable to gauge my own age. Am I that old? Is she my age? Am I fatter than she is? She's younger than me, she's younger, he's Jesus, she's Judas...everybody knows everybody, I sit awkwardly in my chair with my script and pretend to be immersed in the music, which is greek to me. I also have started the New Year with a delightful plague like ailment that has stolen my upper singing range and plugged my ears.
       So, in short: First musical rehearsal in 20 years and I cannot read music,sing, nor hear a pitch.
       Everything that sucks about being an actor returns to me in a rush. Every insecurity:  my age, my weight, my voice, my clogged ears, judgment...all the raw and pure joy I felt while watching the couple at auditions has vanished.
        Shit.
_________________________________________________________________________
        I choose to continue on.
        Even though the movie of this show is dumb and it  wishes it was HAIR.
        I embark on the first musical rehearsals. 
        The family from auditions is a family, but not a couple: there is a brother (playing Jesus) and  two sisters (one playing Judas-community theatre). They are company veterans and  they are actual, real musicians. Shit.
        I cannot read music. My clogged head also prevents me from hearing pitches. Which is fine, the Alto 2 isn't in the chord, anyway.
        The New Year's Plague has killed my upper vocal range, so I couldn't sing the harmonies even if I could read or hear them. And they're largely higher than I think, because I'm not always  the Alto 2 and/or Stephen Schwartz is a musical theatre dick who writes everything too high. Why do they do that? It's a soprano part, stop calling them altos. 
         Screw it. I can sing with the tenors. I can hear their notes.  Maybe nobody will notice.
         Kay, turns out Dr. Jim is really good at his job, no more singing with the tenors. 
         I decide to get outside help. I am not getting this. I have listened to the CD and recorded rehearsals, and this is beyond me. I enlist my musically inclined co-worker to pound notes on the piano for me to record (I also do not play the piano), and I contact a high school friend who is a vocal coach to work with me. These two people, combined with the CD in my car, the music playing in my office, me using my off periods to work on  it  and my husband plunking notes on the guitar, get me to a passable point. 
         Passable.
         Vocally, I no longer feel like the weak link. It took a team of highly trained professionals, but I can say I Do Not Suck.
          I'm not Patti or Bernadette, and I still miss notes. Which is fine until they mike me. Tenors....? 
          Choreography is not  "hardly any at all". It's a lot of kneeling and moving fast while singing, and singing while pounding a chair and turning around and I can' t do this.
          Originally the director wanted the two men to lift me during my song, an iron cross lift, that caused me great distress. Thankfully the sheer terror coming off of me was picked up by the director, who killed it. The entire time she was blocking it, I couldn't hear a word she said due to Nathan Lane screeching in my head.
           I think it's my age, or the remnants of the motorcycle concussion, until I start paying attention to other people. Funny how that works. Pull your head out of your ass and you realize you aren't the only one struggling. Ahhhhh.....I breathe a bit.
           And then they miked me.
           Well shit.             

________________________________________________________________________

THINGS I HAVE THOUGHT AT REHEARSAL FOR GODSPELL

"Why is Jesus always a tenor?"

"Why is Jesus always white? And a little guy...."

"My foot hurts, can I go to the nurse?"

"I can' t hear it, is it in the chord?"
"Can I sit down? Can the adults please sit down?"

"Can I be Nathan Lane?"

"I can't do this...what is that note?"
"I can't hear it."

"They said hardly any choreography, kneeling counts as choreography. It counts a lot."
"What happens if I kneel and just never get up again?"

"I am the Weak Link in this show."

"Everybody is judging how old I am."

"I'm a short, fat, insecure thing."

"Why is everybody so damned nice? Are they going to kill me at curtain call?"

"How come no note I sing ever is in the chord?"

"It's not my knees, or my hips, it's the damned arthritis in my feet. Well, that's settled."

____________:_____________________________________________________________

To SUM UP

      This show is stupid and wishes it was HAIR.

        The revival is a pretty astounding re-imagining of what is, essentially, a dumb show. 

       Hippies telling parables. UGH.

       But the changes to the music make the music inspiring and glorious once you get IN. At first blush it was like "Beautiful Balloon" for two hours. UGH. Nobody needs that.

     UGH, kryssi can't read music. 

     UGH it's written for 9-11 people. Community theatre says: 25 people plus 10 random children. UGH UGH

     And kryssi can't read music. 

     And it's hard, it's in 8 parts in places. He gave me the 2nd alto...for that song....2nd soprano for that song...oh     wait, I'm the melody....2nd alto notes aren' t in the chord, they are the resolve. UGH.

    I was sick the first three weeks of rehearsal and so couldn't sing, anyway, so he didn't know I can't  read music until recently. Bonus.

    But  ever since I started rehearsals, I feel lighter. I like listening to the music, I play it to yoga  to in the morning.

   I looked up the Broadway album, the Broadway cast, watched Broadway.now videos....

   I am actually working at something I don't usually do, and I'm making progress.  It feels nice.

   The cast ( all 250 of them) are annoying church going Methodists who say "Good morning" and mean it. 

   They smile at me and say I'm doing great, and they are positive and WHO DOES THAT IN THEATRE?

   UGH.

   I 'm not saying it won't suck  to  WATCH, nobody's required to come. But it doesn't suck to be IN it.

SCENE

Dear AEsbestoES

  Asbestos is not spelled with extra "e's". I am aware.
  However, Aesbestoes is extra evil, and therefore I insist on misspelling it in the name of slander. Slander? Is that right? If it's written? I saw Absence of Malice in my JRNL 101 class one hundred years ago, I cannot remember the proper term. Slander, not libel, probably also defamation of character but don't bother me right now, I'm rolling.

  When I took over the LHS Mane Stage in  2008/2009, I immediately had an anaphylactic episode. I turned bright red, had trouble swallowing and broke out in a terrible rash. Long story short ( TOO LATE) I saw a GP, an Allergist and a Bio Feedback Specialist who all determined I had New And Exciting Allergies at 43 years old. They explained that it happens, sorry,  you'll be fine, take a Benadryl.  It was determined that Kentucky Blue Grass was a biggie ---I came home and told Jim he had to burn all his Texas music because I am allergic--cottonwood, some neat molds and they found...wait for it...AESBESTOES in my blood!

  So I returned to LHS and started asking environmental questions. There were rumors we had asbestos everywhere in the theatre, and clearly that was accurate as it was in my blood after 4 years in the building. I called a lot of people with titles involved with the EPA and the school district, and it was determined that yes, the tiles in my office were, in fact, asbestos. Also the tiles downstairs in the dressing rooms. Also the insulation cabling around every strip light cord.

  This man named Ron from The District with a title and letters, sat me down and told me the story of poor, misunderstood asbestos. (It wasn't evil yet, hence the spelling). See, poor asbestos is only dangerous--IE causes lung cancer--when it's airborne.
   I pointed to my chipped asbestos tiles, slowly disintegrating into the airflow.
   "Well, yes, like that, which is why we wax your floor every summer. To stop the spread."
   I pointed out that they hadn't waxed the floor that summer. (I will now point out my floor hasn't been waxed in six years. Tile is still receding, by the way.)
   I then indicated the chipped tiles downstairs in the dressing rooms. "Maybe you should pretend to wax those, too." I was feeling frisky and I felt like we had a rapport. He got me.
    I showed him the frayed insulation on the strip wires, which puff dust and, apparently, asbestos, into the air every time they are touched. "Should we wax the wires?"
    Ron From The District with a title and letters mumbled and said they would wax my floor, and left. I never saw him again. I heard through an email chain that it was determined that the asbestos in the office and downstairs was not a threat.
 
  In 2014 right after the lights died and were replaced and right before the renovation, somebody tested our theatre house ceiling for aesbestoes (it's evil now) and found it. So the entire theatre was shut down for 24 hours while we waited to hear if we would be open again. This is a SUB-saga of the "Renovation Story", for those of you reading along at home. At this point we'd already been shuttered for melted lights for six months. What they determined then was that YES, we have aesbestoes, meaning it had to be abated by men in space suits. They put a shower on stage---seriously, a shower---so they could rinse off before they left the theatre. Again, I wondered aloud to nobody why they couldn't just wax the ceiling.

  January 2017. I am minding my own business at home when my sink--for the fourth time this year--explodes. This time it has flooded the entire ceiling downstairs and along the wall.  This is Deep Freeze January, so no plumbers are available. I find one I've never heard of, and he cuts open the ceiling and wall to get to the pipes. Now that  is part of the "Kryssi's Plumbing Debacle" story, we are only skirting that story, like Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. The plumber also found a gas leak, which was exciting. I had a candle burning downstairs and asked if I should blow it out. He said "probably". These are tense times, people, very little chatter. There is a second fellow in my house, this one called by the insurance company, whose job it is to blow dry my house and rip out the ceiling.  But First, he must run an aesbestoes test costing $475 out of pocket. It is required by the state of Colorado, but not covered by the insurance company who is in turn requiring the test.

  Pause: About five years ago, when the refrigerator ice -to-water line flooded the ceiling downstairs, we had someone from the insurance company come to our house. He took scrapings from our ceiling to test for aesbestoes. He left. We never heard from him again, and fixed the hole ourselves (Ed Ned, you probs have Mesothelioma. Sorry.)

  And we're back. So The Second Fellow From The Insurance Company's Recommended Blow Dryer Corporation, called us Saturday morning to tell us the  aesbestoes test came back "hot". Our ceiling has aesbestoes.

  So call  the plumber and tell him, call the insurance company and tell them. Second Fellow is almost hysterical in his need to get in and retrieve his blow drying equipment from our lower level. He seems very afraid of aesbestoes and doesn't want his stuff near it. He puts up plastic over the hole in the ceiling and the wall, and then leaves.

  Apparently, we are now waiting for the insurance company to OK the abatement --space suit guys-- and then the plumber can fix the pipes and then we can find a Third Fellow to fix the ceiling and wall that have been ripped out. At which point I again wonder why we can't just wax the ceiling.

  And I don't have a kitchen. If you recall from the beginning of this tale, the original issue was a backed up kitchen sink. So now everything from under the sink is on top of a counter, the dishes that were in the sink are being washed in the bathtub, and Second Fellow's blow dryers are still humming upstairs.

  So. In conclusion, all in all, to sum up: I HATE AESBESTOES and it has extra "e's" because it is extra evil.

  This has been a public service announcement.

What the word "Evacuation" means to me.

   So....eight years ago there was a fire on Green Mountain. Summer time. Clear skies. Molly Burnett had just started her gig on Days of Our Lives and I had the TV on to watch her.
   When I smelled smoke, the girls set out on their bikes to investigate. They rode down to Will and Katie's to see if they wanted to ride up a block or two to investigate. Will and Katie declined. So the girls rode back, and we walked up to open space. We could see the top of the fire from the top of our street. I wondered briefly if we were in danger. I figured someone would tell us. A West Metro Fire truck headed up our street as the smoke thickened. They stopped at the entrance to open space, pondered the fire plug, discovered their truck couldn't make it up the trail in open space...and drove off.
    More smoke. I returned to the TV, where there was now full coverage of the fire in my backyard and Days of Our Lives in a tiny box in screen. As the girls and I sat down to watch, we closed our windows to keep the smoke out and I wondered if the smell was enough to get in the furniture. The news said they'd do a reverse 911 if we were to be evacuated.
   Shall I recap: There is smoke outside my door and I can see the fire from my house. Nobody has called me.
  We leave again to walk the other direction to the east entrance to open space, and see the people who live right on the edge watering down their decks and roofs. I wonder if we should water our house.
   The smoke is too thick to be outside, so we retire to the house and watch the fire on TV. The phone doesn't ring. We drink every juice and soda in the house. We're particularly parched, you know: smoke outside. We decide when Jim gets home at 5---the mountain has been on fire all day and we've heard engines trying every entrance but clearly they've never had to do this before because they have no idea how to get up there--at 5 the girls and I load up the car to go to King Soopers for sodas. When we return ten minutes later, there is a police officer, lights blaring, blocking the entrance to our street.
   The following scene ensued: Kryssi drives up alongside the officer. She shows him her driver's license, assuming the issue is that he's trying to keep out lookie loos.
   "Sorry, ma'am, there's an evacuation. You can't go home."
   "Bullshit. I've been home all day, that's why we had to go get soda, it's a bit smokey up there."
   "Sorry, there's an evacuation."
   "Says who? Nobody called."
   "The neighborhood is on mandatory evacuation."
   "Cool, then why don't you drive to my house and get my husband, cats and dog, who do not know there is a mandatory evacuation because nobody called."
   "Ma'am...."
   "Mandatory, Shmandatory, make him come  down here or let me go up. I can name four other neighbors who have not left.  Get them while you're at it Officer Mandatory."
   At this point the girls have begun to panic and cry.  "Are we leaving daddy? We can't leave daddy!"
   I stare at the officer. "You get me, sir? Go save their father."
   He turns to walk away from me and I try to turn up my street. He wheels back and knocks his fist on my window."
   "Ma'am."
   "Fuck you, I live here."
   We are in a standoff. Which is silly, because I'm in a car, I would win.
   Genoa and Harper are now in full hysterical mode"MOM!!!! We can't leave dad! Just do what he says!" They are clearly hysterical as they are giving me conflicting instructions.
   I look at the girls, eyes soaked with tears, and say "Fine. We'll call daddy from Grammy's house. OK?"
   As I turn around I consider, briefly, that I have a good shot at running over the officer.
   I do not.
   The fire burned 300 acres in August of 2008, and singed the porches of two of my neighbors. Jim never left the house. He was never told to leave: the phone never rang. And no officers ventured into the neighborhood, they just posted themselves at the street entrances to turn people away. If you were home, you didn't know you were under mandatory evacuation.We spent about an hour at my mom's before the evacuation was lifted. This is the evacuation they implemented after the fire had been burning for six hours.

   This Monday there was a fire. November 2016. A Fire big enough to be seen from Denver. Hayden Park, part of Green Mountain, and to our south, had erupted in a brush fire about 4 pm.
   It could be seen from Aurora.
   We had no idea until Jim texted from Aurora as he was driving home, asking if we were on fire.
   Nope, is there a fire? I stick my nose outside, I don't smell anything. We've had a few smaller fires in open space in the last month. Jim and I hiked up to find the burn marks. It's been a little dry lately.

   I yell at Harp "Hey, is there anything on social media about a fire on Green Mountain?"
   She gets on West Metro Fire and Rescue and starts following their twitter. I turn on the news.
   Damn, that's a big fire. 100 acres. But it's a brush fire, so it's burning out once it burns what's in its path. No houses in danger, it's way up there on the mountain.
   A West Metro Fire Truck comes up the street. Pauses at the entrance of open space. Turns back around.
   After the fire in 2008 we know they ran drills up there, we watched them. Clearly they knew they were underprepared. Also, the Army is stomping around up there detonating WWII artillery, and GM Water is up to something, they've cleared a path and schlepped giant water pipes up to the water tank.    Those trucks can get up there.
   Harp announces that they've started evacuations, the map is all wonky. Clearly the fire is on the west side of the mountain, all the houses are on the east side, yet they're evacuating the streets behind us.
   We walk up to the street behind us, because that's who we are.
   On the way we note our neighbors hosing down their roof. They are on the roof in 20 degree weather, hosing it down. They're going to die.We smile and wave.
   The police officer tells us we can't walk into open space. I almost laugh at her. I'm that dumb, Immmma take my family and dog on a nice freezing walk in 20 degree weather straight into a brush fire. She says they're evacuating and we are all on stand by. As we no longer have a landline, I'm not sure how I'm supposed to get this information other than to hike up the hill to the flashing red and blue bubbles and ask the young lady in the safety vest.
   We are now able to smell it. The dog is freaking out.
   Harp starts getting jumpy, reading the tweets out loud every time a street is put on evac.
   I stand and look at her. "We have four cats and a dog and a guinea pig. Really?"
   Jim, beer in hand, walks through our tableau "We're fine. I'm not leaving. It's fine."
   Harp packs a bag and her dog. We are able to stuff a cat into a carrier. As Jim watches her wrestle the agitated ball of fur into the carrier he says "That is more dangerous than staying here."
   So we send Harp, a cat and her dog to my mom's so she can relax and read the West Metro Tweets out loud at my mom's house.
   Jim has begun to gather his guns downstairs. I don't ask.
   We wander outside, there are neighbors in the street.
   "Did you get a call?"
   "Ya, are you leaving?"
   "Well, I'm going to a hockey game, but I think Allison is going to leave."
   "We did not leave the last time, but I think I will send the wife and kids down."
   I look at this neighbor, then to my husband and say "You boys should play together more often."
   My mom texts "We need a cat box...."
   Didn't harp take it?
   But she left the cat box behind.....because she took her bug and pretty much only she and Marty fit in it. There was an entire Commedia performance as we tried to get the  guinea pig cage into her trunk.
   It did not fit.
   So I wrangle another cat into a box, and schlep the feline and the cat box down to mom's. I tell Jim "If they show up to run you off, the guinea pig goes in the shoe box by its cage and you'll have to catch the other two cats."
   He shrugs, stacking ammo on guns.  "I'll let them out. They'll be fine."
   I married a Texan, in case you were wondering.
   On the drive out, a young man, standing astride his patrol car, bubbles blazing, stops me.
   "You headed out?"
   I look at him. The cat has escaped from the box and is now on the dashboard. Does he need an answer, really? I say "No, " and he nods.
   As I trundle down the hill, the cat slides off of the dashboard. Incensed, she begins a low, angry growl from somewhere near the passenger seat. I hear claws, and a minute later she's on top of the litter  box in the back seat. But only after she has opened the back window. I neglected to engage the child locks.
   I get to mom's and text from outside her house "Free range cat. Help."
   The cats decide they are going to huddle together under an end table, facing one another, unmoving.    Harp declares they are having face time.
   Marty doesn't understand why my mom's dog doesn't want to be his friend.
   Harp monitors West Metro as I watch Lost Boys and have a glass of wine.
   About the time Lost Boys is over, Harp declares the evac is lifted.
   Of course it is.
   The fire burned 500 acres. It came nowhere near our house. Jim never left the house. We spent about an hour at my mom's house before the evacuation was lifted. An evacuation they implemented for a fire that was on the opposite side of the mountain from my house.


In 1988 there was either a tropical storm or a hurricane in Houston....

Mostly Funny Summer Postcards

 Sundown, my poor 13 year old black lab, who is mostly deaf and going blind, covered in tumors and walks regardless of possessing no ligaments in his back legs, no longer barks at the door bell. He now barks when nobody is at the door. Or when nobody is walking by. Or when the tone of my computer turning on goes "ding ding DING". Because he thinks that's the doorbell. But he still goes for walks and eats and plays, so the vet says there are no signs that he's ready to go yet. Sigh.

   Steel Magnolias.  Wow this town is small. "Annelle" was a student at Green Mtn while I subbed there 2002-2004. The set designer went to CU Denver with me. "M'Lynn's" husband is friends with the guy who has been hired to replace me at LHS. "M'lynn" studied with people who studied with Quintero.

PAA this summer, I have posted the fun NUT moments, but I still find myself giggling when I can see one of the squirrels smiling at me as he pretended to eat his styrofoam nut. I said "What are you doing? You cannot eat your nut." He said "She told me there was chocolate inside." To which I had to respond "No, dear, there is no chocolate inside your nut." The same kid got a chunk of nut in his eye and and to have his mom remove it.

The cultural switch from Highlands Ranch to Littleton High School was more than the team anticipated. Except me, I knew, those are going to my kids in 7 years. Ok, I will admit to being a little surprised at the difference. I didn't realize that Broadway north of C470 was a different planet than the south side.  There was a huge learning curve, but a few funny/sad/funny moments did ensue.

* "Kevin" (all names have been changed to protect the goofy) was a shaggy, clearly intelligent little guy who took his time getting anywhere: to class, getting dressed, on stage, etc. He would take his time walking to class, sort of meandering along the hall. He knew the words and choreography but didn't always do them, he'd roll around. Once during notes I said "OK, Criss Cross Applesauce" which meant to Keven that he sat down, crossed his legs, and then rolled backwards, leaving his legs crossed. I said "Kevin?" and he said "Yes?" so I kept going, he was listening.
   Sometimes he would exit, sometimes he would not. I told the cast that if they miss an entrance, they are NOT to run on stage late. Also worry about yourself, not anybody else. Just let it go. At the next rehearsal, Kevin decided that before the finale was over, he was going to dive into the wing and hide behind the bushes. Three other kids decided they needed to drag him back out again, completely disrupting everything on stage. So at notes I revised our "worry about yourself" policy to "Kevin is a safety hazard, you have to worry about where he is, BUT do not move him or drag him or anything, leave him alone but don't trip over him."
      At our dress rehearsal, Kevin took off his costume half way through the song, and the other baby dinos appropriately ignored him. He then laid down on the stage. He was supposed to exit with his "mom" dino, but somehow she missed him, probably interpreting my "don't grab him" rant to include doing her job and herding him off.  Realizing he had the whole stage to himself, he chose to commando crawl on his elbows to the wing. Slowly. With feeling. The music is on CD, so the scene change happens and the next song begins, with or without Kevin cleared from the stage. What was epic was that I could see his internal story on his face. He was definitely in a play, just not this one. And he was not a dinosaur. And it was hilarious and glorious, but I couldn't let anyone know that. So we had to revisit "If Kevin doesn't exit, keep going". I said "Kevin, do you understand you were supposed to exit with the moms?"
    "Yes."
    "Why didn't you?"
     Shrug.
      "Tonight is the show. Will you do it tonight?"
     "Yes, my grandpa is coming. I don't want to do it wrong with my grandpa here."
      Which he did, but not before taking his costume pants home and leaving them there. Because he had been told to put them in his costume bag, and he forgot. He also had no idea where he had left them at home. But he made his entrances and exits on time!

     * "Chuckie", who did resemble the Rugrat in that he wore thick black glasses with one lens sort of fogged up, didn't talk much, but he was easily distracted. When we first did costumes, I took just the second graders, by themselves,  to show them how to change into and out of trees and dinos. The boys all weirdly crammed into the boys bathroom, the girls were fine in the art room. Five minutes later, most of them had returned. After ten minutes, I sent another student in to find Chuckie.
The fetching student returned, a weird smile on his face that I did not want an explanation for . "He's coming" he giggled. Oh Joy. A few minutes later Chuckie emerges, his dance shoes are untied and have clearly been put on before his costume pants, as the pant legs are (they are leggings) stretched over his shoes. They are also inside out.  "Chuckie, you're killing me. What took so long?"
       " I can't tie my shoes."
        "That's OK, buddy, just come out here and I'll do it."
        I  later pieced together that he had taken so long because he had tried to take his regular pants off before removing his shoes. Apparently he cannot untie them, either.
         That night at costume call, one of the girls brings me leggings that have "Chuckie" clearly written in the band. She says "These aren't mine, I can't find mine, these were in my bag. " So I say "Go back to the girls dressing room and I'll figure it out." I wander the boys room, the girls room, the bathrooms, backstage and even ON stage saying "Chuckie? Chuckie?" while holding his pants out, fully expecting him to come running in his boxers. I finally locate him, in the wing, silently staring at me but not answering. He is wearing a pair of costume pants. I shake my head, return to the girl, hand her Chuckie's pants and say "These are yours now. Cool?"
          * Banana Face. We'll call her Banana Face, we discovered during costume training that she does not and will not wear a second layer, and does not and will not care which room she disrobes in. She undressed the first day and stood in her unders asking loudly if there were any boys around who could see her? At performance we had to force her to change in the girls dressing room instead of backstage in front of everybody. She's seven.  Standing next to the music director, waiting for her to put her shirt on so we can walk to the girls', which is taking her much too long and she's pivoting every which way to ensure she can be seen from any angle,  I leaned over to him and whispered "Get her a pole".
         He had to leave the room.

         CUTENESS . There were 14 second graders (remember we started with 58 kids in this show) who were all Dino babies. They had a great costume piece made by props (shout out MEL), which was a headband with the "cracked" egg top, and a bib that fit over the front of their body. When they bent down, they were hiding behind an "egg", and then they would pop up and be hatched. UBER CUTE. But useless with 14 seven year olds who cannot sit still, or hold the bib steady, or manage to not try and see around the egg to watch the show, or "hatch" early to watch, or scratch an itch, or poke their neighbor,or take off the egg or or or or or.But the parents did not seem to care that the babies were ruining the show. The chorus of "awwwe" when they hatched told me we were fine.

      CULTURAL. So we are holding 54 7-11 year olds in the art room, in full costume, awaiting places. It is taking a while, for some reason, so to keep them quiet we recommend story time. The kid who is the STUMP has filled this role before and proven that he can retell Star Wars and Jurassic park with great success. After he finishes Jurassic  Park,  we still have time, so one of the Hispanic girls raises her hand. She's usually really quiet but always participates, so sure! Tell us a story. She says "This is a story from Guatemala, a horror story." I stop and ask the kids if they're OK with a horror story. SURE. They think it's great. Ok, continue.  The young lady tells a tale of "The Weeping Woman", who has murdered her children, and killed herself, and can be heard in the swamp in Guatemala to this day. She tells in in the cultural tradition, so there is no indicating that this is fiction anywhere in her tone or demeanor. One of the tinniest little blonde girls looks up at me with tears in her eyes and says "I'm scared. Is that real?" I said "It's story time, it's a story." The Storyteller begs to differ, as it's a legend passed down through generations in Guatemala. It's real, she says. Her abuela told her.
      Two more girls start to freak out. I shoot the storyteller a look-not mean, just to let her know we need calm- and she nods sits down quietly. She's a great kid and I smile at her. This is not her fault.
      I stop everything, and get silence. "Dudes, this is a cultural misunderstanding. In many cultures, they tell these stories through generations, they are legends. They are stories, folklore, passed down from grandparents. They are not the nightly news. I'm sorry if you weren't aware of this tradition, but now you are. So chill. " All the Mexican kids heads' are nodding hard, affirming that they all know such stories and want their turn, but I shake my head no.  A few of the older girls stepped in and sat next to the scared little white kids to calm them down.
       That I did not see coming.
     
     And the FINAL GREAT STORY OF PAA AT LHS. On the last day we play games. I was the boss of Ghost in the Graveyard, pretty much a tag game. TAG. Meaning you get TAGGED by the ghost and you are running away from the ghost. I had Kevin's group, explained the rules, go! Kevin got tagged. Kevin burst into tears. We start another game while I assess any injuries, as is my job. Kevin manages between sobs to tell me " He tagged me, he touched me, it was mean! HE PUSHED ME."
      "Kevin, he didn't push you, dude. I was right there. He tagged you. Do you understand "tag"?
      He violently shakes his head no. "Do you have any plastic bags?"
      "Are you hurt? Do you need an ice pack?"
      "No, I'm hysterical. I need to breathe into a bag."
       I stifle a laugh. "Not in a plastic bag, dear. You want paper but we don't have any. Just breathe with me."
       Kevin then looks at the paper towel dispenser, pulls out three towels,  folds them into a "bag" and begins breathing into it.
       He's 7.
        I can't.....

Steel Magnolias. Wigs are in, a few photos done and first off book rehearsal lived through. The set is going up really fast, my costume pieces are hilarious and I cannot believe how much fun it is to not be in charge. 

Sundown the Aging Black Lab mostly lies here and pants. He has little patience for Marty, who persistently demands attention from me only when I'm petting Sundown. Sometimes Marty has these spaz attacks and he runs circles around the back yard, turning sharp corners at an unreasonably high speed. Sundown will watch for about two laps, attempt to catch him for a lap, and then resolve himself to just sitting in the middle, barking at Marty while he runs circles around him. If Marty gets sideways with one of the cats, Sundown will randomly side with the cat and woof at Marty. I am not sure if this is senility or if he really does not like Marty. My summer with dogs and cats and children.

Scene.