Molly and Tahoe

I do my best to connect current students with working actors and techies, internships and alumni. All kinds of alumni, from actors to recent college grads to massage therapists. If you were a theatre kid and you wanna come teach a thing or tell stories, you are welcomed back with open arms.

Today I booked two alum who graduated together in 2006 and haven't seen one another in ten years. I thought a nice reunion would be a different spin, and I've never booked two on the same day. Also Tahoe, who is IT for the Denver Broncos, was appearing live while Molly was skyping in from LA. At first I thought it was a great idea, and then this morning I thought it was a terrible idea, and then Tahoe walked in the door of 146 and I knew it was a good idea. As soon as I saw him I hugged him so hard I don't think he could breathe.I kept telling him how grown up he looked, and he just kept saying "I know, right?" He has a successful career, marriage and two beautiful children and was willing to share his stories. When he saw Molly again I could see it all come flooding back with them as well, and it was difficult for the two of them to focus on talking to the class instead of reminiscing with one another. Though that did happen, and it was lovely.

The first thing I noticed, after the Bronco zipper jacket, was the ridiculous bling on his finger. How out of character for Tahoe, a quiet and generally mild mannered kid, to be wearing something that looks like it belongs to the "Liberace House of Crap", to borrow a phrase from Friends.

I looked closer.

Holy "House of Crap", it's a Super Bowl ring. OF COURSE! He has a Super Bowl ring. He works for the Broncos, without him all the cool IT stuff is just...door stops. I have never been so close to anything nearly this cool, and it's difficult to not paw at it like a raccoon at a hot dog.

Tahoe's stories are Tahoe's, as are Molly's, so I will not share them here except to say that Tahoe met Slash and Beyonce, which to my students was cooler than the Super Bowl ring, and Molly knows more than she's willing to share but you don't mind, because her huge smile and light giggle are beautiful. The faces she made when Tahoe asked about how the "Weinstein thing" has changed the conversation in Hollywood communicated "We probably shouldn't talk about this in a high school" minutes before she said it. 

They shared and  balanced and surprised us with an intimate story or two. I was just sitting there, enjoying their voices and faces and feeling Theaco listen and react, and then Tahoe had to leave. I guess he has a job or something, maybe that ring is like a leash. Molly remained on Skype and the conversation deteriorated- as conversations are wont to do with teenagers when they exceed an hour- to one of my students naming "hot actors" in an effort to learn how many of them Molly actually knows. I knew none of the names that were thrown out, but apparently Molly has worked with or met all of them so...bonus.

One of my kids was quite taken with Tahoe's journey, and is inspired that he is happy without a college degree, but with so much life experience. One of the kids was astounded at how much Molly works, and they all have  a clearer understanding of how much work is involved in doing anything successfully. Molly and Tahoe both emphasized the importance of doing what you love and surrounding yourself with people who both love you and push you. Molly gave me a little  thumbs up on that last part, giving validation to my directing and teaching philosophy. I mention it because it meant a great deal to me to have successful, functioning human beings thank me for being hard on them. You're welcome. I love you, too.

"Carlton", mentioned in a previous blog,  sat through the entire 80 minutes like he was suffering from shpilkes, his leg shaking constantly. When Molly started to wrap up, he suddenly thrust his hand into the air to ask a question. As I've said previously,his Theaco has truly rallied around him, and they all made sure Molly acknowledged his question, as he was seated out of camera shot (of course he was). He wouldn't speak up, however, so we made him stand in front of the camera so she could see who she was talking to. He looked directly into the camera and said "What is the best processed noodle product flavor for the end of the month?" We all withheld our laughter so Molly could be heard, but inside we were dying. I've said it before: Asperger's kids are the living embodiment of Absurdism.

Molly had fielded questions about college, agents, managers, sexual harassment, being a working actor, her dog and high school. She treated this question just like the others. She smiled, measured her options, and finally answered "Chicken, but chicken flavor, not with the chunks."

Carlton pumped the sky with his fist and smiled, and Theaco applauded as only people who know how to appreciate such weirdness can applaud. Molly giggled and asked "Was that the right answer?"

"It made Carlton happy, that's all we care about," I answered. She giggled again and seemed pleased she got it right.

Since we were winding down, anyway, another member of Theaco piped up: " Molly, according to your Wikipedia, you work a lot with Disney. Do they hire a lot of young actors?"

Again, Theaco erupted in laughter and applause. They appreciated that someone was owning what they were all doing, which was looking up/following Molly on various social media sites while talking to her on Skype. Kids today...

Even I learned a few things about my alumni:
Neither of these kids has a college degree.
They are both truly happy with their life choices.

Scene.

Letting Go

It seems so simple. I mean, little girls can belt it regularly and you can tell they mean it. They are ready to LET IT GO! They sing with wild abandon, sometimes wearing a green dress, sometimes sitting on their sister, sometimes into a hairbrush. Let It Go.

The Serenity Prayer asks for the serenity to accept the things we cannot change, to change the things we can and the wisdom to know the difference. "Change", in my life, means "control" and I really can't tell the difference.

See the thing is, I'm right. I'm  100 % of the time categorically and inarguably right.

Always.

It's a burden.

It's a gift.

It sucks.

It causes major anxiety, as I worry and pace because I know someone is making a stupid choice and they aren't listening to me and if they would only just listen and let me run their life it'd be so much better. Learn from my mistakes, I'm begging you! Please stop making your own.

This was only irksome in my twenties. At 52, and as a parent, it is positively debilitating. And my children, being my children with mini invisible mohawks but every ounce of that attitude, refuse to listen to me ever ever ever because they think I just have anxiety and that I am wrong, even though they have evidence to the contrary. Every time something went wrong, I knew it was going to go wrong and I gave them a heads up to avoid what I see and they chose, instead, to tell me to let it go!

Aaannnnnnd....I was right. Every. Freaking. Time.

And this time, this time I really have to walk away. Let it go.

It hath made me mad. Mad, I tell you. I cannot sleep, I cannot eat, and I now understand why people say they "throw themselves into work to avoid their personal life." Well, I threw myself into my personal life to avoid the trauma of my work, only to discover that I have no idea who I am or what I want, and my children are stubborn, and I overlooked my personal life for years to throw myself into my work, which no longer exists so...

My definition of "support"  has apparently been tied to control. I had a principal (four principals ago....three principals ago...?) flat out laugh and tell me I was a control freak. She was addressing my approaches to teaching, and I was pointing out how student led my department is. And while she acquiesced to the later, she still claimed that I was a control freak, and I needed to let things go. I mistakenly thought she was talking about my teaching methods, but clearly she was calling me on something much bigger that I did not see at the time.

And so, as the universe is wont to do when you refuse to let go, it will do it for you. And it won't be pretty, it won't be subtle, it will be wrenching. I  first experienced this when I started teaching. I was holding on to a dead end but well paid job waiting tables, being a stay at home mom and generally doing nothing about a career. It was a routine and the money was good. Then, suddenly, and without warning...I was fired.

Well, shit.

Jim and I turned to one another and started quoting Dory in Finding Nemo.
   "Let go!"
   "How do you know it's going to be all right?"
   "I don't!"

So we did, and I embarked on a teaching career, that I thought would be my final career. Letting go was scary as hell, we worried about money, about how I could possibly work full time with the girls in first and third grade, but once we let go it just happened. The job at Littleton literally fell into my lap, and there you have it.

For the first few years the struggle was awful, but I loved teaching and building the department,and magically babysitters and rides just appeared to help manage the girls' schedules. I cried a lot, I screamed a lot, but I wanted to run the department, so I persevered.

I cite the first two years as hell and the next five as almost heaven.

I had complete control of the classes, IB Theatre, the shows, training actors and techies, training designers, hiring alumni to help with tech, everything. Then the administration changed, and the renovation ripped Maris apart from stem to stern and everything that was under my control...was no longer. Just like that.

Well, shit.

Fourteen years after letting go of what was and embracing the moment, I have been stripped of directing at the school, my stage is dead and my department as a whole is on the ropes. I've tried for a year and a half to hold it together with little success, manically waving my arms in an attempt to regain control. In the meantime, my beautiful and talented 21 and 20 year old children are embarking on their own lives, making their own difficult and beautiful and difficult life choices. And I look at them and become anxious and controlling and they need support, not control and it turns out...I have no idea what "support" means. I am looking to them, because I have lost control of my theatre and anything that was a career. It was taken from me, because I needed to let go (apparently, I'm still unclear in this area), and did not. So it was taken. And without directing and designing and building and producing and shopping and all of those things that go with running the department, I'm assigning four page essays to LA9 Honors freshmen that I then have to grade, and back to freaking out because my children will not let me run their lives.

But dammit, I know what's best.

This is why I am not, nor will I ever be, an adult.

I think adults have the serenity to accept the things they cannot control, to control the things they can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

In short, an adult knows how to Let It Go.

These are my thoughts,
respectfully submitted
K.Martin
Physically 52 years old but clearly not an adult.

Not My Finest Moment

Not My Finest Moment Post:
First, I have 65 LA 9 Honors Lit students. I am a theatre teacher.
Second, I have to smash my Acting 1 and Acting 2 into ONE period, two completely different syllabi...syllabuses.
Third, I work directing jobs outside because I am not allowed to direct inside.

I have 65 Of Mice and Men outlines and intro paragraphs to grade, as well as 3 plays by student playwrights and 12 Director's Notebooks, in addition to regular planning and IB deadlines. NOT complaining, Explaining.

An LA9H kid, who has done NOTHING so far for this essay, butted in line whilst I was sitting with other students---who were patiently waiting their turn--to go over their intro paragraphs. He then interrupted the student I was talking to ABOUT HER ESSAY, to demand if I read poetry. When I did not answer- because they know I do not answer if you have not waited your turn-he began to pace. (YES, there is an IEP involved but this is HONORS, people) When I did not give him the attention he wanted, he butted in again and said "I'm sending you my poetry, when can you read it?"

I stopped. I apologized to the delightful and patient young lady with whom I was working- on her assigned essay. I looked at the student who had interrupted.

And, before I could stop myself, I said "UGH".

Is it Thanksgiving yet?

The Millionth Colorado Native To Bitch About Traffic

 
      Jim and I tried to drive up to  see the colors change last weekend,but ended up having to come back early after stopping at the Conoco outside of Conifer where Every Old Person  Ever had to use the one functioning bathroom, so I  kept letting them go ahead of me. After ten minutes Harper was done--it's a delicate thing with Harper and timing---so we came back down and went to the pub. It was fine.
      So this weekend, we headed up without Harper---who is almost 20 years old,by the way--and  spent the day driving up to Guanella via 285 and back down I70. We got stuck in traffic on 285, twice. No deer in the road, no car accident, nothing. Just stopped. Because there were too many damned people on the road.
      I remember going up to see the leaves change as recently as five years ago, with little traffic until I 70. Which , frankly, has always been a shit show, even before The World decided they needed to live here.
      First, we, from Colorado, do not call it "Leaf Peeping". That sounds naughty. The first time I heard this term was from my Canadian friend. Then another friend from Vermont, or Connecticut, or some damned east place, also said it. We never had a cute little phrase, guys. When I was a kid "the leaves are changing colors" is what we said. "Let's go see the leaves change", or "Go see the colors", and we knew what that meant, and it sounded like what it was: watching nature change seasons.
       "Leaf Peeping", however, seems to have a naughty connotation, like we are spying on the leaves whilst they are showering. Ewwww.
       Last week on the morning news,  Ernie Bjorkman said "leaf peeping" and I lost my shit. That is not what we call it here, Erns, and you know that. Stop cowing to the foreigners who came here who think it needs a title. Honestly, if you're from a state that calls it "Leaf Peeping", I don't understand why you moved here. Your state it plenty pretty, I assure you, and is likely maintaining its beauty better than CO because not everybody needed to move where the pot was legal.
        Colorado is not the only state, guys, you can go to Washington which is also beautiful. Go muck up their air quality, drive up their property values and spray paint in their national forests and leave us  alone. We won't miss you because we don't need you. Shoo.
         So we come up the back way through Morrison, and then pick up 285 at Conifer. There are few cars along the way, once you get past the Puddle Park that is Morrison, and then through the Street Clog in Evergreen. It was nice, I felt like nobody knew about this road as we drove and enjoyed the fall air and view. Then we turned on to 285 at Conifer and were immediately in a traffic jam. Both confused and trying not to be grumpy, we hoped that a herd of deer had decided to cross the road, and that's why everyone was stopped. Remember Back in the Day, when you'd go to RMNP and everyone was stopped and pulled over because a herd of Elk had decided to stand in the road? And you happily pulled over, or stopped, depending on the width of the road, and got out and stretched your legs and smiled at your travelmates who were also stretching their legs and watching the Elk with a bemused  smile that said "God I Love This State", or they had their camera out, kids on their shoulders so they could see.
          Nope. It was a traffic jam due to traffic. That's all. Too many people on the road.
          The next jam was right outside of Bailey, just past the Old People's Conoco. Again, we sat, not moving on the two lane road, right past Coney Island, wondering what could possibly be holding everything up? Moose?  Deer? Elk? A UFO?
          Nope. Traffic for traffic.
          Made worse, of course, by a hundred cars pulling over to take photos but not pulling into a pull out, just stopping at the pavement edge. You're wrong, that's not how you do this. Find a pullout. Can't find a pull out? Then move back to where you came from. Before you moved here there were plenty of pullouts for all of us. Even the switchbacks on the back side of Bierstadt, before Georgetown, had cars just pulled over! ANOTHER SMALL JAM was caused because the descending cars and the ascending cars did not have enough room to pass one another, we had to pass one at a time because both sides of the hair pin turn were blocked with FUCKING CARS WHO JUST STOPPED and the people from the cars trying to dart across the road ("If you can dodge a car, you can dodge a ball.") to get their photos of the Aspen grove.
           The mountains used to be where you could go to lose yourself, to breathe and drive and have a sandwich. It's now a cluttered, clustered mess where you cannot lose yourself because you have to pay attention to other drivers, and you cannot breathe because you may hit some human being trying to waddle across the switchback, assuming that you will see them and stop.
          And pee before you leave and drink no fluids, the bathrooms are jacked.

Postcard to Houston

I lived on Planet Houston from 1987-1991 and attended the University of Houston. This is a moment from a much longer, rambling blog and is a melted crayon love letter to Houston. 

...

I had a friend keep me out of jail. I was in danger of going to jail because I went to South Padre instead of court. That is a story unto itself. I crashed on couches, lived in a warehouse, I lived with a grad student and her daughter as well as on the bay with Aunt Polly--this all after we sold our house and Jim returned to Denver. I stayed to work with Edward Albee and Jose Quintero. I learned mime from Claude Caux and acting from Ruddy Cravens, costumes with Claremarie Verhayen and my fellow writers, actors and directors at UH taught me daily. I feel such gushy love for that place and those people. I remember Amy's confidence, and Beth's talent, Curtis' laugh,and Peter's stoic realism. I remember Tracy, who wanted to be a teacher which I thought that was noble but stupid. She was so talented, why would she want to waste it on teaching?I remember Paul's wise and infuriatingly logical approach to everything and Chris' irrepressible enthusiasm. Albee's gravely judgment and Quintero's soft love. I watch every tropical storm and hurricane  and marvel at how much water that place can take on and keep going. As I watched Harvey do a sit and spin over Houston, I just kept shaking my head, thinking "Don't piss off Texas". There is  a photo of a woman in her neighborhood, knee deep in water holding a rifle. 

       I smiled. You pissed off Texas, didn't you, Harvey?

       The hurricane spun and when Houston realized it wasn't going to let up,  they lived the joke they're heard about red necks for years. Harvey challenged them, and Houston said "Hold my beer", and proceeded to combat the anger and fury the only way they knew how: with love. They gassed up their boats, opened their furniture stores to those who fled, sent their furniture trucks to those who couldn't get to the store, saved neighborhood animals and huddled with them in their attic, paid their employees even though they couldn't get to work--the stories are in the hundreds, and they aren't going to stop.

         When Katrina wiped out New Orleans, Houston took in the refugees.

         When Harvey hit Houston, Houston helped themselves. 

          When Jim and I arrived, newly burgled, having lost everything to ass hat thieves in Arlington, Houston took us in, patted us on the heads and said  "You're home now, you just sit on down. Hold my beer. Lemme get you some supper, have a drink, y'all. It's gonna be fine."

          I love that city and I love that state. 

    ....

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.