Simms and 6th

        So, the girls wanted to go to the Butterfly Pavilion today. Sometimes that's the day we have, they wish to revisit places they haunted when they were smaller. In addition to the Pavilion there is the Museum of Nature and Science, The Aquarium and Stinky Beach (whose Christian name is Bear Creek Lake Park). After the Pavilion it was off to Bonnie Brae for lunch. Genoa will ask by saying "What is the place you guys went to when you decided my name?" She knows it's Bonnie Brae, but it's more fun to invoke the connection to her arrival on the planet.
      On the way home, we were at the onramp at Simms and 6th Ave. There was a young man on the left hand side, a lane over from where we were. To me he looked 17, his eyes were wild and he was dressed like he was going to a job interview. His face was distraught, and as we passed I realized he was crying. There was desperation coming off of the poor boy in waves. The flow of traffic prohibited me from slowing, and I was too far over to have done anything, anyway. But all three of us fell silent, and Genoa popped up from the backseat and said "Oh, Honey. If I had my car I would stop and take him to Denny's and buy him food and ask him to talk to me."
     We continued home, in silence, Genoa's eyes wild. When we pulled into the driveway, I turned to her and said "Here's $20.00. I know you want to go back. Don't let him in the car, you don't know the situation is and you really can't trust anybody. But if he'll walk across the street you can meet him at Denny's. Call me when you get there."
     She jumped into her car and took off.
     She texted and called me, also called her sister, and when she got home I got the full story.
     She had to circle three times to talk to him, people kept honking and he wouldn't go to Denny's because someone was picking him up in a few minutes.
     He is 19 years old, just got out of culinary school. His parents threw him out when they found out he got a girl pregnant. He has a one and half year old son. His girlfriend left him recently, and he's out of money. He has a job that starts in 3 weeks. A friend of his girlfriend is watching the baby so he can stand on the corner, something he just started within the last day or two , and on the weekend he applies for jobs. The friend is also helping him keep the apartment as well as acting as nanny. He cried the whole time she talked to him, insisting that he's not a bad person. He was hanging on until about a week ago and he just has to make it three weeks until the job starts.
     Genoa is one of two people who stopped, and the other one gave him change from his cupholder. He had several people yell names at him, and one actually threw something at him and called him a loser. He thanked Genoa profusely for the $20 and she said she'd go get him some groceries and bring them back, but he said his friend was returning soon.
    He insisted on hugging her, causing the guy behind her to honk and flip her off because the light had turned green.
    How's that for a sad and profound snapshot of our society?

      ...and make no mistake, I'm crazy proud. She comes by this behavior honestly.
     

Awards and Cyndi Lauper

 If I had a Fashion Blog...

Eric, Me and Jim at the Bobby G awards. I would like to point out that my pants, while made to be uber-large elephant pants, are falling off of my body because I lost 13 pounds. Which makes them just look like a sad puddle instead of a hip stylin' kind of arrangement. The top I purchased that day at Charlotte Russe for $10.00, the sparkle jacket is ten years old from a consignment shop.The scarf, from the set of Legally Blonde, one we bought for the department store, and the leather bag from Italy, given to Genoa by her grandparents. You cannot see the rockin' orange 1970's wedges, which is a damned shame, because they are awesome. Jim intentionally wore this western cut shirt because he thinks he's funny. Eric is clearly the fashionable one of the three, he looks like he's the host of some sort of Makeover Show and we are the sad sacks he talked off of the fashion/house/restaurant ledge.

 If I had a teacher blog...

This is me and my student as he accepts his Special Achievement Award at the Bobby G's  (The "Tony Awards for High School Musicals")at the DCPA. His commitment to taking care of both dogs on Legally Blonde was impressive, particularly cosidering the wealth of talent he possesses. He easily could have simply not auditioned and walked away. But no, his college auditions interfered with the final show, but not enough to keep him completely away. His application for a job he was ultimately creating for himself was an 8X10 of a chihuahua, handed to me wordlessly.

 

 

 However I do not have a fashion blog, or a teacher blog,

I have a hot Melted Crayon Mess Blog of past lives crashing in on this life and severe moments of self doubt and a desire to explain Who I Was because I misguidedly believe it explains Who I Am, but it doesn't because Who I Am changes moment to moment depending on the needs of those around me or my audience.

     I can hear voices from my senior year of high school.

     My mom, showing family and friends photos from People Magazine (my mom bought a People every week at the grocery store. I was raised on it and Reader's Digest)  of Cyndi Lauper and exclaiming "If you didn't know any better, you'd think that was kryssi, wouldn't you?" At the time I did not wish to resemble anyone, because I Was An Individual, so I Poo Poo'd it and snorted loudly, but now, when I look back at the photo I'm like...daaayyuummm, I looked like Cyndi Lauper.

    One of my teachers, whose name and subject taught I have unforgivably forgotten, going around the room and asking the seniors that Age Old Question: What Are You Going To Do With Your Life?

    I had no freaking idea. My theatre teacher had scared me out of trying to go to  New York, so I figured I'd maybe be a language arts teacher? A strange look crossed my teacher's face, and she surveyed the room, as if looking for support of her next statement. "Really?" she said, sounding both surprised and disappointed. "I thought for sure you'd be the next Cyndi Lauper, or Bette Midler." I remember being shocked that she would say that because, whatever class it was, I was not successful in it at all. So why would she think I'd do anything successful? I also do not recall ever speaking or participating in that class, I didn't know she was aware of my existence. And lastly, she was old, how did she know who Cyndi Lauper was?

 

   And then there's the voice of Mr. S ____, my math teacher, who flat out said "What are you, stupid?" 

    It turns out I'm not stupid, but I am dyslexic. I didn't find that out until college. Certainly that's information I could have used earlier in my life.

    While that seems like a non-sequitor to you, it makes perfect sense to me. On the heels of every "You could be somebody" statement is another voice telling me I'm stupid.

------

      So, Awards are what is dragging this up. The Bobby G's, then the Tony's. I really hate awards, I watch the Tony's to see the performances. Which, may I say, the last two years have been Lame Sauce, what is with all the freaking revivals? And seriously, Phantom has been around for 25 years and they've changed nothing? I texted my sister to see if she was watching and she replied "Blah blah blah gay boys. Blah blah blah statue. Blah blah dance dance. Blah blah talk talk." Which was fabulous, so I replied "Blah blah blah seen it blah blah oh lame intro concept blah blah thank you Edward Albee blah blah blah seen it." Which sums up the evening nicely.

 

    Anyway, in spite of myself I find myself occasionally rooting for someone to win, and this year it was Harvey Fierstein and Cyndi Lauper and Kinky Boots. Not just because Annaleigh Ashford (who is in Kinky Boots) is from Colorado, but because I happen to love Harvey and was just thrilled to see Cyndi. The last time I saw her she was doing "Elmocize" on Sesame Street. She's always been my secret sister. She has no idea of course, that's the "secret" part.

     Theatre is a beast, a living, breathing beast. No two audiences see the same show. No two shows are "alike"---although I'm not the only one who watched Matilda perform last night and thought it was actually Spring Awakening Junior: The Middle School Version.

     You cannot put a powerhouse classic like Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf  in the same category as A Trip to Bountiful. They are completely different shows! Which is why I hate awards. Too subjective. Look at the musical category! Matilda and Kinky Boots in the same category? How is that possible?

      Well, the Bobby G's did it, they follow the Tony format. They put Legally Blonde in the same category as Les Miserables. Just because a show is a musical doesn't mean they are all the same, any more than straight shows are all the same. And I know there are those who protest to phrasing plays as "straight" shows, because that suggests that musicals are gay,but I say own it, musicals are gay.

      So then I start to ponder the purpose of the awards. The Tony's are clearly about the community, it's the one night everybody gets to see everybody else 'cause they're all working. Which is AWESOME. The acceptances are very different than any other awards, they are clearly grateful but also know it's subjective, and everyone graciously ackowledges everyone else in the category as a peer, not competition.    

      That is not something I experienced at the Bobby G's The Tony Awards For High School Musicals, unfortunately. There were a few kids from other schools  who were a bit snarky to our kids. Which was disappointing, but only reinforced my feeling that we were out of place at the ball, just like Cinderella, and everyone knew it. One of the other kids openly mocked Legally Blonde suggesting it wasn't even a real musical. (The joke is on this kid, I know their director and they're doing Legally Blonde next year.)

      My kids were so excited to see the other performances, and so willing to talk to everyone else there and be Theatre Geeks together, and they were sooooo sad when someone threw them a dirty look or snarky comment. If the Bobby G's wants to be more like the Tony's, then they'll have to not invite snarky teenagers to attend. HA. That's funny. 'cause it's an award for high school musicals...heh heh.

      So, in conclusion, all in all, to sum up: kryssi's name is spelled like Cyndi's, they share a hair history, Awards Are Stupid and the Bobby G's are not at all like the Tony's.
         Thank you.

Ten Nominations and a Funeral

  2017
   So, my weekend in a nutshell is in the title line.
     LHS' Legally Blonde was in fact nominated for ten Bobby G Awards.
     We went home with two.
     There is little I can say that won't sound like sour grapes. The whole thing was well produced, the kids had fabulous time and high school theatre represented.
      HOWEVER, as a high school awards event, I have to say that IF you hired a pro to do your design or choreography, you should not allow that pro---who is a trained adult---to accept the award.    
      First, the pro should not have been nominated unless everyone else in the category was also an adult. Nominating a kid's light design alongside a professional's is just ludicrous. There's that.
      BUT, since that is being allowed to happen, I would say secondly that said adult should not schlep up onto the stage and accept the award. I am hopeful that the adult designer had a student designer, student assistant, Student Something whom they taught as they went, and said student oversaw the set build or light hang and focus. And that is who should be on stage accepting an award with their name on it. The student.
      That is all I have to say about that.

       This weekend in Denver there was a chalk festival, Comic Con and the People's Fair. I taught on Saturday after dosing Genoa who was battling a nasty influenza, and we went to a funeral in Colorado Springs on Sunday. I attended none of the listed events in Denver.
       My dad and my Uncle Bob came to the funeral together. It occurred to me, as I watched them walk into the massive church, that they have quite a bromance going on in their elder years.
       Dad and Bob have always been friends. Back when Bob and Virginia had the restaurant my dad was there pretty regularly, and he and Bob seem to attend family functions together.
      First, I should remind you (if you're new) who Uncle Bob is.
      Bob Jaramillo, married to my dad's sister Virginia, is Mexican. He is The Mexican I grew up with. His wedding is one of family lore that (allegedly) an alzheimer's addled Aunt stood up in the middle of and said loudly "Who let in all these Mexicans?" He used to threaten to cut off my ears and make tacos out of them and grab knives out of the silverware drawer and say "Mexican Credit Cards". He regularly referred to other Mexicans as "Beaners" and I got myself into much trouble on more than one occasion because I had been raised around him and I thought it was perfectly okay to call Mexicans "Beaners" and white people "Honkey".
       That's Uncle Bob.
       Unlike most people who soften with age, the opposite has happened with Bob, and if given the opportunity he will gleefully add the role of "Dirty Old Man" to his repertoire, and once scared the crap out of a colleague of mine when he realized she was Mexican, and a teacher. This was during intermission of one of the shows, and he asked me "Who's that honey?" I explained that she's a teacher with a master's degree, not a "honey", but before I finished he was hopping down the hallway trying to track her down. I heard later that he did frighten her at first, but she perservered and returned for the remainder of the show unscathed. Bob, on the other hand, wouldn't stop grinning and could not have been more proud of himself for leching on my friend.
        So, we are at the quiet reception following the funeral on Sunday. Bob and my dad are sitting at the table with us. Bob joined us only after he took a tour of the church's cafeteria and upstairs kitchen. You can take the owner out of the restaurant, but you'll never take the restaurant out of the owner.  He sat down and declared that it was one great kitchen and we could throw a heck of a party with it.
        The talk turned to other family. This is where a description of my dad is needed. He always thinks that everyone knows what he is thinking, so when he starts a sentence mid-thought you are expected to know what the hell he's talking about. He will also realize that it's possible more than one person could know what the topic is, but from a different perspective or time period, so he will not actually finish a sentance. It goes like this "Krys did you get the email about Raymond...Karie you know Joyce... Tracy, Ray's wife..he's going to Florida, Ray's wife, Bob did Virginia tell you about Ray?"
      To which Bob responds incredulously "Ray's dead?"
      My dad: "No, his wife died."
      Me: " I didn't get the email." I check my new iPhone for the email. OH, there it is, I ignored it becuase my father likes to forward every forward forward forward joke, photo, joke, joke, Did You Know Captain Kangaroo Earned A Purple Heart, joke, joke, photo, Did You Know Mr. Rogers Was A Marine? joke joke joke...so I tend to delete his emails. Even this one titled "Raymond...Important" got skipped becuase it has seven forward tags on it and I don't know anyone named Raymond.
      But I digress.
      Bob: "Ray's wife died?"
      Dad: "Ya, didn't you get the email?"
      Bob shrugs, the shrug that says "old fart doesn't do technology."
      Dad: "Didn't Virginia tell you? Doesn't your wife talk to you?"
      Bob: "Are you kidding? I could walk in the door next Sunday and she'd look at me and go 'How was the funeral?'"
      Then he got up to find a restroom, while he was passig my dad he pulled his phone out of his pocket and said "I have this. Don't leave without me."
      I looked at my dad and asked if he'd ever left Bob behind, and he just laughed and said "no".
      I have no idea what that exchange was all about. Inside joke I'm guessing, but illogically I laughed at the moment, even though I did not understand it.
      And the final Bob Quote of the day came when my dad asked if Bob or anyone had gone to a graduation ceremony. Bob just looked confused when my dad said the last name Martinez. Then dad said "he graduated from the police academy."
       Bob rolled his eyes and said "That's great, that's all we need, another Beaner with a gun.
       Ladies and Gentlemen, Bob Jaramillo!
       Thank You!


      
      

'hawks and Shiraz

     
        I'm swigging my Shiraz directly from the bottle this evening.
        Usually I have a wine glass, but they are upstairs. I am downstairs. 'nuff said.
        So, Bipolar: Discuss.

       I propose that all parents of teenagers are bipolar.
       Even those with perfect children. Perfect, pretty, sporty, A+ delights that make you proud at every turn and bring you joy when they wake every morning. They are still making you bipolar, because you don't want to disturb the perfect with reality and trying to achieve the balance will ultimately make you talk to yourself, question your life, lose sleep, flip channels compulsively and write or create maniacally at odd hours.
      And possibly swig your Shiraz directly from the bottle.
      I do not buy the perfect household/idyllic child model. This makes my household brutally honest, and some people don't dig that.  Whatever. I've seen the truth: I'm a teacher. Please. Even the smart ones, the talented ones, the quiet ones and the popular ones Have Issues. They may be cleverly masked or even sprinkled with delightful quirks, but they are there. And I talk to their parents, and I know that the traits I find charming are the ones that drive their parents battty. Or more appropriately, drive their  parents to Bipolar behavior.

      Some of us have children that are more challenging. Some of us have children who are Just Like We Were. But different. The difference being that I--we--never actually acted on these traits. As a bipolar child I just thought I was crazy so I kept the behavior hidden and joined theatre.
       And if you'd like to exacerbate the situation, have your child attend the same high school you teach at and be an active member of your theatre department.
       Right there you have a recipe for something atomic.
       I have no doubt  that other teachers with kids in their departments---band, social studies, math, science---have their own struggles. But theatre---dude, by nature a theatre kid is unhinged somehow some way.And in my department, I'm the one they come unhinged to when they hit the "Get out of my room mom you don't understand" days.
         They come to me when they think their parents don't understand.
          And my daughter, who is also my theatre student, is supposed to go...who?
          Insert Atomic Detonation At My House Here.
         AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaannnnnnnnnnnad welcome to bipolar, passive aggressive but angry Crazy Town! Hop on board! Spit in the wind!
  
        And the roller coaster takes off and sometimes we don't strap in, and sometimes I soccer arm them in and sometimes they hope I go flying out, and always Jim is standing by the off switch ready to throw it at any moment...and then the metaphor just gets boring.

       I was not raised in a house that hugged or kissed or said "I love you". We also were spanked, mom cleaned like a mad woman and my father was distant. So of course I chose the opposite--we are a hugging kissing I LOVE YOU house of clowns, and I'm a terrible housekeeper, which is apparently too much and annoying, mom. As a LIBRA I have balance issues, so when I try to do fix the balance I inevitably throw something off, somewhere else, because I'm also a control freak.
       I could just give up. Walk away. Put up the hawk (which is a metaphor now for a reality then) and fight to the death.
       Nahhh...LIBRA. Remember? 'hawk or not, the fight is about maintaining balance and fairness.
       It doesn't help that my oldest has a lawyer's gift for seeing around corners and picking apart any agreement and my youngest a gift for maniuplation.

      But you know what outweighs that crap? They are good people. Compassionate. They make stupid choices and fight and drive me to swigging from the yellow tail bottle, but I Love Them and the fire, the fight, the compassion, the intellect are what are going to make them stellar adults. Sure they're a mess now, who isn't in high school? They just aren't interested in hiding it. Ok. Their choice.

      They are going to be stellar human beings.

      While I remain bipolar, snuggling with a kangaroo bottle while watching Caddyshack and saying the lines along with Rodney Dangerfield.
      


    

Reservations

    Good Evening.
     Jim and I went out tonight for our anniversary dinner tonight. The last few years we have landed at the Capital Grille on Larimer downtown. For many years we'd pick and choose different restaurants, different hotels. But the last five years or so it's been Capital Grille. No Contest.
     Reflecting my current Crazy Pants state of mind, I took notice of the other diners around us. For Jim and I, this is a Very Big Deal. We drop $200.00 on dinner once a year, and this is it. We dress up, settle in, order a bottle of wine and enjoy. As I looked around the restaurant tonight, it seemed we were in the minority when it came to A Very Big Deal.
     There was a family with three children under the age of 12. Dad was dressed casually and kept his baseball cap on. I gotta say, that really bugged me. The kids were well behaved, but  not really dressed up. They were casual, everything in their posture suggested a casual night out. Because you are a good reader, you know from the previous paragraph that dinner for two is $200.00. Because you can do math, you can guess what dinner for five would run. I looked at Jim, who was also noting this family, and he said "They look like they do this every Saturday"and without pause we both said "Who has that kind of money?"
       Not us, clearly.
       This is not a post to whine about finances, settle down. The comment and the family led my mind to my own childhood. We never saw the inside of a place like Capital Grille. Mr. Steak was a night out for us; I'd wear a church dress. Largely because those were the only dresses I had and the only time I'd wear them was at church. I was still me, just shorter.
       I think my parents chose Mr. Steak largely because we did not need a reservation. See, my father is not a reservation guy. Reservations are a convention that he either ignores or is immune to. All I know is he never, ever made a reservation. We went to restaurants that you could just walk into. On our many road trips, we ate at Denny's and stayed at Motels that you could just show up at, unless mom was in charge and then we'd have a reservation.
        Whatever his aversion to the social custom of reservations was extended to other events that most people would plan ahead for. Things like putting gas in the car before driving to Arizona. Or stopping for fuel at the gas station that says "Last gas for 400 miles". Or choosing to wait an extra day to hit the road because they are predicting severe weather and white out conditions today. Reservations fall under the umbrella category "Planing Ahead" that my father does not subscribe to.
         So this is where my head is floating between dinner conversation topics, and I begin to have a panic attack.
         It took me a second to figure it out; I had been drinking so give me a break. But I am a compulsive reservation maker. I cannot go anywhere or do anything without calling ahead and checking to see if reservations are needed or recommended. My gas gauge rarely hits E and when it starts to creep down there I can't breathe. I have panic attacks if there is a snow storm after three p.m. and I am not safely home. My own memories were causing me to panic.
         So then these casual people, calmly dropping hundreds of dollars on dinner, knew they were going to do so because this is a reservation restaurant. For all of their baseball caps and denim, they did not just "stop in" while shuffling around downtown Denver. They made a reservation and deliberately chose to look like they had just dropped in because...because...? Because that looks cool? Because they want us to think they just dropped in and are cooler than us because they did not need a reservation? They were our age, so there is no "kids today got no respect" aspect to their attitude. I think...I think they're just rich.
         I wonder what that's like?
         And I wonder if adhering to the rules of reservations comes with your Wealthy Membership card? 'cause I don't honestly remember any member of my father's family ever making reservations,and none of them were wealthy. Of course I have few memories of any of them in a restaurant. Farm people tend to entertain on the farm, near the farm or at someone's house with frog eye salad as far as the eye can see. You do not need a reservation at family reunions. Just show up with your tupperware brimming with home made  delicious and start chatting.
        So clearly I've just figured out why my father never made reservations. See how writing is therapy?
        However identifying the root is not going to stop me from  making reservations. Understanding the origin of the issue does not indicate that the behavior will cease. However, maybe now I can have a nice dinner without my own wandering mind causing me a panic attack.
         That's all I have to say.

The End of The Year and "Buffy"

       Every year at this time I am in the same state of mind.
       It's pretty much finished. I have awards to have engraved, an office to dig out and a theatre that has been sadly ignored for the last two months.
       I hate all the seniors. Even the ones I love, I hate.
      The first time this happened, five years ago, the first year I was in charge, I thought I was crazy. I actually went to my AP and said "I think I need therapy, I hate everyone." She didn't even bat an eye, she just handed me the name of a therapist and said "It's through the district, it's free." I was so taken aback, I never called.
       Because how do you explain to an entirely new person what it's like to teach theatre at LHS? Just the basic back story would take a year.
       This is not a normal theatre teacher gig. I get them for all four years.
       Four years.
       I have these beautiful Butt Heads for four years.
      And I have allowed them use the theatre as their second home. To eat lunch, create cubbies for their backbacks and unending hoodies and food and jackets and pants and underwear and notebooks and power cords and phone chargers and tennis shoes and dress shoes and tuxes and dresses and medicine cabinets. Sometimes it's only one shoe. Mo used to leave her bras in my office, I'm still not sure how that happened. Doron and Lexi shared antiperspirant and swimming goggles, both of which they left on my bookshelf.
        And I set only a few rules.  And I throw them out when they have broken them too many times. And I let them back in.
        And sometimes they are truly rude and break a rule that throws me for a loop.
        And sometimes they are truly exceptional and bring me coffee, or ask what they can do to help.
        And every year at this time I hate them.
        And I realized today why. It's that damned word allow.
        I use it in theatre constantly. Allow the character to emerge, allow your voice to emerge, allow the emotions to come through, allow your body to respond, allow me to direct you.
        And the results when directing and teaching are stunning. High school kids who know how to allow? Seriously? Here, have $32,000.00 a year for college as a theatre major. Bam.
        But that bleeds into  room 146. Into the classroom. Allowing them to keep food in the fridge, to have a coffee maker, a toaster, a hot tea maker. To have cubbies and eat their lunch and do their homework. To use my pens and not give them back, use my computer and "forget" to ask, run through a printer cartridge and reams and reams of paper without a second thought. My day is filled with "Kmart do you have..." and "Kmart can I borrow..." and I never see whatever I hand over again. I average $200.00 a year in new play purchases because they take them off the shelf and don't return them. Why should they?
        I thought they needed this freedom, this second home. At first it was great, it was a smaller department and the kids were respectful. The previous teacher had locked them out, they lived in the hall and were only in 146 for class. Those first few years of kids had seen what came before and they were grateful to be allowed.
         Five years later that has changed.
         They know that the consequences are weak. So what if I kick them out for a few weeks? They'll make a mess in the hall, go to Starbucks, wait until class starts to eat their lunch. They know I can't keep them from working on a show because they do not retrieve their stray clementines, found months later under the lost and found or behind the counter? They know I complain to their parents; they do not care. They know I'm annoyed, and they watch as the few Beauties Who Give A Shit and I tirelessly clean up after them, run bags of crap to the lost and found, sort screws and order more gaff tape and they do not care.
       And so, I hate them.
       There are teachers who love and support and tirelessly try to convince these kids that they matter, that they are relevant, that they are smart and talented. And I look at these teachers like they are Crazy Pants and shake my head and return to my wrecked cinder block room and empty printer cartridge and broken stapler and tear myself up for not loving them the way other teachers do.
       This passive aggressive crap is not a trait I am enjoying. I have raised my children with very similar principals and it has also backfired. They have no respect for me. So why am I surprised that the ones I teach also have no respect?
       When I first started nine years ago, one of my greatest traits was "iron fist, velvet glove." I was stern and effective but managed to love them and support their lives. At some point the tables flipped, and I have no control. The lunatics are truly running the asylum.
        So what is the point of this blog post?
        The same as every other one: reflection. I cannot reflect without an audience.
        You're welcome.
  
        All I ever wanted was to be Yoda. Or Giles. Buffy was nothing without Giles. Also he had that cool secret life thing where he played The Who songs on his guitar at a coffee shop.
        Or at the least I want to be the voice in their heads when they create future roles. "COMMIT!" "Do or do not, there is no try!" "Get your hair out of your face." "ALLOW!"
      I get it now. The last two years of self absorbed, disrespectful kids has burned me out. I get it now.
      I do not have to kick them out. I just have to create consequences that matter.
      Anyone know how to contact Giles? 'cause I cannot raise an X Wing Fighter from out of the swamp to prove my point. I tried. All I got was a headache.
      Maybe then I can sit here on 26 April 2014 and say that my beautiful, respectful and scholarship college bound students are leaving and I Love Them.
        Lemme work on that and get back to you.

New York 2013

New York 2013

 

Times Square Harper, Me and Genoa

 

In 2008 I took 18 kids to NYC. We saw Spring Awakening, Curtains and The Sandbox and The American Dream. I said I couldn't go back, because you cannot top a trip where your kids got to not only see plays written by Edward Albee directed by Edward Albee, but they got to meet and have a talk back with Edward Albee. How can you top that?

 

You can't.

 

But, funny thing, the kids still had a great time. They got to see The Revisionist by Jesse Eisenberg, starring Jesse Eisenberg and Vanessa Redgrave. They waited outside the theatre after Chicago and Once and had their photos taken with cast members.They schlepped all over the city, through Central Park, to the Met Museum, to the 9/11 Memorial to Greenwich Village.

 

So what the hell do I know?

 

I got to see a former student who is now working in NYC "in the field" as we like to say. The Founding Artistic Director of the Cherry Lane chatted with me and asked if I still wrote plays---it was a delightful, adult conversational break in my routine of counting to 21 and saying "Littleton, Buddy Check!" and "Littleton, Personal Belongings!"

 

What was called Ground Zero in 2008 is now called the 9/11 Memorial. When we went back then it was still a hole in the ground with some chain link fencing scattered around the peripheral. Now they've built the Freedom Tower and the memorial fountains and it's all walled in, you need a ticket  and you walk through security three times to enter. Last time I got out of it, I stayed on the edge with our tour guide while the kids entered the ...site...graveyard...hole. I was sick to my stomach. This time, with the way they cattle you through I couldn't get out of it. I had to go in. I really don't have anything more to say about it.

 

FAME

We went to see Once starring working New York Actors, and next door The Orphans starring Alec Baldwin was playing. The kids in Once were solid, but I got excited when I realized "Daa" was played by David Patrick Kelly--who not many people know as a Broadway actor despite his long career. However if you are my age, you know him as Luther in The Warrriors. He put beer bottles on  his fingers and clicked away chanting "Warriors, come out to pllllaaaaaaaaaaayyyeeeeyayyyyyy".

Both shows got out at about the same time, and while there was a respectable crowd anxiously awaiting the cast of Once at the stage door (several of my students included), Harper and I tried to work our way back to the hotel, but were corralled by NYPD on horseback trying to whip the massive stampede outside the theatre next door. There were at least  a hundred people amassed at the stage door waiting for a glimpse of Alec Baldwin. I like Alec Baldwin. I have respect for him as an actor. But I just wanted to get through the crowd back to hotel. Both Harper and I were ready for some breathing room, and between the throng, the mounted police and the limos, we barely escaped. And while we pushed our way through---which included me mouthing off to the mounties who wanted me to get out of the street and back onto the sidewalk with the other suburban lookie loos---I entertained Harper with a monologue about how disgusting it must be to have people want to meet you after a show not because of what you have created on stage, but because they saw your face on TV every week.

 

 

 

These are the kids outside of Chicago. The Ambassador is a gorgeous old theatre, and the show was not disappointing. It really should be tired by now but they breathed life into it. Christopher Seiber played Billy, and I felt like the only geek in the audience going "He's on my iPod! He was in Monty Python's Holy Grail!"

 

All for now---