Harvey and South Pacific

It's pretty typical for me to question everything, including my career choice and sanity during Hell Week. It was exacerbated this week since the lights have been out in the theatre for six months.
    I've been teaching theatre classes on a stage lit by Edison work lights all year.
    We've been rehearsing on the same dark stage.
    They have been teching on a dark stage.
     The kids painted the floor by worklight, flashlight and cell phone light.

   This floor. And the pit the boys are on is a beautiful wood grain. Also painted in the dark.

Also built this door frame and door in the dark.

And I was grumpy.

    Then , on 24 October, the lights came on.
   And I was still angry.
   And depressed.
   And annoyed.
   Nothing was fixed when the lights came up but the lights.
                 The Hell?

   Last weekend a former student of mine gave me a comp to come see him in South Pacific. I hate South Pacific. The music is pretty and all, but The Hell with the story?
    I love Jared more than I hate South Pacific.
     I was running late, the parking lot was full. I had to park on the top level at DU. The Newman Center. I've never met the Newmans, but they sure build a lot of theatre stuff at DCPA and DU. MAybe they'd build me something?
     A lovely older couple held the elevator for me. They were maybe in their late sixties, early seventies. She was very fashionable with her short blonde hair.
    It turned out we were seat mates, she and her husband had the tickets next to me. Really good, close seats, not the usual crappy comps (Thank you, Jared). She was very friendly and asked me if I knew anyone in the show. "Yes, a former student". She pulled out her program "Which one is he?" "Luther Bills". "OH how nice." I did not ask her if she knew anyone.
     The show began. The kid singing Emile was stunning, one of those "Why The Hell Are You Not Already on Broadway" voices. He made me like the music. As he sang "Some Enchanted Evening", my seatmate reached for her husband's hand. Then she wiped her eyes. Then he wiped his. Maybe it was their first dance song? They aren't quite old enough to remember  WWII (those in the seats behind me with walkers and oxygen, however, were but clearly this show meant something to my seatmate couple.)They were not critiquing the disconnected female lead, or the less than stellar chorus voices. They just loved the show.
     When Jared sang "Nothing like a Dame" my seatmate leaned over and asked "Is that your student?"  I nodded. She gushed "he is really good." I smiled. Yes, yes he is.
      When Jared donned coconut boobs and a grass skirt, she laughed her head off. She was the loudest laugher in the theatre! Such joy! The Funniest Thing She'd Ever Seen! She's never seen a boy in stretch socks and boxers and coconut bra! "You must be so proud!" she gushed at me again. She started repeating his catch phrase "get the picture". At one point I began to become concerned that she did not realize other people were in the audience.
      She said loudly "He is so funny! You had something to do with that!  Get the picture?"
      It took 20 minutes to get out of the theatre as I waited for every senior in their walker to go first. I smiled at them and admired their children as they escorted their elderly parent and their various walkers, oxygen tanks, etc. from the theatre. There were two young girls in attendance, also waiting for the slower crowd. They could barely contain their excitement. Their mom said "Do you want to go meet them in their costumes?" And the girls practically exploded with anticipation. As I silently snarked "Seriously? They come out in costume? How unprofessional."
      As a side note on this topic, on  Genoa's fifth birthday  I took her to see The Dinosaur Play at the Arvada Center featuring my friend, Brian, as the triceratops. The cast waited in costume outside the theatre (children's theatre, that's acceptable) and as Genoa passed Brian, he said "Happy Birthday ,Genoa!" It changed her life.
      I toddled into the lobby to look for Jared, hoping to God he was not in costume. He was. A few audience members approached him, bellowing "Get the picture?" I told him my seatmate story, hugged him a lot, made his dad take a photo.

He laughed his big Jared laugh and said she had come and talked to him--although I am unconvinced it was my seatmate, there were many who found him delightful. I mean, look at him! You know he killed in that cocounut bra.


      Back at LHS, we had scheduled HARVEY for only two nights WEDS and THURS before Thanksgiving break. Because the lights wouldn't be on in time for us to do it sooner, and no admin wanted to be there on Friday night before  the break. About three weeks into rehearsal, I leaned that I had no money. None. Someone higher than me had muffed up and not done their job. HARVEY was happening on borrowed money. So I decided to go for a Friday performance to at least make some money. Selling weeknights is rough. A Friday before Thanskgiving break, HARVEY, we'd do great! But admin was unmoved. They were willing to allow a show if I did it at 5pm
     Are you kidding me? Parents can't make a 5pm curtain. I will make no money, this is pointless, WHY DO I BOTHER?
     Then it hit me.
      Old people can do five pm. See the show, have dinner.
      People who actually SAW the movie with Jimmy Stewart when it came out.
      Old People.
       Like the ones at South Pacific .
       Who were there because they liked the show, the story, and it was a matinee!
        After South Pacific I realized I have to let go of making any money. But I'm keeping the 5pm show Friday so people who actually want to come and know the story can attend!
        Because theatre is for those who attend. It's for my seatmate who had a personal connection to Some Enchanted Evening. They do not critique. They do not snark, they just want to enjoy a familiar story. A Delightful, funny, charming story of a grown man whose best friend is an invisible rabbit.
         I do not mean "old" in any snarky capacity. I will be old, I am old. It means I know more. I have more heart, more experience.


      And so.
     TELL THE WORLD. HARVEY is being done just for this audience. People who wish to Enjoy A Show.  For these people who regularly come to my shows and enjoy themselves.  Friday 21 November 2014. Littleton HIgh School.
      5 pm
      Senior Citizens are ALWAYS free of charge at Littleton. And I love them.

All The Feels Part 1

   It isn't enough that I am in Durango, dropping off my oldest at college.

   My youngest did not come with us.
   She has a new job, needed to work and,  ultimately, needed time "away" from us, I guess, which is funny 'cause she's never home, but whatever.
  
    We got up at 9 to have breakfast before the 10 a.m. check in time. Genoa is allergic to calendars or any distribution of information, so we were not sure if that was real. It was. We arrived and she checked herself in, which is when we discovered she didn't have a roommate. They put the kids' names on the dorm doors, and G's was the only name. After some debate she chose the bed with the tree blocking her view of the quad because it is next to the heat register. Since no roommate was imminent, we decided to spring for a fridge and a microwave.
  
    The Durango Walmart Has It Goin' On.
    We walked four steps and were faced with three different sizes of fridge choices. Three more steps and the microwaves appeared! $300.00 later we returned to Fort Lewis and schlepped the electronics up to Genoa's room. Which, by the way did I mention, is on the 2nd floor. I couldn't get a grip on the fridge box, so I put it down for a moment. Another passing parent asked if she could help. I answered "I don't think well, it's just, yes can you just load it on my arms?" That was the second time I realized I had lost my capacity for speech. It happened earlier in the dorm room, when G was unpacking and asked a question and I said "I um shma pants...uh.."  I saw that same parent later at orientation, and she said "I know you, you were almost strangled by a tree." I realized that from her perspective, my scarf had wound around my neck and arms and the box and it looked deadly. I was not, however, anywhere near the tree, I'm not sure where she got that.

    As we were leaving the parking lot for Walmart I noted a family saying good bye to their son. We hadn't even finished moving G in yet, and these people had already shown up, moved him in and moved on. Maybe he was a sophomore, but I doubted it based on the extended hug he was receiving. It never occurred to me to just drop G off. To slow down to 30 and push her out of the car.

   At the bookstore, Jim and I were purchasing the obligatory mugs and shirts, and Genoa and Rachel (her new friend) were walking toward us. I smiled, and Genoa waved books encased in plastic at me and proclaimed "Look what I did! I'm an adult! I bought my books!"

  When we crossed their path a few minutes later, she barely registered our presence. When we said "bye", she did not even notice we had left.
  
   Clearly, she's fine.


    I got a text from her about7 p m, she now has a roommate. She is native American from a res in Arizona, very shy and very sweet, and very unnerved that their suite mates already have boys over.


          She also texted me that she was at a party. Who tells their mom they are at a party? Genoa. Who else? All the feels.

       Clearly, she is going to be fine.

College Is A Thing

       Last night, G and I attended a Ft. Lewis freshmen and parent "mixer" in Bow Mar, thrown by a FLC alum who just likes to do things like this. He opened his home to incoming FLC freshmen from the Denver/ Boulder area so they could meet one another before moving to school, and the parents could also mingle. There was Vanilla Cream Soda and Ginger Ale from a Durango brewery. The BBQ was also Durango based. There were admissions counselors, the school President and alumni mixed in to answer questions and chat. What a generous offering.
       First: Mingling. This is a trait you are either born with or you are not. I fall under the "not" column. Like most theatre people, I'm authentically withdrawn and socially awkward. We are good at our craft because we know how to watch and listen. That guy who's always the life of the party? Not a theatre guy. Watch Jim Carey interviews, he'll back me up. Anyway, in social settings like this Genoa is also socially retarded. We make a great pair. I went with her knowing that if I did not, she would not have gone by herself. By the time we got into the beautiful back yard, which opened onto the lake, Genoa had found a girl from T.J. who is a theatre techie majoring in bio and chem.
      And I was left with the T.J. girl's mom, struggling for conversation. Once I covered "Where did she go to high school?" and "What's her major" I was out. I don't like group settings. I Hate Group Settings. I hate reunions. Family ones are different. But I've never been to a high school reunion because I know I'll hate it. I will offend someone, somehow, or laugh too loudly or judge my weight and get depressed.  Thanks, but no thanks.
      One of the reasons I loved my giant colleges (remember, I attended three) was that I could disappear. I like big classes, a big campus, a big student union where I can disappear into an overstuffed chair. I love being anonymous.
      Genoa deliberately chose a small school due to her social anxiety. In her mind, too big is overwhelming. She wants to be on a small campus with small classes so she knows everybody and feels comfortable. It is weird to me.
      And it was eye opening last night, when Genoa freely chatted with people she's never seen before, excited to make new friends at her new school, and I had to force myself away from her.
      Because I don't want to talk to adults. I wanted to talk to the kids.
      But I did. I mingled. I met 7 parents, the college President and a few alumni. I flipped the "performance" switch on my back so I could function. It lasted about fifteen minutes before I had to walk away and stand at the edge of the lake alone. Then I turned and returned to the parents, chatted up another pair, returned to the lake. Took a picture of the lake. Sent it to a friend who lives in the neighborhood. Texted back and forth with her. Tried to return to the parents but just could not make myself, so I sat with Dene, the President of FLC. I like her. Everybody associated with this school is crazy nice.
      Second: Conversation. Here's the thing. I will listen for weeks. I like listening. But if you won't talk, I will fall silent. (Clearly I am not speaking of meetings with friends, only strangers.) And if you, too, are silent, then I will bow to the pressure of performance and start chatting. And talking. And Babbling. And unchecked, I will say something rude or offensive or judgmental. I will not even know that I'm doing it. Because I am Conversationally Challenged. It is a sub-issue of "Mingling". I'm a director, an actor, a writer, a teacher. I don't Conversation, I Lecture. I Monologue. Please do not force me into these scenarios. It is a bad day for everyone. Thankfully, at 48 I know how to trick people into talking by asking questions that require more than a one word answer. So I know a lot about the kids G is going to college with.
       Third: Genoa is going to college. She has chosen to double major in Theatre and Political Science with a minor in Forensic Science. She is not sure if it's law school or a lab she's headed for.  It was truly wonderful to watch her chat with her new friends last night. She is thrilled to get a fresh start. She learned some great lessons in high school, and between theatre and LHS teachers and Betty Buckley there is barely a trace left of the angry little pink haired troll that started at LHS four years ago. She was genuinely excited about chatting. On the drive home she was bubbling with tales she had heard of Pet Disasters and College Anxiety. She knows kids in her hall, and kids in the other halls. She exchanged phone numbers and spent last night texting a girl she'd just met who graduated from Bear Creek. They are making plans to see each other before they leave for school, maybe do some shopping.
      Fourth: Genoa is going to college. I had the most vivid, heartbreaking Zombie dream last night, and ultimately it was about Genoa leaving for college. I have enough anxiety over her making friends, getting sick, not eating, getting snowed in over a break...she actually made it worse by seeming to adapt quickly and easily to the gathering. When we first arrived she froze up. Her "Go To" is "To Attack" whenever she is uncomfortable. We drove by the house once because there were only a few cars parked outside and she did not want to be the first to arrive. But the moment we were walking up the driveway, Delaney from T.J. and her mom were also arriving. I stepped back and within seconds G had made her first new friend. And How Fortuitous that Delaney is also a theatre techie who is majoring in Biology and minoring in Forensic Science? 

     So, if it's meant to be. I suppose it's meant to be. On 27 August we will drive her to Durango. And leave her there until Thanksgiving break.

     College is a thing.

        
     

The Struggle Is Real.

       "The struggle is real."
       One of Harp's friends is on food stamps.
       Another was just evicted.
       A student of mine may be homeless by the end of August.
    
       None of this is shocking or solitary. These are struggles that have crossed my path regularly over the last two years. Not occasionally. Not "one kid in two years." Consistently. Regularly. Methodically. Routinely. Pick a word.

       I hear the phrase "the struggle is real" bandied about with sass and in reference to everything from paying attention to losing weight. But when I hear it, I think of all the kids in my periphery who have truly, legitimately struggled.
       And then I get depressed.
  
      Because I neither work in a "low income" school, nor do I live in a "low income" neighborhood. These are troubles that are supposed to plague other kids.  Not the ones I teach or who live nearby.

      I don't have any more to say about it, I suppose. I just wanted to get it off of my mind an onto a page.

      
.

Things I Cannot Do Well

              I changed my blog look, and I think it's harder to read. So. Put that on the list. "Cannot change blog look." That is a sub-issue under "Cannot art".
              #17  I cannot teach Pre K.
              I never thought that I could, I wish to be clear. I never said "Lemme at those three and four year olds, Imma teach 'em!" I simply, foolishly said "I'll help where I'm needed."
              So I drew Pre K last week at camp.
              And that topic can now be added to the list of "Things kryssi Cannot Do: Plus Things She Should Not Do."
              I cannot teach Pre K, at least in the camp milieu because camp is "fun". And "fun" apparently translates not telling kids no, or stop, or no, or using my Ice Teacher voice. Apparently camp Pre K means speaking calmly and quietly, calling them "friends" and suggesting that maybe they need to go sit for a moment because they just clocked another kid in the nose, and allowing them to decide when they are ready to return.
              Fuck That Shit.
              (Also I like to cuss. You cannot cuss at a 3.5 year old. Well, you can, but then it's not "fun" anymore, now is it?)
              The answer is "No", no you may not hit, no you may not run around, no you may not scream. No You Will Not Ignore Instructions. NO, you do not decide when you are ready to rejoin the group, I decide that.
               The Hell, people? When did this happen?
               When did we decide that the kids are running the joint?
               So. "Cannot teach Pre K" is now on my list. God Bless Those Who Do, I'm out.

               Along those lines, I believe I am also incapable of teaching mime to kindergarteners, #16. In this case it is not discipline, it's simply translating the art form to something they understand and are capable of implementing. And the only way to do that that I found, after stumbling around for three days, is to have imaginary tea parties, which they already do at home, so I failed there as well. If I had another talent, like juggling, I could add it to keep their attention. But I don't. All I can do is lock myself in a glass box and "walk" past "trees". I asked other teachers, I dug up my training, I looked on the internet. None of it worked. The last day with them I spent 20 minutes just changing the location and weather patterns as they walked around.  So. Lesson learned.
               Good thing I am a high school teacher, huh?

                           

Postcard 3 August 2014

           Sundays are nice. Genoa gets up to go to work. Today Harper got up to go to WARPED. Jim's still snoozing. I am considering a nice walk. Trying not to be cranky that we are out of coffee.
           As I rise, I go to the sliding door to let the dog out, cats in/out.
           My back patio looks like a Quentin Tarantino movie.
           Beginning dead center, there is a mound of internal organs that have become external. And alone. Just the internal organs. Externally placed on my patio. In a pool of blood.
            To the right, the kitten is snacking on what appears to be the hind quarters of a large rat. I assume rat as the thick tail is larger than anything I've seen on a mouse. Where the rest of the rat has gone is beyond me, but I do suspect the innards belonged to him.
             Closer to me is a small, dead bird.
             I open the door for the animal indoor/outdoor exchange, and then close it and walk away. It is too early to deal with this mayhem and I haven't had my coffee.
             After chatting with Genoa as she's waking up, I decide someone should hose off the patio. I don't want to do it, but there is no coffee and I don't want to go out and buy any. So. Someone should hose off the patio. Someone needs to deal with this.
             I look around and realize "someone" is me.
             I gingerly make my way to the garden hose. I do not like untangling the garden hose, as past mass murder scenes have proven that occasionally there is a tiny corpse tangled in the tubing. Once I turn it on and start hosing off the crime scene like a poor grocery vendor after a mob shoot out, I discover a small, dismembered leg on the left side of the patio.
              As grossed out as you are reading this, I have to tell you this is not the first time I have performed this ritual this summer. In addition to the rabbits, we have had numerous birds, mice and a few rats torn to pieces at our doorstep.  We have  not used our backyard for any proper backyard things since Genoa's graduation party, because circling the patio and the deck is a ring of decaying vermin. At first we tried to scoop them up into open space, but after two days it seemed easier to just hose them off and not walk on the grass.
              And that, dear friends, is Sunday.
              So I got that going for me.

Postcards: Homocidal Cat

     This summer, we have been forced to come to grips with the possibility that our cat is either a homicidal murderer, or a mob boss.

      It has been a weird summer for wild life, as in: Where Is The Wild Life? Usually in the Spring the several fox dens in our neighborhood are alive with moms and babies dashing across the street with their breakfast in their mouths. Our neighbors (Vesper's House) had a den in their back yard for years. We could not figure out why our cats were not targeted by the fox mom and babies every spring, until we became aware that one of our cats was a bird killer. And she would leave the bird at our back door, clearly to let us see how great a hunter she is, but also to leave it for the foxes to retrieve later in the evening. Like clockwork, good morning, dead bird. Good evening, bird gone. We finally figured the cat was catching birds for the foxes (fox?), and in return the fox(es) were leaving our cats alone. Brilliant strategy!
      However this year, there are no fox. Foxes? Fox-I. Fox. None. Zero. It's like they just vaporized. And when the predators disappear, the prey multiply. And multiply. Like rabbits. Because they are, in fact, rabbits.
       We are being over run by bunnies.
       I have never seen so many rabbits up here in my life.
       It isn't just the disappearance of the foxes. Fox? Fox-I. The coyotes are scarce as well this year. I have heard them maybe twice this summer. Usually I hear them nightly, jabbering and laughing their way up the street. Even if they aren't actually dancing up the street, the way sound bounces up
here it sounds like that is where they are. But not this year. Where are the coyotes?
        I dunno. I'm not here to answer those questions. If anyone reading this figures it out you can let me know.
        The point is the lack of predators and increased prey seems to have whetted the appetite of our felines.
         The first dead rabbit---a small one---was found on the back porch. Headless. We thought maybe the cat killed it and something else ate the head.
         The second dead rabbit---full sized adult---was found on the side porch. Also headless. Genoa and Harper began speculating how quickly the flies could eat a head. Maybe the flies ate the head, they said out loud to themselves, while Jim and I exchanged glances.
          The third dead rabbit---medium sized---was found yesterday in the yard. Also headless.
          At this point we have to ask ourselves what it is that our cat is trying to tell us.
          Is she simply demonstrating her vast hunting skills now that there are more rabbits available to hunt? Dropping them around the perimeter of the house to make sure we appreciate her trophies?
          Or is she the boss of an intense Kitty Crime Syndicate with whom we have somehow become sideways, and these decapitated hoppers are being left as a warning?
           We weren't sure which of the four cats was the killer, but we had our suspicions. She is all black with a tiny little white mark on her chest. A white tie. Only mobsters wear white ties. My suspicions were cinched today when I let her in and she brushed past me chewing on a cigar.
          How am I to figure out what we have done to offend the syndicate? The cat does not have opposable thumbs, she can't even scrawl the most minimal of hints. I'm left to my own devices, as I try to make eye contact and open tuna. "What'd we do?"
          She just looks at me with her swimming yellow eyes, bored. Laughing inside. I may never know...and because of my own inability to communicate with felines, innocent bunnies are being slaughtered.