Lord of the crumbs

Trick or treat, trick or treat...

2008-10-28T12:30:00.000-07:00

This is "Trick or Treat", a Donald Duck short cartoon. We had this record when we were kids ... my sister and I could probably quote this entire thing. We hardly ever got to see the cartoon itself... just the audio from the record.

Halloween ... my favorite holiday.

It's time...

2008-10-18T11:15:00.000-07:00

... to get back to writing.

Things are busy. Very busy.

I'm starting to plan a series of events at bluehouse ... open mic nights, fiction reading/blog reading, singles events, "wild card friday", Scrabble tournaments, game nights, poetry, puppets, you name it.

I'll probably be e-mailing you to get you involved, so be ready. You've been warned.

Things can only get better

2008-04-13T23:11:00.000-07:00

The title of this post is also the title of one of my favorite 80s songs -- Howard Jones' 'Things Can Only Get Better." You probably are more familiar with it as the song where the chorus just goes "whoa-oh oh-oh-oh, oh-oh, oh-oh-oh" (repeat, repeat, repeat.)

Today, a friend of ours came over for a "business brunch" -- to catch up on things, but also to discuss possible ways we might be working together in the future (she would be helping one of my projects to move along, and might also be working with David in some way, once she's free of her current work obligations.)

We talked a lot about past work situations and bosses -- mostly about how she and I both have functioned as "emotional sponges" and/or "radiation shields" for bosses in the past -- manifesting someone else's ideas, and apologizing/enabling their bad behavior as they abuse their minions.

I escaped that bad cycle long ago -- although people like that do tend to keep popping up over and over again in my life-- a repeated test from the universe, I suppose. It's time to point that energy toward manifesting good things. I feel like things are about to change for the better, quite drastically. I feel confident about it.

And you'll be the first to know.

Scorn, scorn, scorn

2008-04-12T13:55:00.001-07:00

All right, I've been doing badly this week when it comes to content challenge. I've been at school very long hours this week (like every April) and have come home and usually fallen asleep right after I eat my little container of watermelon from the deli.

I've had some extremely odd dreams this week -- I actually got to sleep in today and had a bizarre series of dreams between 8 and 9:30 am, when I finally got up -- I made the mistake of not immediately writing them down, so they are lost for all time.

One dream I had this week was that I had a pot of boiling water going, with a lid. Somehow in the dream I knew that one of my relatives (who is more or less a force of chaos) was in the pot -- like a genie -- and if I lifted the lid she'd be released along with the steam. So I didn't. Good for me.

Ah, well

2008-04-06T23:11:00.000-07:00

Tonight, we saw a production of A Little Night Music, one of my favorite musicals. I've seen it a number of times -- in good productions and bad productions -- and I always love it, one way or another.

When I first heard the album (yes, album, not CD, this was the dark ages), I was most taken with the song "Every Day A Little Death." I think I'd read the lyrics somewhere before I actually heard the song, and had quite a different idea in my mind what it would sound like -- if you just read them and haven't heard the music, you might think the words chugged along to some dour melody. But in fact, the melody is quite lilting and light -- the bridge gets a little more intense, but the main sections of the song are fairly restrained.

I tried to learn how to play it on the piano -- it eluded my rudimentary piano skills. The piano part is actually quite tricky and dissonant -- but when the song is played by an orchestra, the strings, oboe and flute bring out the lyricism of the song (while the poor clarinets have an endlessly repeating figure that flutters just below the surface -- supposedly the nickname for the song in orchestra pits is "Every Page A Little Breath.")

The song is sung by Charlotte, a countess who is reflecting on the suppressed pain of her life, trapped in a marriage to a man she loves desperately, but who is brazenly unfaithful to her. She is singing to Anne, an 18 year old girl married to an older man, who has remained a virgin for the 11 months of her marriage.

Charlotte:

Every day a little death

In the parlor, in the bed.

In the curtains, in the silver, in the buttons, in the bread.

Every day a little sting

In the heart and in the head.

Every move and every breath,

And you hardly feel a thing,

Brings a perfect little death.

He smiles sweetly, strokes my hair, says he misses me.

I would murder him right there,

But first I die.

He talks softly of his wars and his horses and his whores.

I think love's a dirty business.

Anne: So do I! So do I...

Charlotte:

I'm before him on my knees, and he kisses me.

He assumes I'll lose my reason, and I do.

Men are stupid, men are vain.

Love's disgusting, love's insane.

A humiliating business.

Anne: Oh, how true...

Charlotte:

Ah, well.

Charlotte and Anne go on to sing the last verse in canon (like a round), as Anne realizes how her own situation mirrors that of Charlotte.

At the time I first heard the song, I was also reading Dune, the science fiction epic by Frank Herbert. The canon in "Every Day A Little Death" reminded me of the "Litany Against Fear" devised by the Bene Gesserit (the powerful sisterhood of nuns with extrasensory abilities.)

I must not fear.

Fear is the mind-killer.

Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.

I will face my fear.

I will permit it to pass over me and through me.

And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.

Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.

Only I will remain.

I think one of the powerful things about the lyric to "Every Day A Little Death" is its obliqueness and emotional restraint. In the film version of A Little Night Music (which is off-kilter in so many ways), the otherwise marvelous Diana Rigg is given another verse which is heavy-fisted in its obviousness. Likewise, in a 1996 London revival of the musical starring Judi Dench, the powers-that-be decided to combine "Every Day A Little Death" with a previously discarded song for the countess called "My Husband, the Pig." That song has its amusing moments, but it was cut from the show for a reason.

I think one of the things I strive for in my own writing is that same oblique quality -- a restraint on the surface which hints at the emotion pulsing underneath, like the clarinets with their repeated notes going breathlessly on and on, underneath a sweet surface of violins and flutes.

Ah, well.

Dolphins!

2008-04-05T23:11:00.000-07:00

Tonight, I went to Baltimore's first annual Green Gala, held at the National Aquarium at the Inner Harbor. David was one of the sponsors: he was allotted the area right in front of the observation window that looked into the dolphin pool. The absolute prime location, in my opinion.

Here you can see the sign for bluehouse, as a

dolphin zooms by.

I love being in places like the Aquarium "after hours" -- it reminds me of going to school at night for a carnival or a Halloween party, or the "Night Time on Sesame Street" special which I thought was mysterious and magical. I don't know what the attraction is -- maybe it's knowing that a place has a secret night-time life.

The dolphins were mesmerizing, of course. I didn't get many good pictures of them -- they often sailed right by the window, so close you could see the scars that a few of them had. It was serene.

Goblin also participates in the green trend, as you can see by this subway poster:

So say we all

2008-04-04T23:11:00.000-07:00

The end of a long week. A midnight supper. A new episode of Battlestar Galactica. Snuggling with David. That's a pretty good start to a festive weekend.

Remedy for Cold Heart

2008-04-03T23:11:00.000-07:00

Tonight, coming home very late from work, a Buddhist monk sat next to me on the train. At least I believe he was a Buddhist monk. Red robe. Shaved head. Saffron bag. (Also, a swanky looking watch and cell phone upon which he was reviewing his texts.)

I actually had my eyes closed -- I was at school for 13 hours today -- but this person had a palpable energy field that I was aware of when he sat down. Once I got a gander at him, it was all I could do not to stare.

He pulled a thin paperbound book out of his bag -- the book was written in some script that I didn't recognize, but the title was translated on the cover as Remedy for Cold Heart. As he flipped through the book, I could see photographs here and there in the pages -- a picture of two polar bears; a bloody cow skull with horns; some more indistinct photographs that involved blood and animals.

I wanted to ask him what it was about, but all I could do was try to stare as unobstrusively as possible.

At Grand Central, he uncrossed his Topsider clad legs, and swept out the door of the train.

Mortified Shoebox

2008-04-02T11:11:00.000-07:00

My new favorite. The Mortified Shoebox show actually combines two elements from pieces I'm working on ... youthful diary entries, and ... shoeboxes.

The episode that has made me laugh the hardest so far is the one titled "Everyone's A Critic". I tried to link to it below, but somehow that doesn't seem to be working. (Actually, you can click the embedded video below, and just hit the "forward" button to get to the next one. Or you can go here and select "Everyone's A Critic" in the list of videos. Or try this link.)

I'm going to walk around quoting it for a while, so if you want to know what I'm quoting, make some time to watch this (it's about 3 or 4 minutes long.)

And The Rest

2008-04-01T23:11:00.000-07:00

Usually, I can't think of what I could possibly write about.

(You: no, really? You're down to descriptions of your grandmother's living room.)

Well, in my defense, I feel like a lot of what goes on in my day can't be blogged about -- with colleagues or students or people in the "[I hate the term] Industry." (Except in the super-secret blog which I absolutely do not have, because if I did have it, you would certainly know about it, wouldn't you?) And I also don't blog much about David, because he is perfect in every way.

But today, yes, something bloggable happened.

I know that somewhere on this blog I must have written about the continuing role that Gilligan's Island has played in my life.

(You: yes, this is about the level of depth we expect. Continue.)

My friends in college had a true devotion to Gilligan's Island -- in our commedia dell'arte class, we had to present a little play, and we did a commedia version of a Gilligan's Island plot involving a coconut cream pie, a love potion, and possibly a head hunter. I think I played Il Capitan/The Skipper in that, doubling as Il Dottore/The Professor. It was such a hit (ah, drama school) that we tried to do the same thing in screen acting class the following year -- failing abysmally. I am absolutely certain I've blogged about this, so suffice it to say, it sucked. I also have the VHS but you can only see it if you come to our house and bring a bottle of Bailey's with you.

We went to a New Year's party, the lot of us, as the castaways. I donned my khakis and white shirt and made a coconut-and-wire prop to carry in my guise as the Professor. Somewhere there's a snapshot of us -- one of the pictures that I love because I actually look good in it, and I'm not normally that photogenic.

Annnnnyway, this is a long prelude to saying: the Professor left me a voicemail today. My life is complete. Due to David's machinations, he arranged for Russell Johnson to call me with a little congratulatory sort of message. I'm actually glad I let the call go to voicemail (I was in a student rehearsal) because now I have it forever. If I actually spoke to Russell Johnson, I might have swallowed my tongue.

It's a companion piece to the glossy 8x10 photo that I have of Mr. Johnson that is autographed to me, "who writes musical theater." My stepfather used to work with a relative of Mr. Johnson's, and requested it for me.

Now I just need a lock of Russell Johnson's hair and my creepy collection will be complete. Look for it in the secret room that has walls decoupaged in newspaper clippings, maps and diagrams. Do a long slow pan across the walls as you try to stifle a look of horror. What in God's name ... this explains so much ... !

No, seriously, my birthday is coming up. Time to check on eBay for those Professor-related items.

Genie

2008-03-31T23:11:00.000-07:00

I'm probably cheating on content challenge, but I have a feeling you would rather read this than an account of the rambling three-hour extravaganza I attended this evening (though it had its own special charms.)

This is from Baby Be-Bop, one of the brilliant books by Francesca Lia Block. It makes me think about David ... because, like Duck and Dirk in the story, I had a premonition I would meet him ... my soulmate.

This is near the end ... Dirk (a punk rocker) is having a near-death experience, dreaming about Duck (a surfer), who he hasn't yet met ... but will. In Dirk's dream, a man is telling him a story about Duck, who is searching for love and not finding it.

Where are you? Duck called silently to his soul mate, the love of his life whose name he did not yet know. By the time I find you I may be so old and messed up you won't even recognize me. Maybe this is what I deserve for wanting to find a man. Looking for you always, never finding you, poisoning myself.

...

Soon Duck will meet his love. When Duck sees his love he will know that the rest of his story has begun. It will not be too late for either of them. The sweetness and openness they were born with will come back when they see each other in the swimming, surfing lights.

And we are still young, Duck will think. I wish I had met you when I was born, but we are still young pups.

They will still be young enough to do everything either of them has ever dreamed of doing, to feel everything they have always wanted to feel.

When they first kiss, there on the beach, they will kneel at the edge of the Pacific and say a prayer of thanks, sending all the stories of love inside them out in a fleet of bottles all across the oceans of the world.

And the story was over. Dirk felt he had lived it. Was it a story told to him by the man in the turban who now sat watching him from the foot of the bed? Had he dreamed it? Told it to himself? Whatever it was, it was already fading away leaving its warmth and tingle like the sun's rays after a day of surfing, still in the cells when evening comes.

"Who are you?" Dirk asked the man, his voice surfing over the waves of tears in his throat. "Who is Duck?"

"You know who I am, I think. You can call me by a lot of names. Stranger. Devil. Angel. Spirit. Guardian. You can call me Dirk. Genius if I do say so myself. Genie.

"Duck -- you'll find out who he is someday."

"Why are you here?"

"Think about the word destroy," the man said. "Do you know what it is? De-story. Destroy. Destory. You see. And restore. That's re-story. Do you know that only two things have been proven to help survivors of the Holocaust? Massage is one. Telling their stories is another. Being touched and touching. Telling your story is touching. It sets you free.

"You set some spirits free, Dirk," he went on. "You gave your story. And you have received the story that hasn't happened yet."

Dirk knew he had been given more than that. He was alive. He didn't hate himself now. There was love waiting; love would come.

He was aware, suddenly, of being in a dark tunnel, as if his body was the train full of fathers speeding through space toward a strange and glowing luminescence. He wanted that light more than he had wanted anything in his life. It was like Dirby, brilliant and bracing; it was a poem animating objects, animating his heart, pulling him toward it; it was a huge dazzling theater of love. On the stage that was that light he saw Gazelle in white crystal satin and lace chrysanthemums dancing with the genie, spinning round and round like folds of saltwater taffy. Dirk also saw the slim treelike form of a man in top hat and tails, surrounded with butterflies. When he looked more closely Dirk saw that they were not regular butterflies at all but butterfly wings attached to tiny naked girls who resembled young Fifis. Grandfather Derwood, Dirk thought. And Dirk saw Dirby too, Be-Bop Bo-Peep, tossing into the air wineglasses that became stars while Just Silver, balanced on the skull of death, held up her long ring-flashing hands and moved her head back and forth on her neck. He wanted to go to them. But there was one thing they were all saying to him over and over again.

"Not yet, not your time."

Dirk McDonald saw his Grandma Fifi sitting beside him, her hair cotton-candy pink as the morning sun streamed in on it.

"Grandma," Dirk whispered. He looked around. White walls. The smell of disinfectant. Liquids dripping into tubes, into him.

"Where are we?"

"The hospital," Fifi said. "How do you feel?"

"Better."

"The doctor says you're going to be just fine."

"How long have you been here?"

"Oh, quite some time now. We've been telling each other stories, you and I, Baby Be-Bop. Past present future. Body mind soul," and Grandma Fifi squeezed Dirk's hand, knowing everything, loving him anyway.

Dirk closed his eyes. There was no tunnel but there was light -- a sunflower-haired boy riding on waves the ever-changing color of his irises.

Stories are like genies, Dirk thought. They can carry us into and through our sorrows. Sometimes they burn, sometimes they dance, sometimes they weep, sometimes they sing. Like genies, everyone has one. Like genies, sometimes we forget that we do.

Our stories can set us free, Dirk thought. When we set them free.

Thoughts about luck

2008-03-30T20:13:00.000-07:00

"On our last night on the Happy Islands I stood at the window for a long time, looking out at Flamingo Bay where a girl dolphin and a boy dolphin played at a game of catch.

Toward morning I dreamed of a blue bay where orange-colored dolphins danced, and I realized again that reality and dream are the same for those who are happy."

The Captain was quiet and I was quiet too. The night wind played gently with the leaves of the olive tree and high above it stood the big yellow moon. From the sea, the lights of a ship drifted into the harbor.

"Well, sir," asked the Captain. "Did you enjoy the Happy Islands?"

"Captain," I answered. "If it were up to me, all five continents of the earth would turn into Happy Islands. But I know, unfortunately, that dream and reality are seldom the same. Their kind of happiness is out of reach of us forever."

"Exactly," said the Captain. "But even if we will never have such happiness in this world we can travel with a vision of it. We must know what happiness is before we try to find it. We need to have at least glimpsed this paradise, just as the seafarer needs the North Star to guide his ship."

-- from The Happy Islands Behind the Winds, by James Krüss, 1966

Every other inch

2008-03-29T17:38:00.000-07:00

All right ... obviously I will have to do some two-a-day blogging in order to catch up. I honestly don't know what I was doing on the day I missed posting. Last night, I know what I was doing, but it did not involve being near an internet connection, so consider that a strike.

Okay.

One of my favorite books is Beatrice Lillie's autobiography, Every Other Inch A Lady. (Chorus: Of course it's one of your favorites, you gay thing.) If you don't know who she is, Google her immediately. She was a comedienne of stage and occasionally screen -- a droll wit, and a friend of Noël Coward's. This is one of my favorite anecdotes:

...we toured and toured and toured some more. I thought that we all stood up to it rather well, including my poor mink coat.

I kept the coat, but I lost my maid, Margaret, who had come to me from Winston Churchill himself. In London, I like to go shopping at that finest educational establishment in all England, Harrod's. I was asked there one day to an autographing party involving some recordings of the show which I'd made. When I found I'd forgotten my spectacles, I telephoned Margaret to bring them over from Park Lane.

The poor thing came over and stood in line behind Steve Cochran, whose name Hollywood conjures with, to reach the head of the queue. Spotting her but pretending not to, I scribbled a signature and handed her a record for her collection, with the autograph of "Johnny Ray."

After the session was over, I went nosing around the store into the pet department, run by a gentleman in a morning coat in keeping with Harrod's style. Today's special was in live baby alligators, some fifteen inches long. I took rather a liking to one of them.

"Shall I send it to the Park Lane address, Lady Peel?" [she was married to Lord Robert Peel, 5th baronet.]

"No, have it delivered by air to Noël Coward in Jamaica. It's for his birthday."

The card that accompanied went unsigned. It said simply, "So what else is new?"

I gather that Noël's reaction was a rare blend of curiosity and pique. He didn't know where the little monster had come from until several months later -- on the evening that he brought the Duchess of Kent backstage and Leslie Bricusse fell downstairs to be presented.

But some correspondence that developed with Harrod's (to alligator, £6; to air freight, £25) led my maid to jump to some wrong conclusions. She quit and left a note which said, "Madam, I must leave you. I will not work where there are alligators. I would have mentioned this, but I did not think it would come up."

Nana's house, part two

2008-03-27T23:11:00.000-07:00

This "make it by midnight" element of content challenge is killing me.

Anyway.

So, I was on a nostalgia trip about my grandparents' house in Winter Park, Florida, circa the mid-to-late 70s. Many notable things occurred there, including my early introduction to Dungeons & Dragons, before it was published -- when it was still played merely with graph paper and little figurines of elves and dwarves. But more on that later.

My grandmother was a night owl -- I picked up that habit from her. She'd stay up through the night, watching the black-and-white TV on the rollaway stand, doing crossword puzzles. So would I.

We also shared a love for cheesy horror movies. I think I wrote elsewhere in this blog about going to drive-in triple-features in the Florida summer (with me as a mosquito smorgasbord but loving it.) One I especially remember had a movie with Linda Day George in it -- Beyond Evil, I believe -- I would have been 14 that summer. She plays the wife of an architect who is possessed by some kind of evil spirit ... and ... that's all I remember.

She was also in a movie called Day of the Animals, one of the 70s eco-horror genre movies, where Nature has run amok. Basically, radiation coming through a hole in the ozone layer makes all the animals above a certain elevation go crazy and start attacking people. Vultures I think get one poor soul -- but the worst attack was when a guy sits in a truck (somehow not looking before he sits down) that is crrrrawwwwling with snakes.

Snakes! Snakes, I say. Eeeeeeeeeee.

Have You an Amusing Anecdote?

2008-03-25T23:11:00.000-07:00

One day in to content challenge, and already (just over) the wire.

I was thinking today about my grandparents' house in Winter Park, Florida, where I spent a few great summers. They didn't believe in air conditioning -- I'm not exactly sure how I managed to survive the heat and humidity of a Florida summer with only an electric fan, but I did. My aunt who lived down the road had air conditioning -- I'd go over there to swim, but it didn't seem too bad coming back to my grandparents' house and the mugginess. When you're 8 or 9, you can adapt to anything, I suppose.

My favorite room was the "Florida room", sort of a sunroom with teak frame furniture, and a statue of the Virgin Mary presiding over a small rock garden. The earthy-sunny-mystical smell of that room was so evocative -- when I arrived there, from a car trip or from the airport, the smell of that room told me I was back in that magical house.

The "Florida room" also had stacks and stacks and stacks of Readers' Digest, which I read for hours. I suppose that contributed to my (shameful) enjoyment of really square humor -- I hate to admit it, but I laugh out loud at Jay Leno's "Headlines", for example. (Misspellings, tee hee!) I would read "Humor in Uniform", "Life In These United States", "All In A Day's Work", and enjoy the amusing anecdotes. ("Laughter, the Best Medicine" just never really lived up to its promise.) I might also read "Drama In Real Life: A Cougar Ate My Face" or the few variations (survived attack by wild animal; survived natural disaster. Cougar/bear/alligator, tornado/hurricane/avalanche. Those were your choices.)

The Florida Room had a long hanging curtain, which separated the main room from my grandfather's study/work area. He had his electronic equipment in there (I think I remember radio tubes, but it was all a mystery.) In later years I would be allowed to pass Behind the Curtain in order to play with the TRS-80 computer he'd bought -- I figured out programs in BASIC that would generate random numbers, or say hello, or (my finest achievement) draw rectangles that would grow in size, like the navigational computer screen in Alien (the first one, from 1979) which I was obsessed with. My dorkitude was obvious because, while I enjoyed the creepy sci-fi haunted-house-ness of Alien, I was most interested in the computer that ran the ship. I saw the movie multiple times, and tried to memorize the various screen shots that Sigourney Weaver saw as she asked the computer ("Mother") questions like, Is that Damn Alien Going to Kill Us All and Get After Me While I'm In My Underpants? (Answer: yes.)

If I'd kept up with learning computer programming, I wonder where I'd be now. Probably posting screencaps from the Alien DVD on my personal fan forum, no doubt.

The skinny

2008-03-24T20:07:00.000-07:00

Content challenge!

I initially was going to revive this blog by waiting until one year and a day had passed since my last entry, and act all Rip-Van-Winkle about it ("What a nap! Why, look, it's 2007!") but that didn't happen.

I just came back from a week-long informal writing retreat. We did yoga almost every day, which was great for clearing my mind. The piece I was working on had to do with memories of childhood and adolescence, so it made me pull out my boxes of photographs tonight once we got home.

I don't have a lot of photos from when I was a kid (my parents have those); I have a random assortment of photos from junior high, high school, summer stock, my first year or so in New York ...

One thing that struck me: I always hated how I looked in pictures. I never thought I was photogenic at all. Yet, in so many of the pictures I saw tonight, I looked actually cute. And thinner than I thought. (Except for when I gained about 40 lbs stress-eating in graduate school.)

My weight has crept up again over the last couple of years - I think seeing those photographs will be great inspiration to return to my healthier habits. And to remind me not to be my own worst critic, as I always was.

Don't forget about Pluto

2006-11-19T20:43:00.000-08:00

When I was six, I was in tap class. ("Of course you were!" rings out across the globe.) I was, of course, the only boy ("Of course you were!"). We had a little routine that we did, all about the planets. Since I was the only boy, I got to be Pluto.

We didn't sing the song - it was on a scratchy 45. It went a little something like this:

We are the smallest planets by far
We're Mercury, Venus, Earth and Mars.
Now here come the big ones, you better watch out
They're Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus and Neptune.

Now we're eight, and we are great
But don't forget about Pluto!

Hi, Pluto, where have you been?
We would not want to forget you
You may be small
And far away
Won't you join us in our dance today?

And then we danced, danced, danced up a storm.

And of course I still know the song.

My tap teacher stopped teaching dance in order to go sell turquoise jewelry out in the desert somewhere. My sister and I started going to a different dance school, but the teacher was mean, and had a cane that she whipped around menacingly. So dance class no longer seemed so fun, and we eventually stopped going.

And that's why I'm not in A Chorus Line ...

It's not gonna happen, Charmaine.

2006-10-03T19:06:00.000-07:00

Walking down Second Avenue today, here was the scene.

HE: shaven-head hipster-ish guy.

SHE: Was Marisa Tomei/Debi Mazar in another life.

SHE: Uh-huh.

HE: It's not gonna happen, Charmaine.

SHE: Uh-HUH.

HE: It's not gonna happen, Charmaine.

SHE: Oh, uh-HUH.

HE: I'm telling you what's gonna happen, and It's. Not. Gonna. HAPPEN. Charmaine!

(SHE makes the finger-loop "he's crazy" sign to the woman walking alongside her. I think this woman is Not Gonna Happen Charmaine's friend, until I realize she has earbuds in and is paying no attention. And walks faster. I walk around the pair.)

HE: Don't fight me with me on the street.

SHE: Oh, yeah.

HE: Because it's not gonna happen.

Vanishing

2006-10-02T15:10:00.000-07:00

Thanks to a pair of Davids (mine, and another friend who is not only a performer but also a whiz of a programmer), the website for one of my shows is up.

Yay.

Return of Babies, Part II: The Sequel: Babies' Revenge

2006-10-02T15:05:00.000-07:00

After my rant about baby-themed crap, I turn on the TV yesterday, and behold: Baby Looney Tunes.

I didn't even know this existed. Why am I surprised?

They were making a Mothers' Day card. Baby Daffy, Baby Tweety, Baby Sylvester, Baby Bugs, Baby Tasmanian Devil ... and Lola, whoever she is. All in diapers.

Ick. Bugs in a diaper. That's not right. (Now someone will find this page in a Google search when they are trying to find out what to do if you've got "bugs in a diaper." First thing to do: stop reading this page.)

Cheese day

2006-09-30T20:22:00.000-07:00

I went to a small Catholic high school, which was always seeking ways to raise money.

Naturally, they sold cheese.

Actually, they gave us, the students, the task of selling cheese. A lot of cheese. Cheese to keep the lights on and the doors open. Cheese to buy chalk and cheese to buy chalkboards.

The kind of cheese I'm talking about is of the cheese-food-product variety - extra sharp - sometimes with a pink "port wine" stripe running through it. It came in crocks, encased in plastic-bag wrapper.

I think we also sold stoneware (which cheese could be served in or on) and perhaps some roasted nuts (goes great with cheese!) and god knows they probably sell all sorts of cheese-brand-extension products now - but in my day, we sold the cheese, and sold it hard.

I don't know if anyone actually went door-to-door selling cheese, but some of my classmates racked up some impressive cheese sales. My mother is generally opposed to this kind of nonsense, so she would just buy whatever minimum amount of cheese we were required to unload, and that would be the end of it.

But - there was a prize if one sold one's allotment of cheese. The "cheese day." If you sold your cheese quota, you were given a day off from school. You were responsible for any homework, and you couldn't use your "cheese day" to skip a test, but other than that - you were free and clear.

It may have been that your entire homeroom had to be top cheese-dealers in order to score the "cheese day", in which case I was always fine - Theresa H., who was always in my homeroom, was a cheese pusher extraordinaire. I don't know if her father ran a car dealership and pushed off ten pounds of cheese with every Buick, or what - but she moved a lot of product. Cheese product.

So, someone would be absent, and the conversation would go like this:

CHRISTIAN MORALITY INSTRUCTOR: Where's Lisa?

ALL OF US: Cheese day.

C.M.I: Oh. All right, turn to page 183 and let's begin.

Don't we all need a cheese day? I mean, what are we all doing, day in and day out, but selling cheese by the barrowful?

Take your cheese day. You've earned it.

Cooking unit

2006-09-28T19:19:00.000-07:00

I believe it was in third grade that we had some kind of basic cooking unit - we had a large class that was presided over by two teachers. One was tall and Lois-Smith-esque, the other was a little wispier and played "House At Pooh Corner" on the guitar (hello, mid-70s.)

I think the unit was all combined with something to do with the "Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle" stories. Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle, if you haven't read the books, specialized in finding cures for children with behavioral problems like answering back, interrupting, not wanting to go to bed, bickering, and being a cry-baby. The cures sometimes were as simple as parents bickering the way the children do (so they can see the pointlessness of it), or bizarre - a powder blown on an "interrupter" that makes one become temporarily mute. I need to order up some of that.

Well, in the cooking unit, we made chocolate pudding - I think the goal was to learn how to follow directions. And also to have delicious pudding. After making it, I became briefly obsessed with pudding. And by "briefly" I mean "from then until the present day."

I hadn't quite figured out that not all chocolaty powders were the same - I was convinced that Nestle's Quik would turn into pudding, too. Of course, all I ever managed to make with Nestle's Quik was super-thick chocolate sludge. But that suited my purposes just fine.

I took it upon myself to make prop versions of some of Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle's "cures." I remember I manufactured some sort of dust out of powdered chalk, and created something else out of aluminum foil. I brought the props in and proudly presented them to the teaching-and-guitar-playing duo. They were very nice about it.

I'm sure they expected me to eventually go mad.

Nine people's favorite thing

2006-09-27T19:54:00.000-07:00

I had a meeting tonight, and my friend had last-minute tickets to a show. I hadn't seen this particular show (sometimes I have to be dragged to the theater) but it's closing soon, so why not. It's about writers writing a show ... one could pick it apart as too self-referential perhaps, or pick it apart for any number of reasons. But it made me cry. I needed to hear what it said, this particular day. And what it said was:

"I'd rather be nine people's favorite thing, than a hundred people's ninth-favorite thing."

Roots and tubers

2006-09-26T18:27:00.000-07:00

Today, someone gave me the gift of marzipan.

Marzipan, for the uninitiated, is an almond paste that can be shaped and colored to resemble other things. The person who gave me the marzipan is quite skilled.

There were two collections. One was "Roots and Tubers", made up of the following: Two Carrots, Two Turnips, Two Beets, Two Potatoes.

The other was "Seashore": Two Starfish, Two Whelks, Two Bivalves, Sponges, Two Sanddollars.

We polished off all the Roots and Tubers at lunch. Now I have tiny little almond-flavored Starfish waiting for me.

Life is good, eh?

Voiceless Velma

2006-09-25T20:18:00.000-07:00

I mentioned previously how, back in the days when I was a music director in summer rep (not to be confused with summer stock), I made my "hit by a bus" lists - who would step in to any given role if the original actor fell ill, or fell in front of a moving vehicle. Usually this sort of worrying fell to me, because the directors often left once their shows were open - I knew everyone's vocal range, how quickly they learned music, and so on.

One summer, we had just opened a production of Chicago, which was the fourth show in a season that included The Pajama Game, Fiddler on the Roof, and Oliver.

One could tell quite a few stories about that season - how in Fiddler the only Jewish person involved was the drummer; how the ten year old girl playing Oliver was late for an entrance because she was beating the pants off the other cast members in a card game; how the director of Chicago was giving special, in-depth acting coaching to his leading lady. On the dock. After midnight. Resulting in splinters in unlikely places.

But that's not the time for those stories. No, this started when we were partying like mad after the successful opening of Chicago: seven weeks of hard work behind us, a summer of days free ahead of us. Let's drink till we puke! The actress playing Velma (the Chita Rivera/Catherine Zeta-Jones role) came up to me during the cast party. Her voice was disappearing, even as we spoke. Well, even as I spoke, because, all of a sudden, she couldn't. Speak. Much less sing.

Time to get out the "hit by a bus" list.

This season, this particular actress was playing Velma in Chicago; Fruma Sarah, the jealous dead wife in Tevye's dream in Fiddler; one of the factory gals in The Pajama Game - Boopsie, I think; and the kindly housekeeper in Oliver. (I refuse to put the exclamation point after Oliver! even though that's the title. There's another show I hate. Bleagh. It deserves no additional punctuation.)

Mercifully, we had a few days until Chicago played again. And, by an amazing stroke of luck, one of the other girls in the company had just played Velma in a production a few months ago. Thank god! But more pressing was: who would be Fruma Sarah tomorrow night, with her big freaky running-around-screaming aria?

That would be Stephanie.

Stephanie was the lead in Pajama Game; she was completely unflappable, and perhaps one of the best sight-readers and musicians I know. (She is currently in the Broadway company of Beauty and the Beast-- I think as the wardrobe -- and will be making her debut as Mrs. Potts next month. I think she might be the youngest Mrs. Potts ever - she is far, far from Angela Lansburydom.)

I woke her up the next morning with a surprise: she would be spending the day learning the music and choreography for Fruma Sarah's rant. What a lovely way to wake up from a drunken stupor. I don't remember if she was drunk. Let's say she was, it makes the story better. If she wasn't - oops, my bad.

Her debut as the screaming-meemie ghost went off without a hitch. One show down, three to go.

Pajama Game was next: luckily, Boopsie was not a pivotal role. We just gave her few lines away to other characters ("Yeah!" "You tell 'em!" "Me too!" etc.); our voiceless Velma still went on and did all the dancing and whatnot (I wanted her to remain completely silent until her voice healed.) The only thing that was odd was that the actress was very tall and striking, especially in her Boopsie beehive. And she never spoke. So it was as if the heroine's circle of friends included a tall stork-like mute.

Oliver was a similar situation - I believe we just gave her lines away - she did a lot of nodding. We might have stuffed Stephanie into that role too, as I recall there was a reprise of "Where Is Love?" involved. Or we may have cut it. Anyway, it wasn't a difficult fix.

So there we were, rehearsing NewVelma into Chicago. We were lucky in other ways: NewVelma's previous role in the show was the last cellblock girl. If you know the "Cell Block Tango", the "six merry murderesses" are "Pop" "Squish" "Six" "Uh Uh" "Cicero" and "Lipschitz" - the key words of their little stories of bloodshed and mayhem. Velma doesn't come last in the song as you might guess - she is "Cicero" and comes fifth. But luckily, since NewVelma's previous role was #6, we could just leave it out without much trauma - she just sang Velma's part, and we moved on to the big finish.

We found a costume that fit her, and basically told her, "Don't bump into the furniture." That night was really electrifying - all the other actors were on high alert, and performed brilliantly. NewVelma was a smash hit, and brought the house down.

It took a few more weeks before Voiceless Velma was back to singing health. I think she had problems on and off throughout the summer - she had an amazing belt voice as well as a more legit sound ("legit" = classical soprano). She was naturally gifted but she might not have had the training to sustain the low belting that Chicago requires - the role was written for a woman in her 40s with a deep voice - we adjusted what we could, but the part takes a toll on a young voice. That's the other advantage about playing in rep - if you are taking on a demanding role, you're only doing it at most every other day, so you aren't wearing yourself down.

I heard through the grapevine that Voiceless Velma was recently in a Bissell commercial - a puppy pees on her carpet. I'm not surprised that she's in commercials - she was stunning and had great bone structure.

I wonder if she says anything?

Twill be a pun, I fear

2006-09-25T20:15:00.000-07:00

I skipped a day on the Content Challenge - do I get flogged for that? Blogflogged? B'flogged?

To make up for it, I'll put up two entries. So there.

First, a short one.

Last night, we went to the "friends and family" pre-opening dinner at the steakhouse that David's brother and sister-in-law are about to open. The food was delicious - I can only indulge in a great big steak every once in a while - but prime rib = yum. And there is a vast potato selection - I will have to go back just to try all the variations.

Anyway, one of our dining companions was the buyer for David's store - she is an amazing artist and a lovely person. She was telling a story from work, how she had misplaced some twill fabric samples, and had been distraught about it.

Me: "So, it was like you'd lost the twill to live."

Now, David hates when I make puns like that. But really, how often is "twill" going to come up in conversation? You have to take your chances when you can.

Great winds from the sky

2006-09-23T20:53:00.000-07:00

I've been cranking out songs all day. My cranker is sore.

Now my homework is finally assembling the content for the website for one of my shows -- it has been hovering empty, merely a lonely buoy, a placeholder in the teeming vastness of that series of tubes known as The Internets.

Of course, one would expect a synopsis. I do have a snappy 100-word summary that we've used for various festivals and things, but I thought I'd write a better synopsis for the site. A mere 2,300 words later, voila!

So perhaps it needs to be edited. But a lot happens!

Now I'm writing the pages about the characters -- Amelia Earhart, Agatha Christie, and Aimee Semple McPherson. I'm trying not to go on and on, but there's a reason that each of these women has numerous books written about them -- their stories are fascinating.

And if you come over, just pop down to the bookshelf downstairs. That's where my ever-growing collection of books about these three is currently ensconced.

One thing I'm always moved by, when I go over my notes for the show, was a eulogy for Amelia Earhart written by Walter Lippmann, published July 8, 1937, just six days after she disappeared over the Pacific. She was just three weeks away from turning 40.

He wrote:

I cannot quite remember whether Miss Earhart undertook her flight with some practical purpose in mind, say, to demonstrate something or other about aviation which will make it a little easier for commercial passengers to move more quickly around the world. There are those who seem to think that an enterprise like hers must have some such justification, that without it there was no good reason for taking such grave risks.

But in truth Miss Earhart needs no such justification. The world is a better place to live in because it contains human beings who will give up ease and security and stake their own lives in order to do what they themselves think worth doing. They help to offset the much larger number who are ready to sacrifice the ease and the security and the very lives of others in order to do what they want done. No end of synthetic heroes strut the stage, great bold men in bulletproof vests surrounded by squads of armed guards, demonstrating their courage by terrorizing the weak and the defenseless. It is somehow reassuring to think that there are also men and women who take the risks themselves, who pit themselves not against their fellow beings but against the immensity and the violence of the natural world, who are brave without cruelty to others and impassioned with an idea that dignifies all who contemplate it.

The best things of mankind are as useless as Amelia Earhart's adventure. They are the things that are undertaken not for some definite, measurable result, but because someone, not counting the costs or calculating the consequences, is moved by curiosity, the love of excellence, a point of honor, the compulsion to invent or to make or to understand. In such persons mankind overcomes the inertia which would keep it earthbound forever in its habitual ways. They have in them the free and useless energy with which alone men surpass themselves.

Such energy cannot be planned and managed and made purposeful, or weighed by the standards of utility or judged by its social consequences. It is wild and it is free. But all the heroes, the saints and the seers, the explorers and the creators partake of it. They do not know what they discover. They do not know where their impulse is taking them. They can give no account in advance of where they are going or explain completely where they have been. They have been possessed for a time with an extraordinary passion which is unintelligible in ordinary terms.

No preconceived theory fits them. No material purpose actuates them. They do the useless, brave, noble, the divinely foolish and the very wisest things that are done by man. And what they prove to themselves and to others is that man is no mere creature of his habits, no mere automaton in his routine, no mere cog in the collective machine, but that in the dust of which he is made there is also fire, lighted now and then by great winds from the sky.

The curse of Steve

2006-09-22T20:42:00.000-07:00

Tonight, along with our friends Stephanie and Amy, we saw the latest show at the Everyman Theater. It was a delightful surprise to open the program and see that an old friend of mine was in the cast (and he did an excellent job with a difficult part.)

We had met doing summer theater in Montana back in 1990. That was my first season as music director -- I went back to that same theater for many summers throughout the 90s, and still have many friends from those summers. Karl, my friend from the Everyman show, was a stalwart member of the company - a very facile actor and an excellent musician. He could always be relied upon - a real pillar of the company.

This particular theater did four shows in rep ("stock" means a different show every two weeks, or in particularly hellish theaters, every week. Once you close a show, it's done. Rep is, of course, rotating performances.) We would rehearse two shows for three weeks, open them, rehearse a third show for two weeks and add it to the mix, and then rehearse a fourth. You had no days off for the first seven weeks, but then for the rest of the summer, you had your days free and only performed at night. Sweet, for a non-union job.

One summer, we were doing Man of La Mancha - a show that I must confess I hate. I think the other shows were Where's Charley?, Babes in Arms, and My One and Only. The company was very young - given that the pay was so low, this theater usually wound up hiring people right out of college or who were still in college. The guy playing Don Quixote in Man of La Mancha was 21, I believe - but a glorious full baritone voice. Unfortunately, we soon found out that he was a raging alcoholic.

Now, in summer theater, everyone drinks, especially in the little town we were in. Days are long and stressful - and when I started working there, shots of vodka at the dive bar were a dollar, and beers were 75 cents. But when you're young and resilient, you can get trashed and still be up to begin rehearsal at nine a.m.

This guy wasn't just out getting wasted - he had a fifth of vodka by his bed. We started noticing there was a problem when he would disappear during the day - if you weren't rehearsing a scene, they had you working in the scene shop or the costume shop. And one night, when he was drunker than usual, he sleepwalked and mistook the closet in his room for a bathroom. Ooops.

And during the day, you could smell the alcohol coming off him. He had so much alcohol in his system that it was affecting his voice - he was losing control of his soft palate, which was hanging down like a wet blanket, making him go flat. I started taping him singing so he could hear how off-pitch he was, and spent my lunch hours working with him on his voice.

The producers of the theater were a husband and wife team, and unlike many owners of non-Equity theaters, they really cared about the people they hired. So "D.T.", as he was known, a big bear-ish fatherly sort, had a conversation with the actor. They were concerned. They wanted to help. But they gave him an ultimatum - no more drinking, or you're out.

Now, in the years I had worked there, I had never seen them fire anyone. I had never even heard of them firing anyone in the past. I didn't think it would happen. But, the guy couldn't overcome the urge (of course), and pissed in his room again.

As it happens, the girl playing Aldonza opposite this guy came from the same school as our drunken Don Quixote. She confessed to us privately that she almost didn't take the job when she heard he was in the company - he had been doing this same sort of thing at school. She had kept it to herself because she didn't want to prejudice anyone against him.

We were one day away from opening My One and Only, the fourth show of the season. We weighed the consequences of firing Don Q. - already his fellow cast members were having to cover for his erratic behavior on stage. His part in My One and Only was small, but tricky to cover - he was part of a jazz-singing trio. The big question was, who could learn Don Quixote - we had three days until La Mancha played again. The directors asked Karl if he could do it - Karl, being a smart cookie, had already been taking a look at the role. He knew which way the wind was blowing.

I always used to make "hit by a bus" lists - all twenty of the cast members were in all four shows, but the leads were distributed so that if you were a lead in one show, you'd have chorus roles or mid-size parts in the others. I would make lists of who would replace who, if someone were to be hit by a bus (not that there were buses around, but you know what I mean.) I only had to make use of the list twice, and this was one of those times.

The decision was made. We went looking for the guy - he was nowhere to be found. We finally found him asleep in the costume storage - a quiet, dimly lit place where you could burrow under racks and racks of old costumes and stay hidden.

The rest of the company had thought they were being given the night off - a rare treat, but one that happened occasionally right before the fourth show was about to open. We told them that instead, there would be an emergency company meeting, and they were all to gather at the theater. This did not go over well - everyone had plans to drive over to the closest town, forty minutes away, and see a movie, or just get the hell away from each other for one night.

We wanted them all in one place, because we were going to have the fired actor pack up his stuff and clear out that very night, and we didn't want him to have to do it in front of everyone else. We sat in a room with him, and explained why this decision was being made. We were worried about him. We got his parents on the phone, so they knew he was coming home. The producers took him to Whitefish, a town about an hour away where the Amtrak station was. He would spend the night there, and when the daily train came the next morning, he would head back to the midwest from whence he came.

The company, grumpy at having their night off cancelled, reacted admirably when they heard Don Q had been fired. Their first question was, was he all right? Was someone with him tonight? The next was, what we will do about the shows? We announced who would be stepping into Don Q's roles in all the shows. We started rehearsing the changes for My One and Only - which opened the next night.

The opening went without a hitch; ordinarily the company would have their days free, but of course we had to keep rehearsing, in order to work in the replacements. Karl stepped into Man of La Mancha with ease - he was almost word-perfect at his first rehearsal. Although he is a tenor and thus not naturally suited to the role vocally (which is usually played by a booming baritone), he acted the hell out of it. He has a naturally angular face, which lent itself well to the part. People loved him.

What was interesting is how much the company pulled together once the old Don Q was gone. So much energy had been spent dealing with "the problem" that people couldn't focus on their own work. It taught me that when you have someone causing a problem like this, it's better to fire them if you can. Everyone is so concerned with smoothing it over, or "dealing with it" or minimizing the issue - but you really just need to get rid of the person. There have been times when I wanted to fire someone from a show, but couldn't (if it wasn't within my authority to do so.) And there are times I could fire someone, and did.

And within a week, he was a distant memory. I hope he got help - he was so young to have such a severe drinking problem.

What was funny is that the theater had had bad luck with a few employees in the past with this guy's same first name - let's say "Steve"' [not his real name]. They had noticed it when they cast him - but figured, oh, "The Curse of Steve" can't be an actual thing, can it?

Oh yes, my children. Yes, it can. I don't think they've hired a "Steve" since.

Maybe it's Moobelline

2006-09-21T20:24:00.000-07:00

In the early 70s, I was a fan of Wacky Packages - it was a series of stickers put out by Topps - they came in a package with a slab of bubble gum, like baseball cards. They were parodies of popular products - Weakies Cereal (for Wheaties), Moobelline Makeup, Head and Boulders Shampoo, Yubum Coffee, Sludge Brick Mix (instead of Fudge Brownie Mix) from Betty Crooked, and so on.

I remember that my bedroom door was plastered with these - and probably bumper stickers, too, and god knows what else. I pity whoever bought that house - if they didn't have to replace the door, they certainly spent plenty of time scraping the stickers off.

I was surprised to find out that one of the designers of the stickers was Art Spiegelman (who also designed “Garbage Pail Kids”); he is, of course, the Pulitzer Prize-winning author of the graphic novel Maus.

It's a testament to the power of Wacky Packages that whenever I see Old Spice cologne, I think of Old Spit.

Tagged!

2006-09-20T09:31:00.000-07:00

I've been tagged!

I've been not-blogging for so long, it's a honor to be remembered.

The meme is -- five things to do in your city. So, here they are. I'll start with New York - but I will limit myself to the East Village where I work - because as Crash pointed out, you could easily come up with five million things if you included the entire city.

1. Eat in the outdoor garden at the Cloister Cafe, on 9th Street just west of Second Avenue, on the south side of the street. The entrance is a bit hidden - but it's a treasure when you find it. I do all my let's-have-coffee meetings there, because Starbucks is a joke if you're actually trying to have a conversation. In cold weather, you can eat inside, where there are huge glowing stained glass windows for walls - and a potbelly stove with flickering flames within. Cozy.

2. Go to Kim's Video on St. Mark's Place, about midway between Third and Second Ave, where they have an amazing selection of random DVDs you didn't know you had to have until you saw them. Actually, I try to stay out of there for that very reason.

3. Go to Tompkins Square Park, if you are a Boston Terrier with a keen interest in squirrel hunting. The park is always ... lively ... but you won't lack for squirrel company.

4. Go to A Salt and Battery, on Second Ave around 4th Street, if you have a craving for British fish and chips ... or a deep fried Mars bar. If you have one of those, you won't need to eat another for at least a year. It's like a flu shot.

5. Visit Sam's Deli, on Second Avenue between 7th Street and St. Mark's Place, right next to the Belgian fries place, and a few doors down from Love Saves the Day (a mecca of odd collectible toys.) I mention Sam's because that's where I get just about everything when I'm at work, and it's great to have a place where they know that you want tuna salad for lunch ... like you've had for lunch one thousand times before. In the summer, they keep their freezer full of cups of ice. You bring one to the counter if you want iced coffee. The cups are the slightly thin waxed-paper kind that always seem to be about to give way under the onslaught of moisture and cold. Very impermanent - very summery. I love those guys.

Even though I'm still learning about Baltimore, here are five things to do there. The first thing would be to visit bluehouse. We'll talk after you complete that task.

Then:

1. Go to Robert E. Lee Memorial Park, which is hidden away in Mt. Washington, near the light rail stop. If you're me, you'll miss the entrance the first time, when you're driving a Boston terrier in search of new squirrel-laden lands to conquer.

2. Go to Drusilla's Books, at 817 N. Howard Street. I love used bookstores, and I love old childrens' books. This store isn't enormous, but they have a well-chosen selection - their wall of series books (like Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew, Bobbsey Twins and other lesser-known titles) is worth serious browsing.

3. Go to that crepe place on Charles Street, right by the Everyman Theater and the Charles movie theater. It's Sofi's Crepes. Everytime I'm in that area, I think ... mmmm, crepes. They recently expanded, which means: more crepes.

4. Go to the Charles and see a movie. I love being within walking distance of this theater - there's always something interesting - but movies you'd actually want to see. Most recently we saw Little Miss Sunshine there - it lives up to the good reviews.

5. Take a stroll through Bolton Hill, specifically the length of Lanvale Street to Eutaw, and returning down Lafayette from Eutaw to Mt. Royal. This is a walk that can be enjoyed two or three times a day, and includes highlights such as: The Big Oak Tree Where Squirrels Live, the Telephone Pole Where I Saw A Squirrel Once, Plus A Dead One Once, the Alley Where That Dead Rat Is Melding With The Sidewalk, and the Flimsy Tree Where Another Squirrel Was Hiding, But I Knew He Was There (guidebook entries courtesy of Goblin.)

As far as tagging anyone else -- anyone engaging in the content challenge is welcome to take this as a personal tag, from me to you.

What's cuter than Muppets ...?

2006-09-19T19:32:00.000-07:00

While flipping around the channels the other day - something I hardly ever do anymore, thanks to TiVo - I ran across a horrifying cartoon: A Pup Named Scooby Doo. I only saw the "I would have gotten away with it if it weren't for you meddling kids!" denouement, but I got the gist of it: the adventures of the pint-size kid version of Fred, Daphne, Shaggy and Velma (who had bug-eye glasses even as a ... six year old? Eight year old? Bizarre ageless midget ... ?)

I always like to imagine the pitch meeting where someone proposes the "___Babies" version of whatever piece of entertainment product is feeling faded and tired. I believe it all started back in the 80s:

Executive number one: "Sure, Muppets are cute, but they could be cuter."

Executive number two: "You know what's cuter than Muppets? Babies!"

Executive number three: "That's it! Muppet BABIES!"

And a horrifying trend was born.

I think of this whenever I remember a certain trip to Paris with my friend Amy (that story will be next.) At one point we found ourselves in a hotel where the television had three channels, one per language - English, German and French.

The English-speaking channel was C-Span. Ugh.

The German-language channel was showing ten-year-old reruns of General Hospital.

"Sie sind die Liebe der Frau I am meisten in der Welt, Bobbi Spencer. Ich liebe nicht Laura! Warum riecht die Krankenschwesterstation?"

And on the French channel? Bébés De Muppet.

"Kermit, nous a laissés s'échapper de la pépinière et devenir célèbres et nous marier !"

"Mon Dieu, Piggi!"

So, what's next?

Designing Women Babies

Murphy Brown Babies

Ally McBabies

Law & Order & Babies

Grey's AnatoBabies

Survivor: Cook Islands: Babies

Before They Were "Friends" They Were "Baby Friends"

Buffy the Vampire Slayer Babies

Alias: Babies

BabyStar GalactiBabies

Of all the gin joints in all the world...

2006-09-18T22:36:00.000-07:00

Here's a stumper.

Picture me, in a half-empty train car.

A woman gets on in Philadelphia.

Passing row upon empty row, she chooses the seat directly in front of me.

And reclines.

Why?

LeDuck

2006-09-17T21:13:00.000-07:00

Link fixed. I think.

More songs. More computer trauma (although parts of it are slowly getting better.)

Some advances on various fronts. We have an actress to complete the trio - one we are very, very happy about. She sounds happy to be involved. We have the space booked. One step at a time.

I'm having to take a break from reading my usual plateful of political blogs - I want to stay informed, but the stress level interferes with my composing and for the moment I just have to stay in my blissful ignorance bubble to get anything done. In the meantime, this blog has become my new daily read. It's the rehearsal journal of the one of the authors of Mimi LeDuck, a musical which opens Off-Broadway next month.

The show originated at NYU, and was written during the first year that I taught there. I have a special affection for everyone in that class; I wasn't connected with this project other than wishing it well, but I loved it in its madness from the start.

I'm especially thrilled to see it finally come to Off-Broadway - it just demonstrates how long and difficult a road it really is - this show has been making this journey for eight years. Believe it or not, that's about how long it takes. And it takes incredible determination, self-confidence, and guts (let alone talent.)

So check it out. Diana's a great writer, and it's fun reading her posts, even if you're not a theater person at all.

And they managed to acquire an incredible cast, including Eartha Kitt. For that alone, they deserve to be a big honking success.

Six items left

2006-09-16T20:46:00.000-07:00

Today I wrote four songs. I'm getting into the full-bore creative push - which is good, because I have miles yet to go.

When I say I wrote four songs, it means that I got the basic text setting done. They still need to be fully arranged, and some need some adjustments lyrically. But it's a step forward.

I was working on a show with one of my collaborators - this was a commission, and she had come on board because my initial collaborator hadn't been able to finish the show in time. We had begun rehearsal, and only had half the score done (there was an incredibly patient artistic director involved here.) To stay sane, we kept on making "To-Do" lists, to have the small satisfaction of crossing things off as we churned out the material. Somehow, no matter how much we accomplished, there were always six things left on the list.

I think this is one of the reasons I'm fascinated by Project Runway - I've been in that position, cranking out the work, having to create things in such a short span of time that there's no point in worrying about anything or waiting for inspiration - you just have to do it. Sometimes you create something really outstanding, and sometimes you miss the mark - but if you don't second-guess yourself, most everything ends up working fine, at least for the moment.

I was lucky, because my collaborator is as much of a workhorse as I am. She would come upstairs to the apartment where I was ensconced (it was furnished in musty dark-wood-cut-crystal "visiting grandma's house" style) at 9:00 am. We would blearily gulp down our coffee, and get to work. She had stacks of reference books (this was a show about the history of aviation, so we didn't even have the luxury of just making crap up - this was research intensive.) I had my portable keyboard - at that time, I had the kind that had all sorts of accompaniment sounds built in (samba! merengue! paso doble! hoedown!), which, although cheesy, gave me genre ideas to fall back on when inspiration ran dry.

We would take a short break for lunch, but generally would work straight through until it was time to leave for rehearsal at 5:30 or so. Mercifully, the show was rehearsing in the evenings - writing through the night for daytime rehearsals is much, much harder. We would pack up the new songs and deliver them to the director and music director, and cross them off the list - only to find six items still remaining.

I took pride in delivering the songs fully scored (this means that there is a full piano part written out); I hate resorting to a lead sheet (a lead sheet is the vocal line only, with chord indications - what you'll see in the "fake books".) Even if I'm just doing a basic repetitive figure, I have to get something down for the piano, or it's just not complete.

There was one day, near the end, when we were both fading. I think I had my head down on the keyboard, noodling away, trying to come up with a setting for a World War I dogfight number (the Red Baron versus a Frenchman whose name I can't recall.) Luckily, given the style of the show, I could just drag out musical cliches and make them work (German music versus French music - go!) but my brain had given out. I took a walk to clear my head - usually I come up with much better music walking around and singing to myself than I ever do sitting at the keyboard. I wandered through the neighborhood where we were staying - our particular apartments were next to a graveyard, but they were next to a well-manicured suburban area. I got a few looks - I keep forgetting that outside of New York, no one really walks anywhere. Well, the fact that I was walking around and singing might have had something to do with it.

The song ended up being very funny, although not really because of the song itself - the guys singing it were rolling around on office chairs with little wings attached, with funny-looking WWI Snoopy-type aviator helmets on. Prop humor - the refuge of the desperate.

Luckily, I'd say just about everything we wrote was at least passable. The show was slightly over time, so we got to cut the number that was the weakest. It was a good idea in concept, but not so much in execution - a flirty number for a barnstormer and a wing-walking gal. The show had a cast of five, so everyone had plenty of songs to sing; the actress who sang in the cut song went on and on and on about how having a number cut was her worst nightmare - she was sorry she couldn't have made it work - and so on, and so on. I figured, if I were an actor in a show and one of the numbers wasn't going so well, I'd be much happier having the number cut that having to try and magically make the song work. I suppose this is why I didn't end up being an actor.

So, tomorrow, it's back to the music factory. When you see somebody tromping around the neighborhood, singing under (or not so under) his breath, possibly with a Boston terrier in tow, you'll know who it is.

Tiger: grrrrr

2006-09-15T20:18:00.000-07:00

For the last day or so, my laptop -- ordinarily attached to me like an extra brain or a kidney -- has been acting up. Damn you, Apple! It started out with small, strange blurps ... the "Spotlight" find feature could find nothing ... literally, it said there was nothing on my hard drive. And now I can't open files, either through the program, or through Finder windows. Just when I get to the application or document I want to open, the Finder window blinks away like Jeannie transporting Major Nelson into her bottle... I'm madly searching around on Mac Forums to find a possible answer -- I hear there are some strange quirks with the new iTunes (Thanks a lot). There's never a good time for computer trauma, but especially when I'm not right in the middle of finishing scores to three different shows.

That shrieking sound you hear is me. It's the high pitched whine created as I grind my teeth into dust.

It's nebulose

2006-09-14T19:15:00.000-07:00

Lately, in the hour in which I'm preparing dinner, David has taken to watching one of the many Star Trek: The Next Generation episodes that TiVo lovingly gathers for us. I listen from the kitchen as if it were radio drama.

Now, I am a life-long Star Trek devotee - I convinced my mother to sew me a Captain Kirk costume for Halloween, using the pattern contained in the Star Fleet Cadet's Manual or whatever it's called. However, there are some plots that the Trek gang returned to a few times too many. One of these TNG episodes was on the other day - where the Enterprise encounters a sentient cloud being.

I'll have to narrow that down a bit - the Enterprise (and Voyager) encountered sentient cloud beings quite often. So much so that, whenever they came upon a nebula, you would think that the idea would cross someone's mind ... "Hey, do you think this is a sentient cloud being?" But no, it usually takes two-thirds of the episode before someone says, thunderstruck, "It's ... alive. It's a sentient ... oh, how can I describe it ... cloud being!"

In this particular episode, the sentient cloud being (or some non-corporeal being that was living in a giant space cloud - same thing) somehow got into the Enterprise through the exhaust pipe, and jumped from person to person before finally inhabiting the body of Picard.

So it was a combo of the "sentient cloud being" plot, and the "a member of the crew is taken over by an alien intelligence." They covered both these plots quite fully in the original series - no need to go back there.

Some other plots that drive me nertz:

Wesley figures it all out.

Something goes wrong with the holodeck!

The ship is in a tight spot until someone exclaims, hey, let's reconfigure the deflector dish to emit blahdeblah particles! It's so crazy that it just. might. work. (Half the time, the person who exclaims this is Wesley, in which case, see above.)

Although not rising to the level of full-blown plot, the filler material of Neelix does something exasperating but ultimately charming also made me want to pull my hair out.

Why do the sentient cloud being plots push my buttons so? Partly it's the over-done-ness of them, but probably partly too is that a lot of the time, I'm a sentient cloud being myself. Drifting around ... in a daze ... just all foggy and nebulaic.

Next season, I'd like to see sentient cloud beings represented on Project Runway.

TIM GUNN: All right, designers, your challenge was to make a dress for Lindsay Lohan to wear to rehab, which can convert to a straitjacket. Sentient cloud being, how far along are you?

(SENTIENT CLOUD BEING floats, serene, unchanging and mute, in the voids of space.)

TIM GUNN: Sentient cloud being ... I'm concerned. The clock is ticking. Make it work!

(SENTIENT CLOUD BEING drifts, free of thought or care, through the cold of interstellar emptiness.)

Then, it whips up a combo bubbleskirt/straitjacket out of galactic waste material. Sentient Cloud Being's model, LaVivicaZa, works it and is fierce.

MICHAEL KORS: I don't know. I like the straps. I just feel like it's all ... "Look at me, I'm a gaseous glowing cloud."

NINA GARCIA: It feels old to me. Like endless cosmic eons old.

HEIDI: I vould vear it to rehahb.

GUEST JUDGE LINDSAY LOHAN: (vomits behind chair)

CONFESSIONAL BY CONTESTANT MALAN, BROUGHT BACK FOR SEASON FOUR: My mother was disappointed that I had no interest in growing up to become a sentient cloud being. She threw my watercolors into the bidet, and tossed my sketchpads into the furnace. And she laughed.

Sentient cloud being is such a bitch.

Laura!

2006-09-13T21:06:00.000-07:00

I'm racing against the clock for today's entry, so I will just say: Thank GOD that the Project Runway judges had some sense and finally awarded a win to the inestimable Laura Bennett. She was exhausted and teary-eyed midway through the challenge - I thought perhaps Killer Fatigue would claim her. But no - sometimes you need to be broken down before you can recover greater strength. And she won. We "wooo"'d. Really we did.

And believe me, we were both worried. When they showed Laura's lace cocktail dress midway through construction, it looked like something your Nana would wear to a wedding. With a hat that had a feather.

I found it pointless to bring back Angela and Vincent. Why? And I can see having the limitation of only black and white, but why the "use all your fabric scraps" element to the challenge? Were they being wasteful? Is this like the fashion industry version of "eat all your peas, there are children starving in China? And no, don't stuff your peas in your purse, that's not what it's for."

I do wish that Jeffrey had been booted off, but I am resigned to seeing him in Fashion Week - unless the judges see the light next week, it's likely to be Uli or Laura who goes next.

I'm sorry to see Kayne go, but that dress just wasn't great. Even I, the king of rumpled, knew that - the back looked like the lacing on a mini-trampoline.

Project Runway is a harsh mistress - I hurried home from New York as fast as I could so that David and I could watch it in real time. That's devotion.

Flaming shishkebab

2006-09-12T19:39:00.000-07:00

I... uh ... oh, dear.

Ann Miller and a flaming shishkebab. Della Reese singing with Isaac, your bartender. Ethel Merman belting out "What I Did For Love" by the swimming pool. Carol Channing in safety-orange satin pajamas.

Once you look, you can't look away.

Uptown, downtown, and back again

2006-09-12T19:16:00.000-07:00

I'm so tired, my hair hurts.

Now that I'm only in New York a few days a week, those days become packed from morning till night. My day today, as a film montage:

Morning, 8:00 am After a night of insomnia, the last thing I wanted to do was wake up this morning. Cue "Nine to Five" and me stumbling to the shower. Alas, there was no cup of ambition in the kitchen, only stale Orangina. So I had to go to Starbucks.

Morning meeting: Picture me pitching a project at a Madison Avenue advertising agency in the boardroom. It's something like master classes for advertising execs, and it has been in the works for six months. It came down to this, selling the program to the Arianna Huffington-esque executive who could greenlight everything. Cue the Working Girl soundtrack. Condition: go!

On the subway: I run into one of my ex-students. We chat as we are jammed into one of the cars of the #6 train. She's lugging the printer she just bought; I'm dragging along my overstuffed satchel, filled with proposals for student projects. Cue the Days and Nights of Molly Dodd music ... if anyone even remembers that show.

At school: I and two of my colleagues meet with student teams. I do my best to be inspirational, in the style of my hero Tim Gunn. Cue a track from Mr. Holland's Opus, climaxing with me crying out something like, "You must write what's in your hearts!"

After school, at the malt shop: Well, Johnny Rocket's. Who knew there was even a Johnny Rocket's in Manhattan? I didn't. I feel the need for onion rings, and I indulge, along with one of the other guys from the faculty. We alternately talk in lofty tones about "art", and then gossip and bitch about everyone we know (not anyone reading this, of course. We love you.) Cue the music from Beverly Hills 90210. Or Grease.

Before hitting the malt shop, we'd gone to Best Buy so my friend could scope out the new release of the original Star Wars trilogy in their as-originally-released versions - in a collectible tin! They had the DVDs, but they were all out of the collectible tins. We stood there debating whether or not the collectible tin was worth searching elsewhere for. I groused about the proliferation of all the different "editions" of movies - how many Lord of the Rings DVD editions are there? Just put out one goddamn version so I don't have to buy it five times (yes, yes, I know it's my duty as an American consumer to buy it five times, but give me a break.) I consider buying the "Severance Package" (seasons one and two of The Office, the U.S. version. We debate the relative merits of the U.K. and U.S. Offices.

Cue the music of ultimate dorkdom. Cue the sound effect of someone shooting us with tranquilizer darts and releasing us into some kind of nerd-geek nature preserve. We moo with delight "Loooook, Staaaar Waaaars."

Oh wait, that was the dream sequence part of the montage.

Back at school: I meet with another friend for whom I'm writing some songs. We work on a few things, and I play him some things I've written. Cue the music from any "Let's put on a show in the barn" movie musical ... or else the scene in Broadcast News where the guys come in and play the news theme they've written on a Casio keyboard, pounding the table for percussion.

Back on the subway: I'm so exhausted by this point - nine at night - that there's no music in the montage. Keep it down.

Posting on the blog: Cue the music from any cyber-thriller, where the protagonist breaks in to some secret database, and in the closeups, you can see all the information on the screen being projected onto his face. Like Sandra Bullock in The Net or The ScaryNet or whatever that crappy "Sandra Bullock is a computer genius, no, really!" movie was.

Crawling into bed: Cue the Harry Connick Jr. version of some standard, from the soundtrack of any Nora Ephron movie starring Meg Ryan. I love you, New York. Thanks for being the amazing whitewater raft ride you are on a daily basis. I'm whipped. Are you happy? Of course you are. See you tomorrow: let's do it all over again.

Five years ago

2006-09-11T14:46:00.000-07:00

A small memory of September 11, 2001. Below is a copy of an e-mail I was able to send when my phone service briefly came back on (the days of dial-up!) I had been traveling to school when the planes struck the World Trade Center; I came up out of the subway to see an enormous cloud of dust. They had fallen.

I sent this to my family and friends in the quick moment that I had:

Here's the latest -- my phone has been dead for most of the day but I managed to get online quickly and am leaving messages and sending emails while I have service.

As you know I don't live anywhere near the WTC -- our building at NYU (where I was) is closer -- you can see the towers -- it now looks like a volcano erupted, you can taste the dust. I was most worried about my friend Kent who works in 7 World Trade and is often at World Trade One in about the spot where the first plane went in. Cell service has been down, I finally got ahold of him at around 5 pm, and by some amazing blessing he had other business to attend to this morning and was not in the office.

I walked home from school, about six miles -- subways and trains were essentially shut down, the streets are mostly empty, there are National Guardsmen around. It is surreal, but people are reacting well -- there are overflow lines at all the hospitals to give blood.

Thanks for thinking about me -- this is an incomprehensible day.

I knew how long the walk was because, by some odd coincidence, that day was the first day I was wearing a pedometer my mother had given me.

I went in a daze to vote in the primary election that had been scheduled for that day, but by then it had been called off. Nothing had really sunk in.

For the next few nights, on the Upper West Side where I lived, the wind carried the smell of an electrical fire -- like burning rubber. We walked in mourning, catching each others' eyes on the street. What had happened to the world?

The library

2006-09-10T20:17:00.000-07:00

It seems I am the last to know about Library Thing. It's a site where you can create a library listing of the books you have. It's addictive.

Creating an account is free - you just choose a username and password and you're ready to go. You can search the Library of Congress or Amazon by title, author, ISBN, whatever. Then click, and the book is on your list. If the cover has been scanned in to Amazon, then it's on your list as well, if you want to view your library by covers.

You can apparently connect with other people who have the same books you do, but I haven't figured out how that works yet.

It takes about thirty seconds to enter a book, once you get going. I've always wanted to have a complete listing of all my books (might be helpful when it comes time to cull out the unnecessary ones.) David constantly reminds me that I have too many books - I probably do, but I'm not ready to part with them just yet. I've focused my collection to primarily books about my field. I may not need them every day, but when I need them, I really need them - and some are rare.

If we had any kind of extra space at school, I would donate them and keep them there - unfortunately the department is just as pressed for space as I am at home.

I did have two large bookshelves in my office, each of which is divided into 20 spaces; each of those spaces holds about 12-15 books, depending on the thickness of the books.

(note: the link takes you to the Ikea page for the general style of bookcase, but it defaults to a different bookcase. If you're dying to see my choice in bookcases, you have to choose the "black-brown" color and the "58 and 5/8 x 58 and 5/8" option. So much work!)

So ... 20 spaces times 12-15ish per space ... that's something like 250-300 books per bookshelf.

Aiiieee. Writing it out like that - that's a little unnerving.

Anyway, having both of those bookshelves in my office was really weighing me down, feng-shui-wise. There was so much heaviness in the office that I could barely work in there (one of the shelves blocked a floor air vent, and the piano blocked the other, so it was no wonder the room felt stagnant.) While David was away for a week in New York and I was home alone in Baltimore, I knew it was time to finally tackle making my office somewhat habitable.

I had this fanciful notion that I could somehow just maneuver one of the shelves down the stairs singlehandedly. That was a fool's dream - I unloaded one of the shelves and dragged it out of my office onto the landing, but it was immediately clear that it was too large and too heavy to manage.

So, I found my trusty Ikea hex-key, and proceeded to take the shelf apart, and carry it down three flights of stairs piece by piece (just the way it had originally made its way up to the third floor to begin with.) It took most of a day to transport all the books and all the pieces of the shelf down to the basement level - it was a hot, humid day and even with the airconditioning blasting away, I had to take frequent breaks to keep from dissolving into a sweatpuddle and keeling over.

Reassembling it was just as much of a pain as building it had been originally - in typical Ikea fashion, you somehow have to get all the cross-hatching parts to fall into line simultaneously, all pegs magically fitting into all holes. But with enough swearing, I managed to do it, and voila: the shelf was there on the lowest level of our house, in all its overly massive Swedish glory.

It took another day to put the mountain of books back into the shelves - I took the opportunity to remove a fair number of them, along with various tchotkes that had been hidden among the books.

My office felt breezier (literally, now that the vent was unblocked) and I've been able to work much more productively in there.

Now I just have to find the time to enter the rest of the books into Library Thing, and I'm all set.

It's such a blah day that this post is untitled

2006-09-09T17:38:00.000-07:00

Today was one of those blah Saturdays; I had a lot of writing to do, but I knew it was the kind of day when no inspiration would strike. That was fine, as some of the composing I need to do is really more like arranging (just rearranging musical material that already exists), which can be done on this kind of blah day.

I made a blah dinner - ground turkey in a sauce over baked potatoes - and we watched some blah television - we couldn't manage to find anything that would hold our attention. Not an episode of Eureka, which is a SciFi channel series that combines Picket Fences, The X-Files and Real Genius; not a classic Star Trek episode ("Charlie X" which is early enough in the series that everything looks slightly askew); not a random skimming of live TV which produced In Her Shoes, a chick flick which posits a universe in which Toni Collette and Cameron Diaz are sisters, with Shirley MacLaine for a grandmother.

Certain things are gnawing at me: one is trying to find a third actress for the three-woman musical that we're presenting to producers next month. You wouldn't think it would be so hard to find an outstanding thirtyish to fortyish actress with a strong personality and decent voice - actually it's easy to find them, but the good ones are all snapped up on the dates you want them. We've been through eight so far, and still going.

Another is just the general malaise of trying to exist in a world where Disney is foisting garbage such as their Clinton-hating fantasia (I won't utter the name) on the public, with reckless disregard for the truth.

Another is a letter I have to write to my father, to whom I have not spoken in about three years. It's a long story. I'm not interested in reliving it right now, but the sooner I write the letter, the better. Short version: after a long silence, he e-mailed me. I want to respond, but so many other things are occupying my brain right now that I can't focus on it to the degree the task requires.

And finally, today I suggested to one of my students that she consider leaving the program. Monday. Another long story - suffice to say this has been a long time coming. I think David doubts that I can really stand up for myself in this situation; but I'm too exhausted to be anything but upfront any more. Tiptoeing around people takes such energy. I can't do it.

Sidetalkers

2006-09-08T17:05:00.000-07:00

I spent the last week at school in meetings, from 9 am to 5 pm straight through. In these meetings, teams of graduate students have to defend the proposals they've submitted (each team submits two ideas for projects, which they will spend the year writing.) There were nine faculty members, so it was a bit like we were the Supreme Court (except we didn't install an unelected president - at least, we haven't yet.)

It was interesting to see everyone's particular rhetorical mode; we all respect and love one another, but trapped in a room for hours on end, it's natural that sometimes the tiniest thing can piss someone else off. What sets me off are sidetalkers.

Sidetalkers. You know them. In any meeting, when someone is talking, they start a small whispered side conversation with someone next to them, immediately diluting the focus of the room. One director I had to do some projects at school with used to do that constantly. Even in a meeting with only three people, he could manage to be a Sidetalker.

Then there are the people who wait until time is up, and then say "Oh, One More Thing" and introduce something that takes ten minutes to discuss thoroughly.

Or, the Interrupter who then says, Oh, You Go Ahead. No, Really, Go Ahead. You've got the floor, now take it, dammit!

Or the Repeater who Didn't Listen the First Time.

It was a change of pace for me - usually I am the Soothing Synthesizer of All That Has Been Said; the Reassurer; the Inspirer.

This time, I was the Grinchy Bitch. I usually went first, and set the tone of things by asking some really tough questions (as in, did you know that this idea has already been done, one thousand times?)

I think, over the eight years that I've been teaching, that a lot of the hand-holding niceness in me has simply been burned away.

Or maybe all the Sidetalkers have just pushed me over the edge.

One more down, two to go

2006-09-07T20:48:00.000-07:00

Designers, that is.

The last few weeks I've been in New York on Wednesdays, the night when the new Project Runway episodes air; this means that I have to avert my eyes from all potential internet discussions of what happened until I can get home to David and we can fire up the TiVo.

Although the show may have jumped the shark, or at least might be circling around on waterskis, I'm still addicted. Thank god Vincent was auf'd this week -- he was really grating on my nerves. The challenge the designers faced this episode was creating a couture gown in two days; when Vincent was gluing his together at the end, I was hoping that spelled the end for him. It didn't help my fragile nerves that the elimination was between Vincent and the sharp-tongued, fabulously stylish opinionated Laura, who I want as my new best friend. If they had gotten rid of Laura, I would have had to swear off the rest of the season.

Now they're down to Laura, Kayne the pageant gown designer, Michael the Favorite (who is my pick for the win), Uli the User of Many Colorful Prints, and Jeffrey the Rawker (who won the challenge this week with a couture gown made from a yellow plaid, which looked like it was created using a bedspread into something a Peanuts character would wear to whatever award shows Peanuts characters go to.)

This week at school, we've been evaluating the graduate students' proposals for their thesis projects. I always aspire to be as sage and inspiring as Tim Gunn. This week, I fear, I was channeling Nina "Ugh! I'm rolling my eyes" Garcia and Michael "do I smell poo?" Kors instead.

Mashed potatoes on the page

2006-09-06T20:55:00.000-07:00

Content challenge, go! I think I'm just sneaking in under the wire.

Lately, I have been on a book-buying spree. The object of my affection is a site called abebooks.com, which is like a consortium of used book sellers all across the country. They have a section of their site called "Book Sleuth" where you can post whatever hazy details you can recall from a book you've forgotten the title of, and the other forum members will chime in if they know the book. There were a few books I'd read in childhood that I was trying to remember, and I had some success posting there. So - I started investigating the site, and found that I could get most of the books I was looking for on the site - for like a dollar. So, I go click click click, and a bunch of my old favorites start turning up in the mail. I usually have them sent to work - it's like getting presents at the end of a hard day.

One of my recent acquisitions was a pair of books that I hadn't forgotten about - I just hadn't read them in years and years: The Gammage Cup and its sequel, The Whisper of Glocken, by Carol Kendall. They are sort of Hobbit-lite, but I've always loved them.

When I was a kid, we had a huge book called The Arbuthnot Anthology of Children's Literature - it had chapters from a wide range of children's books of all kinds. My sister and I would read and re-read the selections in the anthology, and then hunt down the books to get the full story. The Whisper of Glocken was included in the book; it was hard to find, since our local library didn't have a copy. The library did have the first book, The Gammage Cup, which is really much better. It is about the Minnipins, who live in a secluded valley surrounded by unclimbable mountains. (David has mocked me for saying "Minnipins." Little does he know one of the characters makes little candy people called "Mintypins", which is even more mockable.) The Minnipins live in little villages along the Watercress River, and they like their doors painted the same color green as the cloaks they all wear. In one particular village, though, five of the Minnipins find that they don't fit in - one is an artist, one a poet, one an eccentric historian, one a curmudgeon, and one a general muddle. This character, named Muggles (strange to see after reading the Harry Potter books) keeps all her things in heaps and piles around her house. I could identify with this - I keep all my things in heaps and piles around my office, no matter how often I try to shovel it out and stem the growing tide of papers and oddments. The character also had piles of quilts and blankets heaped on her bed, which inspired me to do the same when I first read the book at around age 10 or so. Growing up in Arizona, there really is never any call to have piles of blankets mounded on one's bed - my mother, I'm sure, didn't know why I had every spare blanket rumpled and crumpled on my bed.

Anyway, the five Outcasts end up saving the valley from the invading Mushroom people, who try to sneak into the valley through abandoned mines that tunnel all the way through the mountains. I was obsessed as a child with recreating the valley described in the book - the river pours down a mountain at one end of the valley, and exits the valley through a tunnel in a mountain at the other end. Twelve villages are located along the river - there's a great little map which shows the meandering river and the location of each village, as well as a map of the particular village the story takes place in.

Digging around in the backyard, under the oleander bushes, I would build a little riverway surrounded by mountains. I suppose I was like a ten-year-old version of Richard Dreyfuss in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. (David would say I'm still like a ten-year-old version of Richard Dreyfuss in Close Encounters of the Third Kind, and should not be left unattended with mashed potatoes.)

I suppose re-reading the books I loved in childhood gives me the same pleasure that I find in mashed potatoes - yummy comfort. When I've been writing all day (or evaluating my students' writing), I need something uncomplicated, warm and soothing.

Wouldn't you really love to be living in a tiny village nestled along the Watercress River, with mountains on every side - your biggest concern being what color you'll paint the door of your cottage? Me too.

Creeeeeak...

2006-07-27T13:22:00.000-07:00

"... what's this?"

"Looks deserted. Like some blog used to be here. Now it's all rundown and cobwebby."

"Cobwebby isn't a word."

"Full of cobwebs, then. And crumbs."

"Lord, the crumbs."

"Do you think anyone's coming back?"

"It's so... Haunted Mansion-y."

"What's this on the wall ... ?"

"I can't read it... can you?"

"Just barely... something about the end of the world, and controlling the weather?"

"How very John Bellairs."

"I loved that one book of his... the something, the something and the something. The Hat, the Sandwich, and the Bottle Opener..."

"The Letter, The Witch and The Ring?"

"Whatev."

"I hear something..."

"Little feet running back and forth upstairs...?"

"No... someone's coming."

"Spooky..."

Could you not talk?

2006-04-23T21:25:00.000-07:00

Today was part two of my birthday celebration (David took me for a delicious French bistro meal last night. ) Today, David had the day off, and he had planned a few different options for how we might spend the day. (We had tickets to a play in the evening.)

I chose David's suggestion of going to North Point state park; part of the site is the location of the old Bay Shore Amusement Park, a popular site for Baltimoreans from the turn of the century through the 40's. There are a few remnants of the park that still survive -- a pier, a fountain, a trolley shed (where city dwellers would disembark) and a restaurant (which has now been turned into the visitor's center.) You can see some photos here (scroll down to the section on Bay Shore.)

We wandered in the beautiful spring weather along paths through meadows where butterflies floated about. It could not have been any more serene. It was the best way to spend the first day of my "new year": I always like to go someplace I've never been before on my birthday, and I like to spend some time in contemplation. This was perfect. (Also, David knows I have a mini-obsession with vanished amusement parks. So, points for David for acknowledging my odd little interests.)

We came home, ate a quick meal, and walked to the theater. It was Radio Golf, by August Wilson, at CenterStage. The production was excellent -- they always do good work, but this cast was above even the usual high standards. I found the play mesmerizing.

Except for The Woman Next To David Who Talked. When an amusing character said something funny, she remarked, "Oh! He's CRAZY! Tee hee!"

I was proud of myself for nipping this in the bud. David was leaning forward at this moment, so I took the opportunity to look over him at the woman, and just said, "Could you not talk?"

Now, that was more curt than Miss Manners would really suggest in this situation, but I. Have. Had it. Get a grip, people.

She was late 20s to early 30s-ish, in a smart white pantsuit from the 90s -- appropriate I suppose since the play was set in that decade. She looked at me and said, "Sorry."

Another funny line followed almost immediately, and David chuckled. The Pantsuit sneered, "Can I laugh?"

I didn't hear the next few lines because the blood was pounding in my head so loud. ERRRRGHHHHHH!

David told me later that before the show, Pantsuit Patty was regaling her companion with anecdotes about how well-connected and powerful she is. I can see that she is truly classy, through and through.

Still, the play was engrossing, and Pantsuit Patty was at least paying attention. When people are chatters in the theater, I mentally cut them a little slack if they are at least following the action (as opposed to being bored, taking a cell call or texting their friends...) But still. Is it so hard not to talk? Sometimes I think I would be happy having taken a vow of silence in a monastery somewhere.

Well, at least until the latest Desperate Housewives was on, and I wanted to talk about just how off-track the writers have gotten with Bree -- but that's another story for another time. I'll fill you in on my adventures in the monastery later, too.

Queen Isabella, Mrs. Garrett and me

2006-04-22T08:39:00.000-07:00

Born today:

Queen Isabella I of Spain
Jack Nicholson
Glen Campbell
Charlotte Rae, perhaps best known for her role as "Mrs. Garrett" on The Facts of Life (born in Milwaukee, Ms. Rae turns 80 today.)
Bettie Page
Eddie Albert (who played the kindly RV owner Jason O'Day in one of my favorite movies, Escape to Witch Mountain.)
Peter Frampton, who appeared in another one of my favorite (bad, bad, bad) movies, Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band
Aaron Spelling

On April 22, 1509, Henry VIII became king.
On April 22, 1889, the Oklahoma land rush began.
On April 22, 1970, the first Earth Day was celebrated.

And on April 22, 1966, in the Philippine Islands, I was born.

Yay me.

On my birthday, I usually go and buy all the New York area papers that carry horoscopes (the Daily News, the Post, and Newsday) to see what the little "if today is your birthday" thing has to say. I'm in Baltimore today, so I just zipped around the internet to see what all the various astrologers have to offer.

Today's Birthday (April 22). At first, it may seem as if you're blocked every step of the way. This year is not about avoiding problems, just finding new ways around them.

Meh.

Birthday Baby: You are a lover, inventor and an adventurer. You are intuitive, philosophical and spiritual. You are empathetic, concerned and will do your best to help others.

Now that's more like it.

For those of us born on: April 22
Happy Birthday! The months ahead are likely to start with a boost of energy, particularly when Mercury enters your sign, although romantically you could face a few, if brief challenges. The way you communicate with your loved ones could come under fire if you don't think before speaking! From June both planets in your friendship house start moving backwards, so you might see one or two friendships weaken slightly, but there is nothing to worry about. You can look forward to some dramatic developments in your love life around late fall, whether you're attached or single. There will be plenty of time to be responsible after the start of the New Year, when your work or school house fills up!

Happy Birthday: Don't let things get away from you because you aren't prepared to make a decision. Be organized and ready to take action if you want anything good to come of this year. Find out whatever you need to know to move ahead with your dreams. Don't let someone else hold you back because of his or her burdens. Your numbers are 13, 18, 20, 27, 33, 39

Okay: here's your chance to give me a birthday present. Contribute a line to a horoscope for me. Advice, predictions, criticism: go for it. Write my future.

Edited to add: You can just make it up. Go ahead. Indulge your inner astrologer.

Open Door Policy

2006-04-14T12:52:00.000-07:00

As you can see, I’ve been away from blogging for months. Every day, something will happen and I think, I should really blog about that.

And then I don’t.

I think the key is going to be trying to write shorter entries. We’ll see if that works.

Anyway: today’s topic is, Why Am I Always Leaving Cabinet Doors Open?

This is a strange habit that I have – I don’t think it’s some form of OCD (like, I must open all the doors three times or else) because it seems to be completely unconscious. I had never really noticed that I did it until my senior year of college. I was sharing an apartment with my friend Kari; the kitchen was huge, and had a long row of cabinets above an endless counter that went around two sides of the room (the only time I can ever say I had too much room in a kitchen.) I was puttering around or cooking something, when Kari finally piped up: “WHY is every door open?” I looked up, and sure enough, they were all open. I didn’t remember opening them. It was like the scene in The Sixth Sense when all the doors are open, and Toni Collette timidly asks, “Did you want something ...?”

I try to remember to close them. But no matter where I am, I turn around, and all the doors have been left open. Why?

(Note: this doesn’t seem to be the case with actual doors, only with cabinet and closet doors.)

Armchair psychologists, start your engines!

Steeee-rike

2005-12-21T08:26:00.000-08:00

Well, it could be that Howie and Maddie were warning me about the New York transit strike 162 days early ... they were in an RV (sort of a bus ...) and kept talking about how they were "retiring" (striking...? Retirement age was one of the issues that led to the transit workers' strike... )

So, basically I had the dullest prophetic dream ever. Maybe in the next dream my fourth grade teacher will appear to give me the lowdown on interest rates.

I stayed up until around 1:30 a.m. to hear if the strike was definitely going forward. It wasn't confirmed, but all the New York One reporters seemed sure it would happen. I set the alarm for six.

It seemed I was only asleep for ten minutes when the alarm rang. The strike was on. Oh joy. I took a hot, hot shower to wake up - what possessed me to stay up and watch the news? I could hear activity all over the building. We were all gearing up for an early day.

I dressed in layers, took everything that was unnecessary weight out of my backpack, and got ready to roll. I could have made a better shoe choice - all of my gym-type shoes were back in Baltimore. At 6:45, I headed to work.

"In my day, we walked to work. And it was freezing cold. And we were happy to do it! We didn't need any candy-ass subways to ride on...!"

It was about 25 degrees out, which wasn't so bad until the wind started blowing. Actually, I didn't have it so bad - I only had to walk 80 blocks (about 4 miles), straight down Second Avenue. I saw people crowding at bus stops, hoping to catch a cab. Everyone was much better behaved than you might expect - cabs were stopping to pick up extra people when they could, with no one getting too crazy about it.

Oh yes - there was one crazy person. Somewhere around 18th Street, a man next to me suddenly screamed out, "NO! Look OUT!" Ptoooo! He spit, and then continued, "Jack is in the HOUSE!"

Okay.

Traffic was really zooming along - with no buses, and about half the normal number of cars, the streets (at least on the East Side) were surprisingly clear.

The walk is not bad - it took me about an hour and a half - I got to the East Village around 8:15, which left me plenty of time to defrost in a diner and have some breakfast. You don't realize how cold you've gotten until your body warms up again.

September 11th was actually on my mind quite a bit as I walked to school. That day, I walked home (when I lived on the Upper West Side). It was a very, very different sort of feeling in the city, obviously ... but there was still that air of "we're all in this together and we're dealing with it" New Yorker-ness on the streets.

This was the last day of the semester at school. Originally the first year graduate students were supposed to have their mid-year faculty evaluations, and present their ten-minute musicals, which they have been madly rehearsing. With half the students and one or two of the faculty unable to make it in, we cancelled the musicals, and just did the evaluations as best we could - patching in students and faculty on speakerphone. Ordinarily the semester ends with a big burst of energy as the students get to see one another's work (they all perform in each other's shows) but now, they just drifted away. It was an odd feeling - a little sad.

After the end of semester faculty meeting, I got ready to hike over to Penn Station to try and catch the next train to Baltimore. As it happened, my department chair's husband was coming to pick her up, and she offered me a ride over there. Once we were in the car, she said, "Actually, do you just want to go to Wilmington?" They were headed to their house in Delaware, and could drop me off at the Amtrak station in Wilmington, which is the stop before Baltimore - about 45 minutes on the train. It was a very quick drive - about two hours. I got to the Wilmington station, and a D.C.-bound train arrived about twenty minutes later. Perfect.

I was at home by 6:45. I got in the bath, wrapped myself in my robe, and was asleep by 9:30. What a day.

Howie and Maddie came to me in a dream

2005-12-18T21:41:00.000-08:00

162 days ago I had a very vivid dream. This dream involved the parents of my best friend from college. Let’s call them Howie and Maddie.

They are great people; a few years ago they sold their business and bought an RV, and proceeded to road-trip it around the country. They’ve done things like drive across Alaska with one of their grandsons. They’ve got it together.

I can’t say that they’ve ever been in one of my dreams before. The dream was very clear and sharp, although it was fairly short. I was in the RV with them, and they kept saying, “We retire in 162 days!” They really emphasized the 162 days.

I woke up with the dream so strongly stuck in my mind that I made a note of it. I figured out what day was 162 days from then ... and that would be today, Monday, December 19th. I don’t know what it might mean ... they have been retired for years, so it’s certainly not that. The dream wasn’t creepy in a Mothman sort of way ... but it was a little odd.

So let’s see what happens today.

Picture yourself in a boat on a river

2005-12-08T16:49:00.000-08:00

My freshman year of high school, I felt very adult because I woke up to the radio every morning; my stereo, perched on my dresser, was plugged into some sort of timer that made it click on at whatever horrifically early hour I needed to get out of bed in order to make it to school on time. The morning of December 9, 1980, the very first words out of the stereo were “John Lennon: dead.” He had been shot the night before.

Most of my friends in school were juniors and seniors – and we were all Beatles fans. We were the sort of music and drama geeks who would usually end up playing songs on the guitar or the piano at parties; when we had gone through the obligatory “Stairway to Heaven,” we would start in with the Beatles tunes. Either that, or we would play the White Album and act like we were absorbing the deeper meanings from “number nine ... number nine ... number nine...”

My favorite album had to be “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band”; there was one song in particular that I was obsessed with. This was “Lucy In the Sky With Diamonds.” I don’t know when or where I first heard it, but I was entranced with it. I would play it over and over, lying on the floor in the dark, with gigantic headphones clapped over my ears. Sometimes I would play the song in my room, again in darkness, with my strobe light (purchased from Spencer Gifts) blinking away. I’m surprised I didn’t give myself an epileptic seizure or perhaps induce some kind of psychotic break. Or, maybe I did and I just didn’t realize it. I definitely provoked a fit of madness in my father, when I played the track over and over on his hi-fi. Even outside working in the yard, he could hear it. When I had played it probably twenty or thirty times, he burst in. “WHY?!! ARE?! YOU!? PLAYING!!! THAT?! SONG!!?!!?!?”

I don’t know.

I played the song on the piano endlessly, repeating the open vamp over and over; the song was mesmerizing to me both musically and lyrically. In fact, I have found musical phrases inspired by that motif in many of my shows. They aren’t literally variations but they definitely sprang from my obsession with that music.

I collected various covers of the song: Elton John did a version on his album “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road,” which I liked in some ways better than the Beatles. An R&B/70’s funk-influenced version was on the soundtrack to one of my favorite horrible, horrible movies, “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band,” which starred Peter Frampton and the Bee Gees. I recently found this movie on DVD for six bucks, so I have been revisiting the bizarre deliciousness of this oddity.

The movie came out in 1978 or 1979, right before the movie musical reached the zenith of excess and badness with “Xanadu” (another film I was obsessed with.) The movie had very little dialogue; Beatles songs were strung together to spin out an acid-trip of a plot. As I recall, Frampton and the Bees Gees played Billy Shears and his friends the Hendersons, who had a band called “Sgt. Pepper’s...” well, you know. They lived in a little Main Street U.S.A type of place named Heartland, which was kept pure by the power of four magical instruments ... which they didn’t actually play, but which were kept in a museum by the mayor, played by George Burns. So, the pure, innocent boys went off to big, bad L.A., where they were led into temptation by record producer Donald Pleasance. The boys were seduced by a trashy Motown-meets-Madonna group, Lucy and the Diamonds. When Billy’s sweet girlfriend, named Strawberry Fields, runs to L.A. to find him, the first thing that meets her eye upon getting off the bus is an enormous billboard of “Lucy and the Diamonds.” The billboard comes to life, with Lucy and her girls singing “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.” I suppose that’s a very literal illustration of the song (some screenwriter, locked in a basement: “I know! Her name is Lucy ... and she’s in the sky! With ... I got it! Diamonds!”

The plot only becomes more peculiar, involving Mean Mr. Mustard, a couple of singing electric robots, Alice Cooper running a mind control temple, and Aerosmith as some sort of evil rock band. In the end, a weathervane-statue of Sgt. Pepper comes to life and puts everything right again.

The very best part of the whole movie, though, is the final sequence, in which a completely bizarre assortment of celebrities recreate the cover photo of the “Sgt. Pepper” album, while singing the title song along with some very “Up With People”-esque clapping. Tina Turner sings next to Carol Channing. I think Helen Reddy is there somewhere; and surprisingly, so is Dame Edna. Who in the U.S. even knew who Dame Edna was in 1979? I imagine she was included because the producer was Australian. As the camera pans over the crowd – most of whom even I, a triviahead, have forgotten – one thing is abundantly clear. Personal grooming has come a long way since the late 70s.

The billboard-coming-to-life idea also obsessed me – similar things happened in other craptacular movie musicals of that period, “The Wiz” and “Xanadu.” In “The Wiz”, grafitti outlines of children painted in a playground peel off the wall and become Munchkins, while in “Xanadu” a wall mural of the nine Greek Muses comes alive (to the strains of ELO’s “I’m Alive.” Because they were ... alive.) Although “Xanadu” is too crappy of a movie to stand up to repeated viewings, even for me, I have watched that opening scene over and over on a bad videotape that I bought at a closeout sale for three bucks.

Why the obsession? I don’t know. There was something about the magic of it that captured my imagination – and the not-great special effects only added to it. There was some combination of music, lyric and concept which I found hypnotic – when I was beginning to understand the power that theater and film had over me.

When I was in the first throes of my obsession with “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds,” I read all about the song in various books about the Beatles. There was the usual story that the song title was code for LSD – that the lyrics depicted an acid trip – but I liked John Lennon’s story that the song was inspired by a drawing his son Julian made one day when he was young. The boy showed John the drawing, and said it was a picture of Lucy in the sky with diamonds ... and a song was born.

We have been delayed

2005-11-23T04:52:00.000-08:00

It's 1:45 a.m. as I write this, sitting on Amtrak train #177, stopped somewhere outside of Baltimore, in the early hours of the day before Thanksgiving. It's one year since our friend Russell died. And tonight, someone else has died.

It was a long day at school today; I was in class in the morning with second-year graduate students, and in the afternoon with the first-year students. It was a gray day, with torrential cold rain. I hadn't brought an umbrella, so I arrived at school dripping, soaked through. The entire building had the distracted, buzzing energy of a snow day; everyone was looking forward to the holiday, but we were all stuck inside while it stormed outside. The first-year students were presenting extended musical sequences that they had adapted from their choice of four assigned films - Jackie Brown, Eat Drink Man Woman, Gods and Monsters, and Adaptation. The students are finding their footing as writers, producing more and better material every week - they are also showing signs of exhaustion. The faculty members are also displaying symptoms of fatigue - as I gulped down a quick lunch of Asian noodle soup in an East Village hole-in-the wall with two colleagues, we all commiserated about how we wanted the endurance to just get through this day. We were of course karmically punished, as we had thought the afternoon class started fifteen minutes later than it actually did - we arrived late, with a roomful of students starting to hyperventilate that they might miss their assorted trains and planes.

Class finally concluded at five o'clock. I didn't need to rush, as my train to Baltimore did not leave until 8:30. I made my way to Penn Station, where it was a madhouse (although not as wild as it would undoubtedly be the next day.) I was granted entrance into the "Club Acela" waiting room, thanks to my status as a frequent Amtrak traveller. I cooled my heels until a few minutes before the train was due to board. It was then that I discovered that I did not have my ticket.

Ordinarily, I pick up my ticket at the station to avoid exactly this sort of nightmare. This time, to get the jump on the Thanksgiving rush, I bought my return to Baltimore early. Now the ticket was nowhere to be found. It was too late to get another ticket for the same train, but I managed to get a seat on the ten o'clock train. I called school; the cheery student from New Zealand confirmed that I'd left a folder with papers and my ticket there. Well, at least it wasn't gone.

I hung around "Club Acela", being treated like the guest who wouldn't leave, since almost everyone else had clambered aboard an actual Acela train. "You waiting for a train .... ?" the attendant asked, perhaps concerned that I had had one too many complimentary ginger ales.

Finally, the train arrived at Penn Station; magically, I had guessed which track it would arrive at, and was at the front of the pack of wildebeest thundering down the escalator vying for seats. Success! I would be arriving in Baltimore much later than I had hoped, but at least I would get there. A sleepy David said that, no, he would not be at the station to meet me (which as it turns out was a good plan, since it is now past two and I'm not home yet.)

On the train, I whiled away the time doing work on my laptop while listening to a podcast downloaded from Fishbowl.com, which is all about the millions of reality shows infesting the airwaves. Ever the Rob-come-lately, I have only now become a fan of "The Apprentice" (because of watching the Martha Stewart edition.) This particular podcast featured the latest firee from the Trump version - the "first openly gay Apprentice," Clay, who obligingly bitched about his fellow candidates.

Having had enough of that - not needing to know what was happening on "Big Brother" or "Laguna Beach" or anything else - I read the Times. I was just finishing an article about a cleaning company which specializes in tidying up crime scenes and clearing away the aftereffects of gruesome deaths - such as when lonely New Yorkers pass away in their apartments and aren't discovered until they've quietly liquified into their couches - when the train began to jerk and bump, and slowly grind to a halt.

We were already late at this point - the man in the seat behind me, who had been carrying on a cell-phone conversation of record length began to whine into the phone "This is unbeleeeevable." There was an announcement made that "we've had a minor accident. We've hit something... we just need to inspect the train and determine what we've hit before we can proceed."

We had hit a person. Whether it was an accident or suicide was not immediately clear. As the conductor relayed the news to someone in our car, people began to buzz.

"A person? It was a PERSON?"

Someone else began to chuckle ruefully - "Well, boy, have I had a crazy 48 hours or what?" People were up in the aisles, electrified by the prospect of tragedy near at hand. Others slept on. Cell phone man continued to insist that it was "unbeleeeevable."

I hated them all.

I then realized that, in a disaster movie, I would be the one who would become the hateful misanthrope - "You're all idiots!" And up until now, I always assumed I would rise up out of the crowd of confused S.S. Poseidon passengers, and lead everyone to safety in the manner of Gene Hackman. But no. Right now, I hated all the businessmen who were clamoring to know if we were in walking distance of the station. (No. We are in the middle of nowhere.) I hated the guy who not-so-subtly tried to go peek out the door of the train.

I hated myself a little for planning to blog about this, after two months of not posting.

I debated calling David. It's ten after two now - but he has to be up early, and there's no reason to wake him. The opening of his store is just days away, and he and his crew are racing against the clock to get everything done. I'm doing what I can, but being away in New York so often, I feel fairly unhelpful in this endeavor.

The police have been called; we could hear communications on the conductor's walkie talkie as they tried to determine exactly where we were stopped. The passengers have settled down; some are typing on their laptops, as I am, and others have curled up and gone back to sleep. We're likely to be here another hour.

It's terrible and sad that this should happen - that, if it was indeed a suicide, that someone would feel driven to this act, in the middle of a cold night. And it is sobering to think back to last November 23, when Russell Groff lost his battle with the infections overpowering his body, and left his husband, his family and his friends behind, mourning him. I remember thinking at the time how awful it was that he died so close to Thankgiving; Kevin-Douglas would always be reminded of him at that time of year. But perhaps this isn't a bad thing - the day would not be "ruined." We would always remember to give thanks for having known Russell - if it wouldn't be presumptuous to do so, for those of us (like me) who only knew him briefly.

As I get older, I've occasionally gotten more anxious flying than I used to. But a thought does cross my mind as I take off each time - I believe that everyone who I love knows that I love them. If the moment came when it was my turn to leave this earth - in a plane, or on an Amtrak train in the middle of nowhere - I believe there wouldn't be anything I wished I'd said that I never got around to saying. There are plenty of loose ends that I'm always trying to tie up - songs to be finished, shows to be written, e-mails long overdue that need to be returned - but I think the important stuff is taken care of.

It's two-twenty. People are sleeping in their seats, some huddled together, snuggling under coats, holding one another. I wish I were already at home, curled up with David and Goblin, trying to get a little sleep before tomorrow's onslaught. But here I am, in a train stalled somewhere in the darkness outside of Baltimore, where someone's life has ended. We all want to get moving, to rush onward, to get to our destinations - but somehow it's right that we wait. We wait in the silence.

It's November 23, 2005, two-twenty five a.m.

We arrived in Baltimore at 4:30 a.m. Leaving Penn Station, one Cheney-alike grumbled to his streaked-and-tipped female companion, Well, after all this, our parking should be free.

I didn't hold the door for them.

A landmark decision

2005-09-18T19:20:00.000-07:00

Overheard lately on the train:

(On a cell phone) “You two belong together. I always, always, thought that. I never told anybody, but I always thought it.”

(On a cell phone) “If you go to Delaware, you are going to get pregnant.”

(Man, to female companion) “I brought my favorite Star Trek episode to show you.” “Tribbles?” “No, no, this is Next Generation. It’s 'The Naked Now.'”

When I’m not eavesdropping on people’s conversations, it’s likely that I’m waiting for my train to arrive. In Baltimore, this is easy: there are really only two platforms – one for the commuter train, and one for Amtrak, a track going in each direction. In Penn Station, you have to be on your toes; they very craftily do not tell you what track your train is boarding at until it’s time to board, causing the crowd to rush for the escalators like a horde of wildebeest.

Last night, Saturday night, I was waiting to catch the last train from New York to Baltimore. The station was not as crowded as on Friday nights, but the last train is always packed. There’s one more train that goes as far as Philadelphia, but for anyone going further, this was it.

A woman was staring at the giant board hanging in the middle of the boarding area. She caught my eye and came over to me. “Can I ask you a stupid question?” she asked. She seemed nice, with smartly short-trimmed grey hair and blue eyes.

What she didn’t know was, I live to be asked stupid questions. Yes, please ask.

“I see the train listed there ... but no track. How do you know where to go?” I immediately launched into Helper Mode, telling her about how the track numbers are posted about five minutes before the train leaves, blah blah blah. I had noticed some people coming up the escalator from track 12 East, so my hunch was we would be boarding on 12 West. We kept chatting – she said she was up from Washington for a conference, something about educating people about historical landmarks. She asked if the MARC train came up to New York – the MARC train is the commuter train that runs between Baltimore and D.C. Sadly, it doesn’t run any farther than that. The trains are nice – doubledecker, plush seats. Much better than the Long Island Rail Road commuter trains. If I ever get appointed High Commissioner of Musical Theater and have to work in D.C., I will enjoy the commute.

She said she would be coming up several more times and was having a hard time finding places to stay for ten days at a time. I gave her some websites that might help her (oh, yes, I was helping ... helping! Delicious, delicious helping) and she dutifully scribbled them down. She asked what I do, and I told her. I asked her what sort of educational program she was working with. Then she told me. Not historical landmarks – she was involved in Landmark Education. “You’re probably too young to remember EST” “Oh, no, I know what that is...” “So this is more or less what EST has turned into.”

She went on. “It’s amazing – in the room there are all kinds of people – regular folks and CEOs. People from all over the world. I've never seen so many different people, I'm from Virginia. And they’re all in different places in their personal transformation.”

I had some friends that did “The Forum” about twelve or fifteen years ago. I’m all for personal development, and have read plenty of New-Age-y books which I have found helpful – which other people might find ludicrous or worthy of mockery. I’ve had many conversations with different friends about esoteric spiritual-development, so I’m no stranger to the whole thing. But suddenly, I got a bit nervous. My friends who had done “The Forum” – frankly, while they were involved with it, they were obnoxious. I mean, good for you, develop your self confidence, go! But do you have to play on other people’s politeness and desire to avoid confrontation?

So, suddenly they announced the track, and I was right – we were boarding on 12 West. A crowd materialized from nowhere and we were separated in the crush. I was a bit relieved. Once at the bottom of the escalator, I headed for the front of the train. Because I’d had to buy my ticket just a half hour before, all that was left was business class, and I was dying to get home to Baltimore that night – I was exhausted from producing a show, I had just gotten over a cold, but mostly I was missing David intensely. I trotted briskly along the track, past the coach cars, past the cafe car, up to business class. There was the usual Amtrak conductor there, helpfully booming out “Business class!” as I entered the car.

I went halfway down the car and found an empty seat. I discovered then that my new acquaintance was right behind me. “Oh, this looks good!” she said, settling into the seat behind me. I was struck by a strange combination of impulses – surely she must have heard the guy announcing that this was business class? So, she must have a business class ticket. If she didn’t, and had to move, she was unlikely to find a good seat once the rest of the train filled up. But it would be rude of me to ask her about it, wouldn’t it ... ? I decided that I had to do my best not to worry about it. I plugged in my laptop, grateful at least that she hadn’t decided we should be seatmates, too. I began reading. (This is when I heard the “This is my favorite Star Trek episode” comment noted above.)

The conductor came along, moving from the rear of the car to the front. He came to my new acquaintance’s seat.

“This is business class. You don’t have a business class ticket.”

“Am I in the wrong place?”

“Yes. Coach cars are behind the cafe car.”

“Oh. I was following my travel buddy. I guess he misled me.”

“Coach cars are that way.”

“Can’t I stay here?”

“Not unless you want to pay extra.”

“Oh.” Pause. “I was just following my travel buddy.”

He then took my ticket. I could feel her gaze burning through the seat as she very, very, slowly began gathering her things. She spoke to me.

“Well, I guess I have to move.”

“Sorry about that, I, uh ... “

“Do you think I really have to move? Will he come back and make me move?”

“Well, yes, unfortunately he probably will.”

"Oh."

She had that weird expression and tone of voice that my Forum-going friends had once upon a time – like I was somehow responsible and should do something. She was pleasant on the surface, but she was beginning to freak me out.

I muttered something else about how business class was all that was left when I got my ticket and I didn’t know she was following me and uh and uh .... all that I could do was apologize. I felt badly but now all I wanted was for her to get the hell out of there. I mean, "my travel buddy misled me?"

I went back to the laptop. She finally had her things together, and stood next to my seat for a long, long time, looking at me. Then, she began to move down the aisle.

A few minutes later, the guy in the seat across from me got up and leaned over me. “What were you apologizing to that lady for?” I hesitated, trying to figure out how to explain it all briefly. I said that she asked me a question in the waiting area, and that she just followed me up here and I assumed she must have had a business class ticket, but she didn't. He nodded, “Okay.”

I looked down the car to see if she was gone. “You know what, this sounds terrible, but I’m glad. She was a little freaky.”

He nodded again. “Yeah. She was.”

Oh yeah. She was.

Matt-tastic

2005-09-05T19:31:00.000-07:00

I got to see my friend Matt the other day; we’ve been friends literally since the day he got to New York, something like fifteen years ago. I used to hang out at a piano bar called Brandy’s, because I lived around the corner. (It’s still there and going strong, and I once again live around the corner.) The tiny space with its exposed brick wall and pressed tin ceiling was everything that an Arizona boy would think a Manhattan hole in the wall should be. I met my friend Natalie Douglas there (she still sings there, and you should all buy her CDs, because she’s amazing.) I even once got up to the open mike and sang. There are many stories there ... but that’s for another time.

Matt somehow wandered in just after he had moved to New York from Los Angeles. He probably got up and sang something; he’s got an amazing voice – bright and smooth and never forced. We became friends.

He had been working on Murphy Brown when he lived in Los Angeles; he still has a snapshot of himself with Candice Bergen on the fridge. If you listen closely, you can hear his distinctive laugh on some Murphy Brown episodes.

Back when I met Matt, his roommate had a big apartment up on Central Park West in the 100s – he used to throw elaborate holiday dinners and sometimes teas. I got to meet some very interesting people here – including the woman who had been on All My Children playing Helga (if you watched the show in the early 90s, you know who she is.) I met her just before she plummeted to her death (on the show.) She had been in show business for years – she had been a replacement in the original productions of Cabaret and Oliver! She had some stories.

Anyway, back to Matt. I was putting together a demo recording of a show I’d written before I went to NYU. This show will never see the light of day – thankfully – but it was a learning experience. I had done some studio recording, but this was the first time I had been in a New York recording studio. For some reason I thought it was a good idea to try and record 22 songs in one gigantic 11-hour session.

Ka-ZOIKS.

For those of you who are wondering, that is a very bad and stupid thing to do. Yes, yes, they record Broadway shows in marathon sessions like this, but only because they have to pay the performers a week’s salary for every day of recording. Everyone on this recording was doing it for free. They were as insane as I was. Natalie was in on this, and so was my friend Michael at the piano. Friends had flown in to sing – it was crazy. One guy – a friend of my collaborator’s, not a friend of mine – had not actually bothered to learn his part. Halfway through the day, we fired him. If you can be fired from a volunteer job, that is ... I stepped in – luckily his part was one I knew. I sang with Matt, and we blended amazingly.

At one point, we were hours behind, but magically we caught up as everyone turned into one-take wonders. We finished within a minute of the deadline. It was a miracle.

Not long after that, I convinced Matt to step into the corporate job I was leaving in order to go to Montana and do summer stock. This was International BrandCorp, and I’m sure he found it just as strange and yet welcoming as I did.

For a while we drifted apart, but in recent years have caught up with one another again. Matt had long since moved out of the Central Park West apartment with the roommate, and was busy building his own tradition of a Christmas eve dinner party. I think I went to this party five years in a row, maybe six. Maybe four. Matt has a collection of Christmas albums that numbers into the hundreds. Every year he puts together a CD of bizarre Christmas songs that include things like Walter Brennan intoning a strange, sad monologue about being alone and abandoned by his family at the holidays.

Matt was also directly responsible for a song of mine turning up in Carnegie Hall last Christmas – he is a mover and shaker in the Gay Men’s Chorus, and he took a liking to a song that was in a Christmas-themed show I’d written. Matt sang on the demo for the show, and was convinced that the finale would work as a number for the chorus. He kept pushing the idea forward over months and months, which was amazing.

He’s a great cabaret performer himself – his shows turn up on a regular basis, always witty, always musically interesting. I’m not actually a huge cabaret fan, but I do love Matt’s shows.

What’s this post about? Nothing much other than to recognize how rare it is when you are able to remain friends with someone for such a long time in a city like New York. Matt makes things happen for so many people – at his Christmas party, he is the one giving gifts to everyone else. He’s given a gift to me – I hope he knows.

Corndogs and tuna surprise

2005-09-04T18:45:00.000-07:00

The other night, while I was up in New York dealing with the start of school, and missing David, and trying not to go crazy from reading about the criminal incompetence of our government, I had a thought: what I need is some comfort food.

I went to the Food Emporium, and along with the fresh fruit and soy milk, I got the stuff to make one of my college-age treats: boxed macaroni and cheese made with yogurt instead of milk and butter, with tuna mixed in. I used to eat this by the potful in college, and ate it many times in my last apartment – the one with the stove in the corner, the refrigerator in the living room, and no counter. It’s even better spooned up with crinkle potato chips.

I’m a comfort food kind of guy: I used to live for mashed potatoes (until I figured out their high glycemic index rating was the reason I passed out after indulging in a bowl of spuds.) I still love meatloaf, fried chicken, roast turkey, stuffing ... all the basic stick-to-your-ribs food. Mac and cheese is high on the list. When I wasn’t eating breakfast at midnight in diners, I was having one-pot dinners in my apartment at two a.m. This was all before David came along, and I had someone to cook for.

I boiled up the macaroni – I had gotten Kraft, because the generic stuff just doesn’t do it. I mixed in the nuclear orange cheese powder. Added the plain yogurt (makes it taste like sharp cheddar, and has less fat) and then the tuna. I was anticipating the taste of this comfort treat that I hadn’t had in, oh, a few years at least. I had made macaroni and cheese once or twice when autumn rolled around, but a real version made with four cheeses, baked twice with crumbs on top. This was going to be the cheap-and-easy comfort treat that I had been missing for years.

I took a bowlful and got a DVD of “A Wrinkle In Time” booted up on the TV. Comfort bliss, here I come.

I couldn’t eat it. It was disgusting. I’d made it correctly ... it just was ... inedible. And I used to practically live on this stuff. What happened?

Damn you, healthy eating! You’ve changed my tastebuds!

I set about rectifying this situation immediately by dragging David to the Maryland State Fair the minute I got back to Baltimore. I had fond memories of state and county fairs back in Arizona. Unfortunately for David, the Maryland fair was found lacking by comparison. “This is only as big as the county fair was, back in Arizona. The state fair was four times this size! There were cows, and sheep, and goats, and pigs, and bunnies!” David, who was suffering from low blood sugar because he wisely did not want to eat any deep fried crap on a stick, just nodded and said he was glad I was having a good time. All he wanted was some kettle corn. None was to be had.

“And they had whole buildings full of stuff! And bunnies!”

We visited our friend Kelly’s non-ribbon-winning pie in the Home Arts building. I wanted to steal a ribbon from another pie and award it to her, but I did not.

I indulged my crap-tooth by having a jumbo corndog (this had to be fourteen inches long), fried dough, chicken nuggets, and frozen cheesecake on a stick. David managed to choke down an extruded nugget or two, and had a small ice cream cone as well to keep from fainting.

Mac-and-cheese-with-tuna may be lost to me now as a comfort food, but corndogs don’t disappoint. My stomach hurts now – only partially from my rage at the sociopaths in our government who spend all their time thinking up lame excuses and ways to blame others when their negligence is laid bare for all to see.

Partly it’s my rage at them, and partly, it’s the corndog.

The 18-wheeler in the rear-view mirror

2005-09-02T19:12:00.000-07:00

I feel as if I will go mad.

I was glued to the reports online about Katrina’s approach, and went to bed Sunday night distraught, worrying about what would happen when it hit. Then, Monday, we all thought New Orleans had narrowly escaped disaster. Now, of course, we see what the real disaster is: the vast incompetence of our government. The callous, cruel indifference. The unspeakable evil. The stupidity. I don’t have enough synonyms for “incompetent,” so I’ll repeat it: FUCKING incompetent.

I have tried not to become obsessed with this, and go about the tasks of my daily life. School has begun. There are student proposals to read. I have writing and composing and producing to do. But still I read, and I try not to go mad.

Today I met with an ex-student of mine, a woman from South Africa. We exchanged news: her children’s book is being published in South Africa. Her other projects are going well. But walking down the street, the conversation turned to New Orleans, and I thought I would scream out loud in public. How in God’s name will we survive if, God forbid, there is another disaster, or an attack on a major city? Who are these numbnuts who have been placed in charge? Every day I am shocked and surprised and disheartened by the latest atrocity committed by the government, yet I know I shouldn’t be. They stole their way into power, and have spent every waking moment looting and pillaging our country (when they aren’t shopping for shoes or eating birthday cake while on vacation.)

The latest thing I’ve read was an account written by a worker at the aquarium in New Orleans. They tried to keep their generator running as long as possible, but finally it failed. They had no choice but to leave, after days of no food and no sleep. The penguins live in 56 degree water, and they knew they would be dead soon. When the man left, the sharks were attacking other fish in their tank. He witnessed four murders from the roof of the aquarium building as looters attacked one another and police looked on, powerless.

It’s probably stupid to cry over the loss of penguins when there are bodies lying on sidewalks and floating in gutters. But just the efforts of this man and his co-workers to save animals, working around the clock for three days, was heartbreaking. They tried to hold on as long as they could, working for what they believe in. And no one came to help.

The boy who was not permitted to take his dog, who he saved from the flood, when he boarded the bus for the Astrodome – that was another story that struck me in the heart. Again, a small, perhaps insignificant tragedy when compared to the death of people trapped in their attics – but after he had done so much, and saved his friend, to be parted for no good reason – it’s maddening and infuriating and makes me feel absolutely powerless.

I’ve never even really been to New Orleans, except passing through while driving to Florida. We took one trip when I was around nine – I think in 1975. My mother packed us all into our huge white Thunderbird with the license plate “JACKAL” (my father’s Air Force nickname.) We drove from Arizona along I-10, headed for my grandparents’ house in Florida. CB radios were big then, and my mother communicated with the truckers using the handle “Lady Jackal.” They looked out for us. We drove endlessly through Texas (“the sun has riz/the sun has set/and we ain’t out of Texas yet.”) We stopped in Fort Stockton for the worst bowl of tinny chicken soup I have ever eaten. We stopped in New Orleans, where the humid air felt like tomato soup in my lungs.

We were driving over a huge bridge – I imagine the bridge over the Mississippi, although I don’t know the name of it – and the car stalled. My mother managed to get it started again, and on we went. Many years later, my mother told me that when the car stalled, she could see an 18-wheeler barreling up behind us. If she didn’t get the car started again, we would be crushed when the truck hit us, because there was nowhere else for the truck to go. She said she stayed calm because she didn’t want to frighten us – but she knew this was life or death. And the car started.

The people in New Orleans saw disaster looming behind them in their rear-view mirrors. Some were able to outrun it. So many were not. The crash happened; a city has been destroyed. And the vile idiots who are sucking our country dry and killing our soldiers stand by and claim that “no one could have predicted” what happened.

I will go mad.

I must not go mad.

What’s in the rear-view mirror now?

365 days later

2005-08-28T20:13:00.000-07:00

One year ago today, I exchanged vows with the love of my life. While holding a grinning Boston terrier. What more could a man hope for in this world?

I hope David knows what a remarkable man I think he is. There is no one who knows me as deeply as he does. We often read each other’s minds, just walking along. We can have intense conversations. We can be silent together. We’re so fortunate.

We’ve been together for coming up on four years now. It feels like we’ve always been together, and yet like we are still discovering one another.

As I obsessively watched the web feed from a Louisiana television station tonight, gripped with thoughts of the devastation that Hurricane Katrina is beginning to unleash, I wondered what we would do if we were suddenly forced to evacuate – if a hurricane were bearing down on Baltimore. I was heartsick reading that pets are not permitted in the New Orleans shelters – it’s too horrible to think about.

I know David and I would grab Goblin and do whatever we had to do to reach safety. I would hopefully tote my laptop along, as it is the repository of my life’s work so far, but if I had to leave it, too, I would. It’s terrible to contemplate that, with the way the world is going, the fact is that we may very well have to flee someday with only the clothes on our backs, and each other.

This seems to be a grim thought on a day which is an anniversary of a joyous ceremony, but it reaffirms the depth and seriousness of the bond. Sometimes all you have is each other. And a Boston terrier. And with that, you can make it through any dark and terrible night.

That eternal thing that keeps us up at night

2005-08-27T21:38:00.000-07:00

I'm working on one of my freelance writing projects that involved interviewing a number of people working on a musical that's opening on Broadway this fall. The piece will ultimately be read by students, so at the end of each interview, I ask whoever I'm talking with if he or she has any words of advice for young people who are interested in the arts. This is what the director of the show had to say (this is unedited, right off the tape.)

I think the most important thing is to know why. I know that sounds funny. What I have learned, I guess, over the years is that people who stay in theater stay because there’s something about them, something key about them, that can only come alive when they’re working in theater. It’s not about the glamorous things, or whatever. There’s something that is just essential about yourself, and that you want to keep telling stories, and you want to keep making that contact, or you want to keep designing the world of the play -- because you know that you are in your place, you know you are what you’re supposed to be when you’re doing that.

I think most of us, not to get too psychological about it, I think most of us on some level know that eternal thing that keeps us up at night, you know, keeps us awake, keeps us getting up in the morning. Because frankly, it’s not a glamorous business. There are glamorous moments. But in the percentage of the time you spend on a show, they’re very minor. It’s not that. But satisfying your need to connect is why you get up and do it. The rest of it falls in place.

One of the shows that I've written, and have seen through productions both wonderful and disastrous, is about that same idea -- that you have to find that eternal thing -- to find your place, when you know you are what you're supposed to be when you're doing that.

I feel like I've been on a track, this same track, since I was fifteen or sixteen years old. The words of this interview really resonated with me -- it's satisfying a need to connect (a different show of mine contains almost those exact words.)

So now, it's waiting for it to fall into place. I have faith.

But I'm waiting.

Violins on television

2005-08-26T19:15:00.000-07:00

We went out to dinner with two friends: one has been enjoying her summer by perfecting her recipe for cherry pie, as she is preparing to enter the baking competition at the state fair; the other has been enjoying his summer by being pursued by all manner of men from coast to coast.

We ducked out of a gallery opening to the cheap and quirky Southwestern restaurant next door. As we waited for a table, Pursued Friend told me the story of the West Palm guy he was sort-of dating.

"He's fine and everything, and I'm sort of into him, but he does math."

As P.F. is also a schoolteacher (foreign language), I thought, oh, well, here we have a Romeo and Romeo story: can they bridge the differences in their respective subjects to find true happiness in the teacher's lounge? Does he talk in abstract concepts? Is he always graphing parabolas? Is he too fond of solving for x?

"So, wow, he's a mathematician -- he teaches math, or ... ?"

Blank look.

"Meth. He does meth."

Oh. That. Oh, yes. Bad. Well, that's completely different.

Never mind.

A low hi-jink threshold

2005-08-25T13:53:00.000-07:00

For some reason, I'm obsessed with hidden-camera "prank" shows. Not so much "Punk'd" although I've watched it (my loathing for Ashton Kutcher and his shtick outweighs my interest in the pranks.) I was hooked on "Candid Camera" way back when (when I was a kid, they had the syndicated version with Jo Ann Pflug. Pflug. Pflug. I just love saying it. Flooooog. The Pfff is silent.) I loved Candid Camera for it's clunky, Reader's Digest squareness.

When we first got TiVo, one of my first "Season Passes" was set for "Scare Tactics", with the frightening Shannen Doherty (since replaced by the even more frightening Stephen Baldwin.) I don't know, something about dumb twenty-somethings screaming as Bigfoot runs around their RV - I found it squirm-inducing and yet hilarious.

(Another weird bit of synchronicity: Both Pflug and Baldwin are apparently born-again Christians. Could they be just too comfortable with perpetrating fraud? Just wondering.)

The best-slash-worst moment in "Scare Tactics" was the episode in which the appearance of a little person made up to look like a genetic rat-man mutation sent the flitty prank victim into a fit of the screaming meemies. He was the gayest gay who ever gayed, and it was fabulous. "Aiiiieeee!"

David put up with my "Scare Tactics" addiction, but there was plenty of eyerolling. My latest find in the prank-show department was the appropriately named "Hi-Jinks", in which "parents prank their kids!" Each episode features a celebrity - Richard Kind as the world's worst waiter, Susan Sarandon standing in for her own wax figure and scaring the bejeebus out of a student tour group.

We have debated whether or not "pranking your kids!" is a fun family activity, or the cruelest thing ever. I had to watch the show, though, just after having spotted my younger self in the promos. One of the pranks involved a stuffed bear; parents bring the ordinary bear home, and after a few weeks replace it with a bear who talks (a hidden actor, watching the kids and the bear on video, supplies the voice, talking with the kids.)

Some of the kids just giggled when the bear piped up. One delightful child decided to beat the bear senseless. "Ow! Ow! Ow!" But Tiny Crumblord just fell right into conversation with Mr. Bear.

Bear: "Hi."

Tiny Crumblord (not at all surprised, but happy to have a new friend): "Hello!"

Bear: "What's for dinner?"

T.C.: "Chicken nuggets."

Bear: "Is that with that honey dipping sauce? I like that."

Then later, Tiny Crumblord has to convince his in-on-the-joke parents. "But he was talking to me, Mama!"

OK. There's a lifetime of cynicism and suspicion just waiting to happen, once he finds out the his new friend, Magical Bear, is instead the Bear Operated By Friends of Your Parents Who Just Want To Mess With Your Head.

I kept expecting my stuffed rabbits to talk. I almost demanded it. But, no.

There's something about seeing people's reactions to a pre-planned and controlled situation which appeals to me - which explains why I'm in theater, I suppose. It's also why I was always the Dungeon Master in our games of D&D, and why I love rigging up a haunted house when Halloween rolls around.

When I was around nine or so (well, it could have been ten or eleven, who remembers?), I spent a summer with my grandparents in Florida; one of my many cousins was also there, and he and I, being close in age, hung out together a lot. I think we must have been reading fantasy novels or comic books - or possibly have even been exposed to the late 70s early version of D&D. Anyway, somehow we started spinning stories about a big black crow that kept hanging out in a hollow tree near our grandparents' house. Somehow this evolved into leaving notes for the bird - I don't remember why. And of course, those notes would demand an answer, which I of course wrote and snuck into the tree, so as to keep our fantasy game going and make it more interesting. It certainly did that: when my cousin figured out that it was me, he got very mad. I couldn't believe that he'd actually believed it was all real. I couldn't believe he'd be angry just because I wanted the game to have some mystery to it. My uncle, who is just five years older than I am, smugly said, "Well, what a tangled web we weave ..." I couldn't explain that it wasn't like that, I never thought it was a deception, just a game that got out of control. We all want to believe in some magic or some mystery.

We won't be making a habit of watching "Hi-Jinks" - it's cute, and it's always fun watching Susan Sarandon pretend she's made of wax, but it doesn't push those buttons for me. Or maybe, for the Tiny Crumblord who wonders why his blue bunny never says anything, it pushes them all too well.

This is how my brain works

2005-08-24T11:46:00.000-07:00

Okay, just to give you some insight into the dustbunny rodeo that is my brain, here is the kind of trivia that routinely obsesses me:

In the 1967 Valley of the Dolls, the tiny, uncredited role of "Stage Manager" was played by an unknown Richard Dreyfuss.

In the 1981 television remake of Valley of the Dolls, the tiny, uncredited role of "Stage Manager" was played by an unknown Nathan Lane.

In 2004, Dreyfuss was hired to star in the London production of the musical The Producers, stepping into the role originated by Lane. He was later fired; the producers of The Producers claimed he was not physically up to the role. Lane was flown in to replace him. A very Valley of the Dolls-ish story.

In other news, meet Dennis Hensley, who is as obsessed with Match Game as I am. Click on his links to see his live recreations of Match Game, with Jennifer Elise Cox (Jan from the Brady Bunch movies) as Elaine Joyce, and Marcia Wallace as herself.

I knew I would love the site right from the opening page, which recreates the "Dynamite" magazine logo. I would always order "Dynamite" when we had our Scholastic Book sales at school.

You should also check out "Evie Harris: Shining Star" on this site, a sort of precursor to the movie Girls Will Be Girls - I rented this on a whim and it has become one of my favorites. The design is amazing - shot in the director's house, apparently.

And, trivia note, both Richard Dreyfuss and Nathan Lane were fired from their small roles as "Stage Manager" on the production. Weird.

First whiff

2005-08-23T07:13:00.000-07:00

While I was walking Goblin the Dog yesterday, fall blew around the corner. It wasn't too hot of a day, but still a little muggy and summery; a breeze came scattering leaves through the little street garden we were walking past, and it felt dry and chilly and quiet, like autumn. And today, you can definitely tell that change is in the air. There's an undertone of fall, even though the cicadas are still buzzing away. My brain is waking up from its summer slumber - a good thing, too, since school begins next week and it's time to get all professorial again.

When I first moved to New York, it was September of 1989; I didn't move until after Labor Day, but it was still warm and unbelievably humid. There was a day when I was walking uptown, and crossed the street, seemingly right through a cold front. On one side of the street, it was warm and muggy summer, and on the other, crisp, dry fall. You could actually feel the wall of cold air as it pushed its way downtown.

Around that same time, somebody took me to my first real cabaret in New York. It turned out to be a performance by a guy who had been a graduate student when I was in undergrad in Arizona. He was sort of a like a big blond football player type, and you wouldn't really imagine him doing cabaret. There he was, doing his act, intoning his "patter": "But hey, it's almost autumn. I love autumn."

And his next song was, of course, "Autumn."

It was my first inkling that, hey, not everyone in New York is really all that good. Whew!

But I did love that autumn.

Sparkle, Lisa, Sparkle

2005-08-22T07:41:00.000-07:00

The weekend, I've been indulging in a guilty pleasure: watching Valley of the Dolls. Not the movie with Patty Duke and Susan Hayward; no, this is the 1981 made-for-television remake. It's sort of like binging on ice cream - really cheap store-brand ice cream that comes in a gallon bucket and has little ice crystals in it from melting and refreezing in the store.

(If you haven't seen the original, pry up that rock you've been dwelling under, and go rent it. You haven't lived until you've seen Patty Duke's rendering of the immortal lines: "Boobies! Boobies! Boobies!")

I'm only about an hour and a half through this four-hour extravaganza, but already I'm having flashbacks to 1981 (I actually caught this on television the first time around.) We hadn't quite shaken off the 70s at this point - in scene after scene I kept wondering, what the hell were people doing with their hair back then? Lisa Hartman stars as Neely O'Hara, who in this version is some kind of rock singer. She's done up in the baby-pink makeup colors of the time, with her hair brushed out like cotton candy. Her make-up artist-turned-boyfriend-slash-manager in this version is a Jon Peters-alike, who starts slipping her pills on the set of her debut film, a bizarro musical called "Fanfare." The few scenes we see seem like an implosion of the dancing sailorettes from "Anything Goes" with crappy seventies rock-combo lounge music. Crooning out tunes in a Captain Stubing uniform is none other than ubiquitious 70s game show host Bert Convy, as the doomed singer Tony Polar.

If you all refer to your texts, children, you'll remember that Tony Polar is the young, handsome singer who falls in love with showgirl Jennifer North, who discovers from his controlling older sister Miriam that Tony has a congenital disease which will shortly kill him, and will be passed on to the child Jennifer is carrying. Got it?

Well, the key words are young and handsome, and with all respect to Mr. Convy (who tragically died of a brain tumor), he was almost fifty at the time this was made. Carol Lawrence, playing his "I'm ten years older" sister, was actually only a year older. (The opening credit sequence has an odd shot of Ms. Lawrence; it's one of those credits where they show shots of all the actors as their name comes up. When they get to Carol Lawrence, it's a shot of the back of her head. You know she's going to do the "turn-around-and-act-surprised" thing that you see in these kinds of sequences, but the shot stays on the back of her head ... and she's not turning around ... just not turning around. I was wondering, is this role actually played by Carol Lawrence's stunt double? Or Cousin Itt? Finally, of course, she does turn around and act surprised.)

Jennifer North, played in the original by sweet Sharon Tate, is played by Veronica Hamel, Joyce Davenport from Hill Street Blues (recently reduced to spraying a white streak in her hair as Lily Munster in Meet the Munsters.) It's an odd choice. I think she's also a good actress (we'll overlook Beyond the Poseidon Adventure) but she's tough rather than innocent. And she does her best to generate some chemistry with Bert Convy, but that's above and beyond what almost anyone could do.

Another sign how times have changed: they made the daring choice to have Jennifer go for an abortion, at Miriam's urging, when she learns about Tony's condition. The scene in the hospital is short, with Jennifer dressed in a dark suit being led down a corridor by a nurse - actually well done.

Then Jennifer does what anyone would do, which is go lay around in a garret in Paris, getting drunk and high, until she is picked up by a glamorous blond lesbian painter.

The third lead is Catherine Hicks, who was the whale-keeper love interest in Star Trek IV, and currently the mother in "Seventh Heaven." She plays Anne Welles, played by Barbara Parkins in the original. In that version, Anne starts out as a "career girl" secretary and ends up improbably becoming a cosmetics model. In 1981, they actually had an interesting take on this character: she is a young entertainment lawyer who starts climbing the ladder toward studio mogul-dom, the way a lot of women did in the 80s. Her scenes involve a lot of discussion of contracts and options and distribution deals, and seem fairly accurate (unlike the bizarre movie she is helping to produce.)

I'm realizing that I'm making this movie sound not all that bad. Don't get me wrong. It is dreck, oh yes it is. The hair, the clothes, the awful pseudo-rock music: bleah. Strangely, they lured Dionne Warwick into singing the theme song -- she also sang the (different) theme to the 1967 original.

This show is also a classic example of how far the art of lighting has come: every scene has one strong, flat light, with deep shadows everywhere - classic TV lighting. In contrast, I just read an article about what goes into the cinematography of Six Feet Under, which has the most amazingly subtle and beautiful lighting.

Okay, if I'm critiquing the lighting, you know I'm in too deep here.

I have to get back to watching: Jennifer is with the blond lesbian, Neely has just won Best Supporting Actress while strapped into an outfit that makes her look like an escapee from Cirque du Soleil, and Ann is wearing sensible pleated skirts and being rejected by David Birney for not dropping her career to follow him across the globe.

Anybody want a spoon? There's plenty to go around.

Please excuse Crumblord

2005-08-21T11:51:00.000-07:00

"... he had a tummy ache."

I have a note to explain my absence. It's signed by my mother (she's used to this sort of thing.) So what homework have I missed?

Although I was your usual little brainiac-genius, there were many periods when I just didn't like school. Usually it was fine, but every so often I just couldn't face it. My mother had a refreshingly direct attitude toward school - she has often said that the only reason she sent us to school at all was to make friends, as she suspected we were smart enough to be unlikely to learn anything there that we didn't already know. So, after a while writing normal notes like, "Please excuse Crumblord's absence, he had the sniffles," she decided to just tell it like it is.

"Please excuse Crumblord's absence from school. He did not feel like going."

This was received rather frostily by the school administration, but really, what were they going to do about it?

Occasionally my mother would drive me to elementary school - looking back, I cannot imagine why, as we lived literally across the street. This must have been my extreme procrastination kicking in. I remember one instance in particular when she, wearing a nightgown and robe, drove me to school in our white Datsun; she didn't just pull up in the front circle drive, but drove right up onto the sidewalk and deposited me in front of the office. These days, she'd be in danger of being some kind of Fox News Channel story. "Nightgown Mom Goes Beserk!"

Even in high school I was perpetually late and treading the line with absences. My sophomore year, the chemistry teacher had a policy that if you were late, don't bother coming to class. Luckily for me, I was a whiz at chemistry, because I missed the bell many times.

It all came to a head when I got into college, and no one was making me go to my early classes. So, I didn't go. After a high school career of As and the occasional B, I was flunking out of every class except my theater classes. What to do? It was a horrible combination of procrastination and sleep deprivation.

I still am a sleep junkie (8 1/2 hours is perfect for me if I'm caught up on sleep - otherwise it can be 9 or even 10 hours), but for many things I'm actually early. When I was having to commute to NYC from Baltimore on the days I was teaching, my train was at 5:30 in the morning. This got me into the city with enough time to eat a leisurely breakfast, read the comics page, and still be the first faculty member into class. (I hope I don't jinx it now. Eeesh.)

So, pardon my absence. I was doing many things - putting on a show, lecturing on a cruise ship (who knew people did such things?), recovering from a stupidly acquired sunburn, writing articles, having the summer blahs. For much of the summer my brain has felt like a gelatinous mass of uninteresting thoughts (most of which were variations of "When is Battlestar Galactica on?") But now I'm back. Lucky, lucky you.

Pssst. Can I borrow your notes for the quiz tomorrow? I swear I'll pay you back.

Crumblord Goes to Washington

2005-07-04T17:12:00.000-07:00

Last week, my best friend and college roommate came to visit lovely Baltimore. We've been friends now for over 20 years, which is a little mind-bending, so I try not to think about it.

The day after he arrived, we hopped aboard the commuter train that runs between Baltimore and Washington, D.C., for a visit to our nation's capital. I've been to Washington a few times, although not as much as you might think, living so close. And I've never really done the monuments-and-museums circuit. But this trip was, frankly, awe-inspiring.

My friend's older brother is a Congressman; he was elected in 2000, taking the seat that Hillary Clinton's opponent in her race for Senate vacated in order to run. Even though he is a Democrat in a heavily Republican area, he has won successive re-election with a high percentage of the vote.

Even better, he's just a cool guy.

The weather in D.C. was muggy in the extreme; within minutes of emerging from Union Station in search of coffee and/or air-conditioning, I felt like a wrung-out sponge. We parked ourselves in a cafe before heading to our first stop, the Library of Congress.

We were scheduled for one of the regular tours, with a special mini-tour to follow. Those who were going on the tour convened in a theater - there were about 100 people, who would then split into three groups, each led by a different docent. When informed that one was not allowed to take pictures of the historic bibles on display, one disgruntled tourgoer raised his hand and said, "How come is it we're not 'lowed to take pickchures of the Bahble?"

We discreetly switched groups.

We had a great docent - Joanne - a retired sixth grade teacher who took charge and herded us along efficiently. We found out later that each docent is allowed to write his or her own tour, focusing on whatever they are personally interested in. Joanne pointed out the symbolism in the many paintings and statues that can be found in the public areas of the library.

After the 45 minute tour - yes, we saw the Gutenberg Bahble - Joanne took us to the room where members of Congress occasionally meet or hold press conferences. It's beautifully designed, and was serene and quiet while we sat and chatted with her.

Then it was on to the Congressman's office. I was surprised that the security involved no more than a metal detector - I expected to be grilled, or at least to have to show ID - but soon we were walking the halls, passing office after office of people like Majority Leader Tom DeLay. As an avid reader of Daily Kos and other political websites, I was starting to experience a feeling like being backstage at a rock concert.

The office was beautiful; apparently the representatives change offices as their seniority level increases. This office had previously been occupied by a member of the House who was then elected to the Senate. I have not Googled enough to determine who this might be. But it's a swell office.

The staffers were almost all in the their mid-20s. It doesn't pay well to work for a Congressman, unfortunately, so turnover is high, and only the young can really afford to do it. But energy and optimism were beaming out of everyone in the office - all of them are clearly excited to be working there.

We went for a brief tour of the Capitol; by this time the building had closed to tourists, so we were alone when we came to the Rotunda. The Congressman is a history buff, and had an interesting story for every room we came to. My friend and I, both West Wing addicts, were almost dizzy. (This is the first time my friend has come from California to visit his brother since his swearing-in.) We came to the lobby outside the Senate chamber, where the Congressman sent a message to see if Senator Clinton might be available to meet us for a moment. Unfortunately, she was in a committee meeting, but sent her regrets. They are friendly; photos of the Congressman with the both of the Clintons are displayed in his office. It's probably fine that we didn't get to meet her, as I might have spontaneously combusted.

As it was, we ran into a number of his Congressional colleagues, all of whom shook hands with my friend and I and chatted with us. It was striking, the way that all of them have the skill of looking you in the eye and addressing you as though you were an incredibly important person at that moment, even though you had just been introduced as the friend of somebody's brother. Although we met several members of Congress, my personal favorite was Rep. Melissa Bean, who won a tough fight against incumbent Phil Crane (who never actually acknowledged her victory.)

My friend and I got to sit in the gallery of the House of Representatives, while voting took place on a number of bills. The way votes are cast is interesting: a representative inserts his or her ID card into a slot at the end of the aisle and presses the "yea" or "nay" button. The results are projected on an upper wall above the gallery - the projections appear and disappear with disconcerting suddenness, like an effect from the Haunted Mansion.

We spotted several familiar faces - DeLay and Hastert, among others. An hour flew by, and the voting was over momentarily. Then, we got to eat in the Capitol dining room, the original home of "freedom fries" (which are still on the menu.)

Although the food is supposedly bad and the service worse, our dinner was fine (hard to screw up pasta.) At the table next to us were Representatives Carolyn McCarthy and Linda Sanchez (whose sister Loretta is also in Congress.) They chatted with us - very nice - before settling down to an animated discussion over their dinner. The entire atmosphere was very collegial, very energetic, very ... fun.

After dinner, we were treated to a walk around the outside of the Capitol, in the police-guarded area where the general public cannot go. The view down the Mall to the Washington Monument was suffused with hazy orange light as the sun set over the city. The Navy swing band played for a group of tourists on the West Steps. Everywhere we looked, there was history. It truly brought a lump to my throat. There are so many terrible things going on in this country - in this very place - and it renewed my faith that somehow things will be set right.

Reunited

2005-06-16T22:02:00.000-07:00

I'm just writing something short today, so that I don't fall into the trap of not blogging for weeks on end.

David came up to New York today; I've been here for a couple of weeks, working on a reading of a show, and also helping to oversee a student workshop. It's been keeping me busy -- I always think I'll have all this extra time to catch up on my socializing with New York friends, but that's rarely the case. Goblin made the trip to NYC with me, smuggled in her bag aboard Amtrak as usual (where I spend the entire trip feeling like the conductor will pounce at any second. What? Me? Guilty sweat? What?) I've been bringing her to school, where she snoozes, lounging half in and half out of her bag (when she isn't being fawned over by students and staff.)

But whenever I'm here alone I usually start having insomnia. It's just hard to sleep without David here near me (all together now: Awwwww!) But now he's here. And we're all together. It's all as it should be.

Molly Ringwald's Iced Coffee

2005-06-15T21:44:00.000-07:00

[... Crumblord awakens after a long stint in the Bermuda Triangle ... where am I? Where was I? It's all a blur ... Amnesia, yes, that's it ... that must be it.]

Don't you just love when you install something on your trusty, reliable, sweet-tempered Mac (Finale 2005, I am looking in your direction) and in the blink of an eye, not only is your address book gone, but also all your Firefox bookmarks AND all your saved passwords and login information.

Like, for instance, for Blogger.

There was a time when I never used address books, paper or electronic. I just remembered everyone's address. But no, I thought, I should make use of this nifty feature. Everyone else does.

Everyone else also knows how to back it up. So I'm getting a .Mac account and hoping not to be heartbroken and locked out of every login ever again.

Anyway.

To dip my toe back into the blogwater... I was riding the train home to Baltimore, oh, a few weeks ago, clacking away on my computer, when a family boarded the train in Philadelphia. I wasn't really paying attention, since I was editing music (in Finale! GRRR) on my laptop. Then I heard the father making loud calls on his cell, saying something about "They sent the wrong version of the script to my office ... there's been a rewrite ... I don't want to read it till I see the right version..." My ears perked up ... script? Hmmm?

The woman behind me, speaking with a French accent, asked the conductor "if there wasn't somewhere that man could GO to make his calls." Informed that alas, we were not in the "quiet car" where cell phones are forbidden, she stoically replied, "Well then. I shall move."

She did.

I looked over, and who was the Maker of Loud Calls? None other than M. Night Shyamalan, and Family. (In his defense, he made only one call -- okay, somewhat loud -- and it was nothing compared to some of the braying that goes on normally.)

He was with his beautiful wife, and their two lovely, well-behaved daughters. One sat reading a Harry Potter book, while the other climbed about on her seat, surveying the train. I gathered that they hadn't really traveled by train before, as M. Night -- oh, let's call him M. -- repeatedly exclaimed how much better it was than flying. You can walk around, you can eat, you can multitask, he said. I don't know if they were going farther than D.C. or not -- but it's not a long ride, really. And it beats driving, and certainly beats the hassle of going to an airport to fly such a relatively short distance.

He went on to talk about casting for whatever project he was working on. Yes, I'm an eavesdropper. He mentioned the difficulty they were having finding an actress for a role. He talked about one actress who had come in (sadly, no names were mentioned), and how her eyes were mesmerizing.

Mrs. M. Night Shyamalan said, "I don't like to hear you talk about women in that way."

She really was lovely -- it's hard to convey the tone of what she said -- chiding but loving at the same time. Perhaps teasing him a little.

Anyway, the M. Night Shyamalans were off to a vacation, it sounded like. Good for them.

It was the first in a trio of celebrity sightings; the two others took place in the East Village near where I teach. One was Arye Gross, who used to be on Ellen and who I think is now on Entourage, a show I never watch. The other was Molly Ringwald, sitting in Starbucks looking like she had just come from the gym. She had no makeup on, and looked gorgeous. I was trying not to stare (unlike the friend who was with me, who kept saying "I JUST watched Pretty in Pink LAST NIGHT!" over and over) but it appeared that she had a little girl with her. I am not part of the Molly Ringwald Web Ring so I'm not up on her personal life, but if the girl was hers, congratulations, because she was well-behaved and also adorable. It was one of the hellishly humid days we had earlier this week, and still Molly Ringwald looked cool and comfortable as she slugged down her iced coffee. I was splurging on a Mocha Mint Chip Frappucino ... note to self, do not make that mistake again.

Okay, so now that I've remembered what the hell my login name and password were, perhaps I won't vanish for quite so long next time. If anyone ever returns to this tumbleweed and dust-bunny strewn corner of the universe ever again ...

Oh, to finish off my M. Night sighting ...

The thing about the train ride was, it started off like an ordinary train ride ... but I did have the sense that something was wrong. Something was off, something was different. It was just a feeling, a dread in the atmosphere. On the surface, everything was normal.

And then, at the end of the ride, there was a tremendous, jaw-dropping plot twist which changed my perception of everything that had happened up to that point.

But of course, I can't tell you. You have to ride the train yourself.

Massage !#$%@^@! Therapy

2005-05-25T20:49:00.000-07:00

I was out of town, working on a show, and just about in knots from the stress. Things weren't going well, and I had woken up with a stiff neck and back, to the point where I had to turn my whole body to look to the left or the right. I looked like a life-size puppet.

I decided that I would treat myself to a massage; since I was without a car, I arranged for a massage therapist to come to me, bringing his table and the whole shebang. I just picked one out of the paper. My mistake.

(Okay, this isn't about THAT kind of massage. Just so you know.)

I was staying in the semi-deserted high-rise in Minneapolis. The wind was whistling around the building when Mr. Massage Therapist got there. He seemed nice enough, just a regular Midwestern guy, with a touch of a Minnesoohhtan accent. He set up the table in the living room, and I got all settled in under a towel, hoping to have my neck and back thawed by the massage.

My head was in the face cradle. All I could see was his feet as he took his place to begin the massage.

"One thing, before we begin," he said. "I have Tourette's syndrome. I hope that's okay."

"Well ... uh ... sure. No problem."

I had gone to school with a guy who had Tourette's. He kept it under control with medication. He had the occasional snort or wince, but it was very mild. I wasn't bothered by Mr. M. T.'s confession. How bad could it be?

He started in working on my neck, very gently. And then about two minutes into the massage, he had a spasm. I could see his toes curl and could feel his hands tense up on my body as he struggled mightily to control himself. It passed, and he kept on going.

Every so often, he'd be seized with a spasm and his whole body would clench. My body, in a sympathetic reaction, began seizing up with tension as well. By the time he was finished, I was a pretzel.

I felt like saying, hell, let loose with the swearing, if it's going to help any. Not everybody with Tourette's has that aspect of it, I know. But actually, by the end there, I felt like swearing.

I was polite as he he left. I admired his desire to help others, and his openness about his condition. But still, perhaps massage therapy was not his true calling.

The only time I'd had a worse massage, I'd gone to get a session on my birthday. The guy kept the radio playing "1010WINS" loudly (New York's traffic and weather station), so I spent my hour being coated in thick oil and being berated by announcers going on about the delays at the Lincoln Tunnel and the George Washington Bridge.

Back in the Minneapolis high-rise, I was worse off than before. I tried sleeping on the floor. As a result, not only could I not turn from side to side, I could barely bend over. I could only make a sort of Mandarin bow.

I resorted to doing the exercises I'd learned back in drama school. I laid on the floor in rehearsal and stretched. I rolled about curled in a ball like an onion. I dropped over like a rag doll and tried to realign my spine. A little better, but no good.

I checked into seeing a chiropractor, but in the end I called another massage therapist, this time on a recommendation from a friend. He arrived with a table and no bizarre behavioral problems. I cried a little bit as the tension flowed out of my body. He told me that each little knot carried with it a bit of muscle memory, a storing of emotion. Given the stress that was going on in rehearsal, it was a wonder I still had a spine at all.

Come to think of it, on that particular show, I wasn't exhibiting much of a spine. Use it or lose it, I guess.

Sithies

2005-05-24T08:22:00.000-07:00

How easy it is to fall off the blogwagon.

I lined up to do my duty as an American consumer, and saw Star Wars Episode III yesterday. I hated the first two, but slogged through them also, trying to recapture the magic of being eleven years old and hearing that fanfare and overture for the first time.

I saw Episode I with three drag queens, and that didn't even help all that much.

When the original Star Wars came out, I saw it sixteen times in the theater. After the eleventh time, my parents said no more. I snuck in five more times. Of course by the sixteenth time, I knew the movie so well, half the time I turned around and watched the pattern the light of the film projector made in the slightly dusty air.

My cousin B., who is just a couple of months older than I am, became a rabid Star Wars figurine collector. He had them all, including the Millenium Falcon (the large size model.)

I hated him for that. Not that I wanted all those figurines all lined up perfectly on little shelves in my closet. Oh no. I think it was his gloating that did it.

I had the Star Trek action figures, along with the bridge set that included the transporter chamber, where you stuffed Captain Kirk in, whirled it around, and presto! He was gone.

My Star Trek guys all gradually lost their clothes, probably due to too many deep-sea diving expeditions in the jacuzzi. I'm sure that's it.

Tour guide syndrome, with a cameo appearance by Clint Eastwood

2005-05-09T21:58:00.000-07:00

As David mentioned in his blog, I have a new addiction. I have become obsessed with the forums on a travel website, where people post things like "Please critique my itinerary!" "Which area of Maui should I stay Wailea-Makena or Ka'anapali - Lahaina?" "Candid opinions about Sandwich, MA" and "If we can't get the Ahwahnee, then Fish Camp?"

The forums are divided into regional boards; I spend most of my time on the U.S. board, where most of the questions are about either Hawaii, New York, Las Vegas, or Yosemite National Park. The New York questions tend to be the same: what are the hot restaurants? How does the Marriott Marquis compare to the W? And, can I get tickets to Spamalot?

Occasionally, someone will ask a question for which I have a helpful answer; I will then join the crowd of people rushing to post their opinions. Sometimes posters will snidely dismiss the advice given in the previous answer. "Sure, that restaurant is cozy - so cozy that the next table is in your lap!" Or, "[Restaurant X] is not a good choice...it is dirty, cramped, and unpleasant!!! Went once would never, ever go again! The food looked terrible, I would not eat it, my husband did and he thought it was terrible. " Or dismisses a hotel that one person recommends as "crowded, loud and tacky!"

Sometimes the questioners ask that to which there are no answers: "Which Mall of America hotel would you choose, and why?" These posts sit lonely, unanswered, ignored. (If you're staying at a hotel at the Mall of America, you clearly haven't considered the "why.")

But what's worse is if you ask a question which has been asked and answered every other day ("Where should we stay in New York? We want something convenient to all the major attractions!") you will simply be wearily commanded to search the forums for the answers given when people still had the enthusiasm to give an opinion. Questioners become demanding "Tell me about Waimea Canyon!" It can become quite a fracas.

This forum appeals to me for two reasons: one is that it presses the "I'm a helper!" button in me quite strongly. I crave secret knowledge -- both learning it and dispensing it. By reading the forum, I now know whether or not I should stay in Wailea-Makena or Ka'anapali, and I now have my own candid opinion about Sandwich, MA. My heart leaps when I see a question that I can answer - recently there were a spate of queries about the Renaissance Hotel in Hollywood, where I stayed a grand total of one night last summer. My stay there, of course, makes me an expert willing to bestow my considered opinion ("it was great!") on anyone who asks.

I was shocked to see a question about Michigan's Upper Peninsula recently; I raced to clack out a post covering the bits that I knew, all in the vicinity of Eagle Harbor - which is not even the most traveled section of the U.P. Still, it was information I had that nobody else had. I was needed!

The number of "Here's our itinerary - critique us, please!" posts is quite extraordinary. At first I was surprised that anyone would open themselves up to the often-finicky appraisal of know-it-all strangers, but then I began to see that there was something to be gained. First-time visitors to New York often don't have a sense of how much time it takes to get around the city, or a sense of which locations are near each other. I did point out to one traveler that her shopping plan for a Sunday took her from the Upper West Side to Chinatown and back again - on the weekend when subway service is usually disrupted in some way.

The most difficult cases are people who are trying to pack in every possible experience in a madcap Manhattan weekend. For instance:

Here's my itinerary for a long weekend in Manhattan. I know it's busy but I'm trying to be very efficient with my time. I'll come back later to see my favorites. We're staying in midtown at the Belvedere. Should I take the airtrain from the airport and then taxi the rest of the way to the hotel. Please comment on my itinerary, food choices, anything I'm missing or not worth it? Thanks!

FRIDAY (Arrive at hotel 7am ish)
Nap???
NY Water Taxi @ South St. Seaport to Grimaldi's Pizza in Brooklyn, Ice Cream Factory, Walk Bridge
Shop Soho/Village/Canal St. (Shopping: Betwixt, Soho Market, Pearl River Mart, Best Canal St. bet. Mulberry/ Broadway) (Eats: Dos Caminos (Mexican), Dukes (American), Paul's, Tenesee Mountain House, Balthazar, Cupping Room, Florent, Mayrose, Pastis, Zoe, Elephant & Castle, Tartine, Ferraras Pastries) Taxi by Ground Zero on the way to Ferry Round trip on Staten Island Ferry to see Statue of Liberty
MOMA (Free 4:00-8:00) - Concentrate on 5th Floor exhibits
Go to bed!!!!

SATURDAY
1 hr. bike ride in Central Park
Use restroom at Tavern on the Green
Lunch in Central Park (Boat House?)
Wicked The Musical - 2:00 matinee
See St. Patrick's Cathedral
See Trump Plaza Hotel
Top of Empire State Bldg (212-736-3100 for wait time and visibility)
Times Square at night

(Eats: Carmine's Italian, Blue Fin Sushi, Patsys, Becco, Cara Mia, Puttanesca, Marseille,Stardust, outdoor restaurants on Columbus, Trump Plaza Food Court, Café 123, Hell's Kitchen, John's Pizzeria, Grand Central Food Court on lower level, Serendipity)

(Bagels Everywhere: Essa Bagel or Pick A Bagel)

SUNDAY
Do whatever we didn't get to/more shopping until it's time to go to airport around 1:00pm

Now of course, this man knew he could not eat at every one of these restaurants - still, a day that begins with a bike ride in Central Park, and includes seeing a Broadway musical, St. Patrick's Cathedral, Trump Plaza and the Empire State Building is just plain exhausting. At least there was a bathroom break scheduled in.

I used to plan itineraries just like this when I first lived in New York and friends came to visit. I would be gripped by "tour guide syndrome", when we absolutely had to get to every major tourist attraction, and my entire self worth was based on whether on not everyone was constantly having a good time. Oh, yes, those were delightful vacations for all involved.

For example: my college roommates Richard and Jill and I would always reunite for New Year's Eve (we did this 11 years in a row, right up until the Millenium, after which we were exhausted.) The first year that I was hosting the gathering in New York, Richard and Jill and I, along with my roommate Jeannette, set out for a day of sightseeing and theater. I believe this was December 30. We first went to the TKTS theater discount booth in Times Square. Silly me - after standing in line for hours, there was nothing available. But ah, here's a show that looks good, and it's playing in the Village. What? A discount you say? Off we rush to the Village on the subway to the theater box office, only to find out that there are no more tickets. Ah - but wait, we have to meet our friend Lorraine uptown for drinks in twenty minutes - rush back to the subway! We make it breathlessly to the Paramount hotel, where we shovel stuffed mushrooms and martinis down our gullets in the overheated and overpriced bar. We take a moment to recover in the lobby. Seeing a show is out - how about a movie? No movies are playing at any time that we would be able to see one, and still be able to meet up with other friends in the Village for dinner. We lay there, spent, still hungry, with hours to kill and no way to kill them. Rush rush rush back down to the Village to meet up with our friend Brett. I am marching along like a drill sergeant, while Jill is gradually turning green around the gills and lagging behind. Do I stop? No! We will be late! Hurry! Hurry!

Finally, Jill clutches a wire mesh trashcan somewhere along Christopher Street in the Village, and spews up her bad mushroom appetizers. Richard holds her hair. I fume and check my watch. There is no time scheduled for vomiting! In a surreal moment, Clint Eastwood stops to ask, "Is she all right?" I miss this, because I am again checking my watch and looking for a taxi.

In an incredible display of assholish-ness, instead of caring for my sick friend, I instead pack her off in a taxi by herself back to my apartment - we can't wait for her, we'll be late to meet Brett! If we had been in an Eskimo tribe, I would have abandoned Jill on an ice floe to be eaten by polar bears while we met up with Brett for a meal of blubber and more martinis.

We had the longest, most exhausting and unsatisfying day on record, where I marched my friends uptown and downtown until they literally collapsed from fatigue and hunger. And I was churlish and bossy, consumed with the idea that getting the troops everyplace on time was my sole responsibility.

This was only surpassed a few years later when I led Mr. Ex, his traveling partner and saintly friend Richard on a commando raid on Walt Disney World which began at dawn. "RUN to Splash Mountain! No! No! Don't turn here, that's Critter Country! Stick to the plan! STICK TO THE PLAN!"

Since these debacles, I have tried to spot the symptoms of tour guide syndrome whenever they creep up. It has certainly happened, as David will attest. New York has a way of making it worse, because if you are not incredibly early and already in line for something, you will NEVER GET IN. This is what led to my dragging David into the ticket line for Shakespeare in the Park at five in the morning, where we slept until one o'clock, when they actually handed out tickets.

I'm hoping that my obsession with the travel website can alleviate some of my tour guide syndrome just by allowing me to inflict it on total strangers, and not on my friends and family.

Oh my god. We've spent far too much time on this post already. Keep moving! Keep moving! KEEP MOVING!

Doctor Mom, Ph.D

2005-05-08T00:01:00.000-07:00

Fell into a wormhole. I'm back now.

It's Mother's Day, so let's talk about my mother, shall we?

I suppose most people don't figure out what amazing people their parents are until long after the fact. I suppose I always assumed that everyone's mother was as incredible as mine is. But I've come to understand over the years just how lucky I am.

Here are a few examples... when I was about to turn six, and my sister and brother were about four and two, our family made the move from Sparta, New Jersey, to Tucson, Arizona. My father was going to take a job at Davis-Monthan Air Force Base training pilots in the National Guard while continuing to fly for TWA (who furloughed pilots often.) He may have been laid off from TWA at this point, hell, what do I know? I was five.

Anyway, my mother certainly knew what a change we were in for: the house we had in New Jersey was built into the side of a hill, with woods out back, and deer and bunnies that would come up to my bedroom window (which was ground level, as my room was on the lowest floor that was partly underground.) We went swimming in Lake Mohawk; my mother took part in the local Geranium Festival. There was snow in winter, with sledding and snowmen and scooping snow off the deck to put in the ice-cream maker for winter ice cream. Arizona was going to be very, very, very different.

So, she got hold of the blueprints for the house we were moving into (a new development which was, at that time, on the far northwest side of Tucson.) She laid it out on my dad's rumpus-room bar (this was the 70s) and gathered us all around. We had those little Fisher-Price people - one representing each of us in the family - and we played games, "exploring" the house like a treasure map, acting out our new life in our home-soon-to-be. I think we even picked out our rooms. So, when we finally got to Tucson (like the surface of Mars compared to the snowy East Coast we had left), we knew our way around the house already. It was familiar, and welcoming. Plus, I got the best room.

There were other difficulties involved in being the wife of an airline pilot who was often left to raise three children on her own for long stretches at a time. The three of us came down with chicken pox at the same time - remember, we're talking three kids under the age of five. I don't know how she didn't go insane. I remember being plunked into cornstarch baths and trying my best not to scratch. I'm sure it was a delightful time.

My mother also had to shepherd us on flights - we could travel on passes since we were an airline family, but it meant that we were always on standby. There were long layovers in St. Louis - seven, eight, nine hours - where a lesser person might have cracked. But, we had fun.

On some nights when my father was away, my mother would bring us all into their room, lit only by an oil lamp, and we would play "Poor Family" or "Farm Family" (this was during the era of "Little House on the Prairie"'s popularity. We lie there, spinning stories in the darkness about what chores we'd done that day, looking at the flickering shadows of the lamp on the ceiling.

My mother was also resourceful when it came to holidays. My father often had to fly on holidays, since he was low in seniority. When my father would have to be away on Christmas, my mother figured that, hey, kids our age don't know calendar dates. Who says Christmas is tomorrow? Maybe this year, Christmas happens a few days late. So, all we knew was that Santa took a while to get around to us (I mean, he does have a lot to do) but our dad always managed to be home when Santa had made his delivery.

When my parents decided to divorce when I was around nine, they did it with a minimum of stress. We all moved: we kids moved with our mom to a small townhouse complex with a playground and a pool, right across the street from our new school. My father moved into a swingin' bachelor condo complete with bead curtain, within walking distance. We could go home to either place after school. It was like having two different worlds to live in: with my mom, there was the comfort and security of all our regular toys and games and food, while at my dad's, there was Koogle and Kelloggs Variety Pack and playing poker and board game marathons. It worked out well.

During this time, my mother managed to get her Ph.D while at the same time working constantly and managing to raise the three of us. She would be working on her Olivetti typewriter, intently crafting her dissertation, and we knew this was Quiet Time. The townhouse we lived in was two stories; a heavy footfall on the second floor made quite a bumping sound below. My mother was understandably sensitive to noise as she tried to keep her concentration; sometimes we weren't very helpful. If my sister and I were playing upstairs and dropped a book or something, we would freeze: we knew that within seconds we would hear a familiar, desperate cry from downstairs:

"WHO'S JUMPING???!!!"

".... nobody."

I wonder if she imagined that we were gleefully leaping on and off the beds, madcap hooligans trying to drive her nuts. Okay, sometimes we were. Sometimes.

I didn't move out of that house until my sophomore year of college. When I got into my teens, my mother replaced my old bed with a more grownup leather pull-out couch, which I was very proud of. When it was pulled out, there was a space underneath the mattress, where it ordinarily would fold into, which seemed perfect for hiding anything that I might want to keep out of sight. It became the repository for some publications of an adult nature, shall we say. Although I had a constant string of girlfriends, I was somehow compelled to sneak out and buy the occasional copy of Honcho. Just for research, you know.

My mother, who is extremely organized, occasionally would lose her patience with the post-tornado appearance of my room, and would straighten it up. Thus, I would come home to find the debris back in its place, my bed made, and on the bedside table, neatly piled issues of Honcho, BlueBoy, and Inches.

And she never said a thing about it.

Well, there was one time... I think we were getting groceries out of the trunk, and she said something to me like, "Okay, I just have to ask. Pornography: what's the attraction? I wondered this with your father, too." This was in a completely normal tone of voice, as though she had asked me if we remembered to get the kind of orange juice that had extra pulp.

I don't know what I answered. It's hard to speak when you're swallowing your tongue.

I'm realizing that this post might go on for pages and pages if I wrote about all the reasons why my mother is an outstanding person. It's not just to do with her mothering skills - her career has literally taken her around the globe. She has a enthusiasm for adventure and exploration that I admire. She's brilliant (I once checked her Ph.D dissertation out of the library and tried to read it. It's a mindblower when you realize just how incredibly, wildly, Einstein-ian-ly smart your mother is.) She taught me to cook; she thought every word I ever scribbled on a napkin was worth exclaiming over; she has come to every show I've written and has been a tireless cheerleader and also a thoughtful and insightful critic in the best sense.

Of course that's only a very small part of the story. She should write her life story someday. I hope she does.

Barbara, you're one hell of a person. We are lucky to have you in our lives.

One week later, recovered from birthday madness

2005-04-29T09:48:00.000-07:00

I've spent the last week recovering from the three-day festival that was my birthday (oh, and surviving the end-of-semester teaching crunch.)

David and my sister collaborated on my birthday gift: a set of Wüsthof knives. I've always skated through life buying cheap knife sets (the last was a ten-dollar special from Ikea. Stylish but flimsy.) These Wüsthof knives make chopping an onion near to a religious experience. It is glorious.

The early part of the day I spent up to my elbows in potting soil, planting some groundcover and installing a new brick border in the tree well outside our house, and putting together new windowboxes to replace the dead stalks left from last year. It was a very satisfying way to begin the day - I thought my windowboxes turned out just as nicely as the professionally assembled ones we got when we moved in. My adventures in gardening will be the metaphor for the year, I've decided - making things grow, and perhaps getting a little dirty.

Later that day, David and I strolled around the Inner Harbor; it was an appealingly windswept and blustery day (the kind of weather I like.) We walked to the American Visionary Arts Museum, where I had never been before. The galleries are fascinating: many of the artists suffered from mental illness. I found the artist's life stories displayed next to their work to be as intriguing as the works themselves.

I was most affected by "Tapestries of Survival" by Esther Krinitz. These intricately sewn panels depict how Esther, 15 years old in Poland during World War II, escaped to the forests with her 13 year old sister, hiding from the Nazis. She began to create the collage-tapestries almost fifty years later. The power of the story comes through in a palpable way. They are amazing.

In the evening, a swarm of friends arrived for a party. Among them were many bloggers: Linda, Cara, JWER, Jen and her partner Karen, Zenchick, and special guest star Faustus, who braved Greyhound to travel to scenic Baltimore. Much wine was consumed. It was delightful. Zenchick bestowed a book of movie scandal and trivia upon me, so that we will have more to whisper about when David is looking the other way; Jen and Karen brought the most inventive gift - the "Instant Circus", a collection of multicolored capsules which transform into sponge circus animals when tossed into a glass of water.

Linda had searched in vain for a "Strange Change" toy on eBay, but they have vanished into the past. It's actually for the best that she didn't find one, because I'm sure I would have burned down the house and/or gotten melted dinosaur all over everything. And you know pterodactyl stains never come out.

On Saturday, we went to see the touring production of Little Shop of Horrors, starring my friend Jonathan. I've known Jonathan since he was cast in a production of a show of mine in Minneapolis in 1997. His voice is incredible - he has the gift that very few singing actors have - whatever he sings seems to come right from his soul - always truthful, always moving, never overdone. Jonathan made the move from Minneapolis to New York as an understudy for the show "A Year With Frog and Toad"; he was then cast as the understudy for the role of Seymour in "Little Shop of Horrors." I saw the first night that he went on in the show. I cried for him - I knew it was his dream role, and I knew how hard he had worked to finally arrive on Broadway. He was perfect in the part - in my opinion, better than the guy he was understudying. He has been touring the country in the show - a strange existence, arriving in a new city every week. It takes endurance and commitment to perform in such a physically demanding show - the cast is incredibly dedicated. It was great to see it here in Baltimore and to spend some time with Jonathan before he continues on his cross-country journey.

On Monday, Goblin had to return to the vet to have her Mysterious Spot excised. Although everything went absolutely smoothly and the whole procedure was finished in about an hour, I couldn't help getting a little choked up while we waited in a nearby Starbucks. Ah, the joys of parenthood.

Even though we are almost the cliche of male-couple-with-small-dog, I can take solace in the fact that we are nowhere near the heights of ridiculousness achieved by Brandon and Ryan, the gay couple on "Showdogs Moms and Dads." This series on Bravo is our current guilty pleasure - like a reality show version of Best in Show. They are completely unprepared to be dog owners, it seems - every episode seems to involve them having a screaming bitchfight in front of the cameras, and one or the other of them holding their tiny dog Liberace as ransom from the other one. The dog has already broken its leg falling down the stairs (or more likely, trying to climb out the bathroom window to escape from this psychotic pair.)

So - that's the story of the birthday festival week. Now that I'm recovered, I think I need to go sharpen my new knives.

(buh) Earth Day

2005-04-22T00:01:00.000-07:00

It's Earth Day, everybody. It also happens to be my birthday. That makes for some awkward moments around the office.

"Hey, we're collecting for a gift for the Earth, we're thinking maybe a gift certificate? Or something? You wanna kick in?"

"Okay, everybody is bringing in something for a potluck for the Earth during lunch tomorrow. I'm assigning you potato salad. Don't get the kind with mayonnaise, the Earth hates that kind. No, Trish is already bringing cupcakes, you should have asked me sooner."

"We're all going out for beers with the Earth after work - it's Earth Day! Why do you have all these birthday cards on your desk? Is it somebody's birthday?"

It's a little hard to compete with The Earth, so I just go with it.

Actually, I've always had pretty great birthdays, even though I might not have been the world's most agreeable birthday boy. One year - I'm thinking this was my eighth birthday, could be ninth - I'm sure I embarrassed the hell out of my parents when I ignored all my party guests in favor of reading the TV Guide.

If it was my eighth birthday, then it would have been this issue:

If it was my ninth birthday, then I might have been reading this:

Or, more tellingly, I could have been reading the previous week's issue, with Cher on the cover:

In any case, I was engrossed in my usual activity of absorbing information directly into my cerebral cortex. Parties? Bah!

My mother always made creative cakes for our birthdays: armed with cake mix, her trusty hand mixer (which I still owned until just a couple of years ago), various pans and food coloring, she made cakes in the shape of just about anything. One year she made a cake for my brother in the shape of a baseball hat, baking the cake in a mixing bowl and going from there.

I don't remember what the cake was like at my eighth-or-ninth birthday. Hey - I was reading the TV Guide.

A few birthdays stand out from the others - one year Mr. Ex managed to completely surprise me, which is no easy feat. We were laying around, not doing much of anything. "So, do you wanna go and eat, maybe?" he said. Sure, why not. Maybe we should walk over to the Barking Dog, our favorite restaurant. Yeah, sure. Whatever.

When we got to the restaurant, I was annoyed because there was a group of people already sitting at our favorite table. How dare they. But then, they all took the menus down from in front of their faces, and lo and behold, it was a gang of my friends that Mr. Ex had miraculously rounded up. I was astounded at how smoothly he had gotten me there - what if I had said I wasn't hungry? Oh, wait. I never say I'm not hungry. Now I see.

Mr. Ex also surprised me on my thirtieth birthday, although not in person. He sent our mutual friend, Angela, bearing an enormous bouquet of black balloons. A few years earlier, I had given Mr. Ex a small celebration for his thirtieth birthday: we were in a motel room in El Paso, which I suppose is depressing enough. I decorated the room with black streamers and balloons (but I did manage to score his favorite snack foods and favorite ice cream - Baskin & Robbins daquiri ice.) The topper was a card that read, "So, it's your birthday? Well, I'll be..." and then on the inside "...younger than you for the rest of our lives." Charming, charming. Yes, who wouldn't want a card like that on his birthday? So I should have expected the black balloons as my just punishment. They were delightful. I have pictures of Angela and I romping with them. They lasted about a week or so, floating on my apartment ceiling, until they gradually withered and deflated and sank to the floor. A perfect metaphor.

Now, of course, Mr. Ex can rest secure in the knowledge that David loses no opportunity to remind me that he will always be younger than me. So karma is biting me on the butt. Go me!

For my birthdays in my thirties (this is my last one, in case you were wondering) I always tried to do something I'd never done before. There were a few birthdays in a row which I spent quite happily alone, going on a mini-adventure. One year I hopped on a bus to Atlantic City and stayed overnight at Caesar's Palace, completely on a whim. I went exploring that night and found a gay bar; when I walked in, a man with a shaved head, wearing makeup and squeezed into a tiger-print miniskirt, was singing "I Did It My Way." Now, that's a happy birthday.

Other birthdays I just chose a section of New York I didn't know that well, and wandered through the streets, seeing where fate would take me. It was always interesting. Being born in April, my birthday is almost always a nice spring day, and there's nothing better than exploring New York on a beautiful spring day.

When I was doing my time at International BrandCorp, I was usually one of the major organizers of other people's office birthday parties. We happened to have a lot of Aries people in the office, so by the time we got to the end of April, people were burned out on birthdays: accordingly, mine would usually pass without much of a to-do. I actually preferred it that way, as it made it easier for me to slip out after a half-day and go have an adventure.

Besides trying to do something new, I don't have many birthday rituals. I usually buy the Post, the Daily News and Newsday to see what my horoscope says, and sometimes save the little "If Today Is Your Birthday..." section of the horoscope. Occasionally I've gotten my tarot cards or my palm read. I talk to my mother and my sister and my best friends on the phone; I try to put aside some time for reflection.

And sometimes, there's cake. Well, if the Earth hasn't hogged the biggest piece with the icing flowers on it.

The Norwegian Dawn Adventure

2005-04-18T22:41:00.000-07:00

Imagine my surprise when the Norwegian Dawn, the cruise ship I randomly happened to see in the Hudson River a week or so ago, was in the news tonight. Apparently the ship, weathering rough seas on a cruise to the Bahamas, was struck by a 70 foot wave which shattered windows and flooded cabins.

I'm glad no one was seriously hurt. And of course I immediately thought of The Poseidon Adventure.

The Poseidon Adventure, if you've never seen it, is the 1972 Irwin Allen film which ushered in the era of 70s all-star-cast disaster films like The Towering Inferno and Earthquake. The movie is about a luxury liner capsized by a freak wave on New Year's Eve; survivors Ernest Borgnine, Stella Stevens, Jack Albertson, Shelley Winters, Red Buttons, Roddy McDowall, Carol Lynley and Pamela Sue Martin have to follow maverick preacher Gene Hackman to safety by climbing upward through the upside-down ship.

The scene where Shelley Winters, a former swimming champ, swims endlessly through an underwater passage to rescue Gene Hackman, only to die of a heart attack afterward, is a camp classic. Surprisingly though, the film is still very effective - you really do feel for the characters, who are much better drawn than the usual "rag-tag band of survivors" that you find in other disaster films.

For some reason this film fascinated me when I was a kid; I had the View-Master, and I remember my father more than once reading the accompanying story booklet as I sat with the View Master glued to my face - a bedtime-story substitute for the geekified. I used to float boats in the pool and try to make waves that would capsize them. I drew the upside-down ship. I would create simulations of the disaster scene by arranging action figures and furniture inside a cardboard box like a diorama, and then slowly rotating it. I don't know why I was obsessed with it.

Maybe I identified with the character played by Eric Shea (the pesky younger brother of Pamela Sue Martin's character) He's the inquisitive kid who knows everything about the ship, whose knowledge helps save them all. I was that sort of kid. Of course, he does say that "Charlie, the third engineer" took him down to see the "ship's screw." Mmm-HMM.

My Poseidon dreams were realized when we got to tour the Queen Mary, berthed in Long Beach. The Poseidon was modeled on the Queen Mary; many exterior scenes were shot on board. Being on the Queen Mary was a Poseidon-geek's dream come true. I have a memory that we actually spent the night on board, but that could just be my imagination. I might have just seen passenger cabins - but I remember there being salt-water taps and fresh-water taps.

There was also an oceanic museum aboard the ship - in one room there was an enormous globe that floated in a cloud of icy mist. I kept coming back to this room to stare at the fog that was pumped out around the suspended globe. It was mesmerizing.

I have never actually been on a cruise ship, except for a brief tour of a ship that my ex-roommate Jeannette was working on as Jeannette, Your Ship's Photographer. I don't remember which ship it was, but the main rooms looked like a lesser Atlantic City casino hotel; she lived in a tiny room in the crew section. Her cramped quarters made our New York apartment seem like a vast open space.

I keep thinking about taking a cruise, as I've mentioned before, but I think the possibility that I will despise everyone on the ship is quite high. I once chatted with someone who had gone on a gay cruise which was then caught in a storm. He summarized the entire experience as "Nine hundred gay men. Seasick." 'Nuff said.

I've heard they might remake Poseidon Adventure. I thought the sequel, Beyond the Poseidon Adventure, was bad enough. This was a bad (not good bad, boring bad) piece of flotsam that came out in 1979. It revolves around a skipper (Michael Caine) and his flaky mate (Sally Field) who are trying to claim the ship for salvage. There are other passengers still on the ship, including Jack Warden, Shirley Knight, Shirley Jones, Mark Harmon, Veronica Hamel, Angela Cartwright, Karl Malden, and Slim Pickens. In contrast to the striking production design of the original, which featured eerie lighting coming up from the ceiling-turned-floor, this movie had flat TV lighting illuminating the cast as they sat around in nondescript sets. The highlight, or lowlight, is a weepy monologue delivered by Sally Field; it's bad, but even worse when you consider that she did this crappy movie right after her Oscar-winning performance in "Norma Rae." She's lucky they didn't send anyone over to repossess her Oscar.

I don't know if you can even rent Beyond the Poseidon Adventure. I, of course, own a copy, bought for $3 when my local video-laundromat-tanning-salon-fax-and-mailbox-rental center went out of business. I also purchased Xanadu, which deserves a post of its own.

Maybe what drew me to The Poseidon Adventure was the upside-down-ness of it all. I often feel like my life is turning upside-down. Maybe in the capsized ship I finally saw a world from my own perspective.

Good luck, Norwegian Dawn. I'm making my reservations soon.

Snuggler Smuggler

2005-04-17T19:59:00.000-07:00

Well, with David heading to North Carolina to a furniture trade show, it was decided that Goblin should come to New York with me, as she has been shuffled around to a lot of different caregivers in the past few months. Parental guilt is kicking in.

When Goblin is riding on Amtrak, a little subterfuge has to be employed. Her traveling bag (which she loves to burrow into) could sort of pass for a gym bag, if one ignores the face peering out from behind black nylon net. The trick is to make sure that she doesn't get restless during the three hour train ride, and give away her presence.

So, we do what good parents do: we make sure she's had an invigorating and tiring walk, we have a heart-to-heart chat with her about what our expectations are, and then we slip her a roofie.

Uh, I mean, a veterinarian-prescribed sedative, hidden in a piece of Pasteurized Process Cheese Food Product.

Goblin always knows when we're packing to go anywhere; her usual response is to dive into her bag and not come out, hoping we will take her along wherever we take the mysterious black bags with zippers. Of course, today her wish came true, and I carried her all the way from home to Penn Station in Baltimore. The last time I came through the train station, there were police dogs roaming the area. I hoped that wouldn't be the case today, since Goblin (who hardly ever makes a sound) would surely go nuts in the presence of uppity german shepherds, roofie or no. But luckily, no dogs.

The trains were packed this weekend: besides the problems with the brakes on the Acela trains (which caused all the Acelas to be cancelled and replaced with smaller-capacity trains), the Orioles played the Yankees today in Baltimore; the trains were full of baseball fans.

I didn't manage to snag a window seat, where I could stuff Goblin's bag out of sight. Even in my aisle seat, no one really paid attention; as usual, I was surrounded by businessmen who were busy having shouted cell phone conversations that went like this:

"Mike? MIKE? I'm ON THE TRAIN.

Mike?

MIKE?

You're breaking up, REALLY BAD.

I'm ON THE TRAIN, to NEW YORK. If you can hear me, I'll CALL YOU when we LAND in NEW YORK."

I thought, "When we land?" Okay.

These businessmen appeared to be in the professional sports industry. Mike, whoever he was, couldn't get through on his cellphone, but e-mailed his fellow businessmen's Blackberries to say that he was at the Toyota Arena in Houston, and he found it "plain vanilla." They discussed this endlessly, as there were three of them -- two sitting together, and one across the aisle, who couldn't quite hear. They repeated the message for him, louder and louder, till I finally wanted to burst out of my seat and scream, "PLAIN VANILLA! PLAIN VANILLA! MIKE THOUGHT IT WAS PLAIN VANILLA! VANILLA! PLAIN! HE JUST. DIDN'T. LIKE. IT.!!"

But instead I thought, "Mmm. Vanilla."

Ordinarily I go get a drink and maybe a snack and stretch my legs, or else sleep a bit, but I sat warily through the entire trip, ready to forestall any questions that might come up if Goblin started waking up. Questions like,

"Um ... is your luggage squirming?"

"Pardon me, is your bag snoring?"

Or, "Excuse me, did your purse just fart?"

Worse, though, if Goblin became gaseous ... my seatmate was more likely just going to think it was me. Delightful.

But Goblin played the role of illicit contraband well; we made it to New York without incident. We hopped on a local train up to the Upper West Side; Goblin emerged from her bag in her old Central Park stomping grounds, near David's old apartment. She seemed overjoyed - and by that I mean, she peed everywhere. It takes a lot out of a little dog who is trying to mark all that territory.

We ambled over to the Upper East Side, to the new apartment, which she remembered. She is snoozing now, having deposited her toys all over the room.

Tomorrow, we're up early so she can terrorize squirrels in Central Park; then she gets to go to school with me. She will have to hide out in her bag for the subway ride, but that shouldn't be too much of a problem.

Then, she can help me realize my dream of being the professor who dispenses catty criticism while petting a small dog in his lap. If I can pick up a Truman Capote costume from the store tomorrow morning, all the better.

"I thought your song was fine, but Goblin here found it derivative, pretentious and dated. Didn't you, precious?"

Okay, time to wrap it up. Goblin is snoring. All is right with the world.

Al Pacino came to me in a dream

2005-04-16T23:04:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, I inexplicably dreamed about the 1982 movie Author! Author!. This was Al Pacino's stab at a Kramer vs. Kramer type role (he turned down K vs. K, leaving the role for his arch-rival Dustin Hoffman. Okay, maybe they aren't arch-rivals, but I like to think they are.) He did this movie between Scarface and Cruising, so he was clearly trying to prove he could play the "wacky dad" in this drawn-out movie sitcom.

Occasionally I browse through the movie selections on TiVo to select movies I might want to see, and lo and behold, there it was - Author! Author! I didn't know why I dreamt of this movie - I've never seen it, and in fact I remember when it came out that it looked like the sort of movie I would hate. But I thought, hey, maybe there's a hidden message in it. So I TiVo'd it and tonight had a spare two hours to watch it.

Maybe Al Pacino was coming to me in a dream to say, stop watching crappy movies that you find on TiVo.

There were elements of the movie that were just bizarre. Tuesday Weld plays the Meryl Streep-in-Kramer vs. Kramer role, the slightly unstable frosty blonde who gets our hero in trouble. In the movie she has a flock of children, all with different fathers (she gets bored and leaves each marriage after 2 or 3 years.) Al Pacino plays an Armenian playwright whose show is opening on Broadway - if only he can fix the second act! Al, Tuesday, and their six adorable children live in some enormous fantasy Manhattan brownstone, as people in movies do. Tuesday, who works as a school teacher, leaves Al halfway through the movie; he takes up with Dyan Cannon, playing the improbably named Alice Detroit, the movie star who is playing the lead in his show. She moves in, and shortly thereafter, moves out again. Al goes to Gloucester, Mass. (in a New York taxicab!) to drag Tuesday back. But she leaves again. He keeps all the kids. His show gets a good review. The end.

The bizarre things in the movie, though, were the strange little actions that were never explained. At the beginning of the movie, it is Al Pacino's birthday. Tuesday appears with an enormous sheet cake, which she and the kids shove into his face. After dinner, they are cleaning up in the kitchen, and Tuesday puts the clean silverware, a frying pan, and the party hats into the refrigerator. Al, understandably, asks why she is putting the clean silverware, a frying pan, and party hats into the refrigerator. She says, "It's an honest human mistake!"

I'm sorry, what?

There are several instances of characters referring to other characters by other names. "I need to go talk to Kravinsky." "Who's Kravinsky?" "I said Davidson." "No, you didn't, you said Kravinsky!" Never explained further.

Again, I'm sorry, what? And, WHAT?

With the party-hats-in-the-fridge moment, I thought, is this woman insane? Or unraveling? In the film, she sort of was, but not in any sort of way that would explain this kind of thing. The movie was full of this - people saying strange things to one another. The screenplay was by a playwright, so perhaps it was "artful dialogue." It mostly just made me blink in confusion. How was I supposed to get the message that Al Pacino was clearly trying to communicate to me? This movie was bad, and strange. What is the message, Al?

In the movie, Al's Broadway play seems to rehearse forever - weeks on end. Also, bowing to the usual movie convention, it rehearses right in the theater where it will open, as the director, producer and playwright all sit in the red velvet audience seats. Of course, this is not how things happen - all you theater people know this. Ordinarily you're in a rehearsal studio somewhere, and don't move into the theater until technical rehearsals, when you start working on the actual set under the stage lights. The movie did get one thing right - it is devilishly hard to get your second act right. It's the thing everyone loves to pick on - "It's great - just needs some work on the second act." I'm currently working on a show which has had at least five completely different versions of the second act. Maybe that was the message - hey, thanks, Al. I'll keep working.

One more bizarre sight in this movie was Richard Belzer, the standup comic who played detectives on Homicide: Life on the Street and is currently on Law & Order: SVU, in a five-line role as the swishy stage manager. He helps Dyan Cannon on with her mink and declares that it's "just divine." He is wearing the same smoky glasses he still wears to this day.

Another tiny role - the Ms. DiPesto-like secretary -- was played by Judy Graubart, who was a cast regular on The Electric Company. She played Jennifer of the Jungle, among many other roles. I loved her - she was my favorite.

Although the movie was generally mystifying, it was nice to see shots of New York circa 1982. The "Village Cigars" store near the Christopher Street subway stop looks exactly the same. Times Square, on the other hand, looks completely different.

At one point, when people come out of the theater where Al Pacino's show is playing, you can see that the theater next to it has the RSC's production of Nicholas Nickleby, which was a big Broadway hit in the early 80s. It was an eight-hour adaptation of the Dickens novel, performed over two nights, starring Roger Rees, who later turned up on Cheers and the West Wing. My undergraduate college performed Nicholas Nickleby (trimmed to six hours) in 1985; I played a few assorted schoolboys and orphans.

Was that the message, Al? Something about Nicholas Nickleby? Dickens? Orphans? Eight-hour plays? Anything?

I admit, I always look for messages in dreams, and in everyday moments which could be brushed off as coincidence. I thought it was too odd that I would dream about a movie that has never crossed my mind, and that it would turn up on TiVo. Maybe it's just my subconscious mulling over my own career as a writer (in the movie, it's Al Pacino's birthday, and mine is coming up.) Maybe I need to stop storing my leftover party hats in the fridge.

Or maybe, just as Al's play had no ending, I'm meant to discover that this post has no ending, either. Maybe that's it.

Naah.

What not to wear

2005-04-13T20:35:00.000-07:00

Okay, so it was early summer in New York - pleasantly warm at night. I was still living on the Upper West Side, and was into a good solid gym routine. I belonged to New York Sports Club at the time, which was only four blocks away. I liked to go once the after-work crowd had diminished, so I ambled on down to the gym around 8:30 or so.

I was doing a lot of cardio, so I hopped on the elliptical trainer and started churning away. The 45 minutes seemed to really fly. I noticed I was getting some looks - niiiice. I usually don't care about this kind of thing at the gym; I don't wear my glasses, so everyone is in a fog anyway. And I really hate gyms that get all cruisy - yeeccch. But still, it's nice to have a glance thrown your way every now and again. I had been really consistent with my gym going, so it was clearly paying off.

After the cardio, I hopped off and went over to the mats - thought I'd do my crunches before I went up one floor to where the freeweights are. I laid down on my back, and went to adjust my gym shorts a bit.

Except, I discovered I wasn't wearing gym shorts.

Oh. My. God.

I was only wearing my boxer briefs.

I had just been on the elliptical trainer for almost an hour, slogging away, IN MY UNDERWEAR.

It was every high school panic dream I'd ever had, except it was really happening. I had strolled down West End Avenue, happy as a clam. That is, happy as a clam who is only in his underwear. Carefree. Smiling at passersby. Clad in a tank top, and boxerbriefs.

Somehow, I had forgotten the last step of getting dressed: PUT YOUR PANTS ON. No, I had blithely sauntered out into the warm summer night without a care in the world.

In my underpants.

Thank god the boxerbriefs were dark blue. Anyone at the gym who didn't have their glasses on might have thought they were bicycle shorts. Except, no, they were definitely boxerbriefs.

Dear God, no wonder I was getting looks.

I immediately got the hell out of there and headed for home. My mind raced during my four-block trek back down the avenue to my apartment.

"iminmyunderweariminmyunderweariminmyunderwear."

See, dreams can come true.

The trembling violinist

2005-04-12T21:26:00.000-07:00

During my chat with Reality Man the other day, he reminded me of a story I'd once told him. Now, as I'm writing about it, I can't believe this happened over 10 years ago. Gaah.

Some background before I get to the story: I had just had a life upheaval - broken up with Mr. Ex, and briefly moved back to Tucson, Arizona - my hometown. I lived at my father's house; he and his second wife were divorcing, so both my father and I drifted around the house, in mourning for our relationships - except I never mentioned mine, of course.

My father was in that peculiar stage of grief where anger takes all sorts of forms. My stepmother had owned two large and not-very-lovable chow dogs; my father would occasionally burst out with cries like:

"I hated those damn dogs. And now she's taking them away from me! It's not fair."

What especially was not fair was the fact that he was having to sell his beautiful house, with its view of the Tucson valley and the Catalina mountains. They had refinanced the house during the marriage, so it had to be sold to split the assets. It was depressing, wandering around the house knowing that it wouldn't be in the family much longer.

My father offered to let me have the antique player piano that I had taught myself to play on; I wish I could have kept it, but the sheer size of it (not to mention the fact that the sounding board was made of cast iron) was daunting. There was no way that it could ever have traveled with me back to New York - and oh yes, I was determined to go back to New York. I just didn't know if I ever would.

Even more depressing was the fact that I was temping while in Tucson. I was working at a financial services company which offered loans to people who had been turned down by the bank that the company was a subsidiary of. My job was to call the people, ask if they were still interested in a loan, and then get their permission to run their credit history.

Around the time that I was on a phone with a soldier's wife, who told me how they were drowning in debt - while I looked at their credit report which listed the boat, the house, the cars - I decided I needed to get out of that job, fast. It was killing me.

Magically, my writing partner from graduate school called up with an idea for a show; he sent me some lyrics and I began feverishly writing music on the player piano, before it was sold. I whipped together the score for the show in about three weeks, and then made my plans to go back to New York. The piano got sold; the guys who showed up to haul it away dropped it flat on its back before they got it to the truck. The huge dissonant gong of the cast-iron sounding board was like the closing of a chapter.

When I got back to New York, I stayed in an extra room in my writing partner's apartment; it was him, his boyfriend, me, and the two enormous cats. These cats would try to leap up onto the kitchen table, but were too fat to make it. They would then struggle up onto a chair, and then heave themselves onto the table, where they would settle their bulk and refuse to move.

Finally after a few weeks, during which we finished writing our show, I got a two-month sublet on the Upper West Side. The apartment belonged to a friend of a friend, who was a musical director and pianist. This was my first taste of the Upper West Side, which I loved. I had previously lived on the Upper East Side, so this was a new place to explore and call my own.

The woman who lived next door was a classical violinist; she would often have a few friends over, and the most ethereal, gorgeous string music would come wafting through the walls. I had occasionally encountered the woman in the hall. I had told her that I was a composer, and if my playing the piano bothered her, she should just tell me. She, a petite elegant Asian woman, assured me that she never had a problem with the apartment's usual tenant playing his piano, so it should all be fine.

At this time, I was working on a country-western musical that I'd been commissioned to write. There was a sort of Jerry Lee Lewis number that I was writing - banging away on the keys and wailing in a country twang.

In the midst of one pounding-and-hollering session, there was a knock at the door. I rushed to answer it; it was my neighbor, her eyes almost closed, quivering as though she were in pain. She spoke only one word, whispered, pleading:

"Pleeeeese."

I was immediately mortified. I was clearly driving her to the edge of sanity with my caterwauling. I immediately stuffed a rug behind the piano and played at one-quarter volume.

The story of my encounter with the Trembling Violinist was one that I told Reality Man; he actually tells it better than I do, although he changes it around a bit so that he's there in the story. He's good at souping up anecdotes to make them really funny - so looking back, he already had all the natural qualifications for doing what he's doing in television now.

It's amazing how my musical self confidence eroded after that one visit from my neighbor. Clearly, I was a boorish hooligan destroying her sensitive musical soul with my heavy-handed mauling of the piano. Every time I played in that apartment after that, I imagined her next door, stuffing in ear plugs, perhaps cocooning herself under the bedcovers or in layers of bubblewrap, trying to escape the pounding, pounding, pounding from next door.

Too bad I didn't have the out-of-tune player piano with the cast-iron sound board; a couple of times through the piano roll "I'm Henry the Eighth, I Am" would have finished her off in no time.