"Man is fully responsible for his nature and his choices. "He was right.
"I confused things with their names: that is belief."
It is other people.
"It is only in our decisions that we are important."
Namaste.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Monday, March 02, 2009
Jury's Prudent
I have jury duty.To clarify, I have grand jury duty.
A few weeks ago I received my summons for jury duty. This is the third time in my life I will have appeared at a court house for jury duty. Unfortunately, this will be the first time I will actually have to sit.
The first time was after I left the east coast and headed to St. Louis. I was called back even though I was in college. I explained to the judge that I was in school in St. Louis and no longer lived on the east coast. Done. I was excused.
The second time was while I was in college. I was called to jury duty in St. Louis. This was a little more difficult to get out of. It was a petit jury so we could be dismissed, which was the idea. I was working a show and didn't want to lose the time to my civic duty. So I called my mother and asked what to do.
"It's simple," she explained. "Be extreme in your answers. Don't lie, but make it clear that whatever they ask is something you're passionate about. You don't like drunk drivers, be vehement."
My girlfriend at the time tried to add her two cents as well. "Show them how smart you are. No one wants a smart juror. They want a juror that can easily be swayed."
I went to the courthouse and sat. Thankfully, I brought my homework with me, but my fellow jurors were annoyed with me as I took up a good chunk of floor to do my light plot drafting. Soon I was called in and asked my opinion on defrauding people.
"Have you ever taken a person's money?" I was asked.
"No, sir," I replied. "That would be horribly wrong. Any person who does that was obviously never loved by their mother." That was my version of extreme. What I liked was that the defense attorney's head cocked over like a puppy's. He almost couldn't believe that the man sitting before him would say those words.
I was almost immediately dismissed.
Now this third time is different. The state of Minnesota is quite unique. They convene a grand jury every Thursday and ask its members to sit for four months. The jury consists of 23 people, one foreperson, two associate forepeople, and eight alternates. They need at least sixteen people to vote, so the twenty three is just in case someone cannot make it due to dire circumstances. And unlike other states, you cannot get dismissed from doing your duty...not without a doctor's note that covers the whole period. Taking a business trip? Go ahead, see you in a week. I was unaware of this when I got called. Again, a petit jury is where they have a jury of twelve people who decide if the defendant is guilty or not guilty. That was NOT what I was being called to. No, the Hennepin County Grand Jury is to decide if there is enough evidence to send a case to trial. There is no excusing. It's also all homicides. "Prepare for blood," we were told.
When the summons came, I immediately thought of my mother: extremes. Get out of it.
I filled out the questionnaire that came with it. I had never had to fill out a survey for jury duty before. It asked questions about my educational background, my job, and my spouse. It was strange.
As the date drew closer, I even tried to be positive. It's a day off, I told myself, you can take grading and get ahead. Might meet some interesting people too. Not even close.
I arrived early and took my seat outside the courtroom. The clerk came and took our names like an attendance sheet (Yes, I looked at it like a teacher). Once we were all checked in, we were given binders with instructions and took a seat in the courtroom.
After a quick introduction, the clerk said there would be one piece of business. "We need to get a foreperson, so I will read three names at random and take those people to meet with the judge." She read the names. I was second. Off to the upper floors to meet the judge.
Here's the catch, however. The names weren't random. When I checked in, I was able to read the list the clerk had. It was not in alphabetical order. At the top were three names (mine was second) that had stars next to them. These three names were the ones she read. As I went upstairs with the two other people, we began introducing ourselves to each other and discussing our backgrounds. Turned out all three of us had Masters degrees or higher, did jobs that required working with groups of people, and had put all of that on the questionnaire. There was nothing random about this. The judge interviewed all three of us and asked if we could handle a group, had any reservations, etc. In the end, I became an associate foreperson. This was due to my asking a question during the interview. This meant I had to be the foreperson if something happened to the woman chosen for the task. No way out now.
After being sworn in, we went to the grand jury room where we met the prosecutor and had the whole thing explained out. No longer would we be addressed by our names. No we would be numbers. We were also told to not read the newspaper or watch the news (Sorry, Keith) as this could sway our opinions.
What struck me, however, was not that we had these rules. I understand that. No, what got me was a few things that the clerk said to us.
1. 'The building," she explained, "does not have Wi-Fi. We still use dial-up."
Someone asked, "Do you mean you just plug in?"
"No," she replied, "I mean dial-up. It's slow. That's why justice takes so long around here."
2. Juror pay is ten dollars for the day. Not per hour, per day. Ten dollars won't even cover the cost of parking down in Minneapolis all day, but that's neither here nor there. Still, it makes sense, then, why so many people want to get out of jury duty. In this economy, who can afford to lose 1/5 if their paycheck? You want to do your civic duty, but that's a great deal of money to give up.
3. The building, it was explained to us, shuts down on Wednesdays as a cost saving measure. This means that the office won't be open for questions, problems, or explanations. Ok, so there's no justice on Wednesdays. So that's going to make it easier for everyone and makes sense? Really? Ok then.
This will be an interesting experience. I will talk about what I can (outside of the cases), but Thursday will be the first day and the first problem: Parent/Teacher conferences are this Thursday, and I am expected to be at jury duty. So..sorry parents. I can't talk to you about your failing child, because I'm going to be looking at whether a guy shot his baby in the face by accident or maliciously (not a real case...not contempt of court here).
Of course what do I know? I'm just the schmuck who may send you off to a trial. I could be wrong.
Namaste.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Being Dr. John (Right Place, Wrong Time)
A former student of mine told me today that she has a job. Halfway through her first year in college and the department head has taken a shine to her. Luck of the draw...or being in the right place at the right time. For me, however, my career in theatre started by being in the right place at the wrong time.
Dream fingers....
I started out college as a Psychology major. The plan was to become a psychologist and help people. I'll just say that my family helped me make that decision. However, my first class I was placed in was a seminar class for freshmen that was an English/Theatre hybrid. I was the only "Techie" in the class. This was evident by the actor nature of the other students.
Actors are a different bunch. There's a great line from Mel Brooks' The Producers where Max is talking about actors with Leo. The accountant says, "Actors are not animals! They're human beings!" to which Max replies, "They are? You ever eaten with one?"
It's a great line...and it's true. Actors are a very different breed. They hold themselves differently, they talk differently, and they move differently. In all my years with actors, this has always been true. Seriously, just have a meal with a few...it's an experience.
So here I am sitting in a room with a bunch of actor-wannabes (many with inflated egos) when the head of the tech department walks in.
"Sorry to interrupt," she says, "Does anyone here have any experience stage managing."
Now, had I been smart, I would have said nothing. However, my brain was not as...sharp...as it is now.
Being that I was in the right place (but it must have been the wrong time) I raised my hand, and said, "I did stage management in high school."
This was not a lie. While I was in high school, I had run some shows, but not in the manner that they wanted. They wanted a guy who had run auditions, planned production meetings, and run tight shows. I had done mostly some of that, but not all, and my school did not have a strong theatre program. It was one guy who pretty much had lost his mind in the 70's.
Still, I raised my hand and said it was me. And I was whisked away faster than the President after someone yells," GUN!" She took me to the basement of building, which, look a good tech setup was dark, warm, and smelled like burning flesh and dust. The room I went to would be the tech head's office. It was a small cubicle at the back of the costume shop. You couldn't see the wall, because it was covered in drawings, and besides a too old computer, there was an old coffee pot that was green with mold. To this day, I shudder to think of how she could drink coffee out of it. I never saw her make any, and I never saw her drink any.
"So," she says, "We're doing The Importance of Being Earnest. We have a brand new director and no stage manager. Auditions are tomorrow. Can you make a meeting this afternoon."
The shock of the fact that I had my first college job was sinking in. I had only been in classes for ten minutes when I was working on my first show. To make matters worse, my brain would stop spinning for a minute for me to hear the tech director say:
"...And they may not listen to you. I mean...after all...we've NEVER had a freshman stage manager do the first show. That being said, you can't get overwhelmed or you'll be killed. Either by Shanna or Rick."
Shanna was the director. She had graduated from Wash U, but returned to direct as a favor. She was actually very calm about the situation. She had four weeks to get the show ready. Rick, however, would hate me from the moment I stepped into the first production meeting. He sat down, looked around the room, and zeroed in on me. "Are you a freshman? Is this guy a fucking freshman," he would ask, then he would laugh. "We're fucked," he finished. This was his supreme confidence in my ability after knowing me for twenty seconds.
He and I would have a contemptuous relationship for the next four years.
The show went well. We were fortunate to have a good cast, and an able crew. Because I could actually run the show, the department decided to consider letting freshmen take more important positions earlier. In fact, of the the eight shows put on that year, six had freshman stage managers.
And because I had taken a position so early, I was able to turn that into thirty-two productions (not including films) before I left college.
All because I was in the right place at the wrong time.
So the moral here is simple:
If opportunity is knocking, open the door. Even if you feel tremendous fear, open that door.
And do whatever you can to look good. If they need a person to work lighting, and you have put a light up on the pipe and plugged it in...go..show them. Learn. Never stop learning.
Of course what do I know? I'm the guy who licked a live wire. I could be wrong.
Namaste.
Dream fingers....
I started out college as a Psychology major. The plan was to become a psychologist and help people. I'll just say that my family helped me make that decision. However, my first class I was placed in was a seminar class for freshmen that was an English/Theatre hybrid. I was the only "Techie" in the class. This was evident by the actor nature of the other students.
Actors are a different bunch. There's a great line from Mel Brooks' The Producers where Max is talking about actors with Leo. The accountant says, "Actors are not animals! They're human beings!" to which Max replies, "They are? You ever eaten with one?"
It's a great line...and it's true. Actors are a very different breed. They hold themselves differently, they talk differently, and they move differently. In all my years with actors, this has always been true. Seriously, just have a meal with a few...it's an experience.
So here I am sitting in a room with a bunch of actor-wannabes (many with inflated egos) when the head of the tech department walks in.
"Sorry to interrupt," she says, "Does anyone here have any experience stage managing."
Now, had I been smart, I would have said nothing. However, my brain was not as...sharp...as it is now.
Being that I was in the right place (but it must have been the wrong time) I raised my hand, and said, "I did stage management in high school."
This was not a lie. While I was in high school, I had run some shows, but not in the manner that they wanted. They wanted a guy who had run auditions, planned production meetings, and run tight shows. I had done mostly some of that, but not all, and my school did not have a strong theatre program. It was one guy who pretty much had lost his mind in the 70's.
Still, I raised my hand and said it was me. And I was whisked away faster than the President after someone yells," GUN!" She took me to the basement of building, which, look a good tech setup was dark, warm, and smelled like burning flesh and dust. The room I went to would be the tech head's office. It was a small cubicle at the back of the costume shop. You couldn't see the wall, because it was covered in drawings, and besides a too old computer, there was an old coffee pot that was green with mold. To this day, I shudder to think of how she could drink coffee out of it. I never saw her make any, and I never saw her drink any.
"So," she says, "We're doing The Importance of Being Earnest. We have a brand new director and no stage manager. Auditions are tomorrow. Can you make a meeting this afternoon."
The shock of the fact that I had my first college job was sinking in. I had only been in classes for ten minutes when I was working on my first show. To make matters worse, my brain would stop spinning for a minute for me to hear the tech director say:
"...And they may not listen to you. I mean...after all...we've NEVER had a freshman stage manager do the first show. That being said, you can't get overwhelmed or you'll be killed. Either by Shanna or Rick."
Shanna was the director. She had graduated from Wash U, but returned to direct as a favor. She was actually very calm about the situation. She had four weeks to get the show ready. Rick, however, would hate me from the moment I stepped into the first production meeting. He sat down, looked around the room, and zeroed in on me. "Are you a freshman? Is this guy a fucking freshman," he would ask, then he would laugh. "We're fucked," he finished. This was his supreme confidence in my ability after knowing me for twenty seconds.
He and I would have a contemptuous relationship for the next four years.
The show went well. We were fortunate to have a good cast, and an able crew. Because I could actually run the show, the department decided to consider letting freshmen take more important positions earlier. In fact, of the the eight shows put on that year, six had freshman stage managers.
And because I had taken a position so early, I was able to turn that into thirty-two productions (not including films) before I left college.
All because I was in the right place at the wrong time.
So the moral here is simple:
If opportunity is knocking, open the door. Even if you feel tremendous fear, open that door.
And do whatever you can to look good. If they need a person to work lighting, and you have put a light up on the pipe and plugged it in...go..show them. Learn. Never stop learning.
Of course what do I know? I'm the guy who licked a live wire. I could be wrong.
Namaste.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Need a Favor
Occasionally, in theatre, you will have to do a favor for someone. It could be because of an emergency, it could be because you owe someone, or it could be because you want something. In my time in theatre, I have managed to experience all three.
----------------------------------------
Emergency:
During my junior year at Washington University in St. Louis (Go Bears!), the students were given an amazing experience: they re-wrote Alice in Wonderland and created a new version of the play as a multimedia musical. It was amazing. I really wanted to work that show as the stage manager, but because of backstage politics, I was put on the dance show instead. It was my punishment for a previous problem on a show that I did not...handle well. Not the point.
Alice was running at the same time as Wash U's major concert for the student: WILD. This was an imperfect acronym. WILD meant Walk In, Lay Down, as in walk in, lay down, and listen to some great music (Outkast, They Might Be Giants, etc.). However, WIFD was more appropriate (Walk In, Fall Down). Actually, it should have been Walk In, Find a Person, Screw In the Bushes, Get Wasted, Puke, Rock, and Wake Up Somewhere, but WIFPSIBGWPRWUS is not a good acronym. Thus...WILD.
I will admit that I used to drink...a great deal. WILD was the perfect place because you could get drinks off other people with a smile. The key is to find the drunkest people first, and act like you were given permission from someone else. Have a few handy names.
"Oh yeah...Clarissa said it was cool."
"You know, Clarissssssa. Sssweeet. Go ahad (Misspelling unpurpose for pronunciation)."
I had been at WILD for a few hours when I decided to go home. It was raining, and I was without a place to hide from the cold shower. As I walked through the theatre building, the stage manager for Alice came running up to me.
"Oh my God..Oh my God...." He was panted.
"Yes, my son?" I replied, thus beginning the pattern where people would tell me I'm a blasphemer.
"Dude. I really need your help," he said wild with panic.
"What's wrong?" I ask.
"My fly operator is wasted! The guy can't even stand. There's NO way he can run the system. I need you."
I look at the stage manager (his name is Dan), and he's trembling. This is his first really big show, and he doesn't want to blow it. I would end up saving his ass twice more as I would have to break into his car (don't ask), and then help him save face when he basically had sex with a gal in front of everyone on the stove at my house.
Three times...I would become this man's patron saint. Ha.
Now remember, I'm inebriated too. This is my retort.
"Doesn't matter," he says. "Even drunk, you're can run it, and you know it! Please!"
And at this, he gets on his knees.
"I'm on my knees," he tells me in case I have been struck blind. "PLEASE!! HELP ME!!! This is an emergency!"
Maybe it was his begging, maybe it was the fact that he was on his knees, or maybe it was that a lot of the cast was watching, but I agreed.
The fly system in the main theatre at Wash U. is not complicated. It's a very small walkway with a ton of ropes. The first thing I did was bring the drunk crew member up to the second floor. The door to the fly system is always locked, so you have to go into the theatre, climb up a rickety ladder, and then step on the walkway and go to the end to open the door. This is what I did, then I put DJ (I have no idea to this day what his name is, so I call him Drunk John or DJ) in a chair near the ropes I knew I wouldn't be touching. He wanted to go home, but I told him no. I also got him a bucket to puke in.
The show was uneventful, and I did my job as best as I could. No mistakes, but one slightly slow pull on a pipe. They had lost the gloves, so I was pulling with my bare hands on coarse rope. Hurt like Hell. Probably helped that I was buzzed.
And it worked out for the best. I ended up making a bunch of good impressions to the department and got better shows for it. Thus, helping in an emergency can be a good for your reputation.
--------------------------------------------------------
Owing Someone:
As rare as the total eclipse of the sun, I will owe someone a favor. This was the case during my Sophomore year of college. I owed one of my classmates favor because she helped me when my heart was broken. She was the only one, and I told her I would do anything for her to pay her back. "My solemn vow I give you." Yes, I was a nerd. Shut up.
So, the end of the year comes up, and she decides to direct a show. All in the Timing. It's not a bad show, and she's doing it with kids at the local Jewish Center. So, I'm sitting in my apartment trying to figure out what I did to get myself dumped (I took it really hard) when the phone rings.
"I really need your help," the familiar voice says over the phone.
"I'm busy," I lie in reply. I want to mope.
"You owe me," she says. "I kept you alive. You said anything."
It dawns on me that I did say that. "What do you need," I ask and start looking for pants.
I'm directing Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, and I need the set painted. We don't have anyone to work on it as the parents are all busy now. Get your paint clothes on, and get down here!"
She gives me the address, and I take off.
It's ok to owe a favor, but make sure to have limits to it. Once I arrived, I started out painting. For four hours, I painted flats to look like an Eyptian landscape. Luckily it had been stenciled, so it was almost paint by numbers.
As I finished the flats, the next request was made.
"Soooooo. Now that you finished that...I REALLY need some props made. And you do owe me."
Here's a tip for those of you who are cashing in a favor on someone. If you want that person to do more, don't lord the favor over them. It doesn't make that person work harder or better...it just pisses most of us off.
The next six hours (SIX HOURS!!!!) would occur in a loop.
1. "You owe me," she would say.
2. She would ask me to work on something.
3. I'd finish it.
4. She'd thank me...
5. Then ask me to do the next task...
6. And I would balk.
Then the cycle would repeat.
In an ironic twist, she would up owing me her life as I kept her from falling off a balcony with a broken railing. Instead of plunging twenty-two stories to her death, she got to instead land safely on top of me while I fell through a glass table. That's caring...I guess.
Now, when it's not an emergency, and it's not a payback, you do something for the final reason:
------------------------------------------------
Desire:
Sometimes, you do a favor because you want something. It can be as simple as a ride home. It can be as devious as wanting to hurt someone. It can be as cheesy as trying to get to know someone.
During my Junior year (the same year as Alice) I worked on a production of Company. I was the sound engineer which meant I had to program the microphones as well as all the sound effects. Easy task. The show was in our black box, which meant that instead of personal mics, there were mics surrounding the eventual stage, and I just had to balance the feeds. I really didn't want to work on this production, but the stage manager asked me to work on it as a favor.
I thought long and hard about this. She was (and still is probably) a girl, but I didn't want to work on a show where all I was doing was stupid sound effects and microphones. That was until I met the gal who would be running the sound board.
Yes, Virginia, I succumbed to a base desire. I did the favor for the stage manager solely so I could meet and work with the sound board operator. I had been single for a year and decided that was long enough.
It would totally backfire on me, by the way. The board op was beautiful, intelligent, and nice to me...so she could meet my friend Aaron, who she had seen me talking to.
They would date. I would be single until the beginning of my Senior year.
Still, I would at least get to make a gal laugh, which was enough...I guess.
So in the end, favors become a form of currency in theatre. Just make sure that the balance is always in your favor. Because if it isn't, you will get tired of the phone ringing. I have seen it happen.
And learn to wield the strongest word very carefully.
That word?
No.
Namaste.
----------------------------------------
Emergency:
During my junior year at Washington University in St. Louis (Go Bears!), the students were given an amazing experience: they re-wrote Alice in Wonderland and created a new version of the play as a multimedia musical. It was amazing. I really wanted to work that show as the stage manager, but because of backstage politics, I was put on the dance show instead. It was my punishment for a previous problem on a show that I did not...handle well. Not the point.
Alice was running at the same time as Wash U's major concert for the student: WILD. This was an imperfect acronym. WILD meant Walk In, Lay Down, as in walk in, lay down, and listen to some great music (Outkast, They Might Be Giants, etc.). However, WIFD was more appropriate (Walk In, Fall Down). Actually, it should have been Walk In, Find a Person, Screw In the Bushes, Get Wasted, Puke, Rock, and Wake Up Somewhere, but WIFPSIBGWPRWUS is not a good acronym. Thus...WILD.
I will admit that I used to drink...a great deal. WILD was the perfect place because you could get drinks off other people with a smile. The key is to find the drunkest people first, and act like you were given permission from someone else. Have a few handy names.
"Oh yeah...Clarissa said it was cool."
"You know, Clarissssssa. Sssweeet. Go ahad (Misspelling unpurpose for pronunciation)."
I had been at WILD for a few hours when I decided to go home. It was raining, and I was without a place to hide from the cold shower. As I walked through the theatre building, the stage manager for Alice came running up to me.
"Oh my God..Oh my God...." He was panted.
"Yes, my son?" I replied, thus beginning the pattern where people would tell me I'm a blasphemer.
"Dude. I really need your help," he said wild with panic.
"What's wrong?" I ask.
"My fly operator is wasted! The guy can't even stand. There's NO way he can run the system. I need you."
I look at the stage manager (his name is Dan), and he's trembling. This is his first really big show, and he doesn't want to blow it. I would end up saving his ass twice more as I would have to break into his car (don't ask), and then help him save face when he basically had sex with a gal in front of everyone on the stove at my house.
Three times...I would become this man's patron saint. Ha.
Now remember, I'm inebriated too. This is my retort.
"Doesn't matter," he says. "Even drunk, you're can run it, and you know it! Please!"
And at this, he gets on his knees.
"I'm on my knees," he tells me in case I have been struck blind. "PLEASE!! HELP ME!!! This is an emergency!"
Maybe it was his begging, maybe it was the fact that he was on his knees, or maybe it was that a lot of the cast was watching, but I agreed.
The fly system in the main theatre at Wash U. is not complicated. It's a very small walkway with a ton of ropes. The first thing I did was bring the drunk crew member up to the second floor. The door to the fly system is always locked, so you have to go into the theatre, climb up a rickety ladder, and then step on the walkway and go to the end to open the door. This is what I did, then I put DJ (I have no idea to this day what his name is, so I call him Drunk John or DJ) in a chair near the ropes I knew I wouldn't be touching. He wanted to go home, but I told him no. I also got him a bucket to puke in.
The show was uneventful, and I did my job as best as I could. No mistakes, but one slightly slow pull on a pipe. They had lost the gloves, so I was pulling with my bare hands on coarse rope. Hurt like Hell. Probably helped that I was buzzed.
And it worked out for the best. I ended up making a bunch of good impressions to the department and got better shows for it. Thus, helping in an emergency can be a good for your reputation.
--------------------------------------------------------
Owing Someone:
As rare as the total eclipse of the sun, I will owe someone a favor. This was the case during my Sophomore year of college. I owed one of my classmates favor because she helped me when my heart was broken. She was the only one, and I told her I would do anything for her to pay her back. "My solemn vow I give you." Yes, I was a nerd. Shut up.
So, the end of the year comes up, and she decides to direct a show. All in the Timing. It's not a bad show, and she's doing it with kids at the local Jewish Center. So, I'm sitting in my apartment trying to figure out what I did to get myself dumped (I took it really hard) when the phone rings.
"I really need your help," the familiar voice says over the phone.
"I'm busy," I lie in reply. I want to mope.
"You owe me," she says. "I kept you alive. You said anything."
It dawns on me that I did say that. "What do you need," I ask and start looking for pants.
I'm directing Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, and I need the set painted. We don't have anyone to work on it as the parents are all busy now. Get your paint clothes on, and get down here!"
She gives me the address, and I take off.
It's ok to owe a favor, but make sure to have limits to it. Once I arrived, I started out painting. For four hours, I painted flats to look like an Eyptian landscape. Luckily it had been stenciled, so it was almost paint by numbers.
As I finished the flats, the next request was made.
"Soooooo. Now that you finished that...I REALLY need some props made. And you do owe me."
Here's a tip for those of you who are cashing in a favor on someone. If you want that person to do more, don't lord the favor over them. It doesn't make that person work harder or better...it just pisses most of us off.
The next six hours (SIX HOURS!!!!) would occur in a loop.
1. "You owe me," she would say.
2. She would ask me to work on something.
3. I'd finish it.
4. She'd thank me...
5. Then ask me to do the next task...
6. And I would balk.
Then the cycle would repeat.
In an ironic twist, she would up owing me her life as I kept her from falling off a balcony with a broken railing. Instead of plunging twenty-two stories to her death, she got to instead land safely on top of me while I fell through a glass table. That's caring...I guess.
Now, when it's not an emergency, and it's not a payback, you do something for the final reason:
------------------------------------------------
Desire:
Sometimes, you do a favor because you want something. It can be as simple as a ride home. It can be as devious as wanting to hurt someone. It can be as cheesy as trying to get to know someone.
During my Junior year (the same year as Alice) I worked on a production of Company. I was the sound engineer which meant I had to program the microphones as well as all the sound effects. Easy task. The show was in our black box, which meant that instead of personal mics, there were mics surrounding the eventual stage, and I just had to balance the feeds. I really didn't want to work on this production, but the stage manager asked me to work on it as a favor.
I thought long and hard about this. She was (and still is probably) a girl, but I didn't want to work on a show where all I was doing was stupid sound effects and microphones. That was until I met the gal who would be running the sound board.
Yes, Virginia, I succumbed to a base desire. I did the favor for the stage manager solely so I could meet and work with the sound board operator. I had been single for a year and decided that was long enough.
It would totally backfire on me, by the way. The board op was beautiful, intelligent, and nice to me...so she could meet my friend Aaron, who she had seen me talking to.
They would date. I would be single until the beginning of my Senior year.
Still, I would at least get to make a gal laugh, which was enough...I guess.
So in the end, favors become a form of currency in theatre. Just make sure that the balance is always in your favor. Because if it isn't, you will get tired of the phone ringing. I have seen it happen.
And learn to wield the strongest word very carefully.
That word?
No.
Namaste.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Monday, February 09, 2009
But Sir...The Show?
Sometimes when you do theatre, there are directors who have such outlandish ideas of how a show should run that you, as a tech person, start looking for the nearest window out of which to jump. Over the course of my many years in theatre, I have bumped into a few of these directors, and no matter how much logic you use, it won't matter.
During my freshman year of college, I worked on an artist-in residence play called The Girl from Clare. It wasn't a bad play; it just didn't work. The playwright had created a story that was so specific that the audience needed to know everything about divorce referendum and abortion laws in Ireland in the 1980's. The director, the crew, and even the actors had no idea what she was talking about most of the time. In one funny moment, the director turned to her and asked, "Hey, ummm...what did you mean here? What's this line about?"
After some careful consideration, during which she looked at her notes and the script, the playwright looked up and said, "I have no fuckin' clue what I meant.... Just...just have her read the line how she thinks it should be read."
Unfortunately the girl would be forced to give the line seven different reads before the playwright would be ok with it. There's nothing worse, as an actor, than finding a character...and being forced to change that vision to fit everything the playwright sees. It breaks down the creative process. The playwright, however, was not the only problem.
The director, who actually was quite brilliant when he had good material, recognized this script was inferior, and he panicked. The opening of the play called for man to be seen in silhouette and be given a lap dance, while a girl and her boyfriend moved from making out to sex on a couch that did not face the audience. Now, the playwright wanted the scene to drip sex appeal, so the director tried very hard to make it that way. The girl giving the lap dance was moved to skimpier and skimpier outfits. In the end she had to buy (though she was re-imbursed) her own lingerie. As for the couple, it went from the simple ("Ok, so you should kind of go up and down like, you know, you're having sex. You can leave your shirt on.") to the incredibly (and unnecessarily) complicated ("All right, you need to count to 15, then slowly remove your shirt from the left sleeve first. Now, Aaron...as she does that, you should moan slightly as thought you like it, but not too much. You're the man, so make sure you act it. Now, Saskia, once the shirt is off, you should bend over Aaron and slide your left hand back. No one will see it, but it will help the scene look good.")
We spent a week of the six week production on the opening five minutes. All because the director had to have it perfect. The entire scene was done to the tune of Sinead O'Connor's version of I Am Stretched On Your Grave. I'll give it a few minutes while you listen to the song....
I Am Stretched On Your Grave - Sinéad OConnor
So, here we are during load in (or Hell Week as most Techies call it) when the director comes up with a brand new idea: what if we create a platform in the back just for the lap dance?
The idea was that the girl was us and on the ground, but the dad, who is getting the lap dance, is those in power lording it over us.
The tech director took the words out of my mouth before I could say them:
"What the fuck are you thinking?"
Unfortunately, after forty minutes of debate, the director used some piece of blackmail on the TD to get his way. So we built a platform for the girl to dance on. This led to the next problem.
When they choreographed the lap dance, the girl, Andrea, was on the floor, so she had all this space to work with, but because we were in the black box, and because the platform was so last minute on an already done set, her "dance floor" was shrunk to a 4' x 6' platform that she was sharing with a man on a chair. Suffice to say, I knew something bad was going to happen, so I made one of my crew members stand underneath them so that if she fell, someone would catch her. This is how Andrea met her now husband. Catch a falling girl a few times, and she swoons. Just a tip for the fellas out there...or the ladies as it were.
The stress of the show and the playwright would cause the director to get even more involved as the play got closer to opening. At one point, he asked the actress playing the mother to do her lines a specific way and then gave her blocking. She felt that the line reading now contradicted the blocking. Now, again, he was a great director...when he wasn't stressed. He leapt out of the audience, ran onto the stage, moved the actress on to the couch, asked for her coat, and then did the scene as her. To the tech people, there was no difference. Even the playwright was overheard saying, "What the hell was that?" To the director, however, there was a huge difference. It didn't matter that he totally pissed off and alienated his actress or that he freaked out the other actors. No, he just berated her as he did the scene as her.
The show was a colossal failure. The audience did not understand it, and the director, who wrote a page and a half director's notes for the program, would take the microphone during the post play Q&A and say, "I have no clue what this play is really about, and I don't care. All I know is that I tried...and it's over. Hopefully you liked it, but if you didn't, the playwright is right there."
I hid in the back during the Q&A. That's what a good techie does. The worst part, however, was that even though the fabric set had been treated, a cigarette found the one patch that wasn't and burned a hole during the show. It smelled terrible. We even had audience members leave.
So what's the moral here? What's the theme? Good ole number 4?
Well, the idea is that you will, as a stage manager, as a lighting designer, or even as a crew member, run into directors, playwrights, or tech directors that lose a grasp on the situation. You can try to talk to them about it, but this just makes you a target most of the time. I learned very quickly which directors I would get along with and which ones I would not. I did work with this director again, and it was a great show. He didn't panic, because he knew the material. So if you're the tech person remember the following:
1. If the director is panicking or falling apart, do not step in unless asked. You don't want to become the whipping post.
2. Find out the director's and TD's comfort foods (preferably candy). Keep these handy as it will diffuse situations.
3. Don't argue. If you have to bite your tongue until it bleeds, don't argue. Only when it looks like you will hit overtime, and you have a big commitment the next day...that's when you talk. Even then, don't yell. Just talk.
4. If the director is just bat-shit crazy, get the TD to be on your side. If the TD is bat-shit crazy...well...you're fucked.
5. Very important: Know your director ahead of time and then decide if this is really the show for you. It helps. Seriously. If the director or the show looks bad...run. There will be others.
Namaste.
During my freshman year of college, I worked on an artist-in residence play called The Girl from Clare. It wasn't a bad play; it just didn't work. The playwright had created a story that was so specific that the audience needed to know everything about divorce referendum and abortion laws in Ireland in the 1980's. The director, the crew, and even the actors had no idea what she was talking about most of the time. In one funny moment, the director turned to her and asked, "Hey, ummm...what did you mean here? What's this line about?"
After some careful consideration, during which she looked at her notes and the script, the playwright looked up and said, "I have no fuckin' clue what I meant.... Just...just have her read the line how she thinks it should be read."
Unfortunately the girl would be forced to give the line seven different reads before the playwright would be ok with it. There's nothing worse, as an actor, than finding a character...and being forced to change that vision to fit everything the playwright sees. It breaks down the creative process. The playwright, however, was not the only problem.
The director, who actually was quite brilliant when he had good material, recognized this script was inferior, and he panicked. The opening of the play called for man to be seen in silhouette and be given a lap dance, while a girl and her boyfriend moved from making out to sex on a couch that did not face the audience. Now, the playwright wanted the scene to drip sex appeal, so the director tried very hard to make it that way. The girl giving the lap dance was moved to skimpier and skimpier outfits. In the end she had to buy (though she was re-imbursed) her own lingerie. As for the couple, it went from the simple ("Ok, so you should kind of go up and down like, you know, you're having sex. You can leave your shirt on.") to the incredibly (and unnecessarily) complicated ("All right, you need to count to 15, then slowly remove your shirt from the left sleeve first. Now, Aaron...as she does that, you should moan slightly as thought you like it, but not too much. You're the man, so make sure you act it. Now, Saskia, once the shirt is off, you should bend over Aaron and slide your left hand back. No one will see it, but it will help the scene look good.")
We spent a week of the six week production on the opening five minutes. All because the director had to have it perfect. The entire scene was done to the tune of Sinead O'Connor's version of I Am Stretched On Your Grave. I'll give it a few minutes while you listen to the song....
I Am Stretched On Your Grave - Sinéad OConnor
So, here we are during load in (or Hell Week as most Techies call it) when the director comes up with a brand new idea: what if we create a platform in the back just for the lap dance?
The idea was that the girl was us and on the ground, but the dad, who is getting the lap dance, is those in power lording it over us.
The tech director took the words out of my mouth before I could say them:
"What the fuck are you thinking?"
Unfortunately, after forty minutes of debate, the director used some piece of blackmail on the TD to get his way. So we built a platform for the girl to dance on. This led to the next problem.
When they choreographed the lap dance, the girl, Andrea, was on the floor, so she had all this space to work with, but because we were in the black box, and because the platform was so last minute on an already done set, her "dance floor" was shrunk to a 4' x 6' platform that she was sharing with a man on a chair. Suffice to say, I knew something bad was going to happen, so I made one of my crew members stand underneath them so that if she fell, someone would catch her. This is how Andrea met her now husband. Catch a falling girl a few times, and she swoons. Just a tip for the fellas out there...or the ladies as it were.
The stress of the show and the playwright would cause the director to get even more involved as the play got closer to opening. At one point, he asked the actress playing the mother to do her lines a specific way and then gave her blocking. She felt that the line reading now contradicted the blocking. Now, again, he was a great director...when he wasn't stressed. He leapt out of the audience, ran onto the stage, moved the actress on to the couch, asked for her coat, and then did the scene as her. To the tech people, there was no difference. Even the playwright was overheard saying, "What the hell was that?" To the director, however, there was a huge difference. It didn't matter that he totally pissed off and alienated his actress or that he freaked out the other actors. No, he just berated her as he did the scene as her.
The show was a colossal failure. The audience did not understand it, and the director, who wrote a page and a half director's notes for the program, would take the microphone during the post play Q&A and say, "I have no clue what this play is really about, and I don't care. All I know is that I tried...and it's over. Hopefully you liked it, but if you didn't, the playwright is right there."
I hid in the back during the Q&A. That's what a good techie does. The worst part, however, was that even though the fabric set had been treated, a cigarette found the one patch that wasn't and burned a hole during the show. It smelled terrible. We even had audience members leave.
So what's the moral here? What's the theme? Good ole number 4?
Well, the idea is that you will, as a stage manager, as a lighting designer, or even as a crew member, run into directors, playwrights, or tech directors that lose a grasp on the situation. You can try to talk to them about it, but this just makes you a target most of the time. I learned very quickly which directors I would get along with and which ones I would not. I did work with this director again, and it was a great show. He didn't panic, because he knew the material. So if you're the tech person remember the following:
1. If the director is panicking or falling apart, do not step in unless asked. You don't want to become the whipping post.
2. Find out the director's and TD's comfort foods (preferably candy). Keep these handy as it will diffuse situations.
3. Don't argue. If you have to bite your tongue until it bleeds, don't argue. Only when it looks like you will hit overtime, and you have a big commitment the next day...that's when you talk. Even then, don't yell. Just talk.
4. If the director is just bat-shit crazy, get the TD to be on your side. If the TD is bat-shit crazy...well...you're fucked.
5. Very important: Know your director ahead of time and then decide if this is really the show for you. It helps. Seriously. If the director or the show looks bad...run. There will be others.
Namaste.
Saturday, February 07, 2009
No More Vigilantes
If you aren't excited for this film...you're a Communist. Yup, a Communist.
Easily one of the greatest comic novels in history.
Enjoy.
Friday, February 06, 2009
Ring-a-Ding.
The danger of passion is that the more you put into it, the more it takes out of you. In a way, it falls in line with the Beatles. "And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make." Well, the passion you give is the equal to the amount of life sucked out of you.
If people want to say teaching is easy, that's fine. This tells me one of two things:
1. They have never taught...ever. Or,
2. They are not a very good teacher.
This job takes passion. An amazing amount of passion. Today, I am bloody, bruised, and beaten. I truly feel like the boxer in the corner and tomorrow is the next round.
I teach five classes. Four freshmen and one senior.
All of my freshmen have started The Odyssey. This was always one of my favorite stories, and I teach the same thing four times in a row. It makes it really hard to keep it fresh, but I try to have the same energy, the same heart, on every part. If period 2 gets a funny movement, or voice, or an explanation that works, the other three get it in the exact same manner.
The hardest part, however, is my senior class. It's at the end of the day, and they just want to leave. Today I poured my heart out into e.e. cummings's poem: "somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond". Out of my 38 students, four talked. Four. The rest just stared at me or talked to each other.
And herein lies the problem of teaching: It's just too easy to personalize everything.
Kid didn't do well? It's my fault. Sure he didn't study or do the homework, but what did I do so he wouldn't do it?
That is the most dangerous part of it.
Don't get me wrong, I like my students a great deal. But I hear these kids talk about how great my class is and how much they learn, and I look back over what I saw and say, "How?"
So if you're thinking of teaching, and you're reading this, here's my advice: don't personalize. You are not there to save these kids. You're trying to get them to learn. You MUST remember that it's a partnership. To paraphrase Sir Paul, "In the end, the education you get is equal to the amount you are willing to put in." If they don't want to learn, no matter how hard you push, or prod, or try...you cannot make them.
But I'm pugnacious (hot word), so I wipe off the blood, wait for the bell, and get back to it. Tomorrow is supposedly a new day, Scarlett.
Namaste.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Some Days
Some days I get home from work and this is how I feel.The hardest part of being a teacher is the part that no one ever tells you about when preparing for it: the personal investment.
You will put your heart and soul in to the students you work with. And sometimes, you get beaten down. Sometimes you have to forget who you used to be to get them through it.
And sometimes, you have to go the tough guy route.
I just need a little more energy. Just a little longer.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
1/20/09
Feeling Good - Nina Simone
Yeah, I like Nina Simone.
And this seemed like the right day to post this.
Namaste.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Silencing It
I don't answer my phone off a great deal lately.
It seems counter-intuitive, but the silence is wonderful.
However, it makes me a hypocrite.
Let me begin by saying that hypocrisy is the greatest luxury that mankind was ever given. We can decide not to do something...then rant and rave at people who also don't.
Do as I say, not as I do. That is born from this.
My mother and father got cell phones around the same time their children did. They left their phones off most of the time. Often we would ask our parents, "What's the point of having a cell phone if you leave it off all the time? How can you be reached?"
Our wise parents would look at us and say, "Why do you need to always be reached?"
At the time I thought my parents were nuts, but the idea makes complete sense to me now.
I carry a cell phone with me at almost all times. This is because I might be needed for emergencies. I used to get angry when my wife would just look at her phone or our home phone and not answer it.
"How can you do that? What if it's a problem?" I would ask.
"If it's a number I don't know," she responded, "then I don't answer."
Now, this is the part where Hypocrisy rears its head. My wife won't answer if it's a number she doesn't know. So, she changes jobs and gets a new number. As such, she starts calling her friends and old co-workers to give them her new number.
What happens?
No one answers.
Why?
Because they don't know the number.
So what does she do?
She gets angry and asks me, "Why is no one picking up when I call?"
I love the irony.
Before you judge, however, realize that you, dear reader, probably do the same thing. You look at the Caller ID and say to yourself, "Who is this? Some charity? I'm not picking up." Or, you screen your calls. Don't lie. If you have a cell phone, you look at the screen and think about it before answering.
But most people, in this incredibly connected world, don't turn answer their phones. I never used to be that way.
If a charity called, I picked it up and said, "Sure," or, "No thanks."
If it was a survey, same thing.
If the cell phone rang, I picked it up.
Lately, however, it's been getting hard to do it.
I'm busy. We all are. With work, with family, so it's getting harder to answer the phone. I don't get a ton of time to be with my son, so if the phone rings, then I lose that time.
It's not that I don't want to talk to people. And I know that people need me at times, but it's so easy to just...not pick up.
So, dear reader, think about that the next time you call someone and they don't answer: is it that they aren't home, is it that they don't want to talk to you, or is it that they are busy and screening?
Of course what do I know? I can't get anyone on the phone. I could be wrong.
Namaste.
It seems counter-intuitive, but the silence is wonderful.
However, it makes me a hypocrite.
Let me begin by saying that hypocrisy is the greatest luxury that mankind was ever given. We can decide not to do something...then rant and rave at people who also don't.
Do as I say, not as I do. That is born from this.
My mother and father got cell phones around the same time their children did. They left their phones off most of the time. Often we would ask our parents, "What's the point of having a cell phone if you leave it off all the time? How can you be reached?"
Our wise parents would look at us and say, "Why do you need to always be reached?"
At the time I thought my parents were nuts, but the idea makes complete sense to me now.
I carry a cell phone with me at almost all times. This is because I might be needed for emergencies. I used to get angry when my wife would just look at her phone or our home phone and not answer it.
"How can you do that? What if it's a problem?" I would ask.
"If it's a number I don't know," she responded, "then I don't answer."
Now, this is the part where Hypocrisy rears its head. My wife won't answer if it's a number she doesn't know. So, she changes jobs and gets a new number. As such, she starts calling her friends and old co-workers to give them her new number.
What happens?
No one answers.
Why?
Because they don't know the number.
So what does she do?
She gets angry and asks me, "Why is no one picking up when I call?"
I love the irony.
Before you judge, however, realize that you, dear reader, probably do the same thing. You look at the Caller ID and say to yourself, "Who is this? Some charity? I'm not picking up." Or, you screen your calls. Don't lie. If you have a cell phone, you look at the screen and think about it before answering.
But most people, in this incredibly connected world, don't turn answer their phones. I never used to be that way.
If a charity called, I picked it up and said, "Sure," or, "No thanks."
If it was a survey, same thing.
If the cell phone rang, I picked it up.
Lately, however, it's been getting hard to do it.
I'm busy. We all are. With work, with family, so it's getting harder to answer the phone. I don't get a ton of time to be with my son, so if the phone rings, then I lose that time.
It's not that I don't want to talk to people. And I know that people need me at times, but it's so easy to just...not pick up.
So, dear reader, think about that the next time you call someone and they don't answer: is it that they aren't home, is it that they don't want to talk to you, or is it that they are busy and screening?
Of course what do I know? I can't get anyone on the phone. I could be wrong.
Namaste.
Saturday, January 03, 2009
Ramblings for the Afternoon (1/3/2009)
Time for the whip around.
So, without further ado: FANDANGO!
------------------------------
A Vicious (and Expensive Cycle):
Wait. What? Oh wait...WHAT????!!!!
Sigh. And the world keeps spinning, and nothing changes. There is a great Simpsons episode (Mr. Lisa Goes to Washington) where Lisa looks at politicians and sees fat cats and pigs scratching each other's backs. I'm not sure the show is wrong here.
And finally:
------------------------------
Anonymous Hippopotamus:
I am not the first to talk about this, and I won't be the last, but anonymous comments are the boom and the bane of blogging and the online world.
I comment and post over at MNSpeak. I may not necessarily fit with the people over there, but they usually have interesting discussions that then breakdown because they haven't all matured yet. Regardless, there was a piece written by Max "Bunny" Sparber where he mentioned Mole Men. An anonymous commenter made a shot at Sparber about its similarity to John Hodgman. While Max does not need me to defend him (he has the power of snark all on his own), it shows the problem of the internet: It's so easy to hide in the shadows and take shots at people when they don't know who it is. Hate a classmate and know they have a blog? Leave an anonymous comment on it calling that person a name, or tell a story that's damaging.
So, without further ado: FANDANGO!
------------------------------
A Vicious (and Expensive Cycle):
Wait. What? Oh wait...WHAT????!!!!
Sigh. And the world keeps spinning, and nothing changes. There is a great Simpsons episode (Mr. Lisa Goes to Washington) where Lisa looks at politicians and sees fat cats and pigs scratching each other's backs. I'm not sure the show is wrong here.
And finally:
------------------------------
Anonymous Hippopotamus:
I am not the first to talk about this, and I won't be the last, but anonymous comments are the boom and the bane of blogging and the online world.
I comment and post over at MNSpeak. I may not necessarily fit with the people over there, but they usually have interesting discussions that then breakdown because they haven't all matured yet. Regardless, there was a piece written by Max "Bunny" Sparber where he mentioned Mole Men. An anonymous commenter made a shot at Sparber about its similarity to John Hodgman. While Max does not need me to defend him (he has the power of snark all on his own), it shows the problem of the internet: It's so easy to hide in the shadows and take shots at people when they don't know who it is. Hate a classmate and know they have a blog? Leave an anonymous comment on it calling that person a name, or tell a story that's damaging.
So why do we do it? Well, there's a few reasons:
1. Conflict, in the modern world, is frowned upon: We don't like to argue, and we look unfavorably on those who do. For example:
I was flying from JFK to Minneapolis with my wife and son. My son was feeling very ill, and had already vomited once. Because we had some bags with us, we put one up above (a backpack), and had two others under our seats. Because we had a child, we were able to board early and get set. My son needed to sleep. It would be the only way he would get better and wouldn't piss off people on the flight.
So he's sleeping in his mother's arms, and on comes this woman with a bunch of bags. The bins in the back of the plane are closed to signify they are full. This woman, apparently, doesn't care. It turns out she is in the aisle across from us, and wants to put one of her bags up above. So, she opens the bin and looks long and hard at it. Then she grabs the backpack and says, "Whose backpack is this?"
"Mine," I reply. "Please put it back."
"I need to put my bag up above, and you can put this under your seat."
"No, there's something there, Ma'am," I say to her. "Please put it back."
"No. my bag won't fit under my seat." She then puts the backpack on the floor, and begins trying to shove her bag in. It doesn't fit, but rather than put my bag back up there, she calls to her son (I think it was her son..maybe grandson..maybe love slave) and says, "Give me your bag." He hands her a backpack (a little bigger than mine) and puts it in the space.
It is at this point that I begin to lose my temper. I am a pillar of temerity, but this woman just tossed my stuff on the floor. She is also holding up every single person trying to get on the plane because she wants her stuff up.
"HEY!" I yell. "Take that bag out, and put my bag back up there. What the hell is wrong with you?"
The kid listens and begins to remove his bag.
"No!" says the woman. "Leave your bag there. He won't do anything."
She is wrong. I stand up and say, "Wanna bet, lady?" While I am moving toward her, the woman has opened another bin and removes a rolling bag, a jacket, and a shopping bag. She shoves her bag into the open space, and then begins trying to shove the shopping bag back in.
I arrive in time to hear a snap within the shopping bag.
"OH MY GOD!" a woman sitting near the bin yells. "Did you just break my painting? Did you just BREAK MY PAINTING?!?!"
The woman whose bag is now up says, "There's nothing we can do about it now." And she sits.
I reach the bin and remove the boy's backpack and start to put mine in. "Lady," I say, "There is something seriously wrong with you. I hope, for your sake, that you sleep on this flight, because the people sitting around you want you to shut the fuck up!"
As I am about to put my bag back in, the airline attendant comes up and asks me to put his bag back and meet her in the back of the plane.
I could argue, but there's a line of people wanting to get on, so I comply.
"I will store your bag here," the attendant says pointing to a small amount of room with the oxygen tank. "You cannot argue with her. Everything now seems to be ok, and we can't have a scene or we'll have to take you both off and deal with it. Do YOU want to hold up the whole plane? Hmm? Do you?"
I know the woman is in the wrong, but I understand the airline attendant's point. I don't want to hold up everyone for this bitch.
Still, I'm told not to cause a scene. The guy sitting behind me says, "You should have just taken the bag. Now we might be late."
At one point, I was waiting outside the lavatory to use it and there was a guy there stretching.
"You don't argue, kid," he says to me. "People don't want to hear it, and people don't want to see it."
He's right. We don't like seeing the status quo change. So when someone comes along and tells us we're wrong, we try not to get loud...because, you know, it might upset people. I'm not that way, and it has given me much trouble.
But if you can argue and no one knows who you are, then there's an advantage. This leads to number two:
2. Anonymity allows you to remain part of the group. If people know you're arguing against them...they may not like you...but if your anonymous...you can say whatever.
And this is the problem. We want to be part of society. We don't want to be the kid sitting alone at the lunch table, and many of us don't want ANYONE to think badly of us.
It's basic psychology. Pack mentality. To remain part of the pack, most will follow the alpha. If, however, a second alpha arises that has enough people following him or her AND has the same thoughts we do...then it's ok to say it. That's how politics works in some ways.
So of course the internet is the place for this. Why leave your name when you can attack someone's point of view without them knowing who you are? That way, you get to flame them without having to deal with the fallout.
This can be seen all the time with Fanboys. Create a fake account, then go and flame the "nemesis". You're a Playstation fan and some guy is on your board talking about the Xbox. Flame him. He doesn't know you, and you can say whatever you want. Who cares.
This is what "Anonymous" was doing on MNSpeak the other day. Why give your real name when it is easier to flame a guy and run.
This has also happened to me many times. In fact, one commenter went so far as to say, "Your blog makes me want to vomit." That's fine, but tell me who you are if you're going to do that. Don't be a chicken. Tom even said the same thing to this person.
That's why I love what one guy did on his website. He was so sick of people leaving stupid or anonymous comments, that he published their email addresses so anyone could write them. This, of course, angered all of the people who had left comments because EVERYONE knew where to find them and who they were.
Think of it this way. If you have to leave an anonymous comment...that means you're either afraid or saying something you shouldn't. Just think carefully.
Of course, what do I know? I'm just some anonymous schmuck you've never met. I could be wrong.
Namaste.
I was flying from JFK to Minneapolis with my wife and son. My son was feeling very ill, and had already vomited once. Because we had some bags with us, we put one up above (a backpack), and had two others under our seats. Because we had a child, we were able to board early and get set. My son needed to sleep. It would be the only way he would get better and wouldn't piss off people on the flight.
So he's sleeping in his mother's arms, and on comes this woman with a bunch of bags. The bins in the back of the plane are closed to signify they are full. This woman, apparently, doesn't care. It turns out she is in the aisle across from us, and wants to put one of her bags up above. So, she opens the bin and looks long and hard at it. Then she grabs the backpack and says, "Whose backpack is this?"
"Mine," I reply. "Please put it back."
"I need to put my bag up above, and you can put this under your seat."
"No, there's something there, Ma'am," I say to her. "Please put it back."
"No. my bag won't fit under my seat." She then puts the backpack on the floor, and begins trying to shove her bag in. It doesn't fit, but rather than put my bag back up there, she calls to her son (I think it was her son..maybe grandson..maybe love slave) and says, "Give me your bag." He hands her a backpack (a little bigger than mine) and puts it in the space.
It is at this point that I begin to lose my temper. I am a pillar of temerity, but this woman just tossed my stuff on the floor. She is also holding up every single person trying to get on the plane because she wants her stuff up.
"HEY!" I yell. "Take that bag out, and put my bag back up there. What the hell is wrong with you?"
The kid listens and begins to remove his bag.
"No!" says the woman. "Leave your bag there. He won't do anything."
She is wrong. I stand up and say, "Wanna bet, lady?" While I am moving toward her, the woman has opened another bin and removes a rolling bag, a jacket, and a shopping bag. She shoves her bag into the open space, and then begins trying to shove the shopping bag back in.
I arrive in time to hear a snap within the shopping bag.
"OH MY GOD!" a woman sitting near the bin yells. "Did you just break my painting? Did you just BREAK MY PAINTING?!?!"
The woman whose bag is now up says, "There's nothing we can do about it now." And she sits.
I reach the bin and remove the boy's backpack and start to put mine in. "Lady," I say, "There is something seriously wrong with you. I hope, for your sake, that you sleep on this flight, because the people sitting around you want you to shut the fuck up!"
As I am about to put my bag back in, the airline attendant comes up and asks me to put his bag back and meet her in the back of the plane.
I could argue, but there's a line of people wanting to get on, so I comply.
"I will store your bag here," the attendant says pointing to a small amount of room with the oxygen tank. "You cannot argue with her. Everything now seems to be ok, and we can't have a scene or we'll have to take you both off and deal with it. Do YOU want to hold up the whole plane? Hmm? Do you?"
I know the woman is in the wrong, but I understand the airline attendant's point. I don't want to hold up everyone for this bitch.
Still, I'm told not to cause a scene. The guy sitting behind me says, "You should have just taken the bag. Now we might be late."
At one point, I was waiting outside the lavatory to use it and there was a guy there stretching.
"You don't argue, kid," he says to me. "People don't want to hear it, and people don't want to see it."
He's right. We don't like seeing the status quo change. So when someone comes along and tells us we're wrong, we try not to get loud...because, you know, it might upset people. I'm not that way, and it has given me much trouble.
But if you can argue and no one knows who you are, then there's an advantage. This leads to number two:
2. Anonymity allows you to remain part of the group. If people know you're arguing against them...they may not like you...but if your anonymous...you can say whatever.
And this is the problem. We want to be part of society. We don't want to be the kid sitting alone at the lunch table, and many of us don't want ANYONE to think badly of us.
It's basic psychology. Pack mentality. To remain part of the pack, most will follow the alpha. If, however, a second alpha arises that has enough people following him or her AND has the same thoughts we do...then it's ok to say it. That's how politics works in some ways.
So of course the internet is the place for this. Why leave your name when you can attack someone's point of view without them knowing who you are? That way, you get to flame them without having to deal with the fallout.
This can be seen all the time with Fanboys. Create a fake account, then go and flame the "nemesis". You're a Playstation fan and some guy is on your board talking about the Xbox. Flame him. He doesn't know you, and you can say whatever you want. Who cares.
This is what "Anonymous" was doing on MNSpeak the other day. Why give your real name when it is easier to flame a guy and run.
This has also happened to me many times. In fact, one commenter went so far as to say, "Your blog makes me want to vomit." That's fine, but tell me who you are if you're going to do that. Don't be a chicken. Tom even said the same thing to this person.
That's why I love what one guy did on his website. He was so sick of people leaving stupid or anonymous comments, that he published their email addresses so anyone could write them. This, of course, angered all of the people who had left comments because EVERYONE knew where to find them and who they were.
Think of it this way. If you have to leave an anonymous comment...that means you're either afraid or saying something you shouldn't. Just think carefully.
Of course, what do I know? I'm just some anonymous schmuck you've never met. I could be wrong.
Namaste.
Quick Note
If you like the poetry I was writing, or if you just want to make fun of me, it has moved.
It's now at Mea Culpa (the link is on the right).
Namaste.
It's now at Mea Culpa (the link is on the right).
Namaste.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Jolting
So a few people have commented to me that they miss the stories. Ok then.
Back when I was in college, I took a summer to work as a master electrician/prop master/stage manager for a fledgling theatre company in St. Louis. (Sadly, the company would fold after the season I worked for it...go figure.) The second show, True West did very well, but it had a fast turnaround into our next show, Raised in Captivity. When I say fast turnaround, I mean we had to strip all the lights and sets down and then rebuild and hang in a 48 hour period. And when I say we...I mean me. I had to go and pull everything down and then put everything back up. The only help I would receive was from my then Lighting professor (who hated me so...probably because I was not a small, hot, Asian girl) who offered to give me thirty minutes of his time (at time and a half) to put up flats and curtains.
Ok, strike (when you take everything down for those who don't know the lingo) is always quick. You're tearing down the wall, so you can pretty much speed through taking out screws and bringing down lights as long as you have a good ladder, a working wrench, and a good set of leg and arm muscles. One of the first lessons in lighting I learned was that in a black box theatre, you can grab on to a ladder with your legs, grab the lighting pipes with your arms, and pull yourself with ladder to the next destination. It's like being a monkey. And later you learn how to hang upside down and do work with your feet when necessary...I'm not kidding.
However, when you have no time, fatigue, and no help, a light plot becomes your mortal enemy. Especially when the designer doesn't label anything.
And that's where I was.
Show ended at 10 PM.
People schmoozed and talked for 20 minutes.
Strike took about 25 minutes.
5 minutes was organizing and discussing.
That makes it 11 PM Sunday night. They want the space up and ready to go by 7 PM Tuesday.
44 hours.
No problem. The list was:
Hang the lights
I decided that I would begin by placing the lights where they would eventually be hanging. This way I could gauge how much cable would be needed as well as which circuits I could use (this would all have to be written down on the light plot as well as the master list.
That person is probably right (and should go to Hell), but I had to make sure we had enough lights (which is a constant worry when working in someone else's space).
No, I moved the lights and recreated the plot. Then, with my trusty Crescent (fresh) Wrench, I started hanging the lights.
The phone jingle-jangle-jingles, and it's the lighting designer.
The best part about Monday morning at the university is that the coffee shop (conveniently next door to the scene shop) opens at 5 am. As the sun begins to peak on the horizon, I run the last of the cable and begin plugging in everything. Again, I'm alone on this, so what could be done by now is not finished...and the cavalry might come. And because the floor is clear, the set can now be loaded in. I call the artistic director at 5:30 am as I am walking to coffee shop to eat something and then go home to sleep.
"Nic," I begin. "Everything is up. The set can be loaded and locked down.... Oh, and good morning."
After some bursts of half awake dialect I don't recognize, Nic responds, "Ooook. We'll have the set in by two. I want everything focused by five."
"We still have more than twenty-four hours," I respond. "Why are we rushing?"
"Robert [the director] wants to up the timetable. He needs more time on stage. Show's...not going well."
I sighed. While I really liked Robert, his antics were a problem for the tech people.
"Ok," I tell Nic, "I've got some errands to run, then I'll go home, sleep, come back at four, and try to finish everything tonight. One thing: I have everything up. Tell Jerry no more changes."
"No problem," Nic replies, "Now fuck off! I need to sleep." And with that, he hangs up on me.
The plan sounds easy enough. I have to quickly get my errands done (this included doing stupid things like, you know, getting groceries so I can eat, depositing a check so I can buy said groceries and pay my rent, and turning in class work (I was taking a summer course to get done with college faster).
The problem with working near where you live and where you go to school is that you are going to run into people you know. When you're really tired and trying to rush, Murphy's Law takes over. You WILL run into people, and they will suck up your time. First stop was the ban k, where I ran into two of my professors, who tell me everything about the upcoming year (it will be my senior) and what they expect the plays to be as well as what work will need to be done. Because I want to have a prime position, I play the part. I should have said, "Oh my God. Leave me alone!" I didn't. Next, I'm in the grocery store buying a few items (biggest item: cat food), and I run into a friend of mine, who is also there with his fiancee...and his siblings.... So of course I have to talk to all of them, and this takes over an hour.
And, after a quick stop on campus to turn a paper, I'm finally in my little mushroom house (Yes, Virginia, they called it the Smurf House) ready to sleep. I still have time. I feed the cats, drop the pants, and hit the bed that is lulling me to it with it's siren song and false promises of rest.
And the phone rings.
Here's what you need to know about Rick. Even though he hated me, I really respected him. He was and is an amazing designer. It's no wonder he was asked to work the Olympics more than once. However, his personality was a major turn off for most people. He was the runt of his family, and the other men had been military. He wasn't, due to an eye issue, and then picked theatre, which was very unpopular in his Southern-rooted home.
"Where the fuck are you?" The drawl spits across the phone.
"Well get the fuck back up here. Your 30 minutes of my time are about to kick in, and I need some answers as to what's going on around here."
"Shut the fuck up, get in your car, and get your ass back up here! Or I walk."
No time for a shower, just throw on some new clothes and deodorant, grab a Coke for lunch, and run.
"What the FUCK is this shit?!" he yells at me
"Look at the cube. Shiiiiiit. This is coming out of someone's budget." And with that, he looks squarely at me. His mind obviously saying, "And I mean you, fucker."
With no set and no set designer around, I had to buy Rick a tall latte to keep him from bolting. I dialed up the tech director.
"Yes," I hear Doug reply. He sounds out of breath.
I hear more breathing coming faster and faster. My first thought is a very dirty one. Doug is having sex and is making me listen. When he finishes, he'll talk. This, thankfully turns out to be wrong.
"No."
There is a moment when you hear something that makes no sense. Your brain almost stops like a derailed train. Logic disappears. Like when someone says something so incredibly off topic or stupid that you can't fathom how that person's brain could put those words together. That's what happened when I heard they had lost the set. All I could say was:
"We lost the set. We put it in the scene shop [which was directly below the theatre] last night. Came in this morning, and it was gone. Someone took the flats. We were rebuilding them."
"And did you guys take your fucking flats off the paint rack? I had to move them because they were blocking the prop cage."
"Oh fuck! They're on the paint rack? You're a life saver!" And the huffing begins before I hang up.
I turn to Rick, who has just finished the latte, and say, "Can we focus in like twenty minutes? I need to get a drink and use the bathroom. Weird, right?"
"Fuck. Give me the cash for another latte, and I'll give you ten minutes."
"You can't count this time, man. This is like an act of God."
This is actually a punishment. Mark liked to talk...alot. He would talk about whatever was on his mind. One conversation ran from a light, to a baseball stadium, to his ex-wife, to football, to movies, and then to his hair. A typical five minute visit anywhere else was a half an hour with Mark.
Instead of being done at 10 PM, we finish around 1 am. Robert could not get out of his own way. We would build a look, get it all set, run it, and he would then say, "NO! That's not what I wanted. Do it again. Weren't you listening to me?" This would happen with almost every cue.
When you're really tired, the mind sometimes misfires. You don't fully follow logic. This was about to happen to me. One light wasn't working, but the lamp was fine. This meant it was wire related. I went to the light board and turned the circuit on, then I check the light itself. Wires were fine there, so it had to be the cable. I checked the wires at the plug first. They were fine, so it was where the cable connected to the light's pig tail (or cable). I opened up the cable head and found a loose wire. I started trying to pushing it back in place, but it wouldn't go with the gloves I had on.
Now I don't know if it was the fatigue or a deathwish, but I did something so stupid that the fact that I am alive makes it funny.
I started thinking about how to make the wire fit.
"Well," says my brain, "When you work with sewing thread, you lick the thread to make it stable to go through the needle. The wire here looks like thread, so logic dictates you should like it to make it go through here."
Now, because my body was so tired, it did not scream, "No, you stupid fuck!" Instead it went, "Just FINISH!!!"
When I woke up a few minutes later, my back hurt, my mouth hurt, and my pride hurt. I had a bruise the size of a dinner plate on my back (I would see this later) from the fall. My mouth was burned from the electrical adventure, and my pride kept saying, "You LICKED a live wire, you stupid moron!"
So I lay on the floor of the theatre trying to make sure I was actually alive. When I could finally get up, I went and turned the circuit off. Then, even though I was still shaky, I climbed the ladder and finished. Then, with my hands still shaking, I dialed Nic to tell him what had happened. After exchanging pleasantries, I told him.
"You did what?" He responded.
"I haven't slept, Nic. I licked a wire."
A quick sigh. "Are you ok?"
"Yeah," I say. "Just shaking," and watch the bottle of water in my hand jitter around.
"Can you finish?"
"What time is it?" I ask.
"It's 4:10."
"Oh shit, that means I actually passed out for like ten minutes."
"I don't hear that!" Nic yells. "If I hear that, I have to fill a report, so shut up!!!"
In the background, I hear Nic's wife stirring and then quietly saying, "Just hang up."
"I have to go," he says, "Finish up and go home. Sleep! We have alot to do the rest of this week and I need you alive for now. Good night."
The phone call ends.
I managed to pull myself together and finish everything in time to see the sun rise as I walked outside. The first thought in my head was actually not the sunrise, which I would eventually watch, but how jealous I was of the janitor's cigarette. I didn't smoke, but I really wanted a cigarette. Actually, I really wanted a drink, but drinking in the early morning is usually frowned upon. It's eggs and bacon...not eggs and Jack Daniels...but it could be. So the constant smell of burned hair (seems I singed some beard hair) was to be with me until I showered.
As I walked to my car, however, I saw that sunrise. A deep orange and golden amber that spilled across the sky with delight. This led me to walk to my car, hop on the hood, and just watch. No music, no one with me, and no reason to rush. Just myself, the sun, and the universe as a new day is born.
The film City of Angels (an inferior remake of a brilliant film called Wings of Desire...Go watch the two. I'll wait...see I was right.) has a moment where the angels watch the sunrise and act as if they are hearing the most pure sound in the world that reaches to the core of being. Humans, however, cannot hear it or feel it. That rising there, sitting on my car a few hours after almost electrocuting myself, was one of the greatest sunrises I had ever watched. It has only ever been rivaled by a few days in my life.
Lest you think I'm sappy, here's the rub: When you do lighting design, a problem begins to occur. While I enjoyed the moment and watched the sky in awe as the stars winked out and became replaced with the blue hue of life, I started seeing gel colors in my head. The more you design lights, the more you start to see the world in terms of color gels. Imagine looking at the gold light spilling across the sky and thinking, "Hmm..Roscolux 04 [Medium Bastard Amber] with a hint of 08 [Pale Gold]." This was one of the reasons why I would end up leaving theatre: the wonderment and beauty of the world became colors in a swatch book.
So I watched the sunrise and made the decision to take the day off. No work. No helping anyone else out. Just get in the car, drive home, and sleep. So, with Helios above the horizon and being dragged higher and higher by Apollo's Chariot, I went home. I sat down on the couch that had been left by the previous tenant, and looked out the window one more time at the sunlight moving between the trees. Then I passed out...hard. I would wake up several hours on the floor. The cat (my grey and white one) was pulling on my ear. Either he thought he was helping me to get up and go to work...or he was trying to eat my ear for nourishment. I like to believe the former, but it was probably the latter.
The show went very well. It was sold out every night and, after the reviews came out, it was standing room only for a while. In the end, however, the theatre company went out of business when the artistic director moved to Florida.
And there was a cast party, which ended with Jerry trying to sleep with a woman in the loft of my house and showing his ass to everyone before falling out a window. I had to burn those sheets. Wish I was kidding.
So what, dear reader, should you take from this? Well:
1. Don't lick a live wire. Seriously...don't do it.
2. Rest. Even when the hurly burly is flying about and the shit hits the fan, take a moment to breath and rest.
3. You live theatre. It's not a job, it's a lifestyle. If you're thinking about doing it professionally, make sure you know that.
4. Don't lick a live wire. It's just really good advice.
5. All people, no matter how horrible or schmucky they seem, have a heart. Appeal to that.
and finally,
6. Never, ever, let a day go by without seeing, learning, hearing, or doing something new. Take an appreciation for the light of life if nothing else.
Namaste.
As such, here's a story that most people will probably enjoy.
-------------------------------------Back when I was in college, I took a summer to work as a master electrician/prop master/stage manager for a fledgling theatre company in St. Louis. (Sadly, the company would fold after the season I worked for it...go figure.) The second show, True West did very well, but it had a fast turnaround into our next show, Raised in Captivity. When I say fast turnaround, I mean we had to strip all the lights and sets down and then rebuild and hang in a 48 hour period. And when I say we...I mean me. I had to go and pull everything down and then put everything back up. The only help I would receive was from my then Lighting professor (who hated me so...probably because I was not a small, hot, Asian girl) who offered to give me thirty minutes of his time (at time and a half) to put up flats and curtains.
Ok, strike (when you take everything down for those who don't know the lingo) is always quick. You're tearing down the wall, so you can pretty much speed through taking out screws and bringing down lights as long as you have a good ladder, a working wrench, and a good set of leg and arm muscles. One of the first lessons in lighting I learned was that in a black box theatre, you can grab on to a ladder with your legs, grab the lighting pipes with your arms, and pull yourself with ladder to the next destination. It's like being a monkey. And later you learn how to hang upside down and do work with your feet when necessary...I'm not kidding.
So, the actors and I strike the set (including a working sink) and the lights (though most of the actors, as actors usually are, were afraid to get up on the ladder because getting hurt means no 
paycheck). In comes the light plot.
paycheck). In comes the light plot.When you have time, a sound mind, and help, light plots are extremely cool. It's the lighting designer's road map to creating a painting with light. It's how one man or one woman (usually one) takes the color palette and creates a visual representation of feeling, of a point of view, etc. One could be in awe of how just some drawings, colors, and Geometry create moods.
And that's where I was.
As an added incentive, one of the heads of the company bought a countdown clock and set it from the moment strike started. 44 hours. With a click, the numbers began dancing away toward the null. I didn't have a lot of time. So my time breakdown became the following:
People schmoozed and talked for 20 minutes.
Strike took about 25 minutes.
Run the cable
Plug them all inGet the set up (It was a small set consisting of furniture, a wall with a door, and some knick-knacks.)
Focus the lights (the worst part of the hang)And set up the props
I decided that I would begin by placing the lights where they would eventually be hanging. This way I could gauge how much cable would be needed as well as which circuits I could use (this would all have to be written down on the light plot as well as the master list.
Now I know someone in theatre is reading this and saying, "Dude, I.T. ... why didn't you just bring the lights over, move the ladder, and hang as you went? That's simpler."
The original plan was to hang and plug in the lights and get gels in before dawn. Then I would go home, take a cat nap, come back, and finish by dinner. This would leave a whole day to load set and focus. Thus, when 7 PM Tuesday rolled around, and the clock struck zero, I could do a victory dance and bask in the love of actors. This last statement should show you that I was an idiot as actors will never let you bask. Nor will dancers for that matter. While working on a dance show, my crew and I decided to entertain the performers by doing one of the dances ourselves...in steel-toed boots and wearing all black. Instead of laughing, we were given a lengthy post-dance speech about what we did wrong. Damn Ballet dancers....
Anyway, I'm rolling along. Music is blaring to help the caffeine in my system keep me awake. I'm about to hang the first light on the last baton. This meant I only had seven lights to go...and my cell phone rings. This is when cell phones were for...well...phone calls. One kind of ringer. No internet. Just phone calls...at two in the morning...with seventy-five lights hanging above you...but whatever.
"I.T.! Where are you?!"
"I'm hanging the last of the lights, Jerry," I say with pride. "What's up?"
"What's the number on the plot?" he asks. For those unfamiliar, some lighting designers will plot, then tweak, and each tweak is a new number.
"Four," I respond. Jerry liked to tweak (and I am using lighting and...other vernacular here).
"Shit! You're supposed to have six. There were changes."
"We'll I have four, Jerry. And I'm almost done. What kind of changes am I looking at?" I ask in dread. He was not a subtle tweaker (and again I mean both ways), but one who would completely redo sections.
"The section over the office has changed. Everything has to be turned ninety degrees to accommodate the [lighiting] booth. Toooootally didn't think about it when I planned it. Can you come over here, like, now?"
"Jerry...when did you change this?"
"Dude, I changed it last Friday."
"Jerry," I say with annoyance growing, "We had a production meeting on Saturday. Why wasn't the new plot there?"
"Don't know. My fault. Come get the new one. I'll have it on the porch." And with that, the phone call ends.
Fatigue has started to sink in a little, and anger doesn't help that. I locked everything up and walked out to my car to begin the twenty minute drive to Jerry's home. He lived a neighborhood that the local university I was attending said, "Avoid if at all possible." On the security maps they gave to kids, this neighborhood was completely shaded in for having the most crime. And here I was driving into it at 2:30 in the morning.
Like Excalibur in the rock, Jerry's new plot is sticking out of a lawn chair glowing bright white by the light of the lamppost near by. The plot was as bad as I feared. I would have to shift every light over one pipe and move fifteen lights two pipes back. Back in the car, back to the theatre, and in I went.
I found that Guns and Roses was great music at 3:15 AM to motivate hanging lights faster. What doesn't work? Dave Matthews...that's for sleeping.
The clock continues spinning as the last light is locked into place. I do a little happy dance knowing that the hardest part is about to start: running the cable and plugging it in.
The best part about Monday morning at the university is that the coffee shop (conveniently next door to the scene shop) opens at 5 am. As the sun begins to peak on the horizon, I run the last of the cable and begin plugging in everything. Again, I'm alone on this, so what could be done by now is not finished...and the cavalry might come. And because the floor is clear, the set can now be loaded in. I call the artistic director at 5:30 am as I am walking to coffee shop to eat something and then go home to sleep.
"Nic," I begin. "Everything is up. The set can be loaded and locked down.... Oh, and good morning."
After some bursts of half awake dialect I don't recognize, Nic responds, "Ooook. We'll have the set in by two. I want everything focused by five."
"We still have more than twenty-four hours," I respond. "Why are we rushing?"
"Robert [the director] wants to up the timetable. He needs more time on stage. Show's...not going well."
I sighed. While I really liked Robert, his antics were a problem for the tech people.
"Ok," I tell Nic, "I've got some errands to run, then I'll go home, sleep, come back at four, and try to finish everything tonight. One thing: I have everything up. Tell Jerry no more changes."
"No problem," Nic replies, "Now fuck off! I need to sleep." And with that, he hangs up on me.
The plan sounds easy enough. I have to quickly get my errands done (this included doing stupid things like, you know, getting groceries so I can eat, depositing a check so I can buy said groceries and pay my rent, and turning in class work (I was taking a summer course to get done with college faster).
The problem with working near where you live and where you go to school is that you are going to run into people you know. When you're really tired and trying to rush, Murphy's Law takes over. You WILL run into people, and they will suck up your time. First stop was the ban k, where I ran into two of my professors, who tell me everything about the upcoming year (it will be my senior) and what they expect the plays to be as well as what work will need to be done. Because I want to have a prime position, I play the part. I should have said, "Oh my God. Leave me alone!" I didn't. Next, I'm in the grocery store buying a few items (biggest item: cat food), and I run into a friend of mine, who is also there with his fiancee...and his siblings.... So of course I have to talk to all of them, and this takes over an hour.
And, after a quick stop on campus to turn a paper, I'm finally in my little mushroom house (Yes, Virginia, they called it the Smurf House) ready to sleep. I still have time. I feed the cats, drop the pants, and hit the bed that is lulling me to it with it's siren song and false promises of rest.
The eyelids close.
The body begins to relax.
The sound of the world and ringing in my ears fades...
And the phone rings.
Five minutes. That's how long I slept. Five minutes. It was at this moment in my life that I learned to hate the ringing of the phone. The dull, insensitive tone it makes. However, it might have been an emergency, so I picked it up.
It was not an emergency, it was Rick.
Here's what you need to know about Rick. Even though he hated me, I really respected him. He was and is an amazing designer. It's no wonder he was asked to work the Olympics more than once. However, his personality was a major turn off for most people. He was the runt of his family, and the other men had been military. He wasn't, due to an eye issue, and then picked theatre, which was very unpopular in his Southern-rooted home.
That being said, he had a thing for young, Asian women, and treated any man who got his girl's eye with severe contempt. His girlfriend thought I was funny and cute, so naturally I was given shit jobs like light maintenance (sitting in a dark room making sure every piece of equipment is working), cable coiling (unwrapping and then recoiling every cable), and dealing with rental equipment (which could be ok, if the owners of the equipment weren't complete dicks...oh well). The only compliment I ever got from him was after the first show (two one-acts) I designed the lighting for. He walked up to me and said, "Not bad. Better than my first show, but you had better equipment and better training than I ever did."
I was dumbfounded. On the one hand, he said I did a good job. On the other, he said it was because of him and because I had the equipment. Give the cookie, but make it bitter.
Rick was also very protective of his space. It had to be done his way on his time. Any variation and he would shut it all down. He was a tech diva, and this is who was on my phone.
"Where the fuck are you?" The drawl spits across the phone.
My first thought was, "I'm at home, obviously, as you called me here." I could not say this, however, as he might respond badly. So I said:
"I'm at home. I worked all night, and I wanted to get some quick downtime."
"Well get the fuck back up here. Your 30 minutes of my time are about to kick in, and I need some answers as to what's going on around here."
"Could you call the TD (Tech Director)? I haven't slept yet. I really need some time away."
"Shut the fuck up, get in your car, and get your ass back up here! Or I walk."
My body screams at me to tell him to fuck off. But my mind knows better. Rick has this...eye for focusing. It took him seconds to see a light and know what had to be done with it. It took me a few minutes for each one. Yes, he was an ass, but I had to bear with him in order to be ready by the new timetable.
No time for a shower, just throw on some new clothes and deodorant, grab a Coke for lunch, and run.
When I arrived at the theatre, there were problems, and I understood why Rick was pissed. After I had left, someone (and I assume it was the set designer who was also the carpenter) had started cutting some new boards for a flat and had sliced off part of an acting cube...then had left the cube there with the sawdust on the floor next to the saw.
"What the FUCK is this shit?!" he yells at me
"I don't know," I respond. "When I left, it was just me. He must have come while I was running my errands and turning in work."
"Look at the cube. Shiiiiiit. This is coming out of someone's budget." And with that, he looks squarely at me. His mind obviously saying, "And I mean you, fucker."
This presented the second problem. Not only was there damaged property, but the set wasn't up. I couldn't focus without a set to focus upon. Worse yet, if Rick left, I would focus alone and have to use the Focus Dummy.
Ok, the Focus Dummy is a sewing mannequin on wheels. We attach to it pieces of the fabric that the actors are going to wear. This means having to know the blocking, set the dummy in position, put on the fabric, then focus. It's time consuming. It sucks.
With no set and no set designer around, I had to buy Rick a tall latte to keep him from bolting. I dialed up the tech director.
"Doug?"
"Yes," I hear Doug reply. He sounds out of breath.
"What's going on in the theatre? I'm here with Rick. There's no set, there's a saw next to a cube that's been cut, and I need to focus before Rick leaves.
I hear more breathing coming faster and faster. My first thought is a very dirty one. Doug is having sex and is making me listen. When he finishes, he'll talk. This, thankfully turns out to be wrong.
"Are you near Rick?" Doug asks.
"No."
"Good. We lost the set."
There is a moment when you hear something that makes no sense. Your brain almost stops like a derailed train. Logic disappears. Like when someone says something so incredibly off topic or stupid that you can't fathom how that person's brain could put those words together. That's what happened when I heard they had lost the set. All I could say was:
"What?"
"We lost the set. We put it in the scene shop [which was directly below the theatre] last night. Came in this morning, and it was gone. Someone took the flats. We were rebuilding them."
I'm stunned. How do you lose flats? I couldn't understand it. Then I hear Rick say:
"And did you guys take your fucking flats off the paint rack? I had to move them because they were blocking the prop cage."
"Doug," I immediately say, "did you remember to move the flats off the paint rack."
"Oh fuck! They're on the paint rack? You're a life saver!" And the huffing begins before I hang up.
I turn to Rick, who has just finished the latte, and say, "Can we focus in like twenty minutes? I need to get a drink and use the bathroom. Weird, right?"
Rick just stares at me with these icy blue eyes. After a few minutes, he sighs then says:
"Fuck. Give me the cash for another latte, and I'll give you ten minutes."
I do the math in my head. Not enough time. So I do something incredibly unethical. First, I call Doug and tell him to keep loading no matter what. Then I go and see a fellow student who owes me a favor. I buy a newspaper, give the student (not giving his name just in case) some cash, and tell him to start a trashcan fire on the first floor near the sprinkler. To his credit, he did it. This set off the fire alarm, which meant the building had to be evacuated for some time. I found Rick outside.
"You can't count this time, man. This is like an act of God."
He stares back at me and says, "Shiiiiit. Fine...but you only get twenty minutes. And I want you to call Mark tomorrow and see if he's selling any eight inch fresnels."
This is actually a punishment. Mark liked to talk...alot. He would talk about whatever was on his mind. One conversation ran from a light, to a baseball stadium, to his ex-wife, to football, to movies, and then to his hair. A typical five minute visit anywhere else was a half an hour with Mark.
The set is finally loaded, and the focusing goes quite well. Rick is fine form, so it all gets done. Because his girlfriend shows up to load some sound cues, he stays longer. We finish with enough time for me to go grab a quick bite and then come back for rehearsal. It's a miniture hell week (what many will call Tech Week), so we have to do a run through of building cues. This is time consuming, usually boring, and if the director is a bastard, frustrating.
Instead of being done at 10 PM, we finish around 1 am. Robert could not get out of his own way. We would build a look, get it all set, run it, and he would then say, "NO! That's not what I wanted. Do it again. Weren't you listening to me?" This would happen with almost every cue.
1 AM when you've been up for one day makes you slightly tipsy. 1 AM on a second day makes you very tired and very angry. I just want to sleep. But there's a problem: a few of the lights have burned out. Some are probably due to lamps burning out, but others are mechanical issues (loose wires, broken pins, etc.). The space is being used for a class all day the next day, so I can't leave until I finish fixing the problems. Once again, I'm alone in the space at night, and I haven't slept since 6 am Sunday morning.
When you're really tired, the mind sometimes misfires. You don't fully follow logic. This was about to happen to me. One light wasn't working, but the lamp was fine. This meant it was wire related. I went to the light board and turned the circuit on, then I check the light itself. Wires were fine there, so it had to be the cable. I checked the wires at the plug first. They were fine, so it was where the cable connected to the light's pig tail (or cable). I opened up the cable head and found a loose wire. I started trying to pushing it back in place, but it wouldn't go with the gloves I had on.
Now I don't know if it was the fatigue or a deathwish, but I did something so stupid that the fact that I am alive makes it funny.
I started thinking about how to make the wire fit.
"Well," says my brain, "When you work with sewing thread, you lick the thread to make it stable to go through the needle. The wire here looks like thread, so logic dictates you should like it to make it go through here."
Now, because my body was so tired, it did not scream, "No, you stupid fuck!" Instead it went, "Just FINISH!!!"
So, high up on a ladder at 3 something in the morning and by myself, I licked a live wi re. First of all, it hurts...like you wouldn't believe. I really have nothing to compare it to unless there's a comparison to electrocuting your mouth. The first thing was pain, the next was being blown off the ladder on to the floor.
When I woke up a few minutes later, my back hurt, my mouth hurt, and my pride hurt. I had a bruise the size of a dinner plate on my back (I would see this later) from the fall. My mouth was burned from the electrical adventure, and my pride kept saying, "You LICKED a live wire, you stupid moron!"
So I lay on the floor of the theatre trying to make sure I was actually alive. When I could finally get up, I went and turned the circuit off. Then, even though I was still shaky, I climbed the ladder and finished. Then, with my hands still shaking, I dialed Nic to tell him what had happened. After exchanging pleasantries, I told him.
"You did what?" He responded.
"I haven't slept, Nic. I licked a wire."
A quick sigh. "Are you ok?"
"Yeah," I say. "Just shaking," and watch the bottle of water in my hand jitter around.
"Can you finish?"
"What time is it?" I ask.
"It's 4:10."
"Oh shit, that means I actually passed out for like ten minutes."
"I don't hear that!" Nic yells. "If I hear that, I have to fill a report, so shut up!!!"
In the background, I hear Nic's wife stirring and then quietly saying, "Just hang up."
"I have to go," he says, "Finish up and go home. Sleep! We have alot to do the rest of this week and I need you alive for now. Good night."
The phone call ends.
I managed to pull myself together and finish everything in time to see the sun rise as I walked outside. The first thought in my head was actually not the sunrise, which I would eventually watch, but how jealous I was of the janitor's cigarette. I didn't smoke, but I really wanted a cigarette. Actually, I really wanted a drink, but drinking in the early morning is usually frowned upon. It's eggs and bacon...not eggs and Jack Daniels...but it could be. So the constant smell of burned hair (seems I singed some beard hair) was to be with me until I showered.
As I walked to my car, however, I saw that sunrise. A deep orange and golden amber that spilled across the sky with delight. This led me to walk to my car, hop on the hood, and just watch. No music, no one with me, and no reason to rush. Just myself, the sun, and the universe as a new day is born.
The film City of Angels (an inferior remake of a brilliant film called Wings of Desire...Go watch the two. I'll wait...see I was right.) has a moment where the angels watch the sunrise and act as if they are hearing the most pure sound in the world that reaches to the core of being. Humans, however, cannot hear it or feel it. That rising there, sitting on my car a few hours after almost electrocuting myself, was one of the greatest sunrises I had ever watched. It has only ever been rivaled by a few days in my life.
Lest you think I'm sappy, here's the rub: When you do lighting design, a problem begins to occur. While I enjoyed the moment and watched the sky in awe as the stars winked out and became replaced with the blue hue of life, I started seeing gel colors in my head. The more you design lights, the more you start to see the world in terms of color gels. Imagine looking at the gold light spilling across the sky and thinking, "Hmm..Roscolux 04 [Medium Bastard Amber] with a hint of 08 [Pale Gold]." This was one of the reasons why I would end up leaving theatre: the wonderment and beauty of the world became colors in a swatch book.
So I watched the sunrise and made the decision to take the day off. No work. No helping anyone else out. Just get in the car, drive home, and sleep. So, with Helios above the horizon and being dragged higher and higher by Apollo's Chariot, I went home. I sat down on the couch that had been left by the previous tenant, and looked out the window one more time at the sunlight moving between the trees. Then I passed out...hard. I would wake up several hours on the floor. The cat (my grey and white one) was pulling on my ear. Either he thought he was helping me to get up and go to work...or he was trying to eat my ear for nourishment. I like to believe the former, but it was probably the latter.
The show went very well. It was sold out every night and, after the reviews came out, it was standing room only for a while. In the end, however, the theatre company went out of business when the artistic director moved to Florida.
And there was a cast party, which ended with Jerry trying to sleep with a woman in the loft of my house and showing his ass to everyone before falling out a window. I had to burn those sheets. Wish I was kidding.
So what, dear reader, should you take from this? Well:
1. Don't lick a live wire. Seriously...don't do it.
2. Rest. Even when the hurly burly is flying about and the shit hits the fan, take a moment to breath and rest.
3. You live theatre. It's not a job, it's a lifestyle. If you're thinking about doing it professionally, make sure you know that.
4. Don't lick a live wire. It's just really good advice.
5. All people, no matter how horrible or schmucky they seem, have a heart. Appeal to that.
and finally,
6. Never, ever, let a day go by without seeing, learning, hearing, or doing something new. Take an appreciation for the light of life if nothing else.
Namaste.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Merry X-Mas!
And a happy new year!Enjoy this cartoon from Welcome to Wayne Manor. She's awesome.
Namaste.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Preparing
"Fortune favors the brave" - Publius Terence"Battle not with monsters
lest ye become a monster
and if you gaze into the abyss
the abyss gazes into you." - Friedrich Nietzsche
"Wherever you go...there you are." -Buckaroo Bonzai
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Friendly Thought
To the guy who parked next to me at Target (and almost hit me to boot):
You saw me, and yet you still plowed ahead and almost took off my door and my leg. Then, when I shut the door, you moved over so I couldn't get out.
And you laughed.
Great holiday spirit.
So here's what I think you can do in order to help the gene pool:
This is why I love art.
Namaste.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Shark 2: The Return!
(from here)
I'm not sure why, but this is hysterical.
And finally...the mother of all inspirational speeches:
Moral: don't break an oath, or karma will get you... or sharks will fuck you up...or something.
Namaste.
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