The end of tour world, that is. And I feel pretty damn fine, indeed. Like over the MOON! I'm going to be honest - a lot of tour was misery. I edited out a lot of the backstabbing/bitchery/sex, drugs, and rock and roll for the blog's sake, but if you want to hear about all that, call me - we'll brunch. There's nothing I won't spill over a long, gossippy omelette session. Or you can just wait for the book to come out - just kidding. Sort of.
To be fair, it wasn't all bad. Some of it was good. In the truck the other day, Sound Boy asked me what my favorite part of tour was. I thought of Myrtle Beach, where we watched the waves crash over the dunes all weekend long. Milwaukee, where I danced alone at the indie rock pop folk electronica concert and all the hipsters thought I was crazy. Detroit, where we first played an audience of over 3000 and the dressing rooms looked like they were on the Titanic. Driving through Wisconsin in the fall. Even Elkhart, Indiana, where in the midst of my personal hell, I found a mini horse farm. But then I realized there was only one answer - anytime I was onstage. And that's what really matters - I was lucky enough to do the thing I love more than anything else five days a week, every week, for three months. And even though I was basically a glorified teamster 80% of the time, that's still pretty fucking cool.
Also, I learned a lot.
10. Breathe from your diaphragm, speak from your WOMB.
9. The middle of the country is not totally unfortunate. Mostly. But not totally.
8. People are more likely to carry things for you if you smile at them.
7. If I can drive a truck, anyone can drive a truck. Although it is better to befriend people who will drive the truck for you than to actually drive the truck yourself. And Pilots are the best truck stop.
6. When at the Cracker Barrel, order either the grilled chicken salad or the chef salad with peppercorn dressing.
5. A gold duvet in a Comfort Inn is a sure sign of a good night's sleep.
4. Strawberry margaritas are cheaper at Applebee's, but better at Red Lobster.
3. A Katy Perry dance party cannot solve every problem, but it sure helps.
2. Trust no one.
1. Shoot for the balconies - even if you miss, you'll end up in the mezzanine.
Now that I've conquered the highways and byways of middle America, what's next for the interstate ingenue, you ask?
Why, just what you'd expect -The Interstate Ingenue Takes Manhattan. Look out, big apple - here I come!
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Sunday, December 21, 2008
If the Fates Allow...
Have yourself a merry little Christmas,
Let your heart be light
From now on,
our troubles will be out of sight
Have yourself a merry little Christmas,
Make the Yule-tide gay,
From now on,
our troubles will be miles away.
Here we are as in olden days,
Happy golden days of yore.
Faithful friends who are dear to us
Gather near to us once more.
Through the years
We all will be together,
If the Fates allow
Until then, we'll have to muddle through somehow.
And have yourself A merry little Christmas now.
Here I sit, in the lobby of the North Dartmouth, MA Comfort Inn, laptop plugged in next to the faux poinsettia-pinecone floral arrangement. Man, if you asked me in any college december where I'd be post-graduation, I never would have guessed here. I think back on pre-Christmas-weeks past - the happy golden days of yore: Freshman year when one of the girls on my hall (who would become one of my best friends) and I drank cider at the tree-lighting ceremony, the Holiday Cheerleading Semi-Formal where we ate midnight breakfast in cocktail dresses, the Holly Ball where my "gentlemen" of a date tried to feed me an entire tupperware of jello shots, the time my girls and I bought a Santa face cake for a friend's birthday, he million and a half Museum holiday parties my friends suffered through to hear me play Christmas carols on the piano in Victorian costume, the time I had too much eggnog at a cheer friend's holiday party and believed that this football player took care of sick kittens, the time I organized a Suck-and-Blow tournament in my hall...(don't worry, it's a card game.) Good times, all. And then I think of the familiar pattern of Christmases at home, with my family: picking out matching pjs for me and my sister, waiting for what felt like forever to run downstairs and gasp at how many presents were under the tree, eating dad's scrambled eggs (the one item the man can cook), watching the ensuing temper tantrum when my sister finished opening her presents way before I did, complaining about having to put on real clothes and go to grandma's, all that.A lot of this tour has been really tough. And it didn't end on a good note. But the one thing it has made me realize is how incredibly lucky I am to have my friends and family back home. To my girls, who I know will always be there to cut a bitch for me, I love you so much, and to my parents, for letting me whine whenever, and my sister, for attempting to cheer me up from out of my many foul moods, thank you for everything.
I don't want to go all mushball here, but as I look at the scrappy fake Christmas tree in the lobby, I really feel that this is what the holidays are about - faithful friends who are dear to us gathering near to us once more.
Until then, I'll have to muddle through somehow. And believe me, tomorrow (LAST DAY thank you BABY JESUS) will be quite a muddle.
From then on - hopefully - all troubles will be out of sight.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Fa La La La La
Mmmhmm and so we keep on truckin'. It has been a week of early mornings, and frayed nerves, and for whatever reason I've chosen impromptu dance party as my coping mechanism.
Monday in Baltimore (at a very pretty opera house) for whatever reason we had a 7:30 load-in (as opposed to our usual 8:00) and we were ready way, way early. Like insane early. I took an hour-long nap (an hour, people) on the merlot-colored brocade couch. I went out for coffee at a coffee/sushi/pastry/breakfast sausage emporium. (It was called XS. And decorated like a techno-nightclub in an eastern european country.) I did a crossword puzzle (just a Monday, but still.) I threw a Miley Cyrus solo dance party (don't worry, I had my own dressing room) that Frog heard the leaping about from the hallway. I then put on my knickers and colonial man shirt for the Katy Perry portion of the dance party, which made me feel like I should be singing "I Protested the Stamp Act and I Liked It"(it felt so wrong, it felt so right...)
Then, SM and I drove the truck (you guessed it - he drove all 7 hours, I'm an asshole, we know it) and after a bit of Christmas music, we had the most epic singalong of perhaps all time. The entire soundtrack of Legally Blonde: The Musical followed by all of Mamma Mia! And this was no faint humming along, people - no, this was like full-on belting rocking it out. There were hand motions (for me, anyway, as SM was driving, obvi.) Is it sort of frightening that we both know every single lyric to every single song in both of those shows? Yes. Yes it is.
It's times that like that that I almost wish the other truckers could see/hear into our truck. Because I have a feeling we were the only truck belting out "Chiquitita."
Tuesday, we were in Bridgeport, CT, which is only about 10 minutes from my house, and is, unfortunately, hands down the shittiest part of Fairfield County. Like people get knifed heinous. We went on a walk in search of beverages (I am a diet soda addict. Leave me alone) and Frog made us leave every single placed we stopped due to "weird smells." It took us 4 tries to find something with a halfway decent smell, and the whole time I kept thinking how bad it would be to write the letter: "Dear Office - Frog, Ichabod and I will not be performing today, because we got stabbed. Sorry I had to write this note in my own blood. Kisses, Stephanie."
But I made it back to my (slightly creepy) solo dressing room in time for a Hot N Cold dance party!! Katy Perry, you soothe my soul.
The load-in/out was also really bad, as we had the most ancient, feeble crew ever, and then the most FEEBLE oldie was talking shit to me and Other Actress!
Feeble Oldie: Look at you girls, carrying that big thing. You're gonna get muscles.
Other Actress: Yup, we're pretty strong.
Feeble Oldie: Muscles ain't attractive on a woman.
How dare ye, sir! HOW DARE YE. Anyhoo, we escaped Bridgeport with our internal organs intact, and drove back to Boston, for the final Showing for THE PRODUCER (dunn dunn dunn.)
Unfortunately I slumbered too much, and neither my alarm nor Other Actress's went off, and so on today, of all days, the PRODUCER day, we totally slept too late and were awoken at 7 (vancall time!) by the SM (politely) wondering where the hell we were. We made it downstairs by 7:05 (sort of a miracle) and (an even bigger miracle) made it to the Berklee College of Music (our venue) at 7:20. Because if we had been there at 7:31, SM would have disemboweled us. Like I cannot even describe to you the world of hurt we would have been in.
Ah, Berklee...it's a special place. Did you know that the 70s are alive and well? Our crew was like the friggin chorus of Hair. Questionable fashion choices aside, they were very nice, but the real problem was that the space is so tiny, it was nigh impossible to fit everything in, let alone negotiate it down the ramp and around two corners. Oh, and did I mention it was sleeting? Ah, wintry mix: rain, snow, sleet, and hail all at once. That special meteorological cocktail of doom known only to New England.
The show, I must say, I think actually went pretty damn well. By far the worst part of it was the first scene change, because it was like a death trap back there. Frog's trying to put the bed in a teeny tiny corner while I am trying to extricate the fence from that teeny tiny corner and we're both stuck in a curtain and I kicked a light, and had to waddle/sidestep with the bench around the curtains of doom. NIGHTMARE. It was also freakishly dark, and I couldn't find my way back after my Sleepy Hollow intro and kept tripping on my cloak/the half-platform/same evil light/curtain.
Aside from that, it went pretty well. And even that change must not have been TOO bad, because nobody mentioned it.
And then, the unbelievable happened.
The Producer came...BACKSTAGE. Like to TALK to US. There I was, in my saloon girl outfit and smudgy makeup, arms full of mirrors, and there she is, in a smart blue suit, smiling and bopping down the hall. I would have been lessed surprised if Jesus Christ, Oprah and Brangelina came back to say hey. But she just came to personally thank all of us, (people - the woman has never directly addressed me. EVER.) and was just so sweet and wonderful it really made my day.
Also - I got no notes. Nada. Actually, lie - less blush. (What can I say? Once i start making things pink, it's hard to stop.) I still can't believe this. Maybe she lost all her notes somehow? I don't know. I was just put through the wringer SO BADLY in rehearsal for my lack of elegence/short arms/dancing clumsiness etc., I can't believe it.
More importantly, I decided not to come back for the Spring. It was offered to me as a possibility, and although I have learned so much and on the whole, on the whole it's been a good experience, and I'm glad I came, I just cannot do it again. For my sanity, I need to get off the big white van. While I'm doing the show, it's a great job. The best job in the world. But on tour, the job becomes your life. I miss my life. I miss being a person who also, oh, I don't know, has brunch with her girlfriends, and takes yoga, and starts too many sewing projects she'll never finish, and wears high heels to the grocery store, and butchers showtunes on the piano, and goes to Anthropologie "just to look," and bakes muffins for her family. I need to be her.
But it ended very nicely, with me thanking them for everything, and with the Artistic Director telling me how they were proud of me, and very pleased with my performance.
Praise? From the Company? A Christmas miracle.
Monday in Baltimore (at a very pretty opera house) for whatever reason we had a 7:30 load-in (as opposed to our usual 8:00) and we were ready way, way early. Like insane early. I took an hour-long nap (an hour, people) on the merlot-colored brocade couch. I went out for coffee at a coffee/sushi/pastry/breakfast sausage emporium. (It was called XS. And decorated like a techno-nightclub in an eastern european country.) I did a crossword puzzle (just a Monday, but still.) I threw a Miley Cyrus solo dance party (don't worry, I had my own dressing room) that Frog heard the leaping about from the hallway. I then put on my knickers and colonial man shirt for the Katy Perry portion of the dance party, which made me feel like I should be singing "I Protested the Stamp Act and I Liked It"(it felt so wrong, it felt so right...)
Then, SM and I drove the truck (you guessed it - he drove all 7 hours, I'm an asshole, we know it) and after a bit of Christmas music, we had the most epic singalong of perhaps all time. The entire soundtrack of Legally Blonde: The Musical followed by all of Mamma Mia! And this was no faint humming along, people - no, this was like full-on belting rocking it out. There were hand motions (for me, anyway, as SM was driving, obvi.) Is it sort of frightening that we both know every single lyric to every single song in both of those shows? Yes. Yes it is.
It's times that like that that I almost wish the other truckers could see/hear into our truck. Because I have a feeling we were the only truck belting out "Chiquitita."
Tuesday, we were in Bridgeport, CT, which is only about 10 minutes from my house, and is, unfortunately, hands down the shittiest part of Fairfield County. Like people get knifed heinous. We went on a walk in search of beverages (I am a diet soda addict. Leave me alone) and Frog made us leave every single placed we stopped due to "weird smells." It took us 4 tries to find something with a halfway decent smell, and the whole time I kept thinking how bad it would be to write the letter: "Dear Office - Frog, Ichabod and I will not be performing today, because we got stabbed. Sorry I had to write this note in my own blood. Kisses, Stephanie."
But I made it back to my (slightly creepy) solo dressing room in time for a Hot N Cold dance party!! Katy Perry, you soothe my soul.
The load-in/out was also really bad, as we had the most ancient, feeble crew ever, and then the most FEEBLE oldie was talking shit to me and Other Actress!
Feeble Oldie: Look at you girls, carrying that big thing. You're gonna get muscles.
Other Actress: Yup, we're pretty strong.
Feeble Oldie: Muscles ain't attractive on a woman.
How dare ye, sir! HOW DARE YE. Anyhoo, we escaped Bridgeport with our internal organs intact, and drove back to Boston, for the final Showing for THE PRODUCER (dunn dunn dunn.)
Unfortunately I slumbered too much, and neither my alarm nor Other Actress's went off, and so on today, of all days, the PRODUCER day, we totally slept too late and were awoken at 7 (vancall time!) by the SM (politely) wondering where the hell we were. We made it downstairs by 7:05 (sort of a miracle) and (an even bigger miracle) made it to the Berklee College of Music (our venue) at 7:20. Because if we had been there at 7:31, SM would have disemboweled us. Like I cannot even describe to you the world of hurt we would have been in.
Ah, Berklee...it's a special place. Did you know that the 70s are alive and well? Our crew was like the friggin chorus of Hair. Questionable fashion choices aside, they were very nice, but the real problem was that the space is so tiny, it was nigh impossible to fit everything in, let alone negotiate it down the ramp and around two corners. Oh, and did I mention it was sleeting? Ah, wintry mix: rain, snow, sleet, and hail all at once. That special meteorological cocktail of doom known only to New England.
The show, I must say, I think actually went pretty damn well. By far the worst part of it was the first scene change, because it was like a death trap back there. Frog's trying to put the bed in a teeny tiny corner while I am trying to extricate the fence from that teeny tiny corner and we're both stuck in a curtain and I kicked a light, and had to waddle/sidestep with the bench around the curtains of doom. NIGHTMARE. It was also freakishly dark, and I couldn't find my way back after my Sleepy Hollow intro and kept tripping on my cloak/the half-platform/same evil light/curtain.
Aside from that, it went pretty well. And even that change must not have been TOO bad, because nobody mentioned it.
And then, the unbelievable happened.
The Producer came...BACKSTAGE. Like to TALK to US. There I was, in my saloon girl outfit and smudgy makeup, arms full of mirrors, and there she is, in a smart blue suit, smiling and bopping down the hall. I would have been lessed surprised if Jesus Christ, Oprah and Brangelina came back to say hey. But she just came to personally thank all of us, (people - the woman has never directly addressed me. EVER.) and was just so sweet and wonderful it really made my day.
Also - I got no notes. Nada. Actually, lie - less blush. (What can I say? Once i start making things pink, it's hard to stop.) I still can't believe this. Maybe she lost all her notes somehow? I don't know. I was just put through the wringer SO BADLY in rehearsal for my lack of elegence/short arms/dancing clumsiness etc., I can't believe it.
More importantly, I decided not to come back for the Spring. It was offered to me as a possibility, and although I have learned so much and on the whole, on the whole it's been a good experience, and I'm glad I came, I just cannot do it again. For my sanity, I need to get off the big white van. While I'm doing the show, it's a great job. The best job in the world. But on tour, the job becomes your life. I miss my life. I miss being a person who also, oh, I don't know, has brunch with her girlfriends, and takes yoga, and starts too many sewing projects she'll never finish, and wears high heels to the grocery store, and butchers showtunes on the piano, and goes to Anthropologie "just to look," and bakes muffins for her family. I need to be her.
But it ended very nicely, with me thanking them for everything, and with the Artistic Director telling me how they were proud of me, and very pleased with my performance.
Praise? From the Company? A Christmas miracle.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Red, White and Blonde
"You know what the three most exciting sounds in the world are? Anchor chains, plain motors, and train whistles."
~ George Bailey, It's a Wonderful Life
That was exactly what I was thinking as I stood, poised to go, in Baltimore's Penn Station. It's a beautiful, big old station, with a giant Christmas tree in the middle, Frank Sinatra crooning carols in the background. I still think there's something sort of romantic and exciting about train travel. Or maybe it's just that escaping from tour is always exciting.
I practically leapt onto the Amtrak, and a mere 45 minutes later, I was in Union Station, greeted by a giant tree decorated with American flags. Red, White and Blonde: the interstate ingenue does DC!
I metro-ed to Dupont Circle, to make sure I got in a trip to my favorite bookstore, and obvi to check out the gay holiday cards at Lambda Rising (I JUST missed the Gay Men's Chorus Baby It's Gay Outside holiday show, there are no words for how upset I am). I was so happy surrounded by all the cheery, attractive gay couples in expensive sweaters: it truly felt like home for the holidays. I walked from Dupont to the mall, saw the White House decorated with Christmas garlands, and the National Christmas Tree!
In 1923, Grace Coolidge wanted to decorate a national tree, so they got one from the President's home state of Vermont - yes, the first national christmas tree was donated by none other than MIDDLEBURY COLLEGE! I was so excited. Like embarassingly excited. Like one voicemail away from being an official middlebury alumni stalker excited.
In addition to the big tree, each state (and rando territory like Samoa) does a little tree. For the first time, it hit me just how many states I've been to, and I started to get a little mushy. There was Connecticut, with its slightly stodgy Harriet Beecher quotes. Michigan, with perfectly quilted mini-mittens. Wisconsin, with sequin popsicle sticks. Indiana, with a hot mess that I think was supposed to be calico log cabins. I have seen so much of this country, and although all of it so different, I feel like I understand it better. More than ever I feel like I know what it means to be an American, and standing in all those Christmas trees, surrounded by the arts and crafts glue-stained blood, sweat and tears of a hundred elementary school art classes, at the dawn of a new era in American politics, and I felt...hope. Pure, simple, hope. From Maine to Michigan, we're all just people stuck with shitty popsicle sticks and Elmer's glue, trying to make something better, you know? And I feel like it will be better. It was a little christmas miracle.
Before I started crying on the tree of American Samoa, I headed over to the Lincoln exhibit at the National Portrait Gallery, then Museum of American history, which just just JUST reopened in November, so I spent nearly three hours geeking out. I then met up with a friend from highschool who lives in Dupont, and works distributing pediatric AIDS care/preventative medicine to Africa (yeah, it's sort of amazing, she's sort of amazing, the clusterfuck that is the current administration's policy towards AIDS prevention/contraception is amazing in the bad way), and we had a girly sleepover/long, gossipy 2 martini dinner at a little Italian place.
The next morning, I saw the Christmas trian at the National Botanical Gardens/Conservatory, gave the Museum of the American Indian a second chance (I really think it could be much better done), and spent a fifth of my paycheck on shoes. I know, I know, I'm bad - but they were blue faux-suede! And the brand was "Poetic Licencse of London!" And they had Leopard-pint heels!" And as the salesguy shook his dreads and told me, "it is all about the heels, girl!" He said, "put em in box, stick em under your tree, and say 'Merry Christmas to me, you fabulous little thing you!' You deserve it!" He's right. I do. Cha-ching.
On the way to the metro, I strolled through the Dupont farmer's market, and ran into a friend from school, of all things. Long story short, I got kicked out of a farmer's market for being too loud. I think that's pretty special. But really, what do you expect when two theatre majors unpexpectedly run into eachother in the streets and start catching up from their diaphragms?
All too soon, I was back on the Amtrak, then back in Baltimore. I will say this for Towson, MD: it obviously has a sense of style, as people love my clothes here. The girl at the Bel-Loc diner wanted to know where I got my pink coat (J.Crew Outlet in Lancaster, PA, bitches!) One of the front desk girls wanted to know where I got my alpine-y jumper (Charlotte Russe in the Asheveville NC Mall, hos!) As she said, "I like me that hookup. I need to get somethin for New Year's, and I like that hookup." I like my hookup too.
I leave this weekend four books and two leopard-print high heels richer.
Land of the free and home of the brave, baby.
~ George Bailey, It's a Wonderful Life
That was exactly what I was thinking as I stood, poised to go, in Baltimore's Penn Station. It's a beautiful, big old station, with a giant Christmas tree in the middle, Frank Sinatra crooning carols in the background. I still think there's something sort of romantic and exciting about train travel. Or maybe it's just that escaping from tour is always exciting.
I practically leapt onto the Amtrak, and a mere 45 minutes later, I was in Union Station, greeted by a giant tree decorated with American flags. Red, White and Blonde: the interstate ingenue does DC!
I metro-ed to Dupont Circle, to make sure I got in a trip to my favorite bookstore, and obvi to check out the gay holiday cards at Lambda Rising (I JUST missed the Gay Men's Chorus Baby It's Gay Outside holiday show, there are no words for how upset I am). I was so happy surrounded by all the cheery, attractive gay couples in expensive sweaters: it truly felt like home for the holidays. I walked from Dupont to the mall, saw the White House decorated with Christmas garlands, and the National Christmas Tree!
In 1923, Grace Coolidge wanted to decorate a national tree, so they got one from the President's home state of Vermont - yes, the first national christmas tree was donated by none other than MIDDLEBURY COLLEGE! I was so excited. Like embarassingly excited. Like one voicemail away from being an official middlebury alumni stalker excited.
In addition to the big tree, each state (and rando territory like Samoa) does a little tree. For the first time, it hit me just how many states I've been to, and I started to get a little mushy. There was Connecticut, with its slightly stodgy Harriet Beecher quotes. Michigan, with perfectly quilted mini-mittens. Wisconsin, with sequin popsicle sticks. Indiana, with a hot mess that I think was supposed to be calico log cabins. I have seen so much of this country, and although all of it so different, I feel like I understand it better. More than ever I feel like I know what it means to be an American, and standing in all those Christmas trees, surrounded by the arts and crafts glue-stained blood, sweat and tears of a hundred elementary school art classes, at the dawn of a new era in American politics, and I felt...hope. Pure, simple, hope. From Maine to Michigan, we're all just people stuck with shitty popsicle sticks and Elmer's glue, trying to make something better, you know? And I feel like it will be better. It was a little christmas miracle.
Before I started crying on the tree of American Samoa, I headed over to the Lincoln exhibit at the National Portrait Gallery, then Museum of American history, which just just JUST reopened in November, so I spent nearly three hours geeking out. I then met up with a friend from highschool who lives in Dupont, and works distributing pediatric AIDS care/preventative medicine to Africa (yeah, it's sort of amazing, she's sort of amazing, the clusterfuck that is the current administration's policy towards AIDS prevention/contraception is amazing in the bad way), and we had a girly sleepover/long, gossipy 2 martini dinner at a little Italian place.
The next morning, I saw the Christmas trian at the National Botanical Gardens/Conservatory, gave the Museum of the American Indian a second chance (I really think it could be much better done), and spent a fifth of my paycheck on shoes. I know, I know, I'm bad - but they were blue faux-suede! And the brand was "Poetic Licencse of London!" And they had Leopard-pint heels!" And as the salesguy shook his dreads and told me, "it is all about the heels, girl!" He said, "put em in box, stick em under your tree, and say 'Merry Christmas to me, you fabulous little thing you!' You deserve it!" He's right. I do. Cha-ching.
On the way to the metro, I strolled through the Dupont farmer's market, and ran into a friend from school, of all things. Long story short, I got kicked out of a farmer's market for being too loud. I think that's pretty special. But really, what do you expect when two theatre majors unpexpectedly run into eachother in the streets and start catching up from their diaphragms?
All too soon, I was back on the Amtrak, then back in Baltimore. I will say this for Towson, MD: it obviously has a sense of style, as people love my clothes here. The girl at the Bel-Loc diner wanted to know where I got my pink coat (J.Crew Outlet in Lancaster, PA, bitches!) One of the front desk girls wanted to know where I got my alpine-y jumper (Charlotte Russe in the Asheveville NC Mall, hos!) As she said, "I like me that hookup. I need to get somethin for New Year's, and I like that hookup." I like my hookup too.
I leave this weekend four books and two leopard-print high heels richer.
Land of the free and home of the brave, baby.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Shanghaied Snow Day
You know that magical moment when you were little, when you hoped and prayed and dreamed for a Snow Day, when you wore lucky snow pajamas to bed, or put a wooden spoon under your pillow (my mom swears it works), and then you woke up to a magical winter wonderland and the two most delightful words in a fourth grader's lexicon: SNOW DAY? Well, guess what: if you pick the right career you can keep that magic alive! Yes, become an actor and you never have to grow up. Here's yet another reason why. When the Worcester Mass schoolboard cancels school, the kiddies just can't make it out to the nation's premier educational children's theatre. Darn. So as I was brushing my teeth and I heard a gentle knock at my door at 7 am, it was SM, who was prancing down the halls with a beatific smile on his face, and then he sang out "SNOW DAY!" Immediately, Frog and LightingGirl and SM and I started dancing around yelling SNOW DAY SNOW DAY
Three hours later, Brom and Other actress driving/naving the van hit the road with Soundboy in the front, me and Frog in the middle, and LightingGirl in the back. We were passing a delightful time of it, Frog was reading my tarot cards and I was reading bad Christmas-themed romance novels (A Wallflower Christmas? Snowy Night With a Stranger? You're not familiar? No?), and had just taken our first stop at a Sunoco/Dunkin Donuts (those egg white flatbreads are surprisingly delicious!) when we recieved an emergency call - the truck had gotten pulled over and it didn't have paperwork. We sped to the rescue of SM and Ichabod, but it turned out we didn't even give them the right paperwork, because this tour is concrete proof that Murphy's Law is incontrovertible fact, and those poor guys were stuck there for an hour. Rough.
Ah, rough was only just beginning. We were driving through New York, and Brom and Other Actress really wanted to stop so Brom could get a new key and SoundBoy could get money from someone and Other Actress could talk to her friend about getting an apartment. LightingGirl, Frog and I were off towards a street with restaurants.
We flirted with the idea of going to Sissy McGinty's to drown our sorrows in a pint,but decided to go for Thai instead. As it was like 3:40, we were the only people in there, and had a truly phenomenal feast. So much peanut sauce...the three of us had a really nice time together. It was so fun, and relaxing.
Mega-unfortunately, the route Garmin took us out of the city drove us through...the middle of Times Square. In rush hour. In a fifteen passenger white van.
I thought we were going to die many, many times. Eventually I just smushed a pillow next to Frog, totally hogged the seat and lay down, closed my eyes, as I felt it was better not to know. I would actually prefer not to face my own mortality until absolutely necessary. I listened to the faint hums of Frog's Christmas playlist, and went to different Happy Places in my head. Like Pemberly in the BBC Pride and Prejudice. And Epcot Paris. And the Wonderland of Ice. Basically, anywhere that wasn't that motherfucking van.
I spent the rest of the drive falling in and out of sleep. I need to stop reading bad Regency romances before I go to sleep, because I keep having weird dreams in which all I see is brocade.
Anyway, we got in to the Towson Maryland Comfort Inn at just about 10.
God dammit. I need to stop drinking 2 liter bottles of orange soda in bed. I always wake up orange and sticky.
Three hours later, Brom and Other actress driving/naving the van hit the road with Soundboy in the front, me and Frog in the middle, and LightingGirl in the back. We were passing a delightful time of it, Frog was reading my tarot cards and I was reading bad Christmas-themed romance novels (A Wallflower Christmas? Snowy Night With a Stranger? You're not familiar? No?), and had just taken our first stop at a Sunoco/Dunkin Donuts (those egg white flatbreads are surprisingly delicious!) when we recieved an emergency call - the truck had gotten pulled over and it didn't have paperwork. We sped to the rescue of SM and Ichabod, but it turned out we didn't even give them the right paperwork, because this tour is concrete proof that Murphy's Law is incontrovertible fact, and those poor guys were stuck there for an hour. Rough.
Ah, rough was only just beginning. We were driving through New York, and Brom and Other Actress really wanted to stop so Brom could get a new key and SoundBoy could get money from someone and Other Actress could talk to her friend about getting an apartment. LightingGirl, Frog and I were off towards a street with restaurants.
We flirted with the idea of going to Sissy McGinty's to drown our sorrows in a pint,but decided to go for Thai instead. As it was like 3:40, we were the only people in there, and had a truly phenomenal feast. So much peanut sauce...the three of us had a really nice time together. It was so fun, and relaxing.
Mega-unfortunately, the route Garmin took us out of the city drove us through...the middle of Times Square. In rush hour. In a fifteen passenger white van.
I thought we were going to die many, many times. Eventually I just smushed a pillow next to Frog, totally hogged the seat and lay down, closed my eyes, as I felt it was better not to know. I would actually prefer not to face my own mortality until absolutely necessary. I listened to the faint hums of Frog's Christmas playlist, and went to different Happy Places in my head. Like Pemberly in the BBC Pride and Prejudice. And Epcot Paris. And the Wonderland of Ice. Basically, anywhere that wasn't that motherfucking van.
I spent the rest of the drive falling in and out of sleep. I need to stop reading bad Regency romances before I go to sleep, because I keep having weird dreams in which all I see is brocade.
Anyway, we got in to the Towson Maryland Comfort Inn at just about 10.
God dammit. I need to stop drinking 2 liter bottles of orange soda in bed. I always wake up orange and sticky.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Back to the East Coast
Crew Guy: How's the show going?
SM: Well, we've got some loud kids...
Crew Guy: It's New York.
True dat, my friends. We've been rerouted, taking over Encore 3's route for the week, which took us to Long Island on a waaay too early morning the night after the Truck Debacle. We were at Queensborough Community College, which was a fine space, and an easy enough load-in, and the Crew Guys had accents thick enough to cut through lox, which was enjoyable. And yet, even a trip to the College bookstore with Ichabod, Frog and Soundboy to buy The Tales of Beedle the Bard and not one, not two, not three, but FOUR wild cherry diet pepsis wasn't enough to fully wake me up.
The audience, however, was far from dead. SM decided to bust out the "loud and rowdy" emergency speech for the first time, which I guess was good, but I was sad it cut down on the fun comments, such as when a couple girls yelled "Hey hey hey!" when the TellTale Narrator (aka Brom) took off his jacket.
Man, we just cannot catch a break this week. For whatever reason, the sound was totally messed up. Poor SoundBoy - it wasn't his fault (I don't think), but he must have been miserable. He's sick anyway, and spent all of the Truck Debacle night when were stuck in the van asleep on a pillow in my lap. It was comfortin, in a weird way- like having a very large cat who smells like cigarettes and 20 year old boy. Anyway, the sound came out verrrry verrry quietly - like so quietly we could barely hear it onstage, let alone in the house. This resulted in SoundBoy trying to do some of the cues himself, like making clicking noises with his tongue for the hoofbeat sound cue. It also resulted in one of my favorited improv-ed moments. Frog, doing his Schoolboy dance as Katrina's Rustic Admirer, felt like he needed to fill the silence, shimmied over, shouted "Ya like that?", plopped down on the bench, and promptly hit me in the boobs with the bouquet. Surprised, I immediately looked at my boobs, then looked out at the audience in horrified giggleshock, and we all had a moment of boob giggles together. It really wasn't that saucy, except that the number one rule of children's theatre is NO BOOBS. You cannot acknowledge boobs. You cannot see a hint of boobs. You cannot even see shoulders, as they are too close to boobs. That's why all my costumes have giant bows over the boobs. If anyone accidentally touches or references them, it's not about the boobs, it's about the bows. (Except for my Necklace ballgown, which has a silver lace cleavage blocker.)
Today we were in Springfield. I have now officially completed the entire Small Squad Co-Ed Competitive College Cheer Circuit - for the second time. We were in the Symphony Hall (not the Basketball Hall of Fame this time) which was a nice space. It was sort of Federal-architecture style, and there were Christmas garlands up, but everyone is just kind of testy and grumpy and sick of eachother and freaking EXHAUSTED so it's hard to enjoy anything. The show was good, and it was a pretty easy day.
Now, Repercussion Number A Million from the Truck Debacle is that Brom and Other Actress are now no longer the truck. Keeping in mind that The Office lost Frog's trucking license, this means we are now down to only 5 truck drivers. Which SUUUUUCKS. Because I freakin hate driving the truck. Luckily, Ichabod volunteered to sub in for Brom (who was supposed to be my nav) AND on top of that, even offered to drive. Don't let the curmudgeonly exterior fool you - it's all a front. He's the best.
After a minor truck-wouldn't-turn-on panic, we made it to Worcester. There's not much to do here. Not that we have the energy to do much. Most of us took a field trip to Target, where I discovered, unfortunatley, that not even snowflake bras and hot cocoa undies can warm my heart.
Not on a rainy day in Worcester, any way.
SM: Well, we've got some loud kids...
Crew Guy: It's New York.
True dat, my friends. We've been rerouted, taking over Encore 3's route for the week, which took us to Long Island on a waaay too early morning the night after the Truck Debacle. We were at Queensborough Community College, which was a fine space, and an easy enough load-in, and the Crew Guys had accents thick enough to cut through lox, which was enjoyable. And yet, even a trip to the College bookstore with Ichabod, Frog and Soundboy to buy The Tales of Beedle the Bard and not one, not two, not three, but FOUR wild cherry diet pepsis wasn't enough to fully wake me up.
The audience, however, was far from dead. SM decided to bust out the "loud and rowdy" emergency speech for the first time, which I guess was good, but I was sad it cut down on the fun comments, such as when a couple girls yelled "Hey hey hey!" when the TellTale Narrator (aka Brom) took off his jacket.
Man, we just cannot catch a break this week. For whatever reason, the sound was totally messed up. Poor SoundBoy - it wasn't his fault (I don't think), but he must have been miserable. He's sick anyway, and spent all of the Truck Debacle night when were stuck in the van asleep on a pillow in my lap. It was comfortin, in a weird way- like having a very large cat who smells like cigarettes and 20 year old boy. Anyway, the sound came out verrrry verrry quietly - like so quietly we could barely hear it onstage, let alone in the house. This resulted in SoundBoy trying to do some of the cues himself, like making clicking noises with his tongue for the hoofbeat sound cue. It also resulted in one of my favorited improv-ed moments. Frog, doing his Schoolboy dance as Katrina's Rustic Admirer, felt like he needed to fill the silence, shimmied over, shouted "Ya like that?", plopped down on the bench, and promptly hit me in the boobs with the bouquet. Surprised, I immediately looked at my boobs, then looked out at the audience in horrified giggleshock, and we all had a moment of boob giggles together. It really wasn't that saucy, except that the number one rule of children's theatre is NO BOOBS. You cannot acknowledge boobs. You cannot see a hint of boobs. You cannot even see shoulders, as they are too close to boobs. That's why all my costumes have giant bows over the boobs. If anyone accidentally touches or references them, it's not about the boobs, it's about the bows. (Except for my Necklace ballgown, which has a silver lace cleavage blocker.)
Today we were in Springfield. I have now officially completed the entire Small Squad Co-Ed Competitive College Cheer Circuit - for the second time. We were in the Symphony Hall (not the Basketball Hall of Fame this time) which was a nice space. It was sort of Federal-architecture style, and there were Christmas garlands up, but everyone is just kind of testy and grumpy and sick of eachother and freaking EXHAUSTED so it's hard to enjoy anything. The show was good, and it was a pretty easy day.
Now, Repercussion Number A Million from the Truck Debacle is that Brom and Other Actress are now no longer the truck. Keeping in mind that The Office lost Frog's trucking license, this means we are now down to only 5 truck drivers. Which SUUUUUCKS. Because I freakin hate driving the truck. Luckily, Ichabod volunteered to sub in for Brom (who was supposed to be my nav) AND on top of that, even offered to drive. Don't let the curmudgeonly exterior fool you - it's all a front. He's the best.
After a minor truck-wouldn't-turn-on panic, we made it to Worcester. There's not much to do here. Not that we have the energy to do much. Most of us took a field trip to Target, where I discovered, unfortunatley, that not even snowflake bras and hot cocoa undies can warm my heart.
Not on a rainy day in Worcester, any way.
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