More than once one these pages I have mentioned my cat. Well, THE cat. It’s not MY cat. The cat belongs to my roommate, who is now working on international waters. Without his cat. Which he left here. For me to keep. Temporarily. God love.
When I returned home from San Diego, I spent days cleaning up after mistress Delilah’s messy tantrums. Then I went back to work, leaving Delilah home alone for too many hours of too many days, allowing her to restart the protest. She is, all in all, a beastly creature. But in the few hours of the past two days I’ve spent at home, I’ve discovered that Delilah is not the only beastly creature I’m housing.
As I reached for something breakfast-like on Sunday, I discovered a small colony of ants on a reconnaissance mission in my cupboard. I promptly emptied the cupboard, gave the shelves an Ortho spritz, and went about my business. However, I should have remembered that ants come not single spies, but in battalions.
I was unaware when the attacked colony sent its tiny Paul Revere on a midday ride, but within minutes their militia staged an uprising. Full armies staged the Ant-merican Revolution. Better armed, I overtook them easily, but not without casualties. My entire dry goods flank was lost. Admiral Cheerios, Captain White Rice, and Lieutenant Cheese Nip fell in battle. They were good men all and will be missed.
Later in the day, as I reached for something jeans-like in the storage room, I found evidence of another mission. This time, the assignment had been handed to a more highly-trained battery of mice. Given the relative size of the basement holdings, the decision to send in a beefier army was a good one. Evidently, the mouse patrol left no Christmas sweater or faux fall leaf unturned, scouring every inch of the place and leaving tiny landmines in their wake. Whether the team has retreated to report to headquarters or has staked out a clever foxhole, I am uncertain.
In this new battle, my forces are questionable. Snappy traps have become verboten and using sticky paper to capture starving POWs is not a tactic to my liking. However, if to win the war I must play General, I have decided to draft Delilah into military service. Against this enemy, she may prove valuable.
If not, I’ll give her a dishonorable discharge.
Monday, September 26, 2005
Sunday, September 25, 2005
Hail! To the Victors Valiant...
When I was growing up I was instilled with a certain love for the team colors blue and yellow. Okay, fine... call it Maize, Mustard, or Gold -- whatever you like. Coupled with Blue it's a winning combination.
Originally, I am from Michigan. My father is a U of M grad. Hence the early leaning toward the color combo. And, incidentally, toward the best college fight song out there. Hail! To the conq'ring heroes! Hail! Hail! To Michigan. Go Wolverines!
It is a tradition in Tennessee that every year long-known Michigan transplants gather in my father's home for a hot bowl of chili, a cold mug of beer, and the Michigan/Ohio State game.
The color red must not appear unless in the form of a soon to be masticated kidney bean.
I've never been much for football. I'm not a fan. Too slow. Too boring. Thirty minutes to run 10 yards? Yawn. Only two games a year catch my attention. One, the Michigan/Ohio State game. The other, the Super Bowl.
I am, however, a fan of hockey. I'm a relatively new convert. Though I'd seen bits of games on TV, I didn't know much about it until November 2003 introduced me to the game live and with an interpreter. I was hooked. Fast-paced and easy to understand with all the thrill of a good basketball game without basketball's constant inevitable scoring each time the ball crosses half court. One hundred points to 97? Yawn.
No, hockey has it right. The puck travels the length of the ice constantly, but goals are difficult to make. When made, they are worth one point each. And there's none of that play-stopping nonsense for commercial breaks.
In Nashville, the home team is the Predators, a blue and gold expansion team which has graced our city for a mere six seasons, making it to the playoffs in the sixth. Right before the league cancelled what would have been their seventh season. I was in the arena when they won their first post-season game against their most hated rivals, a team from Michigan. A foe wearing red. The Detroit Red Wings. Go Predators!
I'm sensing a pattern.
Tonight I was in the arena again as the Predators beat another red-clad foe in pre-season play. In a time when Katrina and Rita have devastated so many of our stately neighbors, it was not without irony that Nashville defeated the Hurricanes tonight. Four to two.
After the game, I stopped for dinner at my Neighborhood Grill & Bar. Sitting alone at a two-top waiting for an overpriced bowl of pasta, I looked up to the television set offering the night's sporting event -- a football game. The home team wore blue and gold. And the game was in San Diego. Go Chargers!
Though the opposition was in fact wearing red, the color was not predominant. And though the two teams are obviously competitors, I am not aware of any particular rivalry between them. But I'm sure that tonight there were many boos to be heard in Qualcomm Stadium when the New York Giants' quarterback took the field.
Tonight's game marked the first appearance in San Diego by Giants quarterback Eli Manning -- whom the Chargers selected with the first overall pick in the 2004 NFL Draft despite a three-Manning (Eli, father Archie, and brother Payton -- pro quarterbacks all) insistence that Eli would sit out a year before he'd play for San Diego. He was swiftly traded to the Giants.
Oh, to have been near enough the TV to hear what commentary must have accompanied that appearance!
Though there may only have been a trace of red in the Giants' uniforms tonight, the red in their faces after a solid blue and gold trouncing will be evident tomorrow.
To which I say, covering three states and two sports: Go Big Blue!
And Gold.
Originally, I am from Michigan. My father is a U of M grad. Hence the early leaning toward the color combo. And, incidentally, toward the best college fight song out there. Hail! To the conq'ring heroes! Hail! Hail! To Michigan. Go Wolverines!
It is a tradition in Tennessee that every year long-known Michigan transplants gather in my father's home for a hot bowl of chili, a cold mug of beer, and the Michigan/Ohio State game.
The color red must not appear unless in the form of a soon to be masticated kidney bean.
I've never been much for football. I'm not a fan. Too slow. Too boring. Thirty minutes to run 10 yards? Yawn. Only two games a year catch my attention. One, the Michigan/Ohio State game. The other, the Super Bowl.
I am, however, a fan of hockey. I'm a relatively new convert. Though I'd seen bits of games on TV, I didn't know much about it until November 2003 introduced me to the game live and with an interpreter. I was hooked. Fast-paced and easy to understand with all the thrill of a good basketball game without basketball's constant inevitable scoring each time the ball crosses half court. One hundred points to 97? Yawn.
No, hockey has it right. The puck travels the length of the ice constantly, but goals are difficult to make. When made, they are worth one point each. And there's none of that play-stopping nonsense for commercial breaks.
In Nashville, the home team is the Predators, a blue and gold expansion team which has graced our city for a mere six seasons, making it to the playoffs in the sixth. Right before the league cancelled what would have been their seventh season. I was in the arena when they won their first post-season game against their most hated rivals, a team from Michigan. A foe wearing red. The Detroit Red Wings. Go Predators!
I'm sensing a pattern.
Tonight I was in the arena again as the Predators beat another red-clad foe in pre-season play. In a time when Katrina and Rita have devastated so many of our stately neighbors, it was not without irony that Nashville defeated the Hurricanes tonight. Four to two.
After the game, I stopped for dinner at my Neighborhood Grill & Bar. Sitting alone at a two-top waiting for an overpriced bowl of pasta, I looked up to the television set offering the night's sporting event -- a football game. The home team wore blue and gold. And the game was in San Diego. Go Chargers!
Though the opposition was in fact wearing red, the color was not predominant. And though the two teams are obviously competitors, I am not aware of any particular rivalry between them. But I'm sure that tonight there were many boos to be heard in Qualcomm Stadium when the New York Giants' quarterback took the field.
Tonight's game marked the first appearance in San Diego by Giants quarterback Eli Manning -- whom the Chargers selected with the first overall pick in the 2004 NFL Draft despite a three-Manning (Eli, father Archie, and brother Payton -- pro quarterbacks all) insistence that Eli would sit out a year before he'd play for San Diego. He was swiftly traded to the Giants.
Oh, to have been near enough the TV to hear what commentary must have accompanied that appearance!
Though there may only have been a trace of red in the Giants' uniforms tonight, the red in their faces after a solid blue and gold trouncing will be evident tomorrow.
To which I say, covering three states and two sports: Go Big Blue!
And Gold.
Another Op'nin, Another Show
I have spent the bulk of my life in theatre. On the stage or behind the scenes, I've performed just about every duty known to the art. The only things I have not done are (1) costume a show, though I have been a dresser and (2) direct. As we worked through the most recent opening, it occurred to me that directing may not stay on that list very long. I doubt, however, that I will ever attempt to costume a show. Though I have costumed myself in more than a few.
Ghost Story opened this Tuesday to a receptive audience. It's not the best original script, not even close, and on paper it's downright -- well, let's not bite the hand that feeds me -- but on its feet in front of an audience it plays. Two speedy hours of mindless fun. It's an easy show to run, barring a bear of a set change in the first intermission, and the cast is likeable. In some ways, it's a nice to be back in the booth.
In other ways, though, it's a nightmare. Long hours and constant demands can get wearing. More than once I've likened the position to being a House Elf, but I made the comparison to a particular friend for the first time Friday night and was amused to find a sock on my chair when I arrived on Saturday.
If the Harry Potter reference is lost on you, well, give me the address of the rock you're living under and I'll send you a book.
For good or bad, the sock does not actually release me from my duties. This weekend will provide two days off -- Sunday and Monday -- before I return to work on Tuesday and run nightly shows through next Sunday's matinee, only to begin rehearsing another show the following day, returning to double-duty days on the 4th. No rest for the weary, they tell me. But at least this weekend will provide some much needed distraction.
On Sunday I will travel downtown for a preseason hockey game which pits Nashville against Carolina. On Monday I will meet a former cast-mate for drinks at Opry Mills.
From then on, in the middle of 90-hour weeks, I might look forward a day off on Sunday the 9th and the next after that on the 23rd. Of October. Almost exactly a month from this writing. I must be crazy.
When that show closes, I'm done. I do not plan to go into the Christmas season on this schedule. I have too many other things to do before the first of the year.
That's a list for another time. If I can find the time to write it.
Ghost Story opened this Tuesday to a receptive audience. It's not the best original script, not even close, and on paper it's downright -- well, let's not bite the hand that feeds me -- but on its feet in front of an audience it plays. Two speedy hours of mindless fun. It's an easy show to run, barring a bear of a set change in the first intermission, and the cast is likeable. In some ways, it's a nice to be back in the booth.
In other ways, though, it's a nightmare. Long hours and constant demands can get wearing. More than once I've likened the position to being a House Elf, but I made the comparison to a particular friend for the first time Friday night and was amused to find a sock on my chair when I arrived on Saturday.
If the Harry Potter reference is lost on you, well, give me the address of the rock you're living under and I'll send you a book.
For good or bad, the sock does not actually release me from my duties. This weekend will provide two days off -- Sunday and Monday -- before I return to work on Tuesday and run nightly shows through next Sunday's matinee, only to begin rehearsing another show the following day, returning to double-duty days on the 4th. No rest for the weary, they tell me. But at least this weekend will provide some much needed distraction.
On Sunday I will travel downtown for a preseason hockey game which pits Nashville against Carolina. On Monday I will meet a former cast-mate for drinks at Opry Mills.
From then on, in the middle of 90-hour weeks, I might look forward a day off on Sunday the 9th and the next after that on the 23rd. Of October. Almost exactly a month from this writing. I must be crazy.
When that show closes, I'm done. I do not plan to go into the Christmas season on this schedule. I have too many other things to do before the first of the year.
That's a list for another time. If I can find the time to write it.
Sunday, September 11, 2005
Hard for the Money
I've now been back in Nashville for two weeks and the second one was even busier than the first. I have returned to work at a local theatre, simultaneously stage managing two productions: the one in current nighttime performances and the one that will soon replace it, now in daytime rehearsal. On Saturday, I received my first paycheck in 8 months. After paying several hundred dollars to the IRS in April for last year's earnings, barely above the poverty level, I relish having so little income to claim in 2005. My clueless Uncle Sam won't be reaching deeply into my understuffed wallet this year, by criminy! On the other hand, neither will I.
Uncle be damned, it was nice to see my name printed next to a dollar sign again. So nice, I saw it thrice. Under two show contracts, I received rehearsal pay and performance pay, and was also paid for voicing the theatre's radio spots. When I last held the position as resident stage manager, these varied duties were the requirements of a salaried position. The salary was particularly humble, averaging little more than $3/hour as work weeks stretched toward 90 hours. As an interim stage manager now doubly contracted, I am ecstatic to be compensated more fairly. For the first time, the pay is worth the effort. Or, at least, for the first time the average does not fall below the federal minimum wage. Ultimately, however, Uncle Sam will have the last laugh. As a contract worker, I am effectively self-employed, and this April Sammy boy will look to me for the tax contributions of both the employer and the employee. In the last few years I have become, to the federal eye, my own business -- Me Inc., LLC -- and as such, I have been exceptionally lucky to find regular clients; particularly lucky to find one now as I am removing the dust from my long abandoned office. Tax or no tax, I prefer selling my temporary services to any more permanent position I've ever held.
Today I am enjoying a precious day off, my last until the 25th as the change-over will claim the theatre "weekend" (Sunday/Monday) between the Saturday closing of one show and the Tuesday opening of another. Explaining my work schedule during the transition has always been a difficult chore, but suffice it to say that there are very few holes in it during the coming week.
My contracts will keep me employed through the 15th of October. By that time, I hope to have accepted either a third stage managing contract or, better yet, an acting contract. Usually, in this theatre, my preferred contract is the unwritten one between a dinner patron and his server in the hours before a show begins (few payroll employers will compensate a good employee quite so well as the dining public will compensate a good server, but then few payroll employers are so constantly demanding), but while gas prices are dauntingly high, dinner theatre patrons are in short supply at remote establishments like ours. Waiters, however, are in endless supply and clamoring for work. Otherwise one of them, I count myself lucky to have found a management position open on my return; luckier still that the rest of the staff haven't been similarly cross-trained. Where I would have been underutilized on the wait schedule after a long absence, I am instead more gainfully employed than those who never left.
I'm sure to hear an earful soon.
In the meantime, as the 80-hour schedule resumes on Monday, I'm left with the familiar problem of having a paycheck in my possession but no time in my schedule to bank it. And banking it, since my return, has become more important than ever. In Nashville, during my absence, household bills mounted. In San Diego, I amassed impressive medical bills. In between, a girl's got to eat.
One way or another, I'll figure out the banking problem. I'm just happy to have something to bank.
Have I mentioned yet how lucky I am to have work?
If not, let me tell you. I am.
Uncle be damned, it was nice to see my name printed next to a dollar sign again. So nice, I saw it thrice. Under two show contracts, I received rehearsal pay and performance pay, and was also paid for voicing the theatre's radio spots. When I last held the position as resident stage manager, these varied duties were the requirements of a salaried position. The salary was particularly humble, averaging little more than $3/hour as work weeks stretched toward 90 hours. As an interim stage manager now doubly contracted, I am ecstatic to be compensated more fairly. For the first time, the pay is worth the effort. Or, at least, for the first time the average does not fall below the federal minimum wage. Ultimately, however, Uncle Sam will have the last laugh. As a contract worker, I am effectively self-employed, and this April Sammy boy will look to me for the tax contributions of both the employer and the employee. In the last few years I have become, to the federal eye, my own business -- Me Inc., LLC -- and as such, I have been exceptionally lucky to find regular clients; particularly lucky to find one now as I am removing the dust from my long abandoned office. Tax or no tax, I prefer selling my temporary services to any more permanent position I've ever held.
Today I am enjoying a precious day off, my last until the 25th as the change-over will claim the theatre "weekend" (Sunday/Monday) between the Saturday closing of one show and the Tuesday opening of another. Explaining my work schedule during the transition has always been a difficult chore, but suffice it to say that there are very few holes in it during the coming week.
My contracts will keep me employed through the 15th of October. By that time, I hope to have accepted either a third stage managing contract or, better yet, an acting contract. Usually, in this theatre, my preferred contract is the unwritten one between a dinner patron and his server in the hours before a show begins (few payroll employers will compensate a good employee quite so well as the dining public will compensate a good server, but then few payroll employers are so constantly demanding), but while gas prices are dauntingly high, dinner theatre patrons are in short supply at remote establishments like ours. Waiters, however, are in endless supply and clamoring for work. Otherwise one of them, I count myself lucky to have found a management position open on my return; luckier still that the rest of the staff haven't been similarly cross-trained. Where I would have been underutilized on the wait schedule after a long absence, I am instead more gainfully employed than those who never left.
I'm sure to hear an earful soon.
In the meantime, as the 80-hour schedule resumes on Monday, I'm left with the familiar problem of having a paycheck in my possession but no time in my schedule to bank it. And banking it, since my return, has become more important than ever. In Nashville, during my absence, household bills mounted. In San Diego, I amassed impressive medical bills. In between, a girl's got to eat.
One way or another, I'll figure out the banking problem. I'm just happy to have something to bank.
Have I mentioned yet how lucky I am to have work?
If not, let me tell you. I am.
Saturday, September 03, 2005
Random Thoughts: The Remix Album
I've been home from San Diego for one week today and that week has been a busy one, full of repair and maintenance, small reunions, and preparation for the busier week ahead. My thoughts are scattered into small corners, leaving these fragments visible:
A service technician arrived yesterday to solve the apartment’s low water pressure problem and snake whatever line was causing the backup and leak in the hall. A carpet pro, called in to dredge the resulting lake, has left a large green fan blowing beneath an edge that's been pulled up, giving the wall-to-wall impression that my apartment is breathing.
Sequestering the cat downstairs worked only briefly. It was not that she escaped her barriers, but rather that I could not escape her shrill cries for freedom. Her favorite perch, much to my chagrin, is one floor higher -- the arm of my upholstered chair in front of the window.
The alien green goo at my walkway has been identified. A bag of kitty litter had been spilled en route to the apartment and bloated with rain.
Patterns hoped broken after seven months' absence are familiar routines too easily fallen back into. With Tennessean friends too far south and Californian friends much farther west, Nashvillian camaraderie is, for me, limited to late-night commiseration with a strident co-worker over many a beer at the local dive bar – an oxymoronic situation that still beats the crap out of being alone.
I'll meet one Tennessean friend and his lovely wife for lunch this weekend two hours from Nashville. Another distant Tennessee friend spends his weekends too often kayaking and had best clear a spot in his calendar soon!
The show I’ll soon be running is not technically difficult regarding lights and sound, but it looks to be a properties nightmare. In a theatre where I’ve managed at least 30 productions, I’ve never before written so long a preset list. On the other hand, I had the advantage of mounting those other shows and may not have needed so thorough a list to assure the stage would be set properly.
In San Diego, I quit smoking and became a morning coffee drinker, remembering my old morning show radio days. I should never have forsaken that gig for the theatre, but nothing less could have pried me away. And had I stayed I wouldn’t have had seven months to spend in San Diego at all.
In Nashville, I am not a morning coffee drinker. I was, for a few days, tempted, but the cupboard offered only what I once thought were perfectly wonderful single cup brewing bags, much like tea-bags, which I now found lacking the robust kick and flavor to which I’d become accustomed. And though I enjoyed my brief San Diegan fling with java, I haven’t yet bought a bag of beans in Nashville. I’m not sure I’m ready for the commitment.
Seven months in California proved to me that my body clock is a strange and wondrous thing, set to a time zone I’ve never visited. Because I work and socialize at night, I rise late: ten a.m. every morning, without fail. On the west coast, however, where the clocks register two hours difference, I woke at eight a.m. Every morning. Without fail. With unchanging indifference to the time zone, my internal clock remains true to itself. Which begs the question: assuming my own clock constant, if I really wanted to become a morning person and comfortably hold a day job, how far west would I have to move? And, having already gone about as far west as one can on this continent, what country would I be living in?
Until the next round….
A service technician arrived yesterday to solve the apartment’s low water pressure problem and snake whatever line was causing the backup and leak in the hall. A carpet pro, called in to dredge the resulting lake, has left a large green fan blowing beneath an edge that's been pulled up, giving the wall-to-wall impression that my apartment is breathing.
Sequestering the cat downstairs worked only briefly. It was not that she escaped her barriers, but rather that I could not escape her shrill cries for freedom. Her favorite perch, much to my chagrin, is one floor higher -- the arm of my upholstered chair in front of the window.
The alien green goo at my walkway has been identified. A bag of kitty litter had been spilled en route to the apartment and bloated with rain.
Patterns hoped broken after seven months' absence are familiar routines too easily fallen back into. With Tennessean friends too far south and Californian friends much farther west, Nashvillian camaraderie is, for me, limited to late-night commiseration with a strident co-worker over many a beer at the local dive bar – an oxymoronic situation that still beats the crap out of being alone.
I'll meet one Tennessean friend and his lovely wife for lunch this weekend two hours from Nashville. Another distant Tennessee friend spends his weekends too often kayaking and had best clear a spot in his calendar soon!
The show I’ll soon be running is not technically difficult regarding lights and sound, but it looks to be a properties nightmare. In a theatre where I’ve managed at least 30 productions, I’ve never before written so long a preset list. On the other hand, I had the advantage of mounting those other shows and may not have needed so thorough a list to assure the stage would be set properly.
In San Diego, I quit smoking and became a morning coffee drinker, remembering my old morning show radio days. I should never have forsaken that gig for the theatre, but nothing less could have pried me away. And had I stayed I wouldn’t have had seven months to spend in San Diego at all.
In Nashville, I am not a morning coffee drinker. I was, for a few days, tempted, but the cupboard offered only what I once thought were perfectly wonderful single cup brewing bags, much like tea-bags, which I now found lacking the robust kick and flavor to which I’d become accustomed. And though I enjoyed my brief San Diegan fling with java, I haven’t yet bought a bag of beans in Nashville. I’m not sure I’m ready for the commitment.
Seven months in California proved to me that my body clock is a strange and wondrous thing, set to a time zone I’ve never visited. Because I work and socialize at night, I rise late: ten a.m. every morning, without fail. On the west coast, however, where the clocks register two hours difference, I woke at eight a.m. Every morning. Without fail. With unchanging indifference to the time zone, my internal clock remains true to itself. Which begs the question: assuming my own clock constant, if I really wanted to become a morning person and comfortably hold a day job, how far west would I have to move? And, having already gone about as far west as one can on this continent, what country would I be living in?
Until the next round….