Boston Calling

A man can’t spend ten years in a place without becoming at least a little attached to it.  Accordingly, I’ll admit to a fondness for New England.  I’ll own up to a modicum of excitement at Pippin winning a Tony.  I’ll concede that getting fan mail* from a “like”-r^ who was at the beautiful Turtle Pond on a recent afternoon stirred up some nostalgia.  I’ll even say truthfully that I occasionally respond to conflict here in Chicago with a Southie-style, Red-Sox fan, townie machismo. 

About that last point . . .

New England, please put aside your competitive spirit.  I have left you behind, and there is no longer any need to aggrandize yourself for my affection.  You needn’t send your Bruins to Chicago to try to defeat my new suitor.  And you needn’t try to recruit me back by writing plays about yourself and having them produced in Chicago, then casting me in them.  And don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about!  (He says with that same machismo!)  Look right here in the stage directions of this play I just got cast in:

SETTING:

Detritus of city, perhaps Boston

“Perhaps” Boston?  Perhaps?  (Machismo!)  Let’s read further into the play’s opening notes:

Whoopie pies: these treats are a New England phenomenon

Oh!  This play has whoopie pies in it, a “New England phenomenon.”  Perhaps this play, then, takes place in New England?  Perhaps by “perhaps Boston” the playwright meant “definitely Boston?”  Or was she perhaps thinking of some other New England City?**

And what is this my character says to the other character here on page 4?

“You have a PhD from fucking Brandeis?”

Ah.  Brandeis.  You mean the school outside of Boston!?!?!?!?

Boy, I am Southie-mad.  And maybe that’s your game, Boston.  Maybe you are trying to make me lose my focus here.  Maybe you are hoping that I’ve grown weak in this place, what with all the hot dogs, deep dish pizza, affordable rent, and street signs.  Maybe you think you can seduce me back to a simpler time by sending this little play on a covert mission. 

Well, it won’t work.  First of all, this play is only ten minutes long.  Second of all, this play only runs for one night.  Third, overtime.  Fourth, no matter how exhausted I may be here . . . well, maybe your play puts it best.  What is this line my character has here on page 7?

That’s not how we play it in Chicago. 

Sorry, Boston.  Close.  Try again next time. 

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* A text

^ friend

** Don’t kid yourself, Providence.

Stumbling Commentary

Hey!  Check it out!

:01 Is that guy fighting in a Nintendo shirt?

:03 Ah?

:04 Ah?

:06 Ah?

:07 Ah!

:09  Wait.  How did he hurt his leg?

:12 Fighting wenches!

:17 Ah?

:28 AHHHHH!

:38 Guy in a fashionable hat

:48 Ah.

:49 AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

:53 All for one and one for all.^

:55 The plug.

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^ No, but seriously, did you see us all get up at the same time in the same way?

Character Work: Royalty

We got the call in early May. 

"I'd like to offer you a part in Theatre-Hikes."

Grand!  We like theatre.  We like hiking.  We auditioned for Theatre-Hikes.  We were prepared for a call or an email from Theatre-Hikes.  We weren't prepared for what came next in the conversation.

"I'd like you to play the king."

We're sorry?

"I'd like you to play the king."

"Are We old enough to play the king?"

"Actually, you're a little old to play the king."

Ah, right.  We had forgotten.  King Louis XIII was in his early twenties when The Three Musketeers took place.*  We are a little old to play the king. 

We are also a little inexperienced to play the king.  We have never been royalty before.  Does anyone out there know what it's like?  Anyone?^

While We await your replies (which makes Us very impatient, by the way), We would like to establish a few ground rules for this blog that will help Us assume Our new role.  It takes a lot of practice to be a king, and We won't get enough in rehearsal alone.  We also can't go around acting like royalty in Our everyday life, so it's going to have to happen here.  This is the place We get closest to royalty anyway. 

*Ahem*

The rules:


1) Until the end of June, when the show opens, all inquiries submitted to this blog should be addressed to "Your Highness," "Sire," or "Your Majesty." 

2) We need one of you "like"-rs to respond to this entry as if you were a Cardinal.  In return, We will exile you.

3) For Our next entry, We will be hosting a royal ball.  All "like"-rs in attendance should wear their finest necklaces on their throats and sharpest swords on their belts.  Also, please learn to dance "The Merlaison."

4) Somebody teach Us how to do a French accent.

5) Serfs!

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* Oh, by the way, the Theatre-Hikes show We auditioned for was The Three Musketeers
^ In Our heart, We know that Prince William reads this blog.

Conversation

Hi. 

How are you? 

Fine. 

How are you?

Good.

. . .

Lovely weather we're having.

Dramatic Pause

It's been almost 18 months since I did something unconventional, risky, even a little taboo and became a part of American Eagle productions.  In that time, I've gotten five times as famous.  First, I doubled my fame by taking on the role of Zuckerman / Little Lamb in Charlotte's Web.   Then, I added the role of "Dwarf" in The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe and "Mr Harper" in Tom Sawyer, thereby quadrupling my original level of fame.  Finally, beginning this past February, I took on a fifth role--that of "Mr Van Daan" in The Diary of Anne Frank.^ 

Today was my fourth performance as Mr Van Daan, and there was much to be decided.  Would I live up to the high standards I set in my previous three performances?  Would I change young minds? Would I remember my lines after six weeks of not doing the show, two weeks of which were spent cramming a foreign language into my head in a tropical paradise? 

The crowd waited in eager anticipation as I entered, fifth in a line of five, and began my slow progress toward the front of the stage.**  Each actor ahead of me spoke a line--a date in history, followed by a restriction on Jewish freedoms that was enacted that day--then moved away to another part of the stage.  "Thursday, August 8th, nineteen-hundred-and-forty.  As of today, it is required that all persons of Jewish ancestry must wear and openly display a yellow star at all times."  The actor dashed away.  I took a step forward.

"Wednesday, January 3rd, nineteen-hundred-and-forty-one.  It is forbidden that Jews own, operate or ride any bicycles, cars or other motor driven vehicles."  The actor goes; I step forward.

"Monday, March 31st, nineteen-hundred-and-forty-one.  Jews will no longer be allowed to ride trams."  Again. 

"Friday, June 10th, nineteen-hundred-and-forty-one.  No Jew may sit, stop or stand outdoors after eight o’clock in the evening."  The actor steps away.  I'm at the front of the stage.  I speak.

"Tuesday, October 15th, nine-hundred-and-forty-one."  

Wait.  Did I just say "Nine-hundred-and-forty-one?

I listen for giggles.  Silence.  Maybe not.  Maybe I said it correctly.  Can I take that again?  More silence.

"Jews must go to Jewish schools."  No.  That's not right.  That's the next line.  

More silence.  The anticipation around my much-anticipated debut is increasing.  The tension thickens on the stage and in the house.  I know the next line.  It's just . . . well, you know how in dreams sometimes you can read a sign, and you know you know what it says, but you can't actually read it?   It was like that.  The sign was right in front of my face.  There were just so many other words there, too.

Como estas?  When are my netflix discs coming?  How am I going to avoid tripping over those loose planks backstage?  I think Anne would have been a Belieber.

I come back to my senses.  I hear some words come out of my mouth. "Jews may only shop in stores that bear the sign 'Jewish Store,' and then only between three o'clock and five o'clock in the afternoon."  Dramatic pause complete, the play continues.  Everything goes perfectly.  Perfectly.  The crowd is so impressed with us that they can't help but talk amongst themselves about how impressed they are.  At the end, we ask for questions.  There's only one, put forward by the kid who is clearly the most ostracized student in school. 

We say goodbye.  We change clothes.  The man who plays Mr Frank looks at me and says, "You had a brain fart up there!" 

I shake my head.  I can't think of anything to say in response.  Until now. 

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* Look hard for him in the book.  He's there.  You just don't see him.  Read it again.  No?  Try again.  No?  You must be dumb.   

^ That's "On Fronk" in our Dutch-accurate version of the show. 

** Downstage.  It's called "downstage." 

Calling: I Saved the Mayor

You might remember a few weeks ago.  If not, you should see a neurologist.

Let me be more specific.  You probably remember that a few weeks back, I was pushed to the brink of insanity by the state of the world in Chicago.  I was sick; I hurt my back; someone was exploiting my blog.  In a fit of melancholy and typos, I retreated the States in favor of the rural territory of Costa Rica.  Everything got better. 

On the pacific coast of Costa Rica, it's 90 degrees on a regular basis.  The beaches look like there should be dinosaurs, and you can see the moon during the day.  Within a matter of hours there, my cold went away, my back healed, and my frustration with the English language was averted. 

Unfortunately, I had a return ticket, and after two glorious weeks of healing, I came back to the frozen Midwest.  Since arriving back in Chicago, I've experienced a snowstorm, a broken bicycle, a ripped winter coat, and a nose that is gleefully running again.  More importantly, things just haven't been the same around these parts.  I've felt aimless and wandery, moreso than before.  The culture that raised me feels aggressive and busy.  Even the old sporting matches which I once enjoyed haven't held their usual vigor.  A question I can't answer is following me around like someone else's younger sister that I don't want to babysit, pinching me repeatedly and whining, "Why?  Why did you come back?" 

My only answer has been, "I have no idea, but there must be a purpose." 

"Why?"

Why, because I need money of course!

"Why?"

Because I had a return ticket?

"Why?"

Because I have a career here?

"Why?"

I . . . don't . . . know.

And then it happened.  Last night, I worked a fundraising event for Redmoon called Spectacle Lunatique.  My duty?  Serve champagne.  More specifically, I was to stand with a tray of glasses in front of this contraption, which was outfitted with a giant decorative chandelier and a silks artist.  Whenever someone at the party made a $500 donation, we would drive over to them, and the silks artist would descend with a bottle of champagne, pouring from above to fill the glasses on my tray so I could hand them to the elite.

Serving champagne is not the meaning I have found again in Chicago.

The champagne chandelier was popular.  One might call it uberpopular.  At regular intervals, we were pouring so much champagne that we needed to lower the chandelier and refill it with full bottles of priceless bubbly.  This operation required that we clear an area in the room of drunk, ignorant bystanders so as not to crush the skulls of valuable donors as a 7,000 pound chandelier descended in near-free-fall toward their heads*

The point?

At approximately 9:11 CST^, Mayor Rahm Emanuel arrived at the party, choosing for his entrance the door in closest proximity to the champagne chandelier, which at that very moment we were lowering to refill with priceless French wine.  As the chandelier barreled toward the floor, the mayor walked closer and closer, never once looking up to see the life-threatening peril he was shuffling straight into.  Security did nothing.  Bystanders did nothing.  Finally, I (and I alone) threw aside my tray of glasses, tackled the mayor out of the way of the chandelier, dragged him to safety, and lay on top of him on the floor, gently stroking his aging locks and softly humming Phantom of the Opera to comfort him. 

Others may remember it differently.  They may not have even noticed my heroic act, or they may recollect it as a gentle vocal urging toward the mayor as the chandelier descended slowly and safely a few feet away from him.  However, history, dear "like"-rs, is written by the victors. 

For the first time in weeks, I count myself among them.  

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* You know, more or less. 
^ Coincidence?

I AM NOT OVERREACTING!

It started with a sniffle.  A sniffle became a post-nasal drip.  A post-nasal drip became a 102 degree fever.  A 102 degree fever turned into a sinus infection.  All this amidst single degree high temperatures outside. 

Don't worry, "like"-rs.  I'm still here.  I stood my ground.  I got past it.  In fact, I went out and played some basketball (in a gym).  I felt better.  In fact, I felt great.

Then, I had a little soreness.  A little soreness became more soreness.  More soreness became an inability to sit up.  An inability to sit up became a Saturday in bed.

Don't worry, "like"-rs.  I'm still here.  I stood . . . well, I stood.  And that was enough.  In fact, through it all, I kept right on working.  I read my entire book out loud and recorded it with my computer.  Then, I played it back.

'A little wordy,' I thought.  Then, 'a little wordy' became 'a lot wordy.'  'A lot wordy,' became 'a little sleepy.'  'A little sleepy' became me falling asleep at the screen.

Don't worry, "like"-rs.  The book will be good.  The book will be fine.  You won't fall asleep at the screen.  It's just going to take some time.  It's going to take some patience.  Some . . . more . . . patience.  Some . . .

WHAT? 

I'm sorry.  Something just happened that is . . . just  . . . too . . . much.  On my way to write this blog entry, which was to be titled, "I Will Never Give Up," I typoed "blogspot.com" as "blgospot.com."  I was redirected to some sort of commerce site.  DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS?  SOMEONE IS EXPLOITING MY WORDS FOR COMMERCIAL GAIN!  Okay, now I'm running out of patience.  I just . . . I  . . .

Okay.  Breathe.  There must be a perfectly reasonable response to this.

I know!  I'll leave the country.  (No!  Don't try to talk me out of it!  It's as good as done.)

Now I just have to figure out where I'm going to go. 

Somewhere where my words don't matter . . .

. . . where they don't even speak this language . . .

. . . where it's warm . . .

. . . where I can rest my back . . .

. . . where there is basically no commercialism . . .

Is such a place possilbe?

AGHAGHGAHAGAHG!  That's it.  One more typo, and I'm getting on the first flgiht out of here. 

. . .

. . .

Ay.  Me rindo.