Tag Archives: summer

The Heat & Some Tuneage

30 Jun


Gwen and Cecily tag teamed some other badass dames, watching “The Heat” tonight, and laughed our asses off in some much welcomed air conditioning.

Listen, people: 90 degree weather doesn’t work well in the Pac NW.  We don’t know what to do with that shit.  And PERFORMING in it with a gillion watts of lights focused on us, in twelve layers before the corsets even hit…and suit jackets and silks and wigs and hats, was pretty much the human limit of human limits.

…It’s hard to be funny when your face is melting pancake and mascara in literal streaks down your face.  And it is hard to be genteel in that instance as well.

Gwendolen does not “wipe.”  She does not “itch.” She doesn’t even “blot.”  She just sits there and lets the sweat drop in lines down the back, off the neck, into the corset, soaking the armpits, as she sits, stands, launches herself at furniture and pretends to be delightful and cool as a cucumber throughout. 

…Nothing was cool.

Even the air conditioned theatre made no difference to us. Not when packed with bodies breathing hot air at us, as we bake under heat lamps. 

…And holding to what became the trend of the weekend, (after our phenomenal house on Thursday), the audiences across these past three days gave very little (and in some cases negative zero) help in energy throughout…whether they happened to be enjoying the performances or not.  Thus, forcing us to manufacture everything from scratch…and sometimes even dig ourselves out of the black hole vortex that they seemed to be sucking us into, in a sweaty, clinging mass of humanity.

Some blamed the heat.

…By today’s matinee, I had totally given up on any responsive expectations, and just went out there to tease and flirt and argue and reason with some characters I know. Played with the team with less feed-back expectation than an average rehearsal… so thus wasn’t thrown when that is what we got. 

…Then it was onto spraying down the drycleaning with vodka-water, laundry in the take-away bag…all the hats and jabots and cravats and cufflinks, earrings and watches, into our holding boxes…shoe-horned the shoes, aired out the corsets, wrote up our costume grievances, and beat it into an afternoon of heat waiting just outside the theatre doors that all but smacked us on our asses.

Gwen and Cecily solved the issue by taking refreshment of giant lemon ice-waters elsewhere, and following up with ice creams, before home and laying about like limp ragdolls until regrouping for movie times.

…A rest-time that included discovering a delightful new talent…her music happily floating from Naughty Girl’s speakers beside me.  A little Regina Spektor, meets Ingrid Michaelson, meets Lily Allen.

…A small collection of music.  She writes her own, and grabs studio time when she can.  I think she’s something pretty smile-worthy, and you might too.  Hear and grab her tunes if you wanna, here.  I’m pretty partial.

…And not just cuz she my Cecily 😉


One For The Tall, Belting, Redhead

15 Feb


Know what’s awesome about FB…aside from the prime place to go and waste your time while you should be doing other things?  The fact that you can find people from your past who you delighted in, years and years later, and reconnect on a whole new level.  Even from several states away.

I love to stalk them.

I love to watch their projects grow, follow them through casting and rehearsals and performances and tours.  I love to see the many new sides of their personalities come out in different roles…I love the new headshots, and reviews, and interviews, and go-and-get-em-team speeching on Opening Nights that they send out to all their casts and crews. 

…I love how we can still (even from far away) share these experiences together…like we once did before. 

…And I love how it makes me miss ’em, and wonder over the wide world of possibilities of ever finding some way to work together again.

Almost anything can happen. This is, after all, the “Theatre.”

…And this all comes from a tagging today, where she poked me to show a sneaked pic of her, standing off-set in the wings, catching up on some of m’blogs while on break. She’s obviously not reading one of the funnier ones, but is totally consumed in whatever it is…so much so that she didn’t even notice the Paparazzi at work.

…And I thought, “Wow. That means other people do it too…that ‘stalking’ thing. Maybe I don’t have to be so freak-fetish-feeling secretive about it. Other people will (on some random days), stop for a hot second, to catch up on an old friend they worked with a million years ago and thought of just now, today. Just because.”

It makes me feel good.

…And warm-fuzzy.

…And memory-filled of our days spent on the Titanic and in ridiculously giant ball gowns in the dead of summer, going to post-show picnics at the Village, drinking fuzzy navels while watching old movies, reading “Lolita,” lovin’ all up on Rosemary Clooneyness, singing at the top of our lungs toward seas of patron’s faces…and the time I spent whoring her as a prostitute for two months, under my professional care. (The condom runs were epic, purchased in bulk weekly and turned in as a “business expense” which 18 year-old-me delighted in, to no end. Even if it was for the mic pack equipment.)

…I think you will find, not many people share those kind of memories. Or if they do, prob’ly not with the consistent fondness that we do.

…Which is the magic of our industry. (Long may it reign!)

…This is all (P.S.) really only a big, fat, giant preface to the fact that I promised her something funny today, after reading whatever it was that caught her all up in emo-ville. Which is a tall order. As nothing even remotely funny has happened yet.

…But I say, “yet” as it is a Friday, and Marty is coming up for a girls-night, and we have about 11 too many already pre-planned things ahead of us. Something hysterical is bound to happen. And usually in some form of embarrassment. Which helps her not at all right now, at this second. But it will (no doubt) at a later date.

…So, keep readin’, friend.

Even still…betcha she smiled to herself, already. At least once.


Which makes today’s blog: a success!


P.S. …’Member the time someone subbed in real beer for the whole show? That was a doozy 😉

This One Time?

17 Aug


When I was a kid I had this friend? Every time she talked? Even in a declarative sentence? She sounded like she was always asking a question?

…It was a really unique quirk that I didn’t fully grasp at the time? I mean, I knew there was something strange about her vocal pattern? Only I didn’t know what the hell a vocal pattern was? So couldn’t directly put my finger on it?

All I knew was: I always felt that she was really really interested in anything and everything I ever said? It was like my personal opinion on any subject was just the gold standard of fact? But then sometimes? It got a little confusing too? On account of she never seemed to be quite solid on what her own preferences and ideas were?

…For example?

(While building a Kool-Aid stand.)

Me: “This’ll be great! We’ll be gillionairs prob’ly, by tomorrow! How much should we charge per-the-glass?”

She: “Maybe we could charge fifty cents? Or maybe not? Maybe three for a dollar?”

Me: “Like an ‘on sale’ kinda deal?”

She: “Yeah? Or maybe different sizes?”

Me: “Wait, different sizes for a dollar or different sizes on sale?”

She: “Yeah? Or maybe, like, a special? For repeat customers? Or lemonade too so we have two kinds of flavors?”

Me: “Well, which one of those-all do you wanna do?”

She: “I dunno? Cuz sometimes one sounds good? And then the other? But then some people don’t like lemons that much? So maybe we should just stick to Kool-Aid? But then we can do the different sizes still? Or maybe not?”

Me: “So…which one do you vote for, then?”

She: “…And then the cups too? They cost money? So maybe we should put that in the price with it all? I dunno? That’s what I think?”

…It could sometimes be confusing?

She wasn’t, in the end, a “long-term” buddy? In fact I only remember her really from that one summer? But she did make a lasting impression on me, with a kind of constant invitation to offer my opinion freely? About everything? Whether it had anything to do with me or not? And sometimes? I catch myself falling into this same trap? The kind where I think I hear a person asking my opinion? In this open-ended kind of way? Only turns out, they’re not? It has nothing to do with me? And I am just being a gigantic self-opinionated asshole by insinuating that it does? And my only defense really is that…

…This one time?

…I knew a girl once, who always sounded really interested in what I thought about things? Her voice always went up in the end like a question? Even when she was making a declarative sentence? And I think I caught a strange disease from her? Called self-inserted-opinion-justification-in-order-to-clarify-where-you-don’t-even-fucking-belong-itus? I actually know a lot of people who have it?

…That girl? She must have really got around and stuff?

I mean, obviously?

…Cuz you knew her too, right…?


Damp Rag Dolls Of Death

6 Aug


It’s been hot here.  This is a huge abnormality involving the temperature reaching into the 90’s or more, leaving most western Washingtonians in sopping puddles on the floor.

…And yes, I do know, “That ain’t even hot” to most places on this earth.  I was born and bred in California, people…believe me, I know what naked thighs on plastic car seats in freeway traffic can do to you.

It’s different here. 

…We don’t have much in the way of air conditioning or swimming pools.  I guess cuz one figures one can “muscle through” the heat, all two days a year that we get some.  But then when it actually arrives, we completely lose our shit…filling up the hospitals on dehydration-induced I.V. diets, and finding reasons to stand in front of the open refrigerator for hours at a time.  People start scalping fans on street corners, cuz every store in the state already sold out of ’em all…and the ice cream parlors and 7-11s turn into raving meat-markets of insanity.

…Even at home in a cooler brick-covered fortress, my plants are falling over themselves with almost-death by afternoon (though I water ’em every morning.) And my fish give me looks at feeding time like, “Fuuuuck.  I know we’re tropical and all, but seriously, we’re poaching over here!” 

It prob’ly wouldn’t be so bad if one had nothing to do during these few days a year, when this happens.  Take off to a lake or something?  You betcha!  But in keeping with all other “conveniences” in life, it just never works out that way.  The way it goes is: Hottist day of the flippin’ year, go spend four hours trying to look impressive at callbacks while you rain out of every pore, pitting out even behind your knee caps…then go home and get dolled up for a formal cocktail party you’re already two hours late to.

Taking showers after showers, (because you’re already sweating before you even get around to doing your hair)…doesn’t help.  Neither does trying to sausage damp appendages into nylons…because though it ain’t the “style” (and you might die of heat exhaustion for it), you simply cannot bring yourself to allow the bleached whiteness of total anti-tan to further embarrass you.

…Then, add some alcohol to the mix.

…Delightfully flavored champagne cocktails, and tables full of tiny eatables, which do not (in the heat) quite balance themselves out.  Dream of an evening, though it may have been, the stone-cold-sober payback the following day after only two drinks, lasted across two meals and five gillion glasses of water…well into something like 3 PM. 

Just a rag doll of soppy, heat exhaustion and brain aches…starfishing across the couch in the living room, refusing to move until around one this morning… when I decided it might have finally cooled off enough to risk getting ready for bed without feeling like I’d run a triathlon directly after.

Success at last!

…I even slept okay…and had only just the teeniest of dehydration headaches, come the 6:30 alarm.

Today, we are back to the more reasonable high 60’s, low 70’s.  About where my California relations start layering on fleece jackets and complaining about the cold.  THIS is where we are “at home.”  THIS is the language that we speak.

…Not to bitch and moan about the one true experience of “summer” in our summer…but, man!  I am just NOT built for this kinda thing anymore.

…Somewhere , in another reality plane, my Mexican ancestor’s just shook their heads, took back my ethnic card and disowned me for going full Gringo.

It happens.


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