Over the past ten years I have performed in a number of Community Theater productions. I do it because I love it. I love the lights, I love the music, I love the costumes (unless they are constructed out of vinyl tablecloths), I love the dancing and most of all, I love being up on stage. I highly recommend the experience to all. It doesn't matter if you can't sing. Trust me.
One of the things I love most about Community Theater is the people. They are some of the greatest people you will ever meet. You have something in common with them right off the bat because you are both willing to sit for hours at a time on a hard plastic chair in a sweltering church basement inhabited by a rabid and incontinent cat so you can eventually sing your heart out in front of an audience. (When I refer to the cat as rabid, I mean it in the literal sense of possessing the viral infection known as rabies. And nothing, I mean nothing, can compare to the smell of cat pee in a poorly ventilated space in July.) You are willing to walk a 2 1/2 mile parade route in 100 degree heat while wearing a unitard long past your physical prime in hopes of attracting said audience. In other words, you are crazy.
When I say "crazy" I mean it in the best possible way, but people are all kinds of weird. In order for the uninitiated to better understand I have broken Community Theater Crazy down to eight types. Not all are bad. If you are involved in community theater, there is a 100% chance you fall in one or more of the following categories:
The Fame Whore
This person would do absolutely anything for attention. They are like Tinkerbell and need applause to live. They are drawn to the theater like moths to a flame. They jump at the chance for stage time no matter how small, insignificant, or uncomfortable. "Yes, Mr. Director? You need me to stand frozen on one leg while balancing a platter on my head for the entire second act? I'm on it!"
I credit my friend Kathy with coining this term. It is extra funny because she was talking about my brother when she said it.
The Gross and the Stinky
Very little explanation is required here. Some people, despite numerous lectures and hints regarding the necessity of deodorant, just don't get it. This type includes several subcategories, including The Dragon Breathed (these are the people you are typically required to dance with or, even worse, kiss), The Sweaty (who make you wish your costume consisted of rain gear) and The Gassy (these are the people who you are inevitably stuck behind, with your face not far from their butt, during a freeze).
The Awesome
These people have it all. Brains, talent, beauty. They have their lines memorized at the first rehearsal; they execute every step flawlessly; they can ad lib at the drop of a hat; they sing like angels; they wear awesome t-shirts that say things like "Actually, I'm really quite busy on a cellular level". You would hate them if they weren't incredibly nice. They are so cool, you are dying to be their best friend, but afraid that asking them to hang out would seem too desperate.
The Diva
The awesome, but with an ego. Not quite as much fun to be around, but more likely to be your friend because they are looking for groupies.
The Delusional
This person beleives themselves to be one of The Awesome or a Diva. In reality, they are anything but. Their singing is pitchy, their delivery flat, and whenever you watch them dance you get that sick feeling normally associated with dead puppies, burning orphanages, and the environmental consequences of catastrophic oil spills. They hog the stage, push people out of the way both literally and figuratively, and can't understand why they didn't get the lead. This person is going to be a star, damn it, A STAR!!!
The Director
Contrary to what the title may imply or what this person may believe, they are not actually the director. But they don't let that stop them from constantly correcting everyone and offering suggestions to "improve" the show. Every idea and random show-related thought in their head MUST be shared with the whole cast in the loudest and most obnoxious way possible. There is a line between sharing ideas for the greater good and attempting to hijack the entire production, and this person is firmly camped out on the wrong side. Sadly, The Director is so busy telling everyone else to do and sharing anecdotes of "that one time I waterskiied into a cliff" that they never learn their own lines or cues. And they touch the props constantly.
The Creeper
The name says it all here. There are several reasons why this type is attracted to the theater, and very few of them are actually related to a love of their craft. In fact, many of these people can't sing at all. Mostly they come because the stage gets them in close proximity to women who won't give them the time of day otherwise. This person is a never ending fountain of inappropriate comments, many of which are directed at 14-year-old girls. (i.e., "I like it when you show a little leg.") They may lurk in dark corners across from the dressing room hoping to catch a glimpse of you partially dressed; they are among the last to leave the cast party, hoping someone will be drunk enough to need a ride home; they may even be a "professional photographer" who specializes in head shots. I don't care how desperate you are for a headshot, DO NOT go to his house to have one taken. If you are foolish enough to do so, just keep in mind that it is customary to be fully clothed in your headshot. Trust me.
The Just Plain Crazy
These poor souls typically wade in the shallow end of the talent pool. Perhaps they are drawn to theater looking for acceptance, and perhaps because they want to learn how to act normal. Disaster is inevitable. Things may be going along just swimmingly when out of nowhere someone is obsessively slapping a prop box and someone else is beating their head against a cinderblock wall. One cast member may accuse another of checking out his butt, then threaten to unleash the fury of the FBI on them. If you are lucky the disaster will be small and easily contained, like a mercury spill in a high school science lab or it could involve assault and battery, restraining orders, and renegade strippers. The Just Plain Crazy are what make a production truly memorable.
If you are interested in Community Theater, please don't let these completely true and factual accounts put you off. Your experiences will be enjoyable and will continue to entertain you for months, even years, after they are over.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Putting the "fun" in Funeral
I got a phone call today asking me to play the piano at a funeral on Friday. I am not acquainted with the deceased nor, I think, am I remotely acquainted with anyone who is acquainted with the deceased. Sounds crazy, I know, but its pretty much par for the course in my life. And it isn't the first time such a request has come my way.
If memory serves, it was the summer of 1988. Someone who had grown up in our small city had died and their final wishes were to be funeral-ed and buried here. Kind of an odd request, given that the decedent hadn't spent so much as a weekend here since before World War II, but the ladies' auxilliary at my church has never backed down from a challenge. The service was to take place at a local funeral home and a small group of us was asked to sing. Being teenagers, we were thrilled beyond measure and bursting at the seams to contain our joy.
To say the event was sparsely attended would be an understatement. There were four or five of us in our makeshift choir and I think we outnumbered the attendees. We stood at the front of the room across from the creepily open coffin and sang "How Great Thou Art" with gusto. (I'm kidding. There was no gusto. I'm pretty sure we sounded as bored and uncomfortable as we felt.)
I don't know what actually happened, but I do know that in the middle of our song there arose a great clatter. The best I can figure is that someone dropped a grand piano or something. There was a big bang, the walls shook, and the coffin moved. You read that right. It moved.
What is a group of teenaged girls girls to do in such a situation? Giggle like there's no tomorrow, that's what. We tried very hard to be serious and failed utterly. It was a good ten years before I could keep a straight face through that hymn.
Here's hoping nothing that exciting happens on Friday.
If memory serves, it was the summer of 1988. Someone who had grown up in our small city had died and their final wishes were to be funeral-ed and buried here. Kind of an odd request, given that the decedent hadn't spent so much as a weekend here since before World War II, but the ladies' auxilliary at my church has never backed down from a challenge. The service was to take place at a local funeral home and a small group of us was asked to sing. Being teenagers, we were thrilled beyond measure and bursting at the seams to contain our joy.
To say the event was sparsely attended would be an understatement. There were four or five of us in our makeshift choir and I think we outnumbered the attendees. We stood at the front of the room across from the creepily open coffin and sang "How Great Thou Art" with gusto. (I'm kidding. There was no gusto. I'm pretty sure we sounded as bored and uncomfortable as we felt.)
I don't know what actually happened, but I do know that in the middle of our song there arose a great clatter. The best I can figure is that someone dropped a grand piano or something. There was a big bang, the walls shook, and the coffin moved. You read that right. It moved.
What is a group of teenaged girls girls to do in such a situation? Giggle like there's no tomorrow, that's what. We tried very hard to be serious and failed utterly. It was a good ten years before I could keep a straight face through that hymn.
Here's hoping nothing that exciting happens on Friday.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Dad-isms: July 9, 2010
I had an idea for a feature I will call "Dad-isms". My Dad is hilarious. (I had to get it from somewhere) He is also quite deaf and refuses to wear hearing aids (his passive-agressive way of getting on my mother's nerves while simultaneously having an excuse to not listen to her) so he often mis-hears things, and hilarity ensues.
Since his strokes he doesn't speak as much, which is tragic because it deprives the world of his wit. So I am taking it upon myself to share his bon mots. Here are some recent and no-so-recent highlights:
It was No. 2's 15th birthday and she had a few friends at the house for cake, ice cream, and a sleepover. The whole fam was gathered in the kitchen, the candles were lit, the singing began, and my mom totally disappeared.
Husband: Where did your mom go?
Dad: The dog is in the bathroom chewing on a bone.
One of Dad's most prized possessions is a Star Trek glass with Uhura on it. He refers to it as his "Foxy Chick"
Dad: Where's my Foxy Chick?
No. 2: Isn't Grandma your foxy chick?
Dad: Hell, no. She's no one's foxy chick.
I was rooting through the refrigerator looking for lunch...
Me: Dad, do we have any lunch meat other than bologna?
Dad: I don't know where No. 1 is, I haven't seen her yet.
Me, louder: Dad, I'm asking you about lunchmeat here.
Dad, with a shrug: Bummer. (walks back to his computer to watch Pigeon:Impossible on YouTube for the millionth time)
My children and husband were trading blonde jokes at the dinner table
No. 3: How do you get a blonde to commit suicide? (dramatic pause) You give her a gun and tell her its a hair dryer!
Dad: What does the hair dryer do? Warm up the gum so you can chew it again?
My sister-in-law and I are discussing the rehearsal schedule for a production of Ruddigore we are starring in. OK, a production of Ruddigore SHE is starring in...
Me: Who has to be at rehearsal tonight?
Rebecca: Bridesmaids and Bucks and Blades.
Dad, perking up: Did you say something about boobs and babes?
Since his strokes he doesn't speak as much, which is tragic because it deprives the world of his wit. So I am taking it upon myself to share his bon mots. Here are some recent and no-so-recent highlights:
It was No. 2's 15th birthday and she had a few friends at the house for cake, ice cream, and a sleepover. The whole fam was gathered in the kitchen, the candles were lit, the singing began, and my mom totally disappeared.
Husband: Where did your mom go?
Dad: The dog is in the bathroom chewing on a bone.
One of Dad's most prized possessions is a Star Trek glass with Uhura on it. He refers to it as his "Foxy Chick"
Dad: Where's my Foxy Chick?
No. 2: Isn't Grandma your foxy chick?
Dad: Hell, no. She's no one's foxy chick.
I was rooting through the refrigerator looking for lunch...
Me: Dad, do we have any lunch meat other than bologna?
Dad: I don't know where No. 1 is, I haven't seen her yet.
Me, louder: Dad, I'm asking you about lunchmeat here.
Dad, with a shrug: Bummer. (walks back to his computer to watch Pigeon:Impossible on YouTube for the millionth time)
My children and husband were trading blonde jokes at the dinner table
No. 3: How do you get a blonde to commit suicide? (dramatic pause) You give her a gun and tell her its a hair dryer!
Dad: What does the hair dryer do? Warm up the gum so you can chew it again?
My sister-in-law and I are discussing the rehearsal schedule for a production of Ruddigore we are starring in. OK, a production of Ruddigore SHE is starring in...
Me: Who has to be at rehearsal tonight?
Rebecca: Bridesmaids and Bucks and Blades.
Dad, perking up: Did you say something about boobs and babes?
To Blog, or not to Blog?
That is the question.
People keep telling me I need to write a book or a blog because I am "funny". Then again, these are the same people who tell me I'm not fat so I have to question their judgement. I actually had the idea to write a (completely ficticious) book about a girl whose mother embarasses her frequently which would not at all have been based on real events from my own life. I came up with a list of incidents to write about that took up the front and back of a piece of notebook paper and figured by the time I wrote them all out I would have a 700 page book. The prospect seemed intimidating so I gave up before I even started. So I hope I can commit to blog entries. We'll try it and see what happens.
I'm going to begin with a few important facts you need to know about me to enjoy my blog:
1) I am 38 years old, have three fantastic and frustrating teenage daughters and a wonderful, cute, and high-maintenance husband. We live in upstate New York with my elderly parents and Sam, a codependent miniature schnauzer who used to be mine but then he met my dad and was like, "Emily who?" Nowadays he only hangs out with me when Dad isn't home.
2) I will be making fun of people. Most often these people will be my parents. Please don't take it to mean I do not dearly love them. But they are getting old, falling apart in mind and body, and I could deal with it by crying all the time (not that I have, um, tried that or anything) or I can laugh it off when my mother, who is a brilliant woman with a PhD, misplaces her kleenex and spends an entire afternoon accusing everyone of taking it before it turns up in the butter dish. Humor is my coping mechanism.
3) I am not telling my parents about this blog and neither should you. I live with them and see them all the time and the Internet where I escape from them when things get rough. Plus, my mother is unable to acknowledge her mental decline, much less see any humor in it.
4) I am making this public because you never know when my brilliant writing will recognized by someone important who will get me published and a comical yet inspiring movie will be made of my life starring Jessica Alba, for which she will earn her first Oscar. (Don't hate me, its not my fault we look exactly alike.) Having lived my life as a stalker magnet, I am a little paranoid and as such am not going to post any personal details, such as my town, children's names, last name, etc. So even if you know me (and lets face it, if you are reading this you probably do) don't post any of my personal information in your comments. Likewise, if I write anything about you staring longingly and lovingly at someone over the burger bar in the cafeteria, I will simply refer to you as "Kelly" and leave off your last name. The Internet is a big, scary, fabuous place full of stalkers and really great people, and my daughters and I are really, really, really, ridiculously good-looking.
5) I may use run-on sentences. And sometimes I might exaggerate. Deal with it.
6) I totally lied. I don't look anything like Jessica Alba. The only way I would look like her is if I lost 30 pounds and wore a Jessica Alba mask. The only famous person I have ever been told I resemble is Ben from Lost. I didn't feel like it was a compliment.
That's all for now, folks!
People keep telling me I need to write a book or a blog because I am "funny". Then again, these are the same people who tell me I'm not fat so I have to question their judgement. I actually had the idea to write a (completely ficticious) book about a girl whose mother embarasses her frequently which would not at all have been based on real events from my own life. I came up with a list of incidents to write about that took up the front and back of a piece of notebook paper and figured by the time I wrote them all out I would have a 700 page book. The prospect seemed intimidating so I gave up before I even started. So I hope I can commit to blog entries. We'll try it and see what happens.
I'm going to begin with a few important facts you need to know about me to enjoy my blog:
1) I am 38 years old, have three fantastic and frustrating teenage daughters and a wonderful, cute, and high-maintenance husband. We live in upstate New York with my elderly parents and Sam, a codependent miniature schnauzer who used to be mine but then he met my dad and was like, "Emily who?" Nowadays he only hangs out with me when Dad isn't home.
2) I will be making fun of people. Most often these people will be my parents. Please don't take it to mean I do not dearly love them. But they are getting old, falling apart in mind and body, and I could deal with it by crying all the time (not that I have, um, tried that or anything) or I can laugh it off when my mother, who is a brilliant woman with a PhD, misplaces her kleenex and spends an entire afternoon accusing everyone of taking it before it turns up in the butter dish. Humor is my coping mechanism.
3) I am not telling my parents about this blog and neither should you. I live with them and see them all the time and the Internet where I escape from them when things get rough. Plus, my mother is unable to acknowledge her mental decline, much less see any humor in it.
4) I am making this public because you never know when my brilliant writing will recognized by someone important who will get me published and a comical yet inspiring movie will be made of my life starring Jessica Alba, for which she will earn her first Oscar. (Don't hate me, its not my fault we look exactly alike.) Having lived my life as a stalker magnet, I am a little paranoid and as such am not going to post any personal details, such as my town, children's names, last name, etc. So even if you know me (and lets face it, if you are reading this you probably do) don't post any of my personal information in your comments. Likewise, if I write anything about you staring longingly and lovingly at someone over the burger bar in the cafeteria, I will simply refer to you as "Kelly" and leave off your last name. The Internet is a big, scary, fabuous place full of stalkers and really great people, and my daughters and I are really, really, really, ridiculously good-looking.
5) I may use run-on sentences. And sometimes I might exaggerate. Deal with it.
6) I totally lied. I don't look anything like Jessica Alba. The only way I would look like her is if I lost 30 pounds and wore a Jessica Alba mask. The only famous person I have ever been told I resemble is Ben from Lost. I didn't feel like it was a compliment.
That's all for now, folks!
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