I don't do warm-ups

It wasn't until I did a children's theatre bit in Korea that I was exposed to the concept of warm-ups. By this time I'd done several plays in high school, one in college, and had even taken Fundies of Acting at K-State. But I'd never before stood in a circle reciting tongue-twisters. The entire idea seemed rather juvenile, and clique-ish, an impression that remained unaltered when I re-entered the stage ten years later in St. Charles.

Nor am I alone in this perception. Several old-school stage actors find the idea bemusing, at best. Soon as I can find it, I'll link to an article which contains the phrase "What is acting about? Spitting." At the moment, I can't - a Google of the title of this blog mostly turns up links to my defunct online acting resume. Hm.. I need to put that up here.

Suffice to say that I come to rehearsal ready to rehearse. I don't find it necessary to "shake it out" or to repeat lines from Gilbert and Sullivan shows.

Last year I learned why - sometimes - it's a good thing to warm up.

As a first-time director, I was leading a group consisting of mostly first-time actors. This was "Our Town," and I'll talk more about that another time. Quite a few of them were younger, and I'm sure that at least one had ADD. They seemed unable to concentrate on what we were doing.

I knew that Felina teaches a kids' theatre class, and decided to let her try leading a few quick warm-up exercises. My sole purpose here was to try to bring some kind of focus to the group, and I have to admit that it worked - at least, to some extent. It reminded me a bit of a toddler's bedtime ritual: Get into jammies, brush your teeth, read a story, time for bed. The repetition of the warm-ups ritual before each rehearsal slowly embedded itself into their brains, and got across the idea that it was Time To Act now.

So when I agreed to direct another show at the Plattsmouth Library, and again ended up with several newbies in the cast, I asked Felina to lead warmups from the first rehearsal. Even though it takes up a half-hour from a two-hour rehearsal.

Jerry asked Felina to write up her warm-up exercises. She went further than that, and explained what each one was for. I've developed a grudging respect for the practice and admit that it can help some people. I would rather that it didn't take up so much time. We have only two hours to rehearse, and many people show up late. It seems as if we're not getting nearly as much done as we should.

But when I skip the warm-ups, nobody seems able to focus. The toddler doesn't know it's bedtime and fusses about having to go.

I still don't personally need warm-ups as an actor. And if I am ever so lucky as to direct a group of stage veterans, I don't intend to use them. But I'll take any tool I can get to wring a decent performance out of people.

Release the Fuzzy

A co-worker of mine (Sue) has a two-year-old granddaughter who has apparently seen too many previews for Clash of the Titans. Not the movie itself, just the previews. She has become enamored of the Kraken. Whenever anyone asks where the Kraken is, or utters the phrase "Release the Kraken!" -- one assumes with accompanying Greek/Scottish dialect that only the gods have -- this little girl growls for all she's worth.

So, Sue was looking for a Kraken toy for her bloodthirsty granddaughter. But apparently no one at Burger King wanted to pick up the merchandising for CotT. Aside from a few Johnny Depp figures, Google can't find a Kraken toy that is recognizable as such.

I suggested a squid. But not just any squid - an 20-inch long plushy in lifelike colors, true in every detail.16.57 at Amazon.com

And then I suggested she find a growling sound chip to put into the squid. Because, you know, KRAAAAKEN!

Sue found a lion roari sound chip at Build-a-Bear, and I even brought in one of Robin's "Handmade with love" labels to tenderly sew upon a calamari tip.

I can't wait for video of this kid's next birthday! When other kids are playing with Barbies, her Kraken will be dragging them all down to watery graves.

Die Barbie! Die

Update 7/16 - Sue brought in the finished toy. It is so friggin' awesome! The kid gets it on Tuesday.

Denying My Mortality

Originally published on August 20, 2007

Yesterday I rode in the Corporate Cycling Challenge. This is a one-day event in which riders choose either a 10-, 25-, or 42-mile course, in an attempt to rack up miles so that their company can win a meaningless trophy. This is completely different from the Commuter Cycling Challenge, in which riders take the bicycle from home to work in an attempt to rack up miles so that their company can win a meaningless trophy.

Desk jockeys have to do something like this once a year or so just to prove that they're not total couch potatoes.

I did this last year, too. Signed up for the 10-mile course, ended up riding 25, and other than some saddle-sore muscles it was okay. I'm not a fast rider and I don't have a nifty fast bike, but I do get where I'm going most of the time.

This year, I signed up for the 25-mile course. And that's all I intended to do. But when I got to the corner where I had to turn left for 25 miles, or right for 42 miles, something in my brain went haywire. I thought, hey, I'm doing pretty good. And turned right.

Now, the first clue I got that this might not be a good idea came about a half-block before this turn, when I saw a few other people turning left. Since I started at 8:00 and most of the 25-milers started at 8:30, that's a pretty good indicator that I'm going just a bit too slow for the pro crowd. But I ignored that.

The second clue that I'd made a bad choice was having to stop three times before getting to the half-way point, in Fort Calhoun. I was getting a bit hot and poured water on my head, and went on, all undaunted and oblivious.

The next clue came at the half-way point. I arrived just as they were taking down the water tables. I did get there before the station was completely dismantled, so I got signed in and the company got credit for my efforts. But there were no snacks left, and the water was nearly gone. I chose to refill my bottle with Power-Ade instead - another mistake, it was watered down and really yucky. And then I set out again.

I might have, at this point, ignored the route arrows and just taken the same way back that I had come. It wouldn't have been 42 miles, and that didn't sit right with me - having taken credit for the ride, I felt some misguided sense of honor to actually do the work for it. So I turned up the biggest damn hill that I have ever tried to ride up. Time for the next big clue - I had to get off and walk.

After making the hill and back on relatively flat ground, a volunteer pulled up in his truck and offered me a ride. I turned him down - after all, the big hill was behind me, how hard could it be?

A couple of hills later I was winded and saw a rest point that some kind neighbor had set up. I prevailed myself upon his lawn chair and relaxed all muscles. Ahhh. This was when another volunteer offered a ride. I looked back down the trail and asked whether there was anyone behind me. "No," they said. I was the last one on the trail. And again I said that I would rather try to finish.

When I got up out of the chair, I felt a little dizzy, so I sat back down until that passed. The second time up, my head was clearer, and off I went.

But the next hill, though mild, started my legs and arms shaking. Suddenly I thought of the punchline to a joke...

And God said, "I sent you a bus, a boat, and a helicopter! What more did you want?"

...and resolved that I would take the next hint.

Presumably, the bus sank.

Sure enough, along came another volunteer - I think it was the same one who stopped the first time - and said, "Are you SURE you don't want a ride?" This was said in the same forceful manner that Judith Martin might use to offer a breath mint when what she really means is that you smell like you just scarfed down skunk roadkill. Like the one I nearly ran over on this ride.

So I had a nice air-conditioned ride home, where my wife didn't even berate me for taking such stupid chances. Indeed, she made me feel like a hero for making the attempt. We had fried chicken and I downed a porter and then slept a short but righteous sleep.

I may try this again, in two or three years, if I can keep up my exercise and build up endurance. But I will damn sure have a granny gear before that day.

Oliver!

This was my second show at Clinton High School. They were only doing one show a year, so my introduction to mangled musical Dickens happened during my sophomore year. Having been bitten hard by the bug, I had to audition.


I do not remember the audition process for this show, which is odd because there must have been one. Or maybe not - Mr. Crouch remembered me from the previous year and he might have just cast the show from memories of previous performances. But then, that doesn't really explain how I got a part at all.

I was cast as Dr. Grimwig, the pompous ass quack who cautions that Oliver not be allowed to get too cold or too warm, and he should be fed...if he's hungry. I played it far too straight - this is one part that should be hammed up. My only excuse is that I was still none too sure of my own abilities (not that I even had any at this point).

In my opinion, practically every other cast member was about a thousand times better than me. Our Fagin was so good that he had his own groupies.

I was, however, more believable than one actor. We had the only fat Oliver in the history of the show.

More? There ain't no more, you done et it all!

He and I were the only ones without an English accent of one variety or another, but he was the only one who couldn't learn to pronounce "wash" without an R. It about drove poor Wedge nuts.

I had a warsh yesterday!

Even so, he had a good voice, and he could move, and he could remember lines, which puts him quite a bit higher up the scale than some people I've worked with.

The stage in our school was not large enough to support two levels, but the director wanted two levels. Ambitiously, we built a two-level set in the school gymnasium. The only reason we got away with this was that the coaches were promised a new gym floor would be built over the summer. That puppy got scratched up something awful - not so much from building the set, but from having to take it apart every school night so that the sports people could do sports things in there.

Or so I imagined

Surprisingly, our set was very sturdy. Not so surprisingly, one night the stairs nearly fell down because the top end hadn't been anchored properly during reassembly. There was real fear in Nancy's eyes as she realized she had to choose between in-character death from Sikes or real-life injury from a fall. Safety concerns won out - pursuee and pursuer both carefully backed down the stairs and resumed their chase elsewhere in the gym.

In addition to Grimwig, I was in the chorus for the tavern scene. This happens a lot with musical theatre - the chorus isn't usually big enough to make a respectable crowd. I just took off my hat, grabbed a mug, and spent the scene snuggling with Vicki, my then (sort-of) girlfriend, who was a generic tavern wench. And one of the stagehands -- I never learned who -- kept reaching in from behind the back curtain and pinching my butt!

I am flattered...

...and disturbed

Do I have to tell you that trying to get actors to break character is not acceptable during a live show?

There was no cast party that year. Or, if there was, I wasn't invited. There was, however, a quite extensive strike. This remains my least favorite part of theatre.

This was the last year Mr. Crouch taught at CHS. We gave him another award and pantomimed his name again. Good times, good times.

MungoGerrie

Originally published September 7, 2007

Around JK's birthday in 1997, my wife and I were talking about what to get for her, and of course the subject of cats came up. She has always been crazy for cats, and missed having one since we'd moved into a no-pets house a year before. We decided that, since our landlord hadn't bothered us so far, and every landlord from our past has kept our deposit despite our best efforts, we had little to lose by getting a kitten for our daughter.

There was a little pet shop next door to the grocery store where we shopped, that occasionally sold kittens. This shop made very little profit on these sales, because whenever they took in a litter, they arranged all the shots and made sure that they were free of fleas, worms, etc, and their end price was still only $25. The only kittens they had on hand at the time were orange tiger-striped, exactly the kind that Robin claimed to dislike. But we brought one home anyway, in a cardboard box, and that's how Jerry entered our lives.

He was supposed to be Jesse's cat, but over the years he formed attachements to each of us, in separate ways. As a kitten he would share naps with Robin (I have pictures). As he grew older, he liked to ride on Arthur's shoulders. As for me, I think I got more head-butts than anyone else, as a mature Mungo Jerry greeted me as a peer, and then claimed my lap for as long as I remained sitting.

We accumulated two more kittens in subsequent years, and Jerry more than tolerated each usurper. He always let the others eat first, confident that he would have enough. When Rumpelteazer paired off with Rum Tum Tugger (regardless of Old Possum's chronicles), he accepted that with the same grace. When we moved again, he was the quietest during the trip and the first to adapt to the new house.

This is not to say that he was always the perfect cat. He was intolerant of strangers handling him, and sometimes family too. Once while being adored by Lily, he suddenly turned around and hissed in her face, provoking an asthma attack. He hated going to the vet for shots and had to be held immobile by two pairs of hands. He was moody after every bath, and moody when Arthur moved out. He begged for our food at every meal, and turned over trash cans looking for more. He drank from the toilet if I didn't keep the lid closed. I can't count the number of times I nearly tripped over and cursed at that damn cat.

But at the end of the day, there was that head-butt, and a few minutes of purring in my lap, and I couldn't stay mad at him long.

About two years ago, Robin noticed Jerry was acting melancholy. We thought that he needed a companion, since Teaser and Rum had paired off and often didn't want him around. We brought Misty home from the shelter, but it never worked out. Teaser hated having another female around, and poor Misty spent two years confined in one little corner of the house or another, hiding. We eventually gave up and asked Arthur to take her. So Jerry never got his companion.

At last year's vet exam, I mentioned that Jerry seemed to be losing weight, but the vet said he was only a few ounces lighter than the year before and he seemed healthy. But he worsened over the next few months, drinking and urinating too much, not grooming well, begging more for treats and still losing weight. We started giving him a little bit of canned fish every day, and for a while that helped. I thought he might pull out of it.

A couple of weeks ago I took him back to the vet early, for tests. The vet returned my money and said that she wasn't equipped to help him. He'd lost almost seven pounds - nearly half his body weight was gone. His demanding maiow had diminished to a plaintive croak, then to a whisper. A full-service animal hospital might be able to do something. Maybe.

I had a decision to make. I could take him to the hospital and spend several hundred dollars that we just don't have in the hope that they could fix him up. I could have him put down immediately, ending his suffering. Or I could take him home, make him comfortable, and hope he got better on his own. I chose the latter, and now I'm beating myself up over it.

At first Jerry seemed to improve a little, but two days ago he laid himself down next to the water dish. He stopped eating anything, even his daily fish. He would get up occasionally and put his tongue in the water, and then lay down again.

Yesterday morning I came home to find Jerry on the basement floor. In spite of having trouble walking, he'd forced himself down the stairs to use the litterbox, ignoring one that I'd placed in easier reach. Having gone that far, he didn't have the strength to get himself back upstairs. I brought him up and sat with him until I couldn't stay awake any more.

When I got up, I thought he was already dead until I saw him gasp in a spasmodic breath that was painful to watch and must have been hellish to feel. I knew the end was near. I held him in my lap for about an hour. Then Jesse held him, and a few minutes later Jerry was gone.

The last few hours have been filled with self-recrimination. I feel that I should have found the money somewhere in the budget for the hospital. I should have taken him for testing sooner. I should have been nicer to him when I was trying to cook and he would stand up an put his front paws on my leg, begging for treats.

I should have given him more treats.

I feel like I let him down, and I let my little girl down. It's natural for a father's heart to break when his child is crying her eyes out over a loss as deep as this one. But what surprises me is how bad I feel for myself. It's never hurt me this much to lose a pet. Hell, I've rarely mourned any human.

These last few hours, though, it's been very hard to be the strong one.

I'm going to miss that damn cat.

Update 7/4/2010

About a year and a half ago, we adopted two half-grown kittens - we call them Gumbie and Bustopher. Buster has become my shadow, and I see in him the ghost of Jerry. The only thing missing is the headbutts -- instead of accepting me as an equal, Buster seems to think I'm his mom. He'd rather knead my stomach.

I probably won't be any more ready for the next disappointment. All we can do is enjoy the time beforehand.

Writing exercise

Pen Dragons meeting, April 15, 2008. Yes it's old. I'm trying to consolidate my past self-publishing.


"I want to see your manager!"

The words carried throughout the entire establishment, but Donald stayed out of sight until the waitress bore the bad news to him personally. He hated to deal with unhappy customers, the worst part of running a high-scale restaurant, and right this moment longed for his hash-slinging days. He glanced out the window. A perfect spring day, just right for fishing, and he was stuck here dealing with irate customers.

"It's the Garret party," the girl informed him. "The big wedding rehearsal dinner." Of course, it had to be.

"What seems to be the problem?" Don asked the disgruntled diner. Seated at the head of the long table (actually a series of short tables hastily pushed together), in the "father of the bride" position. Which meant he was paying for all of this, which probably meant that Don was looking at a loss of profit for the entire party's dinner.

The man explained at the same volume that had begun his tirade. "This steak is the problem!" he shouted. "I ordered medium rare, this damn thing is bloody all through!"

Donald put on his best fake smile. "Of course it is, how could such a thing happen. Let me take care of this immediately, sir." So far, so good, Don thought. Maybe he could get out of this with a complimentary dessert.

Behind the swinging kitchen doors, another obstacle awaited. Robert ("Ro-BAIR, mah name eez Ro-BAIR") had attended culinary school in Paris and never let anyone forget it. Don approached the chef with the offending slab as one might a sacrifice for the altar.

"Robert, please put this back on the grill for a bit longer. The customer wants it cooked more," Don asked apologetically.

The chef took one look at the plate and exploded into a rant of his own. "He ask for medium rare, I geeve heem medium rare! Eet eez cook to pairfeck-shee-onne!"

Before Donald could answer, Robert continued. "And look! Eet eez smoth-aired in peppair, suffocated in salt, and zair eez KETCHUP on zee plate! KETCHUP!!! Non! I weel not cook for zis cretin!"

This was a typical reaction, and any other day Donald would have taken the trouble to smooth ruffled feathers. But today, the trout were singing to him from the lake, backed up by a chorus of catfish. The chef's tone and accent grated dissonantly in his ears against such music. Something in Donald snapped.

"Fine," he said, "Ro-BURT. Don't doo eet. You're fired."

And with that, Don stepped past his astonished ex-employee. With a practiced hand, he slapped the meat over the flame, for just long enough to brown the edges and still keep the middle pink. "Order up!" he shouted to the waitress.

In his mind, the trout sang a triumphant hallelujia chorus.

Theatre Weapon Safety

By Jerry Abels, reprinted with permission. Jerry is an ex-cop and a great stage manager.

WEAPONS SAFETY

In many productions the use of a weapon by an actor is essential to the development of a scene or a character. A realistic appearing weapon is vital to the realism the actor and director are trying to portray. The one thing no one wants to be real, however, is the injury or death that a weapon can cause when not properly used. Because of this, safety is the first and most important consideration in the use of any weapon.

Please note the use of the phrase “any weapon”. Most of us think of a firearm. . .a rifle, or pistol, or maybe shotgun, when we think of a weapon. Many other implements are also weapons. These include knives (of all kinds), swords, spears, maces, bows, even clubs and staves. In short, if it can be used to harm or in combat, it’s a weapon, and if it’s a weapon, safety has to come first.

General Safety Rules

1. Never use a “live” weapon on stage. A live weapon is any weapon which is combat ready.

This means firearms capable of firing a projectile, knives and swords with sharpened edges or points etc. Only use appropriate prop weapons.

2. ABSOLUTELY NO HORSEPLAY at any time with any weapon. Never fence, stab threaten, or even point a weapon at any time except under the controlled conditions of rehearsal. There should never be horseplay on stage at any time anyway, but with weapons this is critical. This rule applies even with plastic fake or prop weapons. They should be treated with the same respect as a live weapon.
3. IF IT’S NOT YOUR PROP, DON’T TOUCH IT. The first rule of props! ! ! Never handle a weapon unless it is assigned to you, and never let anyone else handle your weapon except the stage manager, props master, or armorer (if your production has one).
4. All weapons are to be kept locked up at all times except when they are actually needed on stage. This means that you pick up your weapon just before your entrance and turn it is immediately upon coming off stage. There can be no exceptions to this.
5. The stage manager is responsible for securing and issuing all weapons. In a complex production when the stage manager is too busy, or if the stage manager is unfamiliar with weapons, this duty may be delegated to the properties master or to a designated armorer with the agreement of the Vice President of Production.
6. In the case of combat arms (swords, knives, arrows, maces etc.), Specially designed props weapons should be used whenever possible. If live steel must be used (as in a sword fight where the sound of steel on steel is essential), all edges and points must be dulled and the weapons inspected before each rehearsal or performance.
7. Prior to using any weapons in rehearsal or performance, the entire cast and crew shall be instructed in weapon safety and specific safety procedures for the weapon being used by an individual who is trained and familiar with the weapons being used. Special instruction shall be given to all persons involved with the handling and use of the weapons.
8. Any injuries, no matter how minor shall be immediately reported to the director or stage manager and to the theatre manager.
9. Any weapon found lying around unattended or being handled by an unauthorized person shall be immediately reported to the stage manager.

Firearms Safety

1. ALWAYS ASSUME ANY FIREARM IS LOADED AND TREAT ALL FIREARMS AS THOUGH THEY ARE LOADED. Even if the weapon is a plastic toy or prop weapon, Firearms must at all times be treated with extreme respect. Even if you’ve verified that it is not loaded, treat it as if it were for the sake of others.
2. NEVER POINT A FIREARM AT ANYONE, EVEN ON STAGE. If the script calls for you to point the weapon at another character, point it slightly upstage of that person. To the audience it will look exactly like it were pointed at your intended victim.
3. NEVER, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, USE A WEAPON CAPABLE OF FIRING LIVE AMMUNITION. Whenever possible, use a non firing prop weapon. If firing the weapon is necessary for the production, obtain a stage weapon that fires the appropriate blanks. These can be purchased or rented through a Props outlet, and sometimes even borrowed from another theatre. This is one time you should not rely on your friend with the gun collection who has helped you with props before.
4. If you have to fire a weapon on stage, it is not to be loaded until just before you go on stage for that scene. The firearm is to be unloaded immediately upon coming off stage.
5. Whenever a firearm is being passed to another person, the person receiving the weapon must do a “chamber check” to determine whether or not the weapon is loaded. This is to be done in the presence of the person handing you the weapon. NO EXCEPTIONS.
6. Even a firearm designed to fire blanks can cause injury. Absolutely no horseplay is permitted with a firearm. All of the rules for weapons in general apply to firearms.
7. Don’t dry fire: Dry firing is pulling the trigger without a round in the chamber. This is hard on the mechanism of the weapon and can cause serious damage. Not to mention that it is horseplay.
8. Never take your weapon out of the theatre. Stage props look very realistic, they’re supposed to. Police take a dim view of people waving guns around or having them in vehicles, and that stage prop which cannot fire a live round will look mighty real from a distance or in the dark. The nicest thing that can happen is a long “vacation” in bad company and poor surroundings. (prison food isn’t that great either)
9. Clean the firearm immediately after every use. As a part of your post show duties the firearm must be cleaned before leaving the theatre even if you’ve only fired 1 round. Gunpowder is very corrosive to the metal of a weapon and will damage it and cause misfires.
10. The firearm and all blank ammunition must be kept under lock and key at all times when not actually on stage. Only the stage manager or designated armorer should have access to the key.