Odd Man Out

The Vulcan narrator for A Klingon Christmas Carol 2012 is named Brendan, and one night Kevin accidentally called him Brandi. Then we started singing ("I say Brendan, you're a Vulcan, what a good wife you would be..."), and I felt compelled to come home and write the whole song.  It was a fine way to spend an afternoon.   Feel free to use the video link to sing along, especially if you want to appreciate to its fullest how hard I worked to make the songs match: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N-tRXewCAmU

Note: the lyrics are a leetle different from what was originally posted on Facebook, but I'm allowed to do that if I want to 'cause I wrote this, so suck it.

There’s a stage, where we set our play
And we serve a hundred folks a day
A little story, 'bout the Klingon way
To spend their ram nI’ bam

And there’s a man in this little town
And he speaks, layin’ the story down
We say “Brendan, let’s start another round”
He knows the best way to start.

The Klingons say “Brendan, you’re a Vulcan” (you’re a Vulcan)
“What a warrior you would be” (such a Vulcan)
“Yeah your eyes, they’re breakin’ the fourth wall stoically”

Brendan wears a purple robe
With a centerpiece made of flashy gold
Those symbols say his heart is cold
But we know what Brendan loves

He auditioned on a summer’s day
Bringing comic skills from his Improv ways
But he made it clear he couldn’t fray
‘Cause fighting’s not his style

EVT he said “Brendan, you’re a Vulcan” (you’re a Vulcan)
“What a Klingon you would be” (such a Vulcan)
“But your life was made to tell stories passively”

Yeah, Brendan always soaps his eyes
When he tells our Long Night Story
He can feel the blood wine in our cries
As we fight each other for glory
But he’ll never hold a bat’leth, truth, Lord he has an empty hand
And Brendan does his best to understand

At night, when SQuja’ knows the score
Brendan stands by the exit door
He wants to march to Sto’Vo’Kor
But he knows what Chris would say.

He hears him say “Brendan, you’re a Vulcan” (you’re a Vulcan)
“What a SuvwI' you would be” (such a Vulcan)
“But your life was made to tell stories passively”

He hears him say “Brendan, you’re a Vulcan” (you’re a Vulcan)
“What a warrior you would be” (such a Vulcan)
“But your life was made to tell stories passively”

Senior Year

Originally posted on www.cbtheatre.org

We can see the end without a telescope.

This show has a longer run than any I’ve done. We’ve just finished number fourteen out of eighteen performances over a four week period, which is at least twice the length to which I am accustomed. All this and we still have another week left, four more shows to do. Four more houses to fill. Four more times to don the costumes and the ridges, to excite and enlighten and entertain our audiences. Four more post-show photo opportunities. Four more chances to enjoy the company of my castmates and crew.

I don’t want it to end.

The attitude of everyone involved in this production is heartening. Frequently by the end of a run a group of people is just tired by all of this. We’re ready to be done with it already and move on to the next phase of our lives, the next show, the next gig, or taking a couple of weeks off to recuperate, but I’m sensing none of that with this cast. We’re still enjoying the process, from the moment of arrival at the theatre to the last person to leave the building as our stage manager locks up.

The dressing room is still alive with energy both before and after the show. We still talk and joke and take pleasure in one another’s company. We still play and try to make each other laugh backstage. We still seek (and find) chances to spend time together outside of our responsibilities.

And it is a testament to the talent and dedication of this cast and crew that we’re still striving to improve the show. As we run through fight call, our Fight Captain continues to watch and give us notes. He’ll tweak a bit of choreography here and there to ensure that we play it safe, appear to be dangerous, and keep it exciting. I can also spot minor variations in other of the cast performances, such as different lines being ad-libbed. This last bit is particularly impressive as none of us speaks the language. It means that the actors are trying to keep things fresh and interesting for themselves (and thus the audience) by researching different things to say, practicing the pronunciation, and making it come off naturally.

Theatre is a living, breathing, holistic entity. It is comprised of multiple interactions both overt and subtle. If one actor changes his words or actions, however slightly, like ripples in a pond the rest of the cast is affected, and thus so is the audience. The audience provides the greatest variable, because they don’t go through the same dance as the rest of us each night, thus they have the greatest potential to change what happens on stage.

We affect you so that you’ll affect us. It’s a cumulative reverberation that enlivens everyone under the roof. This week I have been, once again, both proud of and honored by my fellow cast and crewmates who show up each week to breathe on this hot coal to produce a flame that consumes us all.

This show isn’t a chore. It is an honor, and it is a pleasure. If you saw us early the run, you’ll catch a slightly different one now. You’ll see a show with tighter choreography, a cast with less anxiety and a greater sense of play. Come on closing night, and you’ll even see Il Troubadore perform with us again.

But more important; this week is the last time you’ll be able to see the show in its current incarnation. This is the seventh year of performance, the third in Chicago, yet it’s not the same from one year to the next. The cast varies, some years more than others. The director changes, the stage differs, the fights are restructured, and the costumes are modified. This show, like any other, is a symbiotic construction involving the talents and capabilities of everyone involved, and we all work very hard to ensure it’s a worthwhile endeavor no matter what side of the stage you’re on.

There are four lights. Make the most of them.

Red Letter Weekend

Originally posted on www.cbtheatre.org

Of all the reasons I have to love being involved with this show, this week provided me with far more than I could have anticipated.

Friday’s performance included our first Special Guest Star in the person of Brian Babylon who is, among other things, a comic, a radio host, and a regular panelist on Wait, Wait… Don’t Tell Me. The guest star’s role is to say the line that kicks off the giant brawl in the first act (a line I would say otherwise). This amended our entire fight call rehearsal as we worked Brian into the scene and made sure he could stand on stage and not get punched.

Live theatre is affected by the energy provided by its audience, so of course it was altered in a different way to have another actor join us on stage. My first concern was that I would forget to not say my line, but that turned out not to be a problem. Brian was constantly in my line of sight up to that point, and the training I’ve had as an actor is to notice and be affected by everything that comes into my senses. I was actually a little embarrassed to have been concerned; everything came off without a hitch, and it was wonderful to have our performance fed by another performer.

He even altered (though slightly) a later scene he wasn’t in. In the second act a fight scene takes place between VreD and his wife, and a moment comes with no clear winner. At some point last week I started saying the words (meaning not yet, not yet) during that moment. It became a decent joke partly because it reflects the fact that none of the observers have a clear idea who won the fight, but also because the word (pronounced “wedge”) sounds a bit like “wait”. It’s a moment that brings the audience a step closer to the performance because they don’t need a written translation to understand the word’s meaning. Because of Brian’s association with Wait, Wait… Don’t Tell Me, our stage manager suggested I then add the word (don’t speak). Since no one in the audience that night was fluent in Klingon it was a joke just for us, but totally worth it.

The joke would have been caught the following night, however.

Saturday’s performance was attended by a few fluent Klingon speakers, who are local and non-local members of the Klingon Language Institute. For this reason the cast was particularly on our toes about pronunciation; they don’t need to read the supertitles for the translation, after all. As if that wasn’t enough of a reason to put on our best performance, Dr. Marc Okrand – inventor of the Klingon language – was in attendance as well.

After the show (which was a matinee) we went to dinner at a spectacular Ethiopian restaurant with Dr. Okrand and the fluent speakers, which was the first time I got to spend significant social time with any of them since we’d met at the annual KLI meeting back in August. It was such a delight to be in their company again, and later that evening the whole crew saw a whole other side of me. My burlesque troupe performed a late night Christmas show with Dr. Okrand and the KLI in attendance.
As if it weren’t nerdy enough performing a play in Klingon in front of the man who invented Klingon and fluent speakers of Klingon, the following morning we all went to see The Hobbit together. There was a trailer for Star Trek Into Darkness, and we all cheered and applauded. After the movie it was off to a Pan-Asian restaurant for lunch, and Dr. Okrand delighted us with the story of how he became involved in creating the language. I can only hope the remainder of my career will allow me to speak of it with as much joy and enthusiasm as he obviously takes in his own work.

All of these experiences alone would have been enough to make this weekend memorable for a lifetime, but there was one other person whose presence made it truly special – my oldest friend.
We’ve known one another for eighteen years now. When I found him I found not only a friend, but someone to walk with me as a fan of Star Trek. We watched TNG and DS9 and Voyager together, and have compared it with other sci-fi and fantasy franchises we’ve come to experience. We’ve discussed and debated the points of plot and character and idealism that made the Star Trek canon what it is. Being a part of A Klingon Christmas Carol is special to me for so many reasons, and this weekend I was visited by the one man who has always understood just how much it means to be involved. His understanding reflects and deepens my joy and passion for the project in a way nothing else really could. And, of course, he got all the Trek in-jokes.

It’s been a great week.

Constant Hearts and Minds

Originally posted on www.cbtheatre.org

I once heard Penn Jilette say something striking about performance: “Being great is easy. Being good is hard.” In this he was discussing two different modes of performance – that which can be done well once, and that which can be done well consistently over a long period of time.

If ever I do something well, I’m grateful. This goes for cooking a dinner that impresses my date, or setting a new personal record for how quickly I can ride my bike down Chicago’s Lake Front Trail, or writing a joke that captivates an audience. Happy as I ever may be about a thing which goes well, I’m intimidated by the prospect of having to do it again. Not to mention having to do it again and again.

I have always credited the difference between something I have done and something I can do. Knocking it out just once could be a fluke against the established order. Getting it right twice merits attention. Being successful every time? No one can be expected to do that.

Yet that’s what is expected of us on stage.

Tickets to our show are the same cost regardless of which week of performance you attend. Every audience who fills the house of A Klingon Christmas Carol pays the same price as any other, and thus they deserve the same quality performance as any other. Be it opening weekend, closing weekend, the night my parents come to see the show, or the night a celebrity is a special guest star joining us on stage, we have an obligation to tell our story well regardless of the circumstance.

We came into Thursday’s show after a three day absence. For some of us, that’s the longest time spent away from this material since rehearsals began in early October. We’re comfortable with the lines, we’re comfortable with the blocking, we’re comfortable with the fight choreography. We’ve been well attended and well-reviewed. The pressure and excitement of finally opening our doors to the public has come and gone, and we’ve now established patterns.

During tech/opening week we established patterns of not merely what goes on stage, but off. Every night begins (for most of us) 90 minutes before curtain as we arrive at the theatre. The projection screen for the supertitles is hung. The actors arrive and get partway into costume before Fight Call, during which our Fight Captain ensures we’re not compromising our safety or integrity. We check the location of our props and furniture, we get into makeup, we help tie one another into our armor and bracers. Our stage manager gives us regular updates as to how many minutes are left in the countdown to the show’s beginning.

Finally, the call comes for Places.

From that moment the production becomes a dance both on-stage and backstage. The actors stand in various areas around the theatre waiting for our entrances and set changes. Wordlessly we assist one another through difficult costume changes. Our offstage path through the theatre is just as clinically rigid as our blocking and lines are in front of the audience.

This dance is both talismanic and dangerous. To fool around with an established order is frightening as it could cause a distraction from the timing of the show. One could miss an entrance or a line. We could get too comfortable in the backstage life and forget the vigilance that causes us to recall the responsibilities which keep the show flowing smoothly from one scene to the next. We could begin to operate with the misconception that the show will be carried off well regardless of our attention to detail both in front of the curtain and behind it. If we fail in our duties, we fail our audience.

As we wrap week two of performance I’m proud to be a part of this show for a number of reasons. Not the least of which is the group of about twenty people who ensure a quality performance each and every time. We do this regardless of the number of times we’ve repeated ourselves onstage and off. We do this regardless of how many people bought a ticket that particular day. We do this to affect the lives of each and every person who comes to see the show . . . no matter how many times they’ve come to see it.

I’m pleased and honored to be a part of this cast and crew who consistently deliver a quality product. I’m proud to say that no matter what day of the week, no matter what time of day, no matter how early or late in the run, we will give you the laughs, the triumphs, the conflict – the art – you came to see.

You, our audience, deserve the best we have to offer every time. We’re delighted to deliver.

Ready for Prime Time

Originally posted on www.cbtheatre.org

Stiff. Sore. Bruised, exhausted, elated, and wholly artistically satisfied. This is what it’s like going from Tech Week into Opening Weekend.

Sunday after Thanksgiving was our first day back after a five day break. Director ‘e’riH HoD sent us repeated friendly-reminder text messages to review our script during the holiday, and Fight Director Zach Livingston gave us video of the fights to review so we wouldn’t backstep during a tryptophan high.

Sunday’s rehearsal was business as usual, but Monday we loaded props, furniture, and other related equipment into the Raven Theatre. Load-in is a whole new level of this is really happening. The show takes one more step out of the theoretical and into the physical world around us. It’s one thing to know the shape of the stage as it was taped out by our stage manager in the rehearsal space; it’s quite another to hear how my bootheels are going to thrum on the performance stage itself. A newfound sense of awe and responsibility and wonder washes over us. Uncontrolled smiles thrive amongst the cast.

At the same time, tech week brings the highest levels of anxiety of any rehearsal process, especially with the challenges unique to this show. Stage lights and costumes are a common one; how to keep wigs and latex prosthetic appendages upon our foreheads is new to most of us. The hours of tech rehearsals are longer, lasting later into the night than regular rehearsals. We’ve done our fighting and furniture moving, but now we’re practicing it wearing three extra layers made of burlap and leather, producing an amount of sweat comparable to your average Olympic basketball team.

Tech week for most any show turns into the dark before the dawn. It’s a point of no return – tickets are being sold, buzz for the show is humming with a steady crescendo, and loving family members are making travel plans. At the same time, the Show Going On is not a foregone conclusion. Some practical details are being faced for the first time, new problems/issues are being discovered, and we have the shortest possible time period to hammer out these details and make them work before the first live audience appears expecting to be entertained.

If it sounds stress inducing, it is. And yet it is the precise sort of stress many artists live for. We wouldn’t want to create our art without such a circumstance. The risk of failure is ever-present, even after the show opens. Nothing goes quite as planned, and this keeps us engaged and interested and alive.

Rehearsing in the performance space teaches us things we didn’t realize, like how much we’d been relying on visual cues for entrances as opposed to moving in on a sound cue, or a line of dialogue. This is particularly poignant when we’re entering blind from the upstage curtain; one actor and I were late for an entrance and nearly had our faces taken off by a bat’leth. Fortunately we both know when to duck.

Another adjustment was the wigs; suddenly everyone has an additional two feet of hair to deal with. Not only does this hair get caught in unexpected places (like fists, for example) it creates blind spots as we flail during the fights. Obscuring my fight partner’s face makes it harder to punch at him and not actually hit him. The same goes for my own wig blocking my vision, and now I need to throw the fist into the gut of my partner without doing any real damage. We trust in one another’s knowledge of the choreography to rescue us, and it works. There are nuances of fight technique that keep things safe while appearing dangerous, and we’re fortunate to have an experienced cast capable of employing them.

The first live audience always changes a show. As with physics, there is an observer effect. You cannot put a thermometer into a pot of soup without changing the temperature of the soup; likewise, you cannot watch a performance without affecting the performers. No matter how many times we rehearse the play, no matter how we hone and perfect every line and every action, we are transformed by your presence. Everyone has a different response to this. Some people get more anxious, some more excited. Laughter crops up in places we didn’t expect, or had forgotten was a joke.

Preview night was a blast. The everyone in the audience was a boisterous Star Trek fan. Their response to every inside joke was immense. We even allowed people (for this performance only) to post to Twitter during the show, sharing their thoughts and pictures as they happened. Half the actors scrambled to our phones every time we went backstage to see what they were posting.

Opening night was a whole other kind of party. The music of Il Troubadore greeted the guests, people bid for items at a silent auction, and cake and champagne was passed around afterwards. People arrived in costumes of Starfleet officers and Klingon warriors alike.

And, of course, many drinks were had at the bar afterwards, occasionally punctuated with nearly two dozen people simultaneously shouting (We are Klingons!)

We built this show with our minds, bodies, spirits, talents, and willpower. By the end of the weekend we concluded that yes, we’ve Done This. We’ve put together a fantastic product, and there’s not a single member of the cast nor crew who isn’t elated that we have a whole month to share what we’ve constructed.

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a show. Get your tickets now.

Fandom

Originally posted on www.cbtheatre.org

As we approach opening night there’s another picture beginning to emerge: that of our audience.

I deeply regret that the previous two years this show has performed in Chicago I didn’t carve out the time to see it. There are any number of (quite reasonable) excuses: I was busy with school, I spent a couple of weeks with my family in Texas over the holiday, etc. As I peek at Facebook and Twitter for mentions of the show I’m seeing more and more people making plans to see us. We’re mentioned by folks who saw it last year, and the year before, and (in some cases) its first few years of life before it came to Chicago. But it’s heartwarming to see several mentions by people first discovering us - both incredulous and excited – by what it is we’re doing. Go ahead, click “Join the Conversation” on the Twitter feed to the right of this screen to see what I’m talking about.

You’ll see the fandom is intense. As a lifelong sci-fi fan myself I’m aware of just how deeply being a fan of something can affect a person. In middle and high schools I attended one or two Star Trek conventions a year. I watched the video presentations, blew my allowance at the merchandise tables, stood in line for autographs, took part in trivia contests, and watched the Q&A sessions with cast members. I wore a pullover with a silkscreen that vaguely resembled a Next Gen uniform while standing next to a band of Klingons who looked like they just stepped off of a movie set. I ate from a food court that included on its menu a “Kling On A Stick.” It was tasty.

Mostly I was struck by the sheer variety of people who happen to be fans of Star Trek, or even science-fiction as a genre. The trope I grew up with was that Trek fans were basement dwellers devoid of social skills, job skills, or any sort of ambition. Indeed, there is a classic Saturday Night Live bit starring William Shatner which is just as hilarious as it is a misrepresentation of an average Trekkie. We come from all walks of life, just like any other subset of humanity.

Being fanatical about Star Trek is no different from being fanatical about your favorite writer, physicist, baseball team, vineyard, or ways to cook bacon. Back to that first night of rehearsal, I embarrassed myself by nearly leaping out of my chair with excitement at learning that my very favorite author is a fan of our play and, as such, he may be reading this very blog. Maybe I’ll get to meet him and he’ll see my work as a writer and as an actor and I’ll shake his hand and then maybe explode and die. The same can be said when people touch the hand of their favorite musician at a concert, or bump into their favorite actor on the street, or share a drink with their favorite athlete at a bar.

In a way I’m relieved I didn’t see A Klingon Christmas Carol before this year. If I had seen it in any of its previous productions I would have known more precisely what I was getting into once I was cast. There is a responsibility to the fans that is inherent in being a part of this show. As a cast member I’m joining a much larger community of Star Trek alums who have passed before me to affect the lives of many millions of people worldwide. Being in this play is bearing a portion of that weight, bringing joy to those fans who came to see a production of quality in order to enhance their lives under the guise of every incarnation of both Star Trek and A Christmas Carol. It’s an overwhelming undertaking.

One of the joys I’ve experienced so far is participating in promotional raids around Chicago. A few of us will dress in full costume and makeup and walk around town posing for pictures and passing out bookmarks with the show’s information. We meet people who are vaguely aware of Trek lore and people who are devout devotees. I delight to see faces lit up when they see us, and the light burns brighter when we tell them exactly what it is we’re promoting. We haven’t even taken the stage, and already we’re making people engaged and interested and excited about our existence. It is both humbling and an honor to be a part of such a dynamic, life-enhancing production.

I’m thrilled that the overall landscape of liking “nerdy” things is changing into something more commonly socially acceptable, because the truth is that we Trekkies (or Trekkers, if you prefer) are just as varied as any sampling of any people. We are scientists and doctors. We are artists and humanitarians. We are pilots and podiatrists and archeologists and novelists and musicians entrepreneurs and politicians. We’re aware that there is an implied amount of camp in this franchise we adore, but we embrace that fact along with the rest of the fun, of the imagination, of the science and the potential for scientific advancement, and we also embrace the hope for the enlightened future that Roddenberry first brought us in 1966.

These are all the things I mean when I say “I get to be a Klingon. notlh tonSaw’lij.”

Subtlety

Originally posted on www.cbtheatre.org

Within Isaac Asimov’s Foundation lies one of my favorite lines in literature: “It pays to be obvious, especially if you have a reputation for subtlety.” We’re at the point in our process where we seek ways to apply that forwards and backwards to the show we’re building.

All week we’ve been dealing with polishing those moments that need it. Until now there have been placeholder pieces; bits of blocking or fight choreography that have not been the primary focus of a scene and thus could wait until now to be properly addressed. Things like finding the right mix of pride and agony in a death howl, or a pleasing blend of arthritic tension and fluidity of movement, or what kind of non-contemporary-American hand gesture doesn’t also mean something naughty in sign language. Turns out that last is surprisingly easy.

One of the primary challenges has been performing in Klingon. Naturally the pronunciation was a trial, and we’ve been working hard to keep it accurate (or, at least, consistent) with the rules laid out by Dr. Marc Okrand, the linguist who invented the language – but that’s actually not the most difficult part. We have been well supported by Klingon speakers and friends of the show who attended our language intensive rehearsals. They helped us enormously by – for example – recording every line in the show for us to listen to and repeat over and over. Protip: the CTA is a wonderfully fun place to practice your Klingon.

We’ve gotten so good at the language by now that the most frequent note the actors are getting is slow down. We’re aware that our audience will not, on average, be fluent in the language we’re speaking. The production will have English supertitles above the actor’s heads just like watching a foreign film, but this idea doesn’t appeal to everyone, of course; just check out some Anime forums on sub/dub wars. When watching a movie (Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon keeps coming to mind) sometimes things can happen fast and a bit of dialog gets missed by the audience. This is especially true of the fight scenes.

We have an advantage doing this in live theatre, as opposed to a film, in that we can adapt our actions and the speed at which we speak so you don’t miss a thing. Indeed, I love how often we’re able to employ one of the early acting lessons I was taught: the audience should be able to watch a scene with the sound off and still have a full understanding of what’s happening. This is classic Stanislavski. If you’re wholly unaware of the dialogue you’ll still have an accurate understanding of the character relationships, the hierarchy, and the emotional state of each person. Thorough tone of voice, through physicality, and through each stage picture, you’ll be able to grasp every moment even if you happen to miss a line.

Don’t miss a line on purpose, though. There are some great ones in there.

The most fun place for me to explore physical storytelling is in the set of scenes for which I have no dialogue at all.

I’ve always been struck by the presentation of The Ghost of Christmas Future. Silent as the grave and a parable for the Grim Reaper, the only stage direction he gets is to point. The focus is and should be on Scrooge’s reaction to the shape his legacy will take. This is the chapter which pushes him over the edge and cements the alteration of his attitude.

As Kahless Future I get to explore elements of the character I’ve never noticed as an audience: shame, compassion, respect. I delight in finding ways to say look what you’ve done and how dare you as I lead SQuja’ from one example of his dishonor to the next. My favorite segment in the sequence is when we visit the QachIt home and – with the smallest possible gesture – I encapsulate the enormity of telling him look what you’ve caused to happen to other people.

When you come and see us, don’t worry about whether or not you’ll understand everything, because you will. You already know the story, after all. We just tell our version with fewer humans and more punching.

Taking Shape

Originally posted on www.cbtheatre.org

The show is finally coming together. This week we had a full run of act one, and the following evening we ran act two. It’s the first time I’ve seen the show as a whole since four weeks ago when we sat down for our first reading of the script.

I always delight in this rediscovery of the text that happens in a rehearsal process. On the first rehearsal we take the show as a whole entity and put it into a time capsule. Then individual rehearsals take a micro-perspective of each scene to ensure its quality, but as an actor I’m only focused on the work for the few scenes I’m in. I don’t attend rehearsals otherwise, so I have no idea how the bits I’m not in have been evolving in my absence.

Because this is the first time we’ve strung the scenes together, we referred to this first full run as a “stumble through.” We realized there were scene transitions we hadn’t figured out yet, and there were props being worked in for the first time. For these and other reasons we gave ourselves permission to fail, knowing full well that part of the purpose of a stumble through is to discover which bits need work, which bits need polish, and what (if anything) needs a complete overhaul. I myself had a “whoops” moment when I realized I had neglected to memorize my cue lines as thoroughly as my own; this led to one particularly embarrassing experience when, as Kahless Future, I kept pointing too soon.

Naturally this show is different from any other in that our first read-though was in a different language from the one we’re now working in. Rehearsals are now wholly in Klingon (except for the Vulcan narrator whose dialogue is in English). By the time the show goes up there will be supertitles for the audience who aren’t fluent in Klingon, but for now my understanding of the scenes is dependent upon the stage pictures made by the director and the physical and emotional choices of the actors.

I delight in seeing how the show has come together since the last time I watched these people bring the text to life. There are so many exciting moments of “Oh yeah, THAT part!” as I recall bits of the script I’ve not seen in four weeks. Then I see my own scenes in context with the rest of the play, and I’m overjoyed to take part in the whole.

Likewise, I hope I’m impressing my castmates as much as they’re impressing me. At the first read-through we’re simply sitting around a table. When there’s a fight scene, ‘e’rIH HoD simply read aloud the stage directions and says, “Then there’s a fight scene.” As I discussed last week, this is a woefully inadequate description of what we’ve built since that night. I’m particularly proud of the pics going up on Facebook and Twitter.

I’m also pleased and impressed watching the play be done by people for whom I’m developing a deep affection. For the last three years I was in shows with schoolmates, so I had already known them and what to expect from everyone. By contrast, the first day of this rehearsal was spent desperately trying to memorize everyone’s names. We were strangers joined by our art and our fandom. In the intervening weeks I’ve started to get to know these people on a personal and individual level, and my heart is beginning to swell. We’re becoming friends as well as comrades-in-art, and I love watching my new friends entertain me.

There are still three more weeks to bring this show together, so there are yet more changes and tweaks that will arise as we stack these building blocks and watch the structure stand. But now we know the shape of things to come. We’ve been wrapping our brains around the material, our lips around the language, and our bodies around each other’s fists. I’m more confident than ever that what we’re building is exciting and moving and beautiful.

Chris was right. This show affects lives.

Purpose

Originally posted on www.cbtheatre.org

Actors miss out on jobs far more often than we book them. We audition dozens of times for roles that end up going to other people – that’s simply the nature of the business (any business, really). It can be disappointing, and it can be frustrating, but we push on and keep trying and in the hopes of sooner or later landing a job.

What’s truly fulfilling is getting a part that offers the opportunity to utilize the fullest range of my talents and abilities. I earned my MFA in Acting this year, but I also have many years’ worth of background in both martial and stage combat. Not only that, but I’m a fairly large dude capable of bearing and manipulating another person’s weight with relative ease.

This is why, in part, when I tell friends and colleagues I’m cast in A Klingon Christmas Carol¸ I virtually always get the same response. There’s a look of mild surprise, quickly followed by a small grin as sudden understanding is achieved. Then the person slowly nods as if all is right with the world, and then they all say the same thing: “Of course you are.”

Rehearsal is always fun, but this week I’ve had several opportunities to bring my physique to the show under the imaginative direction of Fight Director Zach Livingston. Early in the rehearsal process we had a movement rehearsal that focused mostly on Klingon physicality. As a culture that prizes warriors, the body must be constantly ready to either attack or defend one’s self. We must be able to move in any direction with no warning, preparation, or hesitation. Knees are never locked, and no one ever lounges.

To ensure we’re keeping this in mind, Zach has given us a rule for the room. From time to time, someone will shout the word LUNGE. When this happens everyone must lunge at the nearest person in an attack posture. Everyone shouts and growls and charges each other. It’s particularly amusing to see two people in casual conversation be interrupted by this. Even more amusing is seeing SQuja’ run away from the fight like the dishonorable little coward that serves as the impetus of the story in the first place. Makes me giggle every time.

Early this week we focused on fighting with the bat’leth, the traditional weapon of a Klingon warrior. In addition to being given basic ways to manipulate this fantastically beautiful tool of war, Zach has choreographed us each with different styles of fighting one another. For example, some people use more footwork, while others focus on the variety of ways to manipulate the blade. Here we get to benefit from Zach’s extensive combat experience as well as his imagination to make us look good.

And we do look good. There are four consecutive one-on-one duels, and each one has a different flavor and style. You won’t be watching the same fight over and over.

This Saturday’s rehearsal was a four-hour choreography session for a single fight scene which promises to be the highlight of my year. Three times I’ve tried to describe to friends the aspects of what I get to do in this fight, and three times the conversation has degenerated into the sort of primal joy a five-year-old expresses when trying to describe his favorite parts of an action movie.

Suffice it to say I feel wholly utilized in this fight. This is a brawl on a huge scale with about a dozen actors punching, kicking, leaping, being lifted and thrown, being knocked around, knocked down and knocked out. Several fights happen at a time, and there are as many visual jokes thrown in as there are bodies on the floor by the end of it.

I also developed an intense, new level of appreciation for my castmates. A fight scene takes trust between partners. It’s difficult to commit to an action if you don’t feel like you aren’t going to get hurt, and I absolutely look like I could hurt someone if something goes wrong. Yet everyone I fight in this show (which is very nearly everyone) exhibits and inspires total confidence in myself and one another. Stage combat is just another form of dance, and the best dancing is done between capable partners. This show, and the fights within it, are going to be the most glorious eye candy I’ve ever had the honor to be a part of, and I couldn’t ask for a better group of people to do it with.

It’s a cliché to be sure, but I can’t escape that it’s the plain truth.

The Nine

Artistic inspiration strikes me in two ways.  Either an idea comes to me fully formed as did Athena from the forehead of Zeus . . . or it doesn’t come at all.

I first realized this when I got the idea for my boylesque debut about a year and a half ago.  In a single flash of inspiration lasting no longer than a moment, I came up with the song, the concept, and my new stage name.  An hour later I had the costume finalized and the choreography rehearsed.  The next evening I brought it to rehearsal, only one aesthetic tweak from being ready for performance.

I’ve had other successes since then, but to date this remains my signature act.  It’s the favorite not only of my colleagues who’ve been with me since my first audition, but it continually gets the highest praise from long-time members of the burlesque community at large.  It’s the standard against which all my other acts are measured, and is at the foundation of my Straight Men’s Fan Club (a tale for another time).  Since then every act I’ve taken to the stage has enjoyed a similar genesis.  An idea, a tune, and a story all emerge as effortlessly as a drunk falls down the stairs.

Which is not to say this is always the way of things.  I tried for months to come up with a new act with no success.  Several failed attempts to bring something of value to rehearsal only resulted in embarrassment.  Six months later I was nearly resigned to the idea of my boylesque victory being a fluke when I was struck by the muse once more, and my tribute to Reservoir Dogs was born.

This happens with my writing, too. 

Several times I’ve sat down to write a blog, pulling ideas from the collection of hastily written notes on my phone (the list currently includes, but is not limited to: wondering if I’ve ever met the dead; bad dreams are a betrayal; Turkish coffee wish; the beauty of transients; Spoonman).  But when I dig up these bones and try to cover them with flesh and muscle and sinew I find the structure can no longer bear weight, and the whole idea collapses and is banished before I can even give it a name. 

Yet if I start constructing the piece as a whole during the very hour in which inspiration begins to light my path, I can find my way through to the end, usually having crafted something to which I’m proud to put my name.

Another example: two weeks ago I was invited to an open mic poetry slam.  With a scant 24 hours’ notice it was further suggested I prepare and present a poem of my own.  I’ve only written one poem in the last eight years, and that was only performed to some classmates (and, a year later, to a webcam).  That night I had trouble sleeping, and to focus my ravaged mind while tossing and turning I started constructing and organizing the elements of what I wanted to say.  I never imagined a poem would take me to the stage in front of paying strangers, yet much to my surprise, several of those strangers approached me afterwards to say lovely things about what I’d said and how I’d said it.

But when I tried to write another poem this afternoon to bring to the show this evening my voice had left me.  I had nothing important or entertaining to say.  I went to the slam empty handed, disappointed, and frustrated.

I don’t express these tales in order to brag.  Well – not only to brag. 

I’ve learned an important lesson when it comes to the creation of art, regardless of the medium; the birth of inspiration is both fickle and fragile.  I don’t know how to invoke it, or how to broaden my frame of mind to receive it, or even if such things are possible.  When it does arrive, it must be nurtured and fed immediately lest it shrivel and die and threaten to never ever return.

Maybe I should keep pen and paper with me at all times.  This is the life I’ve chosen, after all.

Back Off, Man. I'm an Artist

Originally posted on www.cbtheatre.org

Stories come in a variety of media. We have novels, films, music, poetry. Each has a unique voice, and the subdivisions of genre present flavors and styles unrepresented by any of the others. There are many stories and so many ways to tell them, thus all art of reputable quality asks the question, “Why this story, in this style?” Why stage a classic when you could simply read the classic? If you want to watch Star Trek, why not just watch Star Trek?

The snappy answer is that we, as a culture, have run out of new ideas. A more considered opinion is this: a story is just as important as the way in which we choose to tell it. Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree would be the same story without the illustrations, but adding those pictures allows us to appreciate it in a way we cannot with words alone. My nephews could read it for themselves, but it becomes more enjoyable when they crawl into my mother’s lap (like I used to do) and she reads it aloud.

As we put this play together, I’m continually reminded of words offered by Our Fearless Leader Eric Van Tassell on the first day of rehearsal. He said we aren’t simply a bunch of fans of the franchise who got together and decided to put on a play (yes, we know that no one is “simply” a fan of anything, but that’s a point for another time). Don’t get me wrong; we are certainly fans of the franchise. Even those of us who weren’t before this year certainly are now; for example, one of my castmates watched the entirety of The Next Generation this summer, and is currently trucking his way through every episode of Deep Space Nine.

Trek fans are many things, but as Eric pointed out that day, those of us involved in this production are also professional artists. We are actors, directors, designers, choreographers. We are all storytellers, experienced and trained and talented, who are molding the clay of our source materials into a living piece of art that will reinvigorate our audience’s appreciation for both Dickens and Roddenberry.

Every rehearsal over the past week starts like it does for any other production. First comes the table work; we sit and read a scene and discuss its importance within the context of the play. Every character’s motivation is represented and examined. We take a close look at every thread, scrutinizing the strength and quality to ensure the tapestry as a whole remains strong. This is usually capped with Eric reading the relevant chapter from the original Dickens tale, which helps remind us of the original tone.

Naturally we also explore Klingon perspective. What does it mean through the eyes of this culture? How is SQuja’ expected to behave with honor, and how is he failing? What lessons does he need to learn, and what does this scene teach him?

Once all avenues of intellectual exploration are explored, the scene goes on its feet. Eric structures one stage picture after another. Logistical issues of scene shifts are solved. Character relationships are explored through physicality and use of the dialog. Finally the whole framework of the scene is constructed, and we leave it to marinade in our individual and collective subconscious until we explore it again.

Why should you come and see this play? Why not just read the book, or rent one of the film treatments? Why blend two different stories together into one? You may as well ask why we mixed chocolate and peanut butter. Because it is awesome.

But, of course, that’s a snappy answer. The more considered response is this: each treatment allows a story to breathe fresh life as it is experienced by a new audience. It’s given a new perspective as the storytellers analyze and interpret through their own voices. Moreover; one of the best ways to experience one culture is through the eyes of another; the other, in this case, being a different aspect of that same culture. In this way we’re taking a deep look at ourselves, pitting two stories against one another and finding the common threads between them in an attempt to highlight our humanity, our values, and our capacity for change.

We do this as artists. We do this as fans. We do this to honor and keep alive the spirits of those who came before us – they who enriched our own lives with stories – and to pass their stories on to another generation that has evolved alongside the rest of our culture.

Opening December 1^st. Get your tickets now.

BeHolden

There’s a trend in how I’ve been engaging myself with entertainment this year.  It all centers around things I first discovered over ten years ago.  I’ve re-watched movies and TV shows, I’ve re-read book series, I’ve re-played video games that I first discovered around the time I was in college between 1996 and 2001, and just after.

Nice as it is to revisit these old passers of time, I find myself curious as to why I’m so locked into this pattern.  It’s as if I’m trying to rediscover some piece of myself I once lost.  Maybe I had something figured out then and I’m trying to reclaim it.  Maybe I’m trying to center myself, compare my attitudes and opinions of today with those of fifteen years ago.  Maybe I want to determine whether my values have gone astray.

Whatever the reason, I had the culmination of these things last Wednesday when I visited the Art Institute of Chicago for the second time in as many weeks.  My first time there was at the age of sixteen on a trip from Texas with my high school choir.  My girlfriend and I were walking through the place when we happened on a particular painting that struck me.

I had never been a particular appreciator of art, but the immense level of detail of this piece engaged me in a way nothing else had that day.  The picture was of a pipe, not dissimilar from one I saw my father use when I was growing up.  The grain of the wood caught my eye, as did the deep reddish glow of the coals as they burned.  A thin trail of smoke drifted lazily from the bowl.  But what burned brightest in my memory was the single French sentence written beneath the picture.

My girlfriend asked me to translate.  I was taking a French class (because German was full and Spanish was dumb), and the sentence was simple enough.  Basic stuff.  There was an encouraging challenge in her tone as well.  Her mother and her sister had been trying to get her to break up with me on the basis that I was shiftless and didn’t deserve her.  She didn’t disbelieve them (and they weren’t wrong), but still she gave me every opportunity to prove myself worthy.

The sentence made no sense.  I stared at it for a full minute, certain I had made a mistake.  My girlfriend’s eyes, hopeful, bore into me as my faced twitched with difficulty.  Finally I concluded I had the sentence correct and uttered the translation: “This is . . . not a pipe.”

But it was a pipe!  I could see that.  It was obvious.  The contradiction forced me to pay more attention to the object itself.  The more I looked, the more it looked like a pipe.  Was I being tricked?  Was a camera there to record my face gone all wonky and warped like a funhouse mirror?  My girlfriend wondered whether I was pulling a stupid prank, which had been a long time habit for me.

The image and the experience stuck with me, and over the years I visited Chicago twice more before I finally moved here.  Each time was a few years after the last, and each time I wondered through the halls of the Art Institute with the purpose of stumbling upon the painting.  “Here I stand again,” I would think, and reflect on all the events of my life that had occurred since the last time I stood and looked at that particular painting.  It was a way of making watershed moments in my life, taking stock of myself and measuring how far I’d come since the last time I’d stood and observed that particular painting.

But this time I observed it and felt – nothing in particular.  Maybe I had built up the moment too much.  After living here five years, this was the first time I’d carved out the opportunity to get there.  I had wanted to, I had tried, but I didn’t want to go unless I had someone with me to mark the occasion (which didn’t make sense, since I had no one with me the last time I was there in 2005).  This time all I could think about was the first time I’d seen it.  The two subsequent visits had been reduced to hazy memories; I remember other elements of those trips far better.

Maybe it’s because I’ve lived more in my last five years than I lived in the previous ten.  I’ve grown more.  Learned more about myself.  Risen to – and conquered – more challenges.  Become more responsible, more disciplined.  Taken more risks.  And I find that the more I change, the more I like who I am.  I’m not ashamed of wasting my life, watching it go by.

And maybe it’s to do with the time I wasted when I graduated with my Bachelor’s in 2001.  Those were the beginning of my Wasting Years, the period in which I took no chances with my life and affected no changes.  I ran away or hid from challenges, burying myself in the fantastic lives of fictional characters rather than constructing a life of my own.

Just like when I was sixteen.

 

I got my Master’s degree this year, and if I’m not careful, I could fall into the same pattern of stagnation.  Perhaps I’m revisiting these old companions of mine not to reclaim a piece of myself, but rather it’s my subconscious warning me that I could end up burrowed in my apartment for days at a time, only doing the bare minimum it takes to keep the roof over my head and never aspiring to anything greater.

Okay, then.   Message received and interpreted.  Warning recognized.  It’s time to do new things, so that the next time I find myself before a painting pretending to be a pipe, I’ll have more to say about who I’ve become during the in-between times.

Livin' the Dream

Originally posted on www.cbtheatre.org

My fellow actors and I have a saying between us: “Livin’ the dream.” This is the most common response to the question, “How are you?” and it answers a lot.

We went to school because we were chasing a dream of becoming more than we were. At one time or another we were inspired to become artists, and we undertook an educational challenge that would hone, amend, and strengthen our talents. I became an artist because I wanted to inspire in other people the same dynamic experiences that books and movies and music and television and video games invoked in me as an audience.

When I was in middle school my primary inspiration was Star Trek. I owned a copy of the Star Trek Technical Manual and a copy of The Klingon Dictionary. I wore a Next Gen communicator pin on my jacket. These things pulled the fantasy out of the television and allowed me to carry it around at all times; though the ownership, display, and perusal of these materials did nothing for my popularity. I was already an outsider due to my physical size (I was six feet tall by the age of twelve), and my non-mainstream behavior served to keep my schoolmates at a distance that was, if thin, certainly palpable.

Worf was my favorite character because I felt I could best identify with him. He was an outsider. Physically different from his colleagues, intimidating, and had no one to share his passions. For Worf those passions included duty, honor, and the culture of his ancestry. For me those passions included what was deemed to be (among my schoolmates) a derisive nerdy sub-culture with which – like Worf – I could rarely find someone who shared it.

Flash forward twenty-two years. I’m at the end of my academic career when a classmate passes on an audition notice for A Klingon Christmas Carol. This . . . this was nerdiness doubled. No, trebled. Someone had taken the Dickens classic and merged it with a far future epic. Of course I had always wanted to be an actor on a Star Trek property in my youth, but what were the chances of that? Now I was not only a trained actor, but a trained martial and stage combatant as well as experienced in studying various foreign languages and English dialects. Never had I been in a better position to tackle any role as this.

When I was cast, I did the most epic happy dance ever.

My first involvement with the play was to attend the 19^th annual meeting of the Klingon Language Institute. Three days of hanging out with people who . . . there are no words. Dedicated fandom doesn’t cover it. Jovial souls isn’t strong enough. Kindhearted doesn’t scratch the surface. I was also extremely impressed by the level of intelligence; I have a Master’s degree, and I’m pretty certain I had the lowest level of education in the room.

As inadequate as these words are to describe the people who attended the meeting, imagine what it was like for me to finally discover this group of people and count myself among them. Also in attendance was Marc Okrand, the linguist who authored the Klingon Dictionary which had been sitting on my bookshelf since my thirteenth birthday.

No aspect of what you may call “nerd culture” is compartmentalized. A Klingon Christmas Carol finds the intersection points of two beloved classic properties and blends their worlds, strengthening the individual value of both. My small contribution was, after spending three days building up the nerve, to ask Dr. Okrand how to say “Your argument is invalid” in Klingon, thus creating a tighter bond between Star Trek and one of my favorite internet memes. I’m proud to say that the phrase (literally translated as “Your fighting technique is obsolete”) is now an official idiomatic expression in Klingon.

So awesome.

Rehearsals for the play began about six weeks after the KLI meeting, and again the feeling of coming home washed over me in a way I’ve never felt. I’m in a room full of people who are both professional actors and Star Trek fans. One of the first things we did was, at director Eric Van Tassell’s suggestion, to introduce ourselves by talking about what things we’re nerds for (sports, hobbies, stories, and so on). Historically this is the kind of thing I always kept quiet about, so being in a room with nearly two dozen like-minded people was so refreshing and relieving. I found comrades-in-arms on so many topics I’ll be stunned if I don’t walk away from this production with new lifelong friends.

The first week’s worth of rehearsals exposed an even deeper well of appreciation for this production. The script contains references not only to classic Star Trek tropes and ideologies, but also contains one of my favorite quotes from Shakespeare. We had two language intensive rehearsals, four hours apiece, with a third on the way. We aren’t merely learning to pronounce this language, we’re learning vocabulary and conjugation and sentence structure. We have movement rehearsals as well, which aren’t merely stage combat intensives, but also examinations of how this culture of Klingons walks, stands, sits, marches. None of it is easy, but I learned a long time ago that nothing worth doing is easy.

And this show is certainly worth doing. Of all the things that I adore and have been inspired by in this production, I was most struck by something Commedia Beauregard Artistic Director Chris Kidder-Mostrom (who is also the playwright) said to us early in the process. Why do we do this show? We do it because it affects lives. It affects the lives of the people who do the show, and it affects the lives of the people who see the show.

Never have I heard a more altruistic reason for doing art. We’re going on a journey together, the artists and the audience, and we’re building an experience that will leave us all changed for the better. Being a part of this production is both a validation of the child I used to be and the adult I’ve become. This show is a validation of every child and former child who has and will bear witness to its execution. This show is worth every drop of effort, and I believe in it with all my heart.

Today, when my colleagues ask me “How are you?” and I answer, “Livin’ the dream,” I’m honored to say I’m actually living several dreams at a time. And perhaps inspiring the birth of new dreams as well.

Qapla’.

Knob Job

For those of you who haven’t experienced it, many Chicago apartments are well over 100 years old.  They go through renovations from time to time, but more often than not this merely consists of a fresh slather of paint over the previous layers.

 

It also never seems to be applied by a painter, exactly; the evidence of my eyes suggests it was a nine-year-old trying to knock out the job in an afternoon with a rubber spatula.  It’s uneven and dries and hardens in long drips, like amber raindrops running down a windowpane caught in a freeze frame.  From observation of places where the paint layer is particularly thin, or has chipped away, it’s clear that my off-white dining room used to be blue, my blue bathroom used to be pink, and the strike plates on the doors didn’t used to be painted.  Next to the light switch in my bedroom the paint has chipped away so deeply I can see the previous five colors that room used to be; it’s like cutting down a tree and counting the rings. They paint over electrical outlets and picture hangers and the pocket change left on a windowsill.

 

There are no straight lines in my apartment.  Windows are cut into the wall at odd angles not exactly in line with the ceiling. Sometimes the ceiling itself has the barest slant.  This makes hanging a picture evenly a task to be completed not with a level, or some other craftsman’s tool, but rather with one eye nearly shut and the other eye bulging (think Popeye) and a fair amount of compromise.

 

Every door in my place has been kicked in at least once.  Long splinters of wood are missing from the jambs, clearly ripped away by the bolt and replaced with more paint.  Sometimes I indulge in the fantasy of a Prohibition-era thug holed up in my bathroom while impeccably dressed cops or capos kick at the latch until the door explodes inward.  Collars are grabbed and sneering faces are shoved into cowering ones.  Maybe someone was even thrown out of a window.

 

I feel less like I’m in an apartment and more like I’m in a tree fort with electricity.  It’s pretty awesome.

 

The quality of repair (if it can be referred to as such) once led to a mildly embarrassing situation.  I had been living here for about four months before I had my first guest – it was our second date.  We were watching Kiss Kiss Bang Bang (I don’t go in for rom coms, thankyouverymuch) when I excused myself to the bathroom.  As this was the first time I had company, this was the first time I had need to shut my bathroom door.

 

Trying to pee quietly when a potential romance is brewing in the other room is harrowing enough.  It’s a common enough situation, I suppose, so I presume what followed has very little precedent in the overall world of dating life.  I tried to leave the bathroom, but when I grabbed the knob I heard something tiny and metal hit the tile.  The knob pulled easily enough, but the door stayed shut.  The knob had come off in my hand.

 

I stared in disbelief at the object I held – a clear pseudo-sphere that had been masquerading as the key to my egress and back to my potential make-out session.  The door retained a hole where the knob had been, a semi-perfect round lip that matched the “O” of surprise in my face.

 

This did not just happen, I thought to myself.  It didn’t help.  I tried pawing at the door plate ineffectually like my cat does when she’s on one side and wants to be on the other.  That didn’t help either.  A square shaped prong jutted out from the hole where the knob used to be like a mocking tongue.  Nyah nyah, the door seemed to say.  You’re stuck fella, and you’re not getting out of this on your own.

 

I briefly considered calling to my date for help, but the bootheel of my pride snuffed out that glowing ember of hope before it could catch fire.  I squeezed the contemptuous prong with thumb and forefinger, barely able to obtain a grip, and twisted with the might of growing panic.  I quickly determined that only the strength of the wrath of God could get that to turn without a tool.  The consideration to call for help arose from my depths once more, but I shoved its head below the surface to drown.  Visions of the door crashing in attending high drama were replaced with visions of my date demurely letting me out as one would a pet who was put away for the day to prohibit pee stains from occurring on the carpet.

 

I am a man, I thought to myself.  A macho man who has done home repair.  A man who was suave enough to talk himself into a second date.  I can get out of this.  But these thoughts were only shouts in the storm compared to the simple plank of wood, securely fixed, that stood between myself and the hallway.

 

Suddenly I remembered the ting! I heard at the start of my little adventure.  I searched the floor and found a tiny screw.  Bitty.  Insignificant.  Barely worth notice.  But worthy enough to be shoved through an equally tiny hole in the doorknob, grip the metal protrusion, and twist my way to freedom.

 

Success!  I got the door open and suppressed a derisive cry of victory.  The first order of business was to grab a screwdriver and fix the knob with, at least, the illusion of permanence.  I couldn’t have my date suffer the same indignity I just had.  I was simply grateful she didn’t go in first.

 

I rejoined her on the couch where we finished the movie and ignored the fact that I a) took too long in the bathroom and b) developed a problem in there that could only be solved with a fucking toolbox. 

 

I’m lucky I have other things going for me.

Sacred

I used to have a Perfect Sunday.

I’d wake up around 8:00 without benefit of an alarm clock.  For years I’d worked a 9-5 job in the loop, and had finally acclimated to shifting my schedule to living by the sun instead of the moon.  With no meatspace social outlet (my only friends were on-line) I never had a reason to stay up or out late. 

The first order of the day was to brew my special Sunday Coffee:  HEB brand Texas Pecan, first gifted to me by my elder sister in a care package to celebrate my new apartment, moved into the same week I came to grad school.  It was not the same coffee I would drink during the rest of the week.  This coffee was special.  Tastier.  Drank for the sheer pleasure of the flavor instead of a simple morning jump start.

As that began to brew I’d begin making breakfast to extend and compliment the orally hedonistic experience initiated by the coffee.  Could be I’d make a batch of Kirby Lane Pancakes (again, made from the mix sent me by my sister).  Could be an omelet using a modified Mom’s scrambled egg recipe plus a compliment of red onion, bell peppers, and mushrooms.  Most frequently it was the Grilled Cheese Fried Egg Sandwich Om Nom Nom.  This was an egg, sunny side up, added to a slice or two of Swiss cheese, melty and dripping from between the buttery toast coated with just a hint of mayo inside.  Drippy, greasy, delicious.

Post breakfast would find me sitting at my computer, sipping coffee, sucking a cigarette, and checking the latest batch of Postsecrets.  My whole morning was soundtracked by soft jazz using iTunes Genius to create a playlist based upon Dave Brubeck’s Take Five, reminding me starkly of the kind of jazz my father would play during my childhood.

Coffee mug empty, cigarette stubbed to ash, and the last Sunday Secret read, I’d check the nearest movie theatre for earliest showtimes.  About 20 minutes north of me is a theater whose first showing of each movie each day is $5.50.  It’s a first run theatre, so it’s large and comfortable and not a bad evening spot (there’s even a piano bar in there, complete with a full kitchen and pool table).  But getting there early on a Sunday meant I got to watch whatever I wanted without a massive crowd to shuffle through taking up the best seats and talking through the movie.

It didn’t matter what I went to see.  Indeed, the point of going to the movies wasn’t ever about the movie itself so much as the event of going to the movies.  To sit in the dim and watch people file in.  To catch the teases of other movies that promised to excite, to inspire, to amuse.  To watch a story unfold before me and pay attention to the art of action, of direction, of design.  To sit through the end credits like my mom always used to do, listening to the final selections of the score.

I’m discovering a lot of my favorite things are those which bring me closer to family.  My parents in particular.

It used to be that I’d only go to the movies at night; they’d be the final event of the evening, frequently the last showing of the day.  Though it’s been many years since I had that particular habit, some part of me still expects to emerge from the darkness of a movie house to the darkness of the night, head home and straight to bed.  Thus I was always refreshed walking out of my Sunday Morning Movie; there was still so much daylight!

Next I’d hit the grocery store and pick up the perishables I’d diminished during the course of the previous week, then head home and immediately change into some exercise clothes before I’d lose momentum, grab my bicycle, and ride down Lakefront Trail to Navy Pier.  It’s an eleven mile trip from my home to the pier, and I’d ride both as a meditation and exercise routine, trying to race south as fast as my legs could take me.  I’d rest at the far end of the pier for ten minutes or so, taking in the boats and the skyline and watching tourists take pictures of one another.  Finally I’d walk down the pier counting all the different languages of conversation around me, listening to the family friendly tunes piped in over the speakers, the squawk of the seagulls, and smelling the pretzels and the roasted almonds and the biomass.  Finally I’d cap my ears with headphones once more and ride home to a Pavlovian induced exercise focus.

Still riding high from the elevated endorphins of exercise, I’d start cleaning my apartment.  This could take minutes or hours depending on whether I felt my place needed a spot check or a scour.  Stone Temple Pilots would press me while I began in the kitchen, cleaning from the countertops down to the floor.  A broom and a mop would take me from the kitchen into the dining room, then south to my bathroom and bedroom, the hallway, and finally the furniture and floor of my living room.  Somewhere in the middle of this I’d halt everything to take a smoke break once Sour Girl played, and I’d take a moment to sing along and reflect on the Greatest Hits of Ending Relationships.  Sometimes I’d listen to Foo Fighters instead and do the same thing during Stranger Things Have Happened.

My apartment finally cleaned and ready for company should I ever convince anyone to come over, I’d shower and put on my favorite In for the Night clothes; flannel pajama pants, a rather baggy long sleeved shirt that makes me feel like I’m seven wearing one of my dad’s shirts, and puffy slippers made to look like running shoes.

Finally I’d put on some headphones – it was getting late, after all, and I don’t want to use up too much goodwill with my neighbors – and crank the volume on the Foo Fighters’ Live at Wembley Stadium DVD from 2008.  I’d fill a 32 ounce cup with ice, Jim Beam (white label), and Coke and start cooking all the lunches I would need for the week.  This would involve the thawing/seasoning/searing of some chunks of chicken breast, mixing up some penne and devising a Sauce of the Week.  This was different each and every time as I was always too drunk to remember what I’d done in previous weeks, and it was almost always freaking fantastic.

Due to the drinking, the effects of Sunday didn’t end until sometime Monday morning.  I’d awake and try to reconstruct hazy memories of the previous night’s kitchen activities, frequently in a mild panic as to whether I’d left something uncooked sitting on the counter all night.  More often than not I was delighted to discover what a joy my drunken self took in housekeeping duties.  Nearly every Monday morning I’d awake to discover my kitchen cleaned, dishes washed and put away, lunches portioned out into individual containers in the fridge, and coffee brewed and awaiting my travel mug.

Then one day I found myself in the frequent company of a lovely lady who took unwitting ownership of my time and attention, and the events of my Sunday Ritual became a thing of memory.   I still do these things in fragments as the rest of my life has since been complimented with IRL friends and hobbies.  But lately I’m longing for a return to the things that used to matter.

Perhaps next week a variation of this will reemerge.