Drive

"There's never gonna be a moment of truth for you
While the world is watching."


-- Ben Folds, "Learn to Live with What You Are"


--


It struck me that maybe my favorite part of working here has been the morning drive. Fifteen minutes, always northward, never a need to speed. And I've never written about it. So:


--


It is a Ben Folds morning. Start up and the world moves to "Rent a Cop," the pound of piano in a go-get-'em, push-onward rhythm. My window is down as I navigate my neighborhood, and the bass is intense. When I stop at a corner, a trio of sullen teens glare in the direction of my blare. I set off. The sun seems big, extended streaks of shine on the hood and in the mirror's view of the trunk.


Halfway done with the highway and a state cop SUV pulls up alongside like a protector and a menace. The car is magical, magnetic, magnanimous--it slows all traffic around it. Like a heroic film cliche, the statie pulls out ahead and leaves us in his wake, so much exhaust. It passes a ratty van and in the gust a piece of duct tape peels and flings from the van's body, spinning laterally in the air like a lawn ornament in limbo, standing and twisting in space. It does not hit my windshield. 


I stop for tea at a gas station. I have never been there before. An ethnic man, burly in a blue checkered shirt, stands behind the counter, eying customers. I zero in on the Arizona fridge. A black youth slides through the aisles with stealth. The cashier accuses him of trying to steal some Jolly Ranchers. They argue. The cashier gives up and says, "Seventy-five cents." The youth slaps a dollar bill on the counter. "Keep the change," the kid says, and swaggers out. An elderly black lady is buying cigarettes next. She asks what that was about. The cashier says, "I saw him." He comes around the counter and points at a shelf of candies. "This stack was like this," he shows with his hand, "and then he was there and it's like this now. I saw him. I saw him." He repeats it to himself as he rings up the woman's cigs. "I saw him. I saw him." When it's my turn, he notices my tie and says, "Good morning, sir." I say, "Hey." He says, "I saw him." I say, "Okay."


Back in the car, skirting a construction crew within a block of work, a car comes at me in my lane. It slows to a confused halt, the driver realizing that this is a one-way street that is blocked off behind me, ahead of him. He creeps his car backwards like a small mammal, shifts, and makes a turn.


I get to work. I write about the drive.

Bursting

"Make no mistake. I take these children seriously. It is not possible to see too much in them, to overindulge your casual gift for the study of character. It is all there, in full force, charged waves of identity and being. There are no amateurs in the world of children."

-- Don DeLillo, White Noise


--

The Nerd ended, as all shows do. It was fun, as all shows are.

I am glad it is over, as I always am.

In attendance were three co-workers, four college friends, and six former students of mine. They aren't the sort of statistics one ought to read much into (nor are reviews), but it's interesting. And something worth remembering, I guess. Students see shows. So do friends.

--

One student dropped by today with her family to present me with a gift. A beautiful little card, a gift card to a hip food place nearby, and a baggie of chocolate-covered espresso beans.

The mother mentioned that she figured I'd be cleaning out my refrigerator about this time, seeing as how I'm a week away from moving and all. And the thought crossed my mind that I really ought to be cleaning a lot of things right now. Instead, here I am, the last one to leave the office again, listening to The Decemberists and wrapping things up.

I've already eaten four beans. My chest is bursting; my eyelids have forgotten how to fall.

--

In preparation for the road, I've been increasing my listening options exponentially. A lot of Death Cab for Cutie albums, a lot of showtunes, a lot of spoken word. Maybe I'll make good use of the radio this time, too.

For nights and stir-crazy hours, I'm planning to take a pair of Netflix DVDs along: parts one and two of The Corner. I'll watch what I can, when I can, maybe in the corners of Paneras and parking lots.

And Lord knows, I'm traveling with plenty of books.

--

I just need to get rid of furniture, and I'm set. I told my sister last night that all I really feel like keeping are books, movies and clothes.

--

So: I'd better get to it.

Apologetics

"We are interested in doing good children's theatre, and in providing a valid learning experience. Therefore, we prefer children who want to learn about the discipline and skills of the art of performing first, and who want to have fun second."

-- mission statement of the Caryl Crane Children's Theatre


--


Mission statements are generally not worth the ink with which they're printed. They are full of words and commas, lists of usually three slightly dissimilar abstractions pertaining to the industry. It's true especially of arts organizations, where the mission statement is debated at length as if it were equal in importance to a Constitutional amendment. Words are dissected, spliced, compounded, and ultimately rejected. I've only ever been a part of two such sessions, and I never want to be a part of one again. It's like writing an English paper with a dozen suddenly disagreeable people. And at the end of all the arguments, you're left with an almost perfectly meaningless jumble of nice-sounding phrases that no one really likes. And this is the banner you have chosen for your group. You put it on flyers, brochures, posters, websites, ads, merchandise...this is what patrons will read right after they see your company's name on a piece of paper and right before they decide whether you're worth spending money.


The longer the mission statement, frankly, the easier it is to ignore. It's like a tax code no one will enforce.


All that said, the mission statement from the Caryl Crane Children's Theatre in Huron, OH (the town where I spent two summers at the Huron Playhouse), is solid. Why? Two reasons:


1.) It's short. We live in a quick-paced society, and the faster you can spit out your mission, the better. The fewer words that appear as a blob of text on an otherwise stunning layout, the better.


2.) It's honest. They clearly know what they want from their students. They communicate that clearly, too, with a directness most arts organizations lack. The diction is simple. They don't say, "quality entertainment that enriches students academically, socially and emotionally;" instead, they say, "a valid learning experience." This implies, too, that other groups may not be able to offer a valid learning experience, just the outward signs of one. And not only does the second sentence pose a sort of challenge to prospective students, but it also tells you the priorities by which the program operates. Notice the sentence structure: "...we prefer children who want..." It's the language of Help me help you, give and take.


I guess I should also add that their tone is unapologetic. Too often, in matters of business and marketing, the arts appear to be apologizing for themselves, for their very presence, as if they are severely out of place. It's true that the artistic community has reason to apologize if they are not serving the greater good, or if what they produce is not enlightening or intriguing, or if they are asking for money that ought to be given to more practical, helpful groups. But something like a children's theatre is always going to fulfill those criteria--they serve the community, the kids are enlightened and intrigued constantly, and they usually subsist on donations, cheap tuition, and low ticket prices (if any). There is no reason to apologize. At the Caryl Crane, they don't.


--


Been thinking more about this kind of thing lately. Subjects pertaining to how the arts are perceived and how they present themselves. I'm thinking about pursuing a graduate degree (Masters of Arts Administration) with the ultimate goal of starting my own theatre company. Like Eminem at the end of Eight Mile, I think I just need to do my own thing.


I'll spend the next months preparing for the GMAT and revising applications. The University of Cincinnati has a dual-degree program, as does the closer-to-home University of Wisconsin-Madison, which results in an MBA and MAA. That's what I'm interested in if I am to go back to school. "In this economy," and all that.


I thought briefly about some MFA programs, but from what I've seen, it all still comes down to whether you're any good at the thing you studied. You have an MFA in Playwriting, great, but has anyone outside of obligation ever produced your plays? You got your MFA in Acting, sure, but you still had to audition to get your last job, right? I'm not trying to discount anyone's degree or life choice. I'm just saying that for me, given my current ambition, an MFA would not really help.


Is that too apologetic?

Casts

"at least someone came to see us"

-- caption under the latest photo of me tagged on Facebook

--

I'm glad to be "at least someone."

Context: some of the kids at The Children's Theatre STAR program performed at a Pops concert at the end of July. The composer was the music director at our camp, and he wanted to give some selected students a chance to show off, get us some publicity, etc. The concert was on a Friday night, after the final day of classes. We had rescheduled one of our performances so that this small group could do the Pops gig.

During that day, it became more and more apparent that no one was planning to attend the concert. Our best singers were performing in front of thousands of people, and maybe none of their teachers would be there.

It seemed wrong.

Two of us ended up going, me and one of the dance teachers. I can't blame anyone for not going--people are busy, and really, how many things are going on on a given Friday night?--but I can say that the kids were ecstatic to see us. We got hugs. And, apparently, someone took a picture of us snapping along with what I can only assume was a doo-wop song. And you can kind of tell from the picture, but it was a gorgeous night.

I should also mention that a lot of these kids' classmates came, too.

--

Best show of The Nerd was last night. So far. By far.

--

Rumors notwithstanding, we have cast all four shows for the 2010-11 season. People will find out within a week from today.

I've noticed that some of the rookie teens who were called back must have misunderstood our notification policy. I received a call today from a girl who sounded frantic about not getting a call yet. I told her it was next week. Then I saw another teen who had updated a status bemoaning failure. Don't fret yet, kids. We need a week to make all the arrangements before we can mail out contracts.

I've also noticed that even though I'm within 20 days of moving and leaving this company, I'm still saying "we."

--

Study guides comprise the main part of my workload these days. Years ago, when I worked for the publishing company in Hillsdale, I spent the last few weeks of employment doing the same thing I'm doing now: namely, scanning through the educational benchmark standards of various states. At the publishing company, it was only Michigan's. But here, I'm looking at Ohio, Indiana, and Kentucky.

(I thought about putting in links to those websites, but who the hell's gonna read that stuff?)

I know states have to have educational standards. But these tomes of regulations are so dense, so poorly and ambiguously worded, that I believe I'm losing brain power by reading through them. Not that I think they should be glitzed up and filled with colorful diction. Just...I don't know. Maybe they should just not have so many standards about so many things.

Here's a sample, taken from Kentucky's reading requirements for 4th grade:

Student demonstrates extensive

understanding of literary, informational,

persuasive, and practical/ workplace

texts.

Demonstrates an extensive

understanding of literary elements (e.g.,

setting, characters, plot, and

problem/solution) when reading literary

text

Demonstrates an extensive

understanding of text features (e.g., lists,

tables, graphs, etc.) when reading

informational text

Demonstrates an extensive

understanding of fact and the author’s

opinion when reading persuasive text

Demonstrates an extensive

understanding of text (e.g., locating and

applying information for authentic

purposes, interpreting specialized

vocabulary, and following directions)

when reading practical/workplace text

--

I wish I didn't have to read this stuff in order to create an effective, marketable, relevant study guide. But I do.

--

On the upside, I got a call about a job in Omaha. We'll see about it in a few weeks, I guess, but it would be a great part-time gig if I can land it. House management for a solid venue. Could be just the thing.

I've also been nibbling at acting and directing work in the area. For now, I'm only going for gigs that pay. Gotta have my own standards.

Shortly after signing on to play Peter Pan in the spring, I found out that the main children's theatre in Omaha is doing Peter Pan - The Musical! this fall and winter. Auditions are days after I get back home. You bet I'm gonna be all over that audition. I won't play Pan, but I also don't have to. And that is a very cool thing not to have to do.

--

And, oh yeah. I bought a harmonica last week.

I can play three songs.

I can fake many, many more.

Rags

"They are in a great hurry," said the little prince. "What are they looking for?"

"Not even the locomotive engineer knows that," said the switchman.

And a second brilliantly lighted express thundered by, in the opposite direction.

"Are they coming back already?" demanded the little prince.

"These are not the same ones," said the switchman. "It is an exchange."

"Were they not satisfied where they were?" asked the little prince.

"No one is ever satisfied where he is," said the switchman.

And they heard the roaring thunder of a third brilliantly lighted express.

"Are they pursuing the first travelers?" demanded the little prince.

"They are pursuing nothing at all," said the switchman. "They are asleep in there, or if they are not asleep they are yawning. Only the children are flattening their noses against the windowpanes."

"Only the children know what they are looking for," said the little prince. "They waste their time over a rag doll and it becomes very important to them; and if anybody takes it away from them, they cry..."

"They are lucky," the switchman said.

-- The Little Prince, by Antoine de Saint Exupery

--

As I've been making my way through this brilliant book, I've been wondering if anyone else thought to adapt it for the stage. Of course, someone else has. Of course, a group of those someones made it a musical. Of course, it's also a film.

A famous film. Who knew. If your best thoughts aren't stolen by the ancients, then at least they are stolen by pioneers of the entertainment industry.

Still: it would make a wonderful children's play. If you could just get some widely focused spotlights on the stage, you could do the different planets very nicely.

--

The children's play that I am actually working on, Wait! I Want to Tell You a Story, continues to go well. I returned to the daycare today. I had each kid read two different characters. About half of them can read, and half of the ones who can do so haltingly, with an unnerving staccato like someone laying heavy bricks and wearing clicky shoes,--so there's that obstacle. But at least a few of them can at least read well, and to them I've given the choice roles, the ones with changing intentions, more lines.

Between readings, a skeptical child asked at my elbow: "Have you ever directed anything before?"

"Yes," I said. "I've written some plays, too."

He didn't seem impressed. "Huh."

Kid'll be on some theatre board someday.

--

We've plowed through auditions at The Children's Theatre. Callbacks end tonight, which is devoted entirely to Disney's The Jungle Book Kids.

It's a subdued spectacle. Kids show up with their parents and the downstairs heats up, they check in at my table and ask funny questions and the parents wince or chuckle and tow their offspring toward a chair. They put on expensive shoes with the seriousness and familiarity of monks at prayer. They go into the room sweating and emerge smiling or on the verge of tears. They know what they have done. The parents know, they know the body language of talented children, and even if it is not their child sobbing in the corner, their eyebrows dip and their mouths open with sadness. This is completely different from adult auditions. Adult actors have learned to trap all responses inside their chosen outfits, behind trim binders full of material, under heads of immaculate hair. Adults know not to ask questions lest, and they watch these emotive children fall from professionalism with all the grace of tipping file cabinets. Adults hang themselves on the walls, impassive portraits waiting their turn to be seen, appraised, and passed by. Adults understand economy of scale and opportunity cost--they scrutinize constantly: If I don't get this, I can go home early, at least. My November will be free and I can visit my cousin. I can audition at another place next week. I don't know or care where my next job comes from--I just want to get there.


But for the kids, this is it. Here, now. Their hopes are raised, and they will be dashed before evening's end, and they are the only ones who know it, because they are the only ones who want it badly enough.

--

If you told an adult, after a poor audition, that they had to buy new expensive shoes and work tirelessly for hours on perfecting their performance, they would nod, drive home, and try to forget about ever wanting to work for you.

If you tell that to a kid, they will nod, ride home, and do exactly what you say. (If they want it badly enough, that is.) They just might blow you away the next day, because adults have also trained themselves to stop expecting great things from children.

Valiant

"The most valiant thing you can do as an artist is inspire someone else to be creative."

-- Joseph Gordon-Levitt, in Details magazine, July 13, 2010

--

Yes.

And whether that someone else is a kid in an acting class, a chuckling grandma in the first row, or a free-thinking, educated adult capable of making deliberate positive changes in his/her life, it is still valiant. I'm proud to be among the ranks of inspirers.

--

Also: I made the Enquirer. The article is flattering, full of etymology. If you're in the Cincinnati area, come see The Nerd, my last show here...

...my last show, that is, until next spring. When the world premiere of Disney's Peter Pan Jr. hits the Taft Theatre stage in April, yours truly will originate the title role.

That's right. I'm playing Peter Pan.

When they first offered me the role, I respectfully declined. But months later, the offer has been renewed, and I simply cannot turn it down. It's work--good work at that, well-paying work--and it's a world premiere; Disney has never before allowed any theatre to stage a version of their 1953 movie. They workshopped it for months. They revised the script multiple times. It's unclear how involved they will be in the rehearsal process, but there's a good chance they will see the show. And if they like what they see...hey.

Plus, I'll actually be able to put "flight" on my resume.

--

I was sitting at my desk, about to make a phone call to a parent who wants to schedule a last-minute audition tomorrow for her son. I looked down at the Post-It where I'd scribbled her number, and the last digit, a 4, looked odd. I touched it and a bent fleck of eraser stuck to my finger. It was a 1.

--

The time has come for me to start wrapping things up at work. With my boss going on maternity leave, I have absorbed a healthy load of paperwork, mostly preparation for the upcoming school tour. Van oil changes, study guide designs, stuff like that.

Possibly my most valiant task is to leave a record of my WorkShops here. Each teaching artist for TCTC can do any of the WorkShops and adapt it to their own style, and I have done just that with about half of the offerings in our repertoire. My approach hasn't always worked--sometimes it fails outright--but anyway, there is some knowledge to be passed on.

For instance, this week I started a "From the Page to the Stage" residency at a daycare half an hour away. (This is the place where a kid called me Jackie Chan.) Apparently, this WorkShop has never been booked before, so it's crucial that I chronicle how it goes. So far, we've only introduced ourselves and chosen a book (page) which we will adapt into a play (stage). There's a final performance in two weeks, in the late afternoon just as parents are about to pick up their kids. Next week we'll cast and block, and in the third week we'll rehearse.

The book? Wait! I Want to Tell You a Story, by Tom Williams. I just finished the adaptation today.

The choosing of the book was interesting. I went to the library's children section to browse, and a librarian asked to help. I told her what I wanted: a short picture book with a large cast of characters that would appeal to a wide age range. The librarian told her fellows, and soon there was a squad of six or more librarians scanning through the aisles of skinny spines. They plopped thin, jacketed hardcovers in a pile and kept searching. At the daycare, I showed covers and held a vote, and then read the most popular ones, which were voted on again. There was Lincoln-Douglas-style debate which allowed the kids to make arguments for or against certain picks. Then we had the final vote. They picked the story in which a muskrat, about to be eaten by a tiger, belays his demise by telling a story...in which a frog is about to be eaten by a shark but belays it by telling a story...and so on.

I had hoped they would pick Edwina, the Dinosaur Who Didn't Know She Was Extinct, but for a purely selfish reason: I want to adapt it into a play anyway.

--

Here's to valiance.

Apostrophe

"And just so you don't think this is a one-time occurrence, here's a brief list of some reasons why I kinda suck:

I wrecked my mother's car
I lost my cousin in a mall
I killed a fish and a plant and a squirrel
I lost my father's autographed Mickey Mantle ball
And rode my bike into a nine-year-old girl--
But she was okay
And I keep telling myself,

Oh, life goes on
Things will be okay.
Though the car and fish and ball and plant and squirrel are gone
Tomorrow's a brand-new day."

-- "Along the Way" from Pasek & Paul's new musical Edges

--

I've been living off of others for the last month. It's getting worse. Today, I ate nothing but what co-workers had brought to the office for "everyone" to eat. I suspect I'm the only one who's been sneaking cupcakes and pizza slices this week.

Someone thrust a can of sparkling water in my hand. I thought it was regular soda until I took a sip and there was no sweetness in it.

My boss insisted I eat a chicken tenderloin prepared by his wife, who is also my boss. "No thanks," I said. "I have four," he said. I ate the chicken with my fingers.

--

Blogger tells me I haven't updated in almost a month. It's been busy: teaching, rehearsing, movie watching. And I had been anticipating today as the busiest day of all--first day of auditions for The Children's Theatre, opening night for The Nerd--but out of nowhere, I have nothing really to do. For a solid hour. I've eaten. I've put up signs. I've updated lists, answered emails, even helped clean the rehearsal room. The silence is dubious: some undone task is lurking, somewhere.

--

The summer acting class, my main reason for staying in this area through August, was a little disappointing. Having missed the first week, I was lost for a while. I didn't know what the kids had been told and taught. And anyway, the structure was so different this year that I didn't get the chance to correct the mistakes I made last year.

Still, it was not all bad. The kids were great this year, talented, polite, malleable. We got some scenes worked into the final performance, which did not happen last year. Kids learned to juggle. We played improv games and started to see significant improvement. It was funny and fun. And while the sound of fifty tap shoes is still one of the most hideous noises I have known, I do think the camp was better this year.

--

One of the older kids sang a song called "Along the Way" from Pasek & Paul's Edges, which I quoted before. It's a great song, one I had never heard before, and I'm totally stealing it as an audition piece.

--

The night before their final Sunday matinee, I had a few drinks and grew very maudlin. I held some thank-you cards and had an apostrophe (the literary element whereby a character addresses an absent or abstracted audience).

I imagined telling the kids the next day that I would miss them. I said things like, "it has been an honor and a privilege and a blessing," and I got choked up. So I tried saying things like, "I hope you enjoyed our classes at least half as much as I did," and I chuckled because I sounded like Bilbo Baggins. Or, "you've all worked so hard," which sounded cheap. I looked at the thank-you note again. I said a lot more that night that was basically a jumbled-up version of things that sounded better in my head. It was hard to think about leaving, perhaps never to teach a group of kids like this again.

I decided it would be best for me not to say a word about it, to the kids at least. It was best.

--

Yesterday, I taught a workshop at a daycare thirty minutes away. This daycare is awfully run. I was in a room with a half-wall beyond which another class with a loud teacher made all sorts of distracting commotion. It's a residency workshop, too, so I'll have to do six more of these at the same place. We're supposed to put on a play by the end.

The teacher corralled them to me and I had them sit on the floor. I rose to introduce myself and one of the kids, a little buzz-cut'd punk wearing a camouflage jacket in August, proclaimed, "It's Jackie Chan!"

--

Life goes on.