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my new friend, innocent smith

I’ll be posting Part 2 of “curtain calls/curtain cries” tomorrow, most likely. But I had to write this wee post about a book I have only just started and am loving: “ManAlive” by G.K. Chesterton. (Okay. The name’s not great. Move past it.)

The book tells the tales of one Innocent Smith, rather a strange, unconventional sort, thus far, but a captivating one nonetheless.

I mean, how can you not like a fellow who literally BLOWS upon the scene during a Great Wind?

How can you not want to root for a fellow described thusly:

“He had bright blonde hair that the wind brushed back like a German’s, a flushed eager face like a cherub’s and a prominent pointing nose, a little like a dog’s. His head, however, was by no means cherubic in the sense of being without a body. On the contrary, on his vast shoulders and shape, generally gigantesque, his head looked oddly and unnaturally small. This gave rise to a scientific theory (which his conduct full supported) that he was an idiot.”

AND thusly:

“He had the sensualities of innocence; he loved the stickiness of gum and he cut white wood greedily as if he were cutting a cake. To this man wine was not a doubtful thing to be defended or denounced; it was a quaintly-colored syrup, such as a child sees in a shop window. He talked dominantly and rushed the social situation; but he was not asserting himself, like a superman in a modern play. He was simply forgetting himself, like a little boy at a party. He had somehow made a giant stride from babyhood to manhood, and missed that crisis in youth when most of us grow old.”

Ah. Brilliant.

Can’t wait to keep reading.

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curtain calls/curtain cries

(This will be a two-parter. Mainly, because I’m still feeling a bit green and hazy and such.)

All right. It’s Monday, but let’s pretend it’s last Friday. The morning of our drama camp’s not-so-grand finale.

Now, curtain is scheduled for 11:00 a.m. But this is theatre, folks, so something has to go wrong.

It’s 10:08. We are (still) waiting for our keyboard player to arrive for the final run-through. We futz about, but cannot get the air conditioning to work. It’s growing downright tropical in the room and I’m starting to sweat through my “No Refunds” t-shirt. Droplets of moisture dance across the plastic-covered eye holes of my Macy’s bag.

It’s now 10:11 and we are also waiting for one no-show little girl. Rehearsal continues without her and the keyboard player, but my thoughts are pounding. My armpits are now a rainforest; my head, a jackhammer.

Strangely, right at this moment, I recall an old joke:

Seems a famous Revolutionary War general had an unusual habit. Believing that morale would fail if his troops saw him bleeding and thus wanting to hide his blood at all costs, he would call his assistant to him on the morning of battle, yelling:

“William …. bring me my RED pants!”

Well, on the morning of what he knows will be a decisive battle, the general looks out his window. Horrified at the vast ocean of enemy troops before him, realizing defeat is certain, in his loudest, tremblingest voice, he bellows:

“WILLIAM …. BRING ME MY BROWWNNN PANNNTS!”

Just then, the thick pounding in my head thins out to a high, pathetic whine: Where is my William? Where are my brown pants?

I snap, go kamikaze. Little Miss No-Show is out. But she has a line in the show. I need a Go-To Kid and pronto. I march up to one of the boys who is not beastly and practically bark at him:

“Jack, do you think you can do Jessica’s line?”

His eyes blaze.

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Tracey! I can do it!”

“Okay. Great. Uh, do you think you know the line?”

He says he does. He’s sure he does. I ask him to recite it for me. He’s not even close. I’m creeping ever closer to that brown pants moment. I feel another bark coming on, but it’s not Jack’s fault. Swiftly, I try to remix the bitter blend of words brewing in my head to something that will go down more smoothly, a bit of verbal hot chocolate with puffy marshmallows:

“Okaaay, Jack. We-elll, why don’t you try saying this instead?”

Bypassing that the line was completely wrong, I simply feed him the correct one, hoping I sound human. It’s a very short line, 5 words. We run the scene so he can try it. He gets it wrong. We run it again. Sweet Lord, it’s worse. The edges of his face redden and are quickly smushed under his pudgy, dough-boy hands. He stands there for a split second and then …..

We haaavvve a GUSHER!

It’s now 10:23. My Go-To Kid just might be gone, unless I can stop the gushing. Our pianist has finally arrived, but is now waiting for us, surveying this gentle scene of calm and control. And all the other kids, watching poor Jack blub, suddenly become like a pack of hunting hounds excitedly surrounding the fallen prey. I swear they smell blood, because they rush me, clamoring like the good, compassionate, Christian kiddies that they are:

“Can I have that line?!”

“Mrs. Tracey, I can do it!”

“No, I wanna have it!”

“Give it to meeeeee!!”

ARRRGGGHH!!

WILLIAMM …… BRRINNGG MEEE MY BROWWNN PANNTS!!

to be continued …..

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stage fright

Ohdearohdearohdearohdearohdearohdearohdear.

Tomorrow is the draahhhma camp finale — our little musicale production.

(The whole saga began here. Continued here. Induced traumatic flashback here. And fell flat here.)

But 30 sweaty hours, 16 wanna-be “actors,” 14 drama queens (of both sexes), 9 unruly boys, countless bossy parents, and 1 floor roller later, the day is finally here.

So I will sport my “No Refunds” t-shirt and plop a paper bag over my head. I will cut eye holes in a Macy’s bag this very evening and then cover them with clear plastic, so I can both see through the bag and vomit into it, if need be. I will offer no explanation, because I think it’s pretty self-explanatory.

I will storm the gates of heaven and implore the God of theatre to make that little floor roller stop twiddling around on his arse. And tomorrow, I will tell that vexing boy what I’ve longed to tell him for two weeks now: that he is a beastly, beastly boy, that Jesus doesn’t like floor rollers and that if he puts his little arse on that floor one more time when he is not supposed to, he will KNOW MY WRATH!

But no matter what may go horribly awry, there’s always my secret favorite moment in the show and it’s a sure thing. I know I can count on The Kid. Because The Kid is unstoppable.

It happens during “Day by Day,”a melodically insipid little number that tries one’s patience. But The Kid is magic. Now it’s hard to stand out in such a tame, cotton candy chorus, unless, of course, you do what The Kid does. With unmatched gusto, he and his lungs are front and center:

“ooooooOOOOOOHHHHhhhhh, deeeeEEEEEAAAAaaaarrrr LooooOOOOORRRdddd, THREE THINGS I prrraaaAAAAAyy!!!

He wails, he moans, he positively yowls, all in brilliant, ear-splitting bedlam.

My Co-Director approached me about The Kid the other day.

“Should we tell The Kid to tone it down?”

“Absolutely not,” I replied. “He’s the only one keeping that thing afloat.”

“He’s terrible,” she said.

“I know. That’s the beauty of it. It’s wildly entertaining.”

She squinched her brow at me. Maybe I seemed inconsistent, not my usual stickler for standards. But, look, The Kid is not going to sing that song any better any time soon. Clearly, he is crazy for it in a way that no one else is. And if a child is howling, crying out to his Lord, who am I to try to quench the Holy Spirit? I don’t need that trouble. Besides, without The Kid and his beautiful braying, a dreary song gets only drearier, becoming the ultimate, awful sugar crash.

So maybe there’s a time for standards and a time for relaxing those standards for something silly and grand:

The happy little accident of The Kid being a kid. The sheer comic whimsy of it all.

So when that song comes and he does his thing, I’m sure I’ll smile and secretly say, “Good for you, Kid.”

I might even take the bag off my head.

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a tale told by an idiot

You know how sometimes you’re in the park watching “Macbeth” at the Shakespeare Festival? You’re outside. It’s just a lovely evening. Someone has thoughtfully procured tickets to the theatre as a birthday present for you. And you know how you sit in your seat, tapping your toe, waiting impatiently for the show to start? Never mind that the old man next to you is really very large and apparently sleepy and starting to snore before the show even begins. You wish him sweet dreams, poppy, as long as he doesn’t topple over onto you.

Because you are laser focused on that stage.

And then you know how the show finally starts, with a thrill, with a rush? You’re engrossed. Nothing can distract you. Not even that vague smell of pastrami or some other cured meat wafting from the general direction of Sleepy Old Man.

And you know how the story unfolds and Macbeth murders Duncan, the king, and is plagued by memories of the ghastly deed and mocked by his horrible shrew wife and it’s all very intense and you’re rapt with attention, even though people around you are reciting the lines along with the actors, which you’re only doing in your head, thinking this somehow makes you the better person?

Minor irritations, truly. You are edge-of-your-seat enthralled.

And then you know how sometimes ALL the seals at the nearby zoo start barking and bellowing in dreadful, insistent unison?

Oh, you know how it goes. Macbeth is wigging out:

“How is’t with me, when every noise appalls me?”

ARR ARR ARR ARR ARR ARRR ARR ARRR ARR ARR ARRR ARR ARR ARR ARR!!!

Macbeth sees blood, only blood:

“Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand?”

ARR ARR ARR ARR ARR ARRR ARR ARRR ARR AR ARR ARRR ARR ARR ARRR!!!

“No; this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas in incarnadine, making the green one red!”

ARR ARRR ARR ARRR ARRR ARR ARR ARR ARR ARRR ARR ARRRRRRRRRRR!!!

And you know how you’re trying to stifle the rising waves of laughter, because the juxtaposition is just too much, but this is the Old Globe Theatre, after all, and you’re allegedly an adult and someone was brave enough to risk taking you out in public and you’re still allegedly an adult — you’re a year older, for Pete’s sake — and you owe it to him to behave like one?

Then you glance at him and he is shaking, head bowed. Laughing. And you, grownup that you are, poke him and he looks at you, helpless to stop, and you’re toast. You’re gone. Laughing. Trying to be quiet, but laughing, nonetheless.

And you hear the ripples spreading across the ampitheatre, joining with Macbeth and that mighty marine chorus until the sound is simultaneously thus:

“WAKE DUNCAN WITH THY KNOCKING! I WOULD THOU COULDST!”

ARR ARR ARR ARR ARR ARR ARR ARR ARR ARR ARR ARR ARR ARR ARR!!!

TEE HEE TEE HEE TEE HEE HEE HEE TEE HEE TEE HEE HEE TEE HEE HEE!!!

So there you are, giggling with the other grownups, watching Macbeth’s tragedy become Macbeth’s comedy — if just for a moment — and you chuckle even more because it IS the thinnest of lines separating those two sides of the mask and isn’t that why you love the theatre, after all?

That crazy, sublime, maddening, transcendent theatre.

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I might start drinking

Tsk, tsk, tsk. Lazy, lazy blogger. What with all the celebratin’, I needed a break. Plus, I’ve got a case of the draahhhma camp blues. Our little show is Friday and, well, it could be rough.

Here’s what’s been scene and heard around camp lately:

— Another entitlement conversation with a parent that ended with “Fancy wants a bigger part. She’s very good. What can WE do about it?”

(Fancy is NOT very good. Fancy is adorable, but spooks when spoken to, never speaks above a whisper and WEEEE are not going to do ANYTHING about it!)

— The parent of Little Girl With Floozy Makeup grilling me about whether “the camp is good enough for her daughter.” Turn that question around, Mummy.

— My rapid transformation into the Simon Cowell of Kiddie Drama.

— One little girl telling me she has to stand still during the dance numbers because she has “way too many boo boos on my toes.”

— Needing to remind one little boy EVERY DAY to fight the urge to lie down in the middle of a song.

— Having one girl who has a new suggestion every five minutes — “She should wear red” “What if we all twirled like this?” “How about if we’re all barefoot?” “I could choreograph that part, if you want.” I guess what she really wants to do is direct.

— Having one little boy who follows me around constantly. Conversations go like this:

“Mrs. Tracey, look at my hair!”

His hair is perfectly normal.

“Wow!” I say. “It’s pretty neat.”

“Yeah.”

OR

“Mrs. Tracey, I found this on the floor!”

It’s the chewed lid of a pen.

“Can I keep it?!”

“Oh, it looks a little chewed up, hon. Just throw it away, please.”

He appears to go to the trash can. I’m distracted by other things. Later:

“Brandon, what’s that in your mouth?”

“It’s that thing I found on the floor. I like it. I decided to keep it.”

OR

“Mrs. Tracey, feel my heartbeat.”

I do, gingerly. It’s beating like a normal heart.

“Wow! Feel that.”

“I just ran really, really fast.”

He didn’t.

“You did? Good for you.”

“Yeah.”

OR

“Mrs. Tracey, do you see my shoe?”

“Yes, ” I say, waiting for what’s coming next.

Nothing does.

So I’m a little tired. As is this post. You know the feeling. 😉

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could be scary

Okay. It’s the birthday today. I’m writing this quick note while My Beloved is taking a shower. I don’t know what he has planned for today. I only know a few birthdays ago, he tried to kill me with a glider ride. 😉

Pray for me.

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you’re never fully dressed without some bile

A few years ago, my then-co-director at draahhhma camp insisted we include the song, “You’re Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile” from that perky piece of rot, “Annie.”

“Kids love that song!” she said.

I winced. It is true, but shouldn’t be. I sighed, knowing I couldn’t nix everything, even if for the good of everyone involved.

“Okay.” Groaning, head in hands, I muttered, “Just this once.”

So, one day at camp, Co-Director, who was also choreographer, was teaching the moves to the kids. I was working a scene in another room with our leads. When I returned, the room was simply gushing with lyrics of soppy positivity.

I rolled my eyes, but instantly rolled them back to center when I saw this: A stage crammed with kids, all waving their hands under their noses, as if shooing away some vile stench. While doing this bit of choreography, they boomed these words:

Your clothes may be Beau Brummell-y
They stand out a mile
But, brother, you’re never fully dressed without a smile!

What was I seeing? I called Co-Director over.

“Um, I’m not really clear on the hand-wave-under-the-nose move.”

“Oh,” she said, smiling, “that means something stinks.”

“Well …. uh, I know what it means. I don’t understand its relevance to these lyrics.”

(Tippy-Toe, Tracey. Stay calm, old girl. Don’t jump yet.)

“Oh,” she said, even brighter, “‘Beau Brummelly’ means ‘smelly.'”

Aaaaaahhhhh!

I was falling, shrieking, into the lowest level of hell. And turns out, they sing there. And do you know what they sing there? “ANNIE,” “ANNIE,” ALL THE TIME!!!!!

“Where did you hear that?” I was choking.

“Well,” she said, “when I did ‘Annie’ years ago at (a certain schlocky Christian theatre for which I have nothing but contempt), they told us that ‘Beau Brummelly’ means ‘smelly.'”

Ah, Christians. Doing their best in the arts again. Look. Being under grace is not a license for slack-assery. And truly, didn’t Paul say something similar? Shall we continue in artistic sin so that grace may abound? By no means!

I was having a private, Charlie Brown moment: I can’t stand it. I just can’t stand it.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that gaggle of kids onstage perfecting the hand-wave-under-the-nose move.

That was it. Something had to be said. “Art” and my own perpetual snobbery demanded it.

“Ah. No. No.”

“It doesn’t?”

“No.”

“So what does it mean?” she asked, not smiling now.

I took a breath and explained that Beau Brummell was a real person who lived in England around 1800-ish; that he was known for his fastidious appearance and sense of style; that he was considered a “dandy.”

“Oh. Hmm. Wow. Kinda the opposite of smelly, I guess.”

I nodded.

I can’t stand it. I just can’t stand it.

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I thought / I said

Yesterday at the end of drahma camp, came this conversation:

Mother: Trevor is very upset. He says he’s NOT in the play!

(I Thought: Trevor is being a little drama queen.)
I Said: Trevor is in the play.

Mother: He says he’s not. He doesn’t have any lines.

(I Thought: Yup. That’s right. This is theatre; you gotta earn it.)
I Said: Well, no, he doesn’t have any lines. The kids were told they needed to audition if they wanted a speaking part or solo. Trevor didn’t audition, but he’s definitely in the show.

Mother: Well, I can’t believe that. He loves this sort of thing.

(I Thought: Huh. Funny, I did NOT get that sense from his constant rolling on the floor.)
I Said: Well, that’s great. I’m sure he does. It would be great to see a little more of that.

Mother: Well, can’t you just give him a line anyway?

(I Thought: NO.)
I Said: I believe all the lines are taken by kids who auditioned for a speaking part.

Mother: So he can’t have a line?

(I Thought: NO! I’M NOT IN THE HABIT OF GIVING SOMETHING FOR NOTHING HERE, ESPECIALLY TO A KID WHO’S DONE NOTHING BUT ROLL AROUND ON HIS ARSE AND BEEN NOTHING BUT A PAIN IN MINE.)
I Said: Well, if one of the lines becomes available, I’d likely hold “mini auditions” for it, so there’s always that possibility.

Mother: Well, he’s just so upset.
(I Thought: !?#%@??!!!!!!)
I Said: Well, perhaps you can talk to him tonight about why he chose not to audition and encourage him to do so if another opportunity comes up.

I moved my mouth, hoping to find the shape of a smile. I don’t think I did. Mother stared at me, confused; walked away, confused. I could read her mind:

“What?! I don’t get what I want just because I want it, I really, REALLY want it?! Waaaahhhh!!!”

Whatever.

Drama queens.

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how could I forget this?

Well, sweet Moses! I can’t believe I forgot this one tiny thing:

I don’t have to have deliverance.

This, according to a certain person with whom we’re all acquainted now. During our summit, I told Joey that I’d been down that road before, that it had only brought harm and confusion, and that I’d be following the path of sanctification as laid out in the Word — and no other. To this, she responded:

“Well, I guess you don’t have to have deliverance prayer.”

(Golly, thanks for the permission. What a relief to have the green light to continue doing what I’m doing.)

Then she added:

“I mean, I guess we don’t have to agree on this.”

Hmmmm …… well …..

I tried to be delicate. I’m so good at delicate. Watch me try to tippy-toe:

“Well, Joey, I would exhort you to spend some time studying the whole of Scripture to see if it bears out this practice of deliverance of believers.”

Oh, yeah. Tippy Toe.

That this actually came out of my mouth was a meeeracle, considering that this is what first popped into my head: “Yes, we do! !?#$&!! This isn’t a debatable issue. This is extra-biblical c-r-a-p! Walk away before you can’t see or think straight anymore, you cotton-headed ninny muggins!!”

(And “cotton-headed ninny muggins” comes from? Anyone?)

Now that I think of it, I can’t believe I passed on yet another prime opportunity to call someone a cotton-headed ninny muggins. I’ve had a spate of ’em lately.

That’s it. The next one who comes my way is gonna hear it.

I’m Tippy-Toed out, America.