Monday, September 28, 2009

Latte vs. Mocha

In answer to Otters' question: a Mocha is a Latte made with chocolate sauce instead of some other flavoring or no flavoring at all (that's what a basic latte is: espresso + hot or cold milk). It's just a very popular KIND of Latte, so it gets its own category. The WORD "mocha" actually derives from an Arabic term for a region in Yemen where they grow a type of coffee with a chocolately aroma.

I am such a Starbucks geek. It's really, really sad.

In other news - I got my first really freakish Starbucks-Princess-Customer experience today. Lady threw an utter tantrum - called me an idiot and worse, cussed out my manager, was in general a complete you-know-the-b-word-I-want-to-put-here.

Because I charged her 40 extra cents for Soy milk in her Venti Americano.

40 $%#$!! EXTRA CENTS.

The thing is, if she had asked me nicely to take the charge off - I would've. But no. She called me an idiot right off.

Clue to Getting What You Want at Starbucks #1: BE NICE. It won't kill you. And we will give you what you want, most of the time. But treat us like our only purpose in life is to lick your Gucci high-heels and we will smile and very politely tell you, "Sorry, that's our policy."

The Birth of Marxism

A plain young man, sitting alone in a ragged coat at a Paris cafe. A handsome young couple walks by, well-dressed, in-love.
Young man: "Man, other people have everything . . ."
Young man: "That's it!!! OTHER PEOPLE have EVERYTHING!!!"

And that's the way it went :-)

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Starbucks Snob Becometh I Am

So, the bagging job at Pavilions (a slightly snootier Vons/Safeway grocery store) upgraded to an in-store Starbucks position. Which means I get to learn how to make Starbucksy drink and deal with Starbucksy customers and learn all about why Starbucks is the BEST FREAKIN' COFFEE PLACE IN THE GALAXY. I'm a very loyal employee, you see. But (before you ask), I'm still a Safeway employee technically, so I don't get free coffee, discounts, health care, or tips (yeah, I think it sucks too. As do the customers who don't want to put their change back in their wallets but would rather gift me with it)

It's kinda scary, actually. Work five hours straight making yummy sweet milky frothy awesome whip-cream topped espresso confections, and one all of the sudden begins to crave coffee. Even if you're a Tea Nazi, like me. I find myself needing coffee fixes during breaks. Scarier still, I find myself MAKING COFFEE AT HOME! And drinking it! Coffee! Me!!

In addition to actually liking and/or drinking coffee, I find myself becoming one of those annoying people who takes pleasure in the fact that she is initiated into the Mysteries of Starbucks Awesomeness. So I'll go into a Starbucks, rattle off an order for a "Triple-Grande 7-pump upside down non-fat caramel machiatto with extra caramel" and then smile obnoxiously at the person behind me, as if to say: "You WERE just going to order a "medium latte," weren't you? You were GOING to betray your uninitiated status! But now you're going to stand there for an extra 30 seconds coming up with an extra adjective or two to throw in there, trying to recall which size a Tall is!! BWAHAHAHAH!!"

I think Starbucks may actually be evil. It's brainwashed me. But I'm not that evil. In fact, I'll let you in on a few really yummy drinks that aren't on the menu, so that you, too, can feel like a Starbucks snob. I came up with the names. The quoted portions are what you should say while ordering. I figure grande is a pretty neutral size, so that's what they all are...

1. The I-Don't-Care-About-The-Calories Mocha: "Grande Breve Black & White, Extra Whip". This will give you a mocha made with both regular mocha sauce & white mocha sauce, (it also goes by the term "tuxedo" or "zebra" and, maybe, legend has it, "penguin") The breve means they make it with half-and-half instead of 2% milk. And, yeah, we do put vanilla syrup in our whipped cream, which is why it tastes so good. Yummy!!!

2. The Holiday Mixer: "Grande Soy 2-pump Pumpkin Spice Latte with 2 pumps of peppermint" Some of you may not like the taste of this one, but it's interesting, and you can only order it during the Fall when we have our PSL syrup (but we DO carry peppermint year round, so, feel free to ask for it in almost anything). I recommend you guys try adding soy instead of milk to any of your drinks - it's different, but not radically out-there as far as taste goes.

3. The I-Seriously-Hate-Coffee-But-I-Need-Caffeine-and-Sugar-NOW Frapaccinno: "A Venti Cinnamon Dolce Frappaccino with an added shot." If we have a flavor, you can basically get a frap made with it, so NEVER be bound by what's on the menu. If you don't want ANY caffeine, you can also order a Creme Frap in any flavor (no coffee involved - just yummy milk products).

Other Helpful Starbucks Tid-Bits:

a.) You can get espresso added to anything for 55 cents. Except Iced Tea...and I mean, if you REALLY WANTED TO we'd do it for you. But that's just gross, so don't.

b.) You can order a drink in a size-larger cup in order to accomodate things like extra ice or (my favorite) extra whip cream (we don't charge any extra for this, but you do run the risk of the cashier making a mistake and charging you for the bigger cup)

c.) Ask what flavor syrups we have. We have alot that aren't on the menu, and they're all interchangeable.

d.) You can substitute nonfat, whole milk, or half-and-half for regular if you wish. Soy costs a little extra, but I recommend trying it sometime.

A little later I'll post one of my traditional "Things Every Hourly-Wage Laborer Wish the Person Across the Counter Knew About Being a Decent Human Being" posts, which will pertain both to my Starbucks job and my bagging job (which I still do from time to time for the extra hours).

Happy Wednesday, People! Go spend money you don't have and fatten Starbucks' evil corporate coffers!!! :-D

Thursday, September 17, 2009

Might as Well

As long as I'm on here researching Civil War dresses (anybody out there want to sew me a reenacting dress?) and watching New Moon trailers and being more disgusted with Nancy Pelosi than usual, I might as well get around to explaining that prayer request I posted at the beginning of the summer. Many of you asked for further explanation, and I never kept my promise to blog on the subject. I figure I owe it to you, and probably should be transparent about the situation to any LBCC people who might read this blog (though I doubt any of them do...).

I crewed three shows last semester. One of these was called "Til Death Do Us Part," and was a fairly off-color satire/farce about marriage. More on this later. The third show was a Stage Combat Revue which I stage-managed. I did a relatively good job - my directors will tell you I did an amazing job, but that's only because a coincidence involving prop-shopping convinced them that I was a mind-reader :-P During that show, a friend from school approached me and asked if I'd be interested in assistant stage-managing under him at a local community theater (which does free Shakespeare during the summer that I'm a big fan of), which was producing Moliere's Tartuffe.

I was, as you might understand, thrilled. This was going to be my chance to break out of school-theater and get a little exposure in the larger So.Cal. theater community. It wasn't going to pay, but when has that ever stopped me? And though Tartuffe has it's off-color moments, I had read it and knew it to be a funny, morally-centered farce that targeted religious hypocrisy and greed.

Then, a couple weeks later, I heard from the stage manager that they were changing the play, and would be producing Joe Orton's What the Butler Saw instead. At first, I wasn't bothered. It sounded, to me, like a murder mystery or parlour farce or something Wildean of that nature. But I was foolish and didn't do research on the play until a little later. When I did, I discovered it was a 1960's era sex-farce that involves, among other things, near-nudity and a plot that revolves around a psychologist's efforts to bed a young lady during a job-interview.

After discovering this, I did another foolish thing: I sat on it. It took me two weeks to get up the courage to tell the stage manager that I might have a problem with the play's content and that I wanted to read the script before I could let myself participate. He was fairly understanding (considering this was @ 3 days before auditions), and let me borrow a script.

It was a very funny play. It rips up mid-century British sexual hypocrisy, psychiatric silliness, and is a rather good demonstration of one lie leading to a bigger lie and hence to all kinds of degenerate doings. But it wasn't a funny play the way Tartuffe is a funny play. I wish that I had been able to find the words to explain it well to my stage-manager when I pulled out of the project (he didn't seem to think there was that much of a difference between the two plays), but for me the difference was this: Tartuffe compares a crooked thing (hypocrisy and greed) to a straight thing (the way Moliere's audience knew a family and a Church OUGHT to be run), and asks us to laugh at the crooked thing because it is crooked when compared to the thing which is straight. WTBS takes a straight thing (the Beauty of the human sexual relationship), breaks it, and then expects us to laugh because it is broken. I suppose we can laugh to keep from crying, but that's about all we can do.

And still, I argued with God (after posting that blogpost and sending out a rather overdramatic prayer-request email). "But God this is my CHANCE! I thought YOU wanted me to do theater! You gave me these gifts! And now that I finally get to use them, you pull THIS on me? My stage manager is going to think I'm a flaky, over-reacting, fundamentalist HICK!!!" And He just smiled and gave me a very nice Sunday sermon by a Romanian missionary on Shadrach, Mesach, Abednego, the Fiery Furnace and standing alone for Christ. And then He handed me a fantasy novel (God is SO SNEAKY sometimes) wherein the hero, an Irish Christian pretending to be a priest in pagan Norway, learns what it means to forget how to be comfortable and to stand in The Loneliest Place, where the Cross is, no matter what it costs us (thanks ALOT Lars Walker). And then He looked at me and said, "Seriously? I died for you, and you don't want to give up a play you know you'll regret in the end? You've been praying for a way to show yourself my Daughter - well, this is it."

So I bought my stage manager a cup of coffee and rather stumblingly explained why I couldn't do the play. Everything always sounds so eloquent in my head, but I admit, I've never been very good at getting it out past this tongue thing. I think I got him to understand, in the end, that I was a Christian who believed that certain sexual mores were important for the existence of a Good Society and that I couldn't put my name on the production of a play that flouted what I believed. He was understanding, God bless him, though he did wonder why I had a problem with this play when I had already done Til Death Do Us Part. I could make the argument that Til Death was one of those plays that only laughs at what is crooked-when-compared-to-the-straight, but when I think about it, my witness probably WAS harmed by my participation in that production (any play that inspires one to write a poem with first and last lines that read "My eyes have grown accustomed to the darkness" is probably morally questionable in some way... Remind me to post the rest of the poem later).

Anyway, I stumbled out of the coffee shop and into the rest of my summer, bitterly disappointed that my summer-theater opportunity was shot to pieces, but also feeling lighter and better about myself and my Faith than I had in a long time. I had come out into the light and declared sides. I had stopped sulking in the shadows, wondering what people would "think of me" if I drew a Christian line in the theatrical sand and refused to cross it. I had stood in the Loneliest Place, and it really hadn't hurt as much as I assumed it would. God is Good, the Cross is Glory, to live is Christ, and to die is Gain.

But now the summer's over, and I'm back at LBCC for a little while. I've got a part in a one-act, the script of which I haven't read yet. PLEASE PRAY that, a.) I won't actually be asked to do/say anything that would harm my conscience, b.) if I am asked to, I dunno, wear underwear-as-outerwear onstage or make out with another character or something, that I'll be able to stand up and declare sides once again. Courage isn't just something that you can use once and then trust that it will be there again when you need it. You have to nurture it within oneself, and I'm a pretty bad courage-gardener all told.

But in Christ, I can do Anything.

Thursday, September 10, 2009


Excerpts from what I've been working on lately (the main reason why I haven't been blogging). I suppose if any of this gets plagiarized, I can take it as a backhanded compliment:

"'. . . At the voice of the archangel, and the trumpet of God . . .'
They had to lean close to hear him. Aunt Jo swore she felt the soul pass through the skin of his fingers as he said it. But all Lucy saw and heard was a slow wind of breath and an old man's body growing somehow thinner before her eyes.
That was the end of Glenville for Lucy Chesterton-Shaw.
'Some things is meant,' said Aunt Martha as she and her grand-niece pulled out of the driveway a week later, Lucy's bedroom boxed and piled in the backseat. 'Some things is meant to be one way. The Lord writes a good paragraph on our world. Don't rewrite it. You're uncle would want you to remember that. Especially now you're having to live, God forgive us, with your Uncle John. Especially.'
Lucy was only half-listening, watching the oak-nestled pastureland glide by. After a while she was no longer in the car listening to an exposition on Romans 8. She running for the horizon under a bold sunset, arms outstretched, listening for the trumpets of God. She imagined the Rapture, her feet growing wings as she was caught up and carried off. She imagined the suddenly-unmanned Buick spinning across the empty highway. She imagined Glenville, abandoned in a heavenly rush like the body of her grand-uncle, dead seven days."
- From "Things Is Meant," a short story about a NorCal farmer's daughter who has to go live with her homosexual uncle in SoCal.

The following is the last bit of the first act of a play @ the Twelve Disciples(right now going by "The Good Dozen", set in the modern day. At the moment, it's a very wierd cross between Godspell, The Godfather, and Friends. Yeah, I don't know what to do with me either. At this point in the "action," Josh (Jesus) is sitting down with his followers after breaking up more than one argument and miraculously multiplying some pizzas so that they can all eat:

Thank you, Father, for providing everything we need. Let us always remember with gratitude the reason that we live.

Yeah – friends, football, pizza and beer!

THE GUYS laugh, but JOSH looks at PETER – not unkindly, but serious.

Peter, why are you here?

PETE puts his pizza down and meets JOSH’S gaze.

Because . . . you invited me.

Yes – but why did you take me up on my invitation?

Well – ‘cause . . . ‘cause you’re this city’s only hope.


‘Cause I figure it’s at the point where only God Almighty could fix things – and I believe you are . . . God.

JOSH leans back in his chair, a huge smile on his face.

Well that’s putting it . . . bluntly.

Your faith is as big as your heart, Pete. Don’t lose it, when you’re beat down and everything that’s good in the world fades away. I won’t always be here to put pizza on the table.

THE GUYS pull forward in their seats a little bit, listening intently.

Are you going away, Doc?

Yeah. I’m leaving soon.


I will finish the job my Father sent me here to do – and then I’ll go home to him.

You mean – home to Nazareth? Why go back there?

No, not Nazareth, Mer. The Endless Mountains are a flimsy shadow compared with my Home. My work is done in Nazareth, and it’s nearly done here in Pittsburgh.

On to New York next?

For you, perhaps, if my Father wills. But I will never see the Endless Mountains again, and my days in Pittsburgh are numbered – so don’t get comfortable. Don’t think I’m here to feed and teach and comfort only . . . Violence will break into your lives because of me. You will be arrested. You will lose what reputations you have left. You will lose jobs. Homes. Savings. Some will be gunned down in the street. Your families will disown you and your friends will pretend they don’t know you. The government will call you terrorists, the Mob will call you troublemakers, and the underground will call you sell-outs. You will Love everyone, and make no one happy. Can you face that?

I think I could – with you.

You are good and brave, Jack. Don’t be afraid – it is when you are alone that I am nearest to you.

And what about us?

You guys? You will all die for each other.

He picks up a piece of pizza with a knowing grin.

If you don’t all kill each other first.


If you're still around . . . thanks for reading. Hopefully the time I'm spending on these will be worth something to somebody someday. I'd welcome any comments you might have.

Saturday, August 15, 2009


My mother insists that I blog.  She's convinced that blogging will somehow magically alter me into The Writer I Am Destined To Be.  I - after a longish, errand-filled, rather dreary Saturday and a four-hour work shift - am decidedly NOT in the Blogging Mood.

So, it is with a grouchy spirit that I set about this task.

I've moved back home after two months cat-sitting in a hip downtown apartment.  So, I am once more beholden to someone else's chore-list, transportation needs, shower schedule and grocery preferences.  In return, I get regular human contact on a daily basis, which, I admit, is something I need for bare sanity's sake.  (You know you're not as much a loner as your thought you were when you start singing silly children's songs to cats...)

I got a job - a permanentish, more-than-part-time-ish job.  At a grocery store.  Bagging.  Three-cities over in Westminster - a 1.5 hour bus ride for my utterly car-less self.  I console myself with the fact that Mrs. Noe once worked at a MacDonalds, and Dr. Hake once worked as a chimney sweep.  I probably need to get over my pride for good and admit that I got _myself_ into this economic train-wreck.

I'm writing little eensy weensy bits and pieces of EVERYTHING, it seems.  The fantasy novel. The graphic novel. Poems. The play. The screenplay. The short story.  Occasionally, I stop typing and think: "Where the hell is this all going?  Where the hell am I going?  Why the hell am I doing this?"

And then I start typing again.

Tuesday, July 7, 2009

The Cat Files

I'm cat-sitting @ my good friends' apartment this month -which means I have consistent interenet, which means I should probably blog more. (I will, I promise, eventually blog about my recent theatrical moral crisis that many of you have asked me to expound upon)

Cats, I must say, are interesting creatures. I like them, but perhaps just because they strike me as the only creature alive who is lazier than I am. They sleep ALL the time - and feel no guilt. Then again, their life seems fairly boring, especially when cooped up 24/7 within a four-room apartment. But they are also careful, fastidious, wonderfully clean creatures (dogs are more fun, but, yes, they do smell). I imagine they don't think themselves lazy at all, in fact, I imagine they have each day carefully planned out, something like:

12am-4am: Sleep.
4am: Wake Maggie up
4:30-6:30: Sleep.
6:30: Wake Maggie up
6:30-9am: Sleep
9am: Climb on Maggie's lap during breakfast and demand that she eat not one more bite until she gives me a world-class massage.
10am-2pm: Sleep
2pm: 2nd massage of the day. Use litter box.
3pm-6pm: Sleep
6pm: Yowl until Maggie feeds me. Then leave the feed in the bowl just long enough to let her know that I'll eat on my own schedule thank you very much.
7pm: Play on Maggie's lap while she tries to write. Really, I have no idea why she thinks she has any other purpose in life than to make me happy . . .
9pm: Eat again.

You get the idea :-)

Sunday, June 14, 2009

But It's MY Body!

For those of my friends who believe the State should have no business "legislating morality", some food for thought.

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

Vita Theatrum

So, having successfully finished out a year of theater classes at LBCC, crewing two shows and stage managing a third, I've landed a (non-paying) "gig" at Little Fish Theater in San Pedro as Assistant Stage Manager for their late-summer show (it was going to be Tartuffe, but now I think they're changing it to something else instead).

Anyway, it seems the theater bug has kept firmly attached even 3000 miles away from Eden Troupe, and it's not letting go any time soon. Thus, I'm fairly sure this is something I'm supposed to pursue further. I've signed up for more theater classes at LBCC next fall, with the hopes of earning enough credits to merit applying for a grad degree in techinical theater sometime next year.

In other words, I now have a plan. Or something like it. (Whether I'll have the money/time/job/etc. to implement the plan is something else altogether . . .)

A plan which makes me wonder whether I should've just gotten a degree in theater in the first place. PHC was, I suppose, central to my realization that I LOVED this stuff. And writing will always be my first love, I suppose. We'll see how effectively I can implement my writing skills in with my theatrical skills.

Anybody feel like producing the play I'm writing: The Good Dozen [working title], a play about the Twelve Disciples set in a contemporary context? :-D

Thursday, April 30, 2009

My dark, low-sodium life . . .

I and my father share the same curse: we actually give a *&#^#!! what people think of us. I've been almost a year at LBCC now. I've gotten over my initial vertigo at being unexpectedly dumped in a secular environment after four years of PHC cushy-ness (and yes, it was extremely cushy by comparison). I talk to people. I volunteer for things. I flirt mildly with the guys. People like me, and I like them. And yet . . .

1. Why, when given the opportunity to talk about God's blessings last night, did I stupidly start spouting crap about "karma?"

2. Why, after having been subjected to an absolutely FOUL screenplay in screenwriting class, did I not say _anything_, even though I KNEW I wasn't the only one in the class who was uncomfortable?

3. Why do I always change the subject when someone asks me about the school I used to go to?

4. Why is it easier for me to admit to being a conservative than a Christian?

5. Why, when I hear my friends ridicule other, more-vocal (Christ bless them) Christians on campus, do I keep my eyes down and my mouth shut?

I am so ashamed of myself. But I don't know how to stand up for what's right without people thinking I'm a jerk (a consequence, perhaps, of growing up with a mom who _didn't_ give a $#!!% what people thought about her, and who constantly embarrassed my over-cautious teenage self...). God put me at this school for a reason. And I feel like I've majorly blown it.

I've been reading through old PHC quotes, and I'm crying. It all seems very far away... is it possible that the joy and friendship and virtue and love that I shared there really existed? It all seems rather like a dream from where I sit . . .

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

The angels are laughing . . .

So - after a week in which I had realized how rapidly povertous I was becoming (&%$#!!% health insurance!!), and a night in which I cried alot over my rapidly approaching poverty, I answered my cell phone today and who should be on the other end but an interviewer from the U.S. Census Bureau, calling about the application I sent them back in February (Uncle Sam: "We get the job done. Late."). Seems they want me to start work for them as a "Lister" starting next week (sounds like a position at Dickens' "Circumlocution Office"!! I think it mostly involves interviewing people and verifying addresses . . .)

I'm limp with relief. Of course, it doesn't solve all my problems (God knows I still need to learn how to Trust). Pray that the hours will be flexible enough to allow me to finish out the semester at school, stage-manage the Fight Show, and still get hours at my other job (Laundress Extraordinaire!).

God is good.

Friday, April 3, 2009

In Mundum . . .???

Can I spiritually justify being involved in a fun, funny, farcical play which is heavily sprinkled with sexual innuendo and adultery?

More on this later.

Monday, March 2, 2009

Bonum Verbum

It's odd. It seems like every late-winter for the past three or four years, I've found myself in spiritual darkness: depressed, struggling to hope, struggling to trust, susceptable to the curl-up-in-your-room-and-don't-come-out coping strategies. Sometimes it's because of personal struggles, sometimes because of things happening around me . . . but it always comes to a fore during Lent. I keep the Season, so to speak, but never in a very distinctive way, so I'm wondering why Satan seems to enjoy knocking little-old-foot-soldier-me out of commission anyway. Darnit, I really don't see myself as that much of a threat, especially these days.

Is it just 'cause he's bitter?

Anyway - while curled up on my bed the other day, crying my eyes out, I lit upon this verse, which I had never read before and which I proceeded to write large upon my forearm and memorise:

Rejoice not over me, o mine enemy,
When I fall, I shall rise;
Though I sit in darkness,
The LORD will be a Light to me. Micah 7:8

A goodly life-verse for those of us prone to darker melancholies. Late-winter will wane. Spring IS coming, and with it . . . RESURRECTION!!!

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Ah, the Joys of Tech Week

So, 12 Angry Men opens tomorrow, and I am one of it's official Light Techs.

Which basically means I show up, sweep the stage, mop the stage, channel-check (push a series of buttons that cycle through the different light-chanells and pretend to know what I'm doing), then sit with an important-looking head-set on in the Tech Cave and push a button 34 times over our two-hour show :-)

There have been no ladders involved, so, I'm happy (though I did get to push my boss around on one while he balaced thirty-feet above my head, focusing lights). I did get a piece of wooden-riser embedded in my thumb, which I've been wearing around like a badge of honor for a few days.

There are sooo many things I know now that I wish I'd used back in my ET days!! How to adjust a source-4. How to put together a cue-script. How to organize and call cues. What the function of a Stage-Manager actually is (in ET, the Director actually did most of the things that a Stage Manager handles in professional theater. Think of all the work I could've delegated if I'd only known!!).

I love theater. Wish it paid ;-)

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

Fly, little Eaglet!

Saturday was my brother's official Eagle Scout Court of Honor. He "graduated" to Eagle with five other guys, all from his troop, which makes @ 10-12 scouts from Troop 140 that have made Eagle in the last few years (to put that in perspective: only 2% of Boy Scouts ever reach Eagle rank, so, for those 12, 588 young men didn't make it).

There was something so good, so decent and . . . healthy about the whole thing. Before the "pinning" ceremony, the other Troop 140 scouts - the little guys who haven't even made Life Scout yet - gathered onstage and went through this thing where they all read from a card about the significance of the Scout Oath (a Scout is brave, reverent, clean, obedient, etc.). Then each of the new Eagles came up and honored both of their parents and a mentor with a special pin, before they themselves received their new neckercheifs and Eagle badges. Each of these guys had to finish a substantial community service project in order to gain their rank, which they must organize, fund-raise for, and execute with the help of their troop - so, not only did they finish their own projects, they also had to help out on several other Eagle projects in the mean time. We watched slideshow after slideshow of these six guys organizing charity food-pantries, regrouting grimy women's-shelter showers, pouring cement, re-planting gardens, as well as other boy stuff like climbing mountains, filming backyard war-movies, throwing tomahawks and setting things on fire :-)

I really hope the things they learned will stay with them, that they'll remember them when it counts. Watching the ceremony gave me just a teensy little ray of hope for the future of mankind. Hurrah for the Boy Scouts, long may they be gender-segregated!

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

Academic Bureucracy Strikes Again (and/or "Bad Times at LBCC - Everybody Start Panicking")

So, two of my favorite classes just got cut b/c of budget contraints. No more Theater Management or Stage Lighting. :-( Which means I need to find another 3 unit class to take. Should I go for the practical, and take a Microsoft Office class? Or something more fun and take Intro to Film?

I shouldn't despair too much: I'm still planning on crewing for the shows this semester, no matter what. So, I'll keep you updated on the ladder situation :-)

Thursday, January 22, 2009

Ladders (or lack of) and Sword-Wrist

So, yes, focusing a stage-light is not that complicated, but it does involve techie things like knobs and wrenches and knowing which way is left. Luckily, stage-light-pipes lower down to the stage, so no ladders were involved today. They will be next week, I'm told. Oh dear.

In other knews: rapiers are hard on the wrist. We practiced flourishes in Stage-Fighting yesterday for an hour. I'm sure I looked like D'Artagnan's incompetant little sister most of the time. Oh well. Here's to ET stage-fights and not knowing what your doing!!

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

With a Shake of the Head

So, Random (African-American) Stranger walked up to me in the library:

RAAS: May I tell you something?

Me: Hmmm?

RAAS: You are so beautiful.

Me: [blank stare/dazed smile]

RAAS: Are you part black?

Me: [blanker stare/more dazed smile/shake of the head] I don't know.

RAAS: Do you know why I ask that?

Me: No.

RAAS: [Makes complimentary but innappropriate comment about certain "attributes" that I have that my "white sisters," er, lack] . . . If you have Jenny Craig's telephone number lying around you need to tear it up and throw it in the trash!!"

Then Random African-American Stranger disappears as quickly as he came [note: this guy had to have been in his thirties or forties, at least].

I'm not making this up.

I don't know whether to feel complimented or horrified . . .

Happy First Day of the Obamera!

The great thing about our new president: you can do so many interesting things with his last name. So many helpful vowels. No, I won't be writing any adoring sonnets any time soon.

So, yeah, woke up this morning all excited, but Santobama Claus hadn't come in the night: no hundred dollar bill under my pillow. So much for Change ;-P

Anyway, trying out blogspot for a little while (yet another refugee from Xangadom - oh well). We'll see how it works, and if I ever even show up with 15 theater-related credits at good ole' LBCC. Thursday we're getting up on ladders in Stage-Lighting class.

I'll be sure to tell you if I'm still alive afterward ;-P