The Past's Present

I'm moving!

The blog at least.

Come visit me here.

Exciting new look!

Same lazy-ass updating.

So Thanksgiving has come and gone and you all probably thought I died of hypothermia somewhere in the mountains of North Carolina. Silly Reader. Don't you know by now that I'm just a lazy blogger?

After the 10-plus hour drive, which we were smart enough to break into two days on the way down, we finally arrived at our destination. A cute, little barn, nestled in a valley by a small river. Or big stream.

 

It was nothing like I had imagined/feared. It's just a simple, one room affair. With a loft for sleeping and a loft for storage. Quite charming really. It is destined to become the workshop/artist studio for Becca and her beau Evan once they've built their house. Until then, it is their house. They've done all the work themselves. The only thing they didn't build was the foundation. And I have to say, I'm very impressed, and slightly jealous.

I have this fantasy of one day living in a rural setting like this, in a small cabin, with an old barn as a workshop/photo studio. It's a dream that's been influenced by my father and grandfather from when I was a much younger lad. The idea of living simply is quite appealing to me. Does that mean no running water? Of course not. It might mean going without a TV, but that's a decision to be made later. Say, when I can actually afford to purchase a cabin and land and whatnot.

The Day of Feasting was a lot of fun as we juggled the food preparations. They only have an electric hotplate and a grill to cook all their meals, so we had to plan out which items to start when and hope everything came together at the same time. Luckily, they're newly installed woodburning stove provided an excellent spot to put things that needed to stay warm while other dishes were prepared.

 

It also was the ideal spot to keep the spiced wine brewing. Which also added to the wonderful aromas that filled the tiny barn.

Everyone wanted to help out, but the size of the "kitchen" just didn't allow more than two people to be working on things at a time. So we all took turns sitting and watching and drinking the vast quantities of beer and cider that we'd purchased.

This is the "kitchen". Above them is the sleeping loft. You use the A-frame ladder to get up there.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Morris Elders arrived a little closer to feasting time, as they were holed up in their RV preparing the bird. Once they got there, everything started to come together. The taters had been warming on the woodburning stove. The lentil cakes were frying on the hotplate. The cranberries chilling in the beer cooler. We set up a couple of folding tables and started to lay out the eats.

 

Everything was delicious. Nothing was cold, except things that were intended to be so. And everyone quieted down and stuffed their faces. A lot. It was a charming, Thanksgiving dinner.

We entertained ourselves by chopping wood, building fires and strolling along the river. One night, we started a little bonfire and everyone pulled up a chair and watched as Jon pulled out his fire breathing gear. Which I was invited to partake of. Which I did. And it's something I never need to do again. Not because of the fire or any fears associated with it. But because the liquid you spit out, across the flaming torch to create the giant fire ball, is called Everclear. It's an alcohol that comes with the warning "Do No Consume Straight". It was like having a mouthful of fire ants swimming in seawater. The shit burned. It took your breath away. After three times, the inside of my mouth felt like it was covered in scales. But it makes for a cool effect.

 

 

We spent the better part of Black Friday wandering the streets of Asheville. A charming little city that reminded me a great deal of Boulder, Colorado. Very hip and artsy, but also very down to earth. We finished out the evening at The Asheville Brewing Co, which is very similar to the Brew & View in Chicago. Only it's a lot cleaner, has comfy seating everywhere and they serve pizza. We saw 3:10 to Yuma, which, if you haven't, you should it check out. A most entertaining flick. 

We all camped out on the floor of the barn, with the exception of Jon who manned up and slept in his tent out in an abandoned house on the other side of a creek. No thank you. My imagination is too vivid to allow me any sort of comfortable sleep whilst there might be bears or hillbilly serial killers or Big Foot lurking about. The stove kept us all toasty, if a bit smokey, so long as the fire was actually crackling. Once it died down though, the chill crept in and no one wanted to venture out of their warm wraps to stoke the fire. It was only three nights thought. I don't know how Becca and Evan managed for the year or more before the stove. Let alone the winter nights spent in a f*cking tent.

All things said and done, it was a most enjoyable time. With good eats and good company. The Morris clan are a fun-loving bunch and I am grateful to be part of the inner circle. So, how was your Turkey Day? I bet you didn't have to worry about your asscheeks freezing to the toilet seat. Or did you? Do tell.

 

 

I love this time of year. Sure, the gathering of friends and family is nice. And who doesn't love a holiday that's all about getting new shit? But for me, it's all about the food. I know that there are only two days where the feasting is front and center, but during the days and weeks between them, and even into the new year, it's all about the apple pies and orange-spice cookies and chocolate covered everything. Baked goods. How I love them.

Last year I even took a stab at creating a few of these myself. Though my apple pie was a touch on the watery side, there wasn't a slice left at the end of the day. Granted, I ate three of them, but still. I even made a couple of pumpkin pies which came out of the oven looking like rust-colored pools of love. And tasted like it too. I simply cannot wait until the day of gorging begins!

This year could be different, though. I'm not going to be gathering with my kin here in Chicago nor my family back in Pennsylvania. No. I am headed south. To North Carolina. To be with K's family this Thanksgiving. Her sister Becca has called dibs on the hosting duties and the horde that is The Morris Clan are all headed that way. She lives in Asheville, a city I've never been to, but one I've heard great things about. Lots of green spaces to hike and a downtown that boasts plenty of bars, bookstores and bemusement to satisfy anyone.

The only snag on this sweater of familial feasting is the digs. Or so I fear.

Becca and her beau are building a house. Have been building it for some time now. They have a piece of land and are doing most of the work themselves. So things are slow going. But there's a barn on the property and an abandoned, double-wide trailer. When they first started work on the house, they were living in a tent. Year round. Even when it snowed. Since then, however, they've done some work on the barn and have moved into it. This is where we will all be sleeping for the duration of this holiday. They called yesterday to inform us that the wood-burning stove had been installed, so there will be heat. 

I'm sure it's very lovely, as Becca is quite the creative cat. It's probably nicer than my apartment, with it's "vintage" kitchen and retarded shower. But when I hear the word "barn" my imagination gets the better of me. I picture us all sleeping on mounds of hay, fighting off mice and snakes for floor space. Or rather, ground space, because in my imagination, it's a dirt floor barn.

And while I can go a few days without the television or checking my email (gulp), I'm a fellow who likes to take a hot shower every morning. From what I've gathered, there is no running water in the barn. Becca showers at her place of employment. This also means that the others necessities of a bathroom have to be dealt with as well. On the biggest face stuffing day of the year, I'm going to be sans potty. My fear is that there's a shovel by the front door with a roll of t.p. on the handle. "Just head down wind about fifty yards or so and dig a hole. Be sure to fill it in good, because the bears and coyotes might dig it up and then they'll have your scent and well, we don't want to be catering their Thanksgiving dinner this year, if you know what I mean."

Supposedly there's a toilet in the trailer. But it's haunted. Becca gave herself a black eye fleeing some name-whispering presence a while back. Lord. Is there any worse place in a home to have a ghost? Sitting there, with your pants around your ankles, at your most vulnerable and some godd*mn unsettled spirit wants to make himself known. I suppose the silver lining is that you're already sitting on the crapper so there's no chance of soiling your britches. But still. It's one more thing I don't want to have to deal with when I'm making room for more pie.

Speaking of pies, I'm a little worried about where all the fixins will be prepared. I can't picture a Kenmore Range sitting along side the manger. And while I'm sure you can cook a turkey on a spit, I don't think the same can be said for mashed potatoes or cranberry sauce. Though, if it's the canned cranberries, I guess we can take a page out of the cowboy handbook and just sit the can in the fire. But what about the pies!? How do you set a campfire to 450 degrees for the first thirty minutes, then lower it 350 for the next hour? They don't have a dial on those things.

All that said, I'm looking forward to the trip. It will be nice to get out of Dodge for a while. I miss being in the out of doors, so that will be nice. And the Morris clan are a great group of folks to have to holed up with. Though, with the waistband expanding festivities, I think we'll have to come up with some other post-dinner activity than the usual fall back of Twister. I'm sure we can come up with a new game of some sort. Huddling for warmth? Exorcisms? Lice picking?

Happy Thanksgiving, Gentle Reader. I hope your day is filled with laughter and love and lots of pie. And that your trip to the bathroom doesn't require boots, bear bells or corncobs.

Be well. 

The reviews are in and it appears that we pulled it off!

Time Out enjoyed us. Though I'm still trying to figure out what he means by "unexpectedly winning". Did he see my name on the cast list just assume that I was going to be my usual, expectedly loosing self? Maybe he means the character? I'm not going to give it too much thought though. It's the sort of thing that can keep you awake nights.

The Reader had nice things to say as well. As did New City.

The one naysayer in the batch was the Loyola Phoenix. Even though it's a bad review of the show, it is some fine collegiate writing. It is also obvious that this particular "critic" has a very strict vision of what theater is and how it is to be performed. I don't want to spoil it for you, but I promise, you won't be disappointed.

Of course, if you'd like to form your own opinion there's still plenty of time. We don't close until December 22nd. (There are no shows next week for Thanksgiving.)

Spukt opened on Friday to lots of laughter and applause. Two sounds that are most welcome at a comedy.

I'm very relieved that the show is open and we're no longer tinkering with the script. Or, well, um, at least not massive chunks of it. There are still lines and moments here and there that get discussed after every show. But I'm sure that will settle down soon and we'll get into a nice rhythm. Knock on wood.

Friday night was our first night with full costumes and tech and whatnot and, of course, we had five reviewers in the house. It was a sold out show, with lots of friends, so that helped. They laughed in all the right places and even applauded a few moments that were particularly inspired. Seriously, it's worth the admission price just to see David Kodeski milk every possible second out of Napoleon's death scene.

But if you're not into super-glazed ham on your stage, perhaps I can tempt you with a little fox.

 

There's a lot to be entertained by in this show. A little something for everyone. I add plenty of ham and cheese to the offerring. While Diana Slickman, Guy Massey, David Kodeski and Rachel Claff do yoeman's work wringing out the funny from just about every possible moment.

Come see it, won't you? And then stick around and let me know what you thought about it. I'm really interested to know what this show looks like, having no director and all.

The show I've been rehearsing, Spukt, opens next week. At least that's the plan. To say that this show has been "troubled" would be putting it mildly. When I came aboard in July the script had already gone through a few revisions and between that day and this there have been many, many more. It's as if the script were one of those zen, sand gardens and we keep moving shit around to see how it looks. Last night even, we were cutting lines and adding new ones. No wonder I'm having trouble getting off book.

Don't get me wrong, it's been an enjoyable time for the most part. I've thoroughly enjoyed my fellow castmates and can't remember a rehearsal process where I've laughed as much. At times I've felt like we were only there to crack each other up. I wish every show could be this much fun.

Where things tend to get a little dicey is during those rehearsals when we have "outside eyes". You see, Theater Oobleck doesn't use a director, so most of the rehearsals have been us five actors running through the scenes and doing our thing. We give each other notes, discuss certain parts here and there and keep going. But once we get to a certain point in the process, it helps to have someone not so closely involved watch the rehearsals and give us a little feedback. Or so the theory goes.

But it's hard not to get defensive about these well-intentioned notes. After all, some of these people have never even read the show and are seeing it for the first time. How dare they give me a note about what my character does or does not want. Also, without having a "leader", aka director, it feels like you should take every note that comes your way, which can be confusing, especially when two people see the same moment from different angles. You have to learn to pick and choose. Or completely ignore.

In the end, though, I hope we've created an entertaining evening of theater. There will be live music. (I have two brief moments of singing.) Lots of running around. And, hopefully, lots of laughter. There's a small blurb about us in the upcoming issue of American Theater Magazine (with a photo of yours truly.)

We open at the Viaduct next Friday, November 9. If you'd like to come to a preview Wednesday or Thursday (and be an Outside Eye.) let me know and I'll give you the details. $12 dollar suggested donation "More if you got it, free if you're broke." You can't beat that. So come on out and see what we've been working on. I'd love to hear what you think of it.

 

 

 

I've never been a big fan of Halloween. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy getting free candy as much as the next fella, but I've never really enjoyed the costume part. Maybe it's because, as an actor, wearing costumes isn't that much of a novelty. Or it could be the fact that, as a kid, my costumes always sucked.

Not always. There were a few decent ideas. In fifth grade, I went as a Union Soldier from the Civil War. Complete with wool blanket bedroll and authentic, reproduction musket rifle that I'd picked up when my family went to Gettysburg that summer. My mom helped stipple on a black beard and created a bloody bandage for my arm. And in the sixth grade I went as Groucho Marx, which involved a lot of eyebrow raising, which I always enjoy. But those are the only two that I can think of that don't make me cringe.

As little kids, my siblings and I were subject to the store-bought, plastic outfits of whatever movie characters we wanted to be that year. The kind that came with a plastic, vision-imparing mask and outift that wasn't designed to look like clothing, but rather was an advertisement for the movie. I remember a Stormtrooper costume that had the black and white mask, but the "suit" was a blue and gold jumpsuit that said "Star Wars" on it and had a picture of an X-Wing fighter on it. Sheesh.

The worst though, without a shadow of a doubt, was the year I went as Buckwheat. I hesitate to say any more than this. But I suppose I should explain. It was the early 80's and Eddie Murphy was doing Buckwheat on Saturday Night Live. It was very funny. Youtube it if you have no idea what I mean. Especially the "Buckwheat gets assasinated" sketch.

Anyhow, my cousin, Chad, was going as Alfalfa. He looked great. The black hair with the one, lone spike in the back. The freckles. He was dead on. Me, in a moment of inspiration, decided that we would get even more loot if we teamed up and hit the houses together. And who better to join Alfalfa than Buckwheat? Never mind the fact that I probably could have picked any of the other Little Rascals and done just as well. But Buckwheat was the only other one I could think of thanks to watching Saturday Night Live.

I don't come from a theatrical family. We don't have boxes of costumes and make-up sitting around our house. But my mom had always helped out with the church plays we did every year, so she was pretty good at improvising an outfit. Need a shepard in a flowing robe? No problem. A couple of bed sheets, some rope and cotton balls for a beard and presto! So when I went to her and said I wanted to be Buckwheat, she never blinked.

Again, let me reiterate, that this is the early 80's. Political correctness hasn't really come into effect yet. Oh, and I grew up in a small, farm community that was about as diverse as a bag of Wonder Bread.

Finding the outfit wasn't all that hard. Someone had an old pair of overalls. We made ragged an old flannel shirt. Easy stuff. The challenges came from making my blondish brown hair curly and black. And, well, my skin tone.

The hair was accomplished by using an old wig that my grandmother had. A black, woman's wig. Notice the placement of that comma. It had wavy hair. My mom tried using her curling iron on it, but it just melted. So it was going to have to work as it was.

The darkening of my face and hands was easier to achieve. My mother simply took Hershey's chocolate baking powder and mixed it with Crisco. Then smeared it on. I'll give you a second to catch your breath.

All right? Good.

That's right, My mother turned me into a walking confection. And what teenage boy doesn't want gobs of Crisco slathered onto his face to help his complextion? I remember sweating A Lot. But it didn't deter me. I thought I looked good. Real good. Even with the braces that glimmered when I'd strike a pose and say "O'tay!".

Needless to say, my plan fell apart very quickly. Alfalfa and I became separated in the throngs a greedy, candy-hungry urchins. The sweat caused the chocolate-flavored lard to run into my eyes. And no matter how many times I said "O'Tay!" everyone just stared blankly at me after they asked "Who are you supposed to be?" Everyone thought I was, maybe, a homeless Jamacian child? I think I gave up after a couple dozen homes. My spirit was broken. And that was the last time I went out trick-or-treating.

But don't feel bad for me. I've had plenty of opportunities since then to get back on the Halloween Costumed Horse. The office where I work a has big party every year where they award big prizes for the best dressed. And when I say big, think airline tickets. I won an iPod two years ago and I only came in third! I tend to wait until the last minute to decide my costume, so whatever I am it has to be something I can create out of my closet. The iPod winning costume consisted of a red-checked flannel shirt, black, leather pants, a cowboy hat, work boots and my face painted like Ace Freely from KISS. (I was "A Little Bit Country, A Little Bit Rock-n-Roll") This year, I'm just a nerd. White socks with the black pants and shoes, greased down hair with a cowlick in the back (ala Alfalfa), a bow-tie, maybe my shirt tail sticking out of my zipper. I'll let you know how I do.

And I'll see if I can't scare up some pictures from my ill fated Little Rascals episode. Cause I know you're dying to see them.

 

UPDATE: I got fourth place at the office and took home $50! Who says waiting until the last minute doesn't pay?

 

- "Pssst. Lemme tell you a secret", he said, leaning over in his seat so that his shoulder was pressing against mine. "If you squint your eyes just right the buildings look like they're made of flames." He pointed to the skyline as the train slowly rolled away from downtown. Away from the offices and over-priced shops. Away from the collective depression of a million soul-sick workers. The bright orange glow of the setting sun was reflecting off the glass walls of the buildings that had held us captive for the last eight and a half hours. I squinted my eyes and followed his finger, the outlines of the skyscrapers blurring into a flickering orange glow that did, sort of, resemble fire in a cheap theatrical kind of way. I nodded my head and leaned back into him, getting close enough to smell the day's work on his skin. "I've got a secret for you," I said, my lips so close to his ear I could taste his daydreams. "The woman across the aisle isn't wearing any underwear." His eyes reflexively glanced at the woman in question and he reared away from me to look into my face. "You shouldn't be looking at such things", he said straightening himself out in his seat. "It isn't polite." I smiled. "Well, neither is whispering secrets on a crowded train, but I thought we were having a moment." He didn't answer me, his attention now focused on a crossword puzzle. I thought about apologizing and sharing a different, less offensive secret with him, but instead decided to try and reflect the light off my watch-face up the young woman's skirt for a better view.

- Jesus Christ was put on trail by the Gods of yore. The long list of charges included Inciting Disbelief, Failure to Pay Homage and Egotism. All punishable by death. As was expected, he defended himself, with Zeus prosiding and Cronus prosecuting. Things weren't looking good for the young savior until he called Eros as a suprise witness and questioned him as to his whereabouts on the night of March 15th, 1 B.C. When Eros finally admitted that it was he who had impregnated Mary the courtroom erupted. Zeus, no longer capable of commanding the heavens thanks in part to Jesus' popularity, beat his gavel until it finally broke before order was restored. "I rest my case", Jesus said with a wink at Zeus that would have warranted a lightning bolt back in his heyday. He closed his briefcase and strode from the courtroom, his sandals squeaking on the hardwood floor. All eyes were on Eros. He looked at the crowd of Gods and lesser gods, Thor, Dilga, Kon, Yum Kaax, Utu, Huitzilopchtli. "What can I say?" Eros shrugged. "She had a nice ass."

 

 

 

 

- The wind is shaking down the trees for loose change outside my window. I hear the coins clattering on the sidewalk down below. It would be so easy to just walk down and scoop them up, put them in my pocket and be the richer for it. But somehow it just doesn't feel right. I haven't earned them. Besides, I'm too lazy to put my flip-flops on.

- Do you ever wish you had a super power? What would it be? Mine? I would love to have the ability to make little, old ladies walk in a straight fucking line down the sidewalk. I hate trying to get around them and I always wind up feeling guilty later for hip-checking them into the fire hydrants.

- When I was a kid, my grandfather used to take me outside to watch "shooting star shows". I would make a wish every time I saw one of those blazing lines streak across the sky. I would be so excited for them to come true that I could barely get to sleep at night. The next morning I'd awake and find that my wish hadn't come true. There wasn't a new bike/swimming pool/Millennium Falcon sitting in the back yard, I'd pout. My grandfather would pick me up and put me on his knee and say "Don't waste your wishes on anything that will rust." When I got older and learned that they weren't "shooting stars" but rather meteors burning up in the Earth's atmosphere, I understood how Adam and Eve felt when they realized they'd been naked the whole time. But that didn't stop me from scanning the night sky, as I walked to my car in the hospital parking lot, as my grandfather lay dying in a strange bed. By the time I finally saw one, it was too late, his insides had already rusted over.

- Whenever I watch my nieces and nephew I can't help but wander what it would be like if people never out-grew the tantrum. I mean, wouldn't you love to see some guy in your office trying to get out of a meeting by going completely limp, the boss dragging his dead weight towards the conference room? I know I would.

- Sometimes I worry that my memories have all been replaced by short stories written by Frank Capra. This sucks for two reasons. One: I'm pretty sure he didn't even write short stories. Two: None of them are memorable enough to merit repeating.

- I think, when the final history book is written about our time here on Planet Earth, it won't be global warming or nuclear holocaust or plague that is penciled in after "Cause of Death". It will be stubbornness.

You can see this show for free on Sunday if you're an industry type. Just get to the Cultural Center by 2:45 and say "Industry" when you get to the box office. And then prepare yourself for a show unlike anything you've ever seen before. Well, unless you see a lot of Dada-ist theater. It's a very enjoyable, entertaining, magical show. And it's free this Sunday. Go.