His Girl Friday Quote for Friday!

Hildy: "I spent six weeks in Reno, then Bermuda, oh, about four months, I guess. It seems like yesterday to me."
Walter: "Maybe it was yesterday, Hildy. Been seeing me in your dreams?"
Hildy: "Oh, no, Mama doesn't dream about you anymore, Walter. You wouldn't know the old girl now."
Walter: "I'd know you anytime, anyplace, anywhere."

Such an awesome movie! Cary Grant, why don't you love me?

C is for Cookie

My life at the moment is full of sex-crazed Frenchmen and jilted women. Fortunately, I am not one of these poor ladies. I'm just watching them gallavant about on stage.

I found a nice little surprise when I got to the theatre last Friday. It had been a bitch of a day and I was pleased as punch that it was Friday evening! Sigh. I unlocked everything, turned on the lights, and went to dump all my stuff onto the seat next to My Chair.

Yes, that should be capitalized. You see, I always sit in the same seat. I have done for four years and eight shows. I sat in a different seat only once and it freaked me out too much. Everybody knows that the third chair to the right, in the third row, on the right side of the house is MINE. They see me coming and move out of it. Usually, that doesn't happen, though, because I'm almost always the first one there. (The benefits of having a key to the building.)

But, back to my TGIF story. I go to drop my luggage and there sitting on my seat is a blue paper plate and... joy of joys... a cookie.

Now, this was not a fancy shmancy cookie. It was just a TollHouse chocolate chip generic cookie. You would have thought it was the Hope Diamond sitting there from the way I reacted. Thank God none of the cast was there or they would have committed me to the loony bin then and there.

*Side Note: You can print your own Insanity Certificates here. Those boys at the H.P. Lovecraft Historical Society should know insane when they see it.

I grinned and giggled and (yes, I admit it) I think I may have squealed. OK, maybe not that far, but still I was ridiculously happy to see it.

Then I started wondering who might have left it for me. I had been there Thursday night until 11:15 or so, so that was out. I knew there was a class on Friday morning's, but I didn't think any of them knew me well enough to leave me a cookie. It's possible that someone was just being piggy and left it there by mistake, but I prefer to think that some good person thought to themselves, "It's Friday. Kati needs a cookie. I know this is her seat. Isn't she cute how she always sits in the same one? If I leave it right here, she'll find it when she comes to rehearsal and it will make her afternoon. How I adore her."

A little over the top perhaps, but hey, a girl can dream!

All I have to say, is that cookie tasted damned good.

Give Me Your Hands if We be Friends

My roomie moved out last week. And I have to say, I'm very bummed about it. I mean, good for her that she's making enough money to afford a place of her own and good for me that she only moved across the street. But, still...

What about those Saturday mornings when she'd be so excited that I had made a pot of tea?

What about the geekazoid West Wing marathons? Or the Peter Wimsey marathons, complete with gin and tonics?

It's very lonely to get home from rehearsal after 11pm and not have her watching South Park. Only the cat awaiting me in a pitch black apartment.

I was ridiculously touched one night this week when she had stopped by to pick up her mail and left the light on for me.

I may be getting a new roommate, but it won't be the same.

And then a part of me says, "Suck it up, Katherine. She's across the damn street!"

Thanks, Robyn.

Once More Into the Breach

Yes, it's that time again, my cherubs.

Time for rehearsal!

Power by Nick Dear. The story of Louis XIV, the Sun King.

New director to work with.

Kick-ass cast. Except for the fact that it's missing my auntie and her beau. Poo on that.

How do I screen roommates when I have so little free time?

Why did the last woman have to turn out to be a flake?

How come the other cool one has found somewhere else to live?

Why? Why? Why?

God, listen to me! Bitch, bitch, bitch!!! I sound overwhelmed, which I'm not. Maybe, "slightly irked" is a better term for it.

Whew, I'm over it. I love going into rehearsal. You know generally what will happen, but it's the details and the journey that make it all different and worth while. Six weeks of exploring and peeling away the layers of the people and the story. Six weeks of making something truly beautiful that will, hopefully, touch someone's life. (Other than mine, of course.) All I have to say is, "Bring it on!"

"We shall be remembered.
We few, we happy few.
We band of brothers.
For he today that sheds his blood with me,
shall be my brother,
be he ne'er so vile."
-Henry V

We're Not in Burbank Anymore, Baby!

So, last weekend, I drove to Vegas. Memorial Day weekend... Vegas... Yes, I am insane.

My pseudo-uncle moved to Vegas and I followed him in his car.

Why, you ask?

To retrieve my beloved Miata.

Ah, perfect sense.

Yes, my cherubs, my car is once again mine. Huzzah! It is pristinely clean and running like a dream. No more busses for me.

But, that's not what this post is about. Oh, no. This post is about The Drive to Vegas. (Dun, dun dun.)

First of all, I was cruising along behind the U-Haul truck, trying to stay awake and a PT cruiser... well, cruised past me and the back window had an ad for "Hookah Parties" on it. (I love living somewhere where that can happen.) I had to call my auntie and cheer.

Second was the place in Baker where you can buy "Alien Fresh Jerky." I don't really need to say more about that. The pictures it creates in your mind do it more justice than I ever could.

Third was the temperature in Baker. F***ing hot is the only way to describe it. Seriously. I'm a girl with a pretty decent vocabulary, but that is the only word that is accurate enough. I'm sure it wasn't even the hottest it could be either. I got out of the car, almost fell down, and thought, "I really need to go back to Burbank."

Another reason why I desperately wanted to get the hell out of Baker was the pleasant up-standing gentleman lurking outside of the gas station. Let's see if I can describe him without hurling all over my keyboard. He was 80,000 years old and shirtless. (Nice.) Sunburnt to within an inch of his life and with three inches of tighty-whity showing above the waistband of his none-so-nice jeans. One crutch (for drama, I suppose) and a cigarette hanging off his lip (for emphyzema, I suppose).

My cousin, who was in a rotten mood and convinced that I had the keys to the truck, kept trying to rifle my pockets while dear old dad was going potty. Well, Mr. Clean made some remark about how dear lil cuz really just wanted to feel me up. Needless to say, I didn't ask him to elaborate.

All in all, I got a good blog post and a car out of the whole shebang, so I figure I came out on top.

Although, when I stopped in Baker on the way home, I was very glad to see that Prince Charming was no longer there. Maybe he went down the road to get some alien jerky.

Ah, What Fools These Mortals Be

I'm supposed to go to a Shakespeare "mash-up" tonight. The thespians of Banshee are gathering for an evening of scenes, monologues and Bard-inspired mayhem.

I even have a monologue picked out and memorized. (Robyn says I have to read if I go.)

Yes, I said, "if."

How lame is it that I want to chicken out, go home, eat something tasty, have a glass of wine and read a book instead?

I'm pretty sure they wouldn't laugh at me if I sucked (maybe Dan would), but I would still know that I sucked. Better to just bugger off an forget the whole thing, right?

That's my rationalization anyway.

I keep making excuses like, it doesn't start until 7:30! And, I really need to do laundry. Pathetic.

You know that line from Wicked, "I've heard it said that people come into our lives for a reason, bringing something we must learn and we are led to those that help us most to grow if we let them and we help them in return."

Well, yeah, the sentiment rocks, it's just getting myself to do it. Step outside the comfort zone, take a deep breath, and jump. "Defy gravity," as it were.

Well, here's the monologue one way or the other.

"If we shadows have offended, think but this and all is mended.
That you have but slumbered here, while these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme no more yielding but a dream.
Gentles do not reprehend, if you pardon, we will mend
And as I am an honest Puck, if we have unearned luck
Now to scape the serpents tongue,
We will make amends ere long
Else the Puck a liar call.
So good night unto you all.
Give me your hands if we be friends
And Robin will restore amends."
-A Midsummer Night's Dream

AKA The Anti-Umbridge League

Mother, Mother Ocean

My parents were in LA this past weekend and one of the two things my dear, sweet daddy wanted to do was go tide-pooling. I've lived in LA for over four years and I haven't been to the beach ONCE.

I know. This is sacrilege. I could be stoned in the streets.

Whatever. The beach is not my thing. I get sand in my eyes, my mouth, my contacts, and my pants. There are scary "beach people" there. You know the ones I mean! The bikini-wearing, breast-implant-baring, bottled-blond, snooty beach people who take over Santa Monica regularly. Shudder.

Well, with all the bitching and moaning in my head, I wasn't enthused about getting in the car for two hours there and two hours back and God only knew how many hours actually at the beach.

I've become too jaded in my Angeleno lifestyle.

The beach was beautiful. The water was freezing, the sky blue, and the children were jumping rope with seaweed. The seagulls were basking in the shallows and my daddy was clambering around on rocks like a big 6 year old, looking for anemones and starfish.

We watched the surfers and sailboarders bite the dust time and time again. We sat in the sand and I tried valiantly to ignore the bit that was down my pants. The waves crashed on the rocks and I found my inner Jimmy Buffett.

"Mother, mother ocean,
I have heard you call,
Wanted to sail upon your waters
since I was three feet tall.
You've seen it all, you've seen it all.

Watch the men who rode you,
Switch from sails to steam.
And in your belly you hold the treasure
that few have ever seen,
most of them dreams, Most of them dreams."

-A Pirate Looks at Forty

Friday Quote

"Why's a test-ban treaty so important? Let me tell you. In 1974, India set off a peaceful nuclear explosion. Indira Ghandi herself said they had no intention of building a bomb, they just wanted to know that they could. Twenty years later, India sets off five nuclear explosions. Who gets nervous? Pakistan. And when Pakistan gets nervous, everybody gets nervous. You know why? Cause we're all gonna die."
-The West Wing, "The Lame Duck Congress"

Picture Richard Schiff saying it in his brilliant way.

The Toothpick is Mightier Than the Sword

I heard about this last weekend and couldn't rest until I knew more!



Oh, the carnage!

Easter at the Banshee!

Now that I'm in my late twenties, Easter has lost quite a bit of the shine that it used to have. The endless flow of cheap candy and crap bubble gum doesn't appeal to me as it once did.

I remember fondly my large stuffed bunnies, wearing my brand new swim suits and sun dresses. But, no more. Easter is now about brunch, as I have mentioned before, and boy was it good!

Yesterday, though, I had a resurgence in the merriment! The fearless leaders of Theatre Banshee, boldly took it on themselves to create an adult Easter egg hunt for the cast and crew of Henry IV. They felt bad for making us do a show on a holiday... (Anybody else think it's funny that was had St. Patty's off, but had a show on Easter? Yeah, me too.)

And so I found myself standing outside the theatre at five minutes to noon, with a half dozen of my brethren elbowing their way to get closest to the door. They even fibbed to poor Fleur to try and get her to go home. The mob mentality was not improved by the evil, grinning figure of Sean peering out through the window, peaking his head out of the door, murmuring "T minus four minutes," and then scampering away again.

It must have been priceless to see us running like crazed maniacs when they finally opened the doors. The squealing and shrieking when one of us found an egg. The expletives when someone found an egg in a place that we'd thoroughly searched not ten seconds before. We were crawling around on our hands and knees, ransacking every square inch of the place (Yes, in fact, I did look in the toilet tanks, thank you very much), trying to find plastic eggs full of jelly beans. (JELLY BEANS for God's sake!)

The best part were the eggs that had slips of paper in them. Complete with Shakespearean quotes, naturally. Those, we took to Leslie and redeemed for corresponding prizes. We were afraid that we'd end up with the God-awful white elephants from Christmas parties of year's past. Fortunately, this wasn't the case. Robyn ended up with a box of See's chocolates, a box of See's suckers and some homemade garlic butter (Drool!). I ended up with two bottles of gourmet ale and a salami flavoured with chianti. We grabbed a baguette on the way home and had a damn fine Easter dinner.

Full points on ingenuity to Sean for hiding that egg in the coffee pot, in the leftover coffee grounds from Saturday night's show. And full points to me for thinking of looking there.

And full points to both Sean and Leslie for creating the most fun Easter I've had in years! Thanks, guys!

Springtime in Burbank

How do I know it's springtime in Burbank?

Well, aside from these lovely lily thingys (I've been informed that it's a clivia. Thanks, Mel!), there's the shrub of jasmine that I pass every morning that will be covered in blossoms by Easter morning.

There's the whiff of mock orange on the air as I walk home each night.

There's the fact that it keeps getting warmer and I don't need the electric mattress pad on my bed anymore.

There's the fact that Quincy has taken to sleeping curled up around the toilet and Brid has taken to napping in my closet.

All things that seem to indicate a change in season.

I have to say that I never particularly look forward to the summer. Either in L.A. or in Utah, for that matter. I hate being hot while I'm trying to sleep. Ick. I love sleeping with a jillion blankets on me and a cool breeze on my face.

One good thing about spring in Burbank, and mainly Easter in Burbank, is brunch at the beloved Smokehouse! Crab legs and shrimp as far as the eye can see, egg's benedict, crepes, prime rib, garlic cheese toast the color of... well nothing else is that orange, and free-flowing champagne at nine thirty on a Sunday morning. And, of course, my family away from my family.

Screw easter egg hunts, this is really how to celebrate a holiday. Well, that and a Star Wars egg decorating kit sent to me by my beloved mummy.

Since I have tomorrow off, I'll leave you with my Good Friday Quote! It's one of my favorite's from Henry IV, Part 1, although part of it is the way Jason says it.

"Jack, how agrees the devil and thee about thy soul, that thou soldest him on Good Friday last for a cup of madeira and a cold capon's leg?"

Happy Easter!

Friday Quote!

"You've got red on you."
-Shaun of the Dead

This *is* the droid you're looking for...

See this? A mailbox that looks like R2-D2? Is that awesome, or what?!

My auntie saw it recently and told me I had to check it out. It's right down the street from where I get on and off the bus.

I thought to myself, "Why is the post office making mailboxes look like droids?"

Well, I checked out their website today and found out that they've got stamps coming out for the 30th anniversary (!!!) of Star Wars. Some pretty cool ones, in fact. You can vote for your favorite. I couldn't decide between Yoda and the Millenium Falcon. (Yup, I'm still a geek.)

You can go about your business and may the force be with you.

And Yet...

I feel the need to post a slight addendum to my recent writings on the lack of awards for stage managers. At the Backstage West Garland Awards last night, I may not have been there to receive an award, and yet when the people I met heard I was a stage manager (and even more specifically, Theatre Banshee's stage manager) every single one of them expressed their admiration.

"Oh, that's such a hard job!"
"It's so hard to find a good stage manager!"
"Do you want to stage manage for MY company?! PLEASE?!"
"You did a really good job on (insert title here)! It was so smooth!"

Even the bartender was suitably impressed. And my dear friends, every time they introduced me to this director or that producer, they always introduced me as "Banshee's stage manager extraordinaire." Completely independent of each other.

I may not have gotten a certificate or a plaque last night, but I definitely got the vindication I was missing last week.

Friday Quote!

"Anti-wrinkle cream, there is. Anti-fat-bastard cream, there is not."
- The Full Monty

Pop, Pop, Pop

Bus drivers are fascinating people. There are a few "usuals" that I see on a regular basis. My favorites inclue The Popper, The Cougher, and That One Guy.

The Popper is a two hundred pound black woman who pops her gum constantly. Pop, pop, pop... Pop, pop, pop. All the way home. She's also exceedingly grouchy and nearly ran over a guy once who was just trying to put his bike on the rack on the front of the bus.

The cougher I always see in the mornings. She's been sick recently and her phlegmatic coughs are heard over the roar of U2 on my iPod. I sit far away from her, but she'll at least smile and say "Good morning" to me.

That One Guy waited for me for three minutes one morning. I was across the street, waiting for the light to change, so I didn't get run over by a Beemer. (More on that in a second.) He knew that I was usually there at that time of the morning, figured I was running late, and actually stalled, so I wouldn't miss the bus. How sweet is that?! Granted, he didn't wait long enough and I was still across the street when he left, but it's the thought that counts, right?

A slight tangent about getting run over by a BMW... About a month ago, I was crossing the street from the bus stop to go to the theatre. This was the night before Henry IV opened. I was about 5 feet from the curb and a BMW pulls up on my right, waiting to turn right. He rolled closer and closer, paying more attention to his cell phone than my flesh. I veered to my left a little, trying to avoid him, but he kept coming. He got within about 5 inches of my right knee before the bastard finally stopped. And the thing was, he looked at me as if to say, "What the hell are you doing crossing the street in front of my precious car?" I looked at him as if to say, "Asshole! Hang up your freakin' phone and drive your car!"

I got to the theatre and told Sean, the director, that I'd nearly been run over by a car and he said, "Didn't you tell this guy that if he'd hit you, I'd would have hunt him down and killed him?" We always made jokes about "You should have this key, in case I get hit by a bus." They don't seem so funny anymore.

And now for something completely out of left field. My fellow Banshees are attending the LA Drama Critics Circle Awards tonight and we've been nominated for two awards. Good luck, you guys!

I Feel Like This Sometimes Too

Do you ever have one of those days where you just NEED A DAMNED COOKIE?! And you CAN'T GET THE BAG OPEN?!

Watch this...

A SM's Real World

I am lovingly cocooned in my little stage managing world. Protected and buffered from the outside world by my lovely Banshees, but I got a dose of what it's really like for stage managers this week.

My fabulous theatre company had two productions last year and BOTH have won Backstage West Garland Awards for Best Ensemble. The reception for the winners is invitation only. I stage managed both of them, worked my ass off for both of them. Did I get an invitation to help my friends and colleagues celebrate in their time of glory? No. I kept thinking, "Surely, they'll include me!" But other people got their invites and my mailbox was empty. I have to say my heart broke just the tiniest bit when I realized I wasn't getting one.

My fellow Banshees know I was part of the ensemble. An extra penitent in the Magdalene laundries during Eclipsed and an extra docker slinging heaves in Dockers. An integral part of each show. I was at every rehearsal, every show, set all the props (stinky laundry and fake booze galore), ran the lights and the sound... You can tell I'm more than a little frustrated. The actors/director are always blissfully appreciative of the work I put in. The cast of Eclipsed even bought me a facial at a local spa after the show closed. But, not everyone is as classy as Banshee.

Fortunately, everyone who was invited gets to bring a "guest." So, I do get to go (I'll try not to be bitter), instead of sitting at home brooding in my pajamas, while eating chocolate ice cream out of the carton and watching bad re-runs.

I looked on the internet this morning and I can find a few measly awards for student SM's, but bupkiss for those of us in the "real world." No Garland Awards, no Ovation Awards, and certainly no Tony Awards. Designers? Bet your ass? Directors, producers, composers, actors? Of course, it goes without saying! If someone out there knows why SM's are so egregiously over-looked, please let me know.

Well, for myself and the other stage managers out there, who work our asses off and you know we've done a good job because they DON'T mention us in the reviews, know that we don't begrudge the actors their moment in the sun, just let us be there to lift a glass as well.

You Know You're Addicted to Coca-Cola When...

...you've gone cold turkey and contemplate french-kissing a gnarly old dude on the bus just because you see him drinking one and think you might be able to suck some off his tonsils.

Seriously.