A Good Leeching

Lately, a lot of little things have been really getting to me. On their own, these tiny things are nothing I couldn’t normally deal with. Together, they are a force to be reckoned with. I had a revelation tonight that in order for me to focus on what’s actually important in my life and not let these little things continue to affect me, I have to get them out of my system. Vent the cargo hold entirely and hope that bitch of a Xenomorph Queen can’t hold on for long, cause otherwise I might snap.

That means it’s time to purge some poison, kids. Strap in, this might suck. …

Dear Modern English and Every Other 80s Pop Band That’s Sold Out,

I understand you’ve been basically out of work for the past eighteen to twenty-five years. I’m truly sorry for this. I am. But I swear if I have to listen your once-beloved song “Melt With You” accompany one more fast food restaurant selling SOMETHING with lots of cheese, I might have to hunt you down and break your fingers. It was bad enough when I had to listen to you COMPLETELY abandon all sense of decency and musical integrity THE FIRST TIME when Burger King bought that song. Now that Taco Bell has the rights to it only sickens me worse.

STOP RAPING MY CHILDHOOD, YOU SONS OF MOTHERLESS GOATS!!! Or, at least, if you MUST sell out, pick a restaurant that doesn’t peddle horse manure and call it food! They serve “Grade F” beef at Taco Bell, for the love of fuck! “Grade F!!!” Categorized as, “edible!!!” EDIBLE!?! This is okay? For serious?!

Dear the Cock-Eating Douche-Rockets Who Park Their Cars on the Sidewalk Outside Our Shop,

Okay, I know the Pennsylvania State Driving Test requires reading aptitude. I know it does. So explain to me how you can park your gargantuan pickup trucks and your iddle-bitty-widdle penis hotrod cars on the fucking sidewalk and in front of NO LESS than THREE TO FIVE No Parking signs! Are they in French? Are they written in a type of ink that only people who are NOT inbred can read? Is there a required number of teeth for which to comprehend them? I don’t understand. Please explain this to me. How is this okay?

Dear Julie Taymor,

Let me start by saying I loved what you did with Titus Andronicus and The Lion King. It did my heart such wonders to see someone who not only COULD do and serve Art so vividly but also DID so without sacrificing artistic honesty. For those efforts, I applaud you.

But then I watched, Across the Universe and suddenly I feel less & less like clapping; unless the clapping involves only one of my hands and the side of your face. I know how this movie must have looked on paper. Beloved theatre and movie artist and beloved, iconic rock band’s songs together in a story about young, innocent love. What could be sweeter? But something got lost, Julie. I think it was the script. I think it was the plot. I think it was a cast of characters with even one redeemable quality amongst them. I think it was a cohesive link between what was a beautiful concept and an actually terrifyingly god-fucking-awful film.

Don’t mistake me, Julie. I TRIED to like this movie. I wanted to like this movie. So much so that I assumed I would. It never really occurred to me that I wouldn’t. Every fiber in my artistic body screamed at me that I should love and live this film. I tried; great Jebus but I tried. It started as an itch in the back of my head, right around when all the Ivy League kids sang, “With a Little Help From My Friends” while firing golf balls at dorm room windows. A little cliché, I thought, but I let it go. Then the itch became an ache when I realized not only was the main character’s name Jude but his love interest’s was Lucy (… If there’s a way to be more contrived, I would LOVE to hear it, Miss Taymor). But I definitely think it was right around the time Eddie Izzard sang “For the Benefit of Mr. Kite” that I felt my apprehensions solidify into pure hatred.

I HATED this movie, Julie. And I’m floored by that realization. Not only did you, on more than just a few occasions, murder a veritable slew of iconic Beatles songs (some of which I will never be able to hear again without throwing up just a little bit in my mouth) but the whole thing just struck me as so manufactured and (there-by) vacuous that I can’t help but wonder if you didn’t lose interest somewhere along the way. No amount of deep color-saturation & synchronized dancing can save a movie with despicable characters and an empty void where there should be a plot. I mean FUCK, even Bono couldn’t save this film! FUCKING BONO! SINGING “I AM THE WALRUS!” HOW DO YOU LET THAT HAPPEN?!?!

In a way, you’ve only helped us, the small folk, Julie. You were well on your way to becoming an Art Scene GOD; you had all the makings. All it would have taken was for this movie not to have inspired me to put my foot through the television and you would have been sling-shot into eternal stardom. Across the Universe has saved you from the burden of such responsibility. My heart sulks at it, but in a perverted way, I’m happy for you. Welcome to mediocrity, Miss Taymor.

Oh, and on a small side note: Jim Sturgess is NOT Ewan McGregor. He will NEVER be Ewan McGregor. Only by striking deals with the ilk of Mephistopheles will he ever have a SNOWBALL’S CHANCE of attaining Ewan McGregorhood. I know if you squint they do KIND of look alike but don’t mistake the brooding Scottish guy for the brooding English one. I’m sorry you couldn’t afford Mr McGregor but thinly-veiled attempts at fooling us will only insult us. Stick to reinventing other people’s stories.

Dear the Very I-Tralian Barber Across the Street From My Theatre,

You have GOT to be one of the creepiest men I have EVER seen living on this planet. I don’t know how you do it. It’s almost a work of art on it’s own. Seriously. The level of Creep to which you’ve attained is nigh-unfathomable to us lesser mortals. I’m almost saying, “Well done!” Not to judge BUT gold chains worn with the pencil-thin mustache only serve to creep us out all the further.

You frighten us, Mr Barber. I’m certain one day we’ll read about the crop of coeds you’ve buried in your backyard but until that day, please keep away from me and my own. You’re seriously creeping us out. Please. Seriously. PLEASE.

Dear My Artistic Director, Edward Keith Baker,

Stop casting yourself in productions. Stop picking shows for a season purely so you can cast yourself. Stop directing every other show you can’t act in yourself. Stop trying to find ways to put yourself in every aspect of just about every show I have to put up on your stage AND stop paying yourself on top of it all. I get one paycheck. Anna, my master carpenter AND your sound technician, gets one paycheck. Stefi, my painter AND your props artisan, gets one paycheck. I can’t even list all the fucking hats Scotty wears in the span of one production and he only gets one paycheck. That’s the way it works. If you MUST perform in a show (and I’m not necessarily saying you shouldn’t EVER act, I’m just saying not constantly, goddammit), or feel the pulsating urge to direct or compose a show, do so – but waive the fucking fee. EVERY OTHER ARTISTIC DIRECTOR ON THE PLANET DOES EXACTLY THAT. Or if they don’t, they’re as unethical and dishonest as you are.

I suppose I might feel differently about your practices if I felt you were a talented actor and director. As it happens, I don’t really. Maybe you were twenty years ago. Yes, you must have been. I find it impossible to believe you’ve risen to where you are today JUST by sleeping with Susan. Somewhere in there, they MUST be a talented bone. But please do not mistake good diction for good acting. I’m glad Douglas and Moira have been given a chance to perform on this stage again, but Copenhagen is just an excuse for you to prance about the stage vocally masturbating for the all the world to see. And frankly Keith, it’s revolting. Every actor I see you block looks forced or contrived and every word that comes out of your mouth on stage sounds over-enunciated and unnatural.

Maybe you’re unclear on the concept of Artistic Director. I understand, many things here at BRT seem to be VERY unclear to a lot of people. Hopefully, this will help. Your job isn’t to take away work for other actors and directors and composers and musical directors and singers in a sad attempt to uplift your failing and deflated ego. Your job is to go out and FIND those people and convince them that BRT is the place they should be brilliant at next. Find plays that are interesting to people other than yourself. Of course we should keep favorite actors and musicals; that’s as much a part of a local theatre as anything. And neither am I saying necessarily to cast from out of town. But stop hiring the same six people all the time and give some of the new kids in town a chance. Take a fucking chance and stop living under the same artistic rock. It’s not only getting stale but it’s getting more and more transparent. Someday soon, someone braver than I am’s going to stand up and shout out, “Mr Baker’s got no clothes on!” and you’ll quickly find yourself just where you’ve put yourself: In the spotlight with nothing and no one to protect you except your deflated ego and your over-enunciated words.

Fuck Keith, we could be so much more. Stop creating in fear. It’s sickening. You know “what I want to be?” Not shit.

Dear Zelda,

Kitten, you must come to accept that if I haven’t left you for good sometime over the past four and a half years, I’m not going to now. When I get up in the morning and leave the house, rest assured that I WILL RETURN TO YOU. Please stop yelling at me when I first walk in the door. Please? Why is it that you can be sitting BETWEEN two girls who want nothing more than to laude attention and petting upon you in droves, and yet the first thing you feel you must do when I come home at night is LEAVE those same girls to come out and cry at me??? Riddle me that, Kitten?!

… Huh, I do actually feel a lot better now. Thanks for that. … I realize that some of the above is harsh. Shit, some of it’s downright cruel in places. But this is my blog, fuckdammit, and here my opinion rules. There was a time when I wouldn’t even think about putting some of these thoughts into words for fear someone who shouldn’t know them suddenly would but my first season here has done an amazing thing to me: It irrevocably broke my spirit but then, almost simultaneously, left it stripped of all its fear. “I [sit] before you now, truthfully unafraid. Why? Because I believe something you do not? No! I [sit] here without fear because I remember. I remember that for onehundredyeeeaaaaarrrs …” Ah, nevermind. Look, the phoenix from the ashes has not only risen but it is DAMN tired of putting up with bullshit. I learned a lesson whilst on Tour what seems like eons ago to call people on their douche-baggery that I’ve lost sight of in recent years. Strangely enough, the longer I stay here, the less filter I care to keep in place. Geez, I hope that doesn’t make me bitter and jaded …

That’s word.

Good night. And good luck.

Industry!

“Science and technology! Men [& women] building things! Putting screwdrivers into things! And adjusting them!”

“Outstanding. [Now] all we need's a deck of cards. All right, let's move like we got a purpose.”

“That wasn’t so hard.” “… We neutronized it! Do you know what that means? A complete particle reversal …” “And we had the tools! We had the talent!” “It’s Miller time!”

“Hello! …” “Hi! … Look at the silly little humans!” “Do you think they have any idea what’s about to happen to them?” “Not a clue … Bye bye …”

I fully admit I’m feeling VERY self-satisfied right now. One may even say, “Full of myself.” And you would be fairly on track. This feeling comes as a direct result of me kicking my last load-in’s ass. You heard me: I am a tech director GOD. Believe it. That’s right, Show: Suck it.

Here’s how it’s all gone down so far: After the abhorrent debacle of The Show That Shall Not Be Named and the fallout that ensued post, my production manager and I (with the ENTIRE production staff behind us) went into Sue’s office and demanded things start not sucking. Officially. This actually wasn’t all that hard an argument to convince her with on account of it being well thought-out and organized. Scott begged, I yelled, Stefi cried, and I seem to recall Anna sitting in the corner quietly rocking herself back & forth whispering, “No cry for Nell. No cry for Nell.”

Show #3 (Welcome Home, Marian Anderson/Clouds/”That Black Show” [I won’t say who called the show “That Black Show” but I’ll give you a hint: Her initials are Susan D. Atkinson]) was a much-needed break and although it was certainly an easy show to put up, it was more by virtue of it being an already-produced remount. This show was basically done and had been touring for something like nine years already and we just kind of … made it fit on BRT’s stage. We did that. And it was miraculous. There was much rejoicing …

… I know you made the little cheering sound. Don’t bother denying it.

But it was not the remolding of the system that we clamoured for and demanded help in bringing about.

Copenhagen, then, was the real test. We railed. We cried out. We bitched. We moaned. Scott, Stefi, Anna, Mike, Blair, Kate & I all yelled at the top of our lungs that things like designers finishing designs on time were not luxuries but essentials. That the days of great scenery magically appearing onstage with seemingly little to no effort were over. No longer were we, the Prod Staff, going to let directors and managing producers and actors work in blissful ignorance as to how the things that help them look not stupid on stage get there. Oh you’re going to know, dammit. In fact, some of us went so far as to say that we not only couldn’t do our jobs without some of these things but that we wouldn’t (that might have been me, I can’t recall that, Senator).

I’m getting off-task. Lemme refocus here. …

Greg Mitchell (you douche canoe) was once again returning to BRT to not only design some scenery but ALSO to put together the lighting. To most of us here, this seemed like the logical theatrical equivalent of inviting a convicted child rapist over for dinner to meet your daughter … again; and then asking her to invite her brownie troupe friends over, too. In short, a bad, BAD idea.

Nevertheless, he was signed on a second time. Admittedly with the inclusion in his contract that January 4^th was the deadline for FINISHED final design plates and each day late was a 2x4 to the face (thanks to Scott for pushing on that front for us). I give T-Dub credit, he came through and although it was one hell of a convoluted design, it was done (mostly) and it was on time (mostly). Regardless of its slights, it was light years ahead of his last nightmare and I, for one, was hopeful; if not downright impressed he did his job at all. To a great degree, this should be attributed to the fact that Greg Mitchell fears us. … Oh, he does. He’s afraid. I can see it in his eyes. He’s fucking terrified of each and every one of us. And frankly, I’d be lying if I told you that most of us were not only okay with that but a little happy about it, too. Go ahead and judge, if you must, but contempt leaves little room for amnesty and he had something to prove to us. Namely, that he wasn’t a barnacle on the underside of Art. The jury’s still out on that but he’s at least ON the boat of Art now. … I lost myself again, hang on …

The design that did show up was … Well, it was straight-forward and concise, I’ll give it that. You know, the way that first three hundred foot drop on a roller coaster called, “The Widow Maker” is straightforward and concise.

… Ellipses. The floor is covered with ‘em. All of differing sizes and positions; some so large that only a portion of them is even seen; as little as a third in some cases.

For those of you fuzzy on your geometric shapes, the term “ellipse” is from the Greek for “absence” and is defined as being the “locus of points on a plane where the sum of the distances from any point on the curve to two fixed points is constant.” Unlike a circle, which has one, constant radius that never changes on any X or Y axis, the ellipse has two very distinct axis’s; a major and a minor and its radiuses are ALWAYS changing. It is the “cross section of a cone seen at any angle but a right angle with its axis.” Try noodling THAT one out …

Look, just think oval like we all did at first and you’ll be fine. (Actually, if you look at a drawing of an ellipse whilst you read the above definitions, I think they make a lot more sense than I’ll otherwise admit)

… I was fuzzy on the whole ellipse thing as recently as two months ago. I’m a veritable fucking savant on the subject now …

Here’s the main thing about ellipses you need to realize in order to grasp the foci of this load-in (and subsequently, why I kick so much damn ass): To accurately draw an ellipse, you need to locate its two foci points along its major axis and draw its circumference’s constants from them. In small scales (like on a coffee table), this is fairly easy with a little math, two nails and a string. On larger scales it become difficult to locate these foci and keep constant the distance between them (string, even tie-line, stretches and even aircraft cable wants to sag over a distance of sixty feet). As these distances grow larger, so does the difficulty in keeping the geometry uniform.

Let me put it this way: Try finding a point two thirds along a ninety foot line when you’re standing in a room only forty feet wide. Yeah.

And that’s just the floor. They START at sixteen feet along the minor axis and go upwards to something like forty-two feet. And that’s along the SMALLER of the axis, for the love Jiminy! And there are six of these fuckers! Seven, if you count the one on the Wall.

Oh yeah, … The Wall. The Wall is a 24’x36’ faceted masonite (hard board; think tempered cardboard) wall that CURVES; FOLLOWING ONE OF THE ELLIPSES ON THE FLOOR across stage. The surface isn’t solid in the manner of most other walls, either. Along with the faceting aspect it is also split every 4’x8’ so that lighting instruments hung from behind it will shine through the seams. Because of the steep angles of the lighting instruments, the Wall itself needs to be very thin. Less than four inches thick. Look, it’s difficult to describe truly in words.

Originally, the Wall was spec’d by T-Dub as constructed out of wood. This seemed cagey, in my opinion, as I doubted 2x4 pine’s ability to stay straight over 24 feet and to hold itself upright without a TON of cross-bracing that he had deemed unacceptable for his lighting purposes. Wood really wants to bend under its own weight. Think trees in hurricanes. The Wall had to be steel but the big issue with that is BRT just wasn’t equipped to weld structurally properly. That and no one but me and Stefi had done any real MIG welding less than a year ago. We managed to fix that. We bought a welding conversion kit to make the fluxcore-piece-of-stinky-shyte welder we DID have into a MIGlet (also known as Barbie’s First Welder) and I even managed to teach just about everybody in production how to MIG weld. And most everybody does it now REALLY WELL. I mean, to look at the assistant stage manager, kate, is to look upon an innocent. But “Best Welder in the Shop,” I wouldn’t. But she’s awesome at it. You should see her beads; jesus …

I only go into this kind of depth here because not only did I teach myself a HELL of a lot about geometry in general and elliptical shapes and how to conjure them from the very air around me and not only did my crew make a pile of steel into a wall twenty-four feet high by an inch and three-quarters thick but we managed to do it all TWO SOLID WEEKS BEFORE TECH EVEN STARTS.

We are gods. Okay no, we’re not gods. But given the first half of this season, it sure feels like we’re gods. Yes fine, we’re simple mortals. But we’re mortals given the time to have explored our options and given the time to check and recheck and build things right the first time. That’s what’s important to realize here. You especially need to recognize that to understand why this show frightened the pants off of me just prior to getting started on it.

Putting this show up scared me not only because it was new ground for me technically speaking (I mean, … ELLIPSES!!), but precisely because we WERE given the time to noodle everything out. I won’t say we were given carte blanche, but we were given a lot more support than I feel like the Scene Shop’s been given in the past twenty years. Shyte. If we couldn’t pull this one off, it was no one’s fault but my own. That’s a kind of pressure I actually wasn’t prepared for. If for no other reason than I was putting pressure on myself not to fuck up. I admit I am my own worst critic.

So you wonder why I feel like walkin’ on sunshine? Cause for the first time in a long time I feel like not only did I do my job but I did my job well. My karate instructor used to say, “You’re only as good as your last fight.” Tomorrow’s fight with Dear World might suck and I might lose it (the pictures of THAT model frighten me a little bit), but in today’s I kicked ass, despite being all out of bubblegum. Forgive me if I feel a little pride from that. Or don’t; that’s cool, too.

That’s word. Good night. And good luck.

PS- Bonus points to the first person who can identify the four quotes at top. See? My blog is not only entertaining, but challenging!

Will Wonders Ever Start?

One of my major themes during the entirety of this blog has concerned the constant and Rebellion-V-Empire-scale struggle of getting my theatre company to listen to us little people and convincing them that improvements are not always easy but necessary. To try and work into their minds that you may not like some of the ideas we have, but sometimes (especially when we all can agree on them) they are ABSOLUTELY essential.

I bring this up because last Wednesday there occurred an event that which few have witnessed here at BRT before. Are you ready? Drums, please.

A Pre-Production Meeting.

Oh yeah, I’m not making that up to make myself feel better. This really happened. The director, the choreographer, the scenic, lighting and costume designers all met in a room and started talking about Dear World, the final show of the season. Then, approximately an hour later, my production manager, myself, my master carp, my scenic painter and BOTH stage managers joined them and we all talked about the VERY SAME PRODUCTION. Where Nels (yes, of I Do, I Do fame) wants to go with the set, what problems may arise from it, where I might have some input, how building a two-story circular staircase might fuck the Scott’s ability to light anything, etc. What colors are we thinking of so that Lisa can incorporate them into what people are wearing and vice versa. Do the columns living here give Greg (not TW, the good one) enough room to stage the Dungeon Tap Dance (no, not making that one up, either) in this musical . . . You know, the little things.

Nothing concrete was really decided during this meeting; that, of course, wasn’t the point. But some elements were decided, if not in final form then at the very least in their ethereal one. Everyone, and I don’t exaggerate here, felt something in the air during those two hours. There was an air of professionalism about all of us that no one, I think, was truly prepared to feel amoung the same design team from which the nightmare that ended up being I Do, I Do; the first of two shows that almost killed us. To be frankly honest, everything at this meeting could change tomorrow but the idea that we all talked about a show that doesn’t open until May 1^st (for those of you keeping track, that’s over four months away) is astounding. Simply astounding.

I know this is what I’ve been asking for since I got here. This is one of the benchmarks of improvement we all, not just myself, have been aching for since long before I brought my kitten to this lil town and started clamoring for change. Still, when the miracles do occur, I think you’re allowed a little “wow” time to bask in the light of them. You can spend half your life training a bear to ride a unicycle but when you actually GET that bear to ride a fucking unicycle, I think you’re allowed a moment of, “There’s a fucking bear riding a unicycle in front of me!” . . . Unintentionally, that analogy is more apt than you can possibly imagine.

I can only pray this practice of PREPARING for upcoming productions (how’s THAT for alliteration?) continues. I know that everyone made such a point of stating how good they felt afterwards that I’m just so damned surprised no one thought to have these things years ago (I couldn’t actually say that with my tongue inserted ANY FIRMER into my cheek …). I also can’t, in good conscious, take any real credit for making this happen. Sure, I added my voice to its demand, but no one really asks, “How high?” when I shout, “Jump!” around here. Usually the response is, “Why the hell are you shouting at me, Jake?!” Still, through the voices of the many (and the threats of the many, now that I think about it) there arose a precedent. From this precedent there had BETTER arise a tradition, that’s all I’m saying for now.

Also in the news, at my behest we’re building a tool cabinet for the shop. For any of you who’re keeping track, that’s the third I’ve built in my career. Eventually I hope it will look something like this but for the time-being it looks something like this. Baby steps, my friends, baby steps. It’s times like these that I wish I had had the forethought to take a bunch of pictures of places like the shop and backstage BEFORE we started going through them with vacuums and the organizing stick. Without comparison when I sit with the Powers at my contract renewal meeting, asking for the raise I plan on asking for, I’d love to be able to say, “Here’s how I found it. And here’s how I’ve left it. Which do YOU prefer?” Ah well, such is life and my lack of forethought. That is all for now. More actual photos and news as events warrant.

That’s word. Good night. And good luck.

PS – Oh, and “TW” stands for “Twat Waffle”. That’s Greg Mitchell’s (you fuck) new nickname. I know it’s a little crude but it just seems to fit him. You can’t argue providence when it happens so cleanly. I don’t really like the word “twat” very much at all because of its crudeness and because it sounds like its true calling is to be an onomatopoeia (which is NOT spelled phonetically, by the way) of ten pounds of raw cookie-dough hitting a linoleum kitchen floor (I’ll give you a second to work that out in your head and then say it out loud – go ahead, no one’s listening). But when you add the word “waffle” to the end of it, it seems to lighten the repulsiveness somehow. Together, they role off the tongue (like jell-o after novocain).

I haven’t updated this blog in a while. I could go into details as to why, but none of us has time for that. Let’s skip it. It’s not important and all that really matters is that I haven’t completely given up on this thing yet. Yet.

Happy New Year. If it is a Happy New Year. Which I doubt.

I’ve discovered something: The time to become introspective towards your own life and accomplishments (or lack there-of) is not when listening to Tom Waits. But dammit, I just can’t help it. I once read a critic describe Tom Waits’ music as an glimpse into a rainy, filthy world as infested with jazz as with cock-roaches that never quite exists but the romantic in us fervently wished did. I don’t know about that but after listening to the man gargle caltrops, I still manage to feel like being drunk, broken-hearted and soaking wet would be cool.

I’m not going to dwell on this too much cause luckily I’m past the worst of the holiday-induced depression but every year around this time (not so much Christmas, it seems, as New Year’s), when for one literal moment in time the most important thing to everyone around you is to have someone to kiss as a glowing, pulsing orb of Doom descends to a “0” and we all fervently wish Dick Clark would just RETIRE FOR FUCK’S SAKE! (we love you, Dick Clark – for the love of honor, go to bed! you look like a prune sitting in tepid water and you make us all sad! Stop making us sad, Dick Clark!); meanwhile, I sit there alone and most definitely kissless. I hope I put on a pretty good show to the contrary, but I’d be lying if I said this didn’t get to me every year. It’s not that I’ve been single forever, I just usually find myself alone on New Year’s. Enough so that I’m beginning to hate the freaking holiday as much as Valentine’s Day (don’t get me started).

The alternative is not that alluring either, I have to admit. I am not in a rush to date someone. I’m not so alone and desperate as to think that anyone is better than no one but being amoung even my good friends on New Year’s, the combination of champagne, kissing, Tom Waits and Wii was enough to make me want to crawl into a closet for a good long time (what? all the good games are two-player; you think I didn’t notice that?!). That and nothing inspires run-on sentences like despair (see above).

Like I said, I don’t know that I’m desperate yet but the time up here in Bristol has been, for the most part, lonely. Sometimes it gets the better of me. Sometimes Tom Waits makes me want to leave it all behind and go jump freight cars. Sometimes the fact that the only woman who wants to sleep with me is an insistent kitten makes me want to find the bottom of a bottle really, REALLY quickly. And just as often, I realize none of that really matters. Things as fickle and fleeting as Love happen when some power wiser and grander than myself deem it timely to happen. I realize that all my past relationships have consequently ruined me for girls lesser than the ones that have already broken my heart and every ruined love affair is another mistake I won’t make again and I’m done wasting my time on women I know I want nothing to do with. Until those stars align again, I’ll bide my time. Zelda’s a covers hog, but she takes up less of the bed and she doesn’t care if I snore.

And of course, the preceding thought leads me directly to the proceeding thought ...

My House Sits Upon a Hell Mouth.

You laugh like I’m making this up. I submit the following proof:

Exhibit A: The Gateway Mirror. In the massive cavern that passes for my living room, above the tectonic shelf that passes as a fireplace mantle, sits a mirror vaguely the size of a stargate. The thing must be six feet wide and eight feet tall. It’s huge. Zelda has a tendency to sit on the back of the couch whilst the rest of us eat dinner and watch TV. She just sits there and stares at it. I’m convinced she sees the spirits of some past Age floating from it into our world. There are times when she starts staring at that mirror and trills like she does (my kitten never begins by meowing, it’s usually preempted by a kind of kitten clearing-of-the-throat) and then intently follows absolutely nothing across the room like Claude Rains is dangling Swarovski Crystal tied to dental floss. . . . See, it’s very hard to see . . . Ah, nevermind. Regardless, if something’s there, it is not visible by human eyes. And unless Zelda’s having acid flashbacks, I’d swear she was watching something float around the room. Not to mention that it can get cold as my ex-girlfriend’s sexual desire for me in front of that fireplace (which, I have it on pretty decent authority, is VERY cold, indeed . . .). Oh sure, it COULD be the chimney’s flu that’s not properly closed but I know better: Spirits. From a bygone era. Mark my words.

Exhibit B: My Zombie Basement. You know how some people have finished basements with carpets and widescreen TVs and a half-bath? Some people have unfinished basements with concrete floors and a washer/dryer? Some have wine cellars? But then again, some people have dirt holes in the ground where they throw captives and force more-than-must-be-healthy amounts of lotion into their skin (or else they get the hose again)? The basement in my house is a damn cellar. The floor is compacted dirt, for Pete’s sake. The walls are cinderblock that have been painted a hundred different colors over the years, each peeling away to reveal yet another carcass of latex below it. There is the odd assortment of work tables and yet more plastic-wrapped furniture stored by BRT (I swear, the day we decide to have a yard sale we’ll be able to mount Les Mis and Cats. . .); but what’s really creepy are the nooks & crannies.

No, no, no. Follow me on this. Picture this in your mind’s eye. There is one single, naked light bulb down there (the fucker’s on a chain that swings; it’s STRAIGHT out of Psycho . . .). It sits relatively in the middle of the cellar, which runs pretty much the length of the house. But what with all the support columns and the corners, perhaps half of the basement is actually ever lit at a given time. Just like childhood, nothing says unadulterated, unfettered Fear like the dark. My Zombie Basement has it in spades. There’s a crawl space, for fuck’s sake. Towards the back of the house (under the kitchen, I believe) there’s a built-up section that may have resembled a wall at one point. Behind this section, Zombie Basement continues WHERE NO LIGHT DARE ITSELF GO. Only now, you’ve only got half the normal Zombie Basement height. Keep in mind that I’m 6’1” (all leg) and can barely stand up straight down there as it is.

For now, I have not actually seen any zombies. Good thing, too. I’ve got a chair propped up against the doorknob, just in case we’re asleep when they decide to show up. But I know that won’t hold them forever. I plan on borrowing Mike Russo’s 20-gauge shotgun soon; just to be prepared.

You laugh, but when the zombies rise, they will first come from my basement. And I’ll be ready.

Exhibit 3: The Fucking Demon Living in the Radiators! Now, I’m not one prone to panic. Part of my job is keep a level head and reign with Logos in the face of Chaos. Still, as I try to convince my body to fall into blissful ignorant sleep at night, I can’t help but hear that . . . Thing’s rasping breath I can only describe it as the first half of Darth Vader’s breathing, just the inhalation. Like the thing’s constantly only sucking in air (and probably souls to boot). Now, Anna swears to me that it’s only the heated water of the radiator system being pumped up through the pipes and into the respective rooms, making a WHOOSHING sound. But I know better. Convenient, don’t we think, that this very same sound just happens to sound like a Balor demon waiting to devour my very soul? I don’t know if words can express the terror that fills my heart when I hear this sound. It’s truly too terrible for words to describe. So, . . . I won’t. Suffice it to say that every time I walk by a radiator I feel the need to mumble protection spells, chalk out the Evil Eye (traditionally diagrams meant to shield the inscriber from Darkness), or at the very least find my +2 Longsword of Demon-Slaying (I might have traded it for my Boots of Escaping, which would work in a pinch, too). I’m sure the creature has red eyes and I’m sure it’s the reason the heat seems to go so randomly from fanTAStically hot to fucking freezing.

Exhibit 4: Nothing Truly Survives This Place. Truth be told, I don’t know if this signifies Evil, per se, or not. When I first arrived in Bristol, I found just about every object made of metal to be affected by rust. Some in small amounts, some in so large a state of disintegration that I expected them to turn to dust at my touch. In my five-odd months here since then, I have seen two of my own tools break and continued to be exposed on a daily basis to objects which should be relatively well-maintained break and break down because of some unknown air-born sickness. At first I just blamed the closeness of the river, but soon I realized the truth: It’s the Evil.

You mock. But someday soon the powers of Darkness will attempt to rise and take control of our world and unless one of my three roommates happens to be a Slayer, my paranoia will be our last bastion of defense. Then again, I don’t know that I’d be all that surprised to see Anna or Stefi turn around one day and sidekick a vampire through a window. I don’t hold out much hope for Kate but then again it is always the quiet ones, isn’t it?

In the First Week of February, My Kung Fu Once Again Grows Strong.

This isn’t much, but it’s the simple things that sometimes can be the biggest turning points in our lives. I’ve been feeling lost recently. I find myself drinking more and more and of course I don’t feel any better about anything for it. I find myself dwelling on exgirlfriends and lost family members and people I’ve left behind and wondering (albeit not for the first time) whether or not moving up here was the best decision I’ve made in recent years. In short, I’ve felt lost and found myself feeling small (for lack of a better term) more than I’ve ever felt before. Then I realized not too long ago one thing that has been missing from my life for over a year now. No, it’s not sex; although that hasn’t exactly been falling from the sky recently, either.

This January marks eighteen months that I’ve officially been out of training. Martial arts have been a serious part of my life since I was a junior in high school. The discipline and the activity helped sculpt me into the person I am today. A year ago and a half ago, I found myself growing more and more dissatisfied with my TaeKwonDo dojann and with my training in general. A year ago, I found myself carless and completely unable to get myself to class at all. Indistinctly and without fanfare, I unceremoniously quit. I tried to keep myself in shape on my own but sit-ups and push-ups in my bedroom and a few-and-far-between stretching and combination sessions in the backyard just weren’t cutting it. I have little to no discipline when it comes to keeping myself in shape. I’m not proud of that, but when you’re used to being motivated by a room full of other like-minded people, it’s hard to muster that inspiration all on your own. That doesn’t excuse my abandonment of the past thirteen years of what, I now realize, was one of the cornerstones of myself, but it may help explain it. In short, I miss training. I miss the way I felt after working out, I miss kicking and jumping and teaching and even miss getting kicked in the head.

My hetero-lifemate Jesse lives in Philly and has been training with a dojo in Center City for almost four years now. He’s doing a style of kung fu known as Than Vo Dao or “Seven Mountains Spirit Fist” which just sounds silly when translated into English. Not as silly as Lok Hup Ba Fa, which loosely translates to “Six Harmonies of Water Boxing” (which must be something like Water Ballet, right?) but I admit it’s close. In any case, I’ve seen the school and it has as good a karma to it as I remember my school having when I first started there in high school. And don’t snicker so loudly at the karma comment. You might laugh but we all knew that the school in Karate Kid had a bad karma to it even if we didn’t understand at the time how or why. The overall attitude of a classroom (or anything, really) is dictated by the instructor and the students. Positive vibe equal positive learning. I don’t want to waste my time with some nut who tried ton convince me his style of whatever is the best out there ever. I don’t care. I’ve seen karate kick kung fu and I’ve seen a wushu master kick the living bejesus out of a judo master so don’t start that nonsense with me. “The best martial art is the one you practice.” Jackie Chan said that and if you’d like to fuck with Jackie Chan, be my guest. You’ll lose. Just trust me on this. You will. Even if you manage to beat him up (you won’t), then you’ll have to live with having beaten up someone as positive and inspiring as Jackie Chan. I mean, who really wants to beat up Jackie Chan?! The Terrorists. Do you want to be a Terrorist?

. . . I digress. Anyways, I start classes in a week or two. I don’t know if I can afford it (money’s not just tight, it’s taut) but I know I have to try. A part of me is missing and I hope kicking other people in the face will help me find it again. . . . That came out wrong. Ah, nevermind.

That’s word.

Now, Where is that Secret Knot . . . ?

So, here's a funny story: I wrote this entry almost a week ago and felt CERTAIN I had posted it. I was sure of it. I was so SURE of it, in fact, that when a friend wrote me to ask if I was still trying to blog I pompously replied, "My dear friend, kindly point yourself to my latest posting … here … on my … blog page … Son of a bitch."

Gosh, do I have egg on my face. Right here. Egg. Um, okay so. Many things to cover: Having run the gambit of naming blogs after the six episodes of Star Wars I no longer find it necessary to keep with that particular device. Having said that, I'm out of ideas. The blogs I can now manage on a weekly or so basis, the names may not be so forthcoming. Without a singularity to get behind and rail against so vehemently as The Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Show, I don't really have what one might colloquially call a theme or something silly like that. If my last entry was my "Return of the Jedi" (my opus, my Ninth Symphony, as it were), this blog is the Danny Devito in Twins; all the other stuff that didn't quite make the cut. And so. Once again, we delve into Blogging for the Attention Deficient or as I prefer to think about it: BulletTime Blogging!!! . . . (See, it's funny on levels; cause I like the Matrix a lot AND because I use … bullets … oh, nevermind).

Fleas Suck. Somehow, our house became infested with fleas and whilst they seemed to not favor me or my flesh so much; boy did they love my kitten and my roommates. To make things just a teensy-bit worse, the infestation peaked the week before The Show That's Too Horrible for Words to Describe . I was hoping to muscle it out until after the show was up and running and out of our hair and deal with the little monsters then; thus was not to be had, it seems. And I can't fault my roommates for insisting we have it taken care of; the things were eating them alive. I had treated The Kitten once already and was managing to comb her every morning to a successfully diminishing return of pests. The little fuckers hiding in the couch, however, were not so obligingly dying off. We as a house didn't have the time to spray and deal with the things ourselves, so we had an exterminator come in and treat the house. He was the exterminator contracted by the Grundy Foundation (whom owns most of the real estate in Bristol) which means he was probably connected with the mob and had managed to secure a monopoly of service dealing with insects and pests. He grumbled into our house, gave us a retardedly long list of things WE would have to do to deal with them (EVERYTHING has to be washed in extremely hot water; what couldn't' be washed was put outside in the fridgy cold to flash-freeze anything trying to live within), told us The Kitten (and Anna's turtle, Turts) would have to be out of the house for at least four hours and then sprayed some sort of hideous, useless, Cronenburgesque roach powder everywhere that not only completely disrupted our lives but, ultimately, didn't even work. $250 later and we were still spraying and vacuuming and washing and combing well into the following two weeks. opened.

Here is where living under someone else's roof, as it were, really blows the big balls. See, if it were me picking and choosing the exterminator, I would have insisted on an estimate (something Grundy and Bitchy McCan't-Kill-Fleas couldn't – or wouldn't – give us), and insisted on some sort of guarantee of riddance of fleas. Neither of these simple, yet important, items were available as everything that's done around here is done by third and fourth parties. "Don't worry. I know a guy who knows a guy." Oh never fear, though: That bill came right straight to my mailbox. Fuckers.

The Only Thing that Sucks More Than Fleas is Convincing Your Flea-Infested Kitten that a Flea Bath is a Good Idea. This, by the way, is NEVER a good idea. Ever. No matter your good intentions, the road to hell is paved with wet cat fur and your blood. Oh sure, you can prepare as absolute as you like: Pet her. Soothe her with kind words. Trim her claws. Sedate her heavily with elephant tranquilizers. But when that cat hits water, NOTHING can prepare you for the Steve Austin-like strength that suddenly swells from the twelve-pound Fury in your hands. Hell hath no fury like a wet cat.

After two weeks of a poison treatment (the kind you put just at the base of her neck), a flea collar and two weeks-worth of combing, Zelda still had fleas. These little fuckers were fast becoming the Dr Claw to our Inspector Gadget. A last ditch effort to eradicate the continued co-habitation with the Enemies of Freedom was made. Much more washing occurred. Much spraying of anything that couldn't be shoved into the washing machine with a substance I can only describe as Flea Napalm. And then came Zelda. It seemed my efforts to manually pick the little fuckers off of her were only keeping them at bay.

More drastic measures were needed: Immersion. To Stef and I, this seemed like our only option. To Zelda, it seemed the world were ending in a torrential downpour of horrible, terrible, wet, wet, wet creepiness from which escape became her sole ambition. Envision panic. Envision a wet Jake becoming a human tree at the top of which lay salvation from the "scary, scary stuff they're trying to put me in!" To say I had my hands full keeping her still enough to douse her, soap her up and then rinse her would be an understatement. To say I received no wounds for my troubles would be simple lying. It took all three of us to keep her in that sink long enough to finish.

But here's an oddity. After the initial shock and panic and clawing madness of escape faded and her fur dried enough to be combed out, Kitten came up to me not an hour later, mewed hopefully and then leapt up into my lap where she sat the better part of an hour, purring like I had just saved her life.

Ah, fatherhood. Okay, it wasn't the swell of pride at a marriage or a graduation; but for now, it'll do, pig. It'll do.

Stress Relief is Spelled B-A-N-G. Mike Russo took me shooting the other day. This being Bristol there is, of course, a shooting range. Though it's not quite the NRA cock-comparison party I expected, which is comforting I suppose. This was my first time actually handling a loaded weapon of any kind (insert sex joke . . . NOW!). I wasn't really nervous until the moment arrived to actually pick it up. I'd never really thought about it before until my hand reached out and the Panicky Hippy that lives somewhere in the back of my subconscious took over, shouting, "HOLY SHIT THAT'S A REAL FUCKING GUN WITH REAL FUCKIING BULLETS!!! DON'T TOUCH THAT FUCKING THING, MAN!!!!" I hesitated long enough, apparently, for Mike to sigh and mumble something about first-timers before he grabbed my hand and, smiling, gently placed it on the .22 revolver." As long as your finger's not on the trigger and you're not pointing the thing at a person, you'll be fine." You can tell Mike's spent his whole life as a teacher because he has the patience of Job on a bad day. He let me get my sea legs and then I went to town. I really only shot a few hand guns (the .22 Berretta is by far my favorite) and we spent, maybe, two hours there. I was surprised at how empty I felt afterwards. Not a vacuous empty but a fairly Zen kind of empty. I had just held in my hands what ninety percent of humanity generally regards as true power ("Give him one gun and he thinks he's Superman. Give him two and he's God!") and then, after I had ventured aggressions upon the offending slab of target paper, I put the thing down and walked away. THAT is power. I don't know why but I actually felt better about myself when I wasn't impressed with such a thing as Gun.

Oh I admit, I stood there at least once and whispered lines from every gun-totting film out there. Everything from, "What do you need? Besides a miracle?" to "This is my BOOM STICK!!!!" to "Are you talking to me?" I resisted the Dirty Harry lines until I had the .38 revolver in my hands. C'mon, don't judge me. The barrel was eight freakin` inches long and the thing was that grey smoky polished nickel that makes me think of pure unadulterated sleaze. It was cool and dirty all at the same time. I couldn't help it. That was cool. That kind of thing is in my blood.

I might go back again with Mike sometime. I have to admit that it was fun; but I don't think guns are really my thing. I've always felt better strapping on a pair of padded punching gloves and kicking the bejesus out of a heavy bag. Physically pushing my fists through something is so much more a visceral stress-reliever than triggering gun powder to propel a tiny piece of lead through paper. In my opinion, anyways.

Happiness – However – is a Warm, Pixilated Gun. See, the real issue with firing a real gun is that I suck with them. Every one of them. Recoil's a real bitch and after a while your arm starts to hurt like the dickens and you start to think to yourself, "Why would anyone want to keep DOING this?" The eventual pain aside, my accuracy sucked worse than Luke's turret shots at that TIE Fighter outside the First Death Star. Even the shotgun I couldn't do more than hit the broadside of a barn with. And barely that. Lucky for me, with a shotgun, that's all you really have to do. There's no subtlety or precision with the shotgun. There is authori-TAYE, however. I mean, DAMN.

But upon suddenly having the myth known to others as free time again, I find myself rediscovering old passions. I've started reading again. I've gone back to cooking for myself again and I'm even considering exploring other exploits of the kitchen (I'm fixing to make granola some weekend soon, so look out).

And I've rediscovered video games. Hurrah for video games. I don't care how old and adult I get; I, and my generation, will never tire of the sweet, sweet alternate realities offered by the likes of a Nintendo. I'll leave it at that, save this: There is little else in this world so sweet as leveling a .357 magnum at a zombie's head and blowing it the fuck away on the first try. Little else. And perhaps the Nazis, too. Because it's always okay to blow away the Nazis.

ALWAYS.

The Zen of Strike is Hitting Something with a Sledgehammer. Actually, I'm not sure there's any way I could elaborate further on this one. The show's closed, the stage is clean, the dumpster's full and my hands hurt like a son of a bitch. ". . . I didn't even have to use my AK. I gotta say it was a good day."

That's word. Good Night. And good luck. . . . Oh and Duffy? The count on this one was only 17. Sorry.

Episode VI: Return of the TD !!!

I believe I've stated how I've wanted to make Episode VI of this blog somewhat monumental. Return of the Jedi is, by far and wide, my favorite movie ever. I don't care about bad acting or cheesy lover confrontations on Ewok rope bridges ("Could you tell Luke? Is that who you could tell?!" "I . . . ! ! !"), the film appeals to my Knight in Shining Armor complex yet also inspires in me a kind of resigned heroic comfort; that no matter how far you fall, redemption is always attainable. All you have to do is see it, take it and then throw your master down a energy shaft. Simple, yet complex in its details. The hero shall always arrive to fight for what and for who he holds to be most dear: His friends, his family, his freedoms. And he shall do it with grace, dignity and with a green fucking lightsabre. Evil, in all of its many forms (be it that of a old and enrob-ed master of dark arts, a fat, gelatinous mob boss or a lilywhite pansy princess like Boba Fett), cannot withstand his onslaught, well-intentioned and mighty in its fervor.

And so I need, if only for myself, to make this entry something more than the other five and a half before it. It is by simple coincidence that it also happens to fall just after the opening of the Largest and Most Catastrophic of Productions Ever.

Yet as I sit down to finally write said entry, somehow I find myself unable to focus properly. Either there are too many thoughts floating around in my head, or not nearly enough to coherently form something akin to a sentence; much less many. I suspect it is a little bit of both. There are hundreds of half-formed thoughts floating around up there; most of which can be boiled down to either, "Please," or "Fuck you." Mamet would be proud.

I don't know where to begin, that's obvious. I truly don't. I made a conscious effort not to write this directly after the opening of Mrs. Bob Cratchit's Wild Christmas Binge; mostly because it would have looked like:

"$&^$%@|~*$% !!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!"

Or something like that. And yet, as I sit here listening to Trent croon/yell/scream/beg/oddly harmonize with himself, it seems almost a lifetime away. Strange how something as innocent as vast amounts of sleep can help erase things like mental anguish and pain (okay, the drinking helped, too; I'm not as strong as I used to be). When I close my eyes and go back to those four hellacious weeks, those sensations and feelings come racing back like Ani shooting past Sebulba on the third and final approach to the finish line. Every time that happens a small part of my soul dies as purely reflex action. That scares me, but it's true. I don't think I was suicidal these past four weeks, but there were certainly times when I thought, "If that truck hit me, I could sleep."

Despite the fear the swells at thoughts like that, I can't help but feel I owe my friends and family who have all been asking, "Why haven't we seen or heard hide or hair of you, Jake?" an answer.

Forcefully, therefore my dearest readers, I soldier on.

I do feel that if lack of focus gets the better of me tonight, I'll be plagued with carrying the weight of this whole experience around with me forever. To begin the Purging then, let me first pose to you this: Something as catastrophic as Mrs. Bob Cratchit's Wild Christmas Binge MUST have been planned by some malevolent and evil-hearted overlord of theatrical arts. It is surely impossible that so many negative factors could unite to so wholly and superbly destroy the wills of an entire production staff so perfectly. I do not wholly subscribe to theories such as Manifest Destiny or Intelligent Design or the like but the sheer weight that something so altogether colossally wrong like this production could come about by absolute coincidence staggers not only my imagination but my faith in Art and in my ability to combat the daemons Chaos and Anarchy.

I say the force that brought about such terror and pain upon us must be malevolent and evil purely on the assumption that even innocence has its limits. Surely, even the simplest of minds can eventually grasp upon a certain point that a precipice has been reached? Ye, can not even a child, as pure and as undefiled as an infant can be, not accidentally step upon the cat only so many times before realizing it is causing harm? No, it was the depraved and immoral mind that dropped the Bomb on Hiroshima, hence must it be the same wickedness that devised the circumstances upon which my second show at Bristol Riverside Theatre was built and produced.

To illustrate, allow me to outline, exactly, the timeline that is so wholly and completely opposed to Freedom: Somewhere in the ether it was decided and agreed upon by the Powers That Be that a show with something like sixteen actors (seven of which are kids) should also be the show that has no less than six moving wagons and set pieces (all of which are free-roaming on tri-swivel casters and can therefore go ANYWHERE, including off the front of the stage should they be pushed that far . . .) and that all of the non-eq actors should also be the run crew.

On top of that, it was also decided that this same show should have a week LESS time to rehearse, to build, to install, and to prep. Thanksgiving, apparently, holds a bitter rivalry with BRT not unlike the Joker V the Batman, Lex Luther V Superman or even regular V decaf. Constantly throughout its twenty-one year history, BRT and Thanksgiving have battled, if only in vain, to conquer one another. Alas, neither can be called the victor. Whilst those of us on the sidelines merely ask, "Why not merely schedule Opening a week AFTER Thanksgiving?" those here at BRT know that such simplicity cannot hope to overcome the dastardly wickedness of that holiday which celebrates turkey. Pure Evil it is and the only hope of victory is constant vigilance and a constant blood sacrifice of BRT staff.

But wait, there's more. Beyond even that, the design for this show was enormous. On such a scale that this theatre company simply wasn't in a place to produce in five weeks. Let's ignore for the moment that it was a hopelessly over-budget endeavor. Six moving wagons, four headers flying in & out, a portal that OPENS (what is it with hard scenery that needs to open and move around here? It's not like we couldn't rig a fucking act curtain for Cripes' sake . . .), and then ALL of it covered Christmas lights. Chasing. Christmas lights.

Throw in the fact that this design is four weeks past its deadline. Oh yeah! I said it! FOUR FUCKING WEEKS LATE. And incomplete, on top of being so unacceptably late. Greg Mitchell, . . . you fuck.

All of this could have been avoided had I brought it up at the concept meeting; ONLY THERE WASN'T ONE!!! Or the pre-build production meetings; ONLY THERE WEREN'T ANY!!! Or the budget meetings; ONLY THERE WEREN'T ANY OF THOSE EITHER!!! But that was okay. Most of our questions were answered once we saw the model . . . Oh wait, THERE WASN'T ONE!!! And the paint elevations solved a lot of mysteries NOPETHOSEWERELATEANDIMCOMPLETETOO!!!!!! . . . But I told myself it was cool. I could deal with it. Whew, was I off.

I suppose I cannot wholly blame the designer. If I was designing for a theatre that made absolutely no moves to curtail my inhibitions, why wouldn't I shoot the moon? The whole concept of pre-production seems alien to the good old-fashioned folk here in Bristol. A mistake I don't mean to duplicate again. As much as I detest meetings, some of them actually do serve a purpose and I would be all for muscling through two hours worth of boredom for the sake of hashing out how to build something of this scale on the budget I was almost actually handed by my PM. Apparently, everyone thought someone else was having those meetings. Who knew?

Look, I know I've made some mistakes on this show. I could have built some things stronger, some things cheaper, some things easier. I could have worked harder to have stronger daily plans and I could have kicked some more ass to stick to them. I know I didn't nearly come close to being without sin on this one; but damn. My master carpenter threatened to end my life with a turnbuckle because of this show and I'd like to think she and I normally get along.

Each and every one of us on here broke down into tears at least once because of this devil that is Cratchit. Few shows can claim such trophies. After two separate 36 hour days, I know I myself dropped to my knees center stage screaming, "KILL ME! DO IT!! I'M HERE!!!" on at least one occasion ("Get to the CHOPPAH!").

When the smoke finally clears and all is said and done; when the wounds have been bandaged and all the minor issues have been tallied and dismissed; really, it all came down to one problem: Enforce your fucking deadlines. There is simply no excuse for a designer handing in an incomplete design four weeks late. Simply none. Except that you let it happen. From this one mistake, did snowball every other heartache therein. Every. Single. One.

Susan Atkinson, the theatre's producing director, on numerous occasions pulled me aside during this whole fiasco and assured me that my experiences with these first two shows hasn't been BRT typical. . . . Bet me, Buckwheat. Forgive me, but the evidence proves otherwise.

BRT has three shows left in this season. Three shows left to prove to me that this place isn't the haven of Chaos which gorges itself on the souls and blood of its staff. They fail to prove that it's not, come the end of my contract, I'm out. I'm already fairly certain my scenic's irretrievable. I have doubts now about my master carpenter, too. Just when it seemed our working relationship was getting to a sweet spot, it all comes crashing down around me. Thanks, BRT. Next time just kick me in balls and push me in the river.

Despite all this, however, my will is not completely slain ("I'm not quite dead yet!"). In fact, if nothing else, what remains is only the strongest and most pure of my resolve. That which does not kill you makes you bitter and cynical. Or something. I've seen those who work beside me cry one too many fucking times to go through this again.

And I simply won't.

Reform here won't be easy, but neither has anything else up til now. I tried to do my job your way; well now it is my turn, asshole. Teaching some of the people here that, "Yes, you DO need to have a concept meeting or at the very fucking least a budget meeting," may very well be akin to teaching an old cripple dog to pogo stick across a tight rope; but given the alternative, I'm game for just about anything.

I came into this job trying to be polite and professional and courteous. All I've really gotten for my troubles was asked to build the impossible; without so much as an apology from my designer. If this is what being nice gets me and my crew, then the gloves are off. If I fail, at some point, to do my job the right way: Tell me; it's the only way I'll get better at it. If you're not pulling your own weight from hereon in, you better hear me now and believe me later that I will rain Truth down on you so hard you'll wish for the calm, soft kiss of hail. The gloves are off. Go ahead, push us. Give me ONE plate incomplete. Lemme see you try to hand over a digitally colored, pixilated piece of shyte paint elevation to Stef. I FUCKING DARE YOU. Try us again and we shall bring the Quickness.

"The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the iniquities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he, who in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who would attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the [TD] when I lay my vengeance upon thee!"

If it means I'm called an asshole (to my backside or to my face), if it means some people won't like to work with me, hell – even if it means I'm ultimately fired: So be it.

Life is too short to take the kind of crap we were given on this show and seeing as those I trusted to protect us from it failed to do so, though neither did they themselves emerge completely whole, it just means the Weak need to step up and take the Earth instead of waiting for the inheritance to kick in. Form Blazing Sword, motherfuckers. You feel like slacking off around here? Great. Best bring your ottoman and a coffin; cause my painter's a feisty, mean little bitch when you piss her off and whatever filter kept Anna quiet and reserved before has long been obliterated by this place. The next time I won't be holding them back. And once they're done tenderizing you, it'll be my turn. Oh, we won't hurt you. Too bad. When we're done, I promise you'll never take for granted an over-worked, under-paid, PISSED OFF production staff again.

"We here don't take too kindly to those that don't take too kindly . . . "

That's word.

Good night. And good luck.

Episode V.V: Shadows of the Empire

This entry doesn't really count because it will be fairly short and because I want Episode VI: Return of the TD to be something a little more . . . monumental. Suffice to say, though, that I had to add a little something this week and though I can't promise to top the image of me racing around my Victorian house in my underwear ala Risky Business; I can add a little something to your day, I hope. For now, this little slice of the Bounty Hunter We Met at Ord Mandel will have to do.

This blog is tapped, so I must be brief. Load in started this week. Actors take stage in less than three days and tech starts nine days after that. Yes, if you're keeping track, that's in less than two weeks. What have I gotten finished? Not a thing. . . . "It's not my fault." . . . "No scenery?" "It's not my fault! . . . Told me they fixed it! . . . I trusted them!!!"

Responsibility aside, this is the second show in a row that I have worked here at BRT where my designer isn't pulling their own weight and it's frustrating me. Whereas Nels (I can only IMAGINE that is short for Nelson, but I honestly have no idea . . .) had busy – but relatively complete – plates from which I could muscle out drafts and thereby actually build a show, Greg Mitchell delivered some (but not all) designer plates almost a month (yeah, a month) late and what did finally arrive were incomplete; some to the extent that I couldn't even begin to build them. What this amounts to is that I have a little over a week until tech with little to nothing actually built, much less painted. And now everyone's looking at me and my crew and thinking (if not outright asking), "When can we expect that?"

Seriously? Folks, we have GOT to begin cutting loose the dead weight. Theatre as an art-form is fragile enough these days with having schmucks, losers and lazy sons-of-bitches filling in the blanks. Look, I'm not saying that we all have to live up to what I'm realizing is my very own gestalt work-ethic. What I'm saying is that it's high-fucking time we – as employees, as artists, as people, dammit – start taking some fucking responsibility for ourselves. You sign on to do something, anything, you fucking do it. Finish it. Even if it turns out to be more than you bargained for; finish what you start, you soulless rat-fuck-bastard.

That kind of irresponsibility is not only disrespectful, it's unprofessional. And a designer with a masters from NY-fucking-U (even one as weird and date-rape-creepy as you are) should fucking know better. You just should. And if you do, and you still do nothing; you're worse than all that, you're an asshole, too. People like you don't deserve life as an artist. If you don't appreciate it, you should have it taken away. I know half a dozen people who would LOVE to have a show of theirs produced at a semi-professional theatre company. And they could get plates to me on time in their sleep. It's not hard. At least, not for the pros.

Learn to shape up. You don't and we're gonna start cutting the cords on you worthless piles of theatrical deadwood. Even if I have to start culling the herd myself. I bought a four-pound sledge hammer today. Don't think for a SECOND I won't use it. Next time, come to the table prepared. Or don't come at all. "Man up. Or go home."

You got that?!?!?!