And then he starts talking about animals, for pete’s sake

Well that was a week that I’m glad I won’t have to relive at any point. Not too horrible, but certainly not good, either. It’s not an easy thing to work for one of the few dentists in the area that’s open on Fridays; it’s even worse when that Friday is jump-off for Memorial Day, n’est ce pas? I really resented coming back from lunch, and the fact that everyone seemingly waited until that point to call with their “emergencies”.

Oh, yeah, the lady who “just noticed that her bridge came out” (“just noticed”? How the hell-?) and was most pointedly not a patient of record, but for whom we were closer, and I got the dentist and the assistant to stay, and we finally gave up on at twenty minutes past quitting time: screw you.

Since you did not call to say you were running late, or you were not going to make it at all, and deprived me of the chance of telling you this in person, I’ll just go ahead and use the Internet: Screw. You.

Because I have any number of people who come through the office and are friendly, courteous and reasonable, but because inconsiderate idiots like you are the only ones I remember, through some unfortunate quirk in my mental makeup: Screw. You.

And rest assured: my memory is long. There are still people in my third grade class that are going to pay.

Astrologically speaking, I am told there are three incarnations of the sign Scorpio: the Grey Lizard, the Scorpion, and the Eagle. The Scorpion stings its enemies repeatedly, viciously, then moves on. The Grey Lizard seethes and plots vengeance, hatred and anger eating at its gut and leeching the world of color. The eagle, of course, is confident in its superiority and soars over it all. I have been the Eagle at times; but under current circumstances, I’m feeling pretty damn reptilian.

Tomorrow Lisa and I will be going to see the touring company of Spamalot; that will be interesting, as I usually have two experiences at theatrical shows: either I hate it because it isn’t any good, or I am bitter because it was good and I had nothing to do with it. We will see if a few years of absence – or hell, just a few years, period – will change anything.

First chance in a long time to commiserate with my music, and damned if there isn’t a sort of through-line.

01. Don’t You Know – The Fifth Estate
02. Fox on the Run – Manfred Mann
03. It’s Now or Never – Elvis
04. After the Snow – Modern English
05. Asleep From Day – Chemical Brothers
06. My Blue Heaven – Henri Rene
07. Kaleidoscope – Art of Trance
08. Strange Days – The Doors
09. Too Late to Turn Back Now – Cornelius Brothers & Sister Rose
10. Love (Can Make You Happy) – Mercy

Seasons in Hell

Holy mother of pearl, what a wretched couple of weeks. And I’ve not even been enmired in an interesting hell, a hell providing interesting anecdotes, no, it has been a tedious hell full of cars breaking down and workplace meltdowns. So sorry, I had nothing to say, so I didn’t say it.

I actually get a three-day weekend this week, during which I’ll be doing some housecleaning, in an effort to lighten things up on the homefront. For once, the meltdowns weren’t confined to my workplace, and my wife is heavily leaning toward apoplexy.

I guess there was one thing to relate: I totally understand why the US Postal Service jumped up their rates. Since my check to the Water District took over a week to deliver, resulting in my water being shut off, and since my wife’s Mothers Day present, ordered two weeks in advance, arrived the Tuesday after Mother’s Day… obviously, they needed that extra money. Surely everything will be copacetic from now on, especially since I’ll now be motoring the damn water bill over to the district’s night deposit box.

But not for a couple of months, as I was required to pay the supposedly delinquent bill in full, along with the reconnect fee, in cash. And what of my errant check? What happens when it arrives?

“Oh, we’ll credit that to your account.”

“So… I’m paying this bill twice, then.”

“Well, you could look at it that way…”

And oddly enough, I do.

So Jerry Falwell died. That would have been an interesting palaver at the pearly gates- but then, I am a cynical, bitter heathen – which is why I am not completely surprised that Fred Phelps is planning to picket this funeral, too. Read the press release and go “Huh? Whuzzah?”

Surprised, no. Bemused? Probably.

Turn the Page

The show is over, long live the show.

The last weekend was very trying. We arrived Friday night to find that the air conditioning had been off all week, and since the performing space is in a reconditioned church with the stained glass windows still intact – well, it had been a greenhouse during the week. We were then told someone should have really come in at 8 AM that morning to turn on the AC, which was not exactly helpful. It was miserable both backstage and on, and though I work blind, ie., without my thick eyeglasses, I could see a sea of undulating white blurs in the audience, as the attendees fanned themselves with their programs.

Saturday started a little better. We arrived to find a pleasant chill in the theater. This was, however, short-lived, as the AC cut itself off an hour before the house opened and the atmosphere once again became sweltering by showtime. The air conditioning unit in the backstage area, at least, was quite separate from the rebellious climate control in the theater, so the dressing rooms were comfortable enough. Score one for roles with limited stage time.

My hat is off to the audience members who actually toughed it out through those two performances. It may not have been as bad in the house as it was onstage, with no lights beating down or heavy costumes, but it couldn’t have been at all comfortable.

So I guess the question at this point is – does this mean I’m back? Am I to plunge back into a field that was once my goal, my preferred way to spend my life, my chosen vocation? At present, it’s a very open subject, but the likely outcome is, sadly – very, very sadly – no. Though I came in at, for me, a very fortuitous time frame – a mere two weeks of rehearsal followed by three weeks of performance – the amount of time taken up by this endeavor and The Hated Job is truly daunting. There are a lot of responsibilities that got skipped in that period, and I’ll be playing catch-up for a while. Something would have to
go to continue that pursuit, and since a number of those aforementioned responsibilities involve paying out money to various entities, the thing to go would not be The Hated Job, alas. As the LOLCat says, “I has morgatge.”

Archive photos were taken the last night, and my relatively frill-less digital camera came out, with predictably lackluster results in the low light. These put yet another nail in the coffin; I was under no delusion that I was cutting a dashing figure, but the pictures of me result in a mental disconnect, wondering who the fat guy is with the sword cane.

I’ve never liked pictures of me performing, for just that reason. My mental picture of the character is destroyed by the cold, hard reality of myself.

Past the horrific physical evidence however, it was largely a positive experience. I enjoy acting, and I enjoy being told how good I am.

Fancy that.