I COULD GET ANGRY AT THE OLD MEN WITH TOUR GUIDE BADGES WHEN THEY TRY TO TELL ME THAT JEAN-BAPTISTE LULLY WAS AN OPERA SERIA COMPOSER. BUT THAT WOULD GET ME ARRESTED. SO I WILL YELL AT YOU INSTEAD. MY GRAD STUDENT RAGE KNOWS NO BOUNDS.
posted by Uncle Monty: at
11:07 AM
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Dudes.
My nose has begun to bleed. I am trying to wipe it discreetly, but I can't really leave my polling both – that would be too conspicuous. I contemplate ripping off a tiny piece of my ballot aand shoving it up my nose to stem the rising flood of red indignation.
My nose is bleeding, Colorado, and it's because of you. You seem to understand me okay on this first page of questions ... who should be governor, who should be county commissioner, who should be the chief of police? I have opinions. I have a voice.
But, Colorado, why are you asking me who should be county coroner?
Boulder, I think it's only fair to announce that you've herniated me.
First off, I am not dead, and therefore not one of the county coroner's constituents. If anything, you should setting up a crackerjack team of Oujia boardists to hold an all-dead election just for this guy.
Secondly, Colorado. Why. WHY. WHY would it matter to me whether my coroner is Democratic or Republican or Libertarian or Jewish? Why am I voting the party line for a man whose job is effectively to poke a dude in the face and say, “Yeah. He's dead.”? Call me a dreamer, but I'd like to believe a man's competence in spotting deadness is in no way corellated to his political beliefs.
So guess what, Colorado? When I bleed to death from the aneurism you just gave me, I will be interested to know all the details of the coroner-election. Until such time as I am not-breathing, however, I shall continue to itierate: what the fuck.
posted by Uncle Monty: at
9:57 PM
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What do you call it when your kidney gives out every two weeks, leaving you with an emply bottle of apple brandy, a head full of unwanted memories, and an insatiable urge to pee?
You call it the retribution of your body for years of arrogant carelessness; you call it irony; you call it Reason # 42 to wear a diaper – or you call it a challenge.
What, kidneys? You think I can't survive without you? You think my body can't filter the waste from my blood on its own? You think I would collapse and die a horrible toxic death involving lots of foam and screaming?
Well, I got news for you, kidneys.
That's what Mexicans are for.
That is why today I voted “No” on the Colorado measure that would enable the state government to bring suit against the Feds for letting in too many of the Great Brown Unwashed. Seriously, Colorado. What is your ass thinking? Mexico is like a giant organ farm ripe for the plucking, and you have the world's entire fruit-plucking workforce right there to help. A man with a few syringes, some ice, and a dream ... that is all I and Colorado need.
So don't build fences, Colorado – build gigantic walk-in freezers. You'll need them where my kidneys are going.
posted by Uncle Monty: at
9:41 PM
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Rembrandt Exhibit at the Chicago Institute of Art
The art becomes an animated film;
those pupils waver print by flipbook print,
in every frame the same ungodly eyes
peeled back, like insects pinned down wing by wing
to yellowed cards, still fluttering, dead black.
His humor, sable-trimmed, makes patrons cringe
and thrusts a bleakness on the cramped white space;
grim coffee grounds against the bleached-out page.
Across the street a tuba farts the tune
"My Favorite Things" for pocket change. I hear
it on the balcony and notice: gold
and silver veins in marble railing—
the grey moon paling as it rises—instead.
Despite the cold, I focus on the stars.
Headed for the School of Music
I'm standing underneath the streetlamps,
the air miraculously gentle,
and even all this goddamn snow seems
right, brushing on my collarbone, mild
as if it were my own sleeping breath.
The bus is taking its sweet, sweet time …
I suck in that somehow muted air –
and just for once, for once I don't mind
the wait.
The research building's conference room, still
lit, begging me to stare in at them,
those late-night chalk-dust addicts.
One yawns and stretches,
forty years old
or twenty, maybe.
What vitamin deficiencies in
these red, red eyes, these berries glossed over
with ice?
And all the passing cars have red tail-
lights, glowing in the dark like monster eyes.
My hand goes to my throat, as I search
for that sensation of snow-breath against me,
a matron fingering her diamonds,
afraid they may be stolen.
The bus rolls up and sullies the snow.
I mount the steps like every night –
The bus takes off, and sends me lurching;
Lurching.
posted by Uncle Monty: at
9:20 AM
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posted by Uncle Monty: at
9:35 AM
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posted by Uncle Monty: at
8:59 PM
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Fred Astaire
He always tumbles Ginger
by granting her grace
He saves the day, the show, the world
in under 90 minutes
and always in the same tuxedo.
That receding hairline ... that jaw!
That jaw, that cannot form a solid note,
with which he sings anyway,
in quiet broken precision.
He is so thin. Squashed flat
by the volcanic pressure of time.
He is drawn, and driven, and spun
out as far as the spool can go.
He is so absurdly thin,
for such immensity
and such vast shoes.
Ladies (After Charles Bukowski)
Let's not pretend that this is some hustle,
Henry Higgins.
Let's not say this is Bacchanalian,
“animal” --
even leopards with silk-black skins
mating between huge green jungle leaves
know the stakes.
Our skin may be mustard, and
underfed – still
there is blood in your wine.
Even your mother,
your mother, Henry Higgins,
has known callousness.
posted by Uncle Monty: at
5:04 PM
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L'Incoronazione di Poppea --
Wig/Makeup Crew Journal
Saturday, 11/5 | First Dress Thurs/Sat cast
I am a crew of one. It sounds a bit like an Army commercial. Incidentally, I never wanted to join the Army.
Being a latecomer to the Prod.-Practicum signup, I was lucky to find a position at all, so I am unlikely to complain. But it is intimidating, all the same, to be the only assistant in a field I am completely unfamiliar with. (Today is my first foray into wigs and makeup for theatre in any professional sense.)
My supervisor, also named Katie, is a professional wig-master based in Ohio. She travels all over the country to various theaters providing them with her services. Everything I know about wigs as of this moment, I learned from Katie this afternoon. A lot of it I don't quite understand ... she uses trade terminology without thinking, and I catch only some of it ... but she never puts me in a situation where I feel inept or uncomfortable, and she explains everything I ask about.
The first thing I learn is how to make a decent pincurl – Katie shows me this on an unset head [an unstyled wig secured to a dummy]. I then practice the maneuver for a few minutes. She shows me how to 'block' and 'unblock' – that is, how to secure a wig on a dummy head using bias tape, pins, and a few strategically placed T-pins in the top and back corners of the wig. She explains to me that all of the wigs we'll be using on Poppea are 'lace-front' – the hairlines are sewn into a lace edging which apparently gives the hairline a much softer, more realistic appearance from a distance.
She treats every performer that comes in like an old friend, even if she can't quite remember that performer's name. My job description is quickly becoming clear – I am here to hand her things, do simple tasks, sneak out to get coffee, chase the men around with a brush and hairspray, and whisper the name of singer she is wigging into her ear when she is clearly at a loss. I learn the most watching her put wigs on and take them off again at the end of the night, and what little makeup she has time to help with, I watch very closely.
I have decided that I like Katie a lot. She's warm, open, authoritative but unpretentious. We have the same sense of humor and quickly develop a rapport; singers and crew members wander in and out of the wig room all evening to talk and relax with us as we work. It is busy in the hour and a half before curtain and for the hour after curtain call, but in between Katie does mostly wig maintenance, which I am far too inept to handle. So I sit around and keep her company, watching her work and keeping her entertained.
It is about 11 pm when we head home. I can't believe I was intimidated this afternoon. Now, I feel lucky to be Katie's crew of one, and to have her undivided attention – she undoubtedly has mine.
Sunday, 11/6 | First Dress Fri/Sun cast
I went to work this afternoon with an idea of what to expect of my own duties, but a rather vague idea of what being a wigmaster entails. Katie is revealing all of this very slowly, and mostly unconsciously, in her interactions with the cast and crew. For instance, she was asked today to give several men in the cast haircuts before their first performance on Thursday. This idea shocked me. “I thought you only worked with wigs.”
Katie smiles. “Yeah, I went to cosmetology school for about five seconds.”
My not-so earth shaking inference: working with wig hair is like working with human hair, with notable exceptions – and not everyone expert in one is also expert in the other, but it's more of a hop than a leap.
It is beginning to dawn on me that Katie knows things about craftsmanship and artistry that would boggle my small music-logged brain if she ever decided to unload them. She has hand-eye coordination that I only dream of, for instance. She makes styling the hair look natural, even automatic, although it is by all evidence a creative process that would take me hours and a good deal more hair spray.
I used hair-whitening agent today on a cast member using a toothbrush, a fine-toothed comb, a wad of paper towels and some choice profanity. Even making the hair appear gray is an art form, it seems, and I am Jackson Pollack. Katie just sits back until I decide I am finished embarrassing myself. Seth, my victim, is mildly reminiscent of the Bride of Frankenstein. It takes Katie about 30 seconds with my fine toothed comb to smooth out the damage, and suddenly Seth's hair looks about 20 years older. I have taken to calling her Katie-Sensei and myself Katie-Grasshopper, both to avoid confusion and because, on many levels, it is an apt comparison.
Monday, 11/7 | Second Dress Thurs/Sat cast
Today had a satisfying sense of continuity, since it was our second dress with the first cast. Katie has pretty much got everyone's names down at this point. I, likewise, have almost mastered the art of the pincurl, and am beginning to get the hang of wig caps. I've also learned to “snood” -- a verb I coined for helping girls put their hair up in a linen net, or snood. It involves many pins, a steady hand, a strong elastic band, and the will of a magnanimous God. Whenever that deity becomes upset with me, He causes my pins to fall everywhere and my snood to droop defeatedly. As usual, Katie lets me get a hang of it on my own. I think she likes watching me pray silently.
Okay, sometimes not so silently. Anyway, she likes it.
Katie and I have gotten so comfortable around each other that we can double-team our 'Wig Room Visitors'. Sometimes someone will say something and I can tell what Katie is thinking before I catch her eye ... and when I do catch her eye, she already knows that I know. It's like a Jedi mind trick, but with opera singers instead of droids. During our mid-show lull we sit around and talk about our pasts, our careers, our men, our families, and the many virtues of gummi-worms.
Ken Kellogg, the seven foot tall, beautiful black man that plays Seth's part in the opposite cast, has once again eluded my grasp this evening. My first night on the job, I was supposed to find him and put gray in his hair – but he had an audition out of town and was late to rehearsal. I had an excuse. This evening, he didn't come upstairs to 'check in' like he is supposed to ... he probably doesn't know he is supposed to, come to think of it. In any case, it didn't occur to us until the middle of Act II, after Seneca had already committed suicide. Oops.
The weirdest part is this: how is it that I keep failing to notice the seven foot tall, beautiful black man that has to walk past my door to get from his dressing room to the stage?
I may have to have myself tested for syphilis. I appear to be going blind as well as crazy.
Tuesday, 11/8 | Second Dress Fri/Sun cast
Final dress rehearsal went according to plan. We have trained the chorus men to come to the half hour allotted to them, as they are unable to handle either a comb or hair spray (they have yet to master the concept of opposable thumbs). The keyword is “clean” -- that is, we want everyone to look vaguely clean cut. We almost had to cut one of the boys' hair, because it was at that awkward stage between his neck and shoulders where you can't quite put it back and you can't quite leave it loose either. It simply doesn't evoke “clean”. Katie went to the costume manager and convinced her we could put the hair back if we stuck enough pins in him. It worked ... his head resembled an Invisi-pin graveyard, but it worked.
A couple of the men did receive haircuts, several from Katie but mostly from (cough, cough) professionals.
On a non-wig related note: We two Katies have developed a taste for diet soda as a means of non-scavenged caffeine. As willing as I am to go in search of coffee, I fear I am not cut out to be a hunter-gatherer. The vending machine on the 5th floor is the farthest a domestic, indoor cat like myself can manage.
Wednesday, 11/9 | Day Off
Thursday, 11/10 | First Performance
It was very weird not having to come to rehearsal yesterday. I think I had finally settled into the routine ... arrive, unblock the wigs, sort out all the pins and bias tape, pincurl pincurl pincurl, glue glue glue (and man, how those singers squirm – then again, I don't much care for spirit gum myself), sit around sit around drink caffeine, pincurl some more, etc etc. The only thing I didn't miss was ignoring homework. I was building up a small mountain of papers, reading and unfinished repertoire, and I might have had to “pull a Mohammed” and drag it all with me if I hadn't been allowed a day to tromp off to it.
So I came to work expecting a routine. It was a little different today. The flowers and candy backstage, for instance – highly unusual. I hope it starts a trend. I could use more chocolate, and the flowers look pretty even if they're not meant for my enjoyment. The general atmosphere of trembling, fire and brimstone – that, I could've done without.
The performers came in more skittish than usual, some of them not wanting to talk and others refusing to shut up. The latter have a special place in our hearts at the Wig and Makeup Room. We did our best to keep them occupied and, when possible, laughing. I've learned that the goofier and more random a remark is, the more the vocalists seem to enjoy it. Katie plays along – when we're alone though, the conversation often turns to more sober topics.
I think we've covered everything from religion to politics to men and been back to religion. She talks about the racial situation in Cincinnati, the riots especially, and I talk about my childhood in Texas – which, consequently, also comes with a few anecdotes about racial tension. I feel like I've known Katie for years. Heck, once you add up all the hours of concentrated 'quality time', maybe I have spent as much time with her as average acquaintances do in a year.
Remember the seven-foot-tall Seneca? The one I had to chase after and never appeared? Well, today, for his first official performance we actually managed to corral him long enough to apply hair whitener. I take this as a sign that I don't have syphilis (or any other mentally dehabilitating illness) after all. Hooray.
Friday, 11/11| Second Performance
Performance #2. At this point I think we all qualify as family. A dysfunctional, irregular, opera-singing family with a penchant for referring to one another using highly inappropriate ghetto nicknames – but family nevertheless.
The leads, especially of tonight's cast, slip easily into conversation with us about any number of subjects. This is ostensibly a workplace, and yet no one seems nervous about giving offense. We've got representatives of a variety of races and creeds migrating in and out at any given time; sometimes I feel like a foul-mouthed member of the U.N., assuming U.N. members occasionally exchange opinions on the shows Trading Spouses and Project Runway. You may scoff at that, but one never knows ... they've got to break the ice at nuclear de-armamant talks somehow. They say math is the international language, but I contend that the international language is, in fact, reality T.V.
I get a good feeling from putting the leads at their ease when I can, and Katie makes that easy. I get a less-good feeling about the ease with which Katie pins a curl or wraps a wig cap (and my comparative idiocy) ... then again, as everyone keeps telling me, she is Sensei. And I? I am but Grasshopper, honorary UN member or no.
Saturday, 11/12 | Third Performance
Some of the romance is gone for the opening cast ... they've had their debut, and now all they have to do is make it through two and a half hours without injuring each other or accidentally setting themselves or the set on fire. An uncomfortable history with “stage pyrotechnics” (read: Tag body spray and a lighter) has taught me that this is sometimes not as easy as one would imagine.
There are a few rough spots, but on the whole everyone sings beautifully and no one creates a fire hazard. Ken Kellogg shows up once again for his hair whitening treatment, the ladies all handle their own eye makeup without issue, and the audience laughs raucously on cue. Why, it's practically a Frank Capra movie. There's only one dark cloud: tomorrow is the last performance I get to spend with Katie. Tonight is the last night before we take down the wigs, make a star appearance at the cast party, and say goodbye. This upset me, so I did what any self-respecting twenty-something would have done ... I drank.
I went out with a couple girlfriends to the least college-kid ridden bar we could find and I started ordering as if I were a jockey and my martini was horse #3. I apparently had a lot of money on #3, because I kept ordering just as fast as I could.
It was a good night.
Sunday, 11/13 | Fourth Performance/Strike
It was a bad morning.
I appeared at noon on Sunday -- unwashed, in fleece pajama pants and sunglasses. Considering I was on my deathbed and had already made out my Last Will and Testament, it is a shock to me that I arrived at all, let alone on time. But there you are. From noon to 2 pm I answered only to the name “Lazarus”, which amused Katie and bemused just about everyone else. Katie didn't do me any favors, and I didn't ask her to. The only thing I asked for, or kind of croaked for, rather, was an occasional glass of water.
Our first task of the day was deblocking the heads, which went alright – not a lot of sudden movements needed for that. Our second task, however, was cleaning all the Thurs/Sat cast wigs with stiff-bristled brushes and 92% pure alcohol solution. That task was, I am convinced, devised during the Spanish Inquisition as a form of punishment reserved for drunkards and baby-eating devil worshipers. Katie knew it. I knew it. She handed me a brush; I took it. If I was crying a little on the inside, well, that was my affair. I got the feeling any outright complaining had better stay on the inside as well.
So I didn't complain. But I left my sunglasses on.
Luckily for me, the Wig and Makeup Room has a very comfortable couch. In the down-time, I sprawled on it and cursed the excesses of youth through a veil of unwelcome sobriety. Then, when a task arrived, like a victim ready to be snooded, I hauled myself up, grit my teeth, and said unto my companions, “Lo! For she is resurrected!” When Seth came in for his final, nostalgic run in with my snow-white tooth brush, I attempted to whiten his temples with my sunglasses still on. Needless to say, the white coloring appears far more subtle with shades than it might have otherwise. Upon discovery of this fascinating detail, I doffed said shades and began to wield my toothbrush in a more cautious and ladylike manner. Katie took the opportunity to laugh at my expense – too loudly.
Throughout the course of the day we took down the previous cast's wigs. This consisted of first cleaning the lace with that beastly alcohol solution, then removing all the pins and braids and other tomfoolery that goes into a wig hairstyle, then combing it out into some semblance of order, then braiding it, folding it, and sealing it in a gallon-sized plastic bag for transportation.
It was a day full of early goodbyes. Quite a few of the cast and crew got suddenly depressed when they realized Katie was leaving in the morning. I stayed on the couch and channeled Clint Eastwood as best I could, because I figured if Katie knew how much I was going to miss her she'd just make fun of me some more and probably say something loudly to hurt my head.
At the end of the matinee, we took down the rest of the wigs, packed up the rest of the supplies, returned the few borrowed items and the dummy heads to the University costume shop, turned off the lights and shut the door – and just like that, it was done.
Katie and I saw each other for the last time at the cast party. We exchanged gifts, email addresses, hugs, and she headed off to catch a plane back home.
It's odd – I feel so much richer just having known Katie for a little over a week. I can handle putting on a 'wig of my own' now ... or at least pinning my own curls ... but more importantly, I have all these wonderful memories and a new knowledge of what it means to work behind the scenes, to support people and keep them going and to know you're needed even if you don't take a bow every night.
In my mind, I'm still Katie's crew of one; and she still has my undivided attention.
posted by Uncle Monty: at
9:25 AM
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hates those damn kids, remembers when we had 512MB sticks of RAM and WE LIKED IT, has no time for books that aren't awesome, and knows you don't either.
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