The Artichoke That Ate Cleveland

Travelin' Man

I've just returned from a relaxing few days in the mountains of North Carolina.

I really love to travel.

Except for the traveling part. I have never been a good traveler, dating back to my early days when the folks dragged the family all along the Eastern seaboard for "vacation."

As an adult, I have grown to abhor the act of traveling. I love being in new places, I just hate getting there. I'm proud to have visited 44 of these United States. And one day, I hope to visit Alaska and Hawaii, Oregon and Washington, and even Idaho and Montana.

But I know I'll hate every moment of getting there.

I have, for example, an irrational disgust for the strangers with whom I am traveling. Without fail, my seat mate on the plane or train or bus or subway is an obnoxious slug.

This most recent trip confirmed my opinions, though this time, my scorn must be heaped on the airline which ferried me hither and yon. I won't mention the name of the airline.

OK, here are its initials:

I have traveled this airline many times in the past, as for some reason known only by the gods who wish to torture me, US Air seems to be the most convenient airline for my needs.

I won't bore you with the gory details of my travails. Everybody who has flown in the last five years has a similar story, no matter which airline they used.

But here's the kicker. Even as service on the airlines becomes more and more absent, those same airlines are charging us more and more fees. It now costs an additional 25 bucks to check a second bag on most airlines. It now costs 2-3 dollars per bag to utilize the curbside check-in service. It now costs passengers in coach 7-10 smackers to purchase a meal on a trans-continental flight.

Those of us on shorter jumps are not even offered food, but rather a tiny packet labelled "Fiesta Snack Mix."

"Fiesta," my sombrero. Two miniature pretzels and five peanuts covered in BBQ powder do not a fiesta make.

And here's more. USAir has just announced that it will now begin charging their coach customers (victims, more like) an additional charge if they choose to sit on the aisle or the window near the front of the plane.

This is explained as yet another necessity to help pay for the rising cost of fuel. This claim would not be so ludicrous if I had not just witnessed the following. On my flight leaving DC National Airport, the pilot suddenly discovered that the plane was over weight. His solution: to burn fuel. So, the passengers sat on the tarmac for 20 minutes while the jet's engines roared at full throttle, filling the fuselage with noxious fumes and polluting the environment for absolutely no reason.

It's not wonder oil prices are skyrocketing. Pilots at USAir are burning off fuel to lessen their plane's weight.

Hasn't anybody heard of a hose and a syphon?

I have a better idea for those geniuses at USAir. Next time an airplane is over weight, rectify the situation by throwing my seat mate out the emergency exit. I guarantee that will take care of the problem.

She's always a fat slob.

Shear Madniversaries

It sometimes seems that Shear Madness has taken over my life, and in truth, it probably has, at least for a while. It is virtually impossible to forget about the show completely during the off hours.





But I shall do my best for the next week or so. Our company is laid off until the 21st, as the American College Theatre Festival (which includes the "Irene Ryan Awards") is moving into our space.






I was feeling pretty privileged to be performing the Madness on Monday night. Why, you may query? Monday night's show happened to be Performance # 9,000 of Shear Madness at the Kennedy Center. Quite a feat. I was actually honored that the show's management asked me to make a little curtain speech after the show, letting the audience know why they had attended a very special performance.










Later in the week, we celebrated another anniversary, and a few farewells. Two of our actors are moving on to other projects, so Thursday's show had a bit of poignancy to it.









In addition, Thursday marked the 1,000th performance in the show of Marcus Kyd. Marcus has played most of those shows as the younger detective, Mikey, though he's done a fair number of performances as the sleazy antiques dealer. Because of understudy requirements, he has performed the role of Tony (my role) several times as well. But his best fit is Mikey, where he supports the rest of the cast with naturalistic enthusiasm. One of the pleasures of appearing with this cast this year is the chance to get to know this young go-getter, who balances his commitment to Shear with fatherhood, while heading one of the city's newest and most avant-guarde theatre groups, the Taffety Punk (he'll be absent from one of our future performances in order to accept a Helen Hayes Award for his new company). Marcus's enthusiasm is infectious, and I enjoy every moment I share with him onstage. Even those moments in which, as Marcus puts it, his "interior monologue" becomes an exterior one. Several vets of the Madness have this habit, acquired after years of performances, of keeping up an almost constant stream of muttering under their breath. I have not acquired that habit (actors playing "Tony" tend not to, as we talk too much at full volume), but over the years, I've become accustomed to this odd quirk of other oldsters.





So, it's been an event-filled week at Shear Madness. I admit I look forward to our ten days off, during which I will spend a long weekend in North Carolina visiting the pater. I'll return to KenCen with one third of our cast having changed, which means, though it may not be a whole new ballgame, the change in roster will mean a different rhythm to the music.


And of course, a return to frequent note sessions post-show, and additional daytime rehearsals. Like I said, when I am in Shear Madness, it takes over my life...

Charlton Heston

1923-2008

I have mixed feelings about Heston, who was not the greatest actor of his generation, or may not have been even one of the greats. He created a film persona, as did so many of the stars of his time, and he continued to play a variation of that persona throughout his career. I confess that the only film of his which I thoroughly enjoyed was the Sci-Fi thriller Planet of the Apes, and I'm sure I enjoyed that film more for the performances of Kim Hunter, Roddy McDowell, and Maurice Evens than that of Heston.

In his later years, Heston became politically active on a number of issues, upon most of which I disagreed. He famously held up a rifle, as president of the National Rifle Association, claiming it would not be removed until his hand was cold and dead, or something to that effect. Remarks like that do nothing to aid rational discussion of the Gun Laws and Liberties, and are simply incendiary (he made them during a horrible period of gun violence in schools and other public places).

Heston, a former president of SAG, clashed with later, more liberal presidents such as Ed Asner, and he famously resigned from Actors Equity over the Miss Saigon controversy. Broadway producers wished to import their London star of the show, Jonathan Pryce, to play a role described as a "Eurasion," causing the American Asian acting community to voice objections. Heston misconstrued the whole affair and claimed that refusing to allow a white man to play an Asian was in fact racist. I disagreed with Heston on this point and others, but it can't be denied that he had a compassion for other people (here he is helping out at a food bank with his wife and grandson).

I met Heston once, backstage after a performance of The Hostage in which I appeared in Hollywood. His manservant, if that's what you call a valet or butler these days, was an aspiring actor and was appearing in the show as a Russian sailor (the gent was actually Czech, I think). Anyway, Heston generously attended one of our performances and dropped backstage to shake all our hands. This was many years before he became so politically active, and before he started to exhibit signs of Alzheimer's.

I could never get through any of his Biblical epics, and had trouble sitting through his later performance as Sir Thomas More in A Man for All Seasons, a production he bankrolled himself. I suppose I will always remember him in connection with that final scene of Planet of the Apes, which, back in the day, was a real stunner.

Rest in peace, Bright Eyes.

Theatre Droppings: Shaw, Seuss, and "History"

I've had the chance to catch a few local droppings in my off-hours. My new buddy Gillian Shelly (whom I now call "My Barbara," as she shares the Shear Madness salon with me) is pulling double duty. In addition to her four shows a week at KenCen, she is one of the stars of Seussical the Musical, Jr. at Toby's Dinner Theatre. I drove out to Columbia, MD, to see her belting the hell out of the role of Gertrude McFuzz, for a full house of elementary (and younger!) school kids. I have been curious about the show since it first appeared on Broadway, and judging from the cast album, the role of the Cat in the Hat seems a good fit for me, so I welcomed the opportunity to see the show, even in an hour-long, truncated format. Gillian and her cohorts are having a ball playing the piece, and it zips along with almost no libretto. This junior version resembles an opera more than a traditional musical, though nothing seems lost with the elimination of large chunks of the original Broadway book. (Between you and me and the lamppost, the role of the Cat, which I covet, was the one real loser in this reduction. I have a hunch the character is much more central to the action in the full-length show...).

I was so glad I got a chance to catch the final matinee of Major Barbara at The Shakespeare Theatre Company, as it felt a bit like old home week. Though the show was presented in the new Harmon Center, the cast was filled with the regulars who put The Shakes on the map. Helen Carey and Ted van Griethuysen played the battling Undershafts, and in their hands, the show's focus shifted from the younger generation to the elder. I worked with Helen and Ted during the year I interned at The Shakes, and came away from the experience certain that I had been working with truly gifted actors. I was disappointed that I missed another of my favorite local actors, Floyd King, who had been excused from the show I saw in order to prep his next adventure at Studio Theater (see below). Catie Flye, my previous director and fellow actor, was playing one of the homeless misfits in the mission, and Vivienne Benesche, with whom I worked in Henry V, played the title character. The whole project was guided by director Ethan McSweeney, who was greatly involved with the intern company at The Shakes during my time there. He directed a bang-up version of Major Barbara, full of wit. I loved everyone casually sitting around on bombs during the final scene. I had a bit of trouble with the over-the-top stylings of Tom Story as Stephen Undershaft, and was more comfortable with the performances of Karl Kenzler as Cusins and Kevin O'Donnell as Lomax, both of whom lent realism to their portrayals. Ethan made a swell decision to include some of Shaw's stage directions on the show curtain each time the setting shifted. I wondered, though, why The Shakespeare Theatre hadn't released seats to this performance to the half-priced TicketPlace. I sat in the balcony, which was almost empty, and could see many empty seats in the orchestra as well... This cast deserved a fuller house.

I have been curious about Alan Bennett's The History Boys since it made such a splash in London and New York a while back, so I caught Studio Theatre's new production. I did my very best to enjoy it, but I made the unfortunate choice to attend a student matinee, where a group of inner-city teen-agers were bored, restless, and downright disruptive. I suppose some genius thought that, because the show dealt with teen-aged boys, this group of rude students would be interested. Not so. I finally moved away from the distracting group at intermission, and enjoyed Act Two from the back of the house. Floyd King did his usual bang-up job as the odd-ball teacher whom his students alternately loved and tolerated, and Simon Kendall was terrific as the new young teacher with a secret of his own. But the real fun was in the interaction with the boys of the title, with Owen Scott as the lovelorn "Posner" and Jay Sullivan as the cocky "Dakin" real standouts. The Washington Post made some noise about Scott's singing, but the fact that he occasionally wobbled off-key struck me as endearing rather than distracting. I may try to catch another performance of the show a little later in the run, with an adult audience whom I know will better appreciate this stylish debate on Education vs. Examination.

Matt

The family at Shear Madness bid an emotional farewell to one of their longtime members on Sunday night. Matt Sawyer, who has been involved in various productions of the Madness for well over a decade, left the company to continue his military training as an officer in the National Guard. Matt has been a buddy of mine for many years, and while we can't claim to be particularly close friends, we are surely good friends. I know he would step up to help me anytime, and the reverse is true as well.

Matt began his Shear career playing the young detective, Mikey. When I met him, he was graduating to the role of Eddie, the sleazy antiques dealer. I was in the midst of my first gig in the salon, and about half-way through my contract, several of my costars were rearranged. Matt came in as Eddie, and I immediately took a liking to this self-effacing young man with impeccable comic timing. He soon graduated to the role of the lead detective, Rosetti, a role which is complicated and difficult, but Matt handled it with aplomb. I was thrilled when I rejoined the show last year, in the spring company, and I found that "my Rosetti" would be Matt. He and I have a strong chemistry together, and he made me look very, very good.

As so often happens in this business, our paths crossed more than once. As our first Shear contract together was ending, we were both offered roles in the Second National Tour of Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing. Matt had appeared in the First National Tour and had been asked to return. This was my first experience with touring, a process which was educational, exhilarating, and exasperating. After rehearsing at the Kennedy Center (but not performing there), our tour began with a long 6 day drive to our first site, in North Dakota. Hard to keep the excitement up when there are 6 days between your final dress rehearsal and your first performance. The cast took turns driving the passenger van across country, that is, everyone except me. I had broken my foot during rehearsals, and I was wearing one of those removable boot casts. Nobody thought it was safe to drive while wearing one of those things, so my first week on the road was quite the boring one. Matt kept my spirits up with his positive attitude and wry humor. He was always the first actor to volunteer to help out the crew traveling with us, and even occasionally drove the huge moving van which housed our sets and costumes.

Here's a typical pose, representing Matt's brand of "what the f*ck?" attitude:

Another typical pose of Matt's happened in dressing rooms across the country, and just about every night of Shear Madness. Whenever Matt wanted to sit down, he'd pull down his pants. No one quite knows the reason for this ritual. He didn't remove his pants, he just dropped them down around his ankles and sat.

Matt's ability as "Rosetti" was undeniable. His skill with the audience was matched only by his desire to insure that every single moment of the show shined. With him at the helm, everybody onstage looked good.

Matt is headed down south to Georgia for several weeks before shipping out to Oklahoma for a period of several months. During that time, he will be completing officer's training, after which there are strong indications that he will be transferred to the war zone. I can't even imagine what life has in store for him in the next few years.

During our season together last year, I asked him about food rations while out in the field. Matt surprised me a few days later with a large brown packet marked:

U.S. Government Property

"Ready-to-Eat, Individual Meal.

Menu No. 6: Chicken Fajita."

That ugly brown packet of processed food has been sitting on my refrigerator for a full year. I imagine it now tastes roughly the same as it would have then. I imagine it lasts pretty much forever. It's likely to be a long while before I see Matt again, but I'll be keeping that packet, unopened, until his return from his journeys.

Be safe, my friend.

25 Years

In the early pages of this blog, I wrote a letter to my mother, on the 24th anniversary of her death. It's hard to believe that a full year has since passed, and it's even harder to believe that I have lived a quarter of a century without her.

I can't claim to think about her every day anymore, but this time of year, my subconscious takes more control than I'm used to, and I begin to dream more regularly of my mother. Memories of her are closer to the surface this time of year, and I find myself thinking of her when I reach for a plate which she touched, or sit in the rocking chair which sat in our living room so many years. The drop-leaf table which resided in our dining room in Atlanta while I grew up now sits against my wall; there isn't room enough to raise the leaves, but this time of year, I find myself recalling those special occasions when we dined on it.

I wish all my memories were comforting ones, but I sometimes run across one which makes me wince, or gives me a shudder. Why did I say that to her? Why wasn't I kinder to her at that moment? Why was I such a sarcastic schmuck so often?

One of my deepest regrets is that my mother did not really get to know the adult me. That was entirely my fault; I was 26 when she died, and had lived at home all but 3 months of those 26 years, so I had plenty of opportunity. She once, rather ruefully, mentioned that we never did anything together, just the two of us, like going to the movies. Go to the movies with your mother? Such an outrageous idea had never entered my head.

I'd sacrifice quite a lot to go to the movies with her today.

Well, we did have a bit of a routine, once I turned 21. During those years in California, I think my mother was bored. Her children didn't need a lot of attention anymore, and she was far removed from the close friends she had made while living in Atlanta for 20 years. My father had huge responsibilities in his career, and we never expected him home much before 8. So, I would get home late in the afternoon, either from my job at Sears, or my waiter job, or my rehearsal, or just hanging out with Judy or Claudia, and I would bound upstairs to my room to check the messages on my private phone line, to read my mail, or just to continue my life.

Soon, I would hear my mother holler up the stairs to me: "Want a cocktail?"

Our cocktail hour really wasn't one, as we never had an actual cocktail. In those late years of her life, half a beer was just about all my mother could take, her body having been so ravaged by the cancer, and even more ravaged by its treatment. She didn't care about having a drink, she clearly wanted some adult interaction, and I was the only adult around. So, we would split a domestic beer (she taught me the trick of salting the beer in the glass to reignite the foamy head; I still do it!), and she would listen while I rambled on about the Sears Complaint Department or whatever else I wanted to talk about. In retrospect, of course, I wish I had spent those precious times letting her know more about the man I was becoming; she was clearly waiting for me to reveal more of myself to her. But I was a coward, and she was a lady, so...

I have a dear longtime friend who asked me recently what my views on religion are. He has made many very logical points about the irrationality of the concept of God, logic being the enemy of religion. I couldn't really answer him coherently. I am not in any way, shape, or form a religious person (I couldn't wait to turn 15 and thus be excused from the Sunday School which my parents forced on me throughout my childhood, but that was more from laziness than lack of belief), and I certainly don't think there is a grandfatherly figure with a white beard waiting for us at the end of our life.

And it can't be denied that the majority of the wickedness in the world, throughout history and today, has been caused, and is being caused, in the name of organized religion.

But there is comfort in the thought that there may be some kind of afterlife for the spirit, once the flesh gives out. There is solace in thinking that my mother's spirit lives on somehow, I hope someplace close.

Without that belief, even 25 years later, the loss would be too much to bear.