Friday Dance Party: A Little Brains, A Little Talent

Gwen Verdon does not star in this week's Dance Party.

Richard Adler

1921-2012

Though this guy had a very long career as a composer, lyricist, and producer, it must be confessed that he peaked pretty early, back in the 1950s.  He provided Tony Bennett with a top-selling hit ("Rags to Riches"), and years later, he did the same for Doris Day ("Everybody Loves A Lover"). 

Adler's first Broadway show was this
revue, starring Hermione Gingold and
Billy DeWolfe.

But he is surely best remembered for his Broadway career, during which he won back-to-back Tony Awards for two musicals which are still considered classics of the golden age of the musical comedy.  Those hits were the result of his collaboration with Jerry Ross, with whom he teamed to write both music and lyrics.  

Jerry Ross's untimely death in 1955 ended their collaboration, and though Adler continued working until his death last month, he never matched his earlier achievements. 

He wrote a couple of forgettable musicals for his wife at the time, Sally Ann Howes, and he produced one of Richard Rodgers' flops, Rex. 

Who thought the life of Henry VIII would make a good musical? Adler did, as he produced Rex, one of Richard Rodgers's late-career flops. The gal on the far left is Glenn Close, making her Broadway debut as the princess who would grow up to become Bloody Mary.

Monroe's Happy Birthday song to
JFK has become an historical
video documenting his infidelity.

Speaking of producing, our hero was responsible for one of the most memorable events of the Kennedy presidency, the birthday bash during which Marilyn Monroe turned the Birthday Song into a seductive siren's song. 

But let's get back to Broadway.  In the 1950s, Adler and Ross became proteges of the great Frank Loesser, so it was a natural step for the team to hit Broadway.  Their first show was a musical revue, John Murray Anderson's Almanac, which ran a full season in 1953, which was considered a respectable run for writers making their Broadway debuts. 

Almanac launched Hermione Gingold's career
in America.

Their next two shows, though, were legitimate smashes, and solidified their place in the history of American Musical Theatre.  In 1954, Adler and Ross adapted a novel about union workers into The Pajama Game, which remains one of the most revived musicals in educational and community theatre settings. 

Harry Connick, Jr.'s acclaimed performance
in this 2006 revival created expectations
which were dashed when he returned to
Broadway in On A Clear Day, which I
wrote about here.

The show is often remembered for its launching of the career of Shirley Maclaine, who was understudy to supporting player Carol Haney when Haney broke her foot. 

Carol Haney in the role in The Pajama Game which Shirley Maclaine covered.

Maclaine went on in her place and, as legend has it, was discovered by a Hollywood producer who turned her into a movie star. 

Shirley Maclaine

The story is true, but is often a bit misunderstood;  theatrical lore has it that Maclaine had incredible good luck to be viewed by Hal Wallis, the producer from Paramount in question, during the one performance she gave as understudy.  In fact, Carol Haney was out of The Pajama Game for several months, and Shirley performed the role of Gladys during that entire period, not, as is supposed, for a single show.   Haney won the Tony for her performance, but Maclaine got the Hollywood career.

Only a year after The Pajama Game opened (it was still running to full houses), Adler and Ross delivered their second smash, Damn Yankees.  This show elevated dancer Gwen Verdon to star status;  she won the Tony, as did her co-star Ray Walston. 

Gwen Verdon initially turned down the
role of Lola in Damn Yankees. She changed
her mind and landed on the cover of Time.

Though solidly constructed, I would not call this show a masterpiece by any means.  In fact, the show was so tailored to the talents of Verdon that one of her dance numbers (which graced the Dance Party here) is sometimes cut from the show these days, rightfully so.  Not everybody can dance like Verdon.  But Damn Yankees remains a particular favorite of mine, as Walston's role, the Devil, is a dream role of mine.  I played it in Glendale, CA in 1992 (and would kill to play it again before I have to play it in a wheelchair.  I pompously offered this clip from that production as a Dance Party on my birthday a few years ago). 

Jerry Lewis made a belated Broadway
debut replacing Victor Garber in the
1994 revival of Damn Yankees. His
presence extended the run, but his antics
became legendary. He often halted the
show to drop character
and present a stand-up routine.

Both Pajama Game and Damn Yankees have had several Broadway revivals, and this week's Dance Party comes from one.  Musicals from this period usually featured a supporting female character which was primarily a dance role.  Carol Haney's role in Pajama Game was such a role, as is the role featured in this week's clip.  Though Damn Yankees hardly needed another dance role, since Gwen Verdon's Lola did more than her share of hoofing, the writers added one anyway, that of female sports reporter Gloria Thorpe.  In the 1994 revival, the role was played by Vickie Lewis, who co-starred on the sitcom NewsRadio before turning to the Broadway stage.  Here she shows off strong musical comedy chops, in her big number which was broadcast on the Tony Awards that year.

Richard Adler and Jerry Ross were on their way to becoming a substantial composing team when Ross suddenly died in 1955. Because their output was halted, they are not always as admired as other musical writers of the period such as Lerner and Loewe, Sheldon and Harnick, and the very young Stephen Sondheim, all of whom created a full canon of musical theatre gems.  But I submit that the back-to-back successes of Pajama Game and Damn Yankees place Adler and Ross in the pantheon of great
composers of the American musical theatre. 

Theatre Droppings: The Night Larry Kramer Reminded Me

Last week, I saw Arena Stage's production of The Normal Heart. It brought back many memories of a particular time in my life, and of a particular production in grad school.

Brad Davis starred in the original Off-Broadway production. He went on to Midnight Express, Sybil, and a notorious performance in the French film Querelle. He was one of a number of Normal Heart's original players to die of AIDS.

As everybody knows, or ought to, The Normal Heart was written by that mouthy firebrand Larry Kramer when the AIDS epidemic was roaring to life in 1985.  It concerns the early days of the disease, and the group of men (and one female doctor) who were fighting to bring this puzzling killer to the attention of the public. 

This Arena Stage production is billed as the first stop of a national tour. But future dates have yet to announced. Such an incendiary piece is tough to book for the road.

I loved the Arena production, which is peopled with many of the same actors who performed the recent Broadway revival which won the Tony. 

Patrick Breen has been one of my
favorites for years. He's leading a
great cast at Arena.

Some of the local critics complained that the text is preachy and didactic, but I did not find it so.  I found the show to be scarily prophetic and darkly humorous, winningly played by a dynamite cast.  The "speechifying" which some critics disliked was dynamically delivered, and I wept with frustration and sorrow through much of the show.

Panels from the AIDS quilt are on display in the lobby of Arena Stage during the run of The Normal Heart. Large portions of the quilt are currently on the National Mall and other DC venues, to coincide with the International AIDS conference to be held in DC this month. The full quilt can no longer be displayed in one place, as it measures 50 square miles and weighs 54 tons.

The Normal Heart has itself been on my radar for many years, though I had never seen a production of it, nor even read the full script. 

Patricia Wettig won Emmys for
thirtysomething, and is pretty
ferocious in the role which won
Ellen Barkin the Tony.

This is shameful on my part, as the play is one of the monuments of modern theatre, and I own a prestigious copy of it.  Years ago, a dear friend sent me a fantastic birthday gift: an autographed copy of the play's original working script, complete with edits pencilled into the margins by the one of the original cast members.  She bought the item at auction, just for me.  She knew I would treasure it, as The Normal Heart played a big part in one of the most significant periods in my own life.

Joe Montello, on the left, returned to acting to play the lead role in the recent Broadway revival. I saw him in the original Angels in America, before he became a respected director. (He turned the critically dismissed Wicked into the smash of the decade.)

In 1993, I left Los Angeles, where I had been living for almost 20 years, for the east coast, to attend grad school in South Carolina.  Before the big move, I drove into Hollywood to see David Drake perform his self-written one-man play, The Night Larry Kramer Kissed Me. 

David Drake won the Obie.

It was all about coming of age as a young gay man during the late 70s and early 80s, a time of discos, gym bunnies, sexual freedom, and, tragically, the outbreak of AIDS.  I was greatly moved by Drake's play.  I arrived at the University of South Carolina, wondering if there would ever be a time in my life that I could attempt such a feat, to appear alone onstage for 90 minutes, performing such a provocative yet deeply personal piece.

I was kept exceptionally busy during grad school (I appeared in 11 shows during the two years I was on campus), but by chance, there was a break in my performance year, in the early spring of 1995.  At one of the periodic meetings I had with my advisory committee, I was asked what I wanted to accomplish during my second year of study.  Almost off-handedly, I mentioned that I would love to attempt to perform the solo role in The Night Larry Kramer Kissed Me.  Immediately, the chair of my committee, Jim Patterson, asked, "Oh, may I direct you in it?"

This reaction took the idea out of the realm of dreamy "what-ifs" and into the arena of "What the hell have I gotten myself into?" 

Jim ran the MFA directing program on campus, and was an admired director in the professional theatres in the region as well. 

Patterson directed me as Algernon in ...Earnest,
in a production which transferred to
Charlotte Rep for a professional run.

He had already directed me in The Importance of Being Earnest and Anything Goes, and we had developed a good working relationship. Still, the fact that a man of his reputation was eager to direct a student-generated production was pretty big news.  (Jim had seen the same production of The Night Larry Kramer Kissed Me that I had, in New York,  before it transferred to L.A..)

A promo shot of our ...Larry Kramer...

The play was a series of monologues, taking a gay man from early childhood (and his fascination with Barbie and the Village People) into his life as an out-and-proud gay artist.  It was really David Drake's own story, but it spoke to many of us, as it gave a very personal look at the obstacles, defeats, and victories a lot of us endured.  Some of the monologues were hysterically funny, some deeply tragic (in particular, when the AIDS crisis hit Drake's life in New York).  There were only a few really dark moments in the piece, and all of those dealt with AIDS. 

Drake lit a candle as he told the story of each of his
friends who were dying of AIDS. In rehearsal, I was
thinking of my high school buddy Matthew, my college
chum Gordon, my favorite bartender Justin, and the first
openly gay man I ever knew, my high school
 music teacher, Mr. Hill.

Drake told the story of several of his tribe who were taken by the disease, and how he coped with the mounting losses in his life.  In rehearsal, I was to find these scenes particularly moving to play, and I was often thinking of those in my own life I had lost.  This play was to be the most challenging piece of theatre I have ever tackled. 

In addition, I was to be challenged in another way: physically.  The narrator of the story is extremely well-built, and extremely sexual, and I was neither. 
Two sequences in particular were the most frightening to me.  In one, I was to move through a full gym workout, and in the other, I was to cruise a leather bar.  Oh, and in the bar, I was to be shirtless, and in the gym, I was to strip to a jock-strap.  Sounds just like me, doesn't it?  I was terrified of these two sequences.

David Drake worked his exhibitionism into "12-inch Single," the sequence taking place in the leather bar. There was no way to fully realize his play without the overt sexuality.

Director Jim and I agreed that I could not realistically portray this guy unless I put on some muscle, so, about 10 weeks before we opened, I started a diet and hit the gym.  These were two things I had never done before;  I enlisted my grad school cohort Elliot, who was a gym bunny at the time, to teach me how to work out effectively. 

Elliot nearly killed me in the gym.

Our first day in the weight room, he instructed me on the correct usages of all the equipment.  The next day, I could barely move, and the day after that, I though Elliot had tried to kill me.  His coaching was extreme but effective, and I hit the gym on campus at least 5 days a week.  In addition, I took all the fat out of my diet (that was the latest diet fad at the time) and of course, knocked off the booze.  Because I was so busy at school, I didn't have much trouble keeping to the new routine of eating and working out: I had no time to be hungry or sore. 

Several weeks went by, and I tried not to freak out about the fact that I did not seem to be losing much weight; I was told that as fat was reducing, I was gaining muscle, which is just as heavy.  But when you examine such things closely every day, you really can't see much change.  About 5 weeks into my workout program, our movement class had a guest instructor, who was head of the dance program on campus.  She moved among the 8 of us during class, adjusting our stances and such.  Nonchalantly, as she moved my shoulders around, she asked, "You lift weights, don't you?"  I was stunned into silence.  Then I glanced in the mirrored walls which encased the dance studio.  Each and every one of my fellow students, all of whom were well aware that I was trying to get into shape for this upcoming show, had stopped in their tracks, and Elliot was beaming like a proud papa. 

Another promo shot. I regret we took
no production shots of the show.

The physical transformation worked, and at age 38, I was in the best shape of my adult life.

The title of this piece, The Night Larry Kramer Kissed Me, referenced a moment in David Drake's life in which he was forever changed.  He was not literally kissed by Larry Kramer, in fact, I don't believe he had even met him before writing his play.  But he was figuratively kissed by Kramer, the night he saw the original production of Kramer's play, The Normal Heart.  In turn, I have always felt that, during March and April of 1995, when I donned leather jacket and jockstrap to do The Night Larry Kramer Kissed Me, I was kissed by David Drake, by doing his one-man play. 

Our success on campus lead to a professional run during Columbia's Gay Pride Celebration. All three theatre critics in the city sited our show among their Top-Ten Favorite Productions of the year.

Larry Kramer

This week, though, I can now claim I've been kissed by Larry Kramer, too, by seeing his groundbreaking The Normal Heart.

Friday Dance Party: The Gentle Sitcom

This was a week full of incident, including the fourth of July, of course, and two trips to Arena Stage in DC to see some theatrical offerings.  And for a holiday week in the midst of summer, there were several newsy items of note. 

I think one of these Big Bang Boys discovered
something important to science. I didn't get
the full story.

The boys on the Big Bang Theory, or boys like them, discovered some atomic thingy which now explains the universe.  An at-home HIV test was approved, which will allow people who are too embarrassed to ask for such a test from their doctor,  to determine if they carry the virus.

The week began, as they so often do, on Monday, which happened to be my birthday. 

It wasn't one of those biggies, but I still received buttloads of salutations, thank you social media. Just as I was reveling in the realization that hundreds of people were taking the time to press some buttons on my behalf, my day was hijacked by this guy:

Don't look so cute and innocent. You know what you did.

Now, I have admired Anderson Cooper forever, and I am very pleased that he publicly acknowledged what everybody already knew, but really, on MY birthday? You couldn't have done it on TUESDAY? Well, his announcement was welcome, whenever it came, and his low keyed eloquence in explaining his reasons for remaining silent for so long rang true to me. There was a lively discussion on Monday regarding the fact that perhaps Coop (he likes me to call him Coop) should have come out a long time ago, but whatev. I believe him when he says that he remained discreet about his personal life in order to keep himself from being the Subject of the Story. 

Anderson Cooper and his flame dame Kathy Griffin are appointment television for me on New Year's Eve.

There were, however, some very shrewd decisions made about the timing of all this. The email in which Coop verified his sexuality was dropped on what is known in PR circles as "Take Out The Trash Day." 

Coop's news dropped on a day when
news is not a top priority. My birthday.

These are days which surround a national holiday, when the general public is concerned with things other than current events, and when difficult news is often announced, in hopes that the majority of Americans are too busy to make much fuss. But my overall point here, Coop, is that there are several Take Out The Trash Days this week, since Independence day fell on Wednesday. Did you have to pick my birthday?

OK, I kinda forgive you.

Since Anderson Cooper so rarely sings or dances, I was forced to turn to some sad news this week to inspire this week's Dance Party.

Andy Griffith

1926-2012

Everybody knows by now that Griffith died this week from a heart attack.  He was one of the most recognizable figures ever to come out of television, which is where he made his mark in two long-running series.  Griffith started his career as a singer, and made the move to stand-up comedy with a monologue about being a hick. 

Griffith, directed by Elia Kazan, held his own
opposite Patricia Neal. For a while, he was considered
a successor to Brando.

Film roles followed, including a strong dramatic turn in A Face In The Crowd, and a career-changing role in No Time For Sergeants, which Andy played on Broadway and on film.  He was pegged to star in his own comedy series by way of a back-door pilot episode of The Danny Thomas Show. 

Danny Thomas was stranded in Mayberry, and served up a pilot for The Andy Griffith Show.

To my own disappointment, I must confess that I was not a fan of The Andy Griffith Show when it first aired in the 60s. 

I couldn't stand these "gentle sitcoms." Give
me the sophistication of That Girl.

It was part of a generation of gentle sitcoms which peppered the landscape at that time (My Three Sons, Family Affair, Ozzie and Harriet, and a bit later, The Doris Day Show, were all part of that genre, as were the Paul Henning programs like The Beverly Hillbillies and its descendants).  I was more excited by modern-seeming sitcoms of the time, like Bewitched, That Girl, and later, the MTM stable of shows.  I thought these shows were more sophisticated with their humor, a claim which I'm not sure holds true in retrospect. 

The show's progeny included a sequel,
Mayberry RFD, and this spinoff, Gomer Pyle.
The latter took place on a Marine training base
during the 60s, but never mentioned Vietnam.

There is another reason I tended to avoid the "ruralcoms" of the day.  In the 60s, I spent significant time in a small town in the North Carolina mountains, where the fictional Mayberry was located.  My parents were born and raised in Hendersonville, which was exponentially larger than Mayberry, but had similarities to that small town. 

Not Mayberry, this is Hendersonville, where I spent many summers during the late 60s. There is a similarity.

I spent many summer weeks in Hendersonville; long afternoons on the front porch swing, drinking my Aunt Millie's sweet tea, were very similar to the activities portrayed on The Andy Griffith Show. I was being raised in Atlanta, whose inhabitants considered themselves much more cosmopolitan than other southerners, especially the "hicks" (as I thought of them) who populated Mayberry, NC. 

I appreciate Griffith's supporting cast
now, though at the time, I missed
their chemistry.

I did begin to enjoy Andy Griffith's show much later, in reruns, when the chemistry among the cast was evident to me, and the gentle humor of the show, though cornpone, had its own charm.  This week's clip comes from one of the many scenes which included a song.  As I've noted before in these pages, when sitcoms of the day starred someone who was also known as a singer, those talents were put to use. 

Don Knotts won 5 Emmys for the show.

It's interesting to note that Don Knotts, as Andy's sidekick, sings quite well in this and other clips from the series.  But if memory serves, there were at least a couple of episodes along the line which centered on Barney Fife's inability to carry a tune.  Whatever, we don't expect that kind of consistency from these shows. 

And the contributions of Andy Griffith to this series were substantial.  His decision to place himself in the central paternal role, and surround himself with more comedic characters, meant that he robbed himself of many of the laughs, but in doing so, he created a lasting legacy of gentle homespun humor.

Friday Dance Party: Excellent Excrement

Our stars sing about their favorite diagnostic tool: stool.

With all the hoopla this week, regarding health care, it's only fitting that this week's Dance Party take place in a hospital. 

Musical episodes of non-musical series usually
don't work. This one did.

It comes from the musical episode of one of the most underrated  sitcoms of the last decade (though not by me), Scrubs.  It is actually the second time that particular episode has provided content for these pages, go here to see the big opening number, and a discussion of the Very Special Musical Episode of TV programs to which we are sometimes subjected.

The most famous of these Musical Episodes is probably this one, which has been recreated by amateur groups and, as you can see, released on the big screen for Sing-A-Longs.

But this is a fun little number, written (as all the songs in the show were) by the gents who won the Tony for Avenue Q. 

Stephanie D'Abruzzo needs a CAT scan.

Our female observer also comes from Avenue Q, and is having some head trauma, which explains why she believes everyone around her is singing.

The big Opening Number can be seen here.

Maybe they can't sing, but at least
the Scrubs gang looks like they are
having fun, unlike other casts inflicted
with musical episodes.

Clear?  Who cares?  Enjoy this week's Dance Party, in honor of the recent Supreme Court decision, which perhaps has all medical personnel singing and dancing.  Or not.

My Waiver Games, Part I: Theatre Of The Absurd

In a week or so, I will begin work on a show in New York produced under the Equity Showcase Code, more on that in a later post.  But the prospect of showcasing my work under this code reminds me a lot of what used to be called "Waiver Theater" in Los Angeles. 

Both codes were invented by the stage actors' union at the request of its members, who wanted a way to show off their stage talents without being cast in a show which had, you know, a real paying contract. I worked more than once under the Waiver code in LA, back when there were tiny theaters all over the place using it. Equity has since changed the name of that code, and has clarified its rules, as the thing was egregiously abused for years. Back in the day, a Waiver show might run for months and months, with the producers raking in the dough from the box office, while the actors worked for free.

The Odyssey Theatre Ensemble ran a production of Steven Berkoff's Kvetch for 8 years without paying an actor.

I think the code is now called the "99-Seat contract" , as it can only be used in a theater seating 99 people or less, and the union finally realized that "waiver theater" left the impression that Equity was waiving all its rules and regulations, which it was not.  

The only performing gig from which I have ever been fired was here, at the Ebony Showcase Theatre.
They ran a production of Norman, Is That You?, off and on, for years under the Waiver Code.
No actor was ever paid.

I did six shows in waiver houses when I was living in LA, and those memories are coming back to me, as I prepare to spend the summer working under New York's version of that old Work-For-Free code. 


My first experience with the species was when I was only 18 or so.  During my first year of college at California State University, Northridge, I began auditioning for on campus shows.  I had some luck with student productions, landing in an original one-act right away. 

Charlie Martin-Smith played Toad in American
Graffiti. He cast me in my first show in college.

The show was being directed by one of CSUN's celebrity students, Charlie Martin-Smith (you'd remember him from American Graffiti).  I was going to spend most of my college years appearing in student-driven productions, as the faculty directors were never sure what to do with me. 

At any rate, after finishing my CSUN debut performance in Have You Ever Seen A Panda? (yep, that was the name of the thing), I heard about an audition for a Waiver theatre in Chatsworth, CA, one of the burghs close to Northridge in the San Fernando Valley section of L.A.  The group was called the Valley Theatre of the Performing Arts, a high-falutin' name for a company which operated out of a building which looked like it had been converted from a two-car garage.

Somebody else's Interview.

The only reason this group caught my eye was the fact that they were casting a show I was very interested in, a one-act called Interview, by French absurdist Jean-Claude Van Itallie.  My California high school, Kennedy High in Granada Hills, had done a version of the show the year before I arrived there;  I had seen pictures of that production and was intrigued. With nothing else on my plate on campus, I auditioned and was accepted into the production.  The show actually included two one-acts by Van Itallie, the aforementioned Interview, and a companion piece called TV.  In the first play, eight actors played either job interviewers or interviewees, and the point was to illustrate the facelessness of corporate America, and the futility of trying to maintain humanity in the workplace.  In TV, three of us (including me) played employees of a television network whose sole job was to watch TV.  The other cast members enacted the shows we were watching;  ultimately, the audience was to be confused about which was which.  Both these pieces, as I said, were part of the absurdist theatrical movement, so they were not written in a realistic, linear fashion (but both their themes are even more relevant today, I think).

The cast performed in both one-acts, under the umbrella title America, Hurrah!  The show was an off-night production, which meant we were to perform only on Tuesdays.  Still, as a Waiver production, this was considered to be professional, and I was quite full of myself for having landed the gig.

Very soon after we started rehearsal, my acting class at CSUN received a one-day audition workshop run by Bruce Halverson, who was the newest faculty member and a real go-getter in the department.

Bruce Halverson now heads the South Carolina
Governor's School of the Arts.

I had a great time during his workshop, and after class, he approached me. He was in the midst of auditions for the main stage production he was directing, the Feydeau farce A Flea In Her Ear.  He wanted to make sure I was planning to audition.  The show conflicted with my measly little one-night-a-week Waiver production, so I had to rather sheepishly decline.  Bruce was a little startled that I would choose to do a couple of unknown one-acts out in Chatsworth, rather than appear on CSUN's main stage, but he certainly was not going to insist that I dump the off-campus gig.

Bruce had me in mind for the snotty butler in Flea In Her Ear.
My buddy Brad played it instead.

I've made some lousy choices in my theatrical career, and that was one of them.  I didn't have any guarantee that I would have been cast in Bruce's A Flea In Her Ear, but in retrospect, I think he was very interested in using me.

I eventually worked with Bruce on his
own show, Great American Travelin'
and Medicine Show.

Bruce turned out to be one of the very few CSUN faculty members who had any value, and I was lucky enough to work with him a couple of years later in another play, but still, when I saw his hilarious show, I regretted not trying to be a part of it.  That's not the only reason I regretted my decision.

A few weeks after my workshop with Bruce, we opened America, Hurrah!, to an almost empty house. 

The playwright's name was misspelled in the program. "Van Itallie" became "Van Itallic." A Freudian slip, or just lousy producing?

We rarely had more than a dozen people attend any of our shows (why anyone thought people would go to the theatre on a Tuesday night in Chatsworth, of all places, to see a couple of avant garde plays, is anybody's guess).  Our show was scheduled to run several months, ending in the summer.  But one Tuesday, only about 4 weeks into the run (which meant, after only four performances, I'll remind you), we arrived at the theatre to be told that tonight would be our last night.  The producers were shutting down the off-night show, and didn't care to give the actors any advance notice.

This illustrates one of the major flaws in what was known as the Waiver Theater Code:  the producers could do such things without regard to the actors.  They were not getting paid, so giving the cast a week's closing notice was unnecessary. 

America, Hurrah! closed while A Flea In Her Ear was still in  rehearsal, so I spent some time kicking myself for making the wrong choice, especially after the latter show opened on campus and was a substantial success.

In the four years I attended Cal State, Northridge, I was to perform in two more off-campus productions following America, Hurrah!, though neither of those productions was produced under the Waiver Code.  But only a few months after graduating, I was invited to join another Waiver Theatre production, one which remains one of my fondest memories.  Stay tuned for Part II of my Waiver Games.