Not Mandatory

Monologue exercise: Brandi Nikolas

2009-10-05T22:59:23Z

It has to be Maggie’s idea, because it never changes from year to year, and nobody apparently has the guts to tell her how awful it looks. It’s like this: you get to work at call time, some night in mid-November, and it’s already dark out, of course, and you see the trees. God, the trees.

There’s a stand of them in front of the theatre, I don’t know, young lindens, maybe? They look like every other deciduous tree by that time, stripped skeletal. What would make them creepier? Oh, I know! Those chaser lights, the kind that, I guess, you program the circuit to make them look like they’re running a loop. And they’re red, because of Christmas, or because of the U of U, or because the upholstery in the auditorium is red, just like every other theatre in the world. Or Maggie just likes red. Whatever. Normal people use all-white or all-teal or even rainbow lights, but whoever heard of all-red?

The effect is bleeding, bony hands, all of them reaching upward like “Hey, help me, I’ve been degloved!”

So then you go inside and, inevitably, on top of the player piano, that hideous centerpiece, the big fishbowl full of glass ball ornaments, which I never understood. Ornaments on trees? Yes. Ornaments in bowls? I don’t get it. Anyway, there’s a big length of faux evergreen garland wound around it, and it all sits on top of one of those burgundy table runners with the stupid gold tassel. And, excuse me, but it’s a player piano, for God’s sake, not a buffet table. As of 6:45 p.m. sharp, Walter has the damn thing blasting these really elaborate arrangements of Christmas carols, including a “Silent Night” that’ll make your ears bleed. Oh, there was one night years ago when Leonard and Elliott swapped out CD-ROMs on him, resulting in 45 minutes of Def Leppard songs. Walter did such a Walter thing: he just pretended it was deliberate. It was actually pretty funny.

More of the garland if you look up, on the balustrade that keeps Loge patrons from falling into the atrium. Also more red mini-lights, these ones on some goofy twinkle setting. They fight with the crystal chandeliers. It’s like they’re chastising you for glancing upward, for looking for mistletoe.

Of which there is none, thank God. I guess that’s probably a legal thing now, with all the harassment suits and things, but you couldn’t prove it by people’s behavior any time of year – I mean, certainly not Maggie’s in the early days, which she still thinks is a secret! Yeah, and apparently the kids on staff now are no different. I’m not in the loop like I used to be about which fingers are in which pies, mind you. Sometimes, though, I have to wonder what they see in each other.

Tell you one thing, though, that Toby Carnahan...Hoo. Ahem.

Anyway. Wreaths in the dumbest of all places: right next to all the signage. “Coat Check,” cranberry wreath. “Authorized personnel only,” pinecone wreath. “Hearing assistance devices available for checkout,” hideous frosted bird’s-nest-looking thing. All handmade by the theatre guild, of course.

By the time we’re back for opening night of the January show, it’s gone. Everything is bare, just like everywhere else. No more blood in the hands out front. Funny thing how often the smirks have drained off the young faces, too.

Character study: Lucy Rasmussen monologue

2009-09-23T17:33:22Z

When I was a kid, Dad always took me along to the grocery store, and we always stopped at the candy machines on the way out. I would buy a fistful of Runts candy and eat them in ascending order of preference: I started with the unremarkable banana pieces, and then worked my way up through the cough-syrupy cherries and vague citrus fruits to finish with the pink, heart-shaped strawberries.

Before I left for Costa Rica, Elliott made a mix CD for me to listen to on the plane. I hid it from Toby until he dropped me off, and then I saved it for the last leg of my flight. Twelve tracks, Elliott has this…thing with twelve. It was like a dozen pink heart strawberries, the confectioner’s glaze melting off in my eager little palm.

It fit too well: a big slew of old songs by nerdy guys trying to get action. “What a Good Boy” by BNL, “Surrender” by Cheap Trick, “Break Down” by Tom Petty, that sort of thing. Some new indie stuff, too, which I didn’t recognize, but they were pretty consistently about giving into temptation. Carpe diem all over the place. The boldness of it surprised me, really.

I faced out my window; I was blushing so fiercely I thought it would show in the dark. I felt torn and wrenched and a little guilty, but then that is not always a bad way to feel, necessarily, when it stems from too much adoration. Now I was unavailable, now he’d realized just how jealous he was. There have been less delicious dilemmas.

So the whole time I was in CR, that’s how I walked around: a juicy secret burning a hole in my tongue, like the time in sixth grade when I tried to dissolve a forbidden Atomic Fire Ball under Mrs. Burbidge’s radar. (It worked until she called on me.) I played that CD every chance I got, memorized the indie songs without ever knowing who the bands were. I called him once a week, and he always sounded giddy and secretive, like he had a spicy emotional jawbreaker of his own. We didn’t say a thing about it.

When you want badly enough to believe a thing, it is funny how your perception skews to accommodate that desire. Billions of people around the world believe in the ten-second rule, because it allows them a second chance with errant butterscotch discs. The price is, on occasion, getting sick.

It might have occurred to me before I left, with all the talk of hating each other and overplayed boredom with each other. Nope! It could have hit me over the phone, how often he seemed to mention her. Nope! It should have set off bells when I got Di’s e-mail, and she mentioned her perplexity at receiving a mix CD about general aviation -– twelve tracks, including “Leavin’ (On a Jet Plane)” and “This Flight Tonight.” Nope! I did not put two and two together until two days before I headed home, when I called Di to ask about a pickup at the airport (Toby had work).

Well, Di was in the middle of saying she’d be happy to come get me and who do I hear in the background but Elliott Bailey, calling from another room: “Baby, where’d you put my bathrobe?”

I knew who it was. I would know his voice anywhere. But I gave her a chance: “Who’s that?”

And of course she lies. Really badly. Dunno, she says, maybe it’s interference from, what, some other phone or some radio broadcast, which…never really happens, does it? Who the hell broadcasts bathrobe inquiries on the radio? But I go along with it, and then, as if he’s come into the room: “Di? Can I get my robe when you’re done with it?”

So, that. Unmistakable. And her silence. No story prepared. I felt like every organ in my body would prolapse. I couldn’t believe it, and yet, I felt like an idiot for not figuring it out sooner.

I hung up then. Big ass pile of banana pieces, come to find there’s not a damn heart-strawberry in the whole mound. Waste of a perfectly good quarter. Why would you lie about something like that?

I had a cigarette out my window but it didn’t help. I left my dorm. I walked to the shoreline and chucked the mix CD into the water. Then I thought about the marine life, and I felt so guilty I spent the next 45 minutes picking up cigarette butts and candy wrappers on the beach.

Ought to mention

2009-09-19T06:55:19Z

The play I'm writing has bought out this journal, pretty much.

Major news will roll in from time to time about my day-to-day, but I'm on facebook and twitter, and...you know, I've never been the full-disclosure type. Really. Some thoughts and feelings don't need to go public, especially, as seems to be the case with getting older, when they're the same ones over and over again. Like...I did that years ago on Di-Land, and it just made for a weird-ass time capsule, really.

So, yeah. Mainly now when something goes live here, it'll be another character sketch, draft of a scene, dialogue bite, or other writing exercise while I work on this play. Maybe other plays. Maybe whatever other "creative" (guh) writing.

I'm letting you know. I plan to continue my (I think) judicious use of cut tags, because I understand some things might be more interesting to you than Julia's nebulizer or Maggie's sordid past or whatever. And I'm not attempting to appear mysterious and cryptic by saying personal stuff won't really headline anymore; just announcing that I don't feel like chronicling it.

Defriending based on this news will not be taken personally, and I am still reading you guys. But I just figured, major life events aside...I'm not as much a diarist as I used to be.

See you all on the microblogging train to hell!

enemabagjones @ 2009-09-10T11:04:00

2009-09-10T17:06:10Z

Character sketch exercise: Toby Carnahan

~~

Preparation always began with the spin of two dials: volume on the radio (tuned permanently to the country oldies station), and the oven temperature knob set to preheat 350. Today, the numbers climbed quickly, and the DJ seemed especially fixated on murder ballads. All that suited Toby just fine.

He lowered the blinds and checked the deadbolt before he donned the designated apron. It had been his mother’s, and while the rickrack trim and gingham-heart patch-pockets betrayed this, it adjusted strangely well to fit her son’s burly frame. Momma had been a tiny woman; by the time she taught him the recipe, nine-year-old Toby was already taller. Lucy wasn’t even born yet, he now realized.

He retrieved the baking chocolate from the pantry. Four squares he set aside whole; five more he broke apart and arranged on the cutting board. He happened to draw the chef’s knife from its block while a twangy baritone narrated a stabbing on the radio. He chuckled.

Chopping the baking chocolate released the aroma, and soon it permeated the kitchenette. He felt the give of the squares under the knife, the same way a candy bar yields to front teeth. He recalled that moment, twenty-odd years ago in a kitchen half a continent away, when he learned what every child must learn for himself: that baking chocolate was not as palatable as it looked, felt, and smelled. Cruel seductress, he thought, scooping the mutilated pieces into a bowl. Later, they would join confectioner’s sugar and whipping cream to become frosting.

He drew out the foil to line the pan in a smooth, even sheet. He greased this lining and watched his reflection go blurry. Momma’s face was no longer so clear in memory; he glanced at her picture on the fridge as he put the surviving chocolate squares in the microwave with the butter. No lyric on the radio mirrored their fate; rather, a commercial for the cancer-specialty hospital near campus. (Perhaps this was parallel after all: radiation.)

A reminder.

He fetched the dried cilantro, an herb he found useless in its own right, from the spice rack. Inside the jar, centered in the flakes and isolated in a tiny plastic bag, was the ingredient Momma had only added to the recipe later on, when she took sick. Toby was a teenager by then, and a football teammate had a connection. Treatment only bought her those last years; the brownies gave back some comfort, and for a while, her appetite.

The microwave timer and preheat signal went off in tandem. He began to move more deliberately, dumping the chocolate butter into the mixing bowl and adding sugar; Madagascar bourbon vanilla; cracking eggs; sifting flour. The beaters made sense of it all with their dovetailing spirals, made the reassuring, thick consistency he had come to identify by sight -- dense enough to mask the leaves.

He drizzled it, viscous and silky, into the pan. The first time he went it alone in Momma’s kitchen, he was 17. She was bedridden by then, and he read the crumbling recipe card for the first time. When that batch finished baking, he came upon the instruction, “Poke center with toothpick to test; pull out and check for fudgy crumbs.”

His laughter then carried up the stairs, and Momma hoarsely called down, “What’s so funny?”

Plays within the play

2009-08-26T22:21:28Z

MOTHER’S HEROES. Closing show of season; regional debut of a locally-popular musical, chock full of child actors and their attendant narm. Press copy says: heartwarming; magical; uplifting. Di’s typo in the ticket system: “Mother’s Herpes.” (The P is right next to the O; Di is neurotic about sex.)

A HIGHLY REGARDED MAN. Pretentious restoration comedy. Lackluster attendance. Press copy says: delightful; hilarious; comedy of manners. Elliott’s typo in the ticket system: “A Highly Retarded Man.” (The T is right above the G. Elliott is neurotic about his learning disability.)

SEAN TAKES A SHOT. New, independent play about angsty gay guys. The January show; ergo, quiet sales. Press copy says: critically-acclaimed; riveting; thought-provoking. Walter’s typo in the ticket system: “Sean Takes a Shit.” (The O and I are adjacent keys. Walter’s neurotic about his gay and his butt.)

~~

I'd been kind of wistful and melancholy all day when the DJ or robot-DJ at KYLZ played my since-forgotten e-request of Cheap Trick's "Surrender."

The song ended just before the battery in my Sansa gave out.

Big boost. Took it as a sign. Thanks, dude.

enemabagjones @ 2009-08-19T13:18:00

2009-08-19T19:25:42Z

Happy anniversary, hiphorrific!

enemabagjones @ 2009-08-13T23:24:00

2009-08-14T05:25:08Z

Back in SLC.

enemabagjones @ 2009-08-06T20:33:00

2009-08-07T02:34:27Z

NEED:

airplane
wine
Atlantic Ocean

STAT.

Just have to hang on a little longer...

enemabagjones @ 2009-08-02T16:27:00

2009-08-02T22:31:02Z

Dad played an acoustic set of Hendrix tunes by Frisky's grave just a little while ago.

Bisk had an unusual, almost psychedelic reaction to Jimi Hendrix. One time, we were watching something on vh1 and the opening strains of "Purple Haze" came on. Frisky's pupils quintupled in size just at the sound of it, and he started staggering around like he was on some kind of trip. If I remember right, he started spraying, too.

I think wherever he is now, he can hear Jimi play live, and nobody tells him he's not allowed to spray.

enemabagjones @ 2009-08-01T23:01:00

2009-08-02T05:01:16Z

Nobody else die for a while, ok? Elsewise I will kick your ass. Seriously.

1989-2009

2009-08-01T18:39:27Z

Frisky died at 11:44 this morning.

enemabagjones @ 2009-07-29T12:17:00

2009-07-29T18:19:32Z

Tech week marches on. My legs and feet are covered in cuts and bruises appropriate to the occasion. Need I tell any actor out there what mislaid set-pieces and other people’s character shoes can do?

Once opening weekend’s over, I’ll actually have a couple nights a week that belong to me again. It can’t come soon enough, for a reason that I’ve put off talking about here for a while now:

The Bisk.

He’s slowing down. No, he’s been slowing down for a long time; hell, the name "Frisky" has been ironic since he was about two.

But he’s now at the stage of CRF where he doesn’t have much of an appetite, and he hides under my parents’ bed most of the day. Pix spent almost a whole summer this way at the end of her battle with kidney failure.

We caught Frisky’s illness earlier in its progression than we did Pixie’s, but he was much older at onset. He’s now outlived her by almost six years. With so many variables in play, the prognosis is elusive; we know he is in his twilight now, but we don’t know how long it will be.

In fairness, he’s almost 20 now. He was born in 1989, y’all. That’s kind of a thing, too: I want, for purely irrational reasons, him to reach that ambiguous, late-September birthday. I also want him to hang on until we’re back from Jersey next month; I don’t want him to go when my mother would have to deal with it alone. I want to be with him when the time comes. I don’t want him to go at all, of course.

This is when I have to remind myself of the mantra I cobbled together in the wake of the other big deaths of the last 9 months or so:

To hell with what I want. May he have whatever ending it is he wants.

If he wants to go soon, let him go soon. If he wants to hang on, like Pixie did, until we’re all around for him, so be it. If he wants help getting Across, let us read him clearly and have the courage to carry it out. Let it be painless, in any case.

But since we first met, when we were both children, it has always seemed to me that he would live forever if he could.

Char. devpmt. exc.

2009-07-24T20:55:16Z

Attempted a few questions from Proust questionnaire as posed to each of my characters.

Walter Burnaby returned his survey first. Leonard and Christina Rocelli completed their surveys together. Julia Gomez was medicated at the time of completion. Lucy Rasmussen used Papyrus font and an unnecessary decorative background. Toby Carnahan returned his survey late. Diana Selby corrected spelling errors in the original. Elliott Bailey completed his survey at 1:49 AM Mountain Time.

Brandi Nikolas did not return the survey. Other characters' answers are

1. What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?
a. LEONARD. Being forced to hide one’s true self.
b. JULIA. Seeing my dad cry.
c. CHRISTINA. Mourning. And also the Atkins Diet.
d. TOBY. Betrayal.
e. LUCY. Torture.
f. DI. Landlocked, lovelorn, and a stack of Incompletes. Kidding. Probably grief.
g. ELLIOTT. I gave up caffeine for a year one time, just to prove I could do it. SUCKED. The clock struck midnight on New Years and all we had in the kitchen was a box of stale Earl Grey Tea. I brewed every bag into a single cup and downed it in two gulps and then I cried tears of joy. I think I was 15.
h. WALTER. Bereavement.

2. Where would you like to live?
a. LEONARD. Portland. Either one of them.
b. JULIA. Japan.
c. CHRISTINA. On the EDGE, mofo.
d. TOBY. I’m fine here.
e. LUCY. As many places as I can!!!
f. DI. Little Egg Harbor Twp, NJ. But with the people from here.
g. ELLIOTT. A friend of mine has an apartment in Millcreek that’s pretty chill. If you mean like striking out, I would need someplace with a temperate climate, a 24-hour vet clinic, good restaurants, and responsible drivers.
h. WALTER. Provence. Or New Orleans. Is that contradictory?

3. What is your idea of earthly happiness?
a. LEONARD. Laughing until incapacitated.
b. JULIA. Faith.
c. CHRISTINA. Coconut rum and Adult Swim.
d. TOBY. A clean kitchen and a bowl game on TV.
e. LUCY. Dopamine LOL
f. DI. Touchdown in an aircraft.
g. ELLIOTT. I like that feeling when you’ve just had a hot bath after a long, sweaty workout, and you dry off your feet and put brand new socks on them, and you smell ivory soap and fresh cotton. Actually, head-to-toe new clothes would feel good then, too. And then you go get a coffee and the shop is playing ELO when you get there and the barista says, “Nice sweater,” and you’re all, “Thanks. New!” And then you rescue a kitten on the way home. A magical kitten that poops gold nuggets.
h. WALTER. Schadenfreude. I confess.

4. To what faults do you feel most indulgent?
a. LEONARD. I gossip a lot and I’m kind of vain.
b. JULIA. Self-pity.
c. CHRISTINA. The Wasatch Fault! Think about it.
d. TOBY. Huh?
e. LUCY. Covetousness. Deception. Perfectionism.
f. DI. Hedonism, just like everybody else.
g. ELLIOTT. I’ve actually been thinking about that a lot lately. I like to think I keep things pretty well in check, but now that I consider it, it’s just as flawed to sit around kissing your own ass for not giving into temptation. Self-righteousness, then? Right? That’s totally still a fault and it can be just as addictive as…pistachios.
h. WALTER. Snobbery and meddling.

enemabagjones @ 2009-07-24T10:07:00

2009-07-24T16:14:00Z

Reposting a missing person notice here:

Heather Sharpton

ETA. Apparently they found her. Whew.

enemabagjones @ 2009-07-23T08:10:00

2009-07-23T14:11:45Z

[SCREAM.]

eom

enemabagjones @ 2009-07-22T12:16:00

2009-07-22T18:17:40Z

LIE CREDIT, noun.

Google indicates the specific term may have originated with me (and the castmates with whom I’ve discussed it), but I’m sure the concept is an old one.

We thought of this: sometimes, when it’s obvious that someone close to you is BSing you, it’s a good idea to let it go. This creates a “lie credit” on your account with the other person, absolving you of guilt later on when you need to BS him or her.

Also works in reverse; if you’ve been laying it on thick with someone lately, you might cut that person some slack when you find yourself on the business end of same.

Example from a couple of weeks ago:

CODY. So why wasn’t Elise at rehearsal today?
ERIN. She said she just wasn’t feeling well. Wound up sleeping through it.
CODY. Okay, I think she’s lying.
ERIN. Maybe. But I’ll give her a lie credit on this one.

Can be used to create an entire lie-economy.

LIE DEBIT, noun.

Redundant. See “lie.”

~~

Kamas was a good time overall. I enjoyed the company of my carpool; I enjoyed the weather; I enjoyed doing the show two more times. We had good crowds both nights, and a near-full house last night.

We met the Kamas Fiesta Queen for 2009, and we shook the hand of Kamas Mayor Lewis Marchant. That town appreciates its farcical melodrama, for sure.

After our closing performance, most of us headed to some awesome diner in Heber City and I ate a huge blueberry cheesecake milkshake. Got home around midnight.

Still gonna be a couple weeks before I really have any of my free time back. Radically overscheduled and inefficient “Pirates” rehearsals continue, and we start teching Saturday. (For the uninitiated, tech rehearsals are a sort of theatrical boot camp, except that instead of getting them over with at the beginning, you toil away in them the week before you head into combat.)
We open the show on the 31st. That’ll be nice, because then we’ll finally have some nights off and we can all put one foot back in our normal lives. [This is where I snipped a rant about directors in amateur theatre needing to remember that their actors have day jobs, school, and social lives. You’re welcome.]

~~

I had my eye exam last week. In the past year my correction for both eyes has gone from -4.00 to -5.25.
That ain’t normal.

enemabagjones @ 2009-07-20T09:47:00

2009-07-20T15:53:09Z

Things continue.

Tonight and tomorrow, the cast of Utahoma! takes its show on the road to Kamas Valley Fiesta Days in beautiful (I've heard) Kamas, Utah. If you're in the 'hood, come on by. It's only like $3.00 to see us, which is a steal compared to what SLC crowds paid.

Pirates rehearsals keep moving in spite of the worst cast attrition I've ever seen. It would be unprofessional (erm, un-semiprofessional) of me to elaborate on what I suspect is the cause. For my part, I'm hanging in there and I'm having a ball with the other actors who've bothered to stick around.

Hal has been limping and we're not sure why. He seems otherwise OK.

I have a print job to retrieve, the work of three people to do, and I promised myself a coffee, so...later.

enemabagjones @ 2009-07-13T07:51:00

2009-07-13T13:52:02Z

Happy birthday, westwardairways!

Writer's Block: My Ideal Life Ten Years from Now…

2009-07-09T17:21:04Z

What does your ideal lifestyle look like 10 years from now?

Presented by Intel, Sponsors of Tomorrow.

View 502 Answers

To paraphrase the late, great Mitch Hedberg: it looks like I'm celebrating the ten-year anniversary of laughing at the slogan, "Intel: Sponsors of Tomorrow."

enemabagjones @ 2009-07-06T08:02:00

2009-07-06T14:03:10Z

Here we go! (You'll have to sit through a brief, cheesy local commercial.)

enemabagjones @ 2009-07-05T22:52:00

2009-07-06T04:53:05Z

Just found out that my deaf-mute neighbour's cat is the one who alerted her to the burning building and totally saved her life.

Nice job, Eartha Kitt the cat!

It was on ABC4 news tonight; if they ever post it on their dumb website, I'll link it here.

A waste of gunpowder and sky...

2009-07-05T21:14:00Z

At about 2:00 AM we awoke to a faint knocking sound. What seemed like immediately after, Darren alerted me that the duplex across the street was burning.

That's the duplex in which resides the mute tranny who bequeathed Socks unto us. The tranny and her mom, who is on oxygen.

The fire seemed to have started on the roof; my guess is some douchebag's illegal M-80 got lodged in the AC unit and sparked with the hyperoxygenated air. I have no idea if that's true, but...Occham's Razor. Darren overheard people saying that Tranny and OxygenMom were both okay, just going to hospital for observation. A relief. He also said to me, "Maybe it's a good thing we took Socks."

There were several fire/pumper trucks and an ambulance in waiting. This is not the kind of light show one wants to see on Independence Day. Socks, possibly sensing that his boyhood home was up in smoke, sat in our bedroom window, glued the proceedings. I would know when he jumped down from the sill that the last of the EVs had gone, and I could try to sleep.

Three of our colony cats dropped by during the mess, to prove they were not dead of smoke inhalation. I prayed that we'd see the rest of our regular guys at breakfast in 2.5 hours.

We would.

At that time, it occurred to me to look for the two cats who reside with Tranny. They were on their porch, looking confused. Alive. Okay.

I brought them some breakfast.

See why I hate consumer fireworks?

enemabagjones @ 2009-07-01T22:13:00

2009-07-02T04:13:49Z

Happy Canada Day, where applicable.

I haven't forgotten you!

enemabagjones @ 2009-06-30T12:47:00

2009-06-30T18:49:28Z

Ever find yourself hunting down new disasters, as if it's better to Collect Them All! than to just clean up your existing disasters?

Okay. How about making cryptic LJ posts because you are too proud to get into the concrete specifics of what's eating you?

enemabagjones @ 2009-06-26T13:16:00

2009-06-26T19:17:46Z

I had a whole big thing prepared about Michael Jackson, and fame, and how fame screws people up, and how dumb a goal it is to value or pursue, let alone having it foisted on you by parents, industry reps, and the world at large.

I had a whole big thing.

Then, on my lunch, I decided to walk to the downtown Albertson’s for a burrito and a mini-ice cream. In the parking lot, some dude pulled up to me in his car, recognized me from OBT, and requested an autograph on his arm. I even had sunglasses on!

That’s two recognitions in the last week or so. Clearly I am no longer obscure enough to write about this topic objectively.