This actually happened July 29--but in the spirit of catching up, as well as puking on your shoes with a heck of a good story, here 'tis, straight from the pages of my journal;
*****
I went back to sing at the church where I was the alto section leader for the first time since I left at Easter. I must say that I enjoyed my return to church--once i actually GOT there (more in a moment): I sat and soaked up the sense of peace and spirit that permeated the place like a warm bath, felt refreshed and fulfilled after.
I was feeling a bit worn out--it had been a rough night, with a pair of brutal Macbeth rehearsals and coming home to find my poor dog had been sick all over the dining room floor, so I gave myself the gift of a lie-in and a bit of extra driving time which, I figured, would put me at church about fifteen minutes early.
Boy, was I wrong. As I crested the hill of Divisadero at 14th, traffic suddenly stopped dead. Figuring there had been an accident, I turned around and went up Duboce, thinking I'd drop down Masonic--but found a roadblock manned by a policeman. He informed me that I had managed to arrive at the exact wrong time--the San Francisco Marathon was coming through, and the ONLY way to get to the north end of the city was at Divisadero (unless I wished to somehow make my way all the way up to 19th Avenue, which would have taken half an hour or more). So, I crept back to the line of cars on Divisadero and waited. And waited. And waited. It took me (I'm NOT exaggerating) FORTY-FIVE MINUTES to go the block-and-a-half it took to get across Haight street.
And then, things went from 'severely fucked up' to 'downright surreal'.
I'd gotten to the point where I was about to have a meltdown--how could they block off the ENTIRE FUCKING CITY for a godddamn race?? A LEISURE ACTIVITY??!?!!? I was going to be LATE for WORK so a bunch of pretentious yuppie adrenaline junkies could show off their legs???? This was unbelievable!!! OUTRAGEOUS! WHO do I complain to about this???--when I crept abreast of two DPT officers, posted to keep people from driving where they shouldn't (as if any of us could move?). I rolled down the window and spoke to the nearest, an African-American woman with short blond hair, asking her how long it might take to cross Haight. She replied that it all depended: the police officers were only letting cars through in increments, in gaps in the runners--in other words, it could be two minutes or ten hours.....
Near to tears, I pleaded with her; "But I'm late for work! I have to get to church!"
She suddenly lit up, all smiles, and beamed at me sympathetically:
"Oh, THAT's Okay, honey! GOD knows where you are!"
(-!?-)
She leaned in and said, "Come on, we can just praise Jesus right here in your car!"
"I don't think you understand--"
"What's your favorite hymn, honey? We can sing it together! Come on now!" --and right there in the street, with the other officer singing harmony, they broke into a song of praise, while I (and, I'm sure, many others) looked on in open-mouthed disbelief. Oh evil meter maid (I'm sure they were thinking), are you MOCKING us????
The kicker was, they were GOOD. Really. Effing. GOOD. They sang on pitch, in perfect harmony and rhythm. Part of me wanted to scream at them,
"Don't you two have anything better to do--like go eat some of your YOUNG, maybe?"
--and part of me wanted to send them on ahead, in the little go-carts, to church--they'd surely make it before I did...
Eventually, the line moved, and I waved goodbye to the San Francisco Marathon Tabernacle Youth-Eating Choir, and the race, and zipped up Divisadero to where the Swedenborgians waited for me--only half an hour late. Fortunately, I survived the lack of rehearsal just fine, and had a great story to tell the other section leaders to boot.
See? It all worked out.
RM
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Another Tidbit--Magic Flappomattox Hell
In Appomattox, I told you a story about how I had to wear a pregnancy pad, with a full skirt, on a set that the crew affectionately called 'Deathtrap'--metal platforms laid across each other, with holes in between that opened straight down to the concrete one floor below (and the stage managers had the nerve to chirpily tell us "watch your step!")
Well, the pregnancy pad wasn't so bad, but the bra they gave me was filled with BIRDSEED to emulate the look of a pregnant woman ('cause, you know, I am not neccessarily gifted enough with the breasticles to pass on my own), and, ladies and gentlemen, that sucker was HEAVY. My poor boobs felt like they'd been squished flat by the end of each performance (and trust me when I say that I am old enough to not need any help with sagging and flattening, thankyouverymuch). Between that, nearly falling to my doom on-stage, and being dripped on by blood-soaked horse carcasses hanging from the ceiling ('cause, you know, that IS what the Civil War was all about....right?), among too many other REAL annoyances and indignities to list during staging (did you know Philip Glass actually was adding music up until the week of opening?? And that he actually changed some of the music AFTER opening night?!? Did you know that the director was added after the first one precipitously quit? With six months' time to learn the entire show--that hadn't even been composed in entirety yet? AND THAT HE'D NEVER WORKED IN OPERA, MUCH LESS WITH MORE THAN SIX OR EIGHT PEOPLE ONSTAGE, BEFORE???--OK, OK, I'll stop), I can tell you that NONE of us were sorry to see it go.
We had enough in the chorus to say Grace over, as my friend Kathy puts it, what with Magic Flute, Tannhauser, Madama Butterfly, Macbeth, La Rondine, Magic Flute for Families (think 'Magic Flute Lite'--in English. Go ahead, learn the same opera in two different languages simultaneously and NOT go insane. I dare you.), and Rake's Progress, all either up and running or about to open, at the same time. So, what with frayed nerves and tattered nubs of sanity, it was only natural that we would come up with things to amuse each other and make the time pass--sort of like soldiers do in the trenches, I'm thinking.....
My brother, after listening to my ranting about Crappomattox (Problemattox? SlapAMuskOx? CrappyButtox? AppleMaalox?), gave me an utterly brilliant idea for the final performance. I only wish I'd had the stones to pull it off, but alas, I am not tenured, and even if I was, this would still be the kind of stunt that would have security escorting me out of the house after collecting my I.D....which is why I share it with you, so that it may live on in cyberspace if not in infamy....
He said, "You should get the biggest frozen turkey you can find, and shove it up under your dress. Then, in the final scene, you oughta straddle one of the traps, make a few moaning and screaming noises, and let'er rip!"
I could just see it...
MIZ SCARLETT, MIZ SCARLETT, I DUNNO NUFFIN 'BOUT BIRTHIN' NO BABIES!!!!
BLAMMO!
And, as it hit the concrete, it would have been interesting to know what the exact sound between 'shatter' and 'splat' sounded like....
At the final performance, we DID have 'un peu' bit o'fun at the opera's expense...in the 'flight from Richmond' scene, I have to push a rickety baby carriage onstage. I got in line to pick up the carriage...to find one of the props guys had stuck a disembodied hand into it, fingers pointing straight up, looking like something out of 'Rosemary's Baby' or the final scene in 'Carrie'.
Of course, I went on with it.
We had a pickup football game in the dressing room with the pregnancy pad.
And, although no turkeys were harmed in the making of this opera, I DID have a sin, a la Tannhauser, in honor of the composer, scrawled across my chest in red;
MINIMALISM.
And many many cocktails were consumed after the final show.
Hallelujah, Amen.
Well, the pregnancy pad wasn't so bad, but the bra they gave me was filled with BIRDSEED to emulate the look of a pregnant woman ('cause, you know, I am not neccessarily gifted enough with the breasticles to pass on my own), and, ladies and gentlemen, that sucker was HEAVY. My poor boobs felt like they'd been squished flat by the end of each performance (and trust me when I say that I am old enough to not need any help with sagging and flattening, thankyouverymuch). Between that, nearly falling to my doom on-stage, and being dripped on by blood-soaked horse carcasses hanging from the ceiling ('cause, you know, that IS what the Civil War was all about....right?), among too many other REAL annoyances and indignities to list during staging (did you know Philip Glass actually was adding music up until the week of opening?? And that he actually changed some of the music AFTER opening night?!? Did you know that the director was added after the first one precipitously quit? With six months' time to learn the entire show--that hadn't even been composed in entirety yet? AND THAT HE'D NEVER WORKED IN OPERA, MUCH LESS WITH MORE THAN SIX OR EIGHT PEOPLE ONSTAGE, BEFORE???--OK, OK, I'll stop), I can tell you that NONE of us were sorry to see it go.
We had enough in the chorus to say Grace over, as my friend Kathy puts it, what with Magic Flute, Tannhauser, Madama Butterfly, Macbeth, La Rondine, Magic Flute for Families (think 'Magic Flute Lite'--in English. Go ahead, learn the same opera in two different languages simultaneously and NOT go insane. I dare you.), and Rake's Progress, all either up and running or about to open, at the same time. So, what with frayed nerves and tattered nubs of sanity, it was only natural that we would come up with things to amuse each other and make the time pass--sort of like soldiers do in the trenches, I'm thinking.....
My brother, after listening to my ranting about Crappomattox (Problemattox? SlapAMuskOx? CrappyButtox? AppleMaalox?), gave me an utterly brilliant idea for the final performance. I only wish I'd had the stones to pull it off, but alas, I am not tenured, and even if I was, this would still be the kind of stunt that would have security escorting me out of the house after collecting my I.D....which is why I share it with you, so that it may live on in cyberspace if not in infamy....
He said, "You should get the biggest frozen turkey you can find, and shove it up under your dress. Then, in the final scene, you oughta straddle one of the traps, make a few moaning and screaming noises, and let'er rip!"
I could just see it...
MIZ SCARLETT, MIZ SCARLETT, I DUNNO NUFFIN 'BOUT BIRTHIN' NO BABIES!!!!
BLAMMO!
And, as it hit the concrete, it would have been interesting to know what the exact sound between 'shatter' and 'splat' sounded like....
At the final performance, we DID have 'un peu' bit o'fun at the opera's expense...in the 'flight from Richmond' scene, I have to push a rickety baby carriage onstage. I got in line to pick up the carriage...to find one of the props guys had stuck a disembodied hand into it, fingers pointing straight up, looking like something out of 'Rosemary's Baby' or the final scene in 'Carrie'.
Of course, I went on with it.
We had a pickup football game in the dressing room with the pregnancy pad.
And, although no turkeys were harmed in the making of this opera, I DID have a sin, a la Tannhauser, in honor of the composer, scrawled across my chest in red;
MINIMALISM.
And many many cocktails were consumed after the final show.
Hallelujah, Amen.
Skidding Sideways Into the Holidays...
...and landing with a soft 'thud' against the new year, legs splayed, eyes glazed, wondering 'what..the...HELL?'...
Oh dear. When I last wrote, I had all good intentions of keeping you apprised of all my doings (or as many as might make for good anecdotes), but I had no idea that my life was about to go into hyperdrive with a turbo boost and an everclear chaser...three and a half months straight of six-day weeks of two-call days, a death and two pregnancies in my family, a nasty cold, dramas galore, and--surprise surprise!--a new relationship--have all conspired to keep me busier than a bulldyke in a hardware store. This week is, honestly, the first chance I've had to catch my breath since, oh...August?
But I didn't come here to complain, yet again, about how I don't have time to write. I came to give you a couple of juicy tidbits and a promise of more (hey, I'm not doing anything else this week except walking the dog and waiting for my man to come home from the East Coast...) in the next week or so.
First, some highlights;
So, in Tannhauser...the men in the Pilgrim's Chorus had to walk, stumble, and crawl across stage bare-chested, with their 'sins' scrawled on their chests in (fake) blood....in English. (In a German opera, mind you.) Thoughtful of them to try and close-caption the men's chorus, but rather wasted effort, as, with the lighting and staging, they couldn't be read from the stage anyway.
The men were also less than thrilled with the blood as it basically had the same consistency as the decorating gels you buy to write 'happy birthday' on baked goods--and the men had to put shirts on OVER the blood, then rip the shirts off for the next costume change after the blood had dried, taking bits of dried corn syrup and manly chest hair along with it. Strangely, though, when they complained to us women about having to rip out great hunks of excess body hair, they weren't getting as much sympathy as they had expected....I wonder why...(as my sainted father actually and in all seriousness said to me once, "You want sympathy?? It's in the dictionary....between 'shit' and 'syphilis'!" Gee, thanks, Dad, I feel better already...)
And, as if the men weren't happy enough about having to be half-naked for their art, they had to cross over to the stage right side of the opera house to go onstage....right past the women's dressing rooms. Don't THINK we weren't there to cheer them on.
Oh my yes, we were. Right there. Of course we were.
With scorecards.
(WHAT? I don't know what they were bitching about---the numbers were all eights, nines, and tens. Well, OK, except MAYBE one or two of them. And we only used those cards once or twice. For guys who reallllly deserved it. YOU know who you are.)
Oh dear. When I last wrote, I had all good intentions of keeping you apprised of all my doings (or as many as might make for good anecdotes), but I had no idea that my life was about to go into hyperdrive with a turbo boost and an everclear chaser...three and a half months straight of six-day weeks of two-call days, a death and two pregnancies in my family, a nasty cold, dramas galore, and--surprise surprise!--a new relationship--have all conspired to keep me busier than a bulldyke in a hardware store. This week is, honestly, the first chance I've had to catch my breath since, oh...August?
But I didn't come here to complain, yet again, about how I don't have time to write. I came to give you a couple of juicy tidbits and a promise of more (hey, I'm not doing anything else this week except walking the dog and waiting for my man to come home from the East Coast...) in the next week or so.
First, some highlights;
So, in Tannhauser...the men in the Pilgrim's Chorus had to walk, stumble, and crawl across stage bare-chested, with their 'sins' scrawled on their chests in (fake) blood....in English. (In a German opera, mind you.) Thoughtful of them to try and close-caption the men's chorus, but rather wasted effort, as, with the lighting and staging, they couldn't be read from the stage anyway.
The men were also less than thrilled with the blood as it basically had the same consistency as the decorating gels you buy to write 'happy birthday' on baked goods--and the men had to put shirts on OVER the blood, then rip the shirts off for the next costume change after the blood had dried, taking bits of dried corn syrup and manly chest hair along with it. Strangely, though, when they complained to us women about having to rip out great hunks of excess body hair, they weren't getting as much sympathy as they had expected....I wonder why...(as my sainted father actually and in all seriousness said to me once, "You want sympathy?? It's in the dictionary....between 'shit' and 'syphilis'!" Gee, thanks, Dad, I feel better already...)
And, as if the men weren't happy enough about having to be half-naked for their art, they had to cross over to the stage right side of the opera house to go onstage....right past the women's dressing rooms. Don't THINK we weren't there to cheer them on.
Oh my yes, we were. Right there. Of course we were.
With scorecards.
(WHAT? I don't know what they were bitching about---the numbers were all eights, nines, and tens. Well, OK, except MAYBE one or two of them. And we only used those cards once or twice. For guys who reallllly deserved it. YOU know who you are.)
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