really??????

I apologize, dear friends and relatives, for posting this so late. Our stellar housing's internet went down and no one could seem to just restart the router...so here I write from a warm and toasty room at a spa in a town that might as well be home (though it's halfway there...)
More drama has occured...so no worries, the blog will go on....



Day 7

When J and LD walked into the apartment this evening after what proved to be yet another unbelievable day, we contemplated whether or not this show was a sign of the oncoming apocalypse. Is Fisher Price’s My First National Tour destined to be driven by one of the four horsemen? Or is this just Fisher Price’s My First Apocalypse. Or merely a cruel joke. For I feel that one of the four horsemen would not order his truck to be only 7 feet tall instead of 8’6” that was spec’d and spoken of once a week for a mere 10 weeks.

Mind you, the scenery was drawn to fit into said 8’6” truck.

Let me rewind to the beginning of today.

J had a nightmare last night. She dreamed that she, her husband, myself, my husband, and another couple we know from happier times were all living in a house. I had dyed my cat, Grinch, green, and had taken to calling her Wench. I was yelling at J a lot, especially regarding Wench/Grinch. What this dream means, we will never know, but that’s how her day began. Mine started a wee less rough—I didn’t fall asleep until after 3 and had to get up at 6 to drive Bobo the Hair Monkey to the airport. LD started his day at the warehouse at 9 with P. They were waiting for the welder who didn’t show until after 11. They had to buy a harness for safety for an actress to climb an uncomfortably tall piece of scenery. This insurance upon an actress’ life was not something that the producers were inclined to pay for. They would rather slaughter the whole entire major joke that is built into the play. (So instead, LD paid for some of this insurance out of his pocket, and his wife was upset. To quote her, she said, “STOP IT!”)

It was the quiet before the stupid. Producer walked in, oh, at about 11:15 as J was helping Beefy McWelderson carry an extraordinarily large piece of scenery out the back door to his truck. I myself was sitting in the green room/trash bin/costume shop/wardrobe area/wig space/prop shop/hot glue gun storage room with Ms. Parole (who was quite unhappily sewing more boobs into a bra) when Producer walked in. “How are things?” They asked. “FINE!” I exclaimed. “Anything I can get you?” They asked.

Nothing I need. A rifle? A bowie knife? POISON? A huge fatty? NONE OF THESE are anything I can get from them.

Frankly, I think we’d have all preferred phone call #45 at this point of the day instead of the personal invasion.

We escaped for a bit because internet became sparse at the apartment. We went to this awesome coffee shop that I won’t describe in detail because it might give away our location. Needless to say, we had a bit of a break. On the way back, we had to stop at multiple dollar stores, one of which was frequented by several Trannies who were kind enough to hold the door. (One even looked like Prince!). While walking through the store, I took a detour. This was due to something that had not occurred in my life, really, since I became vegetarian about 1 ½ years ago. I was getting the fat farts. (I can’t eat animal fat because I can’t digest it, so when I eat fat, it upsets my tummy and I do very smelly farts.) I tried desperately to fart away from my friends, because I KNOW it smells so bad. Like a rotting carcass. Not all that far off from the Pigeon Barbeque many of you may remember from Day 3.

When we got to the car again, I announced, thinking that I was being somehow polite, that “I’m just warning you, I have to fart, it’s going to smell.” J said that was too much info. SIGH. LD was speechless. I just wanted to warn them…..

And then…and then. Coming out of store #2 still having bought no props, J and I went to the car while LD was buying Coke #52 of the day. It’s cold in this town. I have a long winter coat that happens to cover my butt. I farted about halfway to the car. I could smell the aroma coming and I was a good 15 feet from J. I thought it was minimum safe distance. After beep-beeping my car open, I got in. What I wasn’t expecting was the fart scent reservoir created by my coat shepharded it into my car. We closed the doors waiting for LD and were all but hotboxed.

Pause.

J: OH MY GOD!!!!
J opens the door (I have a 2 door.)
LD: What?
J: She FARTED!!! Don’t get in.
LD: I’m a guy! We do this.

He sits in the passenger seat and closed the door. He then starts to claw at the window. I had forgotten that the back seat windows are controlled from the front so J was leaning out the front window with LD like two puppies with faces pointed to the wind trying to get air.

Sigh.

To compound our pain while we were gone, Douchemonkey made some props for J that were utterly fucked up and wrong. To describe them as embarrassing would offend the word, embarrassing. J became even more depressed and despondent.

Then, LD got a call from Producer who was upset that he didn’t plan on writing 374 cues for this monstrosity in a day. Actually, in less than a day. Actually, it really comes down to about 15 minutes, because after LD and J hang elex 2 and three themselves tomorrow, he won’t have time to actually do any other work, let alone work required of him by his contract.

The smoking section let out an audable sigh.

We did a run. It went as to be expected. On a positive note, the first thing Producer said to J was, “The set looks great!” The notes left to be done, of course, were mainly props that remain to be located. And tech in the missing soft goods that the GM forgot to order. Until yesterday. Producer also told me that the costumes looked better than the other productions. So some good was kind of coming our way…

Upon finishing costume load out, J sweetly and politely asked P if he wanted us to bring him back some food.

J: What do you like to eat?
LD (From across the room): YOUR MOM.
P: No I eat YOUR mom.
LD: That’s an ALL YOU CAN EAT BUFFET
(imagine, the delicate flower J, turning bright red)
J: There’s a lady present!!!
P: Yeah, I ate her last night, she’s running down my chin.

EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW. J runs off, and P and LD high five. In only that way that stagehands can finally make a gal who can hold her own want to run.

And meanwhile…Beefy McWelderson is nowhere to be found with said piece of scenery. This is at about 7 PM…J was quite willing to carry it back in with him, so that we knew it would get on the truck.

P also farted.

We went out to dinner to celebrate loading out. I was particularly ecastic because my bins were full and I was ready to leave. My poor friends are stuck here for one more morning, and then go off to an even colder place. After said delicious dinner where we all ate wayyyyyyy too much food, we got back to the space, where most of the set was broken down and ready to be loaded onto the truck as scheduled.

Then Lo, and Behold, the MIGHTY voice of DOUCHEMONKEY bellowed through the cold darkness of the warehouse.

“BEHOLD PEONS (at least, that is how I heard it in my head), THE TRUCK IS A MERE 7 FEET TALL. THIS DOES NOT AFFORD US ENOUGH SPACE FOR THE SCENERY. WE ARE FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCKED.”

For some reason, I found out first. My 12 rubbermaids of hair and clothes really aren’t affected by this problem. J finally heard it from P.


Convo # 3679
P: J, the truck’s only 7 feet tall.
J: It’s official. No one has listened to a single word I have said in the last 10 weeks. I have email to back up the fact that I said the truck must be a minumum of 8’6” tall.
Sigh.
Sigh.
Sigh.

(J wanders off into a corner.)

That brings me to this moment, the here and now, where I sit at my computer, composing the last blog from this god awful situation. I can say, however, that there were new good friends that were made, to hopefully work with in better times, and better places, in big boy theaters, after the apocalypse eradicates the MCPA. And Mallet. And Douchemonkey. And the Enemy. Leaving only J, LD, P, Bobo the Hair Monkey, and myself to forge ahead making art for once, instead of creating soley from the dollar store.

I look to tomorrow, when I get in my car to go back east, and they head westward, hoping that their last days with this group can only get better. But I know better. And I hope they’ll call, so that perhaps tomorrow, there will be another blog, but only through heresay. I hope to give you, dear readers a happy ending sometime in this next week.

Yet, as I write, Beefy McWelderson is nowhere to be found….

To be continued….