The Forge

Unless you are very, very sheltered, you've heard about the WGA strike.
Actually, forget that.

You've heard about the WGA strike.

However, you may not know exactly what the whole thing is about. This is probably because you have a television and when one has television, one rarely feels compelled to dive deeper into issues that have been succinctly encapsulated in two or three TelePrompTer cues. And i fear it is this mind-numbing medium that is to blame for the outrageously ignorant statements i've heard in passing or conversation in reference to the strike of the Writers Guild of America as "stupid," "immature," and/or something that "they should just give up." For, confined in my collegiate microcosm without a television, i've turned to the Internet for answers and have found the true situation to be quite the opposite.

Since it's a question bound to be raised, i may as well go and admit that i've not researched the other side of this argument. The links and videos (and linked videos!) i'm about to provide are, admittedly, all in support of the WGA. However, given history as my guidebook and the tendency for men in power to be tyrants (especially in a capitalist society, which is inherently founded on selfishness) i am wont to side with the writers. Heck--a few years from now, i may even be one of them.

So, i've been haphazardly following the (quite frequently updated) United Hollywood blog, run by the writers themselves in an effort to get their side of the argument out to a public that is (apparently) being brainwashed by the television so-called coverage of the strike. Although you will probably follow that link and notice all the videos and FAQs arranged neatly on the right-hand column, i figured i would post some of the more useful material here.

"Why We Fight" : As the title suggests, a summary of the situation in an easy-to-process fashion:


"Not the Daily Show" : Now, to be honest, i've never watched Stewart (always been more of a Colbert guy myself) but i understand the style of the show. Well, here is the work of several of Stewart's writers, taking a jab at Viacom's hypocrisy while simultaneously showcasing the fact that it's the people, not the figurehead, that make the show:



One area of criticism that the ignorant love to draw from is how the "stupid writers" are ruining the livelihood of everyone else in the business--you know; crews, actors, directors, etc. These other, wounded parties would just like to let you know that they, too, support the movement. In addition to the many celebrities and artists showing up at picket lines to make their support visible, a slew of worker and actor-sponsored videos have begun to funnel their way into the (now clogging) tubes of the good 'ol World Wide Web. UH spotlighted one series in particular, a campaign simply called speechless.



***Oh and PS, i didn't come up with the title to this blog. There was a poll one one of the various strike sites that i visited in which readers could vote for the best slogan for picket signs. I thought that one in particular had a certain... poignancy to it, you know?

This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang, but a whimper.

But there was a bang. It lasted several weeks, in fact. There were exams. There were term papers. There were late-night study sessions with large groups of people. Everything had this sort of frenetic buzz about it, as if some small child had found the hive and decided to throw rocks at it to see what would happen. Near the end it was almost impossible to find serenity--harder still to find sleep. Everyone knew what was about to transpire, but there was no prophet to tell us how suddenly it would overtake us.

The first wave began to drop out like entrenched soldiers hit by tear gas. There was barely time to say goodbye before, by some method or another, they were shuttled off to wherever it is they came from. Most were so caught up in the work of self-preparation that they didn't take any notice of the losses, and it wouldn't be long before they, too, disappeared as if they'd never been here at all.

I decided i had better try getting something to eat before the food disappeared too. I stumbled out into the cold--it was snowing--and wandered into the nearest rationing station. Everything was wrong, all wrong. There should have been dozens--no, hundreds--of people there. But the buzz was gone, threatening never to return. A group of maybe fifteen dejected inmates were seated in clusters on one side of the building; the other side was completely empty. I surveyed the options--limp sandwiches, dry seasoned potatoes, something resembling a slice of pizza--and then decided on a sampling of the first two. I spotted some fortunate individual greedily spooning in some sort of chowder as i took my seat near some questionable characters with whom i could have had delightful conversation but chose not to.

The meal progressed uneventfully. I had a sense that my own time was far from arriving, and so opted to savor the food regardless of its ineptitude. I chewed more slowly, and swallowed more carefully. From time to time i would put on the twisted expression of one who has just sunk his teeth into an undercooked potato, partly for the faces such an expression would elicit from passersby and partly because i had in fact just sunk my teeth into an undercooked potato.

I washed these down with a decidedly better dessert of spice cake and coffee. The available mugs were roughly half the size of those i had been accustomed to years ago, into which i used to deposit upwards of four sugar packets before the rough edge of the drink had been smoothed down to something palatable. I filled the small mug to its brim, took a sip, and promptly deposited four sugar packets into it before continuing with my cake. Feeling contented, i brought my tray to the designated area where empty racks slowly slid past me on their way to a drowning pool infused with antibacterial soap; into one of these i placed my dirty dishes, and then i left. I did not wait to find out what would become of the dishes.

I commented on the desolate state of the area to someone i met in the hallway of my housing complex. He mumbled a sort of indecisive acknowledgment and stumbled out the door into the snowstorm.

He never came back in.

In short order i realized he was the last--i was now completely alone. The halls echoed eerily with every uneasy footstep as i made my way back and forth throughout my floor searching for life. I heard an isolated laugh now and then, coming from far away, but i'd lost the energy to investigate. I took a cold shower, put back on the clothes i'd been wearing, and shaved off the irritating patches of stubble that had been massing together over the last several days in some haphazard attempt to take over my face.

Returning to my room, i took note of its deplorable condition and began moving things around, organizing books here, folding sheets there, discarding empty plastic bottles in still another place, then returning to rearrange the books that had fallen over for want of bookends. I used a vacuum that i discovered in a large closet down the hall but even that chose to spite me: as i stood behind the device in the hope that it would eat away the debris that had accumulated on my rug, it maliciously spat small shards of dirt and plastic at my bare feet. It's a wonder i didn't begin to bleed.

Nevertheless, the room eventually succumbed to my will and reached an acceptable condition. I returned the furniture to its proper place, sat down at my computer, and browsed artwork while listening to a cleverly-titled Christmas album by a band named after a dilapidated car. My thoughts turned to what would happen the following morning: I would gather my belongings together, or at least those i planned on bringing with me. Things would need to be unplugged--after all, no sense in creating a fire hazard when no one was going to be around to be incinerated--and then i would don my coat and hat, step out of the room, and turn around to take one last look inside before extinguishing the lights and closing the door behind me. This i would lock with one of the two keys on my keychain (the other for a mailbox that seldom had anything in it) and then it would be time for my final appointed task.

Down the hall i would go, into the lavatory. One by one, i would flush the toilets. And then i, too, would walk out into the snowstorm. The sun would end its slumber, clamber up into the sky, and beat down on the icy ground beneath it so as to kill that, too, as quickly as possible.

Tomorrow the snow will be gone.
And so will i.

Curtains open. Curtains close.
Curtains open. Curtains close.
Curtains open. Curtains close.
Curtains open. Curtains close.
Curtains open. Curtains close.
Five Down. It's over.
We showed up at 5 PM to destroy it all. The saloon, the theater, the car. Oh thank God, we destroyed that car. Screw by screw, bolt by bolt, nail by nail we dismantled everything. We spared the bases, we spared the casters, we spared several platforms and the road sign. We even spared a few windows and doors. But for the most part, we took great liberty with the sledgehammer and reciprocating saw, and by six o'clock the dumpster behind the set shop was filled to the brim with the remnants of what had been, for me, a glorious two weeks unlike any other.
And now those weeks are gone.

It's hard to summarize the changes these past few weeks have wrought in me. To be sure, my beginnings on the run crew were far from reassuring. I learned pretty quickly that i wasn't the only one there for mandated hours, and roughly half the crew would've been infinitely grateful had some disaster befallen the PFAC, liberating them of their charge. But not me. Three days into rehearsals i'd decided i was at home among the giant sets, the inspired music, and all the people pretending to be someone else. After eighteen years wondering where exactly i belonged, the theatre found me. It wrapped me in its legs and teasers, spiked my position on the floor, and promised me that, for the next four years of my life, i'd always have somewhere to be.

About the musical: i thoroughly enjoyed "Crazy For You." A week into rehearsals i broke down and bought the soundtrack on iTunes, only to be dismayed by the unavoidable fact that the cast here in Grove City is far more enjoyable to listen to than the London cast. I'd had inklings of it before, but the let-down that was the official track abolished all doubt that Jesse and Megan have truly ethereal voices, ones i wish i could have streaming through my iPod earbuds rather than the drivel that i paid ten dollars for. The story, while not outrageously novel, is entertaining. It's difficult to pick a favorite scene--impossible to choose a character--but if i had to (which i don't, but here i go!) i'd probably go with the first scene of the second act, the song "What Causes That," which finds Bobby/Zangler (Jesse Aukeman) and the *real* Zangler (George Hampe) together alone in the Deadrock Saloon, drunk as can be but drowning more in self-pity and hopeless romanticism than in whiskey and vodka. The lyrics are entertaining enough--seated beside his decoy Zangler admits "I am beside myself"--but as is the nature of theatre the true life of the song is brought about by the very well-orchestrated movements of Bobby and Zangler. Since run crew has no job between intermission and the end of the Naughty Baby sequence i had the opportunity to view this scene (and the Naughty Baby scene) almost every rehearsal and performance, and i laughed every time. The audience particularly appreciated the aforementioned joke about sitting beside oneself, as well as Zangler's "Excuse me" in response to Bobby's belch. I was shocked the first time the pair spun chairs on single legs and walked circles around them. I don't know how difficult it is to pull that off, but Jesse and George made it look quite easy. Applause invariably followed every time the two flipped their chairs off their heads, through their legs, and sat down upon them (all while maintaining song).

I could easily rattle off the names of various principle actors and their roles, showering praise upon them, but as Megan reminded us all in her senior speech during the final cast and crew "pep meeting," a production such as this is never about the few people with leading roles so much as it is about everyone working together to make those people convincing. Every person in this musical played his or her part to the fullest: as i watched from the empty auditorium during the final rehearsal, and off-stage during the several performances, i watched the faces of the cowboys and the dancers as they enthusiastically mimed conversation while the attention was principally on Megan or Jesse or George, and i found myself temporarily forgetting that these people were in essence playing make-believe. Each person became his character to such an extent that for weeks, perhaps months to come i'll still find difficulty separating the George from the Zangler, the Patrick from the Lank. As Samantha Edwards reminded us in her senior speech, that's what acting is. You get to pretend you're someone else, to tell someone else's story, and when you're done you've changed the lives of the audience members forever. And as a member of the run crew, it was my honor to help make these other people's stories more believable. Even when it required moving the car.

Perhaps you've gathered an inkling of how much i valued the things that happened behind the scenes, specifically when crew mingled with cast. Not to do disservice to the rest of my crew, but in general i kept getting the feeling that i had stepped into a society as class-structured as a medieval manor, in which we were the spiteful peasants and the actors our demanding overlords. But nothing could be farther from the truth, and those mixed meetings really cemented it for me. As Dr. Dixon struck the keys on the old piano in the Little Theatre, i was able to join the singers in tuning up my vocal chords on the scales. And as we circled up and held hands with one another, the few brave souls who chose to petition God on behalf of the whole assembly spoke words of great encouragement and hope. That's one thing that you can't shake here at GCC--the feeling that no matter what you are doing, be it Ultimate Frisbee or dressing up like Karl Marx in the middle of Nevada, you are doing so for a Creator using the gifts He's chosen to endow. And it's simply beautiful.

I'd do great injustice to myself and all readers if i didn't mention the cast and crew party that transpired after the final performance. As a Freshman, i cannot have a vehicle here and as such the only way i'd be able to get to the Dixons' home was if i hitched a ride with an upperclassman. Admittedly i was a bit timid about breaking into the various circles of friends and family that surrounded the actors in the lobby and so i simply leaned against a wall until one of the actors--i knew only that he had played Eugene and was also a Freshman--walked by. I asked him, in the casual tone reserved only for people who aren't actually casually acquainted but very well could be in no time at all--i asked him how he was getting there and he said "Kevin Gaul." When i indicated that i also needed a ride, and wondered aloud whether Kevin's car had ample seating to accommodate me, Eugene took the initiative and asked Kevin Gaul (who played Everett, Polly's father) whether i might join them. The answer was an enthusiastic affirmative--the more the merrier, if you follow--and it wasn't long before i was trudging toward purgatory (the affectionate name the students here have given to one of the few student parking lots behind the main campus) with an ensemble i knew on sight basis alone.

By the time we'd reached the car, i'd been acquainted with all of them. There was Kevin, the owner of the car and our guide; Sean Morris, the Freshman i previously indicated; Jonathan Dennis, who played one of the cowboys; and lastly Jenny Novak, one of the showgirls. We headed off into what soon became egregiously thick fog, and ended up two towns out of the way before we finally arrived at the Drs. Dixon's home. And what a gorgeous fortress that is. Sparing hyperbole, the Dixon household is one of those homes you read about in old novels and dream of living in yet never find in real life. It is kept up to an almost surreal level of cleanliness and order, pictures on every wall that echo the lives of children long grown old and moved away as well as the aging yet joyful faces of the loving parents that raised them. The centerpiece of the house--or at least of the party--was a large sitting room with a fireplace on one wall opposite a coffee table and sofa, a love seat perpendicular to said sofa and an overstuffed chair or two scattered about. Ottoman and footstool are also in ease of access. In one corner, beside the staircase, is a grand piano with a tapestry tossed over its bulk so that it can serve dually as a place to hold even more photographs in their frames.

It was in this charming environment that i wandered about for countless hours, talking casually with people who i still can't really say i know but wish i did. The piano found much use that night, and even to the point of 2 AM did it proclaim boldly the tunes of a dozen musicals and a myriad of hymns. Sitting beside the crackling, glowing logs i listened to Megan, George, Kevin, John (a different John), Jenny, Pat, Rebecca (another fellow Freshman--she did makeup for this play and was the psychopathic secretary of "The Way of All Fish") and others joked and jeered. It was bizarre because while everyone was almost entirely a stranger to me, still i felt incredibly comfortable to be around them. While others of my peers may have been out getting wildly drunk and making decisions they'd regret forever, i was sitting in a professor's storybook house making pseudo-friendships with a dozen people while drinking fresh apple cider and eating chain-restaurant pizza.

The rest of my evening was spent gallivanting with an odd sampling: those i'd driven in with, minus Jenny, plus George and Jesse, as well as Cody. We stayed up until almost four, goofing off as college kids are prone to do, and as i collapsed into my bed early Sunday morning i turned my attention to God. Maybe my energy was sapped, or maybe i was at a loss for words. All i could think to say was "Jesus, i truly am crazy for you."

Forgive me for exercising so much...entropy as of late. I've still doubts as to what merit my last few entries bear except perhaps to emphasize the frenzied nature of the last two weeks. Indeed, "Crazy For You" is driving us all a little crazy.

Last night was the first public showing and, as i jested to my fellow crew runners, anytime there's a live audience "if you mess up, you mess up for real." As we mopped the stage off in preparation for the evening (swabbing the poop deck, as Josh Trojak refers to it from his lofty sound booth), we listened as various members of the cast had their mics calibrated. Various samplings of dialogue and song blared over the speakers, sometimes from those present but many times not. The disembodied voices tended to take a bit more liberty, joking around with the sound crew with a sense of, if not anonymity, at least temporary immunity from disapproving glances. Megan's was particularly amusing for, since she could not see the auditorium, she had no idea that the doors were as of yet unopened to guests. Thus to an empty audience: "Hey everybody, i'm so glad you could make it out to see us! Hope you enjoy the show!" and other such sentiments until Trojak finally tipped her off to the nature of her folly. Suddenly there was a sense of alarm. "I hope they come!" bore with it an urgent need to have talent and hours of hard practicing validated by attention, quite understandably.

And then the clock struck the half-hour, and the murmur of anxious guests was drowned out by the crescendo of the pit orchestra. The lengthy overture, comprised of what would soon be for many (and was already for us) a myriad of memorable tunes, led the way and before long the show was off. Everything was perfect--well, except for when i got hit in the head with a wooden ball hanging from one of the side curtains--and we set the infamous car in place all the while silently dreading what could quite conceivably happen next. For good measure we moved the car a little off-mark, farther from the curtain and more toward the buildings, hoping that a collision with the expensive backdrop would be avoided. Well...it wasn't. We pushed the car to center stage and stopped for Jesse to get out, but as the scene transpired i looked apprehensively at the backdrop. It was literally touching the side of the fender (the one that had been ripped off a few days prior and was now nicely re-adhered). I gestured frantically to someone off-stage, and as he pulled the backdrop away from the car by a pole (the other end of the pole that tore the leg a few days prior) i used my foot to help in the endeavor. Ultimately we must have moved it back at least six inches, and then it was time for Jesse to re-board and for us to make our getaway. You have no idea how excited i am to report that we got off the stage without colliding with anything else. The finale exploded onstage as the few of us run crew members knowledgeable of the event rejoiced over the lack of damage to car and set.

Tonight was the second showing and it bears all of the importance of the opening night with none of its excitement. As Dr. Dixon made clear in the cast and crew meeting this evening, it's very easy to get caught in a "second show slump" because the climactic environment of "arriving at show-time" has passed and (at least until the final performance) it's downhill from here. You could feel it everywhere, despite the fourth rule of performing--no negative nancies!--and as we moved set pieces into place behind the grand curtains there was a certain sense of gloom that we just couldn't shake.

Thankfully, we didn't have to shake it off ourselves: tonight's audience was incredible. I'd guess it was twice the size of last night's, and three times louder. Not to discredit the first night attendees, but the people watching our play tonight laughed long and loud at every subtle pun and hyperbolic gag. At some point, listening to the laughter, i got the sensation that i was simply hearing one of those recorded sound bytes they tend to program into electric keyboards; it was almost surreal. Nevertheless, the audience did a great job at raising spirits. And oh God did we need spirits raised.

You see, one of the set pieces that poses a great deal of trouble is a certain rectangular spiral staircase (i don't know that that's possible, but think of a staircase that makes two ninety degree turns on its way up). It is a major part of the set both in saloon scenes and the finale, and its movement (like everything else) relies on the many casters beneath it. Unfortunately unlike buildings or the car, which have flat bottoms to which many casters can be adhered, the staircase is somewhat of a skeleton frame--more like a deck, really--and thus the casters are simply at the bottom of all of the support beams. And just as we went to move the stairs for the first time tonight...one of the casters snapped clear off.

In the dark and unsure of what had happened to suddenly slow the motion of the staircase so considerably, those pushing the staircase did what any sensible group would do; namely, they recruited more people and began to push even harder. The result of this is a decent gash in the stage as per the screws protruding from the base of the damaged beam. Well, obviously this created somewhat of a problem for us. Most immediate was the retardation the staircase lent to the overall scene transition time. But as that scene began to progress, we turned our minds to future matters; and that's when we remembered the finale. See, unlike every other set piece, which is brought out either behind the curtains out of view of the audience or else in very dim light with curtains open, the finale calls for the stairs being pulled out literally in the middle of the scene, thus making it impossible to cloak the run members. The idea, then, is to get the stairs onstage as quickly as possible and then to get out of the lights, something greatly exacerbated by this new development.

I'll not draw out your suspense any longer though. Somehow the stairs came out in roughly the same period of time they normally would, albeit with a few more people onstage and a lot more perspiration on brows. Oh, and we crashed the car into the screen again, this time requiring even more movement of the backdrop to ensure its coherence. But this issue was overshadowed by the ecstasy of success with the damaged staircase, and once more a boisterous cast onstage was complemented by an exhilarated crew offstage.

And, well...i suppose that's it for now. We've still three more performances to go, which means...well, it means a lot i suppose. So many things to go wrong, so many things to go right. Three more cast and crew meetings involving exhortations and community prayer. Three more opportunities to touch people's lives forever. And it's this last part that has led me to the conclusion that it must be dreadful to be a movie star. For the cinematic performer, there will never be that beautiful moment when the curtains part to reveal an ocean of expectant faces; there will never be that one loud woman in the back left whose laughter only entices others because of how absurd it is; there will never be that final number when people cheer enthusiastically for their favorite characters. For, you see, cinema takes the magic of theatre and removes one major element: audience. It was the audience that made tonight worthwhile, and the audience that will be missed when the curtains roll Saturday night. I won't miss the car, Matt won't miss the batons, Jesse won't miss looking like Karl Marx (okay, maybe he will. Who knows?) but we will all miss the liveliness that only a stage and auditorium can create.

So let it be said that i'm suddenly in love with theatre.
Oh, and that i never made one joke about "breaking a leg" when we made that eleven-foot rift.

Hey baby, I just might be my own worst enemy
But if I’m gonna regret this night
I won’t go down without a fight
I got a dream that you can’t see
I got a soul that you can’t reach
And there’s no time for another chance
The song died on our last dance

There’s no time, for falling apart
I need you like a bullet to the heart
So long, so you say, hey hey
So long, so you say, hey hey

Hey baby, there’s no reason
That will keep me from leaving
Cause I’m tired of watching you
Drag the skeletons through the room
I got a voice that you won’t hear
I got a song that’s never clear
And there’s no time for another note
It’s such a shame but we gave it a g-g-go

There’s no time, for falling apart
I need you like a bullet to the heart
So long, so you say, hey hey
So long, so you say, hey hey
Come on and be my little nightmare
Put your teeth away ‘cause I know that you care
So come on and be my little nightmare
Come on and be my little nightmare

There’s no time, for falling apart
I need you like a bullet to the heart
So long, so you say, hey hey
So long, so you say, hey hey
There’s no time, for falling apart
I need you like a bullet to the heart
So long, so you say, hey hey

So long, so you say, hey hey
Come on and be my little nightmare
Put your teeth away 'cause I know that you care
So come on and be my little nightmare
Put your teeth away 'cause I know that you care
Come on and be my little nightmare
Come on and
Be my little nightmare

~Kids in the Way

PS--just thought the lyrics were witty, particularly the chorus (i need you like a bullet to the heart, aka not at all). It's not really reflective of my feelings on anything, just something to pass along. Speaking of which, go to ecapsnitsol.blogspot.com. One of my classmates, Jesse (whom i've now mentioned twice, well including this thrice) got into blogging for a little. Even though he seemed to indicate serious doubts in reviving "lost in space," i told him i'd pass the link along. So do yourself a favor and read through what he's got. It's not much but it's pretty well done.

As i mentioned in my previous entry, there are certain stereotypes associated with thespians. What i failed to clarify is who exactly holds these stereotypes, for certainly the thespians wouldn't take kindly to them and, as i indicated, i don't either. So, to clarify, those that consider actors to be arrogant, self-righteous, air-headed individuals are simply everyone that isn't actors.

This idea disgusts me.

Firstly, i hate all blanket statements (notice my use of a blanket statement, and remember that only Sith deal in absolutes). Thus, to paint any negative image of a group of people is to do great injustice to the many who have worked hard to ensure that their character and integrity are in excellent shape. Likewise to paint a positive image of a group of people is to do great injustice to those who live up to the description by crediting those who haven't.

If we are to assume, then, that a stereotype is inherently wrong because it cannot be entirely accurate at all times, we might find it a worthy exercise to examine that stereotype and wonder why it has become so popular to begin with.

Since i have the idea of actors on my mind--indeed, since that stereotype is the reason for this entry--we shall attempt to validate its claims. In general, the perception is that those stealing the stage are intrinsically bombastic. Their penchant for demanding various levels of assistance--from prop quality all the way to something as extreme as a personal assistant--as well as a habitual sigh or tirade upon failing to receive said assistance is so reminiscent of pre-pubescense that it nauseates those on the receiving end. They are generally less intelligent than the tech staff, on the basis that people with brains run lights and sounds while the actors prance about and wear egregiously exaggerated faces whilst practically yelling every one of their lines. It would seem that the begrudging non-actor feels taken for granted; without the non-actor, there is no actor. Thus the non-actor seeks far more respect than he feels he is receiving from those in the limelight.

But is this even slightly fair? I think not.

To begin with, to despise drama for its basic parts--song, dance, hyperbole--is to prove oneself quite base, to admit an inability to appreciate "fine art" and, if we are bold enough to take this jump in logic, inept at truly appreciating art in general. As for the intelligence of the actor, one is brash to assume himself intellectually superior simply because he is behind a keyboard while the actor has nothing but a borrowed suit and cane. Indeed, many an actor can be taught how to run a light or soundboard. It is a matter of knowledge, which can be attained via its pursuit. It is an acquired skill, yes, but it is not a natural talent. Acting, singing, and dancing, however--these are not easily emulated. Indeed, vestiges of talent may be discovered untapped when extraordinary situations lead a non-performer into the spotlight, but the overwhelming majority of non-actors are such because they lack the God-given ability to be anything else. Anyone who has watched an episode of American Idol should be able to grasp this concept well enough: some people can't sing, and never will be able to. Those that can ought to do so; foresaking one's gift is to ignore the Creator's will, and dangerously resembles sin as such.

Thus i would not at all be surprised if the thespian had some stereotypes of his own about non-performers. He might assume that anyone that isn't involved in drama cannot act; that anyone foresaking the microphone cannot sing; that those uncomfortable in a studio can't dance. The people behind the camera lens, rigging the lights, and drawing the curtains do so because they can't be on the other side of the lens, under the lights, behind those curtains. Lacking such talent, it is their job to make the actor's life as easy as possible. Perhaps, by doing so, those without talent will be able to perform vicariously through those with it.

Hopefully we are all civilized enough to know that both stereotypes are grossly inaccurate. To be sure, some may indeed fit these descriptions perfectly, but to hold all members of a group in contempt on the shortcomings of the minority is something unbecoming of the educated man.

And, well, i guess that's it. I've been hearing a lot of things said about various people that i frankly take offense to on behalf of the injured parties. If you are among the thespians, i don't mean to indicate that all, or even most of the techies hold these opinions of you. Likewise the techies ought to understand that not all thespians are as high-and-mighty as some assume them to be.

Um... /rant.

Some teachers force their students to read a book. Others encourage group projects. Many derive pleasure from assigning essays. Mine wanted twenty hours of my life. Specifically, she wanted me to 'volunteer' twenty hours to some theatre production this semester. The One-Acts, as you've seen, have come and gone, and when i had the chance to volunteer with the school's musical i jumped on it. A sign-up sheet went around the classroom and when i realized my time could be spent working tech, i got pretty excited. After all, i've been working lights and sound at my church for years. My name went down, and i assumed all was well.

Two weeks ago i received an e-mail from the guy running the tech crew. Basically, his crew was filled out and i was not needed. I wondered why so little warning was given me--after all, it'd been almost two months since my name went down and a surplus ought to have been noticed a while ago--but whatever the reason i needed to get my hours in and time was running out. I asked my professor what to do and she said that run crew needed extra hands. Didn't sound too bad, so i popped an e-mail over Monday evening to the person running the runners, offering my assistance.

The next day i got a reply. I was to be at the theatre at 7 PM, and would be there until 11. Along with that was a schedule for the upcoming two weeks, one consisting of all the hours i needed to show up at the theatre in order to receive any credit for being on the crew. This total was 54 hours-- nearly triple my quota. Such hours were unavoidable, however, and so with a sigh i showed up for what would be the first of many hectic days behind--or rather, among--the skenes.

Tuesday i worked from 7-11. Wednesday it was 5:30-11. Thursday it was 4:45-11. Friday it became 3-5. Today it was 5-11. And the schedule doesn't get any kinder as the production kicks off Wednesday night and runs through to Saturday evening.

Thankfully, run crew is actually quite exhilarating. We are responsible for moving two-story set pieces all over a monstrous backstage in (what will ultimately be) 30-45 second bursts. Our job, coupled with the up-and-down of massive curtains and backdrops, often feels like something more suitable for Ethan Hunt than a group of college kids. But i digress. We've drastically improved since Tuesday and the musical is a fantastic one.

"Crazy For You" is, in a nutshell, the story of two women in love with two men who are in love with the wrong women. It follows the shenanigans of Bobby Child (Jesse Aukeman) as he pursues his dreams of becoming a professional dancer and finding a woman worth settling down with. Set somewhere in the 30s, the setting switches between New York City and Deadrock, Nevada as Bobby is sent fatefully to the middle of nowhere to acquire a signature on a bank foreclosure notice on the town's theatre building. There he stumbles into country belle Polly Baker (Megan Krimmel) and what follows is the inevitable roller coaster of emotions that drops everyone--even the "bad guys"--off at their proper stations in the end.

It's hard to say which part of this musical is going to be the best. For one, all the music is composed by George Gershwin (think Rhapsody in Blue, from Fantasia perhaps), which means that it's phenomenal. The pit orchestra does a really nice job even if they are six feet under the stage. There is also a crazy amount of dancing (mostly of the tap variety) which is very well choreographed and executed. True, my view has been mainly through the curtains, but i did get an opportunity to sit through two scenes today in their entirety and the duet with the two Zanglers--you'll have to see it to understand--is priceless.

I was discussing all this with my RA's roommate, Jack, yesterday and apparently he had been in a presentation of "Crazy For You" at his highschool during his senior year. He was curious as to who was playing whom and as i rattled off the few names i'd actually picked up he got pretty excited about the show. For my own part, the only actor i'm familiar with at all is Jesse, who's in my World Drama course--the one that got me involved with the musical in the first place. Indeed, despite the usual stereotypes i've encountered about thespians he strikes me as a genuinely nice guy. And while i've received mixed reviews on Megan's personality, she DID take the time to thank a group of the run crew members before leaving this evening. Naysayers may criticize but i'm willing to say the lot involved in this musical is genuinely made up of nice people. And if i'm off-base, what can i say? They are actors.

It should be mentioned that, although the experience has been overall quite a good one, there have been some...er...snags in my job. Perhaps God is trying to punish me, but whatever the reason is i've been put in charge of a major scenery piece: the car. A large, wooden replica of a 30s-era car, complete with authentic bicycle tires for wheels. Here's the catch though--those wheels don't actually propel the vehicle. No, that job is done by the casters on the underside, nine in all. And we're not talking about pivoting casters, but fixed ones. Fixed ones that were clearly not leveled before mounting, because this wonderful bulky object moves in an arc path when we attempt to push it straight across the stage. The last several days have proven to be a constant battle with the car, resulting in the moving of one building a foot out of the way to compensate for the arc. Overall, though, things have gone well with the car.

Until today.

It started when we set the car up for one of the first scenes in the play during practice (before the actors arrived). Due to the size of the car, and the position of the batons*, we have to push the legs* out of the way in order to get the car across the stage fluidly. Right beside the car and the displaced legs is the backdrop--in the first scene with the car it is a NYC scape, and in the second it is in Nevada. We pushed the car across as it was supposed to go, and then pulled it back into place. Someone then went to pull up the NYC scape to prepare for the next scene, but unbeknownst to him the metal pole sticking out of the bottom of said screen was directly under the fender of our car. Sadly, physics came into play and the building upward momentum of the screen was more than enough to tear our fender clear off. This, happily, is easily remedied, and that was the only major issue we had with the car. We noted that there was now a metal brace sharply sticking off the side of the vehicle toward the screen and legs, but since we were pulling those things away from the car whenever it was out we deemed it a negligible issue at best.

Boy were we stupid. Here we were, moments before the last scene, and it was time to pull up the NYC scenery and bring down Nevada. It was almost time to go home, and this was the grand finale. I noticed that the screen seemed to be descending rather than ascending as it was supposed to, and started to shout to the guy across the stage to stop. He stopped alright--once the whole screen came to a screeching halt about two feet from the floor. He then started to pull the screen back up, but the pole was now caught in the excess folds of the leg in front of it. Noting this, we absentmindedly pushed the leg away from the pole--toward the car. Unfortunately the pole swung in a little and managed to catch up the leg, pulling the leg up with it. And so, as the several thousand dollar leg began to rise, it was pushed onto the metal brace sticking out of the car. By the time our screams of bloody murder stretched across to the gallery* the damage had already been done. The damage in this case being no less than an eleven-foot tear straight down the seam of the leg.

It was miraculous really. In a matter of only a few hours a single backdrop screen had been indirectly responsible for the destruction of our car and, consequently, the car's destruction of the leg. The show must go on, of course, and it did. Afterwards we had to bring down the baton, take off the damaged leg, put up a new one, fold the damaged one, and move several pieces of staging from where they'd been spiked* to. Then it was time to run through the play's transitions as quickly as possible, which we pulled off quite well (again, compared to how we started). Tomorrow we have off, and then it's crunch time.

One thing's for sure, this musical is driving us all crazy. I'm just not sure what for.

A glossary of some theatre lingo i've picked up:
*baton: the long metal poles suspended from the ceiling by chains on which backdrops, certain set pieces, curtains, legs, teasers, lights, and anything else you can imagine bringing back and forth between the floor and the celing are hung.
*leg, teaser, curtain: you know what a curtain is, though you probably haven't dealt with any quite as thick as those used in the theatre before unless of course you've worked in the theatre (so you're probably not reading this, either). A teaser is something akin to a third of a curtain. It stretches all the way across the stage but doesn't cover everything. Its primary function is to block the area above the backdrops or other items brought down on batons from the audience's view. A leg is not very wide--probably five to ten yards across--and is the same height as a curtain. Legs, as the name suggests, belong on the sides, so as to block the sides of the backstage from audience view. It is easy to rip a leg with a metal brace sticking out of a car that arcs when pushed.
*gallery: the area off to one side of the theatre from which all the batons are controlled. This is where all the weights and ropes are (the weights used to counterbalance the various curtains and legs that must be raised and lowered). Above the gallery is a catwalk of sorts, the level at which weight is often added, subtracted, or transferred from ropes. Higher still is the "grid," the place where all of the pulleys are located and from which all of the batons are suspended. If the Phantom of the Opera wants to kill someone with a curtain, he does it with a sharp object in the grid.
*spiking: as violent as it sounds, spiking is quite boring. It simply is the act of putting different colored tape on the stage so that the run crew knows where various set pieces are supposed to be positioned for various scenes.