The Forge

So that was audition number two in my scintillating attempt to get on a stage (that is to say, while the curtain is not drawn). We'll see, tomorrow, how that fares, but in the meantime, some observations.

I have notoriously been harsh when it comes to the acting demographic. The division i noted was and shall always be in existence, however not nearly to the extent that my paranoid self claimed in earlier, less experienced postings. In our first acting class, the instructor noted the great importance of not shunning technicians, something i know all too well from having worked nothing but (tech, that is) in previous shows.

But when it comes to auditions, i'm stepping into actor territory.

And although theatre ought to be a fun place for people of all walks to gather, i understand that there are many who either a. are terrified of never getting stage opportunities again after leaving college, or b. need as full an acting resume as possible in aspirations for a career in the field. In either case, there are a limited number of positions on a cast and everyone auditioning ostensibly wants in. Friends or not, the moments before stepping out onto the stage each person has one thing on his or her mind: i'm going to put forth my best, and i sure hope it's better than everyone else's best.

And i understand that such feelings are mutual among actors. Allow me to step outside my usually narrow viewpoint to make the observation that tension even between the seasoned veterans of the acting troupe is fairly high. And then you throw someone like me, the technician, into the mix.

I imagine it's a rather humorous circumstance to be in, for the actor, seeing me walk through the door and fill out a sheet. It's as if we're awaiting tryouts for the high school track team, and everyone else a runner. They recognize me as someone whose experience with running the extent of which, to date, has been running the stopwatch. This almost guarantees that i've no acting chops (something i'll fully admit--this is all about experience at this point) and, for the most part, stand little chance of acquiring their part. Which allows for some small talk, some joking around, because i pose no threat whatsoever.

I like the idea though. The play we're doing this year is Shakespeare's "As You Like It," and from what i understand there are 20 male roles. Assuming that this includes fringe characters, i see myself not after any sort of leading role but simply a position that will get me used to being in front of an audience without giving me a chance to make a real fool of myself. You don't become CEO at a major corporation upon entering (unless you're Eisner)--you enter as the janitor, and maybe advance from there. Yet there's no clear way of suggesting your intentions when you audition--no mop and bucket to make clear what you're here for--and as such you must appear at least somewhat audacious as you take the stage and, in my case, fumble.

Let me clarify, before you jump on that word--fumble. I have never acted, and my last audition attempt was half-hearted (i'd like to think of this as more 3/4-hearted). Therefore i have no standard of comparison to judge my performance by, except that of the more seasoned performers. So when i say i fumbled, i mean only to say that the bit of practicing i did before a webcam in my dorm room this afternoon was tighter and a little bit more entertaining than what happened when i stepped before Ketler Auditorium this evening. Granted, i'd not planned to audition (i only signed up today around 2 p.m.) and as such i can't be expected to have prepared as diligently as those who've had their eyes set on a role since the day they stepped foot on campus this semester. Not really an excuse, but more of a slight reprieve for me.

As to the others auditioning, i indicated that my key reason for attending was to watch what i considered successful auditions (or not so successful, depending on your experience, i'd guess) and, either way, take notes on what struck me as well-done, something that i could try to emulate in the future (like, say, tomorrow when i audition for the one-acts). The list i compiled was somewhat short (there were not very many people left to audition after me) but here it stands:

Location-specific accents are a great way to showcase your abilities, if you have any. One performer had a great Southern drawl (far more developed--and, i should think, more oft-used--than the British accent i slobbered over during my take) and, despite the fact that this was a Shakespeare role, demonstrated her willingness to toss aside the normal speech patterns if her character had no use of them. I suppose my best accent is Aussie, so i ought to have gone for that (or maybe something French?).

Movement with purpose. That's it. Despite a minute amount of blocking i'd attempted in my dorm rehearsals, i remained almost frighteningly still on-stage. Hm... i guess that's stage fright, huh? I wasn't afraid to move, i simply forgot to. Speaking of which...

I also forgot about verbal pacing. The point of a good delivery versus a poor one is that the same words are presented in a different way. It's almost funny in hindsight that all of the pauses i took on-stage were supposed to be lines and all of the hurried lines i delivered were supposed to come after well-mimed pauses. No one prepares everything he is going to say ahead of time, and thus neither would any well-played character. This, i noticed, is perhaps the best mark of a good performer: the ability to speak in a way that allows you to forget they are reciting someone else's words.

Universal humor is another thing i ought to have considered. Granted, i had limited resources, but even then i forgot about the option to use film/television as subject matter for my comic piece. Desperately i scanned my bookshelf for something amusing and found a Bill Bryson book--a type of humor i find subtly hysterical--and selected a passage. The issue is that most people don't appreciate British humor, and Bryson's is usually drawn-out (thus impossible to fully demonstrate in a 60-second snippet). Which reminds me...

What was up with the time limit? I guess it was a frame of reference, but it seems that (based on the several-minute monologues delivered un-impeded by the director) the 60-second parameters were "more like guidelines than actual rules." In the future, i'll try to remember that time is not my master: it's better to have a longer piece with a bigger punch (and be prepared to stop if asked) than to be succinct and then awkwardly stop where the writer never intended you to do so.

That was pretty much all that i gathered from the other performers, although i noticed in reflection a major problem with my approach today. I made, it seems, the mistake of thinking that just because i like to (and often succeed at) making people laugh, my character doesn't necessarily need to be the jester. I find i am also drawn to violent, sinister characters, and so perhaps in the future i will attempt a villain rather than a hero.

Well, i just figured i'd let everyone know that i went out for another audition. In the excitement, i forgot to call home, which is kinda crappy, but there's always the weekend.

In the out-on-a-really-long-and-questionably-firm-limb event that i get a part, i'll update tomorrow (Friday, for those of you who aren't up til all hours of the night) with that info. Otherwise assume what i'm assuming now--that this has been naught more than a learning experience, and a good one at that.

We paused: the winds were in the beech:
We heard them sweep the winter land;
And in a circle hand-in-hand
Sat silent, looking each at each.
Then echo-like our voices rang;

-Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Tennyson described a far more somber occasion, that of Christmas visiting upon the survivors of a lost friend. Yet such was the setting of a far more euphoric event, taking place between the second and third hours of Saturday, March 1st on the steps of Pew Fine Arts Center.

The night had seemed innocuous enough. From three to six i assisted in the first of what will soon be many full rehearsals of Lettice and Lovage, wherein i once again take up my role of run crew member. At ten after six i was sitting in the second seat of a school bus, bound for Avalanche Xpress, the locale of choice for the celebration of twins Michael and Billy Kingzett having been born. Their father runs said establishment, so the festivities of the evening, including several hours of tubing, two slices of pizza, unlimited glasses of soda, and transportation, were entirely gratis.

Around eleven o'clock i returned to Grove City and sat with many friends in Misenheimer's room--his sister was visiting--and conversation lingered on; first til midnight, at which point she needed to leave for the female side of campus, and then onward until some indiscriminate point of time in my memory, between one and two.

Suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at the chamber door (thank you, Poe). Said door was opened, and a voice called for me. I rose cautiously, vaulted between Trigger and Brad, and reached the threshold.

There i discovered a sea of faces, exceeding forty in number, shining brightly in my direction. Among them was Brad Volek, who quieted the murmur of the crowd and addressed me thus: "Adam Bogert, after careful consideration of your interview and application, we the members of Alpha Sigma would like to extend an invitation to join our independent men's housing group. Do you accept?"

Without the slightest hesitation i acquiesced, such action being met by a roar and thunderous applause. I ran to my room to grab a coat and shoes, then mounted the staircase to catch up with the group as they proceeded to acquire others, starting on the third floor of Hicks and moving on to find Brian by Memorial. At last the necessary members were rounded up and we moved on to the steps of PFAC.

We formed a three-row assembly on those steps, supposedly to take a photograph to commemorate the event. When a functioning camera failed to exist among our ranks, Simba ran back to Hopeman to get one. In the meantime, Jinks said "Gentlemen, at this time in our lives we are going to sing a song. . . any requests?"

After some suggestions flew around, he quieted us, and then asked for all the bass singers in the group to raise their hands. "Follow me," he said, and then began: "A-wemoweh, a-wemoweh, a-wemoweh..." Once they'd caught on, he addressed the baritones and tenors, most of whom (as myself) were unsure as to exactly which classification they belonged: "In the jungle, the mighty jungle, the lion sleeps tonight..."

And so we the members of Alpha Sigma, both new and old, serenaded an audience of but One, with our own version of "The Lion Sleeps Tonight."

Appropriately, then, we circled up just as Simba arrived. We elected to take the photograph afterward, and Brad initiated the ceremony. One at a time he called the new inductees forward to hand them a certificate of membership. Upon such reception we would then turn and give Levi, the president, a hug, before resuming our place in the circle.

It was then time to thank the Lord for, well, everything, and so with hands held and eyes shut we began to pray, whoever felt led to do so, in thanksgiving for what had been, what was, and what was to come. As i alluded to by quoting Tennyson, there was a moment between each person's prayer where all that could be heard was the rustling of the leaves in the winter wind. It was truly beautiful.

Finally we broke circle with a chorus of Amens, lining up once more on the steps to take several pictures, including one with only the new class of Alpha Sigma. The procession being over, we were let loose, though many (including myself) elected to return to the second floor of Hopeman to chat until the need to sleep became more forceful than the desire to converse, at which point i returned to my temporary home here on Hicks first floor Pew side (or as we have affectionately deemed it, 1HP).

There is, of course, a sad side to this. Although 1HP and IATHOD shall forever live in my heart, and although i by no means plan to reject they that have made my first year at GCC enjoyable and infinitely memorable, i shall inevitably be leaving the family for another, more Greek one. To commemorate my (and others') passing, we had an official retiring of our IATHOD uniforms. And so, to commemorate the end of IATHOD as we know it, a moment of silence is appropriate as we view these photos.

"It's just gonna get warmer from here." That's what Josh said to me this morning, reflecting on yesterday's beautiful weather in light of our recent deep freeze. "Yeah," i said, "But there's always a chance we'll get one of those freak blizzards."

Five minutes later i looked out the window and couldn't even see PFAC across the street. It was a complete white-out. Maybe the whole "prophet in my spare time" thing was truer than i realized.

This entire event took place somewhere prior to 10 AM. I mention this because usually i'd be in bed at 10 AM. In fact, i'm usually not up until after 1 PM on Sundays. Ever since i started attending GCC i've been a reliable member of the congregation of "Bedside Baptist with the Reverend Sheets." And yet last night, on a whim, i decided that i'd go to church today with Brad, Ivory, Julie, and Sadie.

Boy, do i know how to pick 'em. First day of church in Grove City and it's a blizzard outside.

At least, i told myself, we're not going to one of those churches that's within walking distance. Indeed, Fellowship Community Church (or 'FCC') sends a shuttle (well, a bus actually, but i like the sound of shuttle) to the college every Sunday around 10:30 AM, and we were determined to catch that shuttle even if it meant braving the elements.

And brave the elements we did. Well really just one element--ice. Either way we fought our way from Hicks to Ket, facing violent winds and a terrific amount of snow. Even with my ninja-mask-esque neck-warmer i was awfully cold, and by the time i got on the bus i could no longer feel my forehead.

But i get ahead of myself. Sure enough, we arrived at the proper spot around 10:20 (Brad wanted to ensure a spot, since the bus could not often accommodate the mass of people vying for its seats). It was ironic, then, that there was no one else there. As we pondered this, my eyebrows began to accumulate icicles and my hair turned--as Ivory informed me--completely white. Eventually we decided it wasn't worth waiting outside, and so ventured into Ket Rec.

There is an antechamber prior to entering the Oak Room, approximately 4 square yards in area, and it was into this antechamber that we proceeded to discover no fewer than fifteen people huddled together like terrified mice when a vicious dog is on the prowl. It was quite humorous really, sort of like that scene from Ratatouille where Linguini opens the food closet and discovers all of Remy's relatives ransacking the rations (apologies for the abundant alliteration).

Anyhow, the bus eventually showed up and we gathered inside ("we" including Julie and Sadie, two of the mice hiding in the antechamber). A short bus ride later we arrived at FCC, where we were warmly welcomed by a collection of greeters as we found a pew to take up for the next roughly hour and a half. Worship was similar (though, admittedly, slightly lower-key than i am accustomed) to at the Mission Church back home, and the sermon was pretty good. I suppose i'm still not used to the idea of a church being so small--i'd previously considered ours to be little, as compared to Faith, until i saw FCC.

After the service ended we returned to Hicks, ate lunch, and, well, that's pretty much the end of it.

I'd like to take a moment to thank Audrey for the little care package that arrived, i think, last week. The chocolates are exhausted and the chess set remains unused (but that will change, i'm sure, somewhat soon). I do, regrettably, already have the album, but it will (as per your suggestion) pass it on to a soul thus far not fortunate enough to have listened to "The Classic Crime."

*Safety and Peace*

After reading Nelly's blog over at the Fragdolls site, i thought perhaps i should outline the courses i'm taking this semester for the aid of those living vicariously through me. Or because i had no other idea for a blog and it's been quite a while since i posted one. Either way, here's what Grove City College is slinging at me this semester:

ENGL 202 Brit. Lit. Part 2:
The name is somewhat self-explanatory, but this is the second part of a survey of British Literature. Last semester we started at the very beginning--with Beowulf-- and this semester we'll be ending right around Joyce. I must admit, i'm not as big on poetry as i could be and last semester involved a ton of it, so i think i'm going to like this semester more (it has quite a bit more prose, including fiction which basically didn't exist as we know it in the first half of history).

COMM 235 Journalism:
As you might guess, this course is designed in the hope that once i'm done with it i'll have a fair handling on the AP Stylebook and the format/shorthand/jargon of the world of reporting. Since i still haven't really decided what i'm aiming for when i graduate (newspaper journalism, magazine journalism, something entirely different) i figured it'd be good to have this course in my repertoire. Also it is somewhat of a requirement for the Communications major i'm tending towards.

COMM 104 Public Speaking & Rhetoric:
Just what Adam needed, right? An excuse to talk even more than he already does. Well, actually, i'm hoping this class teaches me when NOT to talk. As you might guess, Public Speaking is a course based on speeches, both the giving of and listening to them. The only speech i ever gave went somewhat well (everyone who approached me said it was one of the best they'd ever heard, but then who knows what people really think when they tell you something like that during a graduation ceremony?) and so i don't know whether i truly need a course on this. Nevertheless this, too, is a requirement for the Comm. major and at least it's interesting.

HUMA 102 Civ: Biblical Revelations:
Part two of a six-part Humanities sequence, "Bib Rev" is an in-depth look at many of the truths hidden within the Bible. Unlike my other classes this one takes place in a lecture hall, which makes it a bit less interactive and far more lecture-oriented. That said, the professor is a cool guy with a penchant for throwing Monty Python and Calvin/Hobbes into his lectures, so this promises to be quite an enjoyable class. I'm also hoping that it will get me to open my Bible more often, something that i'm trying to commit to this year as a sort of New Year's Resolution.

PHYE 102 Fitness & Wellness II for men:
Ah, Fitwell. Glorious Fitwell. It's like God heard my prayers and ignored them, sending you. Well, Fitwell II is the second half of the running joke among GCC students. The first semester consisted of one part lecture on health, one part lab activity. The lab activity for me was Aerobics: just picture me doing Pilates. Yeah, hilarious. Anyway, this semester is simply two lab activities, and while they won't tell me what my final activity is until midterm time, i can tell you that for the next approximately ten weeks i'll be enrolled in Free Weights. I'm actually quite excited about this: it's far less taxing than some other activities--*cough* circuit training *cough*--and yet if i actually put the effort in i will end up with a workout regiment that i can maintain after i'm out of the class. That's another one of my resolutions this year--hitting the gym--and since Jordan told me he's trying to commit to the same thing, perhaps we'll be able to work on this one together.

COMM 261 Stagecraft:
After an invigorating workout and a not-so-invigorating chapel service it's time to hit Pew Fine Arts Center's gorgeous auditorium for 75 minutes of 'learning the ropes' in theatre. By the time i'm done with this course i'll have been certified in pretty much every technical aspect of the theatre, knowing far more than i learned from Crazy For You. This is inevitably the most hands-on course i'll ever take (except perhaps if i get an internship), and i am quite excited to be taking it.

And so, another 17-credit hour semester. At that rate, i will have 136 hours at the time of graduation. Which presents a slight problem.

You see, the maximum number of credits you can earn in any given semester without paying for extra courses is eighteen. Since i've already gone for 34 credits between these two Freshman semesters, that leaves six possible semesters and eighteen possible credits. Six times eighteen equals 108, meaning that if i take the maximum number of courses every semester from now on, in addition to the credits i've already (or am in the process of) earning, i'll end up with 142 credits. Add in the thirteen i earned in high school, and you get 155 credits. Now, i still need to transfer in my credit for calculus taking through the SUPA program, but if those four credits transfer i've only accomplished 159 of the minimum 160 credits needed to get my dual major. Which means that even if i take loaded schedules every semester, i'm going to need to either a. pay extra for an overclocked semester or b. pay extra to take intercession. I have a pretty good feeling i'm going to be taking intercession multiple times so as to lighten the load.

Anyhow, i came to this glorious conclusion last night, which is bothering me a little only because i'd planned on taking courses that overlapped the requirements for my Communications and English majors, and didn't know until yesterday that there was a minimum 160 credit requirement. Of course, had i gotten an advisor who had been here for more than a few months (which i didn't) he'd probably have told me this when i explained my plan to dual major to him last semester. I'm seriously considering officially switching majors just so i have a different advisor (i was originally going to just add the comm. major as my second major--the new plan would be to switch majors and then add english as the second). We shall see.

PS: i'm no longer going to Africa. The truth is, i simply don't have the money--or any plan to earn it--lined up and there was a waiting list. I decided that due to a series of circumstances that seemed less than lending themselves toward my going, i'd let someone else in line (who is probably older and better-prepared to afford the trip) to take my place. Sorry for that: i know some of you were looking forward to my going almost as much as i was.

I've been home for somewhere around three weeks now and i must say, i am quite a slob. At least, i used to be, because up until perhaps a week ago my room was so outrageously messy that i was unable to even sleep in there. Even after i 'cleaned' it there were still piles of books and clothing, not to mention the million other papers and toys and odds and ends that i truly have no idea what to do with. It's much akin to one of those dreadful shows my mother sometimes puts on when there's nothing on television (and this before she had the WGA strike as an excuse!), where some hapless family gets a 'surprise' visit from an expert or two on how to maintain an orderly household. These experts, usually a woman and a very... flamboyant man, lead a cameraman around the domicile, feigning nausea over the mountains of garbage and unnecessary junk that the family has amassed in one or all of the rooms in the house. And by the time the experts are done, the family has been through tidiness boot camp and their home looks pristine and gorgeous.

See, i don't need a gay man to tell me when i have a lot of things lying around that i'm never going to use and/or fit into again. Honestly there are probably a great deal of those "odds and ends" that i've never used in the first place. And perhaps there is no greater offender when it comes to storage of junk than the closet. Indeed, i learned at a young age that when mother is simply trying to find the carpet, she doesn't care if you've assembled an Everest of toys and t-shirts behind the wooden door. "Out of mind, out of sight" worked for her but sadly it also worked for me, which meant that when it came time to clean my room again i'd make the mistake of opening the closet and being promptly swallowed in an avalanche of forgotten junk.

Well i'm eighteen and evidently i never learned, because when i finally built up the courage to open my closet door i was, once again, swallowed in an avalanche of forgotten junk. But this time around, i've chosen to fight back. The first strike was to break out a philips head and take the offending door off its hinges; after all, the door is just an enabler because without it, nothing in the closet is "out of sight." And then i had to make tough decisions.

The first tough decision was to get rid of all the magazines i've collected over the past four years or so. Mostly gaming magazines, i'd neatly organized them until there was no room left on the shelf (after which, honestly, i have no idea where they've been going. I suppose i stopped renewing). But i knew i would never read them again, and so the logical thing to do was to wrap them in twine and put them in recycling. Joshua took maybe a third of them but the rest are now stacked neatly beside the bags of garbage i filled with high school.

Indeed, as much as i'd love to keep my papers and notebooks from high school i ultimately realized that i'm not the sort of sentimental person that would ever happily open up a box from the attic and tearfully pull out my chemistry binder, sobbing nostalgically over combustion equations. The one exception was my English materials, something i've endeavored to keep hold of if for no other reason than to examine the evolution of my writing ability and talent over the years. I still have a first grade report sheet that congratulated me for completing a sentence. I've been doing that ever since.

By far the hardest part of cleaning my room is proving to be clothing. Anyone who knows me is aware that the proper word to describe my figure over the last, say, decade is "growing." Both up and out, to the point where i need two x's before the l's on my clothing before i'm willing to don it. The problem is that when i grew out of clothes, they'd just never be worn again. They never moved on down to younger siblings or out to the salvation army; they just stayed in drawers and on hangers until i needed the space and then they'd end up in storage or at the bottom of the mountain in my closet. And so, even if i'd wanted to just "get rid of" all the clothes that no longer fit me, i had no way of knowing which ones those were.

Which is why today i spent at least three hours trying on all the clothes in my closet and laundry baskets, breaking them down into piles as follows: clothes that fit, clothes that fit but are damaged (i.e. torn or missing buttons), clothes that don't fit and are damaged, clothes that don't fit that i wish fit, and i'd be willing to keep around for, say, a year just in case i actually lose weight this time around, and finally clothes that don't fit that i don't want to put on my body ever again.

And after three hours of trying clothes on, i can honestly say i don't understand why women enjoy doing it. I'm a guy, which makes me at least mostly utilitarian, and thus my idea of clothes shopping is to find a pair of pants that fit me and i'm comfortable in, a (hopefully) matching shirt, and maybe a new pair of shoes if i'm feeling particularly metro. Girls, however, have a penchant for spending hours in clothing stores, trying (i imagine) every possible permutation of top and bottom (and everything underneath that too) before finally emerging with one or two bagfuls and considering themselves thrifty for having not purchased more. I really don't get it--it's both physically tiring and gets old really quickly.

Oh, and when a guy bumps into another guy wearing the same shirt, they have a conversation about it. But get two girls together who happened upon the same outfit? May as well be in the Coliseum.

But i digress. My closet is now devoid of most clothing and it has an empty shelf. There's still much work to do, including the collection of crap (read: souvenirs) occupying another shelf and the mountains of clothes within and on top of my dresser that still need to be tried on. And now if you'll excuse me, i'm going to go back to watching Raising Helen.

So i'm not really sure where this is going to end up but my mind is saying 'WRITE!' and who am i to argue with myself? The fact of the matter is, i got lost somewhere and i really don't know how to find my way back because the snow falling outside my window has already covered up the footsteps i left behind me. I guess that sounds pretty melodramatic but it's definitely true--i mean, on my way back from Orchesis this evening i was totally planning on writing a blog on how great the show was, and how stepping outside into the first legitimate snowfall of the year was, cliche or not, magical... But it wasn't long before i just sort of lost the energy. The drive. A few idiotic pictures later and all i'm thinking is "gee, we could play some more Halo now." Six freaking hours in front of the television last night watching Heroes and i had to go and spend my Saturday--my day of freedom--in front of the same thing accomplishing little more than a little bit of a fever and a sore left shoulder. What's more, i'm getting more aggravated by the moment and there's no way to explain it.

It's 3 AM in the morning and here i am, in a closet that they'd like to call a lounge, writing to no one in a form that is neither blog nor journal entry. My shoulder's killing me. I took Excedrin an hour ago but it doesn't seem to be working and frankly i find that uncalled for. But then, there's not much i can do about it. And even if there were, i probably wouldn't. Because that's who i am lately--i identify problems, i even express "serious" interest in fixing them, but then there i go again letting apathy get the best of me. I promised myself i was going to lose weight here--get a daily regiment that involved weight-lifting and jogging and eating healthier--sorry, healthfuller--and i haven't done squat. I haven't cracked a Bible open for months and church is like one of those distant memories that you have when you hear the theme song to a sitcom you watched when you were in elementary school. And yet in the mail is a slew of forms i'm supposed to fill out and expedite back to New York so that i can go on a missions trip to Africa to show people with so much less than i have why they can be happier than i am because of a loving God that i've abandoned so many times in so many ways. It's...well, it's rather sickening, really. I keep telling myself that this is why i need to go to Africa--so that all this laziness that i've been putting off the fixing of for so long will finally get fixed--but then maybe it's just another one of those things i promise myself that never happens.

I don't mean to sound all self-deprecating but i mean...that's really all there is to do right now. I've had such a bad temper as of late and why? Who knows. Maybe it's the whole Writer's Guild thing, seeing how disgustingly selfish the media moguls are that i might end up working for. Maybe it's how i get all angry and up-in-arms about how these people aren't seeing so much as a penny when their own creative content is streamed legally on the Internet by media companies and yet can't muster up the guts to confront my roommate on his appalling habit of downloading movies and music and games and God knows what else without so much as considering the consequences of his activity. Maybe i'm upset because half the conversations i have here are among the deepest i've ever had--spiritually, intellectually, emotionally--while the other half are nauseatingly base and vulgar to an extent i never imagined myself capable of. The thing is, there are too many maybes. But there aren't any answers.

I suppose that's what i'm learning right now. I'm learning that, regardless of what people tell you, life ISN'T what you make of it.

Life's what you let other people make of you.

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."