Moosical Interlude

Last night, my son was in a little musical theatrical production. He and the rest of his kindergarten ilk gathered together on a series of risers and belted out some barnyard-themed songs. Some children were selected to recite bad--but kitschy--poetry. It tore at the heart.

I'd post some pictures, but I can't. They're all ruined.

I stood at the back of the gymnasium/auditorium, because I'm tall...and also because I got there late-ish. As the wee ones came trooping into the gym for the show, the ten rows of people seated in front of me did what any group of parents and grandparents of kindergarten-aged children do when their spawn are involved in a public presentation:

They made asses of themselves.

See, I tried to snap a few digital pictures of my proud and handsome lad there on the third riser with my 2 megapixel camera. Instead of getting his shining, smiling, beaming face, I got someone's bald spot. I also got a picture of a fabulously bad dye job that looked more like a dead animal perched precariously atop someone's skull and less like hair. Although, I guess some dead animals have hair, too. This looked like and albino raccoon had been rolling in molasses. So chique. I also got what I can only assume is a Bubba-Gump shrimpin' hat...not really, but it was a baseball cap wedged right into the space between the aperture of my camera and where my son stood. Because, you know, it would have been too much to ask for you to fucking duck while you're wandering around the back of the assembly where people are trying to take pictures.

It's a hat. Probably not Bubba-Gump. I just wanted to keep with the theme this week. It is, after all, "Can't Get Enough Gumpweek".

My personal favorite catch with the camera? The flabby arms of a portly mother waving to get her urchin's attention. As I snapped it, she uncannily put the three foot wide swath of flesh and cellulite into the space containing my son's face. The blurred image can only really be described as a cross between a walrus' flipper and a stack of donuts.

God, I love school assemblies.

Fortunately, God loves me back and thus he struck my batteries low on power (again), so I had to put the camera away. As the children were singing about pigs and goats and cows fucking or something, my attention waned. So, I did what any man would do in my situation:

I began counting MILFs.

I got to seven...starting with my wife, of course! *shifty-eyed*

I broke off my count when I started picking up on a disturbing trend. There's a lot of people who have procreated and sent their progeny to my children's school who have a smiling problem. Now, this isn't to say that smiling is a bad thing. It can brighten your day or lure a kitten into your clutches long enough to punt it. This is something completely different.

When the smiling is the person's default idle face, that's when it becomes a problem. Like, they're just motoring along, not really interacting with anyone, just passing through the crowd and this big, lurid, evil grin is drawn across their faces. It wasn't just one particular group, either: men, women, old, middle-aged, young...everyone was afflicted. And it was unsettling. Mostly because if you have a face that's built so that, at rest, it's still smiling, then you don't look natural. With these big, wide, googly eyes and a pained rictus drawing your lips back over your teeth, you look somewhere between "driving a black van allegedly filled with candy" and "why so serious?"

And when you get a dozen of these jokers (heh) wandering around in a confined space...things begin to get a little creepy. Seriously people, stop it. Stop giving me dopey, freaky nightmares about what you do with ponies and cabbage patch dolls. I don't want to think about it.

The performance? Oh, it was nice. A good distraction from the Arkham refugees that were littering the fucking place. My son did a good job and I clapped. Apparently louder than anyone in the room. I got a lot of lights to shut off, I guess.

Hey, that old lady can't do it all by herself.

During one of the songs, a teacher put on a cow costume with a bright pink udder glued to it. As she was a...larger...woman, I have to say, she's got some serious cajones. I applauded her loudly, too, because clearly, this was a woman who was comfortable with herself enough to strap an udder to her belly and shimmy and shake. It was nice to see that she wasn't so serious...

Constant Vigilance!

Remember back when I told you about going to see Miss Saigon in Raleigh? One of the things--aside from all the mostly-nekkid chicks grinding in front of me--that made me love the show was that it reminded me just how much I missed being on the stage. From my senior year in high school on through the end of my college career, I had been fairly active in pulling off live productions on the stage. Whether it was plays, musicals, one-acts or doing improv work--or even the time spent doing student-run television shows--I've had an active career in the dramatic arts.

And, now that I'm out of it, I miss it.

So, I've found a way to get past this: reading to my children.

Shortly after the Miss Saigon viewing, I started reading The Tale of Despereaux to my kids. The good thing about Despereaux (the book, not the movie--the movie is an abortion of the story) is that most of the characters (since it's written for kids) are achetypes. So, it was pretty easy to get into character by varying my voices. And once I started getting into character, well, then I felt like that piece of me that void in my life that had formed since I left the stage had been partially filled.

And, honestly, it was fun. The voices were easy to create: Miggory Sow had a heavy, gravelly, cockney accent; Roscuro had a slimy, evil, plotting voice dripping with vile and revenge; Despereaux had a soft English accent; Despereaux's brother had a bit heavier English accent; Despereaux's father had an even heavier English accent; Despereaux's mother had an over-the-top dramatic French accent. And so on.

Well, we finished Despereaux months ago, and, well, I've had to find other ways to work this stage-presence-cum-narrator persona. For some reason, the same Thomas the Tank Engine books over and over again don't work quite as well, though my son has decided to begin with the Magic Treehouse Books. Again, the characters are largely the same, and therefore don't really offer much of a creative outlet.

Fortunately, my daughter is having me read her the Harry Potter books.

Since most of you are familiar, I won't have to rehash the wide variety and depth of characters here. A lot of the characters are easier to do than others: Hagrid's part is written for him; McGonagall's voice is slightly lilting with her words clipped; and Snape I try to do my best Alan Rickman because, seriously, it's Alan Fucking Rickman.

So, we're currently working our way through Goblet of Fire, and last night we got through the first Defense Against the Dark Arts class. In case you've forgotten, this is where Mad-Eye Moody shows the class the Unforgivable Curses and how to prepare for them. The best preparation for the Unforgivable Curses? CONSTANT VIGILANCE!

Now, when I do Moody's voice, I give him a gravelly sort of voice, lower and rougher than my normal reading voice. It's not quite Christian Bale doing Batman, but it does convey a bit of the crotchety old man that is Mad-Eye Moody.

So, last night, I'm going along, reading away and my daughter is flipping through an American Girl magazine looking at the pictures. She's listening, but she doesn't know what to expect. When we get to the proper place, I fire off a loud, booming "CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" I thought she would jump out of her skin! It was so entertaining to have her jump, catch her breath, and then stare at me with those big, blue eyes that convey the question "What the fuck was that?" oh so well.

We continue reading, and she lets her guard down and goes back to flipping through her magazine (she's a multi-tasker, that one). We come to it again. "CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" I roar. Again, the same satisfying jump, the same satisfying "What the fuck was that?" stare.

Finally, we come to a break, and I close up the book and she's like, "Is there going to be much more of that, with Moody shouting and all?" she asks as I'm tucking her in.

"There might be," I said, bending down to kiss her pure, sweet, angelic forehead. "You know what the best way to prepare for the yelling is, though, right?" I ask her.

"What?" she says, her face the very picture of angelic charm.

"CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" I roar once more.

I thought sure she was going to wet herself the third time.

Parenting skillz: I has 'em.

A Helicoptor, Garter Belts, and Dry-Humping a Pink Cadillac

I've got a GREAT idea for some family fun: let's all go watch some Asian whores dance!
Last week, I won tickets to the production of Miss Saigon down in Raleigh. Last night, the Comely and Buxom and Easily Terrified and Strangely Attracted to the Engineer Boudicca and I shuffled off the mortal coils of parenthood, dressed in clothing that isn't stained, and went down to the theater in Raleigh in order to watch the show. Despite having been married 8+ years now--and also knowing that I was a thespian in college--my wife still wondered why I wanted to go see Miss Saigon, of all things (for instance, Fiddler on the Roof--another fantastic show--was playing in Durham last week, and we didn't go see that).

"Well, it's one of my favorite shows," I told her.

About thirty seconds into the show--when all the girls pile onto the stage and begin removing their outer vestments--she suddenly became aware of why it's one of my favorite shows. Okay, honestly, I like the story and I love the music. In fact--a fact which the Comely and Buxom and Easily Terrified and Strangely Attracted to the Engineer Boudicca has forgotten--I own a copy of the soundtrack and in our early wedded days, she made fun of me for it. However, as much as I love the music and the story, having a dozen toned and attractive women strip down to bikinis and underwear and then grinding sexily out upon the stage does lend itself to putting a smile on my face.

The show was magnificent! I will admit, I am unabashedly a theater whore. This was the first play I had seen since the year after I graduated, when St. Joe put on Godspell (where my man, Mic Mancuso, played Stephen perfectly). When the show started and the pit orchestra began playing, my heart leapt inside my chest. *sigh* I wanted to be backstage and not in the crowd and it was the first time in a long time when I really missed doing something (occasionally, I'll get the same feeling when I watch my daughter play basketball). Sadly, I realize that trying to get back into theater is impossible because I'm not fit enough, I've never had voice lessons, and I'm not willing to force my family to endure the sacrifices it would take simply so I could have that rush of emotions that comes when the curtain rises and the lights blind you and--despite all that--you keep that smile on your face and start in with your lines or song, because this is it. All eyes are on you. Do not break the Fourth Wall!!! Ah, I can feel that rush of adrenaline wanting to course through my veins once more.

So, I remained in the crowd. And I loved every minute of it...well, maybe not the acrid taste left in the wake of the fire extinguishers-turned-smoke machines, but still. I had also forgotten just how fucking fabulous dancers legs are. *heavenly sigh* And trust me, from the second row, you get to...appreciate...the shapeliness of their legs. A lot.

Did I mention this is one of my favorite shows?

Anyway, here's a quick run down that doesn't involve me slobbering over the nearly naked Asian girls. Jennifer Paz played Kim, and she has an absolutely beautiful voice. Eric Kunze was Chris and he, also, did a magnificent job. However, the show was stolen (rightfully so) by Kevin Gray as the Engineer. Oh. My. God. This man call pull off sleazy in a way that still makes him endearing. And, it's not like it's a type cast. You get the feeling that he can play just about any role. At one point during the performance, I thought, "Christ, this guy could play a Batman villain and still be the best person on screen!" He was that fabulous. If you ever get a chance to see Miss Saigon with him as the Engineer, do it. You will not be let down.

My wife and I both had a wonderful time. However...we were a bit...confused...by the family of five that sat down in front of us, with their probably 14-year-old son, their probably 11-year-old daughter, and their maybe-six-year-old daughter. In case you're not familiar with the story, here's a quick recap: the show is set in Vietnam during the war, starting out in a Vietnamese whorehouse run by the Engineer. Here, Chris meets and falls in love with Kim, he promises to try and get her back to the States when he returns, they have sex, Saigon falls, Kim is left behind in the scramble to get everyone out, and three years later it is revealed that she has had Chris' child. They escape to Bangkok where the news finally gets back to Chris that Kim is alive and that she has had a child by him. Thinking Kim lost after he returned to the States, Chris remarries, and so they have to sort all of that out. It's all very Madame Butterfly. Wait...

That all sounds fine, right? Yeah, well, except for the lascivious nature of the girls when they are in the Vietnamese whorehouse and later when they are selling themselves for sexual pleasures in Bangkok. That part might be a little...racy...for a six-year-old. My wife and I agreed that these were probably the same people who took their kids to see Watchmen, thinking it would be like Spider-Man. Idiots.

Also, the woman who played Chris' wife, Ellen, turned out to be a redhead. On the ride home, my wife was like, "So...did you identify with Chris when he had--?"

"Yes, dear. When he had to make a choice between the cute little Asian girl and the beautiful redhead with the great set of...pipes...I felt a kinship."

Did I mention this is one of my favorite shows?

Here's the North Carolina Theatre's Blog, where they have posted several videos from the performances and some other pictures (notice, I stole one from the American Dream number in Act II that was mind-blowingly-awesome) along with a historical break-down of the events during the Vietnam war and how they are linked in with the storyline of Miss Saigon.

Always Cutting Edge

Have you guys heard of this fun game that you and your friends can play when you're bored and/or drunk? Or even bored while drunk? Yeah, it involves taking an actor and, in six names or less, linking him or her to a movie they starred in with Kevin Bacon. I know, crazy, huh? Crazy fun!

Did you know that I can play this game with myself? Not play with myself, mind; I'm Catholic after all, and that's why God created this thing called a "wife". Am I right or am I right?

Anyway, I'll bet you didn't know that I used to light up the stage with my friendly visage, perfect enunciation, and projectile voicing. Ironically, usually after a stage production, I'd get to the projectile vomiting at the cast party, but those are stories for another day. Or right now, if I'm boring you. Heh. If.

I know that you might not believe me, but some of my stage credits include "Angry Townsperson" from "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers", "The Russian Cop with an Irish Accent" from "The Good Doctor", "Another Policeman" from "Boys from Syracuse", and "An Amalgamation of Seven Roles Lumped into One Middle Management Character That We Called 'Marty Party'" from "How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying" among many others. I could throw in "That Guy Who Was Nowhere Near as Funny as Steve Giles and Will Shannon But Still Funnier Than Roger in the Improv Troupe", but I don't want to brag. That last one even netted me a whole mess of Townie Groupies. It's true. Pathetically sad and something that I don't like to admit, but true.

Anyway, back to this whole crazy Kevin Bacon thing. I just thought I'd prove to you that I am within six degrees of him. In my Marty Party role, I shared the stage with Charles Barrett III, who was 'Air Force NCO' in Thirteen Days with Kevin Costner, who was in a movie called JFK along with...*gasp*...could it be...Kevin Bacon?!?!?!?!?!?!?!? I realize that's less than six connections, but I'm lazy and wanted to show you just how important I am in only four connections. Badassosity, thy name is Jenks.

Feel free to shower me with undergarments and boob shots.

In case that's not enough for you, there's also this game out there where you link yourself to the King of Spain through handshakes, and once again I was playing with myself (notice how thick my glasses are). The awesomeness of this is that there's two ways I can link myself to the King of Spain:

Option One: I once shook Dain Fife's hand, who shook Bob Knight's hand, who went hunting pheasants with the King of Spain. Funny story, that. Apparently, Bob decided not to shoot the birds that were for the King. See, Bob Knight is a humble man.

Option Two: This one is my favorite. My college buddy, David, is something like fifth or seventh in line to inherit the crown of Spain. Yeah, who knew that some schlub from Da Region in Indiana had royal blood coursing through his veins. Well, if you met David, you would know right away. But, I shook his hand once, and he shook his dad's hand, and his dad shook his uncle's hand...and you get the picture. The best part of this story is that, one time in college, I was relating this whole scenario to my mom, and I offered up the "You know, if we were to bump off the King of Spain and the six guys after him, David would inherit himself a whole country!" My mom, however, grew concerned, not so much that we were suggesting regicide, but she gravely offered: "Oh, don't kill the King of Spain. He could be the Anti-Christ."

Yes, you read it correctly: my mom told me NOT to take out the Anti-Christ. And that's just a peek into the hilarity I call "my childhood".