GRABBINGSAND

there comes this point during the rehearsal or the run of a show that you feel the lines lock. you hope that it happens during tech week, that last week that ends with opening night. you start to speak the lines in character, naturally, not from memory, and oddly enough it seems to dawn on you all at once. and you nod approvingly, smile a bit as you step off stage, fighting that urge to pump your fist like a pitcher after the last strikeout of first shutout game. gotcha.

So where have I been? What am I doing? It feels as if I have left the poor site in an empty apartment awaiting my eventual return. Thankfully, it is built more like a dromedary cactus than a puppy. It survives and sustains, albeit a bit stunted. So what has taken all of my time? There are so many things that need to be sorted, compiled, compressed and addressed, but maybe if I released a few of these events, maybe they can fly and return with something valuable. Maybe.

Shakespeare is not easy. For the second time this year, I find myself donning the twirling mustache and innuendous eyebrow of the antagonist. Claudius is reprehensible, haughty and unrepentant. At least that is the way I am playing him out. It just makes sense to me. Always looking for a way to avoid, to conquer through elimination of obstacle entirely, rather than negotiating. A manipulator with human pawns. Not anywhere near as sympathetic as an ancient Dracul, Claudius and his ilk do not get loyal followings from goth kids, horror enthusiasts and Anne Rice supporters. But it is an opportunity to step and stride the stage in the service of Shakespeare, and I am enjoying it. Much work for four days of gratis performance in the indeterminate outdoors, often cold, sometimes humid. It is hard enough to maintain character with typical distractions of inner concerns and outer constraints, but add mosquitoes, ambulances, motorcycles, rednecks, dogs, weather, and a general lack of immediate restroom facilities — we all deserve a Tony.

Improvisational comedy is not easy. Even a few months into the endeavor, we still wonder who our mainstay weekly audience will be. We are offering the residents of suburban North Atlanta something that they would typically have to go Inside The Perimeter to acquire. And they are coming. Some nights you recognize voices and faces from the week before, and you want to step off the stage and ask them specific questions. What did you think was funny? Why did you come back? We are still guessing here, you know. But it often works. And the laughs come. The amazing thing is that the laughs are often an immediate approval of these spontaneous outcroppings from your mind. Improv is on the fly, and your mouth has no script to dictate its shape. So these responses and setups just have to fly, little or no time to check them for style and substance. It is an amazing rush when it works. Maybe it will work again this weekend.

Still unpacking from the move. Dealing with remnant bills and trailing leases. Trying to make sure that the mistakes of my economic past do not latch too tightly to my feet. I am no Jacob Marley.

Other things from my bag. Listening to the new Radiohead, old Stevie Wonder, unheard Christina Abbott. Watching the revamped Exorcist, the once-shelved Lost Souls. Playing more Quake III than I should. Rooting for the Yankees and disliking the Mets for no decent reason. Buying new shoes. Reducing Hamlet to a reasonable size for public consumption. Moving to a new cube. Seeing the leaves turn from green to gold/red/brown. Thinking of England in May. Greeting the ghosts and helping them to move along.

And you try the best you can …

final dress rehearsal. the tradition holds that a final dress rehearsal is destined to be hideous, a thing that dares to dash all those built-up hopes of a good show. a bad final dress equals a good opening. hogwash. a bad final dress simply comes out of nervousness and anticipation, the knowing that this is the last time that you are allowed to screw up, this is the last time that the only audience will be your tired director and burdened stage manager. it bears little impact on the opening night. so what makes a good opening, if not a bad final? adrenalyn…

tonight is the first of the debates. gore will sling data. bush will parry with jokes. the whole country will behold the witty repartee of two amateur stand up comedians. and laugh… at least right now.

you can definitely tell that i am in the throes of another play. everything else seems to get kicked to the side, like laundry. you know, when you spend the whole evening doing laundry and you finally finish that second or third load, and you dump all the clothes on your bed. they are ready to be folded, but you are ready for bed. and the bed wins. reminds me of sleeping behind fortresses of stuffed animals.