Four days before you can think to wink.

Twelfth Night opened on Friday night. Eliminated were any concerns about the degree of dedication to be found in our actors. The first show of Love’s Labour’s Lost was chilly, maybe even a bit cold, but was the temperature 39°F? No. Our actors, some clad only mostly or barely in silk, held it together and did a fantastic job. We worried about audience attrition, but the headcount after intermission was around the same as it was before. The concession stand — a new addition for this show — helped surely, providing hot chocolate and coffee. Nobody bought the ice cold Coca Colas.

Of course, several of those in attendance were friends and family, the kind of audience that wouldn’t depart even in a sleeting rain. My parents and my in-laws saw the show. I went out to see them at intermission. My mother looked like an Inuit, all bundled up in a massive hooded blanket and several other layers beneath. Nobody hates the cold more than her, but she stayed all the same. All I could do was apologize for the weather.

Cast After The Show
Originally uploaded by scrivenings.

Saturday night was a bit warmer, bit only so much. Our actors were better prepared. Several were of the same mind, bringing along hand-warmer packs purchased at Home Depot. Brilliant little devices. As a result, Saturday’s show was a bit tighter, cues were hit a little harder. The audience was equal in number to Friday’s, if maybe a little bigger. A handful of them left at intermission, muttering how chilly it was. How little they knew. Throughout the evening, I wandered the backstage with camera in hand, taking photos of our waiting and prepping actors. We’ve such a good crew of folks.

Honestly, if you didn’t or couldn’t come out to our opening weekend, please try to make it to the last two shows. I’m asking not so much for me, but for our actors. They and their work deserve a pair of appreciative audiences.

This was our anniversary weekend. Nikki and I have hit the two year mark. How she puts up with me is anyone’s guess, but I’m so glad she does. We’ve overcome so much and accomplished even more. And though it looks like the work will never be done, I know I’m happier now than I’ve been ever before. She’s my sunshine.

She’d warned me subtly that her anniversary gift to me might be a bit grandiose. This was a few months ago. Since then, I’ve wondered just what she meant. In the meantime, I bought her tickets to see David Sedaris at Symphony Hall, knowing how much she loves to hear him read. The reading was on Sunday night, but we’re not there yet. Just wait.

Her gift to me? A new iPod. One of the thin ones, 30GB with video and so forth. It’s a marvelous device. My old iPod will become a dedicated means of recording, it having done so well with a pair of podcasts. Already have I packed the new one with Donny Hathaway mp3s, NPR podcasts and a pair of public-domain movies: The Scarlet Pimpernel (1934) and Reefer Madness (1936). Nikki says I’m such a geek. She’s right.

Sunday night. David Sedaris. If you’ve never heard of him, then you don’t listen to enough NPR or read enough books or even know what funny is. I won’t attempt to describe him, but understand that this man can draw out the disturbingly hilarious in something so morbid as volunteering at a bloody west coast morgue. Or a babysitter that demands the services of a monkey paw back-scratcher … :shudder:

We went to Doc Chey’s before the show. Not fancy, but so incredibly good. I’d asked Nikki earlier in the day which she preferred: someplace fancy we didn’t know or someplace great we did know. She went with the latter. She got her miso soup. I got my coconut chicken soup. All was well.

The show was at Atlanta’s Symphony Hall, located in the Woodruff Arts Center. Symphony Hall shares a lobby with The Alliance Theatre, but I didn’t hold that against it. No, I’m kidding. Mostly. See, the last play I saw at The Alliance was Art starring Kenny Leon. It was self-serving, dreadful and mostly pointless. When I think of The Alliance now, the white/off-white centerpiece of Art fills my head mercillessly. Anyway, the lobby was packed with waiting patrons for both houses. We were surrounded by hipsters.

Afterwards, Nikki and I pulled out of the parking deck and wound our way to West Peachtree. I asked if she wanted to grab a cup of coffee. She was unsure, so we aimed north for GA 400. Shortly thereafter, it happen’d.

The first thing I noticed was the blaring light on my dash with an exclamation point in the center. Never seen that one before. The light was right below the temperature needle, a needle that was bearing deep into the red. I panicked a bit. At first, I thought we could possibly make it to the QuikTrip on Sidney Marcus, another mile away. That’s when the engine light joined the exclamation point light. The engine itself started to shudder. I panicked a bit more as Nikki stabbed on the hazard lights. Somehow, I eased the quivering Focus back across two lanes of traffic to rest on the shoulder. As I put it in park, the engine shuddered and quit without waiting for my key.

I popped the hood. The engine wasn’t smoking, the radiator wasn’t steaming, but there we were. The road we were on is difficult to describe even to an Atlanta native, but I guess the best name for it is the one-way I-85 access road that eventually becomes Buford Highway. (pull)Everyone on it is going somewhere else.(/pull) Being less than a mile from Lenox Road, Cheshire Bridge and Sidney Marcus (and therefore GA 400), they lay on the gas and just go like racecar drivers in sight of a checker flag. But I calmed down and stepped out to take a look. Nikki started making phonecalls. People were busy and not answering, all but a good friend of Nikki’s named Sally.

Sally was already marvel of humanity, but she’s our hero now. She took Nikki to find water and oil while I stayed with the car and contacted State Farm. Turns out that emergency roadside service is a pay-you-back-later arrangement. They give you a list of towing services, you pay for what you find and they refund later. I was given three phone numbers. The last one worked. It’s $50 to hook up the car and $2.50 per mile. In theory, the tow should be to the nearest possible repair shop. But really, right there in the nexus between Buckhead and Midtown, I couldn’t find a repair shop in daylight, much less an hour before midnight. A comic book shop, coffee shop or movie theatre? No problem. I called my dad as well. Could it be the oil? I’m overdue for a change by a hundred miles, but that shouldn’t matter. It looks like the water reservoir that feed the radiator is empty. A leak perhaps? It didn’t look like the engine had seized, so that was one good thing.

Sally and Nikki found me again. A half-quart of oil into the engine. A whole gallon of water into the reservoir. Yeah, that’s a lot. Around then is when I noticed just how wet the hood liner was. Hmm. All this done, I turned over the engine, then shut it right back down. Even more water was everywhere. And with that, we knew that towing was our only option. We’d bite the bullet and have them tow the Focus up to a shop near the house.

Tow truck showed up a few minutes later. The driver was all business. No returned greeting. I said thanks for coming. He glared over his glasses and went about his hooking-up. There would be no new friends made tonight. Any question was answered curtly. “I’ll follow you,” he said. The tow truck was a flat-bed, not a hook. At least the car would be happy for the ride up GA 400.

Sally drove us north, leading our convoy of two with the tow truck behind. Shortly after midnight, the car was dropped off, the key was in the garage slot with an explanation and we were heading home to warmth and cats.

Monday morning. I made pancakes.

The shop called. The problem with the car was something to do with heater hoses and the radiator, that the one had parted ways with the other. There was more minor drama later with a persistent engine light, but suffice it to say that the car was back up and running by 2pm. We made some arrangements for Thursday night’s linethrough, went shopping for new boots for Nikki (none were found, so the hunt continues), then went back home. Taking some inspiration from the Joy Of Cooking book, I made us a baked chicken thing involving baby bellas, sherry and turmeric. The end result was a pretty dish — if I do say so — of Indian-esque yellow chicken, the baked mushrooms and a bed of brown rice. Not quite tandoori or tikka, but it worked for us.

And that was my weekend. How was yours?