EIGHT O'CLOCK! THE LIBRARY IS CLOSED!

I got snippy with a librarian last night. Shouldn't have.

Sometimes, I get offended easily. 

This was one of those occasions.

I was at the Evergreen Library for a first read through of Spongebob Squarepants the Musical, which I am directing for the upcoming StageDoor High School Production. (you can get info if you click HERE)

We were a loud group. 

Not surprising, as it was me, the stage manager, music director, choreographer, and twenty high schoolers on a rainy night, stuffed into a little room in a tiny library in a miniscule town called Evergreen that sits in the Rockies a little above Red Rocks.

We had the room until 8pm, when the library closed. We read the play. We listened to the songs. We laughed, asked questions, answered questions, and began the process of putting a show together, which is one of my favorite things to do in the world.

We were at this library, far from our theatre which is over in Conifer, another little mountain town, because the theatre is opening The Importance of Being Earnest next week and was busy rehearsing.

By the end of the night, I was feeling good. Cast was great, kids even better, creative team that rare mix of talented people who are also good friends.

The clock ticked.

The hour to leave came.

I sent the young thespians off into the night, and headed out with my Stage Manager.

And this kind of insane looking woman popped her head in the room and in rather strident tones proclaimed "Eight O'Clock! The Library is closed!".

This was to a room with only me and my stage manager in it, hands full of books, already heading for the door.

I thought to myself, "poor woman, she's clearly mad."

After her rather dramatic pronouncement, she was gone, and we continued towards the front door.

This was around 8:02.

As we stepped into the hallway, the same woman, who had managed to grow more frantic, was now down the hall, away from the front door. As we walked away from her, she called after us "Eight O'Clock! The Library is closed!"

Same tone. Same urgency. 

I thought to myself, "This must be the only place she can come close to controlling in her life."

We got to the door.

It was now the ungodly hour of 8:03.

I turned to the Keeper of the Hours, who was now walking up the hallway towards us, with a smile plastered on her face that I imagine the Zodiac Killer wore when preying on his victims.

I had to pee.

So I asked her-- and I now realize this was a mistake-- if she would mind if I used the rest room on the way out. There were a few other librarians, going about their business, stacking books, putting things away, and clearly there were duties to be done after we left anyway.

The Mad Harpy of Evergreen smiled wider somehow, and in my mind, I swear her eyes bugged out like Large Marge in Pee Wee's Big Adventure, and in the same tone that was a bizarre mix of Mary Poppins and a Rottweiler, she intoned, yet again, "Eight O'Clock! The Library is closed!"

She walked swiftly towards us as she repeated her mantra.

So, I did my best impression of her, smiled widely and I hope with a tinge of madness,  said "You can just tell me no!"

It was not my best reply, but I had had enough.

And then I self righteously marched out.

I hate getting mad like that.

But sometimes, it happens. People act unkindly. Rudely even. 

And I get angry, try to be pithy, and usually end up sounding just at ridiculous as the person I bark at.

Ah well. 

Such is life.

Here's today's song. I was introduced to this song by a former student of mine, the great Jacob Wolfe. It's Everyone Else is an Asshole, by Reel Big Fish. Enjoy, and try to avoid deranged librarians. If you should be unfortunate enough to come across one, don't lower yourself to their level. Definitely not worth it.

I'M A ROOKIE. AND THAT'S OKAY.

I am a rookie in this thing called life. Sometimes I forget that, and assume I've learned all there is to learn about human interactions, friendship, love, music, art-- you name it. And that is clearly not the case.

I realized that this morning as I walked with Lisa. We get up early everyday, and after making coffee and writing in my journal, we head out for at least half an hour. This is something I highly recommend. Even if you are exhausted. Especially if you are exhausted. Get up, get out, and move through your surroundings. 

So, as we were walking and talking, as if we were characters in an Aaron Sorkin script, Lisa was telling me about this thing that happened to her when she was a young woman, and said "I was a rookie then", and went on with her story. 

And I thought, what a fantastic way to put it.

I was a rookie.

As in, I was a rookie in being a human being.

And I thought, well, not only is that an excellent use of language, but I am still a rookie. Right now. Today. As we walk and talk and discuss things and feel the crisp air that promises Autumn is on its way and are glad we are wearing sweaters even though just last week the thought of doing so would come across as lunacy it was so hot.

I am a rookie on this planet. I am still green around the ears. Rough around the edges. Not quite as refined as I think I am. 

And I felt this wondrous freedom as I realized that. A sense of both forgiving myself for the many mistakes I make on a daily basis, and also a lessening of the pressure on myself, imposed by my ego, to be wise and brilliant and all knowing.

Now, this doesn't mean I think I can act like a dullard, or be purposefully rude, or start taking selfies at inappropriate places and times. 

No.

That's not being a rookie.

That's being an asshole.

But I can, and will, feel free to admit when I don't know something. To try and listen to what others have to say, as it will almost certainly help me on my journey. To learn from my mistakes and hopefully grow from, instead of using them as a reason to bemoan my fate and wallow in self-pity. 

I feel like Stuart Smalley.

And that's okay.

I don't want to be all touchy-feely. But sometimes I am. 

I don't want to beat the shit out of myself when I fall short. But sometimes I totally do.

Rookie or not, I am on this team called the Human Race. And we are having a rough season. We seem to be in the process of destroying home field, there's a lot of infighting, and many questions about the coaching staff. 

But I think we can make it to the play offs if we get out shit together, show up for practice, and continue to work on our game.

Actually, I don't feel like Stuart Smalley. I feel like this next video, the first night HadesTown played after the shut down. I feel energized and good and ready to do some shit.

Yeah. That's the rookie feeling. I know life is sad, old, and full of love. I am alive. Everything is always new. Everything is always old. Everything is a fucking miracle.

And here's the song for today. Road to Hell from HadesTown.

HOLLY, NO PRETENDER SHE

So I click on Facebook to wish my friend, student, and fellow playwright a Happy Birthday. And on her page, I see:

Happy Birthday, Holly, in Heaven.

And I think to myself: well, shit. 

I met Holly in my first ever playwriting class at DCPA, which somehow was years ago, even though it feels like only a blink of the eye to me. 

Of late, pretty much everything that has ever happened to me feels like it was just yesterday. 

And also forever ago.

Holly had signed up for my class to finish a play she had been working on for quite some time. She had taken classes on playwriting at DCPA before my class, and several of her classmates that first session had taken those classes as well, and I got the impression she had been working on her play for quite a while. 

Her play was titled The Great Pretender, and it was a sort of kitchen sink realism piece set in the 1950s, all about a family dealing with a son who had a tenuous relationship with the truth. It felt to me like the sort of thing a young Paddy Chayevsky would have written and had done on Playhouse 90. She brought new pages every class. Took every note I gave her. Worked and reworked and reworked yet again moments and sections, always seeking to find that right balance. At the end of the session, we had a night of readings of everyone's work.

It was a magic night for all of us, I think. 

I was fortunate enough to be asked back to teach another session at DCPA. And Holly signed up for that class as well. And she continued to work on her play. Scene by scene, character by character. A lot of it changed, as she got deeper and deeper into it. We had another reading at the end of that session, and that too was magic. I strongly believe there is something mystical and wondrous in people sharing themselves through their writing in front of strangers. 

I got asked back again, and Holly followed. 

This cycle continued. Class, reading, new class, Holly back, and so on.

And lo and behold, a day came, after a few years of the class, when Holly's play was done. 

By then, I had a fairly consistent group of students in my classes, and most of us knew Holly and her work. 

And we were ecstatic. 

Holly beamed with pride. 

And something in her changed. A power filled her, a glow. 

The night she brought in the last bit of her play, we all cheered her like the rock star she was. And always will be. 

And on the way out of the building that night, she gave me a million dollar smile and said "Thanks, Kid".

One of the best things I've ever had said to me, really, because it was full of... well, everything. The play, the time, the work, the laughter, the frustration, and the joy.

The joy.

Here was a woman who had lived a full life, who late on decided to write a play. And she did. And I got to be a part of that. A small part, to be sure. But I'll take it. 

And cherish it. 

Holly didn't give a shit about her age, or how long it took her to get her play done, or anything other than working on what she loved.

She was a tough, funny, wonderful woman, and I shall miss her.

I the photo below, Holly is the woman on the left, with the glasses and blue top. That's us at class, in the library at the education building of the DCPA. A room full of giants.

Here's a song for Holly. It's The Great Pretender, of course.

PS - if you feel like taking a class, click HERE.

A TRINITY OF LUNATICS

I was on a break at rehearsals the other night down in Parker for The Addams Family, looking for coffee. I walked to the usual spot, this awesome little joint called Fika, which is a Swedish word meaning a time to drink coffee and eat cake while hanging out with friends and strangers. Sadly, they were having plumbing issues, and I had to walk back to the theatre, jump in my car, and venture forth in search of coffee. I got to the Starbucks drive thru at 8:02, and the voice on intercom informed me they had just closed. I shouted Fuck, rather loudly, then asked the voice if it knew of anywhere still open. They pointed me to Dutch Bros. And off I went, found the spot, got the coffee, and headed back to rehearsal. 

Now what was of interest in that little jaunt was the world. First thing I noticed was how clear the sky was, how extraordinarily beautiful the sunset was, how there is still magic in dusk and dawn, in those moments of inbetween when the world takes on a purple pearl kind of color and a stillness seems to permeate everything and everyone.  And I realized it had been a while since I just took a step back and looked at the world I stand on, at the people and places and clouds and just let it be. 

And I wondered, what did we learn during the shut down? Didn't we all find parts of our soul we had misplaced? Didn't we finally figure out what was important? We we not all given the chance to tend to our own gardens? 

And if so, how did we forget it? More to the point, have we forgotten it? Can we? Or have we changed in ways big and small that we don't even realize? 

I think the latter.

So there I was, looking at the sunset, seeking coffee, driving around Parker, Colorado, listening to Spanish Model (the reimagined, Spanish version of Elvis Costello's This Year's Model that is a must listen to kind of thing if you are a human being), filling up with peace, love, and understanding (not on the album but another great Elvis song), wondering what the effects of the past few years have been, still are, and perhaps will be.

I think the big thing we all acknowledge is our sense of time. There is now sort of reason to it anymore. When someone says "a year ago", I have no sense of how long that is, what percentage of my life a year is, or who I was in that other time called "a year ago". 

None.

We are all unhinged from time, floating from dream to dream, song to song, face to face, seeking our home planet where things made more sense. 

But not necessarily in a sad way. There is this cosmic sort of peace at times. Isn't that strange? The world stops, starts again, over heats, has wars and uprisings and floods and inflation and whatever else... 

And there is this beautiful sunset, and Elvis Costello, and coffee.

I am the me I was, and I am the me I am, and I am the me I will be; a trinity of lunatics, each distinct, and each the same.

Here's a song. It's Like I Use To, by Sharon Van Etten and Angel Olson. Enjoy. Watch a sunset. Get some coffee. Reflect on your life. Don't reflect on your life.