The Diary of Queen Mothy |
Life Like Dali written @ 10:00 PM on February 01, 2005 In the musical Bat Boy, there's a flashback scene in which a required prop is a baby doll that looks like, well, a bat boy. My friend Derek did a wonderful job sculpting bat ears on this toy using nothing but hot glue, and then he added two fangs in its open mouth. So Ron, my set design prof, turned to me on Friday and said, "Okay, now you have to paint the ears flesh color and then get white-out from the secretary's office." No sweat, I thought. I took some spray paint and fixed the ears, and then I traipsed down to the secretary's office to bum some white-out for the fangs, but she was not there. The director of Bat Boy, however, was in his office, the door swinging wide open, and I gave a cheerful hello and displayed the bat baby doll prop, which made him chuckle. And also, of course, provided an avenue from which to request said white-out. So I painted the fangs and left the white-out on the director's desk. As I turned to leave, he said, "Well, Sam, what do you think? Do we keep the diaper on the doll, or do we lose it?" I, thinking it would look silly on stage since the doll was anatomically incorrect, said, "Keep it. It gives it character." Friends, that's the default answer you give whenever you want to wash your hands clean of an honest opinion. The director nodded and said okay, as if that silly matter of a prop that would be on stage for a few moments truly bugged him, and I headed back for the scene shop to continue painting duties, all the while thinking how the diaper question was, in fact, an odd question. Upon arriving in the scene shop and presenting Ron with my completed task, my professor then said something I never imagined I would hear him say: "Okay, now you need to add a penis." I stopped, certain I had not heard him right. "What?" "You need to add a penis," he said, grinning. I looked at him. "Are you serious?" The thing about Ron, though, is that of course he is serious. Even when he is joking, he is perfectly serious. I looked down at the doll, and the diaper question suddenly became relevent. "But the director said he wanted to keep the diaper because it added character!" I exclaimed, half-lying. "Did you ask him distinctly about it?" "Well, sorta..." "Make sure. And then put a penis on the doll." I sighed and went into the paint room. Adding a hot glue-sculpted penis to a toy seemed wrong on so many levels. I half wondered if I would ever be put on the spot to add genitalia to any other props throughout the course of my professional career, but I decided to stave off that internal debate until the time ever arose to ponder such a theme-- which I pray will never happen. So I did what I usually do when I don't want to do something in the scene shop: I pretend to busy myself with a thousand other trivial tasks that I make meaningful with the hopes that I "conveniently forget" the task that I'm avoiding, and hope Ron does it in the morning. Works like a charm every time. After an hour had passed, I laughed about how funny and surreal the whole thing was, and I told Derek about it. Upon mention of adding a penis to a doll that is supposed to resemble my friend Brian, who is playing Bat Boy, Derek-- worthy male that he is-- snapped to attention and said, "WHAT? Well, did you do it?!" "No," I said, miffed. Before I knew it, he snatched the doll out of my hands and was running to the props room to fire up the hot glue gun. Ron was howling when he saw Derek bolt out the door carrying the doll by a leg, and when we entered the props room, Derek had officially finished the project he started by making this hideous phallus. I decided at that moment that I was not going to tell Brian or the cast about the prop and let them discover it by surprise. The chance of comedy was much greater. Ah, great moments in theatre. "What do you think, Ron? Shall we make its balls drop lower than the penis?" Derek asked. Ron tried to snatch the glue gun from his hand before Derek could, but he was laughing so hard that he missed. "I think that violates the director's concept for the show," I said. "Why?" "Because he wanted minimalist stage design. Everyday I come into this shop," I declared, "I lose just a little bit more of my innocence as a result of these antics." Ron snorted. "Innocence?! You're a skank." "And a ho," Derek added. I flustered indignantly a la Bree from Desperate Housewives. So not only was I asked to add a penis to a doll, I was called a skank by my own prof all in a span of one hour. This has been another episode of Sam's Funny But True. We now return to our regularly scheduled program. *** My brother has done it again. After totalling the last car over Christmas break, Dad decided to be a merciful god and buy him a white Malibu. This was necessary since they cancelled bussing services in my school district due to a levy failure, and Jon has to get to school and to work without "punishing" my Mom's schedule. For the past couple weeks, my brother had been using my dad's SUV while my dad rented a this ugly hybrid car, so by all accounts my dad was doing for him what he could. The day after Dad delivered the Malibu to his 17-year-old son to whom he thought was learning to be a responsible adult, Jon backs into my mom's car and cracks the back bumper. To the average citizen, this does not seem like a big deal. Mom's car suffered no damage, and Jon would have to pay for the body work on the bumper, but what does my father do? He throws a tyrannical fit, of course, what else would he do? You see, the same day he learned Jon damaged the new car, he discovered that Jon had also left an opened can of Coke in the glove compartment, which had spilled and frozen the hatch shut, to be opened only by quite a bit of prying with a screwdriver. Jonathan offered many a nasty retort to Dad, which didn't help his situation, and at that moment Dad decided he was going to disown my brother "just like what my uncle did to my cousin" (a couple years ago, my cousin sort of embezzeled a couple thousand dollars from my uncle, as I understand it... They're okay now. They sort of worked out their differences.*). I talked to my dad a couple of days after the incident and asked thoughtfully-- and as sarcastically as the situation called for-- if that was a little extreme. He gave a hefty sigh, like a king for whom the burden of ruling his domain was becoming too cumbersome. "Well, Sammy..." He calls me Sammy when he is in need of compassion and understanding and/or has a great life lesson he is about to pass on to me... It worked when I was eight. At twenty, I dare say he needs new tactics, but this is besides the point. I don't remember what followed after "Well, Sammy...", which can only mean he gave me some lame-ass hacked excuse that I didn't care to remember. As far as I know, it's been about two weeks since this incident with the abused Malibu, and he and Jonathan still have not spoken a word. Boy oh boy, that reminds me of when I didn't speak to my father for two months when I was a senior in high school. Fancy that! My brother is a senior in high school, too. Must be some sort of rite du passage in the pre-graduation world, what do you think? Meanwhile, Mother has tactfully stayed out of it. In fact, my mom has a boyfriend. Yes, she admitted it at last. She's dating Doctor Paul. I am happy for her success in moving on past the rather painful divorce. In the pangs of love, she has neglected to call me as often as she used to, and when I call her, she is never home or "Hold on, let me call you back later, I am at a dinner party..." My mother has a more active social life than I ever had. Period. So while she cavorts with Doctor Paul, the Good Catholic, who holds doors open for her, gives her the number to his private line, sends her goodies, and brings her out, I, the jealousy abandoned offspring, sit in mild discontent about this. I don't want to be selfish because my mother deserves the best, no doubt, but I am not ready to accept this man personally. I was also going to keep such thoughts to myself and merely applaud her good fortune, but finally she asked me, "Why do you make that face whenever I mention him?" I told her that I hadn't realized I was making a face, but then she pried me for an explanation and I told her the truth. She was mystified. "Why?" she asked me. "Because he's a strange man who is not my father," I replied, as if the answer were obvious. "I can't believe you don't get this. He's a doctor. He can explain it to you better than I can. I'm the alpha female who feels threatened." "I thought I was the alpha female." "No. In the American family, the eldest child rules. Look at the devils running the house down the street. Duh. That's why some animals eat their young." She rolled her eyes. "And the female praying mantis eats her spouse." "Indeed. But that is off topic." "What don't you like about Paul?" "Nothing. He's a nerd. He's harmless, I guess. Let me provide a test. Is he a Republican?" "I don't know." "All right, does he hold right-wing ideals?" "Not really." "Okay, that's a good start. Is he a hard-core Catholic?" "He's religious, but he's not fanatical." "No, I mean if he moves in here, will he be lecturing me on my beliefs and throw Bibles at me and stuff?" "Of course not!" "Okay, he's passed stage two." "What's stage three?" I shot her a look. "Whether or not he gets you home at curfew, naturally." I'm the alpha female. *** As for school and my never-ending search for a degree (or two), the going is slow because classes are slow. And painful. Nothing interests me this semester. I live to do set design and paint sunsets. I'm up to twenty sunset paintings for my indepedent study, and I have had good critiques all around by the privileged few I let into my studio to see them. I got a check from the Honors department for $200 to buy supplies, too. The show that I'm designing in theatre is about the Holocaust, and I am just about done with draftings. We'll start construction next week, I think. The theatre department just held auditions, and the cast lists are posted for the next three shows. Aye me! That's the thing about being one of the rare theatre technicians in college-- most of your friends are actors. And when they don't get casted, you are party to their miseries, too. Shakespeare would bow his head in shame at the lamentations I've heard the past two days. Even so, I can't help but pity them; I know how frustrated I get when faced with setbacks, but there's nothing you can really do except pick up the pieces and try harder next time. As I say, C'est la vie. Bienvenu au theatre! Here was my advice to them (keep in mind I was suffering from a sudden migraine and neausea at the time, but even so you might find this piece of advice relevent): For every setback you may suffer, you will accomplish more than you have dreamed with diligence. Right. Because then you become as neurotic as me! *** I'm tired of winter. Aren't you?
A Bit of History ~ And Onward! L'Amour Toujours! - August 08, 2005 |
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