Dear friends: All is not well in Daly mouthdom. Despite years of frenetic brushing, regular dental visits, and dungeon-of-horrors orthodonture, I approach mid-life with a mouth that is about to be declared a federal disaster area.
Why? Who's to say? In part, it's my pre-disposition for cavities, which left all my molars scarred with big silver fillings by the time I turned 12. And the recession of my gums, variously explained as a biproduct of braces, the result of too-vigorous brushing, and the sad outcome of chronic teethgrinding. My jaw-gnashing ways have also, apparently, cause cracking in nearly all my molars. And then, add to that the quack dentist who insisted on replacing all my old but perfectly servicable metal fillings with new resin ones -- at my expense, of course -- which resulted in the death of one tooth, a root canal and crown.
Anyhoo, the upshot is, my mouth and I are not friends. I mainline Sensodyne, and live in fear of yet one more bout of aching jaw and shooting pains.
But all this mayhem has led me to an interesting realization. That is, as unpleasant as dental work can be, the absolute worst part is not the drill or shots. Lately, I've had ample opportunity to ponder this fact. During my most recent check up, I was informed that one of my fillings --yes, one of my relatively brand-new resin fillings -- had failed. I needed ... another crown.
I'm a big girl. I can handle it. And by and large, it was unpleasant, but not excruciating. The dentist shot me with big needles. She poked and prodded. She drilled. She thrust applicators filled with nasty, ill-tasting goo onto my molars, and pressed down, forcing slimy-cold tendrils of molding plaster in and around my gumline.
But the only truly awful moment in the entire hour-and-a-half ordeal occured when the doctor stepped away from the chair. It was then I was left at my leisure to probe the mangled remains of my mouth.
I sat there, obsessively tonguing the sad little nub that was once my tooth, and it was then that I was struck with a frightening reality: I am going to die. Maybe not today, maybe not soon. But eventually, and irrevocably, dead. Each day I live, I'm wearing away just a bit more of my mortal coil. My skin will lose its luster. My chin will droop. And eventually, I will be just a pile of dust.
Would I like a free tooth brush? Samples of enamel whiteners? Sure, why not. It's all going the same place.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Monday, March 27, 2006
Crazy Crap Item #56: The part where I receive sage advice from my sister-in-law
Eamon's little sister Nora is living the dream. Fed up with her paper-pushing real-estate management job, she ditched it all to travel Europe with her boyfriend, Stephen. A laudable decision.
And, an entertaining one, as she has been sending regular missives home recounting her adventures -- along with occasional pithy pieces of advice. To whit:
i have to say that when i ran down my list of things to be worried about crossing the black sea via ferry to istanbul "stephen being headbutted by short insane drunken ukrainian in the disco bar" was decidedly NOT one of them. just goes to show that worrying or even trying to prepare yourself is useless while traveling 'cause really god knows what the heck will happen to you along the way and things will always turn out more surprising and bizarre than you could ever imagine!
Sage words, indeed.
And, an entertaining one, as she has been sending regular missives home recounting her adventures -- along with occasional pithy pieces of advice. To whit:
i have to say that when i ran down my list of things to be worried about crossing the black sea via ferry to istanbul "stephen being headbutted by short insane drunken ukrainian in the disco bar" was decidedly NOT one of them. just goes to show that worrying or even trying to prepare yourself is useless while traveling 'cause really god knows what the heck will happen to you along the way and things will always turn out more surprising and bizarre than you could ever imagine!
Sage words, indeed.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Crazy Crap Item #55: The part where I discover that spellcheck is my friend
I just discovered I have no idea how to spell "kaleidoscope." All that education for nuttin'.
Crazy Crap Item #54: The part where I hear echoes of Fitzgerald
Speaking of corned beef, I was the grateful recipient of said meatstuff from my neighbors, the Caseys. Apparently, they had obtained a rather large specimen of the aforementioned cured meat, and were planning to cook it on Friday, March 17. But a dilemma arose: Young Jack and James Casey, ages 4 1/2 and 1 1/2 respectively, needed haircuts! And the beast was already in the oven! Where to turn for meat-sitting services??
Thankfully, the Caseys dwell beside a shiftless, excuse-for-doing-nothing-seeker who poses as a freelance writer. A cup of tea and a good book were all I needed to fill the role of meat-sitter while Ann (Mama Casey) took the wee heads in for shearing. As a reward, I was bestowed with a delicious helping of corned beef, all for myself.
Fastforward to today. As I am a a shiftless, excuse-for-doing-nothing-seeker, and because I spent the morning getting a tooth crowned (ugh), I decided that I needed to make some crepes. Reasons: (a.) They are delicious. (b.) I happen to be very good at making crepes. (c.) They are soothing, and after 1 1/2 hours in the dentist's chair, I decided I deserved some soothing. As my little mountain of crepes grew, I thought, "Aha! I can use these crepes as a 'thank you' for the corned beef, and as a way to return the Caseys' tupperware." The tupperware being the vessel which had previously contained said c.b.
So one pile of crepes later, I'm at the Caseys' door, tupperware in hand. Ann answers, joined by Jack, resplendent in his Superman shirt. And bouncing. Not manic, jittery boucing. True, deep bounds, summoned up from the energy of the earth below, executed with a deliberation and concentration usually seen in world-class chess masters.
I commented on the bouncing, but he was in no mood for talking.
Given Jack's generally acknowledged affection for me, my diggable backyard and my penchant for playing along with his identity du jour (superhero, builderman, fireman, pirate, etc.), it was hard not to interpret his bouncing as an attempt at wooing my favor. And it's then I heard F. Scott Fitzgerald whispering in my ear:
Then wear the gold hat, if that will move her;
If you can bounce high, bounce for her too,
Till she cry, 'Lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover,
I must have you!'
Thankfully, the Caseys dwell beside a shiftless, excuse-for-doing-nothing-seeker who poses as a freelance writer. A cup of tea and a good book were all I needed to fill the role of meat-sitter while Ann (Mama Casey) took the wee heads in for shearing. As a reward, I was bestowed with a delicious helping of corned beef, all for myself.
Fastforward to today. As I am a a shiftless, excuse-for-doing-nothing-seeker, and because I spent the morning getting a tooth crowned (ugh), I decided that I needed to make some crepes. Reasons: (a.) They are delicious. (b.) I happen to be very good at making crepes. (c.) They are soothing, and after 1 1/2 hours in the dentist's chair, I decided I deserved some soothing. As my little mountain of crepes grew, I thought, "Aha! I can use these crepes as a 'thank you' for the corned beef, and as a way to return the Caseys' tupperware." The tupperware being the vessel which had previously contained said c.b.
So one pile of crepes later, I'm at the Caseys' door, tupperware in hand. Ann answers, joined by Jack, resplendent in his Superman shirt. And bouncing. Not manic, jittery boucing. True, deep bounds, summoned up from the energy of the earth below, executed with a deliberation and concentration usually seen in world-class chess masters.
I commented on the bouncing, but he was in no mood for talking.
Given Jack's generally acknowledged affection for me, my diggable backyard and my penchant for playing along with his identity du jour (superhero, builderman, fireman, pirate, etc.), it was hard not to interpret his bouncing as an attempt at wooing my favor. And it's then I heard F. Scott Fitzgerald whispering in my ear:
Then wear the gold hat, if that will move her;
If you can bounce high, bounce for her too,
Till she cry, 'Lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover,
I must have you!'
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Crazy Crap Item #53: The part where I am again reminded how much I love Chicago
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Crazy Crap Item #52: The part where I give a shout out to the Potts
Looking at my extended family, it's clear I have the least-likely relatives. Seriously. None of my cousins look or seem like they should be in any way connected to me. They don't look like me. They don't act like me. Nada.
But of all my cousins, the least likely of all were the Potts boys. I use the term 'boys' loosely; all three are well over 6 feet tall. And gangly. And oddly alternative, though not in the tired, flannel-wearing, trendier-than-though Seattle way.
No, I'm talking 6 foot 5, eye-glass-wearing, punk-music-playing, art-school-attending, plumbing store-owning oddness. Fabulous, fabulous oddness.
But perhaps I should back up a bit.
The Potts, consisting of:
Norm Potts: the uncle, my dad's brother-in-law, now sadly deceased. Enormously tall, with a visage like a character out of a Dickens novel. He owned a plumbing supply store, the aptly named Potts Plumbing. It was legendary all over San Gabriel Valley for its remarkable inventory, helpful staff, and sexy stock girls. I should know. I worked there during the summers.
Anyway, Norm was splendid, a quiet, wry giant, with a stealthy sense of humor that sneaked in around the edges. He was slow and meditative, and he'd regularly steal nips from a mysterious bottle he kept stashed in the plumbing store breakroom. He referred to it as his "cough syrup"; when ever he went in for a nip, he'd pound his chest, hack, and declare that he felt a spell coming on. At some point, my sister added a label to the bottle. "Hazardous Material."
Aunt Doris: my father's sister. Sharp-witted, often sharp-tongued, she once commented that her favorite character was Lady Macbeth. She was resolutely non-girly, except when it came to baking. Then, she was all-girl.
The Potts house was a thing of glory and wonder to a small child. They had an abundance of, yes, crazy crap. Such as the dried blowfish on the mantle. And Uncle Norm's stand-up bass fiddle in the living room (I never heard him play). And a rinky tink piano in the dining room. And an authentic pachinko game in one of the bedrooms. And an honest-to-god geodesic dome in the backyard.
And of course, the house was strewed with a variety of art projects created by the Potts boys. My favorite: a terrarium containing a tiny model village, being destroyed by a rampaging monster consisting of parts from a mailman, a dog, and Godzilla.
And since I've introduced their art projects, I might as well get to the boys themselves.
Tom: The eldest, tall and lanky with a big, mountain-man beard. Tom worked the 6am to 2pm shift at the plumbing store. Highly educated, but changed his major so frequently, rumor was they kicked him out before he earned his degree. He also helped numerous friends ace the GREs. A bit of a loner, he joins me in being the only member of our extended family to (gasp!) leave Southern California. A few years after I moved to Chicago, he bought a unibomber style cabin in Montana. Mountain man Tom we call him. From thence, he runs an online business connecting people with faucet stems, in tandem with his brother Joe (see below). Joe just launched their website. Don't miss Joe's cartoon rendition of his brother in the "Ask Tom" section.
Joe: The next brother down, but just as tall and lanky. I recall a sort of outgrown mop-top haircut. In fact, what with the artsyness and longish hair, I remember thinking as a small child that there was some unspoken connection between my cousins and The Beatles. It didn't help that he later married a woman of Japanese-American descent. Sure, she looked nothing like Yoko Ono, but what did I know?
Anyhoo, Joe was artsy with a capital A. He created funky pieces, and may have attended CalArts or some such long-haired institution. He was also part of LA's avantgarde punkish music scene, and made quite a name for himself. I like this write-up, which refers to his "strange sound pieces." Joe, like Tom, also plied his wares at the plumbing store by day. He was a crazy punk artists only in his off-hours.
Unlike Rick, who broke with tradition and forsook plumbing altogether, kind of like when Tevye's daughter leaves the faith in Fiddler on the Roof. Kind of. Like Joe, Rick dabbled in "strange sound recordings" -- both were part of the The Los Angeles Free Music Society, a movement I've never heard of until I started randomly googling all my relatives. Rick once entertained us with an improvised piano piece, in which the left and right hand parts are in different keys. Very freaky. When Rick got married, the theme was dinosaurs. The invitation had a photo of him and his betrothed in front of the Cabazon dinosaurs (near where my parents now live; alarming). The ceremony and reception were held in his parents' backyard; toy dinosaurs dressed as brides and grooms were hidden throughout the shrubbery. The cake had an erupting volcano. Awesome.
So this is a shout out to the Potts. Long may you wave.
But of all my cousins, the least likely of all were the Potts boys. I use the term 'boys' loosely; all three are well over 6 feet tall. And gangly. And oddly alternative, though not in the tired, flannel-wearing, trendier-than-though Seattle way.
No, I'm talking 6 foot 5, eye-glass-wearing, punk-music-playing, art-school-attending, plumbing store-owning oddness. Fabulous, fabulous oddness.
But perhaps I should back up a bit.
The Potts, consisting of:
Norm Potts: the uncle, my dad's brother-in-law, now sadly deceased. Enormously tall, with a visage like a character out of a Dickens novel. He owned a plumbing supply store, the aptly named Potts Plumbing. It was legendary all over San Gabriel Valley for its remarkable inventory, helpful staff, and sexy stock girls. I should know. I worked there during the summers.
Anyway, Norm was splendid, a quiet, wry giant, with a stealthy sense of humor that sneaked in around the edges. He was slow and meditative, and he'd regularly steal nips from a mysterious bottle he kept stashed in the plumbing store breakroom. He referred to it as his "cough syrup"; when ever he went in for a nip, he'd pound his chest, hack, and declare that he felt a spell coming on. At some point, my sister added a label to the bottle. "Hazardous Material."
Aunt Doris: my father's sister. Sharp-witted, often sharp-tongued, she once commented that her favorite character was Lady Macbeth. She was resolutely non-girly, except when it came to baking. Then, she was all-girl.
The Potts house was a thing of glory and wonder to a small child. They had an abundance of, yes, crazy crap. Such as the dried blowfish on the mantle. And Uncle Norm's stand-up bass fiddle in the living room (I never heard him play). And a rinky tink piano in the dining room. And an authentic pachinko game in one of the bedrooms. And an honest-to-god geodesic dome in the backyard.
And of course, the house was strewed with a variety of art projects created by the Potts boys. My favorite: a terrarium containing a tiny model village, being destroyed by a rampaging monster consisting of parts from a mailman, a dog, and Godzilla.
And since I've introduced their art projects, I might as well get to the boys themselves.
Tom: The eldest, tall and lanky with a big, mountain-man beard. Tom worked the 6am to 2pm shift at the plumbing store. Highly educated, but changed his major so frequently, rumor was they kicked him out before he earned his degree. He also helped numerous friends ace the GREs. A bit of a loner, he joins me in being the only member of our extended family to (gasp!) leave Southern California. A few years after I moved to Chicago, he bought a unibomber style cabin in Montana. Mountain man Tom we call him. From thence, he runs an online business connecting people with faucet stems, in tandem with his brother Joe (see below). Joe just launched their website. Don't miss Joe's cartoon rendition of his brother in the "Ask Tom" section.
Joe: The next brother down, but just as tall and lanky. I recall a sort of outgrown mop-top haircut. In fact, what with the artsyness and longish hair, I remember thinking as a small child that there was some unspoken connection between my cousins and The Beatles. It didn't help that he later married a woman of Japanese-American descent. Sure, she looked nothing like Yoko Ono, but what did I know?
Anyhoo, Joe was artsy with a capital A. He created funky pieces, and may have attended CalArts or some such long-haired institution. He was also part of LA's avantgarde punkish music scene, and made quite a name for himself. I like this write-up, which refers to his "strange sound pieces." Joe, like Tom, also plied his wares at the plumbing store by day. He was a crazy punk artists only in his off-hours.
Unlike Rick, who broke with tradition and forsook plumbing altogether, kind of like when Tevye's daughter leaves the faith in Fiddler on the Roof. Kind of. Like Joe, Rick dabbled in "strange sound recordings" -- both were part of the The Los Angeles Free Music Society, a movement I've never heard of until I started randomly googling all my relatives. Rick once entertained us with an improvised piano piece, in which the left and right hand parts are in different keys. Very freaky. When Rick got married, the theme was dinosaurs. The invitation had a photo of him and his betrothed in front of the Cabazon dinosaurs (near where my parents now live; alarming). The ceremony and reception were held in his parents' backyard; toy dinosaurs dressed as brides and grooms were hidden throughout the shrubbery. The cake had an erupting volcano. Awesome.
So this is a shout out to the Potts. Long may you wave.
Friday, March 10, 2006
Crazy Crap Item #51: The part where I contemplate my latent violent streak
Back when I was in college, I did a lot of original musicals written by friends from a course I took through the music department, Musical Theatre Workshop. One of these friends always contrived to put me in vamp numbers where I was gyrating and singing about vaguely off-color topics, such as the state of my virginity. Once, when it was pointed out to him that he kept doing this, he responded that it was funny to put me in sexy roles, because it was so against type.
Um, thanks.
I'm put in mind of this little exchange as I contemplate the feature I'm trying to write -- about boxing and theater. I've been stumped as to how to open it, so I decided to refer to not one but two other articles I've written about stage combat for inspiration. Yes, two.
What conclusion am I to draw from this? Am I assigned these pieces because it's so funny to think of wee kay engaging in fisticuffs?
Um, thanks.
I'm put in mind of this little exchange as I contemplate the feature I'm trying to write -- about boxing and theater. I've been stumped as to how to open it, so I decided to refer to not one but two other articles I've written about stage combat for inspiration. Yes, two.
What conclusion am I to draw from this? Am I assigned these pieces because it's so funny to think of wee kay engaging in fisticuffs?
Crazy Crap Item #50: The part where I dwell in the land of macho
Yesterday, dear friends, I stepped out of my comfort zone and into ... the south side. Let me be more specific. A south side boxing gym. Seriously.
I'm on assignment with Time Out to do a piece about play about boxing and such, and needed to attended rehearsal -- at a boxing gym -- in order to research the piece. I'll say no more, as I do not wish to steal my publication's thunder. But I can recount my little foray, which involved many narratable events.
First off, I initially drove right past the place. It's on the second floor of a crumbling warehouse, and I suspected I was the right address, but there was no drive-by friendly signage. Only a cop car out front.
Still, an assignment is an assignment, so I pulled a U-ie and parked. No signage, still, but I'm intrepid, so I wander toward the door. On the way, I figure I'll check out the parked cars for clues as to whether I'm on the right track, or instead wandering into a den of crack addicts. I spot one sporty vehicle, emblazoned with the message "www.boxerchick.com". I assume I'm in the right place.
Lo and behold, there is a sign on the door -- a battered, faded one -- that tells me that the gym is on the second floor. I push through the battered doors, and into a dingy, ill-lit stairwell. "Gym" and an arrow pointing up are stenciled on the wall in white. Similar signs all along the walls assure me I'm going in the right direction. Finally, I arrive at the landing, and there's a burly cop (or possibly a security guard, it's hard to tell) standing off the side, who ignores my greeting, and a daunting message on the door that says visitors are not permitted and all boxers must sign in. But there's no sign-in sheet. I look vaguely questioningly at again at the cop/security guard, but he ignores me, so I push open the door...
And I'm greeted by a cheerful, slightly harried looking yuppie woman, fluffy hair, pleasant grin, who sticks out her hand and asks if I'm Kay Daly. She's the publicist. She points out the obvious -- that the only boxers in the gym are part of the rehearsal.
The actors are drilling moves, and a photographer is shooting them, so I have a fun time observing and trying to stay out of the shots, all the time scribbling furious notes so I look duly like the girl reporter that I am.
I mention to the publicist that I wasn't sure if I was in the right place when I first drove up, meaning because there was so little signage, but I apparently trigger some other thought in her mind.
"I know!" she answers, "There were two cop cars and an ambulence when I showed up! I was thinking, what am I doing in this neighborhood!"
Anyhoo, whatever excitement the boys in blue attended to earlier, it's all over now, and it's pretty tranquil, except for the three women pummelling phantom boxers in front of the mirror.
The cop comes in and chatters amiably with the publicist. "I've never been in here before," he says. "This is really cool. It's like a movie set from the 1950s." I tend to agree, and am amused by his starstruck-edness.
Later I learn he had more than one reason to be starstuck. After his final departure, the publicist comes over to me laughing. "The cop gave me this," and she hands me a xeroxed, spiral bound document, with a black and white image of 5 white guys on the cover. Our cop is in a band. He thought the publicist might want to "keep him in mind" for any events she's got planned, so he went to his squad car to get her their promotional materials. They include a song list. Which, for some reason, includes "Mary Had a Little Lamb." I guess there's a lot of call for it at cop-band-playing fetes.
I'm on assignment with Time Out to do a piece about play about boxing and such, and needed to attended rehearsal -- at a boxing gym -- in order to research the piece. I'll say no more, as I do not wish to steal my publication's thunder. But I can recount my little foray, which involved many narratable events.
First off, I initially drove right past the place. It's on the second floor of a crumbling warehouse, and I suspected I was the right address, but there was no drive-by friendly signage. Only a cop car out front.
Still, an assignment is an assignment, so I pulled a U-ie and parked. No signage, still, but I'm intrepid, so I wander toward the door. On the way, I figure I'll check out the parked cars for clues as to whether I'm on the right track, or instead wandering into a den of crack addicts. I spot one sporty vehicle, emblazoned with the message "www.boxerchick.com". I assume I'm in the right place.
Lo and behold, there is a sign on the door -- a battered, faded one -- that tells me that the gym is on the second floor. I push through the battered doors, and into a dingy, ill-lit stairwell. "Gym" and an arrow pointing up are stenciled on the wall in white. Similar signs all along the walls assure me I'm going in the right direction. Finally, I arrive at the landing, and there's a burly cop (or possibly a security guard, it's hard to tell) standing off the side, who ignores my greeting, and a daunting message on the door that says visitors are not permitted and all boxers must sign in. But there's no sign-in sheet. I look vaguely questioningly at again at the cop/security guard, but he ignores me, so I push open the door...
And I'm greeted by a cheerful, slightly harried looking yuppie woman, fluffy hair, pleasant grin, who sticks out her hand and asks if I'm Kay Daly. She's the publicist. She points out the obvious -- that the only boxers in the gym are part of the rehearsal.
The actors are drilling moves, and a photographer is shooting them, so I have a fun time observing and trying to stay out of the shots, all the time scribbling furious notes so I look duly like the girl reporter that I am.
I mention to the publicist that I wasn't sure if I was in the right place when I first drove up, meaning because there was so little signage, but I apparently trigger some other thought in her mind.
"I know!" she answers, "There were two cop cars and an ambulence when I showed up! I was thinking, what am I doing in this neighborhood!"
Anyhoo, whatever excitement the boys in blue attended to earlier, it's all over now, and it's pretty tranquil, except for the three women pummelling phantom boxers in front of the mirror.
The cop comes in and chatters amiably with the publicist. "I've never been in here before," he says. "This is really cool. It's like a movie set from the 1950s." I tend to agree, and am amused by his starstruck-edness.
Later I learn he had more than one reason to be starstuck. After his final departure, the publicist comes over to me laughing. "The cop gave me this," and she hands me a xeroxed, spiral bound document, with a black and white image of 5 white guys on the cover. Our cop is in a band. He thought the publicist might want to "keep him in mind" for any events she's got planned, so he went to his squad car to get her their promotional materials. They include a song list. Which, for some reason, includes "Mary Had a Little Lamb." I guess there's a lot of call for it at cop-band-playing fetes.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Crazy Crap Item #49: The part where I hang my head in shame.
I just discovered I have no idea how to spell ‘aficionado.’ And that’s after 2 ½ years of college Spanish! Me disgusto!
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Crazy Crap Item #48: The part where I interact with Broadway history -- kind of
As I mentioned before, I'm putting together nominee profiles for the newly launched website for the Kevin Kline Awards. My friend Nicole, through her soon-to-be-launched venture, 3rdRowCenter, is providing content for the Kevin Kline site, and I'm playing girl reporter.
Anyhoo, so far I've completed five of my 10 profiles, but there's one name I've been putting off calling. Granted, that first step in cold-calling strangers is always hard, but when your stranger is an icon and a Drama Desk Award winner, multiply that by, oh, 100.
So who am I putting off? His name is Ken Page. Unless you're a Broadway geek, you've probably not heard of him. He made a huge hit in the original Broadway production of Ain't Misbehavin', and originated the role of Old Deuteronomy on Broadway in Cats. Let me say that again. I'm going to interview Old Deuteronomy. That's just too ... well ... crazy.
For the Broadway-impaired, he was also the voice of Ooogie Boogie in Tim Burton's The Nightmare Before Christmas.
Okay, so I interview everyone I possibly can before I get to him, just to ensure that I have my confidence up. And I dial. And thankfully, I get an answering machine. I hate the cold call, and much prefer starting with an email inquiry to schedule a time. When no email is available, as in this case, leaving a message is the next best thing.
So, anyhoo, I start in on my message, and a few seconds ... HE PICKS UP. And I'm talking to a rather cheerful and chatty Oogie Boogie man, who tells me that he just woke up! At 11:45! That he was so happy that he'd actually awakened earlier at 8am, and thought he'd just lay in bed a bit, and he fell back to sleep! So could I call back in 30 minutes? I told him I'd be happy to call either then, or any other time that would be convenient to him. A half-hour is all he needs, he assures me, with an ingratiating Deuteronomy purr, all he needed was to get a cup of coffee.
I promise to call him back in a half hour, and sit back and giggle myself silly about waking up Old Deuteronomy.
Anyhoo, so far I've completed five of my 10 profiles, but there's one name I've been putting off calling. Granted, that first step in cold-calling strangers is always hard, but when your stranger is an icon and a Drama Desk Award winner, multiply that by, oh, 100.
So who am I putting off? His name is Ken Page. Unless you're a Broadway geek, you've probably not heard of him. He made a huge hit in the original Broadway production of Ain't Misbehavin', and originated the role of Old Deuteronomy on Broadway in Cats. Let me say that again. I'm going to interview Old Deuteronomy. That's just too ... well ... crazy.
For the Broadway-impaired, he was also the voice of Ooogie Boogie in Tim Burton's The Nightmare Before Christmas.
Okay, so I interview everyone I possibly can before I get to him, just to ensure that I have my confidence up. And I dial. And thankfully, I get an answering machine. I hate the cold call, and much prefer starting with an email inquiry to schedule a time. When no email is available, as in this case, leaving a message is the next best thing.
So, anyhoo, I start in on my message, and a few seconds ... HE PICKS UP. And I'm talking to a rather cheerful and chatty Oogie Boogie man, who tells me that he just woke up! At 11:45! That he was so happy that he'd actually awakened earlier at 8am, and thought he'd just lay in bed a bit, and he fell back to sleep! So could I call back in 30 minutes? I told him I'd be happy to call either then, or any other time that would be convenient to him. A half-hour is all he needs, he assures me, with an ingratiating Deuteronomy purr, all he needed was to get a cup of coffee.
I promise to call him back in a half hour, and sit back and giggle myself silly about waking up Old Deuteronomy.
Monday, March 06, 2006
Crazy Crap Item #47: The part where I gain a new perspective on things
This weekend, I was struck with spring fever. Which means spring cleaning. I'm not sure what possessed me, but I decided to clean all our upstairs windows inside and out.
What I found was amazing.
First off, after toddling onto my porch roof to get the outside of my office window, I discovered/realized that nearly all our windows are designed to tilt when detached, so you can clean the outside from the inside. Ah, the wonders of modern science.
Secondly, as vile and disgusting as the mix of dried mud and raindrops on the outside panes was, the yellow film that came off on my rag when I washed the inside panes was far more deplorable. The previous owner was, I understand, a heavy smoker.
Finally, now that my windows are clean, I'm stunned to discover what a lovely neighborhood I have. Who knew?
What I found was amazing.
First off, after toddling onto my porch roof to get the outside of my office window, I discovered/realized that nearly all our windows are designed to tilt when detached, so you can clean the outside from the inside. Ah, the wonders of modern science.
Secondly, as vile and disgusting as the mix of dried mud and raindrops on the outside panes was, the yellow film that came off on my rag when I washed the inside panes was far more deplorable. The previous owner was, I understand, a heavy smoker.
Finally, now that my windows are clean, I'm stunned to discover what a lovely neighborhood I have. Who knew?
Friday, March 03, 2006
Crazy Crap Item #46: The part where I poll the readership about their dream life
OK, I've asked friends and family informally, but I feel like I want to get this on record. I have a kind of recurring dream. It's actually not really a recurring dream, per se, as much as a recurring dream motif. In it, I will be in some residence -- sometimes it's been an apartment I'm currently living in; other times, my childhood home; still other times, it's a completely imagined space that in my dream is my "home." My dream will be chugging along, when suddenly, someone will ask why I'm not using that other room. Or why we (my roommates and I) are only living in the small space we're living in, when the rest of the apartment is so nice.
At that point, I will notice a door I don't remember seeing before, and I'll open it, and -- voila! -- there it is: The rest of my living space. And it's usually pretty palatial. And well-appointed. And I'll smite my dream brow, and say/think, well, my goodness! I had no idea this was here! I could've been using this space all this time.
And then I wake up, with a lovely sense of excitement and optimism. I've come to refer to this motif as my "unfulfilled potential" dream, and after having it, I always wonder, "What potential am I not exploiting in my life?"
Anyone else had this dream?
At that point, I will notice a door I don't remember seeing before, and I'll open it, and -- voila! -- there it is: The rest of my living space. And it's usually pretty palatial. And well-appointed. And I'll smite my dream brow, and say/think, well, my goodness! I had no idea this was here! I could've been using this space all this time.
And then I wake up, with a lovely sense of excitement and optimism. I've come to refer to this motif as my "unfulfilled potential" dream, and after having it, I always wonder, "What potential am I not exploiting in my life?"
Anyone else had this dream?
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