The other night...or was it early morning...I wrote about how I don't have a bucket list, but how Miss Serendipity leads me to things that should be on my bucket list and then I cross them off the non-existent bucket list. I was really writing about theatre, but the bucket list was there, probably in the footnotes because I don't have one. There was that time I was going to make a vision board, but I didn't finish it. OK, I cut some photos out and left them in a pile on the coffee table. Whatever. I have neither a vision board nor a bucket list. Ask me what's on my bucket list and I'll just give you a stupid look and change the subject to your bucket list.
Anyway, after I published that post, I checked for new posts from my regular blog porn and the only one there was about ... you guessed it from the title of this post so it doesn't count .... an entry The One True Sue wrote about a bucket list contest she'd entered*. Today as I was flying to Greece in a private jet waiting for my malware software to clean up a nasty critter that infested my computer, I went back to my blog porn and the first post that came up was Laura Mayes' latest post at Blog con Queso and it's about .... don't bother to guess because of course its about her bucket list, which she calls her life list. What the fuck? I thought. (Yes, I think in words, not in acronyms. I did not think WTF?)
Oh please, Miss Serendipity, don't make me write a bucket list. Unless the purpose is to win that contest, which I don't even have a link to, please don't make me write a bucket list. I've done similar visionary bullshit before. I've written what I want on pieces of paper and done all kinds of rituals, with or without people, during full moons and dark moons and even while I rode around in the night sky on my broom, and none of this shit works. Writing the things I wish I could do on a bucket list makes them no more likely to happen than I am likely to spontaneously start farting Mozart. I sometimes suspect just the act of asking for dreamy things like .... no, I'm not going to list any .... just the act of asking makes the Universe laugh and hold them there, just out of my reach.
Sigh.
Damn it.
Miss Serendipity is fucking with me. She does that. Then she hits me over the head a couple of times--metaphorically if I'm lucky--and I'm supposed to listen. A bucket list. The next thing I need to do, as if I didn't have enough to do, is write a bucket list. It's nothing but a recipe for disappointment. I know it is.
But I'm going to write a bucket fucking list.
And find that contest. I'm not doing this for nothing. Sorry, Sue. You're gonna have some competition. It won't be much, trust me, but I'm not doing this because I think anything good will come out of it. I need a higher purpose; I need competition. (I sure don't need no fucking bucket list.)
*She didn't post a link to the contest though because she doesn't want the competition. She's wily, that one.
Shakespeare may have been writing about my life when he wrote "all the world's a stage." About a year ago a friend nagged me mercilessly encouraged me to audition for a play he was stage managing. The play was Wit, a Pulitzer prize-winner about an English professor who's dying of cancer. I didn't expect to get a part, even though the story hit pretty close to home, minus the cancer, knock wood. Just auditioning, I thought, would stretch me enough. It was a step, something I'd never done, something that scared me more than a little, and if I just did the audition, I could cross it off my bucket list. So I did it .... and it was fun!
All we did was cold readings from the script and hell, I can read. And I can act. I do it in real life all the time, so that night, I acted like an actress. The scariest part was when the director, Matthew, asked me to read for the lead, a monster of a part and one I certainly wasn't ready for. He told me later if I'd had any experience, he really might have given me the part. Thank you, Jesus, he didn't. But he did give me several small ensemble parts, much to my surprise, and so a diva was born I made my entry into the community theater world.
Wit
As soon as Wit was over, I auditioned for Octette Bridge Club. I wrote about that last week here. Lil was a much bigger part, lots of lines and, although it wasn't a musical, I had to sing and play the piano. My addiction deepened. It wasn't just the time on stage because I'm not really a diva. I've been working one small step at a time through a severe performance phobia for years, so I'm not always sure I even like the time on stage. It's the community, the working together to bring about the production, and the feeling of belonging that has spilled into every area of my life in the past year. I've met dozens of new friends, and only one of them has turned out to be the shallow, fake stereotype you might expect of theatre people. I rarely go out these days without running into at least one person I know from the theater world and sharing a moment. It's....well, shit. Anything I would say about that would be too mushy for Reticula to write. I love these people, man!
Octette Bridge Club
And now? Well, now I'm involved in two plays at the same time: "Master Harold" ... and the boys and Scrooge. And with both of them, I'm crossing another experience off my unwritten bucket list.*
I'm not acting in "Master Harold" ... and the boys. I'm the stage manager, and Matthew, who gave me my big break in Wit, is the director. When he asked me to do it, I reminded him that I'm somewhere below a neophyte, but he said he was fine with that. He said he's a teaching director and he knew I could manage a stage. So I said, "Sure. I'll do it." Because that's what I do. I say yes and then I fake my way through situations like this in total ignorance. I had no idea what a stage manager does, because it's been radically different in each of the plays--yes, all two of them--I've been in. But I said yes because sometimes I just say yes and let the consequences roll.
And it's been a great experience: four gay guys and me putting together a powerful play on racism and relationships in 1950 South Africa. I'm not sure what stage managers normally do, but Matthew has involved me in every aspect of the play. I've given stage directions, talked about character development and story arc (that part I'm not faking), taught choreography, posted rehearsal times on our FB wall ... and one of these days Matthew will step back and the play will be mine. He'll show up for opening night and that's it. He gives a lot of responsibility to his stage manager, and I've learned a hell of a lot in the past few weeks. He also says I should direct my own show someday, but I think I'm fine just playing a supporting role. And I can cross stage manager off my bucket list--not that I knew it was on there when I said I'd do it.
A couple of weeks ago I also auditioned for Scrooge. I wasn't sure I would audition; in fact, I thought I would chicken out. The phobia. I didn't want to have to do the singing part of the audition.** I've done one musical audition for A Piece of My Heart, and I didn't get the part. But I got to play my guitar for that one; I was doing something I do in real life. I didn't even really prepare for it because it was the morning after opening night for Octette. Besides I knew I wasn't really right for the part, so I didn't expect to get it. The Scrooge audition required a musical theater number, and I've never done musical theater, so I was going to chicken out.
But as we were leaving our rehearsal, Matthew said, "You should audition. There aren't many women in there." I said, "No, I don't have a song." "Just sing 'Happy Birthday,'" he said, and then he went up to the table and asked the woman manning it if it was too late for me to audition. She handed me a clipboard and I did what I do. I followed Miss Serendipity right into that audition.
I stood in front of the director, music director, stage manager, producer and all the other auditioners and I sang horribly. No, really, it was bad. I decided to sing "Cry," a song I sang to my kids as I rocked them and that I now sing to my granddaughter. And I started it, but the music director said he wanted to hear my high register. So instead of switching to Mozart or something soprano-ish, I just bumped "Cry" up a few whole steps and warbled and shook through the entire song. I was blazing with embarassment when it was over, but I stayed for the cold reading too .... and I got a part! A real part with a name and lines and everything. My very first musical, after all these years as a musician. Cross another one off my bucket list.
So now I'm working on two plays at once. And let me tell you what that looks like. "Master Harold" ... and the boys rehearsals Sunday, Monday, and Wednesday nights from 6:30-9:30. Scrooge vocal rehearsal today at noon because I'm missing the ones scheduled for Monday and Wednesday, and then a two-hour choreography rehearsal tonight. And another choreography Thursday night. It's a lot. And it's so much fun!
Choreography! I love dancing, but I've never done choreography before. We worked on one song for two hours, and I could have stayed and done it another two. Not true of my male partners. The first one only made it through half of the rehearsal and had to sit out the rest. The second one was grabbing his knees before we were done. (This is a whole other post, the problem of men my age not being able to keep up with me. Yes, that sounds arrogant, but it's a fact. And kind of a problem. Think anything you want about that and it's probably exactly what I mean.) OK, it wasn't my fault this time that my partners couldn't keep up. I wondered what I would do for exercise once it was too cold to ride my bike ...... now I know.
And here's the reticulation of these two plays. Matthew directed me in Wit and now I'm stage managing with him. The Scrooge director is the Octette director's daughter. And he is in the cast, along with another of my sisters from Octette. And one of the other ensemble members from Wit is also in the cast, singing soprano with me, as is my friend, the Wit stage manager. The wife of the director who didn't cast me in A Piece of My Heart has a part. And I'm sure before it's over, I'll notice other connections.
This is a rather dry recitation, a resume if you will, of my theater experience. I have stories, interesting experiences, but when I'm in a play, it takes a lot of time. I don't get a chance to write much. Even as I write tonight, it's almost 3:00am and I've got 20+ conferences to do with students tomorrow. But I'm going to try to be better at writing short snippets and sharing them now that I've set the stage.
Next act....bed.
* It's kind of pathetic, but I don't really have a bucket list. I could probably write an entire post about my lack of bucket list, and maybe I will. Someone once asked me, after telling me a few things on his, what was on my list and I couldn't come up with one thing to tell him. But I do follow Miss Serendipity and often I retroactively add experiences to my bucket list. I learned a long time ago not to want anything too much, not to ask for what I want, and that lesson is still being reinforced today so .... I don't have a bucket list. I don't expect to get what I ask for. But I do know when something that should be there has been crossed off. Maybe someday I'll meet somebody who helps me believe in the bucket list..... Maybe that should be the first entry on my list.
** People who know me will probably be puzzled by this. It's true though. This phobia exists and I do battle with it as often as possible.
And now the post about the pole-dancing. OK, so my kids--my son Drake, his girlfriend Montana, and their friends--really like it when I come out and party with them sometimes. I'm sure they wouldn't want me to join them every time, but once in a blue moon we get a little crazy. Last time I went out to their favorite club with them it was foam night, and it was wild. I wrote a snippet of conversation about that night and posted a photo of the foam fun here. The conversation on the phone with my son about our upcoming clubbing date went something like this:
Me: If I'm dancing with somebody this time, you're not to box block me. Just keep dancing as if it happens all the time. Drake: If you're grinding with him I'll have to leave the room. Me: Grinding? Grinding? I would never grind with a stranger on the dance floor right in front of you kids. Drake: Pretty sure you were grinding last time. (Editorial note: He was kidding. He had better have been kidding.) Me: I was not grinding with that man. That was just dancing. No box blocking. Drake: Could have been grinding. Me: You could go to hell for talking to your mother like that. Drake: No grinding. Me: Go to hell.
My babies. How I love them both....except when they act like their father.
Back to the club. Friday night was goth industrial night, which wasn't wild like foam night, but certainly took a turn I didn't expect. I looked through my closet and didn't see anything that even remotely shoutedgoth industrial, so I threw on one of my little black dresses and my tallest platforms and met the kids in the parking lot behind the club at about 12:30 so they could walk in with me because, you know, I was afraid I'd get hit on and grinded ground on by all those young goth industrialists.
The club looks like a 1950's-era diner from the outside, with a raised patio on the front, and industrial modern inside. Kind of retro futuristic. The bar is a big stainless steel rectangle that serves two rooms. The sunken dance floor has a wooden cage hanging from the ceiling in one corner. Girls get in the cage and dance, and they can rock it back and forth...like go go girls without the white boots. In spite of some encouragement, I have never danced in the cage. However, I admire the girls who do. Some of them strip down to black bras and boy shorts and dance with no apparent regard for the other dancers below. And nobody seems to pay much attention to them either. Hmmm. That doesn't sound like what I mean. I think I'll become clearer when I get to the pole.
After we got there I just followed the kids around like a puppy for a while hoping I wasn't the oldest person in the place we found a group of friends out on the patio and joined them. I only knew one of them*, but she was one I'd found crashed on my couch before back in my son's teen years, so we had some history. We shared a lovely reunion and a couple of drinks.
Then some of us girls couldn't resist the pound of the music and the fog and the lights, so we hit the dance floor. And I found out I wasn't the oldest person in the place because pretty soon I was dancing with the guy who was. I think we were making an attempt at disco dancing, but he had more enthusiasm than skill. Finally I'd had enough and I glanced at Montana as he spun me out. Within seconds she smoothly cut in and danced me back to our group. That girl is a keeper.
We danced for a while, drank and talked for a while, and then danced some more. The same guy grabbed me again--he was nice, but I wasn't tapping that--and Montana did her thing again as soon as I mouthed "help me" to her. Finally we headed back to the bar again. As I stood there talking to Drake, the dancing guy came by to say goodbye. Dancing Guy: (holds out his hand to me for a shake.) Hi, I'm Ron. Me: (smiling and shaking his hand.) Nice to meet you. Dancing Guy: (to Drake) Thanks for letting me dance with your woman. She's a good dancer. Drake: (raising one eyebrow) You're welcome, but she's my mom. Dancing Guy: (recovering from the shock with remarkable aplomb) Your mom! Oh, well then I hope you bring her back soon. (to me) I've been coming here...blah blah blah back when it was blah blah blah. I hope you come back some Friday night so we can dance again. Me: (thinking, This always happens. I get too friendly with the natives and then I have to find a new place to have fun, like that time a woman was humping my leg at karaoke and we never went back to that bar....) Sure I'll probably come back sometime. Bye now.
He left and Montana ran up and grabbed my hand. "Come with me. I want to show you something."
We ran off to the last room, which is to the side of the dance floor. It has a second bar that I've never seen tended and a stripper pole on a stainless steel platform surrounded by comfy couches.
She positioned me in front of the pole, leaped up on the stage, pulled her tight t-shirt dress up to her waist and climbed to the top of the pole, about 12 feet up. I watched in amazement as she did what can best be described as a gymnastics routine along the entire pole--not really dancing but a series of moves that required incredible strength and focus. I probably looked as delighted as I felt, although when she did the splits and hung upside down, I wanted to run up and get underneath in case I needed to catch her. It was amazing. I clapped and gave her a big hug when she finished and leaped off the little stage. Next her best friend in her tiny little pleated plaid skirt got up and did her routine, followed by a third young woman who even has her own pole at her house. I just stood there and watched in wonder.
OK, it probably sounds like I'm watching my son's girlfriend and her friends do a stripper routine in a public bar, but that's far from what they were doing. Yes, they're sexy young women and they know it. Good for them! More important, they're strong, talented, athletic, confident women who...I'm not sure how to say it. They made me awfully proud of how they represent their generation. They own it all.
See it's a totally different culture there than it would be at a strip club. Yes, there are people sitting on the couches watching, but some are also not watching. One guy was sleeping; others talking and not paying much attention. Around the club, other people are dancing and walking around not paying any attention to the girl on the pole. Nobody was ogling like they would in a strip club. One of the guys even got up there and did a routine. In case you haven't seen what this looks like, here's a video that shows some of the moves I saw Friday night. In fact, they've learned most of what they do from videos and lots of practice.
Finally Montana grabbed my hand again and said, "C'mon. It's your turn on the pole." I, of course, resisted. I was pretty sure nobody needed to see Mom get up there and work the pole. "Just let me show you a couple of moves," she pleaded. Then the other girls joined in. How could I refuse?
"I should probably wear a helmet and pads on my knees and elbows," I said.
They laughed but I was kind of serious about the helmet part. I stepped up on the platform and Montana showed me how to wrap my leg around the pole and position my foot so I could climb up. I looked around with concern for young, tender eyes when she hiked my dress up so my bare leg was in contact with the pole, but nobody looked shocked. I finally hauled myself up the pole a couple of inches a few feet, clinging with all the strength I had in my arms, legs, feet....and then Montana gave me a push and I was spinning fast, head back, laughing. It hurt but it was exhilarating at the same time. They all clapped and cheered when I finally slowed down and stepped back on the ground, dizzy but triumphant. Montana showed me another move or two, and I "worked the pole" for about two more minutes until I ran out of strength. They all clapped and cheered for me some more....and one of them asked me not to tell her mother she does this. I felt sorry for her mom that she would probably never see what I was privileged to see that night.
I did basically nothing and it took all the strength I had, so I can't even imagine how they do what they do up there. If I were a bad guy, I wouldn't want to meet any of these girls in a dark alley. They could kick some ass. And they told me sometimes strippers from a local gentleman's club come in to dance, and they're better than the pros. The strippers try to get them to come and work at their club, but that's not why these girls do this. They're in it for themselves, for the challenge, and their boyfriends or husbands can love them for it, but it's not really to turn them on. (Sorry, guys.)
As I said above, the girls are super strong and fit. Not so much Mom. I was fine the next morning except for a big bruise on the top of my right foot, one the size of my hand on the back of my right thigh, and a few along my arms. But by the time I got home from porkfest that night, I could barely move. Every muscle in my arms and chest had tightened up in protest, as had my abs and the backs of my legs. This is not like riding a bike. Sunday morning I almost had to cancel my ride because I wasn't sure my arms could hold me on my bars. What a weenie.
I texted Montana to thank her for leaving me rum cake and to tell her I was hurting something awful. She said I just needed to spend more time dancing on the pole. I think probably not, but it was fun. And now I can say I've done that, although it's not the same as putting on a private show. Although for the right person ....well, that's probably another post.
Somebody once asked me what was on my bucket list and I really couldn't answer. I usually only know something was on the list after it happens--like flying an airplane or making milk licker or dancing the pole. One of my theater friends said I should put it on my next audition form as one of my skills: playing piano and guitar, singing, pole-dancing.....Coming soon to a theater or night club near you!
* I love the reaction when my son introduces me to his friends as his mom. Most of them can't imagine their parents clubbing with them, but that's a story I've heard from my kids' friends for years. Their parents don't talk to them or want to be involved in their lives other than to tell them how to do everything better. But that's a topic for another post. It's so rare for a mom to come there they go all out to show me a good time.
