I have been blessed to be a part of the LDS Church's production of Savior of the World several times now. This year Buffy, Ike, and Mimi are also in the show. We perform three times per week at the LDS Conference Center Theater.
The first act portrays the Christmas story starting with Zacharias and Elizabeth and ending at the stable with a lovely manger scene.
The second act picks up at Jesus' tomb as the stone is rolled into place. The show was designed to combine Christmas and Easter.
This year I play Thomas--the apostle. His story is one that I relate to, it's also quite touching. You'll remember that Thomas was the only member of the twelve (with the notable exception of Judas) to miss out on the initial upper room experience where Jesus appeared to and ate with the apostles.
In this production, Thomas is distraught that he cannot be a witness, having missed his opportunity to see. Peter teaches him that seeing is not enough, and that some who saw Jesus were among those who condemned him to the cross. In spiritual matters what we feel, genuinely, makes us more of a witness than what we see. Eventually Thomas does see the Savior, but only after he has fastened himself to hope without making demands.
The following video was made a few days ago and features the other cast (the one that Buffy, Ike, Mimi, and I are not in). But, what these cast members say and feel certainly applies to us. If you'd like to see the show go to lds.org/events. Tickets may be gone, but stand-by tickets are available every night. Our cast performs Wednesday nights, Friday nights, and Saturday matinees until New Year's Eve.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Monday, November 21, 2011
Um...
This post is past due. I like to post at least twice per month; at this rate, I might not meet my goal for November. The problem is that I have nothing that I care to talk about. Nothing at all. So, I guess I am posting just to post right now.
So... uh...
...how's things?
Snowed the other day. Not sure what that'll mean for getting the Christmas lights up.
...yup...
Have you noticed how I have three "followers" on this blog? One of them is me. That's kind of funny. The other two are from the same family and are just being nice.
...I guess...heh...
Ike (age 8) taught me two "manly dance moves" yesterday. The first was that thing that Russian dancers do, where they fold their arms and kick out. The other involved swinging your left arm stiffly in front while jump-sliding backwards. I had to admit that he was right--they were manly moves.
...so...you know...
VoiceMale did a performance at the state prison last week...
...I don't want to say it...
...we had a captive audience.
Actually, it was a great experience. It really seemed to help lift the inmates' spirits. I know they're all in there for a reason, but we met some good men and had a great time with them.
...mmm hmmm...
Looking forward to Thanksgiving. I like being with my family--it's my family's year.
...yep...
My friend from college is in Sister Act on Broadway and will perform on the Macy's Thanksgiving day parade.
...So that's cool....
...We called him Elvis (that's not his name). He got me my first collegiate acting role. A musical called The Hired Man. I played 3 characters: Pennington, the Vicar, and the foreman. The foreman wore wool pants that chaffed the heck out of my knee pits. I can still feel it 17 years later.
...17 is one of those forgotten numbers, right between milestones 16 and 18. Poor 17, she just wanted to dance.
...This post just got a little weird.
So...yeah...
...bye.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Greetings from a place that is large and not difficult
Hey, everyone (i.e., Mom),
I was in New Orleans a couple of weeks ago. New Orleans, Louisiana, NOLA for short. Nola is also my aunt's name, which might explain her love of beads and jazz, and her hate of hurricanes. I'm just kidding, I don't know if my aunt hates hurricanes. My mom's side of the family is, after all, an exceptionally loving group of people, and they do give those hurricanes adorable names. To read more about hurricane names click here. I wonder if there has ever been a hurricane Nola. There's a headline for you: NOLA Ravaged by Nola: Big Easy vs. Big Breazey.
The city is pretty cool for being nearly 300 years old although it's kind of hard to get around. Actually, come to think of it, most 300-year-olds have problems getting around. So, I guess I'll cut her some slack.
I ate Gumbo at a restaurant called "Gumbo Shop." I assume that I could buy shoes at a place called "Shoe Store," and kittens at "Cat Market," and beans at "Bean Place." I would then put the new shoes on the new kittens and feed them only new beans. Poor kitties.
I was there for a conference. A conference aimed specifically at transportation-agency training directors. A bunch of trainers at a conference is like a bunch of professional scouters on a camp out. We tend to get a little judgie of the presenters. "Throwing the koosh ball to get people to participate is so last decade; These tables ought to be in an inverted-U shape to take better advantage of the room dimensions; She just read every word on that slide--Rookie; etc."
The conference felt long, because all conferences feel long to people who cannot concentrate for more than three minutes at a time. Worse, I had no cell phone to play games on. That's right, I had to go to New Orleans without my cell phone. Not bringing one's cell phone to NOLA is number 5 on the list of silly mistakes made by people traveling to the Big Easy. Here is the rest of the list:
1. Don't go sniffing around Bourbon Street, you will find something stinky.
2. People in NOLA are very friendly while they steal your wallet.
3. The sidewalks are constructed from slate slabs as a way of tripping the very drunk.
4. The water is wide, you cannot cross o'er.
5. You'll need your cell phone at some point.
6. Who Dat?
My phone mysteriously went missing the night before I flew out. I hunted for it until 3 AM before I finally gave up and slept as a pile of defeated human on the basement couch. I left two hours later at 5 AM. I want to blame my kids for losing my phone, but it probably is only their fault because I raised them wrong. I really needed the phone so that I could communicate with people back where I live without having to pay the equivalent of *choose a metaphor* that they charge for using the hotel room phone.
A cellular phone device would have been handy in the airport on the way home when my plane got delayed and I missed my flight from Atlanta to Salt Lake and had to spend the night--all nine hours of it--in the surprisingly bright, bustling, and frigid Atlanta airport. I called Buffy on an airport payphone. Every airport still has exactly one payphone left over from the days when you could give someone a quarter and ask them to call someone who cared. You can find banks of phone booths, sure, but all of the phones have long been removed except for one, which is located directly in the middle of the airport. In order to locate the last pay phone, you have to ask an airport cleaning person for directions. The cleaning person then presents you with three riddles.
Riddle #1: Q. I butt in the lines of fountains, wedge the briefs of the timid, and feed on the weakling's lunch money. Who am I? A. School bully.
Riddle #2: Q. Like a slow and exacting wind mill, I wave from my face. I repeat all I know twice per day. I repeat all I know twice per day. Who am I? A. A clock.
Riddle #3: Q. Your turn. A. I walk with four legs in the morning, two at midday, and three in the evening, what am I? Q. A person? A. Yes.
Once you have been led to the phone, you must wait in line for it and must also choose between a red and a green pill that the TSA provides at no additional cost. Choosing incorrectly will result in your death.
You can use a credit card on the phone. There is also a loan officer there to approve your credit.
After conquering the nine trolls that guard each individual touch-tone button, I left the following message on my home phone,
"KSHHHHHSHHHVISHSHbuffyI'mnotEEEEEEEEKSHHtomorrowbyaroundFFFFFFLLLLSHHHHseeyouthen."
The phone may have been trying to send a fax.
With no other riddles to answer, trolls to conquer, or tolls to pay, I put my jacket over my head and sought a place to lie down, not necessarily in that order.
I found a nice, soft, isolated bank of airport seats on which to lie. I was soon joined by another traveler lying on the adjacent bank of seats. I knew there was someone there not because I saw that person (my jacket was over my head after all), but because s/he started watching what sounded to me like a Chinese-language movie musical on a laptop. It must have been good because s/he sang along loudly with each musical number.
I got up and moved to a better place next to an area where the airport's night employees like to take breaks and talk to one another about, you know, life and love.
It didn't matter, because at this point I was very tired. I slept. I remember dreaming about earthquakes. In fact, in one dream a brick wall fell and then a roof caved in--all right on top of me.
When the morning finally arrived, I wandered to my gate. I passed several people wearing University of Utah gear. And, although I was not wearing anything that would identify me as a Utahn, I nodded knowingly at one of the gentlemen. Thinking back, I'm quite sure that he interpreted my nod as code that I had decided to murder his family. My hair was matted in the back and my eyes were, no doubt, crazed. Full disclosure: I did not murder his family. I only killed his cat (after making it wear shoes and eat beans).
It was a nice trip, and yes, I will do it again next Fall.
I was in New Orleans a couple of weeks ago. New Orleans, Louisiana, NOLA for short. Nola is also my aunt's name, which might explain her love of beads and jazz, and her hate of hurricanes. I'm just kidding, I don't know if my aunt hates hurricanes. My mom's side of the family is, after all, an exceptionally loving group of people, and they do give those hurricanes adorable names. To read more about hurricane names click here. I wonder if there has ever been a hurricane Nola. There's a headline for you: NOLA Ravaged by Nola: Big Easy vs. Big Breazey.
The city is pretty cool for being nearly 300 years old although it's kind of hard to get around. Actually, come to think of it, most 300-year-olds have problems getting around. So, I guess I'll cut her some slack.
I ate Gumbo at a restaurant called "Gumbo Shop." I assume that I could buy shoes at a place called "Shoe Store," and kittens at "Cat Market," and beans at "Bean Place." I would then put the new shoes on the new kittens and feed them only new beans. Poor kitties.
I was there for a conference. A conference aimed specifically at transportation-agency training directors. A bunch of trainers at a conference is like a bunch of professional scouters on a camp out. We tend to get a little judgie of the presenters. "Throwing the koosh ball to get people to participate is so last decade; These tables ought to be in an inverted-U shape to take better advantage of the room dimensions; She just read every word on that slide--Rookie; etc."
The conference felt long, because all conferences feel long to people who cannot concentrate for more than three minutes at a time. Worse, I had no cell phone to play games on. That's right, I had to go to New Orleans without my cell phone. Not bringing one's cell phone to NOLA is number 5 on the list of silly mistakes made by people traveling to the Big Easy. Here is the rest of the list:
1. Don't go sniffing around Bourbon Street, you will find something stinky.
2. People in NOLA are very friendly while they steal your wallet.
3. The sidewalks are constructed from slate slabs as a way of tripping the very drunk.
4. The water is wide, you cannot cross o'er.
5. You'll need your cell phone at some point.
6. Who Dat?
My phone mysteriously went missing the night before I flew out. I hunted for it until 3 AM before I finally gave up and slept as a pile of defeated human on the basement couch. I left two hours later at 5 AM. I want to blame my kids for losing my phone, but it probably is only their fault because I raised them wrong. I really needed the phone so that I could communicate with people back where I live without having to pay the equivalent of *choose a metaphor* that they charge for using the hotel room phone.
A cellular phone device would have been handy in the airport on the way home when my plane got delayed and I missed my flight from Atlanta to Salt Lake and had to spend the night--all nine hours of it--in the surprisingly bright, bustling, and frigid Atlanta airport. I called Buffy on an airport payphone. Every airport still has exactly one payphone left over from the days when you could give someone a quarter and ask them to call someone who cared. You can find banks of phone booths, sure, but all of the phones have long been removed except for one, which is located directly in the middle of the airport. In order to locate the last pay phone, you have to ask an airport cleaning person for directions. The cleaning person then presents you with three riddles.
Riddle #1: Q. I butt in the lines of fountains, wedge the briefs of the timid, and feed on the weakling's lunch money. Who am I? A. School bully.
Riddle #2: Q. Like a slow and exacting wind mill, I wave from my face. I repeat all I know twice per day. I repeat all I know twice per day. Who am I? A. A clock.
Riddle #3: Q. Your turn. A. I walk with four legs in the morning, two at midday, and three in the evening, what am I? Q. A person? A. Yes.
Once you have been led to the phone, you must wait in line for it and must also choose between a red and a green pill that the TSA provides at no additional cost. Choosing incorrectly will result in your death.
You can use a credit card on the phone. There is also a loan officer there to approve your credit.
After conquering the nine trolls that guard each individual touch-tone button, I left the following message on my home phone,
"KSHHHHHSHHHVISHSHbuffyI'mnotEEEEEEEEKSHHtomorrowbyaroundFFFFFFLLLLSHHHHseeyouthen."
The phone may have been trying to send a fax.
With no other riddles to answer, trolls to conquer, or tolls to pay, I put my jacket over my head and sought a place to lie down, not necessarily in that order.
I found a nice, soft, isolated bank of airport seats on which to lie. I was soon joined by another traveler lying on the adjacent bank of seats. I knew there was someone there not because I saw that person (my jacket was over my head after all), but because s/he started watching what sounded to me like a Chinese-language movie musical on a laptop. It must have been good because s/he sang along loudly with each musical number.
I got up and moved to a better place next to an area where the airport's night employees like to take breaks and talk to one another about, you know, life and love.
It didn't matter, because at this point I was very tired. I slept. I remember dreaming about earthquakes. In fact, in one dream a brick wall fell and then a roof caved in--all right on top of me.
When the morning finally arrived, I wandered to my gate. I passed several people wearing University of Utah gear. And, although I was not wearing anything that would identify me as a Utahn, I nodded knowingly at one of the gentlemen. Thinking back, I'm quite sure that he interpreted my nod as code that I had decided to murder his family. My hair was matted in the back and my eyes were, no doubt, crazed. Full disclosure: I did not murder his family. I only killed his cat (after making it wear shoes and eat beans).
It was a nice trip, and yes, I will do it again next Fall.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Ladies and Gentlemen Your Attention Please
A while back, I posted a video that I made as an audition for a group called Voice Male.
I initially thought that I was applying for an internship with a misogynistic telecommunications company, but it turns out that it was a six-man singing group. I thought that perhaps "baritone" was a nickname or title. Maybe short for Baron von TouchTone. Who knew?
Anyway, I made it into the group.
It's true. You can check it out here. See that picture of a bureaucratic-looking, deer-in-the-headlights guy? That's me. That picture was used because the people making the announcement needed a picture and I had not provided one. So they resorted to Google-ing me (don't worry mom, it just means looking me up on the computer), and somewhere lodged in the great bowels of the internet was this picture.
The funny thing about the picture is that I have absolutely no recollection of ever sitting for it, and what's spookier is that I do not recognize the tie. I can only assume that the Voice Male webmasters and mistresses have access to a search engine that sees into the future.
I took the evidence to Lady Buffington. She said, "Oh, that's from your first year in the MPA program. The tie is my brother's; you borrowed it for our engagement photos and hadn't given it back yet, even though it had been like three years. Also, this was the day that you ..." She went on from there into ever-increasing detail, replete with foibles and anecdotes.
So, the picture is from eight years ago. And, my lady has a great memory. Warning, here comes a colloquialism: Her memory is so good she'd tell a cheetah his spots were in the wrong place, and by gum she'd be right!
So the moral of the story, have better pictures on the internet.
Also, go check out my group's website. If you haven't seen Voice Male perform before, they're--excuse me--we're really funny. You'll have a good time. Check the performance calendar, and get tickets. And, if you're on Facebook, like us.
One more also, you can see me, Lady Buffington, Ike, and Mimi in Savior of the World in the Conference Center Theatre every Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday matinee (except for December 2, 9,10, and 21) from the middle of November until the end of December. Tickets are available at lds.org (find the events page).
I initially thought that I was applying for an internship with a misogynistic telecommunications company, but it turns out that it was a six-man singing group. I thought that perhaps "baritone" was a nickname or title. Maybe short for Baron von TouchTone. Who knew?
Anyway, I made it into the group.
It's true. You can check it out here. See that picture of a bureaucratic-looking, deer-in-the-headlights guy? That's me. That picture was used because the people making the announcement needed a picture and I had not provided one. So they resorted to Google-ing me (don't worry mom, it just means looking me up on the computer), and somewhere lodged in the great bowels of the internet was this picture.
The funny thing about the picture is that I have absolutely no recollection of ever sitting for it, and what's spookier is that I do not recognize the tie. I can only assume that the Voice Male webmasters and mistresses have access to a search engine that sees into the future.
I took the evidence to Lady Buffington. She said, "Oh, that's from your first year in the MPA program. The tie is my brother's; you borrowed it for our engagement photos and hadn't given it back yet, even though it had been like three years. Also, this was the day that you ..." She went on from there into ever-increasing detail, replete with foibles and anecdotes.
So, the picture is from eight years ago. And, my lady has a great memory. Warning, here comes a colloquialism: Her memory is so good she'd tell a cheetah his spots were in the wrong place, and by gum she'd be right!
So the moral of the story, have better pictures on the internet.
Also, go check out my group's website. If you haven't seen Voice Male perform before, they're--excuse me--we're really funny. You'll have a good time. Check the performance calendar, and get tickets. And, if you're on Facebook, like us.
One more also, you can see me, Lady Buffington, Ike, and Mimi in Savior of the World in the Conference Center Theatre every Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday matinee (except for December 2, 9,10, and 21) from the middle of November until the end of December. Tickets are available at lds.org (find the events page).
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Knock, knock.
Hi. A couple of cool things are happening in my life right now. I will tell you about them some other time, because right now I have an anecdote to share.
The cool things that are happening have added some short-term stress to my life--a welcome stress, but stress nonetheless--and short-term stress usually messes with my sleep patterns, (i.e., weird dreams, sleepless nights of planning, etc). Does anyone else spend all night fitfully trying to plan the next day in that neither-asleep-nor-awake fog? Does anyone beside me spend the entire night repeating over and over again the first couple of items of what turns out to be (the next day when you think back on it) an incomprehensible list? Anyone?
Usually, added stress will do that to me, but last night was different. Last night my brain woke me up to tell me a joke. Here's what it said,
"Joan Rivers is a plastic bag."
My brain's delivery was very dry, almost robotic, which made the joke quite funny to me. And, because it was my brain, I knew what the joke was getting at. My brain was saying that "Joan Rivers is an old bag that's had a lot of plastic surgery." I didn't know before this that my brain was an insult comic.
So, I guess my subconscious mind worked out this silly play on words, prepared its delivery, then woke me up to hit me with the punchline.
I've thought about that joke several times today, and each time the thought has caused me to giggle audibly. At one point I half snorted. Sometimes I think my brain knows me better than I know myself.
Thanks for the memories, brain, it was very thoughtful of you.
The cool things that are happening have added some short-term stress to my life--a welcome stress, but stress nonetheless--and short-term stress usually messes with my sleep patterns, (i.e., weird dreams, sleepless nights of planning, etc). Does anyone else spend all night fitfully trying to plan the next day in that neither-asleep-nor-awake fog? Does anyone beside me spend the entire night repeating over and over again the first couple of items of what turns out to be (the next day when you think back on it) an incomprehensible list? Anyone?
Usually, added stress will do that to me, but last night was different. Last night my brain woke me up to tell me a joke. Here's what it said,
"Joan Rivers is a plastic bag."
My brain's delivery was very dry, almost robotic, which made the joke quite funny to me. And, because it was my brain, I knew what the joke was getting at. My brain was saying that "Joan Rivers is an old bag that's had a lot of plastic surgery." I didn't know before this that my brain was an insult comic.
So, I guess my subconscious mind worked out this silly play on words, prepared its delivery, then woke me up to hit me with the punchline.
I've thought about that joke several times today, and each time the thought has caused me to giggle audibly. At one point I half snorted. Sometimes I think my brain knows me better than I know myself.
Thanks for the memories, brain, it was very thoughtful of you.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
The Best of The Shop.
Hey, look, this is my 80th posting! I think it's time for a clips episode!
Here are five of my reader's (i.e., my mom's) favorite postings from the first 80 posts.
Mimi Names the Baby
Ike Goes to Kindergarten
Kitty's Play by Play
Cubby/Corky is Lazy
Wickedness in the Bay Area
Honorable mentions:
The Sweeter Side of Politics
Totally Meta
Mimi's Party Plan
Father's Day Music for the Hearing Impaired
Enjoy!
Or don't, I don't care. You take care of you; I'll take care of me.
The End.
Here are five of my reader's (i.e., my mom's) favorite postings from the first 80 posts.
Mimi Names the Baby
Ike Goes to Kindergarten
Kitty's Play by Play
Cubby/Corky is Lazy
Wickedness in the Bay Area
Honorable mentions:
The Sweeter Side of Politics
Totally Meta
Mimi's Party Plan
Father's Day Music for the Hearing Impaired
Enjoy!
Or don't, I don't care. You take care of you; I'll take care of me.
The End.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Mazel Tov (A Blessing On Your Head)
A dad I know, I'm not going to say who exactly, gave each of his children father's blessings last night for the beginning of the school year. It's a Mormon tradition that goes back a generation or two. The dad says a special prayer for each kid before the school year starts. It's an amazing and, I think, fairly unique thing that Mormon families get to participate in.
Usually, the dad pulls a chair from the kitchen table and places it in the middle of the family room. The oldest child (or youngest, there is no set protocol, except it has to be a kitchen chair) then sits on the chair. The dad, resting his hands on the child's shoulders, tells the family something nice about the kid, then pretends not to remember his/her name.
When that's over, the dad puts his hands lightly on the child's head and says a special prayer. The prayer usually promises a few blessings, like the ability to stay on top of homework, a good relationship with the teacher, or the desire to be a good example to others.
The experience is always emotional for the dad, who is reminded of how incredible it is to have a child in his care. Dry eyes are rare for dads at the end of these things.
So, we--I mean a family I know--conducted beginning-of-school father's blessings last night. Ike, as the oldest, went first. The dad cried. Mimi, the next oldest went second. The dad cried again.
Next, it was Kitty's turn. She had just turned four and would be starting preschool. She came up and sat on the chair. The dad put his hands on her shoulders and said something about her. While he was saying things about her, the dad felt a familiar sensation on his hand. It was almost as if something were licking him.
Nah, he dismissed the notion. What would possibly be licking me here and now? Can't be.
Still, the sensation continued.
He looked down. Turns out something was licking his hand. It was Kitty, who. incidentally, is not an actual feline. Kitty was licking his hand like a Kitty would lick his hand if Kitty were a Kitty.
After some coaxing, the dad finally got Kitty to stop licking and prepare for her blessing.
As he blessed her, he felt inspired to let Kitty know that now that she was four years old and while her two older siblings would be gone for most of the day she would have to help out more around the house. Specifically, she could help empty the dishwasher and make her bed.
Again, something weird happened to his hands. This time they were moving back and forth in a semi-circle. This motion was not being produced by the dad. Instead, Kitty was--shall we say--disagreeing with the notion that she might have to empty the dishwasher and make the bed. Her head moved back and forth in a very adamant signal that she would not be needing that particular blessing.
The dad couldn't help it. He laughed.
Usually, the dad pulls a chair from the kitchen table and places it in the middle of the family room. The oldest child (or youngest, there is no set protocol, except it has to be a kitchen chair) then sits on the chair. The dad, resting his hands on the child's shoulders, tells the family something nice about the kid, then pretends not to remember his/her name.
When that's over, the dad puts his hands lightly on the child's head and says a special prayer. The prayer usually promises a few blessings, like the ability to stay on top of homework, a good relationship with the teacher, or the desire to be a good example to others.
The experience is always emotional for the dad, who is reminded of how incredible it is to have a child in his care. Dry eyes are rare for dads at the end of these things.
So, we--I mean a family I know--conducted beginning-of-school father's blessings last night. Ike, as the oldest, went first. The dad cried. Mimi, the next oldest went second. The dad cried again.
Next, it was Kitty's turn. She had just turned four and would be starting preschool. She came up and sat on the chair. The dad put his hands on her shoulders and said something about her. While he was saying things about her, the dad felt a familiar sensation on his hand. It was almost as if something were licking him.
Nah, he dismissed the notion. What would possibly be licking me here and now? Can't be.
Still, the sensation continued.
He looked down. Turns out something was licking his hand. It was Kitty, who. incidentally, is not an actual feline. Kitty was licking his hand like a Kitty would lick his hand if Kitty were a Kitty.
After some coaxing, the dad finally got Kitty to stop licking and prepare for her blessing.
As he blessed her, he felt inspired to let Kitty know that now that she was four years old and while her two older siblings would be gone for most of the day she would have to help out more around the house. Specifically, she could help empty the dishwasher and make her bed.
Again, something weird happened to his hands. This time they were moving back and forth in a semi-circle. This motion was not being produced by the dad. Instead, Kitty was--shall we say--disagreeing with the notion that she might have to empty the dishwasher and make the bed. Her head moved back and forth in a very adamant signal that she would not be needing that particular blessing.
The dad couldn't help it. He laughed.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)