Challening My Inner Anti-Atticus

[Note: So I wrote some of this at home and some away from wireless and some was cut and pasted from another blog, and now I can't seem to get all the fonts looking the same and all purty-like. Sorry. Deal.]

Wrote this last night:

I auditioned for a play tonight.

That's not like me. Here's how not like me that is: Last time I auditioned for a play, Bobby Ewing was on his deathbed. David Lee Roth was the lead singer of Van Halen. Girls were wearing rugby shirts and leggings. Klaus von Kiltzing had not yet won the Nobel prize for his discovery of the quantization of electrical resistance.

That means that I was sitting in a backstage room of the Riffe theaters tonight, surrounded by people who looked like they knew what they were doing more than I did. I was filling out a form. And on the form, when it asked for previous roles played, and at what theater, I had to write the name of my high school. I am forty-three year old balding man leaning on my high school credentials.

Let me be clear that I don't anticipate a role in this play. Maybe - maybe - oddly tall townsperson number 3. Truly, I was in it for the audition. I was in it for the fear and nervousness, the newness of it.

Continued writing this afternoon:

The stars were aligned. I have been thinking a lot about my middle-aged brain, how much it benefits from new and novel experiences. I’ve been thinking about my creative life, and how isn’t it is of late.

Then, one Facebook evening, Artie Isaac posted an audition call. Artie is a board member of Available Light Theater. More importantly, he’s a guy who decided in mid-life that damn it, he loved acting in high school, so he started staging shows so that he could get back on stage. And on Facebook, he posted this audition call. It hits all the right notes for my “what the hell” chorus:

The following comes from here

Your Invitation to Act

I'm on a mission.

I'm looking for people who want to try doing what I'm doing. I am acting on stage as a way to raise money for a worthy not-for-profit theatre company.

Why I'm Doing It It's for a lot of reasons. Mainly, I enjoy it.

But that's too self-serving to admit. So here's my public reason...

This not-for-profit theatre company — let's just call it "Available Light" — has a do-gooder attitude about serving everyone in the community, without regard to anyone's ability to pay for fancy theatre tickets. So all their shows offer tickets at the awkward price of Pay What You Want.

The shows I am in, however, are designed to generate funds for the otherwise risky Pay What You Want offer. So — for these shows only — we charge a minimum price ($15) and swoon whenever anyone pays more than that.

Selling Out
We call these shows "sell outs." We mean that in both senses of the word:

Economically, we seek to sell out at the box office. So far, we've sold approximately 3,000 tickets to the shows wherein I have tripped dangerously close to "acting." We actually sold out twice during the most recent run.

Artistically, we recognize that we are (somewhat) selling out by choosing plays that are more popular than the more challenging and original fare of Available Light's regular season. It's not a real soul-sucking artistic sell out: we manage to find plays that are deeply meaningful and satisfying. They're just popular — is that so wrong?

Who I'm Looking For
I seek:

1. People who want to try acting. The ideal candidate has not been on stage as an actor in many years — or ever. This person feels like a ham, but canned and ready to come off the shelf.

2. People who seek a self-actualizing experience. This might feel (in the ideal candidate) like a gnawing hunger for a new creative risk and — hey! — maybe acting is the right risk.

3. People who want to be immersed in a worthy text. The next show is To Kill A Mockingbird, arguably the best novel ever written. There is no better way to read a book — than to read it with friends learning how to act the book.

4. People who are willing to work on this. The ideal candidate will come to rehearsals, ready to work. Some roles are smaller than others. For those who want dip a toe in the water: townspeople. For those who want to jump in: there are lines to be memorized.

5. People who are willing to audition with Ian Short. (See details below.) At the audition, the ideal candidate will have some natural presence and will respond to direction — and be a person that Ian can see filling one of the roles. You don't have to be a pro. Amateurs encouraged and trained!

6. People who have a large social network. The ideal candidate will attract a couple hundred people to buy tickets. Perhaps those so-called friends just want to see what the heck is [Louie] doing. That's OK. These are fundraisers, so selling of tickets is important.

Can you think of this person? If so, let me know.

Even if this person is you.

So last night I found myself sitting in a small room with a bunch of strangers (and one loved one, who would perhaps prefer my discretion about that part of the story.) I probably wouldn’t have been there for any other play; as an English teacher, I’ve had a long association with To Kill a Mockingbird. In fact, my oldest son’s name would be Atticus if a woman much smarter than me hadn’t pointed out the length of our last name. It would have been quite the gangly moniker; even the most restrained teacher would have a hard time not rolling her eyes when taking attendance. But I love To Kill a Mockingbird. I imagine when Harper Lee dies I’ll have another essay to write.

Not that I felt I had a shot at Atticus. First of all, Artie stages shows so he can be in them, so the Atticus role was filled, I was sure. Plus, frankly, I didn’t think I had much of a shot at all. An open call for what is basically a community theater show, but with a highly respected theater company – I figured every between-jobs actor and up-and-coming theater student would show up. People who’ve been working at acting. Really, I was in it for the audition.

So I found a monologue on-line, something appropriate to my age and the tone of the show. It was a near miss. (Isben? Seriously?) And I spent some time prepping it; certainly not memorizing, but finding beats and marking it up in the way I’ve taught students over the years. And I got pretty nervous, especially on the drive downtown. Nervous is a lousy feeling, but I remembered that being nervous was a big reason I was doing this, fighting brain calcification and all. But the nervousness faded – mostly – when I walked into the room. I made it a point to be friendly, I concentrated on the loved one, and I had the pleasant if somewhat awkward distraction of an old friend in the room, a former rival, of sorts. He was there with his son.

“So, are you auditioning?” I asked.

“No. No no no.” He gestured to his boy.

“Oh, you should.”

“To be in a show? With what time?” he asked, grinning.

“Well, what? You’re going to drive him to practices anyway, right? You’ll just be sitting in the car.”

Small talk, and I found a seat. A couple minutes later he got up and signed the sheet. We grinned, I made some joke, he joked back. I felt kinda good about that.

I got called into the room, I did my monologue. I ended up having a really good time with it. It felt good. I didn’t embarrass myself, and that was gratifying. They said they’d email the callback list that evening. I wished them luck and told them I looked forward to the show, either way it worked out.

Then I went home and stayed up late watching Brazil with my kid. Love that movie. But I got mad at him for constantly checking his text messages – “Look, if we’re going spend time together, spend the time here, okay?” – a common anti-iPod and cell phone refrain for me. But after scolding him I realized it meant I couldn’t check my email either, which sort of messed me up. Cuz, okay, I was in it for the audition – really, I was. But it would be nice to be called back, you know?

And, surprise surprise, today I’m still in the game. I’m back in that room today, right now, with a larger group of strangers, and one old friend-slash-rival, (and, sigh, no loved one) all of us mumbling over stapled pages we’ve been handed to prepare. I’ve been called back for Mr. Gilmer, defense attorney. That’d be fun. As far as stage time and number of lines, that would be more fun that this other part I’ve been thinking about today. But you know what would be awesome?

Boo Radley.

Iconic character. Only one line.

Reading the lines for Mr. Gilmer, it was fun to imagine: the anti-Atticus. But Boo Radley? That sure would make these conversations more fun at school:

“Hey. I’m in a play. To Kill a Mockingbird.”

“Really? What part?”

See?

So, as I sit here, here’s the score, honest and for true:

“Mr. Gilmer.” Seriously? Awesome. Wow. Thanks.

“Boo Radley.” Oh, great. Awesome. Much less stressful, far fewer rehearsals, great name part. (and then it occurs to me that I’m probably way to old for that part.)

“We’re sorry, maybe next time.” Oh, thank god. I really have no idea how I would have found the time to do a show.

So, s’all good. I’m really here for the audition. I can feel my frontal cortex de-calcifying as I sit here.

Chinese "Catcher"

Here are the covers of German and Chinese editions of Catcher that I mentioned in my last post. The Chinese one is particularly bizarre.

Reading Salinger

When my seventh period seniors were in their seats and settled, I started talking.

“I’ve got something I want to talk about. This is maybe not the best group for me to do this with; members of this class tend to be a bit skeptical about emotional kinds of topics" – well, they did, and they knew it – “but this is important to me, and it’s important to me to do it right now."

An uncomfortable silence filled the room, the stillness kids have when things get heavy. They thought they were in trouble, and I didn’t correct the impression. If wondering if they were being scolded would keep the cynics along for the ride, that was fine. Good, even.

I said, “When I was in teacher school, one of my professors said that when dealing with topics you feel strongly about you should ask yourself a question: Am I doing this to serve my students’ needs, or my own?’ The implication is that if what you are saying is not for your students, you shouldn't be saying it. I agree with that advice, generally, and though I don’t always succeed, I try to hold to it. That said, I’m going to talk about something, and it’s going to be for me, not for you. It’s self-indulgent, and I apologize. I hope it’s of value to you, but I’m doing this for me. I want to be able to look back at this day and remember that I stopped what I was doing and took some time.”

The class had no idea what I was talking about, but they could see that I was emotional. A couple of them nodded support even though they didn’t know what was going on. I paused to regain my composure. And then I told them a version of this story.

I have wanted to be a teacher for as long as I can remember, but I’m not quite sure when I decided I wanted to teach English. I’m pretty sure it was in the seventh grade. My career choice had a lot to do with Ed Zettler, especially something he did on the last day of school.

That year I was a new kid – returning kid, actually – in a strict Catholic school. It was tough year for me, but I loved English. I liked Mr. Zettler a lot, and he liked me; his class was a sanctuary. On the last day of school, he was cleaning out his room. Some kids surrounded him, angling for the junky treasure he was tossing out. But then he called me over and handed me a book, saying, “You should read this.” It was Catcher in the Rye.

That book had a big impact on me, as it does to many people, and one of the big things it taught me is that you don’t have to understand a book to love it. The summer of my seventh grade year, I didn’t understand Catcher in the Rye. But I loved it – and this was before I knew that loving Catcher in the Rye was some sort cultural statement. It’s a cliché to fall in love with the first sentence of Catcher, but it wasn’t a cliché to me, so I did.

I loved Holden. I loved his voice. I was transfixed by his unrequited love for Jane Gallagher. I loved that the book had just enough naughtiness to make me feel I was getting away with something. But all along I knew there was more to the book than I was getting. When I realized it was a classic, I wanted to be taught the book, at school, in a class, with a teacher. (I loved Holden, but I wasn’t him.) I was eager to get to high school, where I assumed it would be studied. When I got there, I was eager to get to American Literature, where I knew it was studied. By the time I got to my junior year, I had read the book a couple more times.

I was thrilled to be in Sr. Margaret’s class – she was (and is, I’m sure) a wonderful teacher, and she, like Ed Zettler, has had an influence on my career. But she was also the English teacher at Bishop Watterson who did not teach Catcher in the Rye.

As soon as I got to college, I scoured the course catalog for a lit class that listed Catcher. I found Intro to American Literature. Good course; smart, funny instructor. When it came time to cover the novel – for only one day, according to the syllabus – I said to the instructor before class, “So it’s Catcher today, right?”

And she said. “Oh, yeah. I guess. I hate that book.”

We spent fifteen minutes on it.

Eventually, of course, I got to read it in a school with a class, but I was the teacher. I taught it for years at two different school. I read books about it, I read Salinger’s other works. I designed a senior elective for kids who love it. And though I've not taught that course or American Literature for a number of years, I still have my favorite interpretations (It not a sad ending! He’s not in an insane asylum! “Caul” is significant, tied to his hunting cap! And to Allie’s hair! So Mr. Antollini patting Holden's head isn't creepy! It's Holden's apotheosis!) I don’t know if I taught it well; I imagine I was a bit over-enthused and didactic.

Through the years I've read about J.D. Salinger, all of the eccentricities, the tawdry rumors, which are probably lies and probably true, too. I used Salinger's quirks and reclusiveness to capture students’ imaginations. Regrettably, I even expressed half-kidding glee that Salinger would most likely die soon. When he dies, I said, if the reports are true that he never stopped writing, then there may be a vault filled with Salinger's works waiting to be read by the likes of us.

The Catcher in the Rye, the actual, physical book, is an artifact in my life. A section of my bookshelf is dedicated to different editions of the novel. (To me, the real Catcher is the maroon one with yellow typeface.) When I travel to different countries, which I’ve done only twice, I buy editions in different languages. In China, that wasn't easy. When copies of Catcher are left in halls and lockers at the end of each school year, I grab a couple. When I have guests who’ve never read it, I give them one.

That story - my history with The Catcher in the Rye - is the story I told my seventh period class today. I was unprepared for how hard it was; I choked up a couple times, especially at the wishing-Salinger-dead part. I was embarrassed by the whole scene. I imagined how I must have looked and thought about how I react to zealous fans of pretty much anything; I see them as unsophisticated and a little pathetic.

I abandoned my plan to read the class a Salinger story; I wouldn’t get through it.

By eighth period, I had regained my composure. Again, I told the class how much Salinger and Catcher means to me. This time I was less embarrassed and less embarrassing. I read them one of my favorite stories, “The Laughing Man.”

I’d like to say they were transfixed, but "respectful" would be more accurate. Even "patient." I’d like to say they loved the story, but I’m not sure they understood it, and my explanations fell flat. The reading, as I admitted, was for me more than for them. I want to know, tomorrow, a year, five years from now, that on the day J.D. Salinger died, I took note. I told my students what he meant to me, and I read them one of his stories.

Pictures from my old cell phone

I got a new cell phone, not for Christmas, but around Christmas. And I had to figure out what to do with all of the pictures on my old cell phone. So now they are all just sitting there on iPhoto.

So I'm toying with this idea of writing about all of them. A lot of them are gone, into the ether, I don't know where. But 180 pictures survived the move, all taken with a very cheap cell phone, none very good. Some to capture moments, others to help me remember a salsa I like. What if I try to write about each and every one of them? That, it seems, would be the most boring slide show ever.

So let's do it!

Entry number one.

This was, what, two years ago? Not this past summer. The one before. We don't do waterparks often - we must have had a coupon. I remember I took this picture specifically for use as the display on the screen inside my phone. Does it get much cheesier than concrete rivers and giant human flushing machines? We hadn't been to Zoombezi Bay before, and at least one of us - the mom one - was not very excited. But then, taking a break from crazy slides, sitting in a lounge chair as the kids played in the giant wave pool, drinking a seven-dollar, lime-flavored Bud Light, even she embraced the cheese, and we had to admit, we were having a damn good time.

Entry number two!

My son, circa a-few-years-ago. Cute. I can't imagine calling him cute anymore. But this is cute. I have no recollection of taking this picture.

Number three!


Ah, Larry's. I took this picture as a keepsake on Larry's last night. Larry's was an OSU campus institution, and while I was by no means a regular, I had some fond memories. When I was in high school, Larry's was rumored to be a gay-bar, back when that was still taboo. The rumor was started by the regulars in order to keep the frat-types away, and it worked. Larry's was a dark, Tom Waits-y type of bearded grad student and old-guy bar. Dark wood, peanuts, cheap glasses, philosophy rather than phallises on the bathroom walls. You imagined that the group of flannel wearing guys in the corner were planning the revolution. I first went to Larry's when I was in high school; an older, artsier friend invited some of us to his poetry reading - poetry readings happened at Larry's. That was probably one of the first times I had ever been in a bar. I still remember parts of the poetry, actually, and certainly Kip's reaction when I made an observation about one of his poems that he thought nailed it. Kip's poetry was actually pretty good, I recall, but a lot of the other stuff was far enough over our young heads as to seem completely non-sensical; for weeks after, Tom Ferkany would pass me notes in choir class with his own versions of meaningless poetry: "Tree bags, help!" and "Tuesday, up in the sky." I still remember them.

Poetry aside, though, something else that night made an even bigger impression: Larry's didn't card.

So I used to go to Larry's once in a while through high school and college, and even a few times since. It was the only bar where you could drink and not look crazy grading papers. It was a great bar, actually, had a lot of character and charm.

The night I took that picture, I was out with a couple of teacher friends, and we remembered the story in The Dispatch about it being Larry's last night, and we headed over. We were a bit out of place then, more buttoned down than I had been years before, less bohemian than most others there. I wish I had fit in better at Larry's, and I wish Larry's had fit in better, too. The city is worse off without it.

Imagine

What if I blogged again? Then what would happen?