My life as an amoeba
It has been a very interesting week or so. I had my first rehearsal for Mummy Loves You, Betty Ann Jewel (basically just a read-through, the girl playing Betty had the Lurghy Of Doom), so that was fun, remembering what it's like to be on the other side of the production table. It could be difficult, though - the rules for the Direction students are that they are to choose a 20 minute extract from their play, and cannot cut bits from these chosen 20 minutes. Thus, the extract of Mummy that we're doing has no less than four songs in it. Which there is no music for, just vague instructions - "with a punk beat", "country-and-western style". Hoo boy.
I've just finished a 14-hour day, and I'm way more awake, alert and energised than I really have any right to be, given the rate at which my insomnia has been deteriorating of late. Knowing my luck, this means I'll hit a brick wall sometime tomorrow or Friday, and have to pull out of the Musgrave Park Mediaeval thing due to a wish to resemble a corpse for roughly 36 hours. Maybe I should just ring our Fearless Leader tomorrow and drop out with notice, rather than leave them hanging with a text on the morning ...
Had my second rehearsal for the show I've been assigned to stage manage this afternoon. Oh, my gods. I'm working with 12-year-olds. I have made the executive decision that from now on my rehearsal reports are going to include tallies of number of dick jokes, number of other genitalia references, number of actual genitalia sightings (sadly, I'm not making that up), and number of derogatory comments made about females while a representative of said demographic is present. Although I did manage a whole thirty seconds of blessed (albeit shocked) silence when I finally had enough and announced in my best do-not-fuck-with-the-stage-manager voice that I was beginning to seriously suspect that *I* was the only person in the room not utterly fascinated with the cock, and could we please get back to the fucking script now? *eyetwitch* (Although I did manage to put the most obnoxious cast member firmly in his place - having spotted his rather ostentatious jacket and helmet combo, I asked him what he rode. "Honda *something* 250." *strut* "Oh." "Why?" "BMW R1100 GS." "Oh." *wilt* Heh heh heh. Mine is an evil laugh.)
Continuing his Pod Person impersonation, Paterfamilias stumped for tickets to see Anatomy Titus Fall Of Rome on Friday evening. I cannot recommend it highly enough. Everyone should go and see it. Central set piece: a bucket of blood. The front row actually got spattered. Excellent stuff. Müller's left a lot of Shakespeare's original stuff intact, and added poetical and political commentary, a lot of it very biting given this was written in East Berlin in the early 80s. I loved it. (Paterfamilias also cooked us a rabbit for dinner before we went in, though of course he couldn't resist saying that it was the neighbour's cat. He even sent the leftovers home to my brood of felines, though I suspect this was due to lack of room in his fridge than any genuine altruism towards said felines.)
I think that's about all of import.
I've just finished a 14-hour day, and I'm way more awake, alert and energised than I really have any right to be, given the rate at which my insomnia has been deteriorating of late. Knowing my luck, this means I'll hit a brick wall sometime tomorrow or Friday, and have to pull out of the Musgrave Park Mediaeval thing due to a wish to resemble a corpse for roughly 36 hours. Maybe I should just ring our Fearless Leader tomorrow and drop out with notice, rather than leave them hanging with a text on the morning ...
Had my second rehearsal for the show I've been assigned to stage manage this afternoon. Oh, my gods. I'm working with 12-year-olds. I have made the executive decision that from now on my rehearsal reports are going to include tallies of number of dick jokes, number of other genitalia references, number of actual genitalia sightings (sadly, I'm not making that up), and number of derogatory comments made about females while a representative of said demographic is present. Although I did manage a whole thirty seconds of blessed (albeit shocked) silence when I finally had enough and announced in my best do-not-fuck-with-the-stage-manager voice that I was beginning to seriously suspect that *I* was the only person in the room not utterly fascinated with the cock, and could we please get back to the fucking script now? *eyetwitch* (Although I did manage to put the most obnoxious cast member firmly in his place - having spotted his rather ostentatious jacket and helmet combo, I asked him what he rode. "Honda *something* 250." *strut* "Oh." "Why?" "BMW R1100 GS." "Oh." *wilt* Heh heh heh. Mine is an evil laugh.)
Continuing his Pod Person impersonation, Paterfamilias stumped for tickets to see Anatomy Titus Fall Of Rome on Friday evening. I cannot recommend it highly enough. Everyone should go and see it. Central set piece: a bucket of blood. The front row actually got spattered. Excellent stuff. Müller's left a lot of Shakespeare's original stuff intact, and added poetical and political commentary, a lot of it very biting given this was written in East Berlin in the early 80s. I loved it. (Paterfamilias also cooked us a rabbit for dinner before we went in, though of course he couldn't resist saying that it was the neighbour's cat. He even sent the leftovers home to my brood of felines, though I suspect this was due to lack of room in his fridge than any genuine altruism towards said felines.)
I think that's about all of import.