Our annual newsletter: a synopsis of the little comedy that is our lives.

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Maybe it’s my height, but after twenty minutes in a fancy-schmancy dentist’s chair my back is crying for mercy. Shouldn’t this high-priced hunk of furniture be as comfy as a La-Z-Boy? And when one’s mouth is full of plumbing, pointy metal picks and power tools, it seems ill-advised to squirm about in search of spinal relief.

Then there are the parts of my face that the dentist ignores at my peril. I understand his focus on the task and the teeth at hand. But must he brace that hand against my lip, painfully pinching it against the sharp edge of my teeth? I’m sensitive, dammit. In my most recent visit, mouth full of apparatus, I was at odds to explain that he had somehow folded my ear forward on itself and could he please stop doing that.

As a prodigious producer of saliva, one of my greatest fears in the dentist’s office is that of drowning. If the dental assistant isn’t paying attention, the pool at the back of my throat deepens until only desperate sounds of strangulation awaken her to my plight. That suction hose was custom designed for spit, so put it to use!

My current dentist provides sunglasses. Maybe they are to guard against shrapnel, the friendly fire of bone or old fillings fragments, hurled into the air by whatever reno work he’s doing in there. More likely is the shades are simply to cut the intensity of that powerful searchlight of his. In any case, with my head tipped back, my glasses quickly slipped upwards onto my forehead, and for half an hour neither the dentist nor his assistant seemed to notice. And that blasted light was pointing as much into my eyes as my mouth; my conspicuous squint should have been a clue.

Oh, well, I tend to close my eyes anyway. After all, what is there to look at? Long ago I thought if I ever become a dentist I will have my ceiling decorated to give patients something to view. A mural. Puzzles. A racy novel in large print.

So you dentists out there, try thinking outside the jaws. Recognize the need for more comprehensive comfort. Make it special enough and maybe I’ll require less “freezing” when I see what I’m being charged for my visit.

It’s another thing when smart people do stupid things in spite of thinking.

Like smoking.

I can understand how tough it must be for those who started smoking in the forties or fifties, how the difficulty of kicking the nasty, old habit means they still smoke.

But with every decade passing since then, it becomes harder and harder to justify taking up tobacco. Anyone who starts smoking in 2009 either hasn’t been paying attention or is mind-boggingly stupid. Or is desperate to be accepted by mind-boggingly stupid associates. Helloooo, peer pressure.

Or they just don’t care. Bad breath, smelly clothes, pointless expense, stinking up the air, endangering the health of others, and an exponential increase in the chance for heart disease, lung disease, cancer and premature death. But the attitude with kids seems to be, “Yeah, whatever.” It’s that old “I’m immortal” feeling of youth.

Most of my friends are intelligent people. Noticeably above average, even. So when I see any of them smoke I don’t get it. Is the gentle, relaxing buzz that smoking (reputedly) provides really so great, so necessary that it’s worth ignoring the overwhelming and conclusive evidence that tobacco is a bad thing?

A friend of mine used to scoff at the science. He died with emphysema and is terribly missed.

I admit to doing stupid things, but come on, avoiding some stuff is just obvious. Smoking should be (forgive the expression) dying out far more rapidly than it is. Don’t even get me started on such things as cocaine, street racing or Fox News.

Recently I got a sweet and unexpected bonus. As far as I can tell, nobody in the entire, wonderful cast of my current stage show (My Fair Lady, now playing at Western Canada Theatre, Kamloops BC) has the nicotine habit. You don’t have to be a genius to love that.

I keep meaning to post one well-considered essay or another on a topic of some depth—The Devil in a Atheistic World; Pervasive Tastelessness; Facebook Bacon—but my muse has been beaten up yet again by that schoolyard bully procrastination.

Instead, I offer a handful of poems I composed in the Adventurers Club character of Fletcher Hodges about himself and other club denizens. I enjoyed doing these, and one should hold more firmly to the good memories than the rest, yes? Hey, there’s another blog topic. For some other time.

•Me

Which is richer? Bunch of butchers,

Lots of lechers, or a kvetcher?

Neither!

Clutch of creatures and a touch of teacher—

Such is Fletcher

•Otis T. Wren’s Limerick

If you’re searching a detailed anthology

For achievements in great ichthyology

You’ll find Otis Wren

Mentioned time and again

And with footnotes of heartfelt apology

•Our Club President

Can someone make your blood congeal? Ya

Think your skin’s about to peel? Ya

Worry ‘bout your geneteelia?

Betcha you have met Pamelia!

•A Dissertation on the Eponymous Aspects of the 1937 Adventurer of the Year

A person with a common name’ll

Seldom have the name of Emil

•Samantha’s Salute

Ev‘rybody’s flag’s unfurling

In salute to Samantha Sterling

Like a dervish madly twirling

Like a hurricane a-whirling

Like a malted milkshake swirling

Setting all your hair a-curling

Till you’re heaving and you’re hurling.

More than knitting, more than purling

More than boying, more than girling

More exciting than a panther—

Sterling! Or first name, Samanther.

•Anthem of Tuneful Delights

Oh say can you see

It’s Fingers Zambee-

-zie, the spirit who lives in the organ!

Oh see can you say

He’s going to play

A musical smorgasborgan!

•Our Butler

Though

So

Many duties

Graves

Saves

Our patooties

•Our Maid

With feathers stuck

Upon a stick

Our maid she does her dusting,

And how she cussed

That dratted dust

When breezes blew a-gusting.

“My job went just

From bad to wust!”

She says, her duster thrusting,

And members must

Conceal their lust

While she’s dust-bunnies busting.

•The Epic Poem of Handsome Hathaway Browne

Of all death-defying and brave aviators,

The truest is Hathaway Browne.

He may be out flying to volcanic craters

Or dancing and painting the town.

He’s up for the chase—find a woman and date her

If she is in rags or a crown.

They will go to a place like the Palace The-ay-ter

Or fly through the air upside-down.

He’ll fight a gorilla or wrestle with gators

Or put on an evening gown

And then eat his filla of burgers and taters

Or champagne and filet mignown.

So if you would know of a real aviator,

A hero of fame and renown,

Don’t look here below at a mere roller-skater,

The cook in the kitchen, or even the waiter,

The bartender, manager, doorman or Maitre

D’, or to the patriot or to the traitor,

The bureaucrat, clerk, or the administrator,

A lowly submissive or a dominator,

A slave owner or the Great Emancipator,

Your brother or sister or mater or pater—

Put all of them down in your calendar later—

For each in comparison is a spectator

To he who doth soar like a wing’d gladiator

With passions as hot as a steam radiator

And loaded with love like a big ol’ pink freighter.

Could anyone do what he does any greater

Than what’s-his-name?

Hathaway Browne!

•A Plea to Guests on the Mezzanine

Oh, people on the mezzanine

We fear that you don’t love us

Please come downstairs and don’t be mean

Don’t act like you’re above us

If you come down we’ll share a cup

If not, what I confess is

We’ll have no choice but just look up

Your noses and your dresses

And one more poem, written by ladies’ man Hathaway Browne:

•St. Valentine’s Day Invitation

Oh, won’t you be my Valentine

The 14th of February?

A loaf of bread, a jug of wine

And thou, à la Missionary.

Ah, Wilderness! at Chemainus Theatre Festival has a look that is at least unusual and perhaps unique. Most productions of this play have a detailed and realistic set, and one that often faithfully recreates the summer home in Connecticut where Eugene O’Neill spent much of his boyhood. (His script descriptions for the homes in Ah, Wilderness! and Long Day’s Journey Into Night are almost identical.)

Director Jeremy Tow and his creative team have instead taken as inspiration O’Neill’s description of the play as “a dream walking.” The space is open and airy and awash in sea-blues and white, as are the set pieces which practically float in the delicate frame of memory. Indeed, the play is being presented as the particular memory of Richard, my character’s son about whom the plot is mainly concerned. This concept and design emphasize the exquisite nostalgia of the script.

With our opening four days away, I find myself unable to be completely objective about our production, but I know there is good work being done and I believe we are doing the play justice. I always have a crisis of confidence about my own work sometime between start of rehearsals and opening night. If I am lucky, it is a thing that passes with a few performances and a positive response from the public.

Edits have been necessary (damn the impatience and short attention span of today’s audiences) and the considerable extent of the cuts is heartbreaking. But we assuredly care about the underlying spirit of the play, and hope to bring a rare mixture of laughter, emotion and warm hearts to those who attend. 

I saw a fence made up of boards nicely designed to form the shape of an anchor out of negative space (the design may seem kitschy but the concept is clever). All one has to do is put two boards adjacent in a mirror arrangement:

How sad, then, that whoever put up most of this fence was clueless, or worse, didn’t give a damn:

Seems to me the first step in being competent is awareness—knowing what is needed or intended; and the second is investment—caring that those needs are met. It dismays me how many people never get past those two  rudiments, much less go further and put in the effort to study and learn or work and strive towards some notable level of achievement. Worse, they either defend their mistakes (unconvincingly) or dismiss any criticism, in a kind of reverse snobbery, as unimportant and pompous.

One of my least favourite arguments defending shoddy work is, “No one will notice.” I guess integrity is just too inconvenient.

At least incompetence can occasionally provide amusement. Still, my compliments and gratitude to those with whom I am privileged to work—and indeed to those everywhere—who recognize, care, and aim for excellence.

First of all, I must note how warm and welcoming the people at Western Canada Theatre have been. Not to diminish that compliment in the least, but I have found a similar reception from most theatres at which I have worked—more so than doing film and television, where one tends to be treated rather brusquely, what with money often being of higher status than art in such productions.

Secondly, I am wowed with everyone in the Man Who Shot Chance Delaney cast (with the possible exception of myself). This is somewhat rarer. Think of your job. There is usually someone who doesn’t pull his weight or whose personality sours the workplace. But these actors, as well as our running crew, are both impressive and inspiring. The cast includes Peter Anderson, Naomi Wright, Mia Ingimundson, Bob Frazer and Brian Linds. Huzzah, all.

Thompson River Valley

I have not met nor formed any opinion of the local populace. The city of Kamloops lies at the junction of two rivers among not-too-overwhelming mountains, most of which are picturesque (the exception being one right in the middle that looks like a big pile o’ dirt). The old downtown has some appeal, while the aroma provided by the area paper mill has not.

Our motel is generally crappy, with broken appliances and sagging mattresses, but its location up a long, steep hill from the city centre provides a great view of the region. It’s a forty-minute, three-and-a-quarter kilometer (2 mile) hike down that long hill to the rehearsal space, and just as far—including a climb up a second hill—to reach the theatre. I manage the commute down to work all right, but for someone with bad knees, a bad back and the too-sedentary lifestyle resulting from those conditions, the return trip is difficult. I have been fortunate to locate rides most days. Such hill avoidance techniques become unlikely as of today.

The Sagebrush Theatre is a good space, with lots of room backstage and decent acoustics overall. It seats over 700, although our company only offers the 450 seats closest to the stage. We sold out that smaller number opening night.

The play is a hoot, that’s what it is, and so is the playwright. Ian Weir can write funny. He is also a thinker. I’ve said it before: smart plus silly, that’s for me.

I hope to have photos of the set and characters later.

In four weeks, Western Canada Theatre brings me out to Kamloops, BC and rehearsals for the world premiere of The Man Who Shot Chance Delaney, an affectionate, mostly comic tribute to those sprawling western sagas as told by Hollywood. Playwright Ian Weir, perhaps best known for his television work but whose creations range from stage to radio to film as well, is apparently rewriting even now, potentially enfeebling my current memorizing of lines.

I get to portray a handful of colourful characters, among them a travelling salesman, a sadistic gunslinger, a newspaper editor, and a small town mayor. The script seems great fun and I know of at least one terrific actor with whom I’ll get to share the stage. I met Naomi Wright a year ago at a party but finally saw her awe-inspiring work just last week as a guest performer with the amazing improv group Impromptu Splendor. She, too, and the rest of the cast, will play a variety of denizens from the saloon and into the sunset.

Set in Texas, New Mexico, and Kansas, the story spans the years 1855 to 1907. In a minor turn of the century coincidence,  Ah, Wilderness!, for which I begin rehearsing at a different theatre three weeks after Chance Delaney closes, is set in 1906, albeit in Connecticut. 

I may even get to wear a bowler hat in both plays.

In the movie Bedazzled (the demented Peter Cook/Dudley Moore original, not the disappointing Brendan Fraser remake) the devil is portrayed as one who spends less time causing wars, plagues, and disasters than simple aggravations. He puts scratches in record albums (remember those?) and causes a pigeon to poop on a clergyman, resulting in a blasphemy. 

This concept seems to me a remarkably true one. Day-to-day annoyances are more than enough with which to do battle. I am often heard to cry, “Stop fighting me!”

A sock that insolently falls behind the dryer. A key that requires interminable fidgeting. A garden hose that refuses to relinquish its kink. A drawer that somehow entangles its contents so that the one item you need brings unwanted friends along. All the trash that when tossed at a wastebasket bounces off the rim and onto the floor.  A zipper or a button or a snap that simply will not close, dammit. Plastic wrap! Stop fighting me!!

The world becomes an obstacle. One’s mood sours, which leads to snapping at others which leads to hurt feelings as well as guilt and shame, and on downward we go until we’re doing the devil’s work for him.

It’s almost a relief to have governments, banks and overpaid executives to blame for things. Most people I know have said that 2008 was a bad year. For me, it wasn’t a catastrophe but it certainly was not much fun.

I’ve noticed something interesting as we approach 2009. Experts predict a difficult year ahead, but the general public seems surprisingly optimistic. I believe this is for two reasons. First, Obama. More than just a man anymore, he is a symbol of hope for many of us. Good luck, Barack. You’ll need it.

Second, because ’08 was unpleasant or worse, there is a compelling need for it to be over. It may be wishful thinking that the change of a digit will also mean the change of our fortunes, especially since New Year’s is such an arbitrary date anyway. Still, people see the change of the calendar as a new beginning that could finally bring blessed relief.

Despite the odds, I truly wish us all well.