Hey band camp fans and members!
Happy Friday band camp readers and members! It’s been a long week! OK, first I want to thank everyone for getting the word out about auditions for The Husband Whisperer. Our cast and director are fantastic! (Was there ever any doubt?)
Just a note for whomever, “anonymous” is from the comments sections of the audition announcements of this blog: Wow! Someone forgot to take their V-8, or maybe prune juice? Perhaps they need a happy pill? If you go to the trouble of leaving a comment, can’t you at least come up with something more than, “This isn’t a black comedy,” to add? I am assuming anonymous is involved in some way with the production of our play and that said, anonymous should have the courtesy to email me and leave me some tidbit into your experience in the theater. Perhaps even some constructive criticism of the script?
Not to give anything away, but a "black" or dark comedy in my mind (though I can derive from your lone comment that you possibly think I have no brains), encompass a dark current throughout the script. It does, but scantily. We didn’t want it to be morose or foreboding. In life and on the silver screen, isn’t there enough production of “Quentin Tarantino” type of storylines, plots and thinly veiled threats?
So, in my defense, miss or mister anonymous, I can only say, yes, you are correct. The Husband Whisperer isn't a "black" nor dark comedy traditionally speaking, but it has some "black" and dark comedy in it. Hope you all have a fabu weekend! Mark your calendars for our play, The Husband Whisperer..a um, dark comedy about imperfect women attempting to create the perfect man.
http://www.birdcagetheatre.net
Friday, September 26, 2008
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Tumors and Termites and Transvestites, Oh my!
In, The Wizard of Oz, L. Frank Baum cleverly leads his readers down the yellow-brick-road as his fantastic dichotomy of characters experience fear, peril and heartache while discovering their own faith, happiness, and triumph. Sometimes, like Dorothy, I have a witch mad at me (usually in the form of every day, domesticated peril) and well, it inevitably gets me into trouble. Following my yellow-brick-road, I walk on the edge of fear, not exactly sure of what will happen. But also like Dorothy, I walk it and have a very keen sense of happiness despite lions and tigers and bears.
About six months ago, while galloping along my yellow brick road, my right knee demanded attention from the doctor. After an hour and half wait and a three-minute exam, my doctor observed that it was arthritis and obesity. “You shouldn’t be running, until you lose thirty pounds.” OK, now let’s be fair, all the doctors up here in hillbilly-vile are Seventh-day-Adventist. In other words, vegan athletes and their goal is to morph all non-believers looking as close to an anorexic runway models as possible.
According the national weight control registry, my ideal weight should be 140 lbs. I need to lose about ten pounds, not thirty to be “normal.” Three months ago after popping Advil every two hours due to nagging, aching pain down my shin and around my knee, I sullenly relented to my humanity and revisited the doctor. The usual lecture of my weight was followed by an alarming notation: “You seem to have a cyst or tumor on that knee, let’s get it X-rayed.” My surgery is scheduled this Friday to remove the tumor. Surgery sucks! I am afraid of losing control while I'm under. However, that fear is readily replaced by my biggest fear: That I will mumble some audible, horrific confession coming out of the anaesthesia (Like the time early in our marriage, in a fit of rage over a lapse of toilet paper replacement on my husbands part, I put his underwear in with my red clothes, calling it an "accident" that his tidy whites turned bright pink. He ran around with pink undies for about a week before purchasing new underwear.)
Two weeks ago, my daughter came running into our room screaming. Apparently the ants came marching two-by-two along her wall behind her bed. Upon careful examination, these weren’t ants, they were termites. We worked quickly, removing her possessions into our family room and her bedding onto the couch. It was Deja Vu all over again as Emily had packed her belongings twice already (along with everyone else in our family and town) due to fire evacuation. It’s even more discontenting for her as her private empire is now on display in our family room. After an in-depth inspection by my husband and his colleagues (all are construction/plumber and Hvac dudes), it was determined that the termites got in through water damage. “I’m frightened Auntie Em, I’m frightened,” was my mantra for two days while the guys determined the cost of our termite and water damage. Visions of accumulating bills and our house crumbling beneath us, danced through my head as I wondered if Centerfolds clients were into cellulite. Thankfully, my fear (and second career as an out-of-shape, one-legged stripper) was put to rest as the assessment of the damage was only in Emily’s room and would only cost us in parts. For now, I’ll settle for a temporarily pissed-off teenager and construction noise.
Last weekend, one of my girlfriends was celebrating her 21st birthday, for the um, fourth time. We have been on many a yellow-brick roads together. So, to show her a good time, I gathered (in my mind’s eye at least) the entire cast of The Wizard of Oz (with the exception of the wicked witch, my mother-in-law and I don’t hang out). It is the rare occasion that makes me wear a dress and all that encompasses: The shaving, the plucking, the lotion, the push-up bra, the girdle, the deodorant, the make-up, the heels, the hair straightening, the glitter-whew! My only comfort was the fact that all the guys we were paying homage to, had to go through even more prep-work. We trekked in all our glory to the Drag Queen ball in Chico. I had to cover it anyway and well, while in Rome? Or in this case, Oz? I had only been to a Queens ball in San Francisco and I Gotta say, a lot of those Queens were very hot. Many times I had questioned, where's the beef? Trying really hard not to commit the ultimate Queen's ball fopa and ogle.
My homies and I enjoyed the show of he-she’s and guesstimates as to who is dressing which direction. The gowns were absolutely fabulous. The he-she’s, well, they were all nice girls who apparently made their own clothes (actually they went to Ross). One of our favorite songs was a tribute to the tune of “Fever” adequately replaced by fifty-million lyrics of “Beaver.”
We were treated like royalty and my birthday girl even received a song, several complimentary drinks and had to introduce herself as the “straight-birthday girl.” She in turn, feeling toasty and the love, introduced us as, “All her bitches.” Apologizing later, she said through slurred chuckles that she couldn’t remember all our names. The entire evening went great, no attitudes and no gays against straight animosity. I was a little disappointed that there weren’t any cat fights, yet I realized my biggest fear was put to rest: I was never mistaken for a dude, trying to be a girl, but really a dude. Instead, I was just a girl in a dress.
Sadly, one of our cast of favorites didn’t escape my fear. We left my friend Tami alone for just a moment,some to shake their ass with the queens and the rest of us to help another friend to the bathroom (It is weird when you are in the bathroom and you hear a tenor in the stall next to you.)
Tami is gorgeous, could be a super model, a tall, beautiful girl, very feminine blond. She went all out and wore a glittery, white formal with heels to die for. She should have been on the Kodak Theatre red carpet. Unfortunately, she made her dramatic debut by becoming a victim of my fear turned reality as a couple of queens morphed into real girls, A.K.A: Bitches,
"Look, the prettiest girl in the place is sitting all alone by herself....a she's got hairy legs.." to which the other drag queen said "How do you know?" and she replied "I can hear them swishing when she walks"..
If there is one thing that makes the yellow-brick-road journey less scary, it is when you have your best friends walking arm in arm with you through the scary forests, valleys and yes, even golden, slippery halls of life. Misery loves company? Possibly, but I'd rather Dorothy that theory and declare that it also makes the trip better.
All rights reserved, Anne Wycoff Sept. 2008
About six months ago, while galloping along my yellow brick road, my right knee demanded attention from the doctor. After an hour and half wait and a three-minute exam, my doctor observed that it was arthritis and obesity. “You shouldn’t be running, until you lose thirty pounds.” OK, now let’s be fair, all the doctors up here in hillbilly-vile are Seventh-day-Adventist. In other words, vegan athletes and their goal is to morph all non-believers looking as close to an anorexic runway models as possible.
According the national weight control registry, my ideal weight should be 140 lbs. I need to lose about ten pounds, not thirty to be “normal.” Three months ago after popping Advil every two hours due to nagging, aching pain down my shin and around my knee, I sullenly relented to my humanity and revisited the doctor. The usual lecture of my weight was followed by an alarming notation: “You seem to have a cyst or tumor on that knee, let’s get it X-rayed.” My surgery is scheduled this Friday to remove the tumor. Surgery sucks! I am afraid of losing control while I'm under. However, that fear is readily replaced by my biggest fear: That I will mumble some audible, horrific confession coming out of the anaesthesia (Like the time early in our marriage, in a fit of rage over a lapse of toilet paper replacement on my husbands part, I put his underwear in with my red clothes, calling it an "accident" that his tidy whites turned bright pink. He ran around with pink undies for about a week before purchasing new underwear.)
Two weeks ago, my daughter came running into our room screaming. Apparently the ants came marching two-by-two along her wall behind her bed. Upon careful examination, these weren’t ants, they were termites. We worked quickly, removing her possessions into our family room and her bedding onto the couch. It was Deja Vu all over again as Emily had packed her belongings twice already (along with everyone else in our family and town) due to fire evacuation. It’s even more discontenting for her as her private empire is now on display in our family room. After an in-depth inspection by my husband and his colleagues (all are construction/plumber and Hvac dudes), it was determined that the termites got in through water damage. “I’m frightened Auntie Em, I’m frightened,” was my mantra for two days while the guys determined the cost of our termite and water damage. Visions of accumulating bills and our house crumbling beneath us, danced through my head as I wondered if Centerfolds clients were into cellulite. Thankfully, my fear (and second career as an out-of-shape, one-legged stripper) was put to rest as the assessment of the damage was only in Emily’s room and would only cost us in parts. For now, I’ll settle for a temporarily pissed-off teenager and construction noise.
Last weekend, one of my girlfriends was celebrating her 21st birthday, for the um, fourth time. We have been on many a yellow-brick roads together. So, to show her a good time, I gathered (in my mind’s eye at least) the entire cast of The Wizard of Oz (with the exception of the wicked witch, my mother-in-law and I don’t hang out). It is the rare occasion that makes me wear a dress and all that encompasses: The shaving, the plucking, the lotion, the push-up bra, the girdle, the deodorant, the make-up, the heels, the hair straightening, the glitter-whew! My only comfort was the fact that all the guys we were paying homage to, had to go through even more prep-work. We trekked in all our glory to the Drag Queen ball in Chico. I had to cover it anyway and well, while in Rome? Or in this case, Oz? I had only been to a Queens ball in San Francisco and I Gotta say, a lot of those Queens were very hot. Many times I had questioned, where's the beef? Trying really hard not to commit the ultimate Queen's ball fopa and ogle.
My homies and I enjoyed the show of he-she’s and guesstimates as to who is dressing which direction. The gowns were absolutely fabulous. The he-she’s, well, they were all nice girls who apparently made their own clothes (actually they went to Ross). One of our favorite songs was a tribute to the tune of “Fever” adequately replaced by fifty-million lyrics of “Beaver.”
We were treated like royalty and my birthday girl even received a song, several complimentary drinks and had to introduce herself as the “straight-birthday girl.” She in turn, feeling toasty and the love, introduced us as, “All her bitches.” Apologizing later, she said through slurred chuckles that she couldn’t remember all our names. The entire evening went great, no attitudes and no gays against straight animosity. I was a little disappointed that there weren’t any cat fights, yet I realized my biggest fear was put to rest: I was never mistaken for a dude, trying to be a girl, but really a dude. Instead, I was just a girl in a dress.
Sadly, one of our cast of favorites didn’t escape my fear. We left my friend Tami alone for just a moment,some to shake their ass with the queens and the rest of us to help another friend to the bathroom (It is weird when you are in the bathroom and you hear a tenor in the stall next to you.)
Tami is gorgeous, could be a super model, a tall, beautiful girl, very feminine blond. She went all out and wore a glittery, white formal with heels to die for. She should have been on the Kodak Theatre red carpet. Unfortunately, she made her dramatic debut by becoming a victim of my fear turned reality as a couple of queens morphed into real girls, A.K.A: Bitches,
"Look, the prettiest girl in the place is sitting all alone by herself....a she's got hairy legs.." to which the other drag queen said "How do you know?" and she replied "I can hear them swishing when she walks"..
If there is one thing that makes the yellow-brick-road journey less scary, it is when you have your best friends walking arm in arm with you through the scary forests, valleys and yes, even golden, slippery halls of life. Misery loves company? Possibly, but I'd rather Dorothy that theory and declare that it also makes the trip better.
All rights reserved, Anne Wycoff Sept. 2008
Thursday, September 11, 2008
The Husband Whisperer Auditions
Calling all actors!
Even if you've never acted before, come get your feet wet!
"The Husband Whisperer" Auditions
Men and women of various ages.September 15, 16 and 17Th @ 6:30PM, Birdcage Theatre Lobby, 1740 Bird Street, Oroville, Performance dates:November 21-December 7Th
Bring a 2-3 minute comedic monologue to read.
This is a dark-comedy full play, uses sparse profanity but some adult themes through-out. A good, clean, hilarious play even my mother can come to! Forward this to any and all interested in acting or theater.
Thanks,
Anne
Even if you've never acted before, come get your feet wet!
"The Husband Whisperer" Auditions
Men and women of various ages.September 15, 16 and 17Th @ 6:30PM, Birdcage Theatre Lobby, 1740 Bird Street, Oroville, Performance dates:November 21-December 7Th
Bring a 2-3 minute comedic monologue to read.
This is a dark-comedy full play, uses sparse profanity but some adult themes through-out. A good, clean, hilarious play even my mother can come to! Forward this to any and all interested in acting or theater.
Thanks,
Anne
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