A month and a half ago I got a phone call.
"Hi, this is Carrie from Schmirch Fabrics*, Lynne Brown Schmepper** gave me your name as someone who might be interested in an acting job," the voice on the other end says.
"Oh. Okay, sure," I said.
"We're having a picnic and we need some one to dress up and make an announcement. And we'd pay you to do it." Carrie said
Even though I don't understand at all what she's asking me to do, I do understand that she's offering me money so I say: "Alright. When and where?" We set up a time for me to come in a meet the group of people Carrie refers to as "us" (who's us? what us is this? I never really found out).
About a month later, Carrie calls me again just to make sure I'm still planning on coming in. I tell her "yes," and blow yet another opportunity to find out exactly what it is that I've agreed to do. This happens partly because she called while I was suffering from my massive sinus infection and I, for a period of a week and a half or so, hated life and partly because, as a general rule, I'm bad at stuff.
Last Friday, I went to meet with Carrie. I went to the Schmirch Fabrics office, told the receptionist that I had an appointment with Carrie and then sat down in the holding area, reading all about upcoming events in the September 2005 issue of Grand Rapids Magazine. Turns out, I missed what promised to be a totally awesome Aerosmith concert two years ago. How will I find the strength to go on?
Carrie walks into the room to greet me. When I see Carrie, I wonder if Schmirch Fabrics is breaking child labor laws by employing this fourteen year old child. She ushers me into the conference room to meet everyone. "Don't worry," she tells me, "there's only going to be seven of us."
Seven women ranging in age from the fourteen year old Carrie to 50ish. A whole range of shapes and sizes. As diverse a group as you can get from seven Dutch women who work in the office of a fabric and upholstery company.
As I walk into the room I hear titters of "Oooh, he's tall!" and "Oh good the costume will fit!" and "Oh, the beard will work great!" It's weird to be ogled like a piece of meat. It's even weirder to be ogled like a piece of meat that someone wants to put in a funny hat and a pair of fake boots.
So I sit down at the head of the table and say 'hi' to everyone, more confused than ever about what it is they want me to do. It was like a scene from The Office, with the party planning committee interviewing entertainers for the big Christmas party. If only there had been a Pam in the room to share in my embarrassment for everyone else in the room.
"Has Carrie told you what we want you to do?" asked woman 3.
"Uhm, not really," I admitted my cluelessness.
It was then explained to me that what they needed was someone to announce their Renaissance themed office party, so they wanted me to come in in a week, put on some Renaissance garb and read a proclamation to the assembled Schmirch Fabric employees. 'Oookay,' I thought, 'sounds simple enough, if not altogether kind of ridiculous.' "Oh, alright, sure," I said. "Have you ever done anything like this before?" asked woman 5.
"I mean, I've acted before . . . I've never done something like this, exactly, but I've worn purple tights so it's not like I'm unaccustomed to looking silly in front of crowds of strangers." This inspired more giggling.
"Oh, we won't make you wear tights," said woman 2. I was kind of disappointed. Not because I love wearing tights or anything, but because, frankly, my legs look really good in tights. I'm just saying.
Anyway, woman 7 pulled a sheet of paper out of her folder and slid it over to me and then woman 4 said, "We don't want to put you on the spot here, but would you mind, y'know, standing up and giving us a reading, maybe?" Now, in an audition (which this ostensibly was), I generally expect to have to, y'know, audition so asking me to read is not so much 'putting me on the spot' as it is asking me to do the thing that I was asked to come in and do. So, I take the script, I stand up (more titters from woman 5 and 7, who came in late and as such didn't get to marvel at my height earlier) and I look at the script.
Because, of course, it's all Renaissance-y, it's typed in some Renaissance-y font which is good, because if it were in a more readable script, I wouldn't have understood that it was supposed to be Renaissance-y and would have read it wrong. The script begins "Hear Yee, Hear Yee." Yup. "Yee."
So, I start reading the script in my big Renaissance-y voice and the titters begin again "Oooh, my!" "It sounds even better than I thought it would!" I read about half of it and the titters grew to a crescendo so I stopped. "Oh that's great!" "Thank you for doing that!" Clap, clap, clap, applause, applause, applause.
"Alright, great! That's going to be just perfect. Just perfect." says woman 5.
"We've got everything set, the only question is, how much to pay you. I don't want to put you on the spot, but how much would you normally get paid for something like this?"
Because I'm Dutch and because I've been poor all my life, and because my family ever only talked about money as a problem, I'm really bad about talking about money. It makes me very uncomfortable. Especially when it comes to evaluating my value. 'How much would I normally get for something like this?' Something like this has, to my knowledge, never really been done by anyone ever. It's like asking "How many people are usually killed in a Martian attack?"
I yammered out some "ye--err--idunn--uhm" and, sensing my continued cluelessness and discomfort, young little Carrie came to my rescue and said "How about $50 dollars?" Honestly? I was hoping for more. Not that I deserved it, but I've gotten used to getting paid $100 an hour for gigs and I thought maybe these people were just clueless enough to over-estimate my worth. And they did, just not as much as I would like them to. Realizing that $50 for three minutes of work was probably more than fair, I took the offer.
Yesterday, at 9am, I drove down to Schmirch Fabrics. I met Carrie and was scuttled off into the conference room yet again. She quickly drew all of the curtains and, motioning to a series of plastic bags and a box formerly used for stationary, she says "There's your costume stuff. I'll give you ten minutes or so to put it on. I'll knock before I come back in." I start pulling things out of the bags, fearful that without having taken a single measurement from me, or even asking what size I wear, a costume has been picked out for me. I was fairly certain that this was going to fit about as well as the infamous Cap'n Crunch outfit I wore for Schmeritage Theatre Groups '02 production of Hamlet.
I needn't have worried, though. These women are used to upholstering large pieces of furniture, so finding the right amount of fabric to cover my orangutan-like physique was no problem. The costume fit fine. And while I had been expecting something Renaissance-y, it turns out their idea of Renaissance-y is much more in keeping with my idea of Pirate-y. The inside label of the shirt actually called it a "Buccaneer" shirt. Granted, it wasn't a very tough looking pirate, but a nancy pirate is still a pirate.
Once I was all pirated up, I opened up the stationary box (by which I mean both that it was once used to hold and transport paper products and that it was itself immobile) and pulled out the hat contained therein. This supposed Renaissance-y hat looked like an Indian Jones hat with three ostrich feathers attached to it. It was neither Renaissance-y nor particularly Pirate-y, but it was most definitely big pimpin'.
I was coached by woman 5 on exactly how to conduct myself, then Carrie came back and taught me how to do a page (they wanted to have me do it so that no one would recognize the voice) to tell everyone to gather in the warehouse by the time clock in five minutes. While we waited for the right time to do the page, Carrie went and got Steve. I don't know why she got Steve, as his only purpose seemed to be joining Carrie and I in the conference room, gawking and making me feel very uncomfortable. I'm awkward enough meeting new people, but meeting new people while hiding in a fabric company conference room and wearing a pirate costume and Indian Jones' pimped out hat is about as 'awkward turtle' as you can get. He didn't even have any questions for me. And of course, the only question I had for him was "Why the hell are you here? Can't a guy dress up like a pirate in peace for five minutes?!"
So, time came to make the page. I successfully managed to work the type of multi-line phone that I send five hours a day operating, impressing young Carrie once again with my mad skills. Then, she lead me to the back hall way and up a metal staircase to a grated floor where I was to wait for her signal and then head out to the balcony and begin to read my proclamation.
As I stood there, fully exposed to members of my awaiting audience (probably the thing that makes me most uncomfortable as a performer is having audience members see me in costume when I'm not supposed to be seen. It even makes me uncomfortable when other actors are seen by the audience before it's time. I'm talking to you, John Schmoley.) I heard the people below speculating on what was going on. "Maybe it's someone dressed as Santa" one already drunk employee suggested. Apparently, she had seen my boots, or maybe the red pirate vest I was wearing, or perhaps even my beard or my girth and decided that, in fact, I was not a pimpin' pirate, but Jolly Ol' St. Nick. "Come on out, Santa, and get it over with!" Sweet Jeebus, I was being heckled before I even started!
Then, from below me, I hear Carrie whisper calling to me "Dave, go. Go." So, I stroll out to the balcony and twelve feet below me are all twenty employees of Schmirch Fabrics. And Steve and women 's 1-7 had already seen me. 'Well, dozen Schmirch Fabric employees,' I thought to myself, 'prepare to be amazed!'
As instructed, I walked up, blew the dollar store trumpet I had been given, set it on the ground next to me, then removed my hat and gave a big bow to the citizen of the Schmirch realm below. I pulled the scroll out of my belt and, as a juxtaposition to the pimpin' pirate look, I read out the scroll in my big Renaissance-y voice. Then, I bowed again, turned and left. Never have I left a crowd quite so dumbfounded/ put out to have had their precious fabric related work time interrupted for something so ridiculous.
Back in the conference room, Carrie informed me that "Everyone is so excited now! They can't believe they have to wait a week for the picnic!" "Well, great," I said. "Sounds like it's going to be a lot of fun," I lied. She tossed me $50, which, of course I will be reporting to the IRS as earned income, and asked if I needed to see her for anything before I left. I told her I didn't think so, thanked her, offered up my services should she ever need another bearded pirate, to which she smiled politely but offered no kind of empty affirmation that she might, in fact, call again and then she left me to change back into my street clothes.
'Do other actors do shit like this?' I thought to myself as I boxed up Indy's plumed hat. 'Hell, does anyone do shit like this?' I kind of figured they probably don't. But, hey, I got fifty bucks for dressing up like a pirate, when was the last time any of you schmucks did that?
Yeah, that's what I thought.
*the names have been changed to protect myself from liable charges.
**Thanks, by the way, Lynne.
15 September 2007
08 September 2007
Archive: Braces?!
When I went to see my would-be oral surgeon, first we addressed the issue of my wisdom teeth (decision: take the bastards out) and then he discussed what to do about my vestigial baby tooth (see Impacted Wisdom).
There are three possible solutions:
1) Leave it, let it be and pray* it doesn't lead to pain, misery and loss of other teeth further down the road; 2) while I'm under having my wisdom teeth out, he can take that one out too and then eventually when the baby tooth rots away we can stick a fake one in its place; or 3) I can see an ortho, have the baby tooth removed and then pull the correct tooth into place with braces. Yes, braces.
The latter, Doc explains, is the best solution for my teeth. The best solution?! See, I have a hard time seeing that because (and I'm about to reveal one of those universally known but seldom voiced truths): Adults with braces are the saddest, most hated minority on the planet**. Adults without teeth are less embarrassing to look at.
And while I'm not judging any of you out there that, as adults, have had braces, I will say this: I hate you.
Sorry.
Let me try that again: being around you makes me uncomfortable. And it's not just me, it's everyone who has any ounce of self-respect. If you are over the age of 18 and you have braces, every other person you encounter feels sorry for you and wishes not to be near you. I didn't want to have to say it, but if I didn't, who would? I know it hurts to hear, but that doesn't make it any less true.
Perhaps my hatred of adults with braces stems from the fact that when I was younger my dad's mistress (in her early 20's) got braces. And of course, I had to see her every week in church with those ridiculous metal scaffolds in her mouth. Perhaps that's the root of all this venom, but I don't think so. I think that just allowed me to tap into this, perhaps, single universal truth: Adults with braces are to be hated and scorned, pitied and possibly even shipped off to special colonies for as long as they have braces so as not to expose any regular people like you and me to the horror.
I tell you, if an adult with braces were a circus freak, I would actually be so repulsed that I'd skip their cage and spend twice as long looking at the more dignified freaks. Like Lobster Boy or the Human Torso.
The idea that I might have to be that pariah walking around with metal on his teeth who's unable to eat Peanut M&M's for a year has me reeling. I would sooner vote for President Bill O'Reilly, Vice President James Dobson and their Chief of Staff Toby Keith than get braces.
Part of that may be my vanity. Despite the fact that I'm a bizarre looking man with the physique of an orangutan who lacks the ability to properly dress himself, I'm still a very vain person. I can handle knowing that I'll never have any sort of muscle tone or even sleeves that fit right but the idea that I might have to have braces is just too much for me.
Seriously. Braces?! There is no god.
* I wanted to interrupt him and say "Thank you sir, but I am not a praying man," but the way he kind of sneered when he said it made me sort of love this man. Ironically, of course, this is the course of action I ultimately chose.
**and I say that being a member of at least one other hated minority.
There are three possible solutions:
1) Leave it, let it be and pray* it doesn't lead to pain, misery and loss of other teeth further down the road; 2) while I'm under having my wisdom teeth out, he can take that one out too and then eventually when the baby tooth rots away we can stick a fake one in its place; or 3) I can see an ortho, have the baby tooth removed and then pull the correct tooth into place with braces. Yes, braces.
The latter, Doc explains, is the best solution for my teeth. The best solution?! See, I have a hard time seeing that because (and I'm about to reveal one of those universally known but seldom voiced truths): Adults with braces are the saddest, most hated minority on the planet**. Adults without teeth are less embarrassing to look at.
And while I'm not judging any of you out there that, as adults, have had braces, I will say this: I hate you.
Sorry.
Let me try that again: being around you makes me uncomfortable. And it's not just me, it's everyone who has any ounce of self-respect. If you are over the age of 18 and you have braces, every other person you encounter feels sorry for you and wishes not to be near you. I didn't want to have to say it, but if I didn't, who would? I know it hurts to hear, but that doesn't make it any less true.
Perhaps my hatred of adults with braces stems from the fact that when I was younger my dad's mistress (in her early 20's) got braces. And of course, I had to see her every week in church with those ridiculous metal scaffolds in her mouth. Perhaps that's the root of all this venom, but I don't think so. I think that just allowed me to tap into this, perhaps, single universal truth: Adults with braces are to be hated and scorned, pitied and possibly even shipped off to special colonies for as long as they have braces so as not to expose any regular people like you and me to the horror.
I tell you, if an adult with braces were a circus freak, I would actually be so repulsed that I'd skip their cage and spend twice as long looking at the more dignified freaks. Like Lobster Boy or the Human Torso.
The idea that I might have to be that pariah walking around with metal on his teeth who's unable to eat Peanut M&M's for a year has me reeling. I would sooner vote for President Bill O'Reilly, Vice President James Dobson and their Chief of Staff Toby Keith than get braces.
Part of that may be my vanity. Despite the fact that I'm a bizarre looking man with the physique of an orangutan who lacks the ability to properly dress himself, I'm still a very vain person. I can handle knowing that I'll never have any sort of muscle tone or even sleeves that fit right but the idea that I might have to have braces is just too much for me.
Seriously. Braces?! There is no god.
* I wanted to interrupt him and say "Thank you sir, but I am not a praying man," but the way he kind of sneered when he said it made me sort of love this man. Ironically, of course, this is the course of action I ultimately chose.
**and I say that being a member of at least one other hated minority.
25 August 2007
Archive: It's hot in here
It's been a hot summer here in Michigan. Maybe not the worst on record, but still pretty damn hot. Here's the thing: all summer, I've been hearing complaints about the cold. Just one more of the joys of house managing.
Unless you're in an outdoor amphitheatre at noon in July, theatres are cold places. This is universally true for both playhouses and filmhouses. If you go to see Julius Flaxbarr on Venus, bring a sweatshirt. That's just the way it goes. In point of fact, movie theatres were the first major industry to embrace climate control so if you've been to one at any point since Birth of a Nation was released, you may have noticed that that the room is cooler than it is outside (or warmer if it's cold outside).
Apparently, a lot of people are not aware of this. And because of their ignorance, I get to hear them bitch. I'm a house manager, it's what I do.
At my theatre, the A/C is run through a computer that I don't have access to. It's not even in the building. Since the theatre is part of a college campus, I have to call down to Campus Safety when we have a problem with the A/C and then they have to call the on-call maintenance person. While some of the maintenance people can access the A/C from their home computer*, many of them have to drive from their homes down to campus to do anything about the problem. Suffice it to say, it's not the most expedient process around. And when 800 old person nipples are poking through 400 old person shirts, expediency is of the essence. But, even if I call when I get the first complaint (which, of course, you never do because that's a woefully small sample group) it can take between ten minutes and half an hour (at best) before something happens. In the meantime, they continue to bitch. At me.
And this has been going on all summer. There were nights when, during intermission, people would actually line up at the box office to issue their complaints about the cold. Invariably, the conversation went like this:
First cold patron: "Hey, it's really cold, could you do something about that? I mean, it's freezing in there."
Me: "I'll call right now, it should get better very soon."
Second cold patron [referring to previous patron]: "Were they just complaining about the cold? Because it is freezing in there, could you do something about it?"
Me: "Yes, I've made the call, it should be getting better shortly."
Third cold patron [referring to previous patron]: "Were they just complaining about the cold? Because it is freezing in there, could you do something about it?"
Me: "Yes, I've made the call, it should be getting better shortly."
Fourth cold patron [referring to previous patron]: "Were they just complaining about the cold? Because it is freezing in there, could you do something about it?"
Me: "Yes, I've made the call, it should be getting better shortly."
Fifth through Two Hundred Forty-Third cold patron: "Were they just complaining about the cold? Because it is freezing in there, could you do something about it?"
Me: "BRING A SWEATER, ASSHAT!"
'But, oh wise and wonderful Dave,' you ask, 'why not find a more permanent solution rather than putting yourself through this routine night after night, destroying your will to live and your tenuous grasp on sanity until you are locked away in an institution, defecating into adult diapers and chewing your own lips off?'
Don't think we didn't try that, oh delectable and clever reader. We asked maintenance to up the temperature level at which the air kicks in. "Okay," they said and adjusted the A/C threshold ONE WHOLE DEGREE! Miracle of miracles, that one degree made all the difference in the world! Thank you, you brilliant and efficient keepers of heat! What would we do without you?!
. . .
Yeah, so when that didn't work, they actually came down to the building to assess the situation. Turns out, the sensor that tells the air when to kick in was blocked. Blocked, and then heated by a monitor that was set in front of it. Let's all take a moment to thank the numb-nuts who set that little rig up, shall we**?
Armed with that knowledge, the situation was corrected. Kind of. You see, as soon as the audience's collective testicles were able, once again, to exit the abdominal cavity they had sought shelter in, the actors started to complain about it being too hot. DISCLAIMER: I love the cast of the show in question. Almost all of them are really great people as well as great performers. I mean no offense to any of them in particular or in general. I'm sure it was startling, after three weeks in the space, to all of a sudden find themselves not performing in an ice box. They worked very hard during the show, sang, danced and all that stuff I will never be able to do, and they did it all in Victorian garb. But, it's not like these people had never been on stage before. It's not like any of them had any right to expect that after a three hour show during which they sang (Sondheim, no less) and danced in heavy costumes under hot lights that they wouldn't get HOT! Hell, the top of Act II was a song about it being hot! I'm not really a method actor, but it could have worked for them.
The best part is, after we had raised the temperature and the actors started complaining about the heat, the audience didn't stop complaining about the cold. Yeah, that was a fun weekend in my world.
So, okay, that's all taken care of. That show departed, a new one came in and they actually, honest to Dog, fixed the temperature. Do I still get one or two complaints about the cold every so often? Yeah, sure, but in greatly reduced numbers and with greatly reduced frequency. And there are more people seeing this show, so statistically that's an even more significant a reduction. Instead, I have to deal with incidents like the one I had last night.
The house is open, the show hasn't started yet, everything is going fine. The volunteer working the concessions stand waves me over and I see there's a lady waiting at the stand who is clearly the subject of whatever problem I'm meant to resolve. Before I can even speak, before the words, "how can I help you?" have even formed in my brain she says to me "It's not as cold in there as it is out here, is it?!" There's real venom here, I note to myself. I explain to her that it's a separate system and it's a different temperature inside the house***. "Last time I was here we left at intermission because it was SO COLD!" She's eyeing me like a Tauntaun that she wants to tear open and climbing inside for the warmth. "We've fixed that problem, the temperature is just right in there now," I explain. "Well it is SO COLD out here that I sent my husband to the car to get a blanket!" How does she want me to respond? 'Uhm . . . awesome?' 'You finally came prepared you raging harpy?' Instead I tell her to let me know if there are any problems and ask that she enjoy the show.
Astonishingly, after she actually WENT INSIDE THE THEATRE she didn't complain anymore. Not that preemptive harpy-ism isn't useful at times, but could you cut a brother some slack here? Geez.
Here's the real kicker, though: on Thursday night, when I was in class and consequently not house managing, we had a campus-wide electrical burp. The lights flashed and that was about it. But somehow that little electron indigestion caused the computer system that runs the air to go all screwy. While the air in the lobby and the green room kept working, the air in the house didn't.
Ideally, in a touch of My Name is Earl style karma, every single one of those bastard asshats that had bitched to me all summer about the theatre being too cold would have been here Thursday night. I realize, of course, that that was not the case and many innocent people suffered but, if even one of the people who came up to me doing exaggerated "burr" gestures or bit my head off about the cold before they even sat down was in the house on Thursday, it was all worth it.
In conclusion: Next time you go to the theatre, be it a movie or a live performance, BRING A GODDAMN SWEATER!
*Because that TOTALLY makes more sense than giving direct access to the people in the goddamn building in question.
**That and the decision to make the air disbursement system into a series of massive phalluses that hang down twenty feet further than they need to and spoog frozen hate directly onto the balding heads of our patrons.
***I don't really know why they keep it so cold in the lobby, and frankly, I don't care. I pick my battles and the lobby just doesn't rank.
Unless you're in an outdoor amphitheatre at noon in July, theatres are cold places. This is universally true for both playhouses and filmhouses. If you go to see Julius Flaxbarr on Venus, bring a sweatshirt. That's just the way it goes. In point of fact, movie theatres were the first major industry to embrace climate control so if you've been to one at any point since Birth of a Nation was released, you may have noticed that that the room is cooler than it is outside (or warmer if it's cold outside).
Apparently, a lot of people are not aware of this. And because of their ignorance, I get to hear them bitch. I'm a house manager, it's what I do.
At my theatre, the A/C is run through a computer that I don't have access to. It's not even in the building. Since the theatre is part of a college campus, I have to call down to Campus Safety when we have a problem with the A/C and then they have to call the on-call maintenance person. While some of the maintenance people can access the A/C from their home computer*, many of them have to drive from their homes down to campus to do anything about the problem. Suffice it to say, it's not the most expedient process around. And when 800 old person nipples are poking through 400 old person shirts, expediency is of the essence. But, even if I call when I get the first complaint (which, of course, you never do because that's a woefully small sample group) it can take between ten minutes and half an hour (at best) before something happens. In the meantime, they continue to bitch. At me.
And this has been going on all summer. There were nights when, during intermission, people would actually line up at the box office to issue their complaints about the cold. Invariably, the conversation went like this:
First cold patron: "Hey, it's really cold, could you do something about that? I mean, it's freezing in there."
Me: "I'll call right now, it should get better very soon."
Second cold patron [referring to previous patron]: "Were they just complaining about the cold? Because it is freezing in there, could you do something about it?"
Me: "Yes, I've made the call, it should be getting better shortly."
Third cold patron [referring to previous patron]: "Were they just complaining about the cold? Because it is freezing in there, could you do something about it?"
Me: "Yes, I've made the call, it should be getting better shortly."
Fourth cold patron [referring to previous patron]: "Were they just complaining about the cold? Because it is freezing in there, could you do something about it?"
Me: "Yes, I've made the call, it should be getting better shortly."
Fifth through Two Hundred Forty-Third cold patron: "Were they just complaining about the cold? Because it is freezing in there, could you do something about it?"
Me: "BRING A SWEATER, ASSHAT!"
'But, oh wise and wonderful Dave,' you ask, 'why not find a more permanent solution rather than putting yourself through this routine night after night, destroying your will to live and your tenuous grasp on sanity until you are locked away in an institution, defecating into adult diapers and chewing your own lips off?'
Don't think we didn't try that, oh delectable and clever reader. We asked maintenance to up the temperature level at which the air kicks in. "Okay," they said and adjusted the A/C threshold ONE WHOLE DEGREE! Miracle of miracles, that one degree made all the difference in the world! Thank you, you brilliant and efficient keepers of heat! What would we do without you?!
. . .
Yeah, so when that didn't work, they actually came down to the building to assess the situation. Turns out, the sensor that tells the air when to kick in was blocked. Blocked, and then heated by a monitor that was set in front of it. Let's all take a moment to thank the numb-nuts who set that little rig up, shall we**?
Armed with that knowledge, the situation was corrected. Kind of. You see, as soon as the audience's collective testicles were able, once again, to exit the abdominal cavity they had sought shelter in, the actors started to complain about it being too hot. DISCLAIMER: I love the cast of the show in question. Almost all of them are really great people as well as great performers. I mean no offense to any of them in particular or in general. I'm sure it was startling, after three weeks in the space, to all of a sudden find themselves not performing in an ice box. They worked very hard during the show, sang, danced and all that stuff I will never be able to do, and they did it all in Victorian garb. But, it's not like these people had never been on stage before. It's not like any of them had any right to expect that after a three hour show during which they sang (Sondheim, no less) and danced in heavy costumes under hot lights that they wouldn't get HOT! Hell, the top of Act II was a song about it being hot! I'm not really a method actor, but it could have worked for them.
The best part is, after we had raised the temperature and the actors started complaining about the heat, the audience didn't stop complaining about the cold. Yeah, that was a fun weekend in my world.
So, okay, that's all taken care of. That show departed, a new one came in and they actually, honest to Dog, fixed the temperature. Do I still get one or two complaints about the cold every so often? Yeah, sure, but in greatly reduced numbers and with greatly reduced frequency. And there are more people seeing this show, so statistically that's an even more significant a reduction. Instead, I have to deal with incidents like the one I had last night.
The house is open, the show hasn't started yet, everything is going fine. The volunteer working the concessions stand waves me over and I see there's a lady waiting at the stand who is clearly the subject of whatever problem I'm meant to resolve. Before I can even speak, before the words, "how can I help you?" have even formed in my brain she says to me "It's not as cold in there as it is out here, is it?!" There's real venom here, I note to myself. I explain to her that it's a separate system and it's a different temperature inside the house***. "Last time I was here we left at intermission because it was SO COLD!" She's eyeing me like a Tauntaun that she wants to tear open and climbing inside for the warmth. "We've fixed that problem, the temperature is just right in there now," I explain. "Well it is SO COLD out here that I sent my husband to the car to get a blanket!" How does she want me to respond? 'Uhm . . . awesome?' 'You finally came prepared you raging harpy?' Instead I tell her to let me know if there are any problems and ask that she enjoy the show.
Astonishingly, after she actually WENT INSIDE THE THEATRE she didn't complain anymore. Not that preemptive harpy-ism isn't useful at times, but could you cut a brother some slack here? Geez.
Here's the real kicker, though: on Thursday night, when I was in class and consequently not house managing, we had a campus-wide electrical burp. The lights flashed and that was about it. But somehow that little electron indigestion caused the computer system that runs the air to go all screwy. While the air in the lobby and the green room kept working, the air in the house didn't.
Ideally, in a touch of My Name is Earl style karma, every single one of those bastard asshats that had bitched to me all summer about the theatre being too cold would have been here Thursday night. I realize, of course, that that was not the case and many innocent people suffered but, if even one of the people who came up to me doing exaggerated "burr" gestures or bit my head off about the cold before they even sat down was in the house on Thursday, it was all worth it.
In conclusion: Next time you go to the theatre, be it a movie or a live performance, BRING A GODDAMN SWEATER!
*Because that TOTALLY makes more sense than giving direct access to the people in the goddamn building in question.
**That and the decision to make the air disbursement system into a series of massive phalluses that hang down twenty feet further than they need to and spoog frozen hate directly onto the balding heads of our patrons.
***I don't really know why they keep it so cold in the lobby, and frankly, I don't care. I pick my battles and the lobby just doesn't rank.
05 August 2007
Adventures in House Managing
And here I thought finding a tube of Vicodin in the theatre was going to be my exciting house managing experience this month . . .
Last night, like most Saturday nights, I was working. House managing at the other theatre I work at, not the one I'm at all the time. The show is a kid's version of Sondheim's Into The Woods (I think the only difference is that they only do the first act, but I'm not really sure). All of the actors are kids and the audience is made up of their friends, family and other families with kids. Y'know, a kid's show.
I hate kid's shows.
Now, more than ever.
Normally, the worst part of the kid's shows is (you guessed it) the kids. Kids are a problem because, well, they're little and they get in the way, but also because they're much harder to wrangle than adults are. It's harder to get them to sit and stay in their seats. It's also harder to keep them from bringing candy into the theatre (a big no-no). And, of course, parents with little kids are always late and generally don't buy tickets in advance. Yesterday was no exception.
Since our audience was almost entirely teen-agers or parents with little kids, that meant none of them had the forethought or willingness to make life easier for everyone by purchasing their tickets in advance . . . because of that, a show that was supposed to start at 7:30 actually started at 7:50.
This has happened exactly twice in my long and illustrious career as a house manager: Once a couple of months ago when the entire sound system was fried and we had to set up a new one (and by "we" I mean other people who know things about stuff) and last night. There wasn't anything I could do about it, but sit back and try to keep the people calm. So it goes.
Just as we were selling tickets to the last couple of people in line, a young floppy haired fellow came in. He was tallish and thin with Crocks on his feet and on his face he wore the unholy spawn of Elton John's and Bono's sunglasses. We sold him a ticket, but I did make sure to tell him that normally if he showed up 20 minutes after the show is supposed to start he'd be out of luck. I told him it was very unusual that we were starting this late and he assured me that it was unusual for him to show up that late. So, okay, I get him into his seat just as the show is starting and everything seems to be copasetic.
Turns out, the fun was just beginning.
Here's what happened: Just as I was wrapping up my tight 10 minute intermission (actually, I was ready with 1:32 left to spare) one of the ushers grabbed me and said "Someone just told me there's a guy passed out in there and they think he's drunk."
Now, I've had drunk people in the theatre before (often actors) and usually it's not a big deal. Passed out is a new one for me. I said to the usher "Oh fuck. Where is he?" She brings me into the house and shows me to him. Luckily, our drunk is right near the door because, you guessed it, it's our floppy haired friend who bought his ticket at the last minute.
So, I walk over to him and tap his shoulder "Sir? Sir?" Nothing. I shake his shoulder: "Sir? Sir?" Still nothing. I can see that he's breathing so I've got that going for me, but otherwise he's totally unresponsive. I've seen plenty of drunk people before, I've even seen people passed out before but this guy was (almost literally) comatose. Shit. I walk around the other side of him and see half a bottle of Heineken sitting next to him. 'How the hell--?'
Now I'm less worried about him and more pissed off.
One of the other ushers comes up to me and says she knows him; she went to high school with him. "Alright, help me wake him up." She kneels down next to him and really gives him a good shake. Doesn't even change his breathing. Meanwhile, all of the kids around there are freaking out (and many of their parents) so I say, "we've got to get him out of here. Help me carry him."
I lift this drunken waif out of his chair and only once I've gotten one of his arms slung over my shoulder does he wake up at all. He mutters something and I start moving him out. On my way out the door, I turn to the crew and say, "Go ahead and start the show."
"Alright, good idea."
"Not you," I tell the drunk.
So, we're moving out to the lobby and he's starting to make more noises. While I'm relieved that at least he's awake-ish, I'm filled with the knowledge that this dumb ass will likely puke all over the carpet or, more likely, me. I hate him even more now. Luckily we get him plopped down on a bench in the lobby without any regurgitation happening.
Priority One: Make sure he's okay. He tells me he's fine, I offer and ambulance, he declines. I explain to him just how not fine he appears to be. No really, he tells me, he's fine. How much has he had to drink? Three beers. Which means he's either a lightweight or he's not counting the other things he's been indulging in. Alright, can I call you a taxi? No, he lives just around the corner. Is he sure? Yes, he's sure.
Priority Two: Kick his ass. "How old are you?" He starts to get mad. 21, he tells me. I ask for his ID. Yup, he's 21, as of a month ago. "Where did this beer come from?" "My pocket. I got it at the fucking beer store." I skillfully avoided swearing at him until this time. I wanted to seem professional or something. But once he's introduced it into the conversation, all bets are off.
"What the fuck are you doing bringing a beer into the theatre? For a fucking kids show?"
"I do it all the time, I thought it would be okay," he says.
"You show up drunk to a goddamn kids show, you pass out in the theatre, scaring the shit out of a bunch of little kids and you think that's going to be okay? We don't even allow water in there, why the fuck do you think it's going to be okay to bring in a beer?!" I'm not yelling, instead I'm getting quieter, more intense. In my head I'm a badass and he's too drunk to know any better.
"I dunno. What's the big deal?"
What's the big deal?
"Get the hell out of here. Just get the fuck out." I'm using my big man voice and pointing dramatically at the door, the way my dad used to when he wanted the dog to get out of his chair.
Drunky McDrunkerton staggers to his feet.
"Can I at least have my ticket and one of them booklets?" I hand him a program and tell him that he has his fucking ticket. "Are you going to be here tomorrow for the-- this show," he says, gesturing to the other show on the program (its summer rep so there are two rotating shows).
"No, and you shouldn't be either."
"I'll be here," he says defiantly.
"If you ever show up drunk here again I will call the police. Now, please, get the fuck out of here." He staggers out the door and into the street where he is immediately hit by a car.
Okay, not really, but wouldn't that have been a kicker?
Last night, like most Saturday nights, I was working. House managing at the other theatre I work at, not the one I'm at all the time. The show is a kid's version of Sondheim's Into The Woods (I think the only difference is that they only do the first act, but I'm not really sure). All of the actors are kids and the audience is made up of their friends, family and other families with kids. Y'know, a kid's show.
I hate kid's shows.
Now, more than ever.
Normally, the worst part of the kid's shows is (you guessed it) the kids. Kids are a problem because, well, they're little and they get in the way, but also because they're much harder to wrangle than adults are. It's harder to get them to sit and stay in their seats. It's also harder to keep them from bringing candy into the theatre (a big no-no). And, of course, parents with little kids are always late and generally don't buy tickets in advance. Yesterday was no exception.
Since our audience was almost entirely teen-agers or parents with little kids, that meant none of them had the forethought or willingness to make life easier for everyone by purchasing their tickets in advance . . . because of that, a show that was supposed to start at 7:30 actually started at 7:50.
This has happened exactly twice in my long and illustrious career as a house manager: Once a couple of months ago when the entire sound system was fried and we had to set up a new one (and by "we" I mean other people who know things about stuff) and last night. There wasn't anything I could do about it, but sit back and try to keep the people calm. So it goes.
Just as we were selling tickets to the last couple of people in line, a young floppy haired fellow came in. He was tallish and thin with Crocks on his feet and on his face he wore the unholy spawn of Elton John's and Bono's sunglasses. We sold him a ticket, but I did make sure to tell him that normally if he showed up 20 minutes after the show is supposed to start he'd be out of luck. I told him it was very unusual that we were starting this late and he assured me that it was unusual for him to show up that late. So, okay, I get him into his seat just as the show is starting and everything seems to be copasetic.
Turns out, the fun was just beginning.
Here's what happened: Just as I was wrapping up my tight 10 minute intermission (actually, I was ready with 1:32 left to spare) one of the ushers grabbed me and said "Someone just told me there's a guy passed out in there and they think he's drunk."
Now, I've had drunk people in the theatre before (often actors) and usually it's not a big deal. Passed out is a new one for me. I said to the usher "Oh fuck. Where is he?" She brings me into the house and shows me to him. Luckily, our drunk is right near the door because, you guessed it, it's our floppy haired friend who bought his ticket at the last minute.
So, I walk over to him and tap his shoulder "Sir? Sir?" Nothing. I shake his shoulder: "Sir? Sir?" Still nothing. I can see that he's breathing so I've got that going for me, but otherwise he's totally unresponsive. I've seen plenty of drunk people before, I've even seen people passed out before but this guy was (almost literally) comatose. Shit. I walk around the other side of him and see half a bottle of Heineken sitting next to him. 'How the hell--?'
Now I'm less worried about him and more pissed off.
One of the other ushers comes up to me and says she knows him; she went to high school with him. "Alright, help me wake him up." She kneels down next to him and really gives him a good shake. Doesn't even change his breathing. Meanwhile, all of the kids around there are freaking out (and many of their parents) so I say, "we've got to get him out of here. Help me carry him."
I lift this drunken waif out of his chair and only once I've gotten one of his arms slung over my shoulder does he wake up at all. He mutters something and I start moving him out. On my way out the door, I turn to the crew and say, "Go ahead and start the show."
"Alright, good idea."
"Not you," I tell the drunk.
So, we're moving out to the lobby and he's starting to make more noises. While I'm relieved that at least he's awake-ish, I'm filled with the knowledge that this dumb ass will likely puke all over the carpet or, more likely, me. I hate him even more now. Luckily we get him plopped down on a bench in the lobby without any regurgitation happening.
Priority One: Make sure he's okay. He tells me he's fine, I offer and ambulance, he declines. I explain to him just how not fine he appears to be. No really, he tells me, he's fine. How much has he had to drink? Three beers. Which means he's either a lightweight or he's not counting the other things he's been indulging in. Alright, can I call you a taxi? No, he lives just around the corner. Is he sure? Yes, he's sure.
Priority Two: Kick his ass. "How old are you?" He starts to get mad. 21, he tells me. I ask for his ID. Yup, he's 21, as of a month ago. "Where did this beer come from?" "My pocket. I got it at the fucking beer store." I skillfully avoided swearing at him until this time. I wanted to seem professional or something. But once he's introduced it into the conversation, all bets are off.
"What the fuck are you doing bringing a beer into the theatre? For a fucking kids show?"
"I do it all the time, I thought it would be okay," he says.
"You show up drunk to a goddamn kids show, you pass out in the theatre, scaring the shit out of a bunch of little kids and you think that's going to be okay? We don't even allow water in there, why the fuck do you think it's going to be okay to bring in a beer?!" I'm not yelling, instead I'm getting quieter, more intense. In my head I'm a badass and he's too drunk to know any better.
"I dunno. What's the big deal?"
What's the big deal?
"Get the hell out of here. Just get the fuck out." I'm using my big man voice and pointing dramatically at the door, the way my dad used to when he wanted the dog to get out of his chair.
Drunky McDrunkerton staggers to his feet.
"Can I at least have my ticket and one of them booklets?" I hand him a program and tell him that he has his fucking ticket. "Are you going to be here tomorrow for the-- this show," he says, gesturing to the other show on the program (its summer rep so there are two rotating shows).
"No, and you shouldn't be either."
"I'll be here," he says defiantly.
"If you ever show up drunk here again I will call the police. Now, please, get the fuck out of here." He staggers out the door and into the street where he is immediately hit by a car.
Okay, not really, but wouldn't that have been a kicker?
26 June 2007
Archive: How I became Pro-Life
The phone rings.
I answer.
Me: Hello?
Recorded Voice: Hello, I'm calling to conduct a survey about abortion. If are not interested in taking part in the survey, simply hang up.
Me: [doesn't hang up]
R.V.: If you consider yourself pro-life, anti-abortion, press 2.
Me: [doesn't press 2]
R.V.: If you consider yourself pro-choice, pro-abortion rights, press 9.
Me: [still listening to make sure I have it right]
R.V.: Again, if you are pro-life, press 2 and if you are pro-choice, press 9.
Me: [presses 9]
R.V.: [now much happier] Thank you for being pro-life!
Me: Huh?! [presses 9 again]
R.V.: We at Right to Life of Michigan are excited to have you. Through this survey, we are building a coalition of 5 million households. We have a wonderful opportunity to repeal abortion rights. We have enough votes in both the House and the Senate--
Me: [hits again 9.]
R.V.: We at Right to Life of Michigan are excited to have you. Through this survey, we are building a coalition of 5 million households. We have a wonderful opportunity to repeal abortion rights. We have enough votes in both the House and the Senate--
Me: [decides to hold on so I can speak to a real person and fix up this egregious error]
R.V.: If you would like to make a contribution to help us take away the rights of women,* press 6.
[long pause while I wait for another option.]
R.V.: [silence]
Me: [mashes down 9]
R.V.: Thank you for agreeing to contribute to our cause! You'll be receiving a mailing from us shortly!
Me: What the--? But I didn't--! I PRESSED NINE! NIIIIIIIINE!!
*this may not have been the exact words the recording used. But then again, it may have been.
I answer.
Me: Hello?
Recorded Voice: Hello, I'm calling to conduct a survey about abortion. If are not interested in taking part in the survey, simply hang up.
Me: [doesn't hang up]
R.V.: If you consider yourself pro-life, anti-abortion, press 2.
Me: [doesn't press 2]
R.V.: If you consider yourself pro-choice, pro-abortion rights, press 9.
Me: [still listening to make sure I have it right]
R.V.: Again, if you are pro-life, press 2 and if you are pro-choice, press 9.
Me: [presses 9]
R.V.: [now much happier] Thank you for being pro-life!
Me: Huh?! [presses 9 again]
R.V.: We at Right to Life of Michigan are excited to have you. Through this survey, we are building a coalition of 5 million households. We have a wonderful opportunity to repeal abortion rights. We have enough votes in both the House and the Senate--
Me: [hits again 9.]
R.V.: We at Right to Life of Michigan are excited to have you. Through this survey, we are building a coalition of 5 million households. We have a wonderful opportunity to repeal abortion rights. We have enough votes in both the House and the Senate--
Me: [decides to hold on so I can speak to a real person and fix up this egregious error]
R.V.: If you would like to make a contribution to help us take away the rights of women,* press 6.
[long pause while I wait for another option.]
R.V.: [silence]
Me: [mashes down 9]
R.V.: Thank you for agreeing to contribute to our cause! You'll be receiving a mailing from us shortly!
Me: What the--? But I didn't--! I PRESSED NINE! NIIIIIIIINE!!
*this may not have been the exact words the recording used. But then again, it may have been.
08 June 2007
Archive: Cheese and Brownies
Last night around 11 o'clock, I found myself filling up tiny plates of cheese and brownies because the unappreciative guests at our opening night reception hadn't seen fit to fatten themselves with enough of our spread. Why cheese and brownies, you ask, and not cheese and crackers? I haven't the faintest fucking clue. Who does that? Who says "Hey, you know what'll go great on hunks of Gouda? Brownie wedges!" Apparently, our caterers think like that. "Oh, and hey, throw, like, four strawberries in there too."
Next question: Given the presence of an abundance of delicious cheese and brownies what kind of person, in good conscience, turns down free plates of cheese and brownies? My guess is, it's the kind of person who also drives past a "Free Kittens" sign and doesn't sigh with sadness because they can't take them all home. That or someone who is both diabetic and lactose intolerant. In either case, whatever else may be said about such a person, this is not someone I'd be comfortable voting for. A cheese and brownie hating person could not fairly represent a cheese and brownie loving constituency. I'm sorry Amy Kaechele, I could not in good conscience vote for you now (though I thought your hair looked fetching last night). And you know who else couldn't vote of you if they knew about your cheese and brownie bashing? The state of Wisconsin, that's who. Or fat people. I'm sorry, it had to be said.
If that hurts, well, all I can say is maybe you need to rethink your cheese and brownies platform.
That is all.
Next question: Given the presence of an abundance of delicious cheese and brownies what kind of person, in good conscience, turns down free plates of cheese and brownies? My guess is, it's the kind of person who also drives past a "Free Kittens" sign and doesn't sigh with sadness because they can't take them all home. That or someone who is both diabetic and lactose intolerant. In either case, whatever else may be said about such a person, this is not someone I'd be comfortable voting for. A cheese and brownie hating person could not fairly represent a cheese and brownie loving constituency. I'm sorry Amy Kaechele, I could not in good conscience vote for you now (though I thought your hair looked fetching last night). And you know who else couldn't vote of you if they knew about your cheese and brownie bashing? The state of Wisconsin, that's who. Or fat people. I'm sorry, it had to be said.
If that hurts, well, all I can say is maybe you need to rethink your cheese and brownies platform.
That is all.
15 May 2007
Adventures in Modeling
I'm a model. No really, I am. I model. In photographs and stuff. Seriously. Try to suspend your disbelief long enough to enjoy the rest of this blog.
A few weeks back I got a call from a friend of mine who's a casting director/ my default agent. She gets me gigs every so often and they usually pay really well with very little work involved. She tells me that she's got a modeling job and the client (that's jargon for 'person what's doling out the moneys') specifically asked for me. Me. They wanted me to be their model.
I had worked for this particular client before so when they asked for me, I was really flattered. Clearly they liked me-- or liked working with me. Either that or they really liked my look. They thought I was good looking-- the kind of face they want representing their company. How awesome is that? I'll tell you how awesome: it's way awesome.
No one has requested me before. No one has specifically asked for me to be their model.
It took me a few days to get over the initially weirdness of that. I mean, let's face it, that's weird. I'm not exactly commercially attractive if attractive at all. At least I didn't think so. But then, with this call, I start to think: "Maybe I'm not as ugly as my mother always told me I was . . . maybe I'm actually a breath-takingly attractive person and just have never known it because of all the shame and self-doubt that was instilled in me from a young age. HOLY SHIT! I'm one of those really hot girls who sincerely doesn't know she's hot and walks around wondering why guys are looking at her!" This blew my mind. It's a total sea change for me. As it turns out, after all these years I really am good looking enough to be a furniture model! Next stop: Sears catalogue!
So I've fairly well convinced myself that I'm a gorgeous man-- wanted by women and furniture companies alike. I'm embarrassed to admit it, but this little bit of affirmation really made a difference for me . . . I started seeing myself differently. I'd look in the mirror in the days leading up the photo shoot and think "my face is largely symmetrical" and "man, I'd kill for eyelashes like those-- oh wait! Those are mine!"
It was pretty pitiful, really. But worry not, dear reader, because our story doesn't end there.
I get to the photo shoot and I'm feeling like hot shit. Sure, I'm pasty, gangly and doughy but about 65%* of me is convinced that it doesn't matter: I'm still a sexy beast. I meet the client, the photographer and all the other folks involved** and as they're picking out my outfit from the ridiculously huge array of clothing I brought along with me (and as usual, even though I brought everything I own, I didn't have what they wanted***) they explained to me what the shoot was for. . . .
Y'see, they're marketing an ergonomic desk that adjusts to fit people of radically different heights. I was to be the representative of tallness. Yes, they hired me, they wanted me purely because I'm a freak. The girl in the shoot with me was over a foot shorter than me-- the two of us were used to illustrate the extremes of human freakishness. 'She's tiny and adorable, he's a massive beast.'
After showcasing the desk for most of the day, we ended by doing a series of photos that would impress upon the viewer the ridiculousness of my size. These photos were things like me crouching way down to look her in the eye or me standing upright and her peaking around the side of me with an impish grin (the subtext being "He's so big I can entirely hide behind him and yet that desk accommodates us both!")
The best part is that during the shoot I was, at multiple times, referred to as 'Shrek.' And I wasn't even wearing green.
Dave the gorgeous model: 0
Dave the ogre model: 1
*though that may not seem exceptionally high, compared to the 17% of me that normally finds me attractive, it's quite a step up.
**turns out, it takes like seven people to create a good picture of me
***How 'bout next time you know what you want me to wear you just freakin' tell me and I'll bring it? It'd save us all a lot of trouble.
A few weeks back I got a call from a friend of mine who's a casting director/ my default agent. She gets me gigs every so often and they usually pay really well with very little work involved. She tells me that she's got a modeling job and the client (that's jargon for 'person what's doling out the moneys') specifically asked for me. Me. They wanted me to be their model.
I had worked for this particular client before so when they asked for me, I was really flattered. Clearly they liked me-- or liked working with me. Either that or they really liked my look. They thought I was good looking-- the kind of face they want representing their company. How awesome is that? I'll tell you how awesome: it's way awesome.
No one has requested me before. No one has specifically asked for me to be their model.
It took me a few days to get over the initially weirdness of that. I mean, let's face it, that's weird. I'm not exactly commercially attractive if attractive at all. At least I didn't think so. But then, with this call, I start to think: "Maybe I'm not as ugly as my mother always told me I was . . . maybe I'm actually a breath-takingly attractive person and just have never known it because of all the shame and self-doubt that was instilled in me from a young age. HOLY SHIT! I'm one of those really hot girls who sincerely doesn't know she's hot and walks around wondering why guys are looking at her!" This blew my mind. It's a total sea change for me. As it turns out, after all these years I really am good looking enough to be a furniture model! Next stop: Sears catalogue!
So I've fairly well convinced myself that I'm a gorgeous man-- wanted by women and furniture companies alike. I'm embarrassed to admit it, but this little bit of affirmation really made a difference for me . . . I started seeing myself differently. I'd look in the mirror in the days leading up the photo shoot and think "my face is largely symmetrical" and "man, I'd kill for eyelashes like those-- oh wait! Those are mine!"
It was pretty pitiful, really. But worry not, dear reader, because our story doesn't end there.
I get to the photo shoot and I'm feeling like hot shit. Sure, I'm pasty, gangly and doughy but about 65%* of me is convinced that it doesn't matter: I'm still a sexy beast. I meet the client, the photographer and all the other folks involved** and as they're picking out my outfit from the ridiculously huge array of clothing I brought along with me (and as usual, even though I brought everything I own, I didn't have what they wanted***) they explained to me what the shoot was for. . . .
Y'see, they're marketing an ergonomic desk that adjusts to fit people of radically different heights. I was to be the representative of tallness. Yes, they hired me, they wanted me purely because I'm a freak. The girl in the shoot with me was over a foot shorter than me-- the two of us were used to illustrate the extremes of human freakishness. 'She's tiny and adorable, he's a massive beast.'
After showcasing the desk for most of the day, we ended by doing a series of photos that would impress upon the viewer the ridiculousness of my size. These photos were things like me crouching way down to look her in the eye or me standing upright and her peaking around the side of me with an impish grin (the subtext being "He's so big I can entirely hide behind him and yet that desk accommodates us both!")
The best part is that during the shoot I was, at multiple times, referred to as 'Shrek.' And I wasn't even wearing green.
Dave the gorgeous model: 0
Dave the ogre model: 1
*though that may not seem exceptionally high, compared to the 17% of me that normally finds me attractive, it's quite a step up.
**turns out, it takes like seven people to create a good picture of me
***How 'bout next time you know what you want me to wear you just freakin' tell me and I'll bring it? It'd save us all a lot of trouble.
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