Friday, October 29, 2010

Gingivitis P. Skulk, at your service

I've been running low on inspiration and time when it comes to posting anything chuckle-worthy here. Blame it on rehearsals and performances with Giant Step Theatre's latest production, Pinocchio, in which I play the guy who sells Pincushion to the evil puppet master, sticks Pinhead with a huge dinner bill, and rushes Pine-Sol onto a boat to Pleasure Island...where he will be turned into a donkey and used for slave labor.

I'm a lovable rascal.

I'm a lovable rascal who hasn't been able to post to his blog because he's had to keep speeches like the following concoction (courtesy of Peter Martin) fresh in his head:

We'll sue the pants off 'em! We'll nail 'em to the wall! We'll send 'em cryin' for their mothers! There will be damages! Big ones! I'd say a million for each of the counts against them. Count these counts: you've got violation of probate, bad faith fiduciary malpractice, wrongful accretion of intellectual property, breach of eminent domain, misrepresentation of an affidavit for collateral negligence, and circumstantial conspiracy to violate a coroner. Not to mention malfeasance, malpractice, maladjustment, and Mal Torme. Plus adverse possession of an affidavit for the party of the first part and de facto negligence against the due process to collateralize the defamation of the party of the second part. Did I miss anything?

"They didn't smell too good."

Brilliant! We'll get 'em for malodorous intent, too!
* * * * * * *
I'm lucky I can remember my own name, what with this kind of stuph filling my head.
Until next time,

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

THAT much, eh?

I was reading Renee Valois' review of Chanhassen Dinner Theatres' production of I Do! I Do! in Sunday's St. Paul Pioneer Press and was taken aback by the following paragraph:

The music is pleasant but not stellar — with one song a standout in popularity and poignancy, "My Cup Runneth Over" (with love), which has been covered by everyone from Perry Como to Bing Crosby.

Let's lay aside the factual fact that the parenthetical, with love, ought to be inside the quotation marks and have initial caps, along with the rest of the song title...and how those things NOT being done hurts my feelings. The phrase that really threw me for a loop was the one that ended the paragraph:

...covered by everyone from Perry Como to Bing Crosby.


And just how many artists reside in that wide expanse? By my count, it's a grand total of one: Engelbert Humperdink.

And he has to really squeeze to fit.

Sunday, October 3, 2010

I didn't know I had it in me!

While in Indiana recently, Beloved and I spent two-and-a-half hours with an ex-girlfriend of mine, eating breakfast. Not that we ate breakfast for two-and-a-half hours (though I wouldn't have minded a second helping of biscuits and gravy), but we sat in the restaurant that long, swapping stories and catching each other up on what had happened in the 15 years that had passed since we last saw each other.

Contrary to what some of you might be thinking about a face-to-face between an old flame and a current flame, there were no emotional fireworks. Two reasons: 1) Beloved happens to think the old flame is a very nice, interesting person; and 2) Beloved knows she owns my heart (and half of all my worldly goods).

The best thing I gained from the morning (in addition to a bit of plaque in my arteries) was hearing the story of something I did in my late teens...something that I had no memory of whatsoever, but which fills me with belated pride.


A small group of us had been the entertainment for a monthly meeting of the Elks or Lions or Fraternal Order of the Manly Muskrats. After thrilling them with a condensed version of The Wizard of Oz, we piled into OldFlame's car. As she was backing out of the parking spot, she ran into a pole, denting the rear fender of her parents' car.

Burying her head in her hands, OldFlame lamented, "Oh no! I'm going to be in so much trouble!"

We drove to her house and I told her to wait at the car. "Let me handle this."

I went into the house and gravely spoke with OldFlame's mother, who we lovingly referred to as "Ina Mae," which was very convenient, as that also happened to be her name.

"Ina Mae...we were in an accident."

Motherly instincts boiling over, Ina Mae asked, "Is everybody all right?!!?"

"Yes. We're okay. It just dented the fender."

"Oh, well, thank goodness!"

* * * * * * *

I actually got her to be thankful for a dented fender! Pretty good for a sixteen-year-old theater geek.

Epilogue: Apparently, OldFlame's dad didn't take the news with quite the same level of gratitude.