Saturday, February 19, 2011
Saturday, January 8, 2011
My year in music... if you give a shit.
I've always said "I'm bad a favorites". I like things differently. So I won't be any good at the Top Albums or the Top Singles lists. Instead, here are my things to note about a year in music 2010 style... dare I call it: Mary's Music Moments of 2010. Fucking alliteration, can I be any more of a nerd?
Favorite song to turn the radio way WAY UP!:
Sleigh Bells - "Crown on the Ground"
Check out a poor quality, fan video HERE
I will gladly blow my speakers on that one. Their debut album Treats dropped last summer, so I may be a little slow on the pick up. Part of my hold up was every time I got back to my computer I could never come up with the band name. A lot of "Bells" on the scene, right? I don't know how many times I asked, "You know that song they've been playing on the Current with the dope beat and the static-y mic?" No one seemed to be able to satisfy me with an answer. Memory jogged last week. Album purchased. And it's quickly becoming one of my favorites. Can't wait to catch this Brooklyn duo in person.
PS. Don't check out their website.... it doesn't make them look awesome...
Favorite album to belt out while alone:
Florence + the Machine - Lungs
I know I bought this a year ago Christmas, so technically it must have been released in 2009, but the airwaves caught on mid 2010 with "Kiss with a Fist". Guttural and fun to sing along to. That bass drum driving your pulse and your voice box trying to keep up. If you are braving the sing along - be sure to have the track playing loud... most chords are no match for Florence's. What I really love about this album though is how sweetly dark it is. I grow tired of music that takes itself too seriously, and lyrics like "I said Hey, Girl with One Eye, Get your filthy fingers out of my pie" fit my sentiments exactly.
Check out one of my favorite tracks - Drumming Song - OFFICIAL VIDEO
Favorite female-lead girl-crush:
Oh yeah, that goes to Florence too...
We all have them, don't we?
Favorite live performance:
Dirty Projectors
Hands down!! It surprised the hell out of me too! That September night could go down as one of my all time favorite concerts. Go out and buy Bitte Orca (extended edition, that includes some nice acoustics stylings on the same great tracks [bargain price of $5.99 on iTunes today] ). I had an older album of theirs, Rise Above, and liked it enough but didn't hit the replay that often. It wasn't until I saw them live that I fell. And FUCKING HARD! Eating up anything any band member has had it's hands on. The trio of female voices were so incredibly on point with harmonies tighter than tight - it dropped the jaw of this former-singer. Throughout both albums those voices are used percussively. Live, it was UNREAL!
Perfect example, check out this live footage - Remade Horizon - LIVE
God I love that shit! To add a little romance to the love affair born that night, that show was also a killer first date for me. Bom chikka wa wa!
Favorite let down:
Haley Bonar
Now, there are some bands that are Make-or-Break when it comes to live performance. The aforementioned being the epitome of MAKE. Locally grown, Haley Bonar, was my breaking point. Now, I'm not saying she doesn't have a beautiful voice with a great album as a result, but this is the year's concert that I wish I would have just stayed home.
Why do I feel like it's important to tell you this? Because, I really liked her. I overplayed Big Star like What! I was excited to see her live and.... she broke my heart. The music was good and fine (aside from her attempt at a larger band ensemble), but I walked away not liking her as a person (how is that possible in the singer/audience relationship? I dunno, but it is somehow). She seemed ungrateful to be there with us, we were inconveniencing her somehow or maybe it was fucking PMS. Either way. I haven't listened to her album since and I'm sincerely bummed about that! I wanted to love it SO BAD!
Favorite ringing in the ears post-show:
The Black Keys
I loved every minute of that tingle. I would have taken my ringing ears right into the second night's show if he hadn't been sold out. There aren't many shows that I would be willing to pay a $35 ticket price twice to see the exact same set... enough said. Their album release Brothers easily made my most played list. It also made me back track to Attack & Release -n- beyond, and dig up Dan Auerbach's solo album (Keep it Hid) and side projects (Blakrok). Bottom line, good dish-washin' music. It gets me through every time!
Favorite song to get me through the work day:
Cee-lo Green - "Fuck You"
I don't know why, but this song always got stuck in my head during paid hours. Ok... maybe you know why... I always found myself belting out the chorus in my tight-quartered-office until I fumbled my way to 'the' lyric. As the song goes, "Fuck That Shit"! We all learned how fun swear words are to doo-wop to. The radio version being less than satisfying. Still a track that's just as catchy as Cee-lo tends to deliver... Ooo OoO OOO!
Others on the Over-Play list (I have my reasons...) :
The Tallest Man on Earth - The Wild Hunt
The xx - xx
Vampire Weekend - Contra
Ray LaMontagne & the Pariah Dogs - God Willin' and the Creek Don't Rise
The Dead Weather - Horehound
Yeasayer - Odd Blood
the Books - The Way Out
Spoon - Transference
There are too many more... I don't want to do this anymore...
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Bested by the Bixi
So I may be a nerd...
Ok, maybe just a failed nerd.
Failed because it took me over two years to successfully acquire the most powerful nerd-tool available. Last month, I finally earned my St. Paul Public Library Card. An important merit badge of nerd-dom.
But when I finally get around to 'going' there, I 'go' all out nerd... with my new free license to knowledge.... What did I check out on loan?
Travel books.
NERD!
Travel books on a then-upcoming trip to Montreal. Internet searching is painfully slow here. But a book! A glorious book! I can take that along in my travel bag. I won't even start in on how useful the pocket sized, folded, waterproof map will be!
I spent a good week skimming those pages and geeking myself up.
My legs hit French colonized soil. The book only came out while I was afoot in the city. Pointing my toes in the right direction. That little laminated piece of illustrated city - sooo useful. I knowledgeably walked that whole freaking city.
Once Steph joined me our strides carried us down to the Vieux-Port (Old Port) in Vieux-Montréal (Old Montreal) along the Fleuve Saint-Laurent (Saint Laurence River). Yes, that is all the French I learned. 17th Century building span the waterfront of the Old city. Towering behind that wall of history is modernism in full force. G-Force even. Glass ribboned skyscrapers lurking behind the Roman Catholic figures lining the Port. As all rivers do, the St. Laurence seemed to run forever. We needed a better way to cover further ground.
All throughout Montreal, you see these:
Commuter bike rental stations. The Bixi. Directions in French, of course. I searched my photographic memory (exaggerated for the sake of the story) for flashes of the Bixi. I vaguely remembered a blurb saying something about them being $5 for a half hour, but that $5 can get you a whole day of riding if you manage to check in at one of the stations within that 30 minute limit. Of course, that article was in the book that I left on my living room table, not the book in the bag that straddled my aching shoulder...
We're women of the gambling nature, so we put all our money on my vague flash and let it ride...literally. We start shoving credit cards into the French machine and pushing any button that leads to anywhere. At one point the screen reads $250.00. The four eyes between the two of us grew wide for a second, but the trust was deep and the idea was grand. Continued to button mash until a receipt printed with a numeric code at the bottom.
Bingo. Punch in our code. Rip our bikes from the rack. And ROLL!
The Bixi stations are whizzing by on our right as the river dictates our route on the left. Well, as fast as anything can whiz when you are riding a 70 lb. tank of a bike with 4 inch tires. The stations flew too soon and frequent. We ride into our 20th minute and realize the trail is starting to look less 'commuter' and more 'leisure'. We start wondering where and when we may see the next station.
You see, despite it's appeal to foreigners, Montreal's Bixi is not a tourist system. As we pushed all those buttons and tried to decipher the giant red sign that flags each station, we realized one thing: There's no map. There is no way of visually identifying where this program takes you. A huge red sign with a big blank back to it. Perfect for a starred map of the city. But no. We had no point of reference. We also had no idea what would happen if we didn't make the 30 minute limit. Was that the context of the 250 dollar amount we saw stated in foreign text?
This was my brain at the 23 minute mark:
Hmm, another tunnel up ahead.
The trees are growing more dense.
I think the last Bixi was 3 minutes ago.
Uhhh... when is the next one?
I can't see one!
I can't see one!
This is starting to look kinda rural....
Is that red thing....? Nope, not a Bixi sign...
Maybe we should turn BACK.
Maybe we should turn BACK.
How long would it take us to turn around?
AHHHH it's minute 27!
My voice in my head was quivering, so I finally let my uncertainties vomit aloud. Steph's head was doing the same. We both just spent the last 10 minutes panicked, unable to enjoy the view. Some leisure ride! We decide to turn around and huff it to the sure thing we passed 4 minutes ago. Well, at least as much as one can huff it when you are riding a 70 lb. tank of a bike with 4 inch tires!
I spot the red flag of a sign and as we near..... The entire Bixi rack is full minus one spot! We strategize in quick, sharp tongues as we dismount our Bixis. She got her bike first and is less one minute than me, so if she checks in and then checks out really quick... I can follow suit. Fast forward button mashing!
We end up making the time crunch but our nerves are so shot, neither one of us are ecstatic about the idea of continuing on. BUT now we are stuck! The option of checking both bikes in at this location isn't possible with only one slot open. We forge ahead with no direction and diminishing fun. The sure bet would be to point our front wheels towards downtown. That's where we head.
An hour and a half time spent and we ditch our bikes at the first station we see with two stalls. We walk away knowing that our feet won't stress us out. Good old, reliable feet. And then we laugh.
We laugh at how great the idea was to explore a foreign city via bicycle. We giggle about how pedal commuter friendly this city is and how badly we wanted to be apart of that. We chuckle about how we thought we were figuring out this French system in our own stupid, American way. But mostly, what got us to the point of tears was that we were bested by the Bixi. Somehow an idea that had so much potential for fun turned into the worst, most anxious moments of travels together.
The day continued on and ended up with us at a bar late a night with a friend of Steph's playing tour guide. The host had a short walk home, which left us to our own means of making it across town. We had learned the hard way that although bars stay open until 3am, the city metro latched the revolving doors at 1am. In a 2am moment of brilliance we both thought.... the Bixis! We thought we'd give it another shot since the money was good all day. We had the relief of knowing there was a station directly in front of the Chateau Versailles. We commit to that plan and start walking her friend home with the promise of seeing some stations along the way.
I see one, hmmm... Wierd, that's empty. There was a soccer game that night maybe everyone rode them out of downtown drunk? Another! Empty. Third? Empty. Just our luck... it must have been Bixi maintance night. Every single Bixi in the city had been collected as we downed beers while taxadermied ostriches loomed overhead.
DAMMIT it's 3am and we were bested by the Bixi's AGAIN!
So you'll understand why my heart jumped to my throat when I saw this driving home last Wednesday:
THE BIXIS ARE COMING!
And then on Thursday:
THE BIXIS ARE HERE!
....at least MPLS' got a map: http://www.niceridemn.org/
Oh and I ended up with a big nerdy fine of those travel books.... what an idiot!
Sunday, June 13, 2010
House of Balls!
What I love about this city is that you'll never find it all.
There is always some jewel to discover.
A couple of months ago, I found this jewel of a gallery. The artist opens it's doors during strange hours and got his start sculpting bowling balls. Most of his walls are covered in reclaimed material playing with the element of light. No wonder I like it... It's finding things like this that make me appreciate the creative world we live in and I'm fortunate enough to find myself a community that supports it. Take a photo tour with me... better yet, go find all the crazy I didn't capture for yourself.
Holy Moly
I started this blog in November of 2008. With a handful of posts, it mostly sat unread and unwritten for 9 months.
August of last year I had a couple of weeks without internet and a bunch of 'experiences' to write about. So I sat down and decided to invest in this thing a bit.
I missed writing. My college education was writing. I needed to write.
I went hot and heavy for three months. I actually wrote everyday that I was in town.
It was right around that time that I put the visitor ticker on my page.
Today that ticker hit 1000. This post will be my 104th.
If I'm pulling out averages, in the 18 months I have had this thing that puts me at 56 hits a month. Almost two visits a day.
The truth there is I never admited to having this site until that August that I couldn't stop writing. The other truth is that those hits are probably mostly me seeing if my post formatted correctly.
Today I wonder how people keep finding themselves here. I am not that intersting, especially when I am only mustering one post a week....
and how the hell do I only have 4 followers? Own up people! I know you are there.
Ha.
Isn't this boring?
I have so many backstories I just need to get to. Will someone borrow me some time and clear thought so I can make you all giggle a little now and then? Please?
Thanks for reading.
August of last year I had a couple of weeks without internet and a bunch of 'experiences' to write about. So I sat down and decided to invest in this thing a bit.
I missed writing. My college education was writing. I needed to write.
I went hot and heavy for three months. I actually wrote everyday that I was in town.
It was right around that time that I put the visitor ticker on my page.
Today that ticker hit 1000. This post will be my 104th.
If I'm pulling out averages, in the 18 months I have had this thing that puts me at 56 hits a month. Almost two visits a day.
The truth there is I never admited to having this site until that August that I couldn't stop writing. The other truth is that those hits are probably mostly me seeing if my post formatted correctly.
Today I wonder how people keep finding themselves here. I am not that intersting, especially when I am only mustering one post a week....
and how the hell do I only have 4 followers? Own up people! I know you are there.
Ha.
Isn't this boring?
I have so many backstories I just need to get to. Will someone borrow me some time and clear thought so I can make you all giggle a little now and then? Please?
Thanks for reading.
How to cut a mango...
No pun involved in the title. This really is an entry on the best way I have found to cut a mango. Food instruction isn't something usually found in my blog. But a few days ago I promised to give a lesson in mango cutting to a friend and today I just happened to get my knife out and thought it would be a waste of a mango for this promise to go unfulfilled.
1 - I always work in a bowl rather than a cutting board. First I score along the bottom of the mango. This gives the knife a stopping point when pealing.
2 - I think mangoes are the only time I get out my paring knife. Peal the darn thing!
3 - Notice I still got my non-slip skin spots.
4 - Shave off chunks down to the core. Sometimes this means cutting into and under the top and bottom skin to get all that tangy meat.
5 - The result! Lots of fruit in the bowl and nothing but nut left for the trash.
Note to self: Never try to be a hand model.
To Jamie: How to cut a mango....
The important thing is to leave a little skin on the top and bottom of the mango. Gives you some grabbing points. We all know how slippery these devils can be.
1 - I always work in a bowl rather than a cutting board. First I score along the bottom of the mango. This gives the knife a stopping point when pealing.
2 - I think mangoes are the only time I get out my paring knife. Peal the darn thing!
3 - Notice I still got my non-slip skin spots.
4 - Shave off chunks down to the core. Sometimes this means cutting into and under the top and bottom skin to get all that tangy meat.
5 - The result! Lots of fruit in the bowl and nothing but nut left for the trash.
Note to self: Never try to be a hand model.
Monday, May 17, 2010
A Nice Ass Surprise!
I need to remember to carry around my business cards. Every day is a new face and it is far easier to have them remember me than the other way around. Due to my inability to cough up my contact info, I have started a collection of millions. Rightly so, I need to know them all. But at this point I doubt I can project faces on these informative take-aways. They are scattering my desk at work and making the crumpled commute home, ending up one of many cluttered surfaces.
I am on the verge of surviving the 9 mile bike home. I turn off of the river and onto the city streets for the home stretch. I start daydreaming on how good it will feel to curl up on my couch for a minute. Soft cushions cradling my bruising tail bones. The slamming of my garage door settles it. I'm hard core. Now to find soft comfort for my aching joints, gasping lungs and twitching muscles.
I collapse. My midget sofa forces me to tuck my knees in tight beneath my chin. But my left leg isn't going there easily. The crease in my thigh is resisting the angle. Pockets. I am not usually a pocket stuffer. I shove my hand into my tiny pocket (don't get me started on women's pants pockets) and expect to find one of those treasure cards of information. Instead, I reach in my pocket and pull out a butt.
A 1.5" x 3" butt.
The story could end with a wildly inappropriate business card. Or it can end (or start?) this way...
That butt made it to my pocket yesterday (Yes, I may have just admitted to wearing the same jeans twice in a row. Don't pretend you don't). Spending the day studio hopping in NE Minneapolis, one of the nation's largest open gallery events was afoot. We entered dozens of work spaces. Some artists talked to us. Some waiting for us to talk to them. Some didn't talk at all and for some of those some, I am glad it worked out that way.
We enter a gallery just like the last but vastly different from the before. These studios share walls but their similarities lie and die there. This one is lined with framed photography. Figure after figure. If these bodies escaped from under their glass, there would be 40 people filling this room. But instead there were three. Me, my friend and the photographer himself, who made a bee-line for us as we entered the space. He launched into his artistic process. He tells me he paints with light. The camera is set in the dark, the model frozen in pose and the lens set on long exposure. With a flash light he traces the areas he wants captured. So that highlight on that women's left cheek was him circling and circling her bun for a good minute's time. I took his eager attitude as an attempt to make a sale. I already know I can't afford to buy anything and try to leave the conversation at a simple 'Cool, thanks. We're going to look around'.
And then the approach. My friend later told me she smelled an ulterior motive. I am none the wiser. He separates me from my friend and tells me he'd love for me to model for him. Cue cheeks. Fully flushed red, I mumbled something about not being good at cute. That's when he hands me the butt. His card. Only it's an appropriately nude business card. If there is such a thing.
Feeling a little bit like I was just undressed with a stranger's eyes, I can't recall the last of the light paintings in that room. I continue to giggle, while secretly considering it. What am I twelve?
I am under no impression that he was hitting on me. Or any other egomaniacal rant I could conjure up. In all honesty, it makes a lot of sense for an artist to solicit models in this kind of environment - in his professional studio, among his work, face to face all equate to a legitimate preposition.
What weirded me out a bit was as we were leaving the girl appeared out of nowhere. It was like a strategic tag-team. AND I'm the one getting worked over by them. She keeps trying for my eyes and I keep avoiding them because now I've caught onto the sense my friend was privy too from the get-go. I can't get by her, she stops me at the door.
As gently as she can, she starts telling me her own experience being approached by him. How, as a model, you are in complete control of how you want the shoot to go. 'He only works within your comfort limits,' she says.
I couldn't help but feel like I was in one of those strategic manipulation stories. The kind that makes you as a little kid believe that your mom was running late and had her 'friend' Al come pick you up from school and you believe Al because he has a kid your age sitting in the seat neat to him and he's driving the same minivan as your dad. (Ok, I may have just launched into a movie I recently saw ... but you get the point). A well articulated plan. The aggressor followed up by the comfort character.
It kinda gives me the heebie jeebies. Well, the story ends with my clothes on, which means if I was that kid I never would have gotten into that van.
Really, I just wanted to say that I pulled a butt from my pocket today.
I am on the verge of surviving the 9 mile bike home. I turn off of the river and onto the city streets for the home stretch. I start daydreaming on how good it will feel to curl up on my couch for a minute. Soft cushions cradling my bruising tail bones. The slamming of my garage door settles it. I'm hard core. Now to find soft comfort for my aching joints, gasping lungs and twitching muscles.
I collapse. My midget sofa forces me to tuck my knees in tight beneath my chin. But my left leg isn't going there easily. The crease in my thigh is resisting the angle. Pockets. I am not usually a pocket stuffer. I shove my hand into my tiny pocket (don't get me started on women's pants pockets) and expect to find one of those treasure cards of information. Instead, I reach in my pocket and pull out a butt.
A 1.5" x 3" butt.
The story could end with a wildly inappropriate business card. Or it can end (or start?) this way...
That butt made it to my pocket yesterday (Yes, I may have just admitted to wearing the same jeans twice in a row. Don't pretend you don't). Spending the day studio hopping in NE Minneapolis, one of the nation's largest open gallery events was afoot. We entered dozens of work spaces. Some artists talked to us. Some waiting for us to talk to them. Some didn't talk at all and for some of those some, I am glad it worked out that way.
We enter a gallery just like the last but vastly different from the before. These studios share walls but their similarities lie and die there. This one is lined with framed photography. Figure after figure. If these bodies escaped from under their glass, there would be 40 people filling this room. But instead there were three. Me, my friend and the photographer himself, who made a bee-line for us as we entered the space. He launched into his artistic process. He tells me he paints with light. The camera is set in the dark, the model frozen in pose and the lens set on long exposure. With a flash light he traces the areas he wants captured. So that highlight on that women's left cheek was him circling and circling her bun for a good minute's time. I took his eager attitude as an attempt to make a sale. I already know I can't afford to buy anything and try to leave the conversation at a simple 'Cool, thanks. We're going to look around'.
And then the approach. My friend later told me she smelled an ulterior motive. I am none the wiser. He separates me from my friend and tells me he'd love for me to model for him. Cue cheeks. Fully flushed red, I mumbled something about not being good at cute. That's when he hands me the butt. His card. Only it's an appropriately nude business card. If there is such a thing.
Feeling a little bit like I was just undressed with a stranger's eyes, I can't recall the last of the light paintings in that room. I continue to giggle, while secretly considering it. What am I twelve?
I am under no impression that he was hitting on me. Or any other egomaniacal rant I could conjure up. In all honesty, it makes a lot of sense for an artist to solicit models in this kind of environment - in his professional studio, among his work, face to face all equate to a legitimate preposition.
What weirded me out a bit was as we were leaving the girl appeared out of nowhere. It was like a strategic tag-team. AND I'm the one getting worked over by them. She keeps trying for my eyes and I keep avoiding them because now I've caught onto the sense my friend was privy too from the get-go. I can't get by her, she stops me at the door.
As gently as she can, she starts telling me her own experience being approached by him. How, as a model, you are in complete control of how you want the shoot to go. 'He only works within your comfort limits,' she says.
I couldn't help but feel like I was in one of those strategic manipulation stories. The kind that makes you as a little kid believe that your mom was running late and had her 'friend' Al come pick you up from school and you believe Al because he has a kid your age sitting in the seat neat to him and he's driving the same minivan as your dad. (Ok, I may have just launched into a movie I recently saw ... but you get the point). A well articulated plan. The aggressor followed up by the comfort character.
It kinda gives me the heebie jeebies. Well, the story ends with my clothes on, which means if I was that kid I never would have gotten into that van.
Really, I just wanted to say that I pulled a butt from my pocket today.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
The Doctor is In
As I type this I hear a Mark Ronson remix. The lyrics:
"Stop me, Oh oh oh, stop me. Stop if you think that you heard this one before."
Well, too bad suckers! Most of you have heard my 'good' stories, but my good 'told in person' stories can't even touch my writing capabilities.
Whoa, I found an ego there for a minute. Awesome.
Some day I want to get around to writing down my experience over the last month about changing jobs and yada yada. People only sorta know my deal. But I don't feel like doing that today. Instead I have a St. Paul Chamber Orchestra memory that I need immortalized in word.
My previous job description itemized a list of essential qualifications. After the requirements of being just plain awesome, one bullet point reads:
That qualification voices warning that things will get a little (who am I kidding?) a lot stressful. The problem with that line item is that it decrees that you are willing to put yourself there, not that you can handle that stress well. Everyone survives the pressure cooker differently. But I fully believe that to successfully work among the stress, you've got to bring a side of humor or it will eat you alive.
Enter Doctor Evil.
The mad scientist from the Austin Powers movies with all his bald-headed, pinky-tasting, MiniMe-having, 'One Million Dollars' saying glory. Somehow this unlikely character found it's way into the backstage of SPCO. The life sized likeness usually lives in the vestibule between backstage and onstage. Giving surprising chuckles to all that enter.
Most days Dr. Evil is kept to welcoming duty. Some days ... life for this cardboard cutout is a lot more fun.
Over the last four years the orchestra stage manager and myself have turned to the Doctor when the emotional winding gets tight.
Dr. Evil has hung from the ceiling. Peeked out behind acoustic curtains. He's worn Halloween masks. And carried signs of info for the musicians. My favorite moments took advantage of our video feed. We have a camcorder in the Music Room so people throughout the office can keep track of rehearsals via TV monitors (this also gives them to ability to watch me dance as I mop the audience risers, oh yeah and me picking my butt when I think I'm alone).
Some days a staff member in Operations might hit the power button and be faced with 1/4 Dr. Evil's face and 3/4 world class musicianship. We became masters of the silver screen. Sometimes we would throw a little uplite on the life sized. Other times we would rig up a side-entry Dr. Evil head. The longitudinal float.
Holidazzle Dr. Evil broad casted all SPCO TVs. I mean all! For this one we made a point to turn on every existing TV within the building. That included our President's office, the large conference room and the very public ticketing lobby. Amusements free of charge to unsuspecting patrons. He was once again situated in front of the orchestra but this time lit in Christmas appropriate red.
Dr. Evil has been a four year long joke. One that we've gotten exceptionally good at. I've witnessed every reaction to his existence. The startle and the giggle from the high school kids our players coach to the walker-ridden patrons that need the backstage ramp to make it to their audience seats. I've seen the biggest, hardest stagehands scream like little girls when it surprises them in the dark. I have witnessed it being planted for jokes and then the planter forgets their own planting and ends up pranking the prankster.
So many laughs. I couldn't let that humor die with my departure.
"Stop me, Oh oh oh, stop me. Stop if you think that you heard this one before."
Well, too bad suckers! Most of you have heard my 'good' stories, but my good 'told in person' stories can't even touch my writing capabilities.
Whoa, I found an ego there for a minute. Awesome.
Some day I want to get around to writing down my experience over the last month about changing jobs and yada yada. People only sorta know my deal. But I don't feel like doing that today. Instead I have a St. Paul Chamber Orchestra memory that I need immortalized in word.
My previous job description itemized a list of essential qualifications. After the requirements of being just plain awesome, one bullet point reads:
- Ability to work in a high pressure environment.
That qualification voices warning that things will get a little (who am I kidding?) a lot stressful. The problem with that line item is that it decrees that you are willing to put yourself there, not that you can handle that stress well. Everyone survives the pressure cooker differently. But I fully believe that to successfully work among the stress, you've got to bring a side of humor or it will eat you alive.
Enter Doctor Evil.
The mad scientist from the Austin Powers movies with all his bald-headed, pinky-tasting, MiniMe-having, 'One Million Dollars' saying glory. Somehow this unlikely character found it's way into the backstage of SPCO. The life sized likeness usually lives in the vestibule between backstage and onstage. Giving surprising chuckles to all that enter.
Most days Dr. Evil is kept to welcoming duty. Some days ... life for this cardboard cutout is a lot more fun.
Over the last four years the orchestra stage manager and myself have turned to the Doctor when the emotional winding gets tight.
Dr. Evil has hung from the ceiling. Peeked out behind acoustic curtains. He's worn Halloween masks. And carried signs of info for the musicians. My favorite moments took advantage of our video feed. We have a camcorder in the Music Room so people throughout the office can keep track of rehearsals via TV monitors (this also gives them to ability to watch me dance as I mop the audience risers, oh yeah and me picking my butt when I think I'm alone).
Some days a staff member in Operations might hit the power button and be faced with 1/4 Dr. Evil's face and 3/4 world class musicianship. We became masters of the silver screen. Sometimes we would throw a little uplite on the life sized. Other times we would rig up a side-entry Dr. Evil head. The longitudinal float.
Holidazzle Dr. Evil broad casted all SPCO TVs. I mean all! For this one we made a point to turn on every existing TV within the building. That included our President's office, the large conference room and the very public ticketing lobby. Amusements free of charge to unsuspecting patrons. He was once again situated in front of the orchestra but this time lit in Christmas appropriate red.
Dr. Evil has been a four year long joke. One that we've gotten exceptionally good at. I've witnessed every reaction to his existence. The startle and the giggle from the high school kids our players coach to the walker-ridden patrons that need the backstage ramp to make it to their audience seats. I've seen the biggest, hardest stagehands scream like little girls when it surprises them in the dark. I have witnessed it being planted for jokes and then the planter forgets their own planting and ends up pranking the prankster.
So many laughs. I couldn't let that humor die with my departure.
Long live the legacy.
At the time of mocking this up on my last day (Thanks Aimee for your help with the 8am photoshoot!), I did not consider the association of making myself into Dr. Evil during my rapid departure. I've come to terms with that implication for the sake of humor.
Adios SPCO!
Monday, April 19, 2010
Friday, April 16, 2010
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