I love P.G. Wodehouse. I Love him. Passionately. Gloriously. Perfectly. Yes, he's dead, but what do I care? All the best authors seem to be dead these days.
Take Noel Coward, for instance. He wrote songs, plays, poems, novels, played piano, sang, danced, and acted. And he was friends with Gertrude Lawrence.

Wodehouse and Noel Coward had the same brand of humor, though. Dry, subtle, and very, very British. The only real difference between them was that Wodehouse was straight and he didn't write plays.

How could you not like Wodehouse?
Yes, I will admit that every story line is the same: Boy #1 meets Only Girl in the World #1. They fall in love. Boy #2 meets Only Girl in the World #2. They fall in love. As it turns out, Boys #1 and #2 are friends and they get together to compare lovers. There is a scuffle involving a cow creamer, a blue-and-pink Alpine hat, and several dogs, and when the dust settles, Boy #2 loves Only Girl in the World #1, and Boy #1 loves Only Girl in the World #2, and the butler comes in to serve dry martinis and tea. (Please note: Only Girls in the World's feelings do, in fact have some bearing in what goes on in their love lives, but you don't really read about it. Alpine hats are much more interesting.) End of story. But this leaves room for the writer to flourish his pen extravagantly. Things like this:
"...So now, instead of being cold and distant and aloof, as a lesser man would have been, he (Jeeves) showed the utmost agitation and concern. That is to say, he allowed one eyebrow to rise perhaps an eighth of an inch, which is as far as he ever goes in the way of expressing emotion."
See? How could you not love that?

Okay, I have just realized that my last five posts have been about Oliver. Just Oliver. Nothing but that darned Oliver. It is taking over my life! I have had four dreams about Oliver during the course of this production. I can't remember two of them, but that's beside the point.
Oliver is taking me over. I am being consumed. Yes, I love theatre, but I don't love it THAT MUCH.
Is this normal? Are all young thespians swamped with thespianity their first production? Or is it just me??
Okay, Now that I have gotten that soulful, questioning rant out of my system, here is something Anti-Oliver. Non-Oliver. Un-Oliver-esque.

...God help me, I'm drawing a blank. Just white noise. Absolutely nothing. See, without things to complain about, my life is rather dull. (I have come to realize that at the end of this week, my social life will be, effectively, nil. Isn't that sad?) There must be something wrong with me. I must be totally out of whack. This is not unusual, mind you, but it is rather sudden...

I am so, so glad that we have a few days off before the next Oliver performance. We have all got The Gink (sore throats, stuffy noses, lots of drainage, sleep deprivation).
I went to Choir tonight, the last rehearsal we have before going to Saltsburg. It was so nice to be with people who could count beats and knew what an eighth rest is. You know, people who know what they are doing. Non-musically-challenged people. I like people like that.
I am so, so tired. I feel like...like I haven't slept since...hmmm...last night? That sounds right. I think. If it's not right, then don't bother getting me out of hibernation, I'd probably kill you...

Welllllll... Last night was better than opening night...
I didn't get to bed until 1:07 AM, because the play didn't end until 10:00, and we had a little cast party shindig at a pizza joint until 11:00 (at least, that's when I left), and on the way home, my little brother asked if we could watch Return of the King, so we did, and that's why I went to bed at 1:07 AM.
That kid who plays Oliver is becoming a holy terror. Oliver is supposed to be scarred and submissive, and he's just being...Snotty. Like when the doctor comes to see him at Mr. Brownlowe's house, and is all "Is he hungry? Boy, are you hungry? No, he's not hungry, I knew it! Are you tired? I bet he's tired. Boy, are you tired? No? Ha! I knew it. How about thirsty? If he's thirsty, I'll eat my head! You are? I knew it!" Evil Oliver says stuff like, "Well, you'll just have to eat your head!" While nice, submissive, scarred, script Oliver says, "May I get up now, Sir? May I stay here always, sir? May I have Mrs. Bedwin as my mummy, Sir? May I buy those sweet red roses, Sir? They're only a penny for two blooms!" (Okay, he doesn't say that, but you get the picture).

We just have one more performance, and then off for the rest of the week, just a couple pick-up rehearsals and them three more shows, and that's it.
By the way, auditions for Romeo and Juliet are in June.

I survived, but I am wounded possibly beyond healing.
1. A whole verse left out of "That's Your Funeral" ("I don't think this song is funny/That's your funeral/that's your funeral" etc.) so instead of that we had "If you're fond of overeating" twice.
2. A little glitch with Oliver's cold bits: there was too much. Not to worry, not to worry, we have FIVE MORE RUNS to perfect it.
3. While we're on the subject of the Sowerberry's, the darned COFFIN was too darned HEAVY to carry off the darned STAGE with darned Mrs. SOWERBERRY inside.
4. Old Sally's death scene went really well, only...Well, the lights stayed up, so she had to resurrect herself from the dead and drag herself offstage so Bumble and Brownlowe (God, that sounds like a law firm) could enter Brownlowe's parlor without tripping over a dead body and therefore leading to a pretty awkward scene.
5. Entrance to "Who Will Buy" was five beats off. Five beats. FIVE BEATS!!! If I was so much as ONE beat off, my choir director would probably do something violent and unspeakable to me.
6. Oh, yeah, and our audience (yup, all twelve of them) was dead. Completely dead. No laughing, no gasping, nothing. Except for when my brother got killed, they laughed for that.

Tonight better be better. Or else I'll...Well...I don't know exactly what I'll do, but it won't be pretty, and it will probably contain some language that a few people would consider offensive.

Guess what I got off the needles last night, though? My halter top! I'm so excited, it's the only top I've ever knit (and I've knit a few) that looks good on me. It's purple ladder yarn (I think it's called "Matrix") and it's completely backless. It's so much fun.

Well, it's Opening Night.
The Big One.
The next apocalypse.
Disaster.
Whatever you want to call it, it's not going to be pretty, it's probably going to drag, and it's going to be one heck of an initiation for me and my brothers.
Wish me luck.
If I survive, then I shall probably curl up in a dark hole for the rest of my days. P)lease do not disturb me there.
If I am to be murdered by an angry audience or the evil stares of theatre critics, then I would like red roses and lavender at my funeral, and I would like to be buried with something alcoholic in the coffin.
These are my last wishes.

Oh. My. God.
What more can possibly go wrong with this production of Oliver? Every conceivable problem has arisen. EVERY SINGLE ONE.
1. We were kicked out of our performance and rehearsal space (the Dubois Center) because of some debate about the direction they wanted to take, costing us two weeks of lost rehearsals.
2. We lost 50% of out cast those two weeks we were stagnant, so we had to scrounge talent so local, we sleep in the same house (but not really).
3. Queen Taifa and Ron, our accompanist, don't get along at all. By no stretch of the imagination could they ever exchange remarks other than the most tepid.
4. Our Oliver is slightly tone-deaf, and cannot read music to save his life. (Actually, Taifa and Ron aren't too hot on that front either).
5. Our Dodger just quit, with FIVE FREAKING DAYS TO GO BEFORE OPENING NIGHT, so we now have someone else, who is very good, and picking up the blocking very fast, and actually taking the part seriously, but still.
6. Everyone has colds. EV-ER-Y ONE.
7. Okay, who has their lines memorized? Just the teens? No adults except the narrator? Really? Would you like to sign your own death warrant? What time do you want the press to hang you?
But oh, god, it's fun.
I still haven't written about the harem massage incident, have I?
Former Dodger walked in about a million hours late last Saturday, and when we asked him why, the only coherent things he could manage were "party" "tired" and "one bleeping hour of bleeping sleep".
So we dragged him out and all the girls (orphans and Fagin's gang kids, too) and gave him a backrub for forty-five minutes straight.
I swear, the boy has no qualms whatsoever about a tribe of underage girls handing him paradise on a linoleum floor for that long.
And then he didn't come back, and we were all heartsick. Except for me, of course, I have learned (not from personal experience, mind you) that it never works out to date a guy you're working with. Especially if you're an actress, I mean, how can you flirt meaninglessly on stage then?
So that's pretty much it for now...

Sooooo...Tired...Sleeep....
Nope, nope, nope, I must wake up...Well, maybe not...
NO! AWAKE! Think AWAKE thoughts...God, I'm so tired I can't type straight...I keep missing the space bar and all those punctuation marks...
Okay, thinking of being AWAKE...Analyzing the dangers...Aaaaand...It's not worth it. I should go back to sleep...
But guess what? I'm NOT going to. NOT. NO. I cannot make me.
Woah... that sounded wiered...I mean, weired...Oh, forget it.
No, I am going to work on a farm until 4:00 in the afternoon, and then come home long enough to change and then go to an Oliver rehearsal until 9:00. So yes, my day is packed, and I only just remembered last night to call the lady I was supposed to be babysitting for and tell her that I wouldn't be able to make it...
Aaaaa! Falling asleep!!!!
Something to keep me awake...Hmmm...Well, last night at the gas station, I saw what looked like the semi-annual meeting of United Pedifiles and their Hoochie-Mamma Girlfriends Annonymous...No, eeew, that'll just give me really weired dreams...

WOW is it humid today.
Seriously. It is evily (evilly? evilie?) humid, which is worse than it being too hot, because when it is humid you get all sticky and crabby.

I was at an old Winn-Dixie (depressing) from 8:00-10:00 helping to sell old library books.
The Winn-Dixie in question has been abandoned since I was eight, and therefore does not have power. Which means that there were no lights, and it was HUMID.

Also, for those of you who remember the Dreaded Love Hexagon, Kelly and Carson were there, together, being quite friendly and whatnot.
Honestly.
My brother on the other hand, who bears grudges quite beautifully (no, really, they look great on him), spoke not a word to Kelly and remained sullen and brooding the entire time she was there. He says that he hasn't spoken a word to her since The Event, and plans to keep it so. He's not going to break his track record.

I have a rehearsal today, and one tomorrow, and one on Monday, and I think...Heck, I think I have them all week.

And you know what else I think? I think it's going to fall flat.

Opening night is the 18th, right? So we should be coasting along merrily, right?
Well, could someone please explain to me WHY
1) We STILL do not have cosumes for the adult cast.
2) Widow Corney and Mr. Bumble had their first-ever rehearsal of their songs "Oliver", "I Shall Scream" and "Boy For Sale" ON THURSDAY EVENING.
3) No one (exceptions Bill, Dodger, Nancy, Fagin, Mr. Brownlow, Charlotte, Noah and the kids) is off book yet.
4) The set still isn't built.
Et cetera ad nauseum. I have never been in a production outside my living room, so don't trust my assesment, but we are going to crash and burn if we don't really take care of some of this stuff!