The Evil Baritone Blog

Hello there in Tualatin

2011-04-12T21:48:00.000-07:00

Who keeps searching this blog from Tualatin? I know you use Verizon internet, Yahoo! search engine, and you're a Firefox fan on Windows XP. If you haven't figured out, the Evil Baritone Blog is a little rusty. I don't post much here anymore. Turns out there are other evil people in the world, even in Tualatin, who liked to use my public words for gossip, to sour old friendships, and other general nastiness. That's why I don't post publicly on this blog.

But hey, thanks for stopping by every now and then. Feel free to drop me a line. I'd love to know who you are. ;-)

EB is a Twitt

2009-08-01T18:00:00.000-07:00

Yes, I have found Twitter. Look to the left sidebar and you'll probably see more frequent updates of the life & times of EvilBaritone.

Riggy, I Can't See You!

2009-05-21T10:17:00.000-07:00

Rigoletto was back at the Portland Opera for their final production of the ’08-’09 season. Or as some of us say, “welcome home, Riggy!” Why? Because returning to perform the title role was Mark Rucker who sang in the previous production of Rigoletto in 1998.

I must say I was very proud to be a part of the opera chorus at that time and singing with one of the world’s premier Verdi Baritones is not something that another baritone takes lightly. In ’98 I was able to observe Mark in every aspect of his character integration with the show. I say ‘integration’ rather than ‘development’ because Mr. Rucker had performed the role countless times even then. I’m sure he’s got a few dozen more under his belt in the last 11 years. But watching him work behind the scenes was amazing from the first music rehearsal to just before the final curtain when he cries in agony over losing his precious daughter, Gilda.

Well, cut 11 years and I’m now in the audience ready to enjoy Rigoletto from an audience perspective on a $20 ticket (thanks to PO’s new policy of “padding the house” on certain days and sections). One thing I will say about this new production is that it was not well lit. After performing a number of operas where the lighting designer throws lights from all angles from the rafters, downstage, and offstage left and right, (and becoming near blinded in the process) this show had minimal lighting. Unfortunately, the beautiful, multi-functional 2-level set was drenched in darkness, and all the wonderful colorful costumes were just so-so in the drisly trickle of illumination. So I say to the lighting designer, "may a thousand points of light sting your eyeballs so you can know what light looks like!"

The sound, however, was astounding! Rucker…yo, what can I say? He’s da BOMB! But one thing that stood out this time around was the last scene. Remember in "Godfather III" when Michael Corleone is on the steps of the opera house after his daughter was shot, and he gave that looooong silent scream, then suddenly inhales and wails in dispair? Rucker's wail was like that. Chilling to the bone and heartbreaking.

And Gilda, sung by Sarah Coburn, brought the house down with her “Caro nome”. I’m not usually a big fan of twittery coloraturas, but Coburn made me swoon. Peter Volpe was Sparafucile and if there ever was a bass that I want to be when I grow up, it is Mr. Volpe. My favorite memory of the show is in Act II when Sparafucile tells Riggy that he’ll be at the same place every night if he needs him, and walks offstage singing a low F – still resonating in the back of the house! Gotta love a great bass!

But by far I am most proud of the men’s chorus. The men’s chorus in Riggy is tough. I mean machine gun, ratta-tat-tat type of patter singing that is not easy to coordinate with 20 men, a 40 piece orchestra, and a baton. But the men were DEAD SOLID PERFECT! I have never, even in recordings, heard the chorus so spot on. Brilliantly sung. Bravo, men!

Now the season is closed and we look forward to yet another production of La Boheme in September. I think it’s the 4th time in 15 years that they’ve done this show. Hmmm…must be a moneymaker. I’ll be looking for my $20 tic for this as well.

The Return of Evil

2009-05-21T09:59:00.000-07:00

So yes, Evil Baritone is still around. I’ve decided to come out of hiding once again because a) this rock is getting heavy, and b) I missed torturing my loyal readers with my insensitive slather and incomprehensible drivel. Besides, hopefully all the baddies have gone and I can blog in peace once again. If not, then they’ll have to suffer the slings and arrows as a result of my outrageous fortune.

Welcome back, Jack!

Frankly, Aretha – OUCH!

2009-01-22T09:13:00.000-08:00

Aretha Franklin Croaks

I had the pleasure to watch the historical inauguration broadcast on every TV station known to mankind on Tuesday. I thought I would discuss some of the musical issues that concerned me. Particularly the atrocious rendition of “My Country ‘Tis of Thee” performed by Aretha Franklin just before President Obama was sworn in.

Was anyone else horrified? I know Aretha is the Queen of Soul and is a goddess among the hall of fame R & B singers, but DAMN! Her pitch was spread out and random like she threw darts at a musical staff. Breath control was non-existent. Example: “My Coun (GASP) try ‘tis (GASP) of thee”.

Oh, and the pre-recorded chorus arrangement was ridiculous. “Let freedom ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring….”

I can’t imagine she was nervous. She’s been singing for over 40 years. And I know it was 15 degrees and all. But maybe a younger more classically trained singer like D.C. native Denyce Graves would have been a better representative of the stature of the day. And besides, it would have been recompense for singing at Dubya Bush’s second inauguration four years ago.

US Military Band Lip Syncs

And did anyone else notice that “The President’s Own” U.S. Marine Band was lip syncing during the pre-inauguration music? I couldn’t believe it! The cameras closed in on the percussionists and they were moving sticks but not beating anything! Then looked more closely and realized that nobody was playing.

But ok, I can sorta forgive that one. Having personally experienced marching band in sub-freezing temps I know how bad a band can sound. And the best and most disciplined band in the country needed to remain “warm” for the actual playing of ‘Hail to the Chief’ when the time came, so they piped in recorded music for two hours. But why did they need to pretend as if they were playing along to Sousa marches?

And lastly, as far as music went, I’m very impressed with the Obamas for standing front and center and actually PAYING ATTENTION to the bands as they marched past in the parade. I had the honor of marching in the inauguration parade for Bush Sr. in 1989. He, and all other Presidents I’ve watched in the parade since, were lounging somewhere unseen by the marchers and paying little attention, as if they had something better to do like run the country or something. But I’m proud as a former marching band member that Obama paid particular attention to each band. Yup, Obama rocks!

Regarding CATS

2008-12-13T08:14:00.000-08:00

The two lights of my life, Goonie and Bobo, were born into a musical and operatic family. Both their parents are professional stage performers. Their grandfather is a 35 yr retired drama teacher. They are bombarded on a daily basis with parental singing (sometimes yowling on a bad day), or musicals and opera on CD. They really have no choice but to appreciate and become singers themselves someday.

Either that or truck drivers.

They can sing along with The Wizard of Oz. They even know all the lyrics to “We’re Off To See The Wizard…”, although it took me well over 30 years to figure out that patter.

One day I went to pick them up and they met me at the door all excitable about this “new” show that has a bunch of cats singing. They described how the cats live on a big trash heap and jump around the stage while singing about their curious 9 lives.

“CATS?” I asked. “CATS is your new favorite musical?”

“YES!” they squealed with glee.

Now most everyone I know despises the musical CATS. It has no redeeming value as a musical other than hot dancers in colored tights and fur. They think that Sir Lloyd Webber’s music is simple and non-creative (read: it sucks), the plot is non-existent, and they could better spend their time doing three hours of sewer maintenance than watch this show.

I’ve had the complete CD for 20 years, however, and a fan for even longer. I know what a Jellicle Cat is.

So I joined in my daughters exuberant joy and promptly ripped and downloaded the CATS soundtrack onto my iPod. We listen to it every time we’re in my car together. We celebrate the mischief caused by Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer, we hum along to the magic of Mr. Mistoffelees, and rock out with Rum Tum Tugger.

We listen to it again. And again. and again…….

I’m finding that this musical has no redeeming value without the hot dancers in colored tights and fur. I’m believing that Sir Lloyd Webber’s music is trivial and consists of clustered notes tossed together like a salad. And dammit! Where is the plot?

I think I hate this musical.

I am NOT a headboard

2008-12-12T08:42:00.000-08:00

I’m a Bond fan. I’ve seen them all. And I was skeptical about Daniel Craig as the new 007. Even after Casino Royale I was not entirely impressed. However, I watched the new Quantum of Solace on opening night and realized that Daniel is a Bond to be reckoned with. The new film is a sequel to Casino so I had to go back and rent that DVD to pick up what I missed in the sequel. Then I had to go back to the cinema to watch the exciting edge-of-my-seat Quantum just one more time.

Well, even after weeks in the cinema the theater was nearly completely full. I had a choice to sit in the very front (no way) or in the very back. I chose the back. Bad choice.

The only seats available were next to a couple of teenagers cuddling in the corner, so I sat right next to them. I thought to myself, “they better not start sucking face during the movie!” But, alas, teens will be teens. And I, too, was once a teen who would suck face during in a crowded theater during a movie. However, I never went so far as these two ill-fated lovers.

After the first couple of big action scenes there of course needs to be some dialogue to move the plot along. Well, that was a perfect opportunity for the young frizzy haired, droopy pants wearing stallion to make his move. The face sucking commenced, and I thank my disciplined concentration skills that I was able to continue focusing on the movie.

After a little shoulder to shoulder smooching the couple progressed to leaning, I reckoned so as to get a little better leverage. Leaning transformed into nearly prostrate with the young gentleman’s (I’m trying to be nice here) frizzy greasy head inching closer and closer to me.

Oh, shit, I thought. I’m going to have to embarrass these kids and tell them to get a room. But I found myself hesitate as I was trying to live vicariously through this intimate couple since I’m single and haven’t sucked face in a while myself. And it was fun recalling the joyful intertwining moments during a flick with a girlfriend back in high school.

Well sure ‘nuff, the horny adolescents stretched out enough that I was acting as surrogate headboard. “That’s quite enough!” I thought. But as I turned to begin my fatherly lecture about movie manners the girl finally wizened up and put the emergency brakes on their hot-n-heavy endeavor. Whew.

But then they commenced to whip out their friggin’ phones and began texting a mile a minute. AAARRRRGGGHHHH!! Is there no consideration with today’s teens?!

I’m never going to have a teenager. My girls will have to jump right into adulthood. I’ve decided.

I Will Survive

2008-11-10T09:16:00.000-08:00

It seems just when I thought that no human being who has even a smidge of common sense would read this blog, and even after ignoring this outpost dutifully for weeks at a time while I struggle through life's challenges, there are still dozens of hits for the Evil Baritone Blog each week from all around the world.

That's right. Last week I had visitors from Canada, England, Austria, Estonia, Spain, Germany, Portugal, and of course plenty from here in the states from New York, Boston, Chicago, St. Louis, Las Vegas, Seattle, Memphis, Georgia, California, Texas, Virginia, Mississippi, Colorado, Iowa, Minnesota, and Rhode Island.

First I'd like to thank the first time visitors who stop by here from a search engine pull for keyword searches like, "hang on sloopy", "women cross dressers", "Papageno Red Bull", "Ricola mystery cougher", "female baritones", and my favorite, "hunky baritones". You'll see that this blog does indeed have a wide variety of subjects, and I'm not ashamed to write about my own cross dressing (for stage work only -- don't get any ideas!)

Secondly, for those of you who return to the blog, why do you keep coming back? I know I have failed to keep you posted and I appreciate those loyal readers who look for new posts week after week. So I thank you.

The truth is the Evil Baritone has not had much happiness to write about for a while. 2008 has been a tough row to hoe, as the old farmer's saying goes. Divorce was finalized. Self esteem is low. Friends are scarce. Dates are scarcer. And after 20 years of having no trouble getting employment and promotions, I now am entering seven months with a lack of work.

So I chose not to post my sob stories over most of this year. Do use dragging everyone down. But I see that people expect the adventures of a real, living evil baritone, even if it is one who cross dresses for his art. So I will resolve to keep up this blog for your sake.

Meantime, if you've scrolled down this far, enjoy this:

Is is OK to knit in a crowded Opera House?

2008-09-27T16:51:00.000-07:00

I was very pleased to accompany my lovely daughter, Goonie, to the final dress rehearsal of La Traviata. Her mother was singin' in the chorus and Goonie likes to go to see productions that her mamma or daddy are performing in.

Since she knew I was taking her to the opera she even dressed up in my favorite purple velvet dress. And it is traditional to enjoy fine dining before going to the opera so we went out to eat - at the local ma & pop diner. I mean, they make the best grilled cheese in Portland!

We arrived at the opera house and made our way to the first balcony, row B. Ooooo, I thought, gonna be nice seats. They were! If we paid for that pair of seats for opening night they would have been well over $200!

We settled in our seats and that was when I noticed that the lady sitting to my right was awfully fidgety. I didn't want to stare at her so I gave her the 'fish eye' and beheld a sight I've never seen before -- she was knitting! I thought, ok, that's a nice way to help make the time pass until the curtain rises. I fully figured the needles and yarn to be put away when the overture started.

Nope.

Kept right on knittin'! All - through - the - entire - opera!

WTF!?!?

Knitting is certainly not as bad as texting a friend with your phone, or being openly flatulent for that matter. But the constant fidgeting and elbowing was most distracting. Especially in Act II when Verdi just could not deem himself to move the plot along fast enough.

I think because it was the final dress rehearsal and many of the tickets are 'comp' tics and are given to folks who do not usually attend the opera that someone gave it to a relative who figured the 3,000 seat cavernous theater was just as well as her own living room.

Ok, then. I'm determined to pass some gas next time I'm at the opera.

Mozart Gives You Wings

2008-09-13T08:49:00.000-07:00

I am tickled by the latest Red Bull commercial literally featuring the cat that ate the canary. We see the subject pussy smacking his lips and wiping the corners of his mouth, then flosses with a string like he's drying himself with a towel. After a brief moment to admire himself in the mirror he preens his whiskers and grins up at the open and empty birdcage.

But what tickles me is the music accompanying the contented cat. Red bull has chosen Papageno's aria music from Mozart's Magic Flute. Red bull only included the music with no lyrics, so only those of us familiar with Papageno's opening aria knows that he sings about himself as the birdcatcher.

"I am the birdcatcher, yes I am! Always merry, heisa, hop-sa-sa!

...I can be happy and funny for the birds are all mine!"

Funny, Red Bull. Humor I can appreciate.

Schadenfreude

2008-07-06T23:53:00.000-07:00

Here's a schadenfreude pic of my war wound mentioned in my earlier post. Especially enjoyed, I'm sure, by all you spies out there reading my blog on behalf of my ex-wife. :-) Enjoy!

And the Dead Shall Rise

2008-07-06T10:40:00.000-07:00

Were you see Les Mis last night? Were you there? Did you see it? It was stunning and beautiful, cast with talented actors and singers. And if you were there for Saturday's performance you heard what sounded like a set piece dropped after we all died on the barricade. But it wasn't a set piece. No, it was a body.

My body.

In an attempt to sneak blindly offstage from my dying position on the rotating platform, I stumbled upon a box and tripped head over heels, landing headfirst half on and half off the platform. As I felt the stage still moving against my face I realized I was not moving with it, and while I was prone upon the floor I also realized that the big barricade set piece was still moving -- right at my head. I was about to be headbutted right off the stage if I didn't do something quick. So I did what any reasonable and savvy actor would do on a pitch black stage awaiting certain head injury -- I think I said, "oh shit!" I don't remember how loud. Hopefully it was only heard by the stage crew watching helplessly offstage right.

Using reflexes like a lynx, er, maybe they were more like a drunken sailor on a moving dock, I rolled off the platform avoiding my demise. I had a flash in my mind that when I rolled I would take about ten of my mates out like a bowling ball in the darkness. By some stroke of luck, or perhaps we were blest by the stage gods, I avoided a bowling lane syndrome and my fellow actors were spared. (oh, I just got the pun!)

So today I proudly display my war wounds; a scratched and bruised shin, a swollen thigh the color of the deep dark sea, and a nice stiff neck. Should be an interesting matinee today. Hopefully I can even out the bruises on the left side of my body.

Broken Chairs & Broken Platforms

2008-06-24T23:34:00.000-07:00

Hell week. Day three. Dress rehearsal on top of another tech practice. Complete bedlam backstage and in the dressing rooms.

"Where's my corset?"

"Do I wear this on our head?"

"Five minutes to places, everybody. Five minutes."

"Five minutes? I don't even have my underwear on yet!"

"Do these pants make me look fat?"

"No, but you sure got a bad case of camel toe happening there, dude!"

As you can see, the real entertainment happens backstage, people. You pay for the magic onstage, but the best seats are backstage where all the drama really happens.

Tonight our rotating platform slipped its chain. Imagine a bicycle with a 24 foot diameter gear shifter. Imagine a chain that is inches thick wrapped around the gear powered by an electronic motor with at least 1/10th horsepower. With such unbridled power under our feet we spin at a sprinting speed, sometimes clockwise, sometimes counter-clockwise. We never know. It's always a surprise. Well, maybe not as fast as a sprint, but at least a bear crawl speed. Anyway, during a clockwise spin the platform chain slipped. Total breakdown. This needed to happen. You see, since it happened during tech we can reasonably be assured that it won't happen opening night. But hey, you poor suckers who purchased opening night tics for this Friday may be in for a treat!

Also, will someone please tell the greenhorn that YOU DON'T SIT ON THE BREAKAWAY CHAIR! Especially after it's been placed onstage for the next scene. I must admit, that was one of the funniest foul-ups I ever did witness onstage. Thanks, Brian, for the good laugh.

Don't Touch My Heine

2008-06-22T23:33:00.000-07:00

Four hours of tech. Four more hours of orchestra sitzprobe. Add on another two hours spent at church rehearsing and cantoring. I'm one pooped singer! Usually we singers prefer to only rehearse or perform no more than three -- maybe four -- hours tops per day. We're such delicate creatures. And we must preserve the voce so that we are able to access only the prime vocal quality at all times for our ever-adoring public.

Yeah. Though the previous statements are based in truth, they certainly are far from reality. The exertion and energy expended today is tough on a singer, but it is something we must endure. And though we do prefer to be able to access our "top voice", the only time we hit the prime vocal quality is usually a moment in the shower or automobile or some other totally inaccessible location where no one hears us. The other 99% of the time we are struggling to sing through some sort of vocal malfunction. Samples of said vocal malfunctions can be caused by any of the following:

1. Waking up. Any singer who tries to vocalize right after their alarm clock shatters their slumber will find that portraying a sick frog is more likely be the only role available. I prefer not to even hum a note before noon. Mostly I'd rather not sing at all until after 3 pm. Ok, let's say I'd just as well sing around midnight. That's when the voice is probably warmed up best.

2. Alcohol. Sure, we singers like to drink the beers after a rehearsal or performance. But we pay dearly the next day when the post-alcohol dehydrated vocal chords go on strike. But again, when are we ever at peak performance anyway? Let's drink up -- and don't touch my Heine!

3. Breathing. Yes, simply breathing can knock the voice onto the disabled list. Dry air, moist air, dust, pollens, errant gnats that get sucked down one's throat. All these are detrimental. As I said, our poor voices are delicate instruments.

4. Having relations. You've heard that "sex weakens the knees!" But we don't need our knees! However, after an enjoyable lusty romp in the sack I find that my vocal range drops about an octave. Great for if I need to sing something out of the Russian basso-profondo repertoire, but usually I'm hired to sing something on or above the bass clef.

So there it is. I'm pooped and ready for a full day off tomorrow for rest and rejuvenation. In that case, pass me that Heine!

Prost!

Here Upon These Tiles We Will Build Our Barricade

2008-06-18T10:39:00.000-07:00

Les Miserable opens in nine days. Yesterday we were warned that rehearsal may be extended since we had yet to block some of the smaller, yet very important scenes. The warning was blatant, but when we were requested to provide our own pillows and sleeping bags we knew they meant business. So we all trudged to the theater before rush hour was officially over and began setting up the scenes.

One important scene is the opening of Act 2 where Enjolras informs his loyal followers that "here upon these stones we will build our barricade!" Dutifully, his loyal subjects run offstage and are supposed to return with a stack of books, or a box, or a marble - anything to add to the barricade. But as we did not have our set props to work with we practiced building our barricade using the only sacrificial objects we had - ourselves! Yes, actors can be so creative at times. At the end of the short scene, however, we remove the boxes and marbles and take them away as if to say, "ya know, let's build it down the street a spell."

Using our one day off on Monday, the set builders successfully raised the stage with the turntable. This uses the same technology as the actual Broadway & tour shows. So after we became weary of piling onto a human pyramid in the rehearsal room, we moved onto the stage to practice some ballroom dancing on the rotating platform. Now I have danced in shows before. I have even waltzed and jitterbugged. But never have I done any movement while the stage rotates. Imagine yourself in a beautiful Viennese ballroom twirling and waltzing around the room in a race with 20 other couples. Then imagine the floor spinning to add double the speed. It's a bit nauseating and I'm sure during at least one performance the audience will enjoy a barf-fest during the wedding scene.

And true to their warning, the director and stage management kept us late, threatening to thwap us with clipboards should we try to escape. So now I write this on my laptop on stage, snuggled in my sleeping bag using Wi-Fi to post to the blogosphere in hopes of hailing help from some local source in Portland. "Help! We're just poor actors being held captive in the theater until we 'get it right'! We need food! Substinance! Please bring donuts!"

Maybe we'll 'get it right' Wednesday and will be allowed to go home to our own beds and loved ones. Pray for us...

My Baby's A First Grader

2008-06-11T10:29:00.000-07:00

Today my oldest child, my firstborn, my baby, the Goon, is officially graduated into 1st grade. How can this happen? It seems like only yesterday my baby was 4 and visiting Disneyland for the first time. And only the day before she was 2 and on an Alaskan cruise. A year of Kindergarten has passed like the wind blowing the snow on Mt. Hood as I speak.

(WAIT! -- did he say snow? In June!?!)

Yes, I said snow.

Record cold temps in Portland and low snow levels have extended the skiing season in to the summer. WTF!?! I split from Montana 13 years ago to get away from cold, freezing temps and snow. Now I'm smack in the middle of winter in JUNE! So all you freaks in the northeast having a heatwave, just bite me!

And you know who else can bite me? The geniuses proclaiming the "Global Warming" effect. Yup, that's right...bite me with those cold, chattering teeth!

Ok, ok, you might be figuring that I'm a little grumpy right now due to the weather. That may be so, but my grumpiness is offset by the joy of rehearsing Les Miserable. After six days of rehearsal we're nearly finished blocking the show. We open in 17 days so you can bet we'll be getting bi'dness done here this week. Our Jean Valjean is a veteran of the Les Mis stage, having previously toured the show. He sounds awesome! I'll disclose more about him later. Maybe tomorrow I'll show y'all my new 19th Century French student revolutionary sideburns.

At The End Of The Day

2008-06-04T23:10:00.000-07:00

Joe Theissen, Wade Willis, and some of my other fellow cast members prepare for rehearsing, At The End Of The Day for Les Mis. Very busy first few days, and all we've got to show for it is the first 10 minutes of the show ready to go.

I think I gushed a little in yesterday's post about how excited I am to be a part of this show. I remember seeing Les Mis for the first time in '92. It was a tour production performing at the 5th Avenue Theatre in Seattle. I was on tour myself doing a children's theatre show and my tour partner had a college friend singing Cosette in the show. She graciously came & talked to our kids, giving them a thrill at talking to a "real actress!" We saw the show that evening and afterward she gave us a backstage tour. I was only 22 and in awe of the size of the stage and set pieces. She proudly displayed her wedding dress costume for the final scene, revealing that it cost in the neighborhood of $10,000.

We were also invited to the opening night gala with the cast of Les Mis in a nice lakeside restaurant in Seattle. I met the young Jean Valjean who I remember told me he was 25 or something close to that age. He was a fabulous Valjean and sounded great. I couldn't believe he was so young!

I also met the Eponine (ooh la la!) who I think had a crush on me after a few drinks, but I never got her number. (Gah! I hate being shy!)

I also remember Chuck Wagner, who played Inspector Javert. He was outstanding and remembered I wanted to meet this great baritone. However, he wasn't at the party. I did finally meet him after a performance of Jekyll & Hyde in Portland about six years ago. Still one of my favorite Broadway actors.

Ok, so enough gushing already! Let's get to work and do this thing! Tomorrow we get to work on being poor beggars -- well, it's not just a clever title!

Do You Hear The People Sing?

2008-06-03T23:11:00.000-07:00

After a few days of intense music rehearsal the cast of Les Miserable got on its feet tonight for the first staging rehearsal. This was such a wondrous occasion and personally exciting as I have loved this hit musical for over 20 years. It's been one of those "actor dreams" to be cast in this show in a professional theater so well managed and produced by Broadway Rose Theatre Co.

At the helm of this production is Robert Hunt, who has been performing in Les Mis for years, and most recently as the principal character, Javert, on Broadway. Rob was here in Portland four years ago to perform the title role in Jekyll & Hyde, and it's great to have such a talented and experienced actor directing this show. I was privileged to be stabbed by the Jek on a nightly basis when we ran. (Isn't it every actor/actress's dream to be killed and die on stage?)

By the way, if you look on his personal web site on the Photos page you will see photographs poasted of him rehearsing Jekyll here in Portland. The photographer? Yours truly. :-) It's an honor to have my creative work help promote Rob.

The rights for Les Mis were released for regional theater for this year (2008) only, and only 24 contracts were issued for performance. Our Broadway Rose certainly displays its merit for being one of the few to obtain this precious permission. And almost 250 actors & singers came out of the Northwest woodworks to audition for this crowd fav. 31 were cast. Whoa! Dont' I feel lucky? (nods)

So, my faithful readers, and those who happened upon my blog by strage and disgusting searches, I'll be blogging about this show for the next few weeks as we prepare for a four week run. Hope to see you at the show!

Coat Aria

2008-05-17T16:44:00.001-07:00

I finally got the video done! (#&*&%$#% computer!) An outtake from our POGO production of La Boheme. This is my English version of Vecchia Zimarra.

That's Kooky!

2008-05-16T05:51:00.000-07:00

I'm jobless. I'm bored. I've contracted insomnia. It's five-friggin-thirty a.m. I think the heat is getting to me. I've had a bit of rum and I wanted something to do. So I found some nice muslin cloth to make a background and made my first video blog, known commonly to the nerds as "VLOG". Like I mentioned, I was bored. It can only get better, right?

I'm Hungry - I'm Full

2008-05-13T07:28:00.001-07:00

Goonie gets smarter every day. She has learned the artful dance of negotiation, she reads like a 12th grader, and she even composes improv songs on hilarious subjects such as excrement and throw up. She gets her smarts (and humor) from me. However, sometimes logic floats away like a helium balloon and becomes an airhead. She gets that from her mother.

Last night after a meal of two forkfulls of Mac & Cheese she proceeded to ransack my kitchen in search of snack booty.

“I’m hungry”

“Then eat your dinner”

“But I’m full”

“???!!!??”

Even after six and a half years of parenting I’m still trying to plug in to kid logic. They obviously understand that to get out of eating any more of the ca-ca that is set before them all they have to do is feign fullness. But their strategy to get up from their dinner and go straight for the kitchen pantry, well, I’m on to that scheme like Pooh Bear to hunny trees.

But I take the cue and run with the ball and say, “I’d be happy to get you a popsicle – as soon as you finish your meal.”

“But I don’t want any more.”

“Then obviously you don’t want any popsicles.”

“Then can I have potato chips?”

“No.”

“Popcorn”

“No.”

“Cheez-its?”

“Uh uh.”

So off she goes to play and dance, forgetting that she’s hungry. But near bed time she can’t stand the hunger any longer and eats her cold cheesy noodles. And after reading stories and hugs and kisses, and getting her cups of water and milk for her bedside, she walks into the living room 10 minutes later…

“Can I have a popsicle now?”

Everybody Was Kung Fu Peeing

2008-05-07T22:14:00.000-07:00

I’m reaching a very remarkable milestone in my life – the day when I shall NEVER have to change another diaper again! Well, ok, it’s a pretty important milestone for my daughter, the little Klingon, too. She is now ‘dis many (3) and finally stepping up to the plate, er, the bowl rather, to pee in the potty on her own without the protective shield of an absorbent diaper.

However, as these milestones are reached, there is a transition period. Right? Can I get an “Hell Ya” from all the parents out there? A little person doesn’t stop wearing a diaper cold turkey one day and start using the porcelain throne as if it were second nature full time, right? Right.

There are mistakes to be made. Accidents are expected.

Just, why does it have to happen on the same throw pillow on my couch!?!

Ok, sure, my precious little daughter has had “ooopsies” on the floor, and thankfully, on the linoleum in the bathroom on her way to the potty. But I swear I’ve steamed and Oxicleaned this pillow full o’ pee at least three times now. There are three, count ‘em, three decorative pillows on the couch, but it’s always the same one. Interesting, i’nt it, how a young Klingon, like a dog, will find an object to mark her territory again and again.

But have no fear, if Oxiclean is as strong as it touts on cleaning up tough “diaper leakage”, you’ll feel safe that you may lean your head on my couch throw pillow with no fear of offensive odor or stain.

I’m just not telling you which one of the three pillows. ;-)

Brother Can You Spare a Dime – or The Unemployed Singer

2008-05-02T14:29:00.000-07:00

Recently I’ve revised and updated my accounting resumé in order to try to acquire full time employment and I’ve noticed a distinguishing contrast with my performing resumé. Whereas a business resume (accountant, admin asst, etc.) likes to have little or no signs of unemployment or job skipping, a singer’s resumé works best when littered with numerous jobs and multiple companies. A sign of multiple unemployment is a positive sign that an actor/singer is in demand and has acquired years of experience with different roles and various composers. I’m proud of the multitude of roles and companies listed on my Curriculum Vitae, and am often saddened when I’ve acquired too many credits that some old work has to go. For instance, my first role ever in a musical was Mendel in Fiddler on the Roof performed for a small company in Montana. When the time came to see it drop from the list I took a moment of silence, then ordered another beer in celebration of more recent successes.

So if you’re an unemployed performer don’t be gloomy. Put away that cardboard sign that says, “Will Sing For Food.” Keep auditioning and your next (and the next and the next, etc.) gig will add up to a healthy-looking resumé.

Oh, by the way:

WILL COUNT BEANS FOR FOOD!

Gimme a call, eh?

Am I having an inappropriate relationship?

2008-04-20T17:16:00.000-07:00

I’m sleeping with Stephen King. And Dan Brown. And Earnest Hemingway. In fact, I have about a baker’s dozen or so books scattered on my rumpled bed, all in some process of being read. Fiction books. Literary magazines. Thesauruses. Non-fiction “how-to’s” and self help. All unconventionally yet reverently piled in a strange literary shrine . I cannot seem to keep only one book on my “current” list at one time. I abide by the old saying, “too many books, too little time.” By keeping my nose buried in multiple volumes, novels, and opuses (or would that be opi?) I feel like I am getting more read at one time. So here is where you ask, “why, Evil Baritone, are you keeping them stacked upon your mattress?” I have a bookshelf. Sure. But it is at least a dozen steps away from my nice, warm bedroom. Why, dear reader, would I want to expose my nekkid self to the harsh cold of the living room, when I can stay cozy and warm under my covers in my humidified, temperature controlled domain?

Currently I have found yet another favorite author. I’ve been on a recent quest for short stories, including the shorts of Stephen King in his Skeleton Crew and Nightmares & Dreamscapes collections. While at Powell’s books in search of more horror to quelch my macabre thirst, a very cute employee (and no, I didn't get her number -- damn my introverted shyness!) introduced me to a new up-and-coming horror and supernatural genre author, Joe Hill. Joe has a lifetime of learning and tutelage from the “King” of horror, yes, Stephen himself. Joe is Mr. King’s firstborn son. I am nearing the completion of his short story collection, 20th Century Ghosts. I highly recommend Joe to anyone who likes horror or supernatural. He can pen fresh and imaginative plots and characters that really capture the fantastic and improbable condition of human relations. Go get his book today!

Yo Ho, Yo Ho, a Bachelor's Life For Me

2008-04-15T23:27:00.000-07:00

Ya know what’s great about livin’ in a bachelor pad? Oh, let me count the ways:

1. Chores? What chores?

I can wash the dishes every day, or I can let them sit and do them later. I, of course, rinse my dishes/bowls before I let them sit lest I chance a future unintended run-in with a crusty cereal coated grease monster. But by far the best way of getting out of doing the dishes is to purchase a nice supply of paper or plastic bowls, plates and utensils. Use ‘em and toss ‘em. My counters are clean, baby!

2. It’s my desk and I love/hate it!

I have a strong sense of ownership (which could be branded by some ‘professionals’ as a neurotic claim to personal space), and a healthy LOVE/HATE relationship with my desk. Mountains of “stuff” pile onto any open space and other varieties of “crap” are found shoved into any cubby hole available. As much as I enjoy a clean and uncluttered work space, mine is junked 99 percent of the time. That doesn’t mean I don’t know where everything is. I know EXACTLY where everything is! That is, until I try to locate something specific. Then I’m usually in a hurry and I curse and fuss and fling papers, magazines, blank CD’s, books, Playboys (It’s not mine, Mom, really!), and any other immaterial matter until the item is found. Usually ‘misplaced’ on a wrong shelf or under an incorrect pile of shi…I mean, stack of important documents. But regardless, I find it! Now, excuse me while I locate where my wireless mouse has run off to…..

Ok, found it….

3. It’s my pad and I’ll fart if I want to.

My lovely daughters stay with me two weekends a month. When I’m all by my lonesome I have full captain’s authority to fart & belch and sit in front of the tele and eat whipped cheese in a can all I want. Oh, wait…I guess that’s what my girls like to do also. There’s nothing like natural bodily noises that make 3-6 year olds merry with giggles and laughter.

4. 24 hour James Bond Marathons.

I have full access and dominion over the remote control(s). Sometimes I like to watch manly-man movies for dozens of hours at a time. Indy Jones, Pirates, the complete Martin Scorsese canon. We must all have our fill of obligatory violence, right? But, SHHH!! Don’t tell anyone, but after the bloodshed and brutality is over I need my “other” favorite DVD shelf to balance out my feminine side with Amelie, French Kiss, Harry – Sally, and While You Were Sleeping.

5. I get to sleep on BOTH sides of the bed.

Never again will I have to concern myself about the condition of the individual ‘divots’ in the pillow-top mattress, or have to surrender an entire 1/3 to 1/2 of a Queen size bed to a minuscule Chihuahua. Although, I do find that I am more frequently giving up a sizable portion of my sleeping space to piles and stacks of books. I simply cannot read just one book at a time. I’m always in the middle of at least two fiction and numerous other non-fiction how-to, self-help, get-rich-overnight, and you-can-still-be-a-rock-star-at-40 books.

So now you own a glimpse into the private life in the Casa de la Evil Baritone lair. As it is now nearing midnight it is time for my nightly leftover snack ritual, then sit down to contemplate additional alternative historical figures of18th century swashbuckling Caribbean marauders, savvy? I bid you good luck, and good night. Au revoir.

You mean people actually read this crap?

2008-04-06T21:30:00.000-07:00

I've been informed by certain power panty wearing blogger(s) that I haven't updated my personal blog in a while, and, under incontrovertible and irrefutable bodily harm I had, "better GODDAMN WRITE SOMETHING OR ELSE I'M COMING TO PORTLAND AND SUPERGLUEING YOUR FINGERTIPS TO THE KEYBOARD!" First, let me thank my limited and mostly likely disillusioned reader(s) for stopping by to check on me now and then. I am alive. I am breathing. And no, I have not been trotted off to jail for triggering a mass killing spree. (yet)

I admit, I have for the last three or so months lifted an upturned nose at my keyboard as I saunter past thinking, "no one reads the crap I write." Coupled with a dose of lonely bachelor depression, and a corpulent and zaftig blue collar operatic daily schedule causing much exertion on my hoary bohemian body (not to mention the delicate voce), I have neglected my writing duties.

In fact, I was quite thrilled and gratified to be singing full time and not have to count the proverbial beans for "The Man", at least for a partial year. Resultantly, I was away from my humble abode for about six of the last twelve weeks, touring the wide expanse of Oregon and SW Washington. That seemed a good enough excuse to avoid posting details of my vapid life, at least through my eyes.

Now my contract of over. I'm home again. Permanently. Jobless. Now I have nothing else to keep me occupied so you're stuck with my pointless drivel and inconsequential scribble.

WELCOME BACK, EVIL BARITONE!!!

By the way...anyone need a good Bean Counter?

Too Many Stories...Too Little Time

2008-02-03T14:05:00.000-08:00

Ever have the opposite of writer's block? You'd think with as much as I'm ignoring the poor bloggy-poo I'm having absolutely nothing to write about. Quite the contrary.

Working a full time touring opera with seven other performers giving up to three shows a day for children 5 to 18 gives blog fodder a-plenty. Ah, but it's that other part I mentioned -- up to three shows a day. Whew! Not to mention that the portable set for La Boheme must be unloaded and set up, struck and packed again...sometimes twice a day! The door and frame seen in the pic above must weigh upwards of 250 pounds requiring four burly opera singers (??) to lift and move it. Seems I've left my quiet comfortable bean counting white collar desk job for a heavy lifting blue collar, bruise infested, shin crushing, toe flattening job. And I love it!

Tomorrow our troup drives to the scenic Eastern Oregon country. Likely there will be no high-speed Wi-Fi. No cable. No hot running water. In fact, I think they still ride horses into town to purchase supplies to fix their wagon wheels.

But I'll try to save up the stories & tell them one at a time when I get back. That is, if I can avoid getting mauled by the wild grizzly bears.

Those La Boheme Nights

2008-01-11T15:48:00.000-08:00

Puccini has a way of getting under your skin, and invading your dreams. For the past few nights I have bolted wide awake with Act I of La Boheme going through my head. When singing Puccini one must count and listen like mad in order to hear a que and sing at the exact moment. This is not symmetrical form music like my beloved Mozart composed. Alas, Puccini liked to write rather unsymmetrical ensemble dialogue and arias in which he fancied lietmotifs and mood enticing scoring.

in Act I of La Boheme Puccini introduces the four main guy characters, Marcello, Rudolpho, Colline, and Shaunard, all who are poor starving artists of some variety. The complain of the bitter cold and starvation until Shaunard enters with some money & food earned from a British Lord. The sound que's are tight and sometimes sycopated, or off-beat. Repitition, I find, is the best rehearsal regime. And thus, with so much repitition the subconscious just loves to take the opportunity during REM sleep to repeat those queues just one (or ten) more times.

Yes, for the past week I have suffered an acute case of PPSD (Puccini Production Stress Disorder) and insomnia is my enemy. Almost to the minute I will wake up at 3:30 am with the lines of Puccini rolling past the scrollboard of my mind. When will it end? Hopefully soon 'cause we gotta get to learning how to deliver improvised opera next!

CATS - The Opera

2008-01-08T16:49:00.000-08:00

This is Narissa the opera cat. She was a stray found over 12 years ago when Portland Opera had its offices downtown. The costume shop adopted her and after not much debate it was agreed that she WOULD stay. Narissa has been queen of the costume shop ever since. She is a lovely feline who basks in affection from everyone, but is much too proud to ask for it. But that doesn't matter. Any time that someone visits the shop for a fitting she gets plenty of attention. I believe her favorite sleeping nest is a quiet corner in the shoe shelves.

I asked her what her favorite opera was. Her answer? "I very much enjoyed The Cunning Little Vixen. Making all the animal costumes was such a joy. I don't think we non-sapiens get near enough stage time."

Alas, Narissa is a wonderful member of the permanent staff, but she's been there as long as I can remember. She's a granny kitty now, but I hope she stays well enough to govern the in's and out's of the costume shop for a long and productive regime.

Long live Queen Narissa.

Why, you ask?

2008-01-07T21:38:00.000-08:00

First I ask you truly...who the hell is Sloopy anyway? I played that catchy 60's tune, "Hang On Sloopy," when I was in the pep band in high school 20 years ago and I'm still hearing it at college and professional sports arenas. Watching the BCS Championship game between LSU and Ohio St I heard the song and rushed online to find out why. Ok, so Ohio as adopted the song as it's "Unofficial" fight song. But after all these years I still don't know WHO THE HELL IS SLOOPY?

Ok, back to opera.

Day 4 - the "Stumble" through.....

There comes a time after all the staging has been unchronologically sketched out, scene changes and transition assignments have been preliminarily assigned, and that unforgettable motivational speech, "you better start remembering your frickin' music!", after all that fun it's time to put it all together, block upon precarious block.

Today was our struggle through day for Boheme. We started from page one and struggled through each scene and act transition until we got it right. This talented and learned team of singers was given three days to be presented with the directors vision and staging ideas. That doesn't give much time for deliberation. Yet, we are a talented and philisophical group. The consumate acting questions were still brough up like, "why would my character make such a move?" "I don't feel that my character would be motivated that way." "I'm sorry, it's just difficult to sing on pitch when I'm suspended upside down." The usual constructive dialoge one hears during staging.

I have been acting and singing on stage for 23 years, professionally for 20 of them. I have learned when to ask the important question, "why", and I have learned friendly cooperation is the BEST quality between actors and creative staff. Sometimes you just have to take what the director says and find the motivation to do it, even if the direction makes no coherent sense at all. Case in point, The Flying Dutchman, aka "STOMP" the musical, I wrote how absurd it for 25 men to stomp around on stage looking like a bad marionette show. But, we find a way to make it work. We find the motivation and just do it. Or, we don't find the motivation and just do it anyway, 'cause that's what the genius avant-garde director wants.

Believe me, if I were preparing a role for a major Broadway tour show or a premier at the Met, I would be asking a lot of questions. I would want to get everything right. But for this production of La Boheme I know it is a Readers Digest condensed 50 minute show aimed at Jr. High & High school audiences on a portable set. I take my direction and staging with a smile and find my motivation. Let the big boys handle the tough questions.

Tomorrow dress rehearsal...in a 40 pound coat. Oy!

Benefits of learning new roles

2008-01-04T13:58:00.002-08:00

Day 2 - Thursday

Rehearse rehearse rehearse. 7 hours of staging and reviewing. Gotta get this little opera on it's feet ASAP! I have performed Boheme before as Schaunard in Italian. I have filled in last-minute for this project to perform Colline and Alcindoro in ENGLISH. It's certainly a different learning curve memorizing an opera in English that once was completely learned in Italian. Performing Colline is a bonus to me, I feel, because as a Bass-Baritone I get to utilize the nice low notes, and have yet another role under my belt for this popular show. Later we shall be performing a concert version of our La Boheme in Italian with orchestra, so having another role memorized in Italian is bonus.

New Year, New Life, New Project

2008-01-04T13:58:00.001-08:00

Day 1 - Wednesday

Here we are and here we go! Today I begin a new adventure as a member of Portland Opera To Go (or, affectionately labeled "POGO"). Met and gret the 5 other cast members of POGO's Boheme and proceeded to get down to business. We have a talented cast with varying experiences. The soaring music of Puccini resounded in the rehearsal studio. Ah, Puccini. A performing artist who is fortunate to listen to Puccini all day for a living is truly blest indeed. After a few hours of music rehearsal we spent a good 5 hours staging acts I and II on our portable and compact set. As a seasoned performing artist I can tell you that staging that many hours at once is exhausting. I went home and after a quiet meal I fell asleep by 8pm. An early night for me.

I Attended The Tale Of Sweeney Todd

2007-12-26T08:33:00.000-08:00

First let me say I’m a purist. I don’t often enjoy “concept” theatre. Opera or musical. The last worst concept piece I walked out of was a Rambo gun toting, black shades wearing Julio Ceasare. For my pure heart, I enjoy a piece as it was written. But one must step back and separate the magic of theatre and the magic of cinema.

First, Sweeney Todd does not work on the stage without the Greek chorus. The music is sublime and powerful and I WANT to hear about Sweeney’s pale skin and his odd eye. But, cinematic magic can sufficiently remove the need for a Greek chorus and move the plot and tell the story through images that are impossible for the stage. For that I will forgive Heir Burton the removal of that important part of Sondheim’s masterpiece.

On the same level of purity, Sweeney should be a virile baritone, not a rock star tenor which is Johnny Depp, and Mrs. Lovett should be a frumpy older bug-eyed homely maid, not a hot chick with chiseled features like Helena Bonham Carter. But type casting aside, this movie works extremely well.

The acting is superb in Tim Burton’s interpretation of the Demon Barber. Johnny Depp, though resembling a shade of Edward Scissorhands with his pale skin & wild hair, gives us the right amount of brooding and need for revenge. His temper is restrained but snaps at the right moments. We are provided a very satisfying climactic revenge with Judge Turpin, played hideously well by the master of brooders, Alan Rickman. There is hushed talk that Johnny is “too young” to be portraying Sweeney Todd. But as someone who recently sang the role myself I say he is not too young, but just the right age! Let’s analyze Sweeney’s proper age: Sweeney was a new father of 20-ish when we was whisked away to the prisons of Australia. He returns 15 years later when Johanna is 15 years of age and Sweeney would be proper to be 35-40 years old. The stereotypical grandfather image of Sweeney is, in my opinion, a wrong casting type and I applaud Burton for casting an age appropriate revengeful father.

Bonham Carter shows us a simple but doting Mrs. Lovett. Her entrepreneurial spirit is enhanced by her biting wit and pushy A-Type personality. She has the biggest laugh in the show when Burton splits from his usual monochromatic palate of dirty London and jumps to a Technicolor world “Down By The Sea” with Mrs. Lovett and Sweeney dressed in vintage horizontal striped bathing suits strolling along a sunny seaside beach. Brilliant.

Burton fills the secondary cast mostly of unknowns but stellar none the less. Toby, played and sung by they young Ed Sanders, is the epitome of a Dickensian orphan boy. Anthony, played by Jamie Campbell Bower, is an almost too young strapping sailor who looks more like a cabin boy than a deckhand. Pretty little Johanna is Jayne Wisener who is a perfect 15 year old ward of the state. Lucy/Begger Woman is Laura Michelle Kelly, who’s role was practically slashed for this movie. The Beadle is Timothy Spall who we remember as Peter Pettigrew, or Wormtail, in the Harry Potter series.

Above all, Tim Burton paints a dirty 19th Century London with monochromatic black and white, which gives stark contrast to the blood red spilled liberally throughout the movie. The traditional Sondheim story is all there regardless of the cuts, and is stunningly shown in gory detail. Don’t bring the kids to this big screen masterpiece, soon to be a traditional holiday favorite! Big thumbs up and you can be sure I’ll be owning this one on DVD.

Dead Meat, Suckah!

2007-12-19T16:10:00.000-08:00

So, I have a dream…ok, a nightmare, really…where I am struck by a moving automobile. Call it my “phobia”. Perhaps the fear is a remnant of the time long ago when I was a senior traveling to Seattle for All-Northwest Choir. There, in some hotel in some burb which they felt was appropriate for unsupervised adolescents, we underage musical vagrants proceeded to engage in antics typical of stoopid hormone-induced pre adults. That is, we got nekkid in the hot tub.

But in addition to exploring the limits of our modesty we went running about (fully clothed) in search of food and beverage. I was walking along a sidewalk outside the hotel and preparing to cross the street with two lovely singers with whom I wished to imbibe Jolt Cola and Zingers. Distracted as I was with their beauty and pocketless skin tight jeans, I proceeded to step onto the crosswalk assuming that the walking light was in my favor (as it should always be, right?) What I did not expect was the 18-wheeler diesel truck careening around the corner ignoring the yield to pedestrians. The girls screeched, the truck honked, I froze. If my reactions were anything less that the mongoose at age 18 I would have been asphalt roadkill.

As I later learned in Austria, pedestrians are given pretty much the same title as roadkill. “Es ist mir Wurst”, or “It’s sausage to me”, are how pedestrians are referred by scrupulous drivers.

Sausage.

Mind the crosswalks people.

Parlour Music

2007-12-17T09:06:00.001-08:00

Just as if I had been whisked back into the 19th Century, I found myself at home parlor recital this weekend. It’s been a long time since EB has had the opportunity to go “out” and enjoy the company of a couple of dozen adults who were all joined in a beautiful Portland home to engage in a simple, casual music recital. Imagine 100, even 200 years ago, this was a typical evening of social entertainment. No tele’s. No radio. No CD’s. Just a handful of musicians performing their art before an intimate crowd of acquaintances.

The music ranged from classical arias & songs to jazz & standards, complete and unplugged with piano, acoustic guitar and bass. Add plenty of wine, cheese and chocolate delectables and I imagine this was the scene our forefathers & foremothers spoke about of “the good ol’ days.”

What a delightful winter evening spent with friends, sharing music and laughter. I am determined that this type of event must continue and flourish. I set a challenge to all musicians to organize a parlor recital at least once a year. Share your talents and music with your friends, and encourage them to do the same. You’ll be surprised at the talent you never knew existed.

The Plaids Have Left the Building

2007-12-14T10:28:00.000-08:00

I ought not to be forsaking my blogging duties, especially right in the middle of a show. That’s when all the best and juicy performance topics come up. Plaid Tidings closed last Sunday afternoon with a rousing standing “O” from all the blue hairs, even with canes & walkers. Matinee audiences are an interesting lot of people. The parking lot is always full of busses, mini-busses, Segway Scooters, etc. from local “senior oasis communities”, but God bless ‘em, they’re there for every production and are always consistent supporters of the performing arts. So receiving their enthusiastic applause is always a nice thing.

Biggest Flub of the show? Let’s see, there was one point when I almost fell off the stage while “dancing in the snow”, the stuffed-pooch-through-the-hoop trick fell apart one night when Sparky threw the pooch in a curve ball slider pattern and ended up on the lap of a senior citizen in the first row. Oh, I also forgot my buck teeth for the chipmunk bit and spilled candle wax on my nice white & plaid tuxedo. Other than these our production went without a hitch and the show was a great success.

Next up, Les Miserable will be produced by our local little regional summer theatre. A big production that will no doubt be highly anticipated. I hope to be there!

The Sound of Silence or How to Win $1,000,000

2007-12-06T08:25:00.000-08:00

Hello coughing, my old friend. I’ve come to hear your song again.

My apologies to the super duo of Simon & Garfunkel. Call me a goofball (and I know many of you do) but I had the notion yesterday of winning a million dollars (that’s $1,000,000, or a one followed by six zeros!) with a cough. Yes a simple cough. I was not alone! Dozens of contestants flocked to Portland’s Living Room to listen for a cough that could win a million smackers. The rules were simple. Find the secret cougher and be the first to offer them a soothing Ricola cough drop. The winner would have an opportunity to choose 1 of 100 envelopes, one of which was a million dollar prize winner.

The silly game was sponsored by Ricola, of course. Clues were given on radio ads as to where the mystery cougher would linger. Turned out it pointed at Pioneer Courthouse Square between 11:30 am and 1:00 pm yesterday. So I bought a bag of honey lemon Ricolas and wandered in the midst of a few, then a dozen, then dozens more “covert” pedestrians who all were scoping out the Starbucks on the corner. If security didn’t know better it would have looked like a bunch of us casing the joint. We all stood around, scanned the area, and listened for the suspect cougher. Who would it be?

I did observe an innocent gentleman, knowing not of the little contest, who proceeded to clear his lungs and throat in the midst of all the cough chasers. He was swarmed by dozens of greedy folks offering a Ricola. He was quite embarrassed about the ordeal, but left with a giddy smile. If there ever was anyone needing a free cough drop, this was the place to be.

I, however, only had an hour for lunch and had to depart before the prize cougher arrived. But I did notice some interesting things. I think in the 11 years I have been employed in downtown Portland I have not once just stood or sat listening and observing. So I stood silently to listen and observe my dear city. I watched folks with hunched shoulders from carrying bags full of presents jaywalk across the streets. I heard lots of bells, like the ringer in front of Nordstroms, the Max light rail bells, church bells in the distance marking noon o’clock. The sound of seagulls scavenging the area for dropped crumbs. Pigeons cooing and waddling around avoiding the steps of humans. Not once did I hear a cough. Drats.

What did I learn? I need to observe more. As an actor and performer this lesson was well learned. Acting is, for the most part, re-acting. That is, a performer doesn’t stand on stage and deliver lines constantly. He or she listens to others, reacting to what is said or heard or seen. An actor must consciously fill the void of silence with imaginary thoughts, sounds, and actions. An actor must also define his or her character physically by actions. Keen observation of interesting people can provide lots of character fodder.

So, stop & listen once in a while. Even to the sound of silence.

Plop Plop Fizz Fizz

2007-11-28T13:15:00.000-08:00

Ok team, it’s two days before another op’nin of another show! You’re singing a very exposed 4-part harmony for a two hour show. You suddenly realize after the last rehearsal that DOH! you’ve caught a cough, a sniffle, Ich werde krank! What do you do? Do you punt and head for the sideline? NO! The show MUST go on!

I’m about to start eight performances of a high energy, tight harmony, LET ME ENTERTAIN YOU holiday show. And what was a snot filled nose a few days ago has its crosshairs aimed straight for my throat & chest with “Bronchial Infection” flashing in neon. Only once have I completely lost my voice due to laryngitis, and it was for about five straight days when I was a cruise director and entertainer. Yeah, my job was to talk all day and sing at night and I could do neither. Bummer. Even my best remedies didn’t work then. But 98.4 out of 100 times these remedies work and I swear by them as a performer.

Effective immediately I shall be doing the following:

WATER WATER EVERYWHERE!

Never stop drinking water. Always keep a bottle of water in your hand or in arms reach. Flush the body with water. Go pee. Then drink and flush some more. Water keeps you hydrated and is like a flash flood in your body clearing out the viral and bacterial debris.
DRINK IT!

AIRBORNE

I’ve discovered this seemingly simple effervescent potion is a great metaphorical dam stopper. At the first sign of a sniffle or cough I start plopping these pellets at least twice a day. The sudden turbo boost of vitamins and herbs to the immune system usually knocks out an oncoming cold dead in it’s tracks, and in my belief is the cure for the common cold. And the best part? It tastes like Tang!

One word of warning!!! Don’t repeat my mistake! Chewing and swallowing Airborne pellets is not recommended! Drop into a glass of water first!

ECHINACEA

My next favorite immunostimulator. C’mon, who doesn’t like to eat flowers? Echinacea is the purple power coneflower that fights off formidable infections.

OPEN WIDE AND SAY AHHHHH

This remedy may be a wives tale and sound more like a witches potion but, hey I’ll try anything to keep the vocal folds moving. Pour a tablespoonful of honey. On top of the golden yumminess sprinkle a liberal dose of Cayenne Pepper, also known to be in the Nightshade family. Count to three, then shove the spoon into your mouth upside down so the pepper coated honey runs off your tongue and down your throat. Helps soothe sore and scratchy throats.

These are but a few of the witch’s brews I have in my pagan home remedy cabinet. I’ll save the best ones for the book I shall publish entitled, The Discordant Singers' Guide to Quick Fix Counteractive Herbal Elixir Solutions (or Double Trouble Croaky Singer Fuddle).

The Thespian Life

2007-11-27T08:24:00.000-08:00

This is what a first stage rehearsal really looks like. We spend four weeks rehearsing music, dialogue, blocking, and hours of choreography in a crowded tool shop, then move suddenly into a real theatre with curtains and chairs and lights and everything. One can assume correctly that the spacing in a tool shop is quite a bit more cramped. So the first day on the stage set we all tend to stand around, look at the set, look at each other, look at where the audience will be (we want to be sure we can be seen at all times), then generally conclude that everything we did in a cramped toolshop has to be redone.

So then we stand around looking at the director, who looks at the performers, who look back at the director, who yells, “quiet on the set!” because the set construction crew is still constructing the set as we stand on it, but the set construction crew ignores the director because the dudes really in charge are the set and lighting designers.

So the director and performers mill around the stage in between the construction crew and the constant hammering, continually fearing for our lives as extremely heavy light trusses are dropped inches from our heads. We laugh, we joke, we comment that we wish the incessant hammering-sawing-drilling would cease, but to no avail. After a while we shrug our shoulders, agree that everything will work out, then go have a beer.

I love the theatre!

Is it safe to come out yet?

2007-11-26T10:08:00.001-08:00

EB has been hiding away. No, not in Paris. He wants to come back on the blogosphere but has been wary about posting on this public media. You know the ol' saying, "anything you say can and will be used against you...blah blah blah?" That's why he's been so cautious.

Divorce is arduous and back-breaking. I don't recommend it for anyone. In fact, EB recommends to forgo marriage altogether. I've been played a fool by the plaintiff in this case, (if you didn't catch that, I'm not the one who filed legal action), and by the many public one-sided comments made to mutual 'friends' and in my workplace. Sure, I've had the notion to set the record straight on my public blog. It's my blog, right? I have the right to defend myself, right? But I've kept the truth to myself. I chose discretion and professionalism over pettiness. I've kept my proverbial nose to the grindstone and kept my private life just that.

I shall return to this blogosphere herewith and attempt to continue to narrate my personal humorous and satirical views about life, fathering, singing, and working for a living. But in the words of the wise and sensible scholar, Forrest Gump, "That's all I got to say about that."

Evil Baritone is alive and well and living in Paris

2007-09-10T08:53:00.000-07:00

...I wish.

One outta three ain't bad. I'm alive, but not exactly well and certainly not living in Paris. Going through one of those life changes that has put my dear ol' blog lower on the priority. I should be blogging daily about our spectacular production of Carmen featuring the hotty hotness of Jossie Perez! But alas, I have much on my mind and a hundred million things to do.

But I SHALL return. Soon. And add greatness and spice to the reading. For now I shall leave you with a few choice search engine keywords that have recently landed on my modest little sight.

Enjoy!

Need for baritones in opera - Of course! Whom else would the Mezzo go home with?
hunky baritone - Why, thangyoo...thangyoo verymush!
Evil opera songs - I suggest the Lakme flower duet or perhaps "sull'aria" from Figaro
how to clean a baritone - Lots of soap. And don't forget the valve oil between the toes!
inventor of knickers - Yes, I admit...it was me. I wear them daily.
baritone karaoke suggestions - "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" and "Like a Virgin" are my favs.
merde again - You can say that, uh, again.
baritones practicing - Ok, you gotta see this. Hilarious! (but strangely accurate)

Goodbye, Pav 1935-2007

2007-09-06T07:44:00.000-07:00

Au revoir and farewell to the last true opera legend. I listened to his graceful yet powerful voice with awe and inspiration. Were it not for Pavarotti I would not be singing opera today. Addio.

The Sacrifices We Make...

2007-08-14T14:39:00.001-07:00

...for our art.

There are a number of items that fit this category: sacrifices for and to family, in finances, in creative ideas, in bohemian lifestyles…the list goes on.

In a recent post I mentioned how I made a rather quick change in my appearance by losing 5-8 pounds in about a month. I sacrificed food. Not completely, but I ate a lot of rice cakes I’ll tell you, and frankly I don’t know how rice cakes can be labeled a food product in the first place! I made that sacrifice so that I would fit a costume picked for me in the musical review, COLE.

About two weeks before our first rehearsal the small cast was called for a promotional photo shoot. There we were made to wear very nice formal outfits, the men in dazzling black & white tuxedos. My tuxedo was a dashing double breasted winged collar with tails and white tie & vest. However, I felt like a sausage stuffed in that outfit. But I sucked in the gut & stood tall for the modeling session. I knew by the reaction of Sharon, the director, that the spiffy outfits we were wearing would be the very ones chosen for the show. Uh oh! I had to do something…and fast!

I had previous experience in trying to look fit for a show. Last summer I slimmed down to wear a slinky, transparent Carmen Miranda dress with halter top. I looked like a tropical fruit-ka-bob Yes, you can bet my vanity forced me be the best looking Carmen Miranda I could be so I reached an ideal weight suitable for a 6 foot man in drag.

How did I manage to lose the poundage required to fit the tux so that I looked marvelous on stage? The easy answer is I stopped eating and drank gallons of water. But really I ate smaller portions of healthier food, like 6 inch Subway tuna sandwiches, rice cakes, Wheat Thin crackers, anything that would put something in my belly and keep me from being hungry. And I drank a lot of water. No soda. Coffee is a must for me but I limited it to only one cup each morning. But water is an amazing element to rinse the inside of your body. Just be prepared to jump to the restroom every, oh, 15 minutes or so.

So what sacrifices do YOU make for your art? Do you keep a strict diet? Exercise regiment? Botox injections? Leave me a comment and let me know. (Comments can be anonymous for those Botox patients not willing to sacrifice their identity!)

EB Knows Omelettes

2007-08-07T14:22:00.000-07:00

Ok, I know. Another post about food. But just one more and then on to other subjects pertaining to music & opera. But aside from being one of my favorite subjects, food is important to singers, right? I mean, we must eat to keep up our strength, or forego eating so we fit into our costumes, which is what I recently did for the musical review, Cole. I had to force myself to fit into a pair of tuxedo pants a size smaller than I normally wear, from size 30-something down to a size 30-something. All for the love of theatre, folks. That sounds like a good topic to discuss on my next post.

So now that the show is closed, I feel at liberty to loosen my belt and enjoy some culinary delights. This morning before leaving Spokane for home I was fortunate to dine at the self proclaimed "Spokane's Best Breakfast since 1949", the Knight Diner. One would normally drive right past it and perhaps notice that the diner is simply a passenger railway car built in 1906, much like the ones Presidential candidates used to deliver their candidate speeches.

On a weekend morning one would expect Spokane's best breakfast to be super crowded, especially considering the total seating capacity is only about 24. But my father and I were lucky enough to beat the morning rush and sit right down at bar which runs the length of the diner. All the brass was polished, wooden finish cleaned, and stained glass, well, all stained in their original beautiful colors.

The passenger car has been cleverly renovated with all grill, counter and storage space along one side, one long bar with attached stools separating the 'kitchen' from the guests, and a small walkway behind the guest stools. The diner staff, all wearing pink polos, except the one young high school gentleman with a more macho fuscia, get to know each other very well as they pass by each other behind the bar. There is room only to squeeze past hip to hip, but they've got their system working smoothly, allowing the grill cook to flip flapjacks as a kitchen schmuck passes harassingly close with a tall stack of hot, clean plates. Vicky greets each guest as they enter. When asked if she was the manager, owner, head server, she said, "all of the above." And she does it with amazing dexterity, agility and razor sharp wit. She doesn't take any guff from her customers, nor her workers. I half expected her to mutter Flo's famous line from Mel's Diner, "kiss my grits!" The food is always prepared right in front of the dining guests. One can witness the fresh ingredients pile onto an omelette, and the hand grated hashed browns browning into a bright golden brown. The one thing I was disappointed with was as fresh as all the ingredients are, they only used pre-sliced plain ol' American cheese. I would much prefer a grated sharp cheddar, or Tillamook Swiss.
All meal prices are reasonable, flavor is fabulous and you may not leave without a smile or good conversation with Vicky and the gang, and a famous smile

Alex, I'll Take Ribs for $1000

2007-08-04T19:10:00.000-07:00

Hello, my name is Evil Baritone, and I'm a carnivore. As you remember from my previous post, I enjoy eating the flesh of animals. So it's not often that a carnivore like me, who's been surrounded by Northwest vegetarians for the last 9 years, gets a chance to rip into a plate of barbequed slathered ribs. My chance came today when I made a trip to Spokane, WA. I made a point to visit one of my favorite meat serving restaurants, Tony Roma's - a place for ribs!

Now, TR's used to have roots in Portland, and I do remember a time when I actually tore into the cooked, steaming flesh of baby back ribs beneath at least a half an inch of sweet Carolina sauce. But it seems the vegetarian packs lurking in the great Northwest have run my favorite place for ribs right outta town.

So tonight, this baritone is happy and feeling wave after sweet wave of protien rush. I fear, though, that my dreams will take me to fields where I am chasing prong horned antelope, or clawing after the elusive Impala holding a jar of Texas style BBQ sauce.

Well, looks like broccoli for breakfast. I'm heading back to Vegetarianville. Wish me luck.

Sausage Monster

2007-08-01T14:55:00.000-07:00

My little Bobo is a true born carnivore. Takes after her dad. That’s me! Yes, Bobo the Klingon has a craving for animal products. She and I can enjoy a heaping stack of babyback ribs, a plateful of greasy bacon, or extra raw horsemeat burger if we ever travel to Hungary.

Goonie, however, takes after her mother. She’s a self-taught vegetarian and prefers to dine on fresh vegetables, fruits and whole grains. Ok, I know I can’t get that one past you. She actually prefers deep fried okra, fruit roll-ups and Kraft Mac & Cheese, and please do not make it the Sponge Bob shape!

I took my girls to eat at kid-friendly Dennys, where they offer delicious and nutritious meals for kids consisting of rocket shaped chicken planks, happy face pancakes, and colored sugar additive that turn water blue, red or green, as well as providing one hell of a sugar rush lasting the entire meal. Not to mention kids eat free on Sunday! SCORE!

The girls decided to order identical meals: cheesy pasta noodles (c’mon it’s mac & cheese!) and a side of grapes. I ordered the meat lovers scramble. Goonie’s quick vegetarian response was, “eeewwwwww!!!” To which little Bobo mimicked and cried, “eeewwwwww!!!” Goonie is so proud to be training little Bobo to become a vegetarian just like her.

Our server placed our food before us on the table about 10 minutes later. By that time the sugar squad duo was in high gear. Goonie stuffed grapes in her mouth, creating chipmunk cheeks. Of course, little sis had to do the same. Yup, you guessed it…one laugh and the grapes flew all over the table.

I noticed, however, that Bobo seemed indifferent to her cheesy mac and was eyeing my plate as I shoved gobs of meat-filled scrambled eggs into my mouth. I knew her secret desire for salty bacon so I offered her a piece. Bobo tasted the bacon, shoved it into her mouth, dropped her fork and walked around to my side of the corner booth and sat very snuggly next to me, looking closer at my plate.

“Do you want some more bacon, Bobo?”

“Mmm hmmm” She says ‘mm hmm’ to just about everything. You could ask her, “are you an alien from Mars,” and she would respond in the affirmative, “mmm hmmm.”

So I give her an entire slice of bacon. Gone.

I’ve only been provided two slices of bacon and the same amount of sausage. I’m already running low on meat products.

“How about a sausage, Bobo?”

“Mmm hmmm.” She took the sausage link, savored a small morsel just to be sure, then I kid you not, she shoved the rest on the link into her mouth, grabed the other link with both hands and gobbled it just like Cookie Monster, “mmmaaarrrhhgghhhmuaahharrrghgghgh!”

After a few chews she swallowed the Tyrannosaurus size bite and said, “Uuuuuurrrrrppp! ‘Coo me!” Which, of course, is ‘excuse me’ in Klingon dialect.

Well, Goonie got a big kick out of Bobo’s production and laughed and giggled with delight. Then did it herself. “Uuuuuurrrrrrrppp!! ‘Scuse me!”

“Uuuuuuurrrrpp!!! “Coo me!!” repeated the Klingon

“Urrrrrrpppp!!!! ‘Scuse me!!!” parroted Goonie.

Oh boy. Despite my attempts to subdue the belching chorus of these two rugrats fueled by a super sugar high, they continued a crescendo of stomach noises until we left, which was pretty promptly after the beginning of the impromptu performance. Meantime, the nice older couple nearby attempting to enjoy a plate of grits & a bowl of prunes gave me the double stink eye. But as we departed said, “they’re so cute.”

“Thanks,” said I. “I taught them everything I know.”

Then without hesitation I provided the coda to the chorus with my signature Daddy fake belch, “UUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPPP!!! Oh!! ‘Scuse me!”

An Aura of Aroma

2007-07-30T16:09:00.000-07:00

Today my sixth sense awakened. I saw an aura. Or at least what I thought was an aura.

Let’s see how dictionary.com defines an aura…ah, here’s a good definition

Au-ra noun
-A distinctive but intangible quality that seems to surround a person or thing; atmosphere
-A distinctive but intangible quality surrounding a person or thing; "an air of mystery";

Yup, that about describes it. I walked into the local down town Taco Bell to get my guacamole fix for lunch. My first reaction to the essence I sensed as I entered was, “hey, that’s not the smell of delicious seasoned ground beef.” The aroma was sickening, almost to the point of hurling. What could it be coming from? Did they actually kill a cow and it is decaying right now in the back room?

But my sixth sense went to work and I peered to my left and saw, yes I SAW, the source of stink. There, sitting in a booth all by himself, was a man wearing a ratty trenchcoat, fingerless gloves, munching on a burrito of some meaty variety. The man’s “aura” looked much like Pigpen from the Peanuts cartoon. I could only suppose that he was one of the local homeless beggars who hustled enough kopecs to buy himself a burrito but not enough to shit, shower & shave at a local hostel.

Funny thing about the beggar: on his head he wore what appeared to be brand spankin’ new fancy Sony headphones and was jammin’ to a beat. I reckon the begging business ain’t so bad. But one must have the aura of pathetic helplessness in order to be successful, so a clean beggar is a broke beggar.

As broke as I’ve been lately I may just bite the bullet & take a second job as a beggar. But I’m a clean evil baritone so I MUST shower, but lucky for me I’ve got lots of good stage makeup and can pull off the aura without the smell. I’ll just carry a loaf of limburger in my ratty trenchcoat when I’m on duty.

Applause and the Blahs

2007-07-27T09:20:00.000-07:00

How do you get motivated to do a performance on a day you wish not to be there? Happened to me on Wednesday. At 8:00 sharp the curtain rose for COLE, I looked at the audience, 600 pairs of eyes stared back at me, and I just could not find the motivation I needed to give them an uplifting performance. I was tired. I had low energy. My voice was being a pest and would not warm up. Not to mention the pesky distracting blister on my heel. So I switched to autopilot and after curtain call I felt I gave a robotic performance. Mid-weekday performance tend to be a little low energy anyway, and there are tricks for getting prepared and getting through an unmotivated performance.

Was I so robotic that the audience did not enjoy? Not at all. I sang well, but realized my vocal limitations and know I can do better. I felt like lying down & taking a nap, but I danced my little dances with the obligatory wide smile.

So how does one pull off a professional performance when none of the right elements are in one’s favor? Here are some tricks from the Evil Baritone bag:

1. Drink water.
Constantly! Water is life. You must stay hydrated. Start drinking water at least 2-3 hours before the performance. Water is great for keeping the vocal folds from becoming inflamed and irritated.

And the subtext of this statement is:
a.) Avoid alcohol & caffeine. These dehydrate the body, working against your optimal performance mode. I failed to do both before the performance. I didn’t drink enough water & consumed coffee, soda and partook of the free beer provided at the summer company picnic. My performance suffered.
Oh, and since you drank so much water, make sure there is a toilet close offstage – or just pick a pack of Depend underwear and simply get onstage and “just go”.

2. Stretch
A few minutes of quiet meditation and stretching the poor, tired achy muscles will help prepare the body for it’s journey the next few hours. Of course this does nothing to help the aging and creaky joints of a weary thirty-something. I can usually be heard in the back of the stage bending my body and complaining that “I’m too old for this shit…”

3. Be prepared
That means know your stuff! Inside & out! Your songs, arias, dialogue, character, whatever, need to be ingrained and rehearsed so that they flow freely from your mouth. Being completely able to immerse yourself into a natural performance is better than the stress of thinking, “oh, shit, what’s the next word/phrase/dance step?” When switching to autopilot this is essential.

4. Focus
Number 3 above is no good without focus. Sometimes in situations when you are unmotivated on stage you need to focus even MORE! Focus on your next entrance. Focus on putting one foot in front of the other. Focus on keeping distractions at bay! Sometimes, as I did for a moment last night, I see an audience member wearing odd apparel such as a scarf, earmuffs and goggles. Distracting? You bet! But realize quickly that if you don’t drop it right away you are likely to make an embarassing slip in the lyrics to “Let’s Misbehave.”

5. Smile!
Look at my face….I’m dancing! That’s a non-dancer’s mantra. I’m not a trained dancer. Never had a tap/jazz/ballet class in my life. But I move well and I have rhythm. But to keep an audience from realizing my lack of grace and an occasional moved caused by two left feet, a toothy smile is the best thing to let them know I’m having a great time, even if I’m unmotivated. If you’re having fun, the audience has fun. If you’re not having fun, let your professionalism take over and smile anyway.

6. The show MUST go on!
Your fellow cast, tech crew, directors, designers, not to mention a paying audience all are depending on you to do your part. It’s a tremendous responsibility. Don’t blow it! Or you may end up never working for that company, or in that town, again. How’s THAT for motivation?

Ok, be my guest to leave your tips & tricks for getting through an unmotivated performance. I’m too unmotivated to leave you with anything witty so I’m gonna have a beer & pass out on the recliner.

Don't Sing, this is a MUSICAL!

2007-07-25T11:22:00.000-07:00

A quote and words of wisdom from our director, Sharon Maroney, while discussing a few final stylistic notes before opening night last Friday. After three weeks of intense music, staging and dance rehearsal Sharon imparted upon us before going onstage the importance of “showmanship” over musical quality when performing musical comedy numbers. Sharon is a brassy, loud and fabulous character performer and belter with years of New York stage experience. Mix in her deep Wisconsin dialect and scatterbrain train of thought, and she makes for one very amusing, confusing and diffusing director.

But me? I’m too legit to quit. Ah, the fate of the classically trained singer. In fact, I think one Sharon’s quotes to me during a rehearsal of this charming Cole Porter musical review was, “you’re so goddamn TRAINED!” Thanks, Sharon. I’ll take that as a compliment!

Besides, it was my “training” that had the audacity to interpret all those little black & white notes, rests & time signatures on the musical staves as music. Cole Porter wrote MUSIC along with the words, right. Cole tells a great story, and his clever word play and play on words make great songs. But my training instinctively informed me that Monsieur Porter added the music for a reason.

So if I end up singing my way through this musical review, I’ll just say,

My Training made me do it!!!

Deep in the Hallows of Death

2007-07-24T09:52:00.000-07:00

On a whim and fueled by an intense marketing frenzy, I acquired my copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows at 1 am Saturday morning. Things just worked out in my favor. After a tremendously successful opening show of COLE Friday night the cast, crew & band went out for a few soft drinks...alright, I'm sure I can't pull that wool over your eyes. We had cocktails, alcoholic beverages, sinful sips of Satan's libations at the local pub, ok?

Well, by the time we completed our celebratory toasting the clock hands had moved well passed midnight. As I drove home (completely sober, of course) I decided on a whim to just pass by the Barnes & Noble and see if the Potter feeding frenzy was still going on. It was. The mall parking lot reminded me of the final Christmas Eve rush. Packed like sardines, they were. "What the heck," said I, and pulled into the lot and screeched into a spot just emptied by a jumping 12 yr old and his weary eyed mother.

I entered the store to discover stacks of the final Harry Potter books behind the registers and a line that snaked throughout the store, past the magazines, through the history section, between the biographies & Sci Fi, and ending in the self help isle. At least as I took my place in line I could read up on exactly why the hell I was behaving like a lemming jumping off a cliff and following the crowd at 1 am in the morning.

It took about 10 minutes to wind through the store and end up at a register where the unusually cheerful sales rep asked, “how many copies?” I felt like saying, “I just need the new issue of Playboy Magazine, please.” But I figured it was 1:10 am and her cheerful smile was merely plastered on her face and she wouldn’t appreciate the humor. Well done, self censor.

So I received and paid for my one copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, went straight home and read the first two chapters before falling into a deep opening night slumber. In her usual style, J.K. Rowling has opened the book with a bang, jumping right into conflict and putting Harry in severe peril. Oooo….what will happen? After reading 175 pages this weekend I still have only cracked the book. Only about 600 pages to go! I better stock up on chocolate. This is going to take a while.

Cole Porter...and the Deathly Hallows

2007-07-20T14:39:00.001-07:00

Tonight is opening night for the Cole Porter musical review. And the final book in the Harry Potter series is open to the public beginning at 12:01 am tonight! Decisions, decisions. Do I fulfill my contractual obligations and attend the opening night performance to 600 muggles, or skip out to get in on the Harry Potter Midnight Madness book release party at the local Barnes & Noble? I gotta get this book and find out HOW DOES IT END!? I don’t want any spoilers ruining my book reading experience. I won’t have it! My greatest fear is that after the release tonight there will be so much hype, talk and discussion that everyone will know the ending whether they read the book or not tomorrow morning.

And if you haven't heard, J.K. Rowling herself has asked the entire world to "ignore the misinformation", and "help preserve the secrecy" of the final outcome.

But alas, I cannot shed my stage obligation. 600 sold out ticketholders depend on my stage presence. I shall be a trooper and yes, the show MUST go on! But in order to shield me from this nemesis of my Harry Potter revelation fear, I shall be diving underground, shutting out the world until I get my hands on a copy of The Deathly Hallows. That means no more internet. No evening news. No newspapers. And no more bubble gum wrappers. Any of these are prime media candidates for Harry Potter spoilers.

And may Dumbledore have mercy on your blackened heart if you even THINK of posting the HP resolution on my comments!

Mischief managed!

Who The Heck is Father Knickerbocker

2007-07-17T14:34:00.000-07:00

And does he have anything to do with the stylish yet comfortable baggy knee trousers I’m wearing?

The answer is…yes! Read on…

In a little Cole Porter number I’ve been rehearsing for Broadway Rose (opening Friday for a limited engagement – seats are selling fast!) I sing the lyrics: “Due to landscape gardeners gifted, Father Knickerbocker’s face is being lifted.” The line is from Porter’s song, “Please Don’t Monkey With Broadway” written in 1940. Being the intellectual performer, and ingrained with that classical signer trick where I must know and understand every word and phrase I sing, I did some research. First I asked all five other cast members, director, choreographer, stage manager, costumer and two random schmucks passing by the theater on Durham Road, and got the following possible answers:

A famous restaurant in N.Y.
Inventor of Knickers http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Knickers
Owner of the NY Knicks
#10 Walt Frasier of the Knicks
A Manhattan hotel
A statue in Central Park
A grilled sandwich with ham and Gouda cheese on Dutch bread served with a Heineken.

No. No. Nope. Wrong. Wrong again. Incorrect. Sounds delicious, but not the correct answer. BZZZZZZ!!!! Thank you all for playing. We have some lovely parting gifts.

If you think that’s one of those had-to-be-there lines, you are probably right. Back in the 1809 Washington Irving, famous for this penning of Legend of Sleepy Hollow, wrote a fictional history of Manhattan describing the Dutch inhabitants of New Amsterdam. Irving wrote A History of New York as a fictional autobiography with the pseudonym of Diedrich Knickerbocker, a socialite and ‘descendent’ of the Dutch settlers. For years New York residents believed Irving’s historical Dutch tale as truth and began affectionately calling him “Father Knickerbocker”. They also began calling the short men’s trousers remnant of the Dutch style as Knickerbockers.

19th Century New Yorkers began referring to their city using the historical allegory of “Father Knickerbocker”. The name stuck for many years, even through the age of Cole Porter who used the term as simply an allusion to the city of New York much the same as it is today called the “Big Apple”.

Now that you’ve had your history lesson for the day, please pass that hot ham & cheese sandwich, and don’t touch my Heine!

When It Rains It Pours

2007-07-12T08:29:00.000-07:00

It seems a plethora of bad news has been trickling in regarding bad news of famous and well regarded opera singers such as Regine Crispin and Beverly Sills. Today I learned of another, Tenor Jerry Hadley, now on life support after an attempted suicide yesterday at age 55.

Tenor jokes withstanding, Jerry was one of the few tenors I enjoyed listening to, with many of his CD's on my shelf. My favorite is the Famous Opera Duets sung with baritone, Thomas Hampson. "Au Fond du Temple Saint" from The Pearl Fishers strikes a deep chord within my operatic soul. It is simply beautiful music by Bizet and admirably performed by Hadley & Hampson with graceful phrasing and superb blend.

Another CD, The Age of Bel Canto with the English Chamber Orchestra conducted by Richard Bonynge, shows Hadley's lyric tenor roots with favorite Romantic era composers Donizetti, Rossini, Delibes, and more. A demanding, yet grand and gorgeous collection of tenor arias.

Get well, Jerry. You have many years of singing left.

A Five-Six-Seven-Eight....

2007-07-11T13:46:00.000-07:00

Let’s compare and contrast breathing and support, shall we? I’ve sung opera and I’ve performed musical theater. Let me tell you something, opera singers have an enormous advantage when it comes to breath support. Not to say opera singers have it easier. Opera singers must research and learn a role, same as musical theater, sure. But the opera role it typically sung in a FOREIGN LANGUAGE, with a much heftier and vocally taxing score, over a 60 piece orchestra and in front of a 40+ member chorus into a house of 3,000 seats with no amplification. Am I saying opera singers have it easy? Absolutely not.

But let’s take a typical staging for any opera. Stand here. Sing. Ok, move over there. Stand. Sing. Wander back over there. Stand. Sing. Oh, you’re a lyric coloratura? Ok, lie down there on the stage and sing all your high notes. You’re a tenor? Ok, plant your feet, grow roots to the stage and emote with your hands palms up with elbows bent at a 45 degree angle. Typical tenor staging since their mind doesn't wander much past a concentration level of, "look everybody! I'm singing a high B-flat!!!"

This kind of opera staging fundamentally allows a singer to consciously align and support the vocal production, even from a prone position. A singer can make minor adjustments as necessary to enhance resonance, concentrate on phrasing, and literally bust a gut if necessary.

Recently I’ve observed a definite contrast in support techniques while rehearsing for COLE. This musical review is jam packed with Cole Porter’s famous, funny and cleverest songs. Each number is choreographed by local former Broadway dance captain, Amy Palomino, who tests the coordinational limits of all six cast members through elaborate footwork and Fosse-hands, all while singing in tune and in harmony.

What goes through a singer’s mind while singing and dancing an ensemble number of “Anything Goes”? It ain’t breath support, and clear vocal production. In my mind, at least, it goes something like this….

(A five six seven eight)
“In olden days…"(step left turn)
(hands in the air, now do the Charleston)
(Step kick, step-ball-change, now we’re trucking)
"…looked on as something shocking" (DON’T FORGET TO SMILE!)
(box step left and don’t poke your neighbor do a little time step)
“Anything Goes!”

Whew! Ever see A Chorus Line? Compare what I just wrote to a few lines of the first song of that soundtrack:

Step, kick, kick, leap, kick, touch...Got it?
Going on, turn, turn, touch down,
Back step, pivot step, walk, walk, walk!

Sound familiar? After wiggling through a full number with my pearly whites gleaming and ending full blast on a high “E” I’m proud to say my operatic vocal training and a worthless music degree comes in handy for something. Next stop…Broadway?

These Shoes Were Made For Walkin’

2007-07-03T16:03:00.000-07:00

You ever get that fuzzy feeling after purchasing a good pair of cheap sneakers and realize that these are some really comfortable shoes that are going to take you places? That’s how I felt about this pair two and a half years ago. These were good shoes. Comfortable shoes. Shoes with….oh, I’ll just say it, “Soul”. I bought these khaki sneakers as an accessory to my cruise director garb to wear during our daily excursions. I bought them knowing I would wear them to the nub, but certainly sooner than 2-1/2 years later. These shoes were made for walkin’. And that’s just what they did.

With this trusty pair I have walked into the Snake River “Hell’s Canyon”, through fern covered trails of the Columbia Gorge, a zillion laps across up and down the Queen of the West from bow ramp to stern, tens of thousands of yards across fairways and greens, countless miles through Disneyland and California Adventure, thousands of stomps on the practice set of Wagner’s Flying Dutchman, and of course, thousands of rainy puddles in downtown Portland.

The most surprising thing about these shoes is the fact that I purchased them from Payless Shoesource. To be perfectly honest, and to make a jab at Payless, I have not had the best luck with my Payless source of shoes. In years past the men’s footwear I have purchased have turned out to be of quality leaning toward, oh what’s the word, CRAPPY?! If top of the line Nike shoes are produced by underpaid peasant stiffs in Vietnam, I can only imagine the Mens’ footwear usually sold at Payless have been manufactured by a disgruntled one-eyed fingerless frozen Siberian sweatshop worker. Typically the shoes cause blisters, rip at the seams, and cry “uncle” at the first sign of wear on the tread. But not these babies. Oh, no.

But now it’s time to retire these poor, wretched tired holey soles. Goodbye, my trusty sneakers. Adios. Vaarwel. Sayonara. Getting rid of a really comfortable pair of shoes is akin to putting down your old dog, or bidding adieu to a fine cast of singers after final curtain, or hurling a tasty greasy cheeseburger after a night of vodka shots. It may not be easy, it may leave a bad taste in your mouth, and it’s certainly going to happen with or without your consent.

Black Bear & Sweetie

2007-06-25T13:25:00.000-07:00

Fact: I have two beautiful daughters.

Fact: But I have four precious darlings to care for.

See the picture above? These are my other two precious darlings. Sweetie & Black Bear. Wherever my girls go, Black Bear and Sweetie are there. To the Zoo. To Montana. To the donut shop. To the park to play in muddy sand boxes. Yes, these two little darlings are most precious, and losing one would be like losing my own flesh and blood. Heaven help the individual who leaves one or both of these precious creatures behind in a grocery store or playground. Hell hath no fury like a toddler or little girl who has lost her woobie.

And no amount of dirt, grime, or mangled eyeballs will ever deter my daughters’ love or affection for these soft and cuddly creatures. Nay, they are not “stuffed” toys. They are living things, bringing joy, comfort and companionship to two little girls. Little Bobo has not spent one night without her Black Bear since the day she was born. This, of all her cribmates, is her one and only favorite who must be present every night when the lights are doused. Black Bear is on her second pair of eyes by now, each one being replaced within the last year or so. Yes, she’s a blind black bear with two glass eyes. Lucky for her she needs no cane as Bobo is quite willing to drag her along everywhere she needs to go.

Little Sweetie the Cat has been Goonie’s favorite for years. I believe Sweetie is an international traveler, having crossed the border into British Columbia and multiple northwestern states, not to mention a cruise to Alaska. Today Sweetie learned not to reach across the table, lest ye be smeared on the belly with a camouflaged goop of McDonald’s Ketchup. Yes, Sweetie & Black Bear will be getting a well needed bath tonight.

But the nice thing about getting all four of them clean at the same time, they all four fit in the washing machine (gentle cycle of course) and are quick to hang dry.

Little Monkey

2007-06-22T11:22:00.001-07:00

"I’ve seen the future. And we are all servants to damned dirty apes! "

Despite my geeky adoration for 60’s sci fi movies, this video reminded me of Chef Creonte in “The Love For Three Oranges”. When the Prince and his comic and clownish traveling partner Truffaldino escape the chef’s kitchen he drops ladle despondently and says in his bassly voice:

“Little Monkey”

So, in honor of Sergey Prokofiev and his little Orange masterpiece, enjoy the thwapping monkey video.

Nighties & Panties & Bras….Oh My!

2007-06-15T10:18:00.001-07:00

Li’l Bobo has a memory like a sponge. She never forgets. And at 2 she is at such an impressionable stage that any silly comment, noise or inflection Daddy makes (and he’s capable of making many) she remembers the exact context and situation.

Yesterday I was strolling through the local mall hand in hand with my two beautiful girls. What man could be more proud than to be walking in a very public place with his two favorite girls at his side?

Well we happened to pass a lot of retail clothing stores. All with window displays to attract the fervent shoppers passing by. We casually walked by Victoria’s Secret, and Goonie couldn’t help but notice the unashamed, immodest mannequins posing with nothing but women’s skivvies on their bottoms.

“Look, Daddy! They’re just wearing underwear!” If you recall, Goonie has an astute appreciation for undergarments. So I casually look at the bare mannequins (as if I hadn’t noticed already) and feigned shock.

“OH MY GOSH!” said I, slapping my hands to my cheeks with an overacting style rivaling that of Macaulay Culkin.

“OH MY GOSH!” echoed little Bobo. I swiveled to look at my baby girl and she, too, had an adorable Home Alone poster child look as she gazed at the ladies lingerie in the window. “Oh my GOSH!” she repeated.

I couldn’t stop my hearty baritone laughter from ringing throughout the resonant mall. I think they heard me all the way down at the hardware section in Sears. Li’l Bobo smiled at me, knowing full well from my response that she again had me wrapped snuggly around her tiny little finger.

And such a fine performance would not have been complete without an encore. Later we returned the same way heading toward our exit. Bobo didn’t miss a beat when we reached the shocking display window at VS.

“OH MY GOSH!” she squeaked in her little 2-yr old voice, posing once again. Bystanders and mall walkers all giggled with delight at the little overacting toddler. Oh yeah, she’s gonna be an Oscar winner some day. I’ve got dibs as her personal manager.

The Curtain Closes

2007-05-23T09:10:00.000-07:00

An opera season has ended.

I remember fondly the gala opening
where all were decked in swanky formal evening wear
sipping champagne and raising their flutes to a successful season.
Bright, fragrant summer flowers decorated tables
and food was plentiful.
Everyone reveled in the excitement and joy
of the music yet to be heard.
Toasts abounded.
All sang in harmonic chorus.
The season began and all watched
as act after act of passion, desire, affection, joy,
misery, suffering and wrath
were displayed behind the proscenium for all to view.
Voices rose above the sweeping mello cellos and soulful clarinets.
The intensity of tempos urged more from each singer,
rising to a crescendoing climax
that verged on the edge of each performer’s ability,
testing their range, their sostenuto, and their stamina.
Finally, scene after scene,
Act after act,
Performance after performance,
The drama has played out,
And the orchestra dies with a sad cadence in d minor.
The curtain closes
The opera is finished.

Opera - The Backstage Story

2007-05-09T09:22:00.000-07:00

The fun times never end backstage during tech week. And humor must be in high demand to aid our poor, weary souls and bodies through the trials (literally) of tech staging rehearsals.

I bring you now, some of the quote gathered in one evening, overheard in the men’s wardrobe room:

“Those ARE my feet that stink. COOL!”
~ after removing his soiled ADIDAS

“Hey! That’s not my sword!”
~ by the prop table

“Why is yours bigger than mine?”
“Because I have a large mellon.”
~ comparing tricorne hats

“He’s got a big instrument.”
~ complimenting the Speaker’s voice

“Actually, truth be told, I have THREE balls. But just one is in the sack.”
~ Chorister bragging of his bowling prowess.

Chorister #1: “It's amazing how six inches can make such a difference.”
Chorister #2: "Yes, in all espects of life."
~ During a staging adjustment of 'six inches to the left'.

Evil Goonie-in-Training

2007-04-24T07:19:00.000-07:00

I’m so very proud of my Goonie and her delight in evil characters. We recently watched Disney’s new DVD release of Peter Pan. During the movie I, the Evil Baritone, was entranced by the villain, Captain Hook. I turned to Goonie and asked which character she liked best, more specifically, did she like Capt. Hook? My little Evil Goonie-in-training did not bat an eyelash, and keeping her eyes glued to the screen said, “No, I like Tic-Toc the crocodile. I want him to eat Capt. Hook!” BRILLIANT!!! She digs the VILLAIN of the villain!!!! Ah, yes. Goonie’s training is coming along nicely.

Goonie is also becoming a critical eye for talent in cinema. The other night Evil Mezzo put in a VCR (wha…? Who uses VCR anymore?) of The Last of the Mohicans starring Daniel Day-Lewis. Mr. Day-Lewis, it seems, has a special place in Evil Mezzo’s heart. I’ve overheard her describe him as “dreamy”, “a dishy beast”, and “sexy hunka-hunka burnin’ love.”

Well, Evil Mezzo made a comment to Goonie as the movie opened and the first glimpse of Mr. Day-Lewis’s character in rustic wilderness garb, something to the effect of, “Goonie, isn’t that man just the most handsome man you’ve ever seen?”

To which Goonie quickly replied, “yes, almost as handsome as Daddy.”

She’ll be the first person I thank when I am awarded my Oscar.

Balls to the Wall

2007-04-18T22:16:00.000-07:00

I’ve been asked by a fellow blogger to write and describe what it is like to sing Wagner. Well, the short version is that it feels like what a camel must experience when it hurls it’s larynx out of its throat. This is true. Camels will on occasion upchuck it’s vocal mechanism and let it dangle outside it’s mouth at a human it feels is a threat, or at attractive double humpback female camels as a mating ritual. Evil baritones have been known to do this when singing Wagner.

The Flying Dutchman is one of Wagner’s early operas and consists of many signature Wagner motive’s which are prominent later on in his bigger grand operas, but also has much sense of the Romantic style that Wagner appreciated, especially from Bel Canto composers such as Bellini. Richard Wagner, however, has taken liberties with his compositions. He enlists broad strokes of melody with hellacious ranges, and gigantic leaps in dynamics for singers of opera.

To sing Wagner is a stretch vocally, musically, and physically challenging for one’s stamina. I was so physically exhausted after singing the men vs. ghost chorus in Act III that I literally collapsed in the Green Room each night after performing the scene. With wads of tissues in hand I dampened my sweaty brow and gulped water like it was sweet as milk & honey. It certainly did not help that the director’s staging had us stomping, hitting, and otherwise creating mass hysteria onstage while singing, “Steuerman las die vacht!” That chorus and style of singing can only be described by the term known to all singers as, "Balls to the Wall!"

And after each curtain call when the throng of 3,000 fanatics were finished applauding, whooping and whistling, I lingered on stage after the curtain’s final drop so that I could search for my vocal mechanism which was left somewhere downstage right. Wagner? Oy! I love his music, but I think I’ll stick to singing Mozart & Puccini.

At Least He Was Upwind

2007-04-09T13:59:00.000-07:00

Time for another installment of "Overheard in the Evil Baritone-mobile"

When last we left our hero, he was glancing at his fuel gauge:

"Oh, shoot. I just passed gas back there."

Is There An Octogenarian In The House?

2007-04-02T18:04:00.000-07:00

As read on my fortune cookie consumed before Flying Dutchman's final performance:

Seek advice from an octogenarian.

What? What's an octogenarian? And why must I seek advice from one? Am I sick? Do I have only 6 months to live? Never in my childhood life until the present have I encountered such a fortune. Even when I was 11 and snuck an entire week's worth of fortune cookies from the local Chinese joint, opened every one, (ate half of them) and sorted through every slip of paper looking for the one telling me that Angel, my beautiful 6th grade classmate, was meant to be my guiding light, or at least my first kiss, there was Ne'er a fragment of fortune telling me to 'seek advice' from anyone.

I mean, singers are neurotic enough! Ya can't just let me snarf down a bucket of pork fried rice and tell me to seek advice from some octo-something-or-other and then "break a leg!"

What if I did break a leg? Then I'd have to seek advice from someone for sure.

I was about to enter an auditorium full of 3,000 people ready to watch German opera make it's triumphant return to the Portland stage. I was half tempted to ask...

"Is there an octogenarian in the house?"

Or at least ask if one would stand by just in case. But years of training and professionalism paid off. I made it through the show without breaking a leg. But I needed to find out what this octogenarian is and quick! I needed answers! So I did what any normal curious and concerned fortune recipient would do. Get the answer from Answers.com!

oc·to·ge·nar·i·an (ŏk'tə-jə-nâr'ē-ən)

adj.
Being between 80 and 90 years of age.
n.
A person between 80 and 90 years of age.

Huh? Can't seek advice from Grandma (may her soul rest in peace). Granpa is now 91. Who the heck could I turn to for this much needed advice?

The answer came in the most subtle yet obvious place. Palm Sunday Mass. The next morning while I performed my cantor duties I was approached by a parishoner. She was elderly, I'd say in her 80's. She told me she enjoyed the opera the previous night. But she had some advice. Oh, here it is! The fortune cookie was right!

I waited in great anticipation for the advice I had sought for so long. Well, at least sought for the last 12 hours. She leaned in, motioned for me to bring my ear closer. Obviously this was important advice that mustn't be overheard by just anyone. Then she said to me:

"I enjoyed the opera last night, and my husband goes every time whether he needs the sleep or not. But I think the opera would be more popular if it were more like football, with cheerleaders and a halftime show during intermission."

Amen, sister! I'll soon be holding auditions for the opera halftime cheer squad.

Opera: The New Spectator Sport

2007-03-29T23:36:00.000-07:00

The lights dim. It’s nearly pitch dark inside a giant, cavernous space filled with thousands of people waiting in great anticipation. Loud rhythmical music pulsates throughout the space and renders the crowd with palpitory excitement. Women begin to swoon. Men tense and sweat with wide eyed alacrity. All eyes are focused on one point in the giant hall, and when the moment arrives where their heroes are revealed and illuminated the expansive room erupts with an amplitude of cheers and applause.

Sound like the NBA basketball playoff introductions? Nope. A rock concert? Uh-uh. This, my loyal evil readers, is the experience of the local opera scene in Portland.

On a weeknight evening the Portland Opera production of The Flying Dutchman witness an unheralded and unprecedented audience reception. From the moment the curtain opened, revealing the entire cast in rock concert lighting on a raked and off-balanced stage we felt like we were doing an NBA playoff game in front of the 3,000 pairs of eyes before us. Spontaneous shouts, applause, and even a fist in the air “Woo Woo Woo” ala Arsenio Hall greeted us as the overture completed and we started singing.

What went through the minds of the conservative, penguin suited, rhinestone wearing typical opera goer? I wonder…

“Lovey, did that man just say, ‘woo woo woo’?”

“Yes, Thurston. It’s the new rage with all the modern opera audiences.” (thrusts fist in the air) “Woo! Woo! Woo!”

I believe we’re on to something here. What if we made opera the new spectator sport, complete with commentary from the booth. Let’s go there now:

“Well, Phil, it looks like the crowd is prepared for some hot entertainment tonight!”

“Sure does, Bill. Look at ‘em go wild with the new modern lighting! They’re even starting a spontaneous wave in the orchestra section. Let’s go now down to Jill who’s with the head stage director:”

“Thanks Phil. I’m here with Guillermo Nobilo who is watching from off stage left tonight. Tell us, Guillermo, what should we expect tonight?”

“Vell, Jeell, I’m pleeeased viz ze whole outcome. All ze zingers gave 110% een practeece. Zey are READY!”

“That’s the word from backstage. Back to you Phil.”

“Thanks, Jill. Bill, the tenor has been spending extra hours in the practice room this week trying to polish and caress that high ‘C’. It should be an exiting night if he can hold it this evening.”

“That’s right Phil. We’re coming up to the end of his aria now. Let’s see if he can nail it.”

“Ooooo!! Bill, that was just a hair under pitch and he hooked that one big time.”

“Yes he did, Phil. You can tell he’s a little fatigued this evening and he didn’t quite reach the top.”

"Looks like it'll be more time in the practice room for the next few days, Bill."

Hey, it happens for golf! Why not opera?

Enjoy the Opera! Personal Lubricant Provided.

2007-03-23T15:11:00.000-07:00

I’ll come right out and say it. Let the jokes, laughter, chuckles, guffaws, hee hawing, whatever begin.

The head wigmistress of the opera has decreed that K-Y Personal Lubricant is the official hair gel of our production of Flying Dutchman.

Hair gel.

Hair.

Gel.

No wigs will be worn for the production. However the gentlemen, ALL gentlemen, will be given a dollop of K-Y jelly, and the hair will be combed in the style of the period of the opera, set in the 1920’s.

Why K-Y? Here’s my own marketing reasons:

“It Provides Maximum Stiffness and Hold”
“It’s Viscous and Slick”
“Provides Power Hold & Shine”
“It’s Smooth, Silky and Glistens like Fresh Snow”
“Too dry? Just add more water!”

I am told the official reason is that adds a nice glistening effect. And since it’s water based the washing process is easier. It also doesn’t flake like regular hair gel.

I’m told the story by the poor sucker, who wanted to remain nameless so we’ll call her Betty, (there, Bev, I saved your anonymity!) who drew the short straw and had to make the purchase of about a case worth of personal lubricant from the drug store. In addition, items such as medical sticky tape, hair pins, and makeup needed to be purchased. “Betty” does not look the type to purchase a stockpile of naughty or deviant goodies. So naturally the pharmacist gave her an odd blank stare and an, “excuse me?” when she inquired to the whereabouts of said items.

“I asked where you stock the K-Y.”

“The what, ma’am?”

“The K-Y jelly.”

I imagine the elderly, conservative pharmacists scratching his graying and almost bald, bare head. “I’m not sure I understand…”

“I NEED 12 TUBES OF PERSONAL LUBRICANT!!”

So Betty ended up exclaiming her secret mission to everyone in the store and followed behind Mr. Pharmacist to collect all the items on her list. She admitted later to us the fact that she shopped in a drug store on the other side of town from her house. The curious pharmacist was much relieved when Betty felt she had to explain the reason behind her seemingly deviant purchases.

Good thing he didn’t talk her into purchasing K-Y Warming Liquid Gel which would have provided a nice gentle warming sensation on contact. Talk about hot sailors!

Never a dull moment in opera.

The Hairy Truth

2007-03-17T16:41:00.000-07:00

Since my years have morphed from the low-thirtysomethings to the high-thirtysomethings I have discovered a hygienic secret closely guarded by all males who have made this rite of passage. A tedious ritual grooming chore one must perform daily lest we be outcast from civilized society and banished to the Island of Unsightly Men.

WHAT’S WITH ALL THE NOSE AND EAR HAIR, PEOPLE!?

Why was I not informed or prepared for this additional required routine maintenance? Eh? Why was this such a secret? I swear every other morning I find a shrub growing inside my nostrils. And where one day my ears are perfectly squeaky clean and wax-free, the next I’ll find a three inch long hair that somehow sprung overnight?

This debilitation has struck me like I remember being stricken by puberty. I thought I was the only one afflicted with a sudden onslaught of hair. Like a junior high boy in the locker room, I have only discovered that all my buddies the same age are having the identical issue. It’s funny to watch the older men of the opera chorus snicker and chuckle at the thirty-somethings swapping accounts of trimming the hedges and sharing plucking techniques. THAT’S why they didn’t tell us to be ready for the new hair growth. It’s all a big joke to them, like we’ve been initiated into the brotherhood of older hairy men.

Well, I’m not one to break tradition! The secret’s safe with me! You twenty-somethings don’t know what’s in store for you in about a decade. And I’m not gonna tell ya! Ha! HA HA! Muahahahahahahaha!!!!!

STOMP! - the Opera

2007-03-14T15:12:00.000-07:00

This Evil Baritone just flipped another calendar year, celebrating my 29th birthday for the 8th straight year. (You do the math) But EB is jumping, stomping, and creating general mayhem on the rehearsal stage like he’s a sprightly 24 yr old.

“What does he think he’s doing!? Certainly no Earthly good will come of his false pretense of athletic ability! I shall smite him for his reckless behavior!” ~ EB’s knees

The above is a direct quote from my knees and ankles overheard in our most recent rehearsal of Flying Dutchman. I am renaming this Wagnarian masterpiece, STOMP! ~ The Opera. Those of you who may be privy to that entertaining piece of theatre whereby a dozen or so 20-somethings show their athletic prowess by “stomping” rhythmical tunes using anything from tin garbage cans (and the garbage inside them) to brooms and sinks full of water, will understand. The avant-garde stage director for our Flying Dutchman has decided it would be keen if all 30 of the chorus sailor men, during the Steuerman Chorus vs. the Ghost Chorus scene, would all jump, stomp, hit, thrash, smash, and cause widespread chaos onstage for this little 5 minute interval. I (foolishly) volunteered to leap from atop tables, bounding over chairs, and stomp the set like I’m waking the devil.

I’m sure you can imagine that this sort of chaotic scene does not get blocked once and forgotten until final dress. The first few scene rehearsals were great! I felt a healthy glow of perspiration and a sense that I was in much better shape than my fellow, uh, ahem, “more experienced” chorus men. Besides, I am a professional on stage. I give 110% in rehearsal and performance. By the end of the 6th time through the scene my perspiration had gushed into a flood of hot, salty sweat, drenching my rehearsal gear and making me wish I had volunteered to sing in the Ghost Chorus offstage. (Jo ho ho hoe!)

Well, I managed to stumble through the end of rehearsal, and I’ve been on a steady diet of Ibuprofen and regular intervals of ice packs ever since. I encourage you if you’re in the Portland area to catch this production. The principals are fabulous, especially our Dutchman, Richard Paul Fink, a mighty fine dramatic baritone. This ain’t your grandmother’s “Park & Bark” opera…it’s intense!

I Want to Rock & Roll All Night...

2007-03-03T10:22:00.000-08:00

Time for another installment of...

OVERHEARD IN THE EVIL BARITONE CHARIOT:

"Those guys are wrong. My mamma DOES dance and my daddy DOES rock & roll."

Rock on little Goonie.

Evil Baritone Celebrates

2007-02-28T11:08:00.000-08:00

Today celebrates the one year blogiversary for the Evil Baritone Blog.! Let’s hear it for EB!

For he’s a jolly good baritone
For he’s a jolly good baritone
For he’s a jolly good baritoooooooooone,
And no one is evil as he

…Is. Are. Am?

For one year I have been polluting the blogosphere with mindless drivel and nitwitted anecdotes. As a self-indulgent sentimental event of today’s Jubilee, here’s a brief recap of some highlights the last 12 months:

March – Ranted about tracking spending habits
April – My favorite radio station divorced me
May – Found out what I already know…I AM MIGHTY!
June – Had to change my password
July – Licked my popcorn and wore women’s clothes
August – Discovered my toddler is a Klingon
September – Admitted my Addition, and broke Safety Violations
October – Practiced Klingon wrestlin’ and got caught in my underwear
November – Changed body odor protection
December – Put a contract out on Santa Baby
January – Overdressed for KFC
February – Discovered Evil Mezzo has a Woody

What a year! Everyone raise your champagne flutes to another year of evilness!!!

Mamma's Got A Woody

2007-02-24T21:41:00.000-08:00

I sit before the computer contemplating some clever topic for a blog. Evil Baritones can't be creative all the time. We're very busy planning to take over the world. Goonie bursts into the room.

Goonie: Daddy, did you know Mamma’s got a Woody?

Me: I... I beg your pardon?

Goonie: Have you seen Mamma’s Woody?

Me: Uh, no. No I didn’t. Tell me about Mamma’s woody.

Goonie: I gave her a Woody. C’mon! Let’s go see it!

Goonie drags me into the living room where Evil Mezzo is performing yoga along with a DVD. She is in the Down Dog position along with a beautiful blonde who is issuing calming instructions from the TV. Not the best time to be talking about Woody in front of daddy.

Goonie: Mamma, show Daddy your Woody!

Evil Mezzo: Oh, yeah. I meant to show you my Woody two days ago and I forgot.

Me: You’ve had a woody for two days and you didn’t tell me?

Evil Mezzo: Yeah, Goonie gave me a Woody a few days ago. Here, look.

With that, Evil Mezzo stand erect and lifts the lower left leg of her sweats. There, a temporary tattoo of Sheriff Woody from Pixar’s “Toy Story” smiles back at me. I release a big sigh of relief.

Me: Oh……! Whattya know! It’s Sheriff Woody!

Goonie: Yeah, Daddy. I told you. Do you want me to give you a Woody, too?

Me: NO! I mean, no, Sweetheart, but thanks.

Evil Mezzo: You’re gonna blog about this, aren’t you.

Me: (Smirking) You bet your Woody.

A Diva is Born

2007-02-22T08:15:00.000-08:00

EvilBaritone and Goonie are on their way to Babies R' Us to purchase some items to Bobo-proof the house. (Baby Klingons have a propensity for climbing and getting into every cabinet, drawer, and light socket available.)

On the way they pass a bar with the following on their marquee:

"$1,000 KARAOKE CONTEST THIS THURSDAY"

EB: Hey, Goonie, you think Daddy should enter the karaoke contest to win a thousand bucks?

Goonie: No, 'cause I would win.

A diva is born. American Idol contestants watch out!

Wait for it...wait for it...

2007-02-18T12:03:00.000-08:00

It was time for Bobo’s 2 yr immunization shots. Bobo squirmed on the patient bed, curious about all the knick knacks in the little patient room, completely unaware of what was about to occur. The nurse assigned to do the dirty deed finally arrived and approached my little Klingon with a needle jutting in the air, a friendly smile on her face, all the while saying, “this won’t hurt. It’s okay. Juuuuuust relax…”

Yeah. Asking Bobo to relax gets you about the same results if you were to squeeze a bull’s balls and ask him not to gore you.

But Bobo raised her eyebrow at the nurse holding a pointy object as if to say, “you’re not gonna do what I think you’re gonna do…are you? You poke that thing in me and I’ll take you down to Chinatown, girl!” Bobo must have sensed that she was outnumbered with two parents holding her down and a big sister ready to catch her if she escaped so she struggled not. She sat right there and watched as the nurse pricked her upper arm. She didn’t even wince. The nurse expelled the fluid slowly into Bobo’s arm. We knew the wail would come. Wait for it…wait for it…

Nothing.

No wailing. No gnashing of teeth.

She took it like a true Klingon warrior.

The nurse removed the needle and Bobo looked right at her with those vengeful eyes letting her know in Klingon speak, “you thought you could torture me. You loose. I shall not forget this day. Oh yes, I will have my vengence!”

But to us it sounded like, “babble wabble goony goo goo.” Sure is nice to be threatened in such a sweet baby-like way.

Shyaddup and Eat Your Poop

2007-02-13T09:32:00.000-08:00

Photo by Jocelyn McCuley

First, I can’t wait to find out what Google searches end up on this entry. (You sickos!)

Little Goonie is 5 (“and a half”) and has reached the stage where all things Poop releated are the funniest jokes on the planet. Simply mentioning the word ‘Poop’ gets her rolling hysterically on the floor.

Bobo the Klingon had her #2 birthday this week. She adores her big sister and anything funny to Goonie is worthy of being funny for her. Goonie has lured Bobo into the fold of “poop is funny”. When she has soiled her diaper she makes no hesitation to run up to a parental unit and shout “POOP!” ‘Course, in her little Klingon accent it comes out more like ‘pyooooop’ making her embarrassing moments in public a little more cute and endurable.

But Bobo only knows the shape, color texture of her own poop and the little tiny poop droppings from the Chihuahua. Stay with me…

On Bobo’s birthday we went with my in-laws to dine at Sweet Tomatoes. If you’re not familiar with Sweet Tomatoes, it’s an all-you-can-eat buffet style restaurant except the buffet line is about a quarter mile long stocked with all varieties of salads, noodle salads, toppings & dressings, creating a sweet sensation of ‘I’m gorging on healthy food so it’s ok to overeat’.

After devouring two mountainous plates of salad there was still room for desert. So I headed for the desert bar and found a delicious variety of chocolate pudding and chocolate mousse. (Review my addiction here) I piled about three servings full onto a plate and sat back down. Bobo sat across from me and when she saw the giant glop of brown gelatinous pudding she all but screamed, “POOOP!! Poop, Dada!”

All eyes in the crowded restaurant flashed our direction to see what the poop commotion was about. I’m sure they didn’t want to step in anything as they left in disgust. I grabbed a spoon, hunched over my plate of ‘poop’, looked at Bobo and said, “shyaddup, kid. Here, eat some poop.”

Goonie witnessed the entire ordeal and could not contain herself after I offered poop to her younger sister. “Poop! You’re eating poop! Ha ha!” For the rest of the meal and the entire ride home it was a “POOP!”-fest for the girls. Songs about poop. Farting noises. Uncontainable laughter. Then when the laughter subsided a little, Bobo would say, “pyoooop” and hysterics started again.

I guess Bobo’s subconscious worked overtime with the topic of the day, ‘cause when we got home…you guessed it! A very large token of appreciation awaited us in her diaper.

Whew! I’m pooped.

Sisterly Love

2007-01-13T11:02:00.000-08:00

As I sit and type this bloggity blog, my two girls are quiet. Almost too quiet. They both sit in Goonie’s room trying on the eldest’s clothes & costumes. How adorable little Bobo looks with a Tinkerbell hat. A perfect picture of sisterly adoration.

But I bring you exhibit A to the left. This happened last night. This, dear parents and parents-to-be, is the result of sibling love. Our big girl Goonie became tré upset over the most trivial matter. Details are unimportant, but the Goon has a tendency to be a little bit ‘Rain Man’ sometimes, and if matters don’t work out exactly as she had planned in her mind she goes, well, I think the precise parental term is Ape Shit.

As the Goon was throwing her little tantrum and screaming (I’m most impressed with her high C) little Bobo decided to join the “game” and screamed in unison with her big sister. (They will be an adorable little Patience & Prudence someday) But Goonie didn’t appreciate Bobo’s attempt to share her tantrum so she lashed out and scratched her sister’s face real good. My my my – what Irish tempers both these children have.

Goon is now grounded until she’s 12.

But there is an upside – I am confident when Goon is a teenager, she and her Irish temper will be able to fight off those pesky, horny boys who think they can take advantage of her. My shotgun is safe.

I Feel Like an Evil Bog Dweller

2007-01-12T15:49:00.000-08:00

For two years I’ve been stretching the chops on nice high baritone & tenor-ish repertoire like Sweeney Todd, the tenor solo in the Hoppe Requiem, musical reviews with Broadway favorites like Music of the Night and Bring Him Home. Now I have the distinct honor of re-joining the ranks of my Basso (Canadenis) Profundo friend, Campbell Vertesi, and have been assigned to sing low bass for the Portland Opera Norma chorus.

BAD: when the full ensemble of Sops & Tenors scream fortissimo (the actual technical music term is balls-to-the-wall. Really! Look it up in Groves!) on High A’s, Mezzi belting somewhere in the top of the treble, and basses…you got it! We’re trying to force a mighty D root in the middle of Bass Clef. Do you think anyone is going to hear a handful of basses huff on a note placed in the middle of bass cleff with 35 other trained singers screaming 2 & 3 octave higher, AND a full 60 piece orchestra blaring from the pit? No way, Jose!

GOOD: But, ohhh, it feels good to rumble on a low G for a page and a half of pianissimo chorus. That’s when having the low notes pays dividends. Ahhhh…it’s nice to be back home for a while. Tenors, eat your heart out.

THE BEST: Who wouldn’t want to add ‘Bog Dweller’ to one’s opera resume already littered with, but limited to, Guard, Lowly Slave, Noble, Evil Assassin (I like that one), Soldier, Priest and Gypsy? Besides, the pajama and robe costumes are the most comfortable I’ve worn by far.

Overdressed at KFC

2007-01-11T13:54:00.000-08:00

So, all morning & afternoon I faithfully sum the beans, ya know, the boodle, the moolah, the gravy. Then suffer the slings and arrows of a long and crowded bus commute chock full of crabby, inconsiderate schmucks trying to make their way home, all of us with white iPod earbuds stuffed in our heads isolating us from the cruel world. And I arrive home just in time to jump in my car and turn around to go back downtown to the opera for rehearsal. Don’t even have time to prepare a meal at home. Even a ham sandwich would take too much energy.

So I think to myself, “self, there’s a KFC right here in the burb. Stop on by & enjoy a hot meal and a fresh Coca Cola.” When I arrive I stand behind a pair of twenty-something-or-others and notice they are both wearing flannel PJ bottoms. Yes, pajamas. AND SLIPPERS! I think to myself, “self, I should have thought of that. Be comfortable & wear PJ’s to rehearsal. It’s what all the cool kids are doing these days” But civility overruled that argument. How could I possibly wear my bedclothes in public?

As I pondered these thoughts on top of whether to have extra crispy or original recipe, another patron enters, a motherly type, with two kids in tow. She also dons a comfy flannel bottom. I’m now sandwiched by folks who clearly just rolled out of bed and headed to the local grease factory for breakfast.

What? Is this world your private living room? As much as I admire a woman in a nighty and a loose robe, I believe those clothing items were intended to remain at home, and more particularly, IN YOUR BED!

Ok, alright! I admit it…yes, I wore those crazy but comfortable Joey Buttafucco pants in the early 90’s. And sure, I was a teenager who on occasion wore parachute pants in the 80’s. What’s my point? My point is fashion. It was fashionable to look like a dork in the 80’s & 90’s with clothes designed and meant for the purpose of being worn and displayed in public. Pajamas, to my knowledge, are still designed with the notion that they be worn in the home. Nobody wants to see your saggy flannel butt with Homer Simpson and a thought balloon which reads, "Mmmmmmm....donuts" in public.

Now, please excuse me while I go slide into my Garfield house slippers and practice Largo al factotum on the street corner…

Just When I Thought I Was Out...

2007-01-08T22:29:00.000-08:00

…they pull me back in!

And so it goes. After spending a decade with the Portland Opera AGMA Chorus I somehow got out of the “family” two years ago. Don’t get me wrong, it’s the best paying gig in Portland. Union wages are hard to beat for singers. But it’s not a full time gig. It don’t pay all da bills, know what I mean? For two years I’ve been successfully keeping busy with other performing gigs on cruise vessels, musical theatre, and interactive dinner theatre. But last November I got the call…

Sometimes, in way out towns like Portland, Ore-GONE, singers do not realize the responsibility and privilege it is to be in a performers union. This ain’t community theatre folks. Sure, the Met Chorus members may earn six figures a year, and we earn enough to make car & insurance payments (‘course, I understand six figures in NYC is just enough to keep you riding in a taxi) but we all work for the same union with the same rules. A professional opera company expects their performers to work hard in the allotted time, be ON time, memorize music, learn staging, etc.

Well, a new bass they hired this season found that the responsibility of actually showing up to rehearsals was too great. He managed to miss enough rehearsal that he was promptly booted. Hmmm…who can we get to fill this AGMA spot for the rest of the season? Oh, I know! Let’s cal Evil Baritone. He may be evil, but he’s professional and dependable. So they called me. And I had an open schedule. So I’m back in the chorus for three more shows.

But I had forgotten how entertaining music rehearsals can be. P.O. has a new young Chorus Master who emigrated from Great Britain. His accent is charming and he can insult you with a smile and you’d ask for seconds. I think England is more open with their sex talk, whereas here in puritanical America we prefer subtle innuendo. Well, the following is a list of comments made to a professional chorus in music rehearsals. Mind you, only an occasional snigger ensued after some comments, but for the most part we have kept our professionalism very well. These are MUSICAL notes, people. Interpret them how you will…

Ah, coffee…fluid of life.

We kinda want the audience to go to sleep here.

Pucker the lips. Make it pure.

Hold your mouth open and fill it.

Put it in the back of your throat.

You don’t want to move from the long to the short.

You have to sit perfectly on the root.

Please mind your labial proximate.

Take a snatch breath.

And my personal favorite:

It’s not the length…it’s the strength.

My Favorite Stage Manager-isms

2007-01-08T16:20:00.000-08:00

People, be nice to your stage managers. They can make late for your entrance, “forget” to place your props, or innocently miss the “go” for the spotlight during your solo. With a simple raised eyebrow they can make you feel lower than a toadstool. They can make a large group of grown adults feel like a class of misbehaving kindergarteners. They can give a complex to an actor or actress, a singer, dancer, diva or yes, even an evil baritone. I’ve seen egotistical tenors toss their diet cokes in a huff because the SM didn’t allow beverages backstage. I’ve witnessed diva’s worship the SM because of a quick fix to their ripped costume. In general, the SM rules, and they can make your life hell.

Sure, a director directs the show and gets all the credit, but the SM keeps record of ALL staging, and is usually the only one who remembers when the diva is supposed to cross downstage left during her aria. During production the Stage Manager is GOD.

Finding a good stage manager is hard. Getting a great stage manager is like Boise State skimming past Oklahoma State in the Fiesta bowl…slim chances but not impossible. I have had the pleasure of working with some fabulous stage managers.

Recently I wrapped up a holiday show with one of the best local stage managers in Portland, Jim Crino. Before the curtain the SM makes sure to give calls to let the performers/musicians know when we start. Crino has a very unique call process. Better late than never, I bring you the best of pre-curtain Crino-isms from Christmas of Swing:

“Two minutes…maybe three.”

“If I’m not back in five minutes, that’s your 20 minute call.”

"Did I call five yet? I did? Ok, make it five from now."

"We should have started ten minutes ago but they're still putting the walkers away"

“Why don’t we take our places.” (Not a question)

“Let’s call it five minutes. No wait! No, I’m sorry, let’s make it 5.”

(my favorite…It’s 1:30 pm for a 2 pm matinee. Our audience is 99% over 60 yrs old)
“The last [elderly] patron just parked in the lot. We should be able to begin by a quarter after.”

I'm Comin' After You, Santa Baby!

2006-12-27T13:19:00.000-08:00

Yeah, Jolly Boy! You let me down. Waaaaaaay down! I believed in you! I trusted you! I told you specifically what to bring me this year. A new (or used – I don’t care!) Sony Ericsson 3 megapixel K800i cameraphone. And what did I find in my stocking on Monday morn? A Ch-Ch-Ch Chia! A *$@#ING CHIA!

Alright, Santa Baby! I’ll take a daily progress photo of that blasted Chia with my current crappity flip phone cam just to show you how crappy it is. Suffer at the quality!

You been good to me all these years. You brought me that official Red Ryder, carbine action, two-hundred shot range model air rifle when I was 10. Geesh, you somehow even got Brandie Beaumere in my dorm room with nothin’ but a see-through red teddy on Christmas morning back in college. You sly devil! I’m still tryin’ to figure that one out. Ok, you get off with a warning this time, Kringle Jingle. But next time, I’m comin’ to the North Pole and I’m having Red-Nosed Reindeer jerky, Jingle Boy!!!!!

Here comes Santa Claus...but I ate all the cookies!

2006-12-25T01:32:00.000-08:00

As seen on my fortune slip after tonight’s traditional Xmas Eve Chinese restaurant family dinner:

You will attain the highest level of intelligence

Duh! Hey, Confucious, you’re talkin’ to the Evil Baritone here. Ya don’t become an Evil genius without attaining the highest levels of intelligence. But I’m happy to eat the damn cookie anyway.

I’m sitting here watching the Yule Log channel on Public Broadcasting. The yule log channel. Oy! It’s either that or paid advertising for the Super Screwdriver. Tough decisions.

As I sit here watching the yule log burn on my tele, I’m obligated to ponder the political correctness of the holiday season. My Jewish friends are insulted if I say Merry Christmas. My African-American buds don’t like the simple phrase, Happy Chanukah. All Christians look blankly when someone shouts, “Happy Kwanzaa!” And atheists are insulted if they here any of the above mentioned.

So I’ve invented a simple solution that should appease everyone. Are you ready? Here it is:

Happy Chanukwanzmas, you Godless heathen!

So there it is. Have a good one, everyone.

Intriguing Search Results

2006-12-19T07:57:00.000-08:00

Ok, I've been blogging almost a year and ever since I figured how to track searches onto my blog I've kept a list of the most intriguing search strings. I was going to save these for the one year blogiversary but the list doth bulgeth. So in honor of fun blogging here is first installment of web searches ending up on my blog:

FOOD SEARCHES
pop corn kernel stuck on tongue - (Oooo...that's gotta hurt. I recommend more melted butter)
How to chocolate freebasing - (Oh yeah! chocolate high at my place every Saturday!)
Dreyers ice cream bus - (Never seen one, but will certainly welcome one in my neighborhood)
Ports and stouts - (A search for beer? Or search for hunky dock workers?)

MANLY SEARCHES
manly husband biceps - (Usually created with the ports & stouts...and Dreyers Ice Cream!)
chivalrous husband - (As long as you bring me another beer I'll be good to you, babe)
Redneck Trucks - (Try using some SPF 100 on that big boy)

GARMENT SEARCHES
fendi fanni pouch - (would rather have a fanni pouch that a fanni bulge)
wallet raphaello - (what...you think I sell designer wallets here?)
Coke bottle glasses - (Can you speak up? I can't see you...)
wedging up underwear - (I feel your pain. One word to you, dude...COMMANDO)
Daddy In Underwear - (Who's your daddy?)
caught me in underwear - (Inside or outside? Ladies or mens? Need more details, buddy)
Whitey tighties little boy - (Sicko! I've reported your IP address to the authorities. They should be at your house right about..........now! Enjoy jail, pervert!)

SINGER SEARCHES
Why are opera singers so fat (I'm not fat. I just have poofy hair)
good brands baritone - (you can have the 'good' brand. I've claimed the 'Evil' brand)
The best female baritones - (They better not be after my evil job!)
zippo Mr. Hyde - (a monster with a lighter)
chops off head evil barber - (That's right! And I'd do it again if ever I get a bad haircut like that!)

MISC SEARCHES
yoga pose elbow cruncher - (Not in the groin, dude!)
Elmers glue and my little pony - (Ya can't make glue outta plastic toys, dude)
pregnancy test at Safeway - (I recommend you take it home, first...)
women butt musk arm pit aroma - (makes the perfect Christmas gift for your loved one!)

accountant quote pratchett - (*Nods* Yup, quote Terry Pratchett every day. My particular favorite: "I'll be more enthusiastic about encouraging thinking outside the box when there's evidence of any thinking going on inside it.")

Free Opera with Pizza Delivery

2006-12-17T20:30:00.000-08:00

...or Would you like an Aria with that Pizza?

Back when I was studying music in college some of us actually had to work for spending money. Spending money being food money. Namely, that would be 3 tacos for a buck on Taco Tuesday, and boxes of mac & cheese for the rest of the week until the next Tuesday rolled around. Sometimes when I had a few extra bucks I would even purchase 12 tacos for 4 bucks and eat them all week. Mmmmm….cold, stale tacos. Good times.

For that living I endured the hardship of delivering pizza pies from Pizza Hut. Yes, I was a Pizza Dude. I was called many things, Pizza Dude being my favorite. Also Pizza Guy, Pizza Man, the Hut Honcho, and sometimes just, “Yo, whattaIoweya?” I sped my little Honda CRX all around the city, finding shortcuts that would get those pies to their destinations. ‘Course, looking back now, driving through that open field and puncturing my exhaust system on hidden rocks wasn’t exactly the best shortcut decision. But the CRX was a perfect delivery machine. I could weave through traffic and even slide under the big monster trucks that were popular in those days. Never did I earn a even a mere scratch on my vehicle.

As a music student studying the ways of becoming an Evil Baritone, I needed time to practice, of course. Well, anyone who has attended music school knows that they suck the life right outta ya by requiring poor young singers to take measly one-credit performing classes and a host of other 2 or 3 credit classes, usually filling a full 18 credits with about 10 classes during the week. Finding time to practice was a chore. So I found it was great opportunity to sing while I worked. As I drove pies around town I rolled the window down, hooked up my Pizza Hut delivery sign, slipped on some cool shades, and sang my art songs and arias at full voice for all to hear. Sometimes I would sing with the radio, “There’s a hole in my heart that can only be filled by you.” Ahhh…the nineties.

People walking down the street would indeed stare at me. I’m sure they were saying, “look, there goes a future evil baritone. I must order a pizza pie from him.” Stopping at red lights was fun. If a car next to me had their window down they would turn and give me that vacant look, and usually pump up their radio volume to give me more instrumental support. Yeah, I must have been a chick magnet, but I didn’t have time to stop & chat & get babe’s numbers. Had to get those pies to their owners while they were hot. The more pies I delivered the more tips I got.

I received some interesting tips during those years of pizza delivery. I lived in a college town. A small college town. A small liberal arts college town. VERY liberal. One night I delivered a Veggie Lovers to a townhouse close to campus. The blue smoke wafting out of the front door spoke volumes as to what the two gentlemen were studying that evening. They paid for the ‘Za with about 4 baggies of change, and the 5th baggie was for my trouble. It didn’t contain coins. Another time I delivered 6 or 7 ‘Zas to a big house on Nob Hill. Turns out it was a teenage party. Folks were outta town. They had an indoor pool. They had me bring the goodies back to the pool room where about 2 dozen scantily clad teenie boppers were jumping and splashing in the water. Cases of beer were everywhere. They were having a good time and tried to convince me to stay. “Tell ‘em your car broke down. C’mon! Have a beer & join us in the pool!” Hmmm…babes in bikinis…beer…a sure-shot at getting laid in a jacuzzi…

I definitely wasn’t evil enough back then. Responsibility won over. I left the bikini party. They gave me a beer to take for the road. Later that night I drank it and ~~half a case~~ a few more to drown away my lonely sorrows. Good times.

The Perfect Food

2006-12-12T10:05:00.000-08:00

I wanna know why it takes 10 minutes to turn one side of my grilled cheese sandwich golden brown and 30 seconds on the other side to burn it to a charred rubble. I’m thinking I need a new Teflon © pan, a George Foreman Grill (on my Santa list), or something other than I-Can’t-Believe-It’s-Not-Butter. Or…I’m good with an iron. Perhaps I will make my grilled cheezy with a hot iron and iron board like Johnny Depp in Benny & Joon.

The grilled cheese sandwich is one of the world’s most perfect foods. It turns an ordinary cold sandwich consisting of two slices of stale bread and cold cuts into a mouth-watering cheezy joygasm! I used to prepare a grilled cheezy the way my grandmother did, using one plain slice of American Processed Cheese. Later in life I learned I could make them myself and choose to use as many slices as I wanted. I could even use Velveeta! Yum! Nowadays, like my chocolate, I prefer a grilled cheezy with a little class. No longer do I use blechy American Cheese. No my epicurious friends, only the finest sharp Tillamook Cheddar, Havarti, Swiss, and the likes of these will do. What’s better? Add two slices of bacon, a fried egg, and sour dough bread. The Perfect Sandwich!

Ok, now I’m hungry. I’m gonna go make a Velveeta casserole.

Be Prepared

2006-12-07T10:58:00.000-08:00

Let’s review our Boy Scout motto:

BE PREPARED

Use it like a mantra. Say it with me now…Beee preeee-paaaaaaarrrreed.
Am I driving it home yet, folks? Making national news here in Oregon, a San Francisco family was stranded on a remote and snow covered Oregon mountain road (why was that road not closed, ODOT?). After 10 days of searching, the wife/mother and 2 children were found at the vehicle. James Kim, father, husband, brave knight in shining armor, had left 2 day prior in search of help. Yesterday, after 4 solitary days trudging through snow, ravines, ice and treacherous wilderness, Mr. Kim’s body was found less than a mile from his automobile. My heart goes out to his family, now safe, and the loss of their brave, courageous husband and father.

Had Mr. Kim been an Eagle Scout he might just be alive today. Now, even I never made it to Eagle Scout (yes, I am that kind of geek who was a Boy Scout), in fact I didn’t earn a rank much past Tenderfoot. But I learned camping and survival skills. Enough that I am confident I could survive in the most harrowing conditions. Or at least make a good example as a contestant on Survivor.

Rule #1: Know how to make a fire. If I were chosen as a contestant for the popular TV reality show, I would hone up my fire-making skills so that I could make a fire from a rubber plant. Fire will not only keep you warm, melt snow for H20, but the smoke is a great signal for those who may be searching for you. One who can make fire without no steeeeeenkin matchesss is all-powerful and should be worshiped.

Rule #2: Tell someone where you are going. Want to veer off the beaten path? Use a shortcut? Drive the scenic route? Tell someone where you are going and how you plan to get there. Everyone knew where the Kims were going. No one imagined they would take a scenic route in a winter storm. 10 days, people. Took 10 days to find them.

Rule #3: Never leave your stranded car. Stuck in the snow? Need a shelter? A car is a perfect shelter. Been a week since you’ve seen civilization? They’re coming. Search crews are more likely to find you in your automobile. Mr. Kim provides a tragic yet important point of being lost. STAY PUT!

Rule #4: Re-read the top of this post. BE PREPARED. Going for a drive in inclimate weather? In the mountains? In snow? On an unplowed and abandoned-in-winter country road? (Another poke at ODOT for not closing an unplowed mountain road) We all believe we’ll never be in a situation like the Kim’s. “Nah. I’ll be safe. I won’t put my family in jeopardy. And if I do get stuck, they’ll find us within hours.” Sure. Go ahead and believe that. Remember, it took over a week to locate the surviving Kims. Have a survival pack ready at all times. Stash it with waterproof matches (so you don’t have to make fire from rubber plants), dry food (mmmm…granola…), map, compass, flashlight, extra batteries, extra clothing, blankets, first aid kit, a knife, and maybe even a flare or two. Besides a pretty fireworks show, it’ll help those looking for you know where you are.

I won’t go into rules # 5 - 9,746. You can look them up on your own. Just be safe, people. Enjoy the holidays and enjoy your families.

Calgon, take me away.

2006-11-29T09:13:00.000-08:00

I need a hot bath. No, of course I shower every day. I mean like a Jacuzzi. A nice, hot, relaxing, bubbling cauldron of water. Time has been my nemesis and will not provide enough hours in a day for everything I need, particularly – relaxation!

It’s hell week again. Another opening of another show on Friday. Tech/Dress ran ‘til about 11 pm last night and after racing home to jump under covers for a few hours, the ol’ nemesis had me up a few hours later at 5:00 so I could drag my loyal ass to my accounting desk. Now, I challenge you to do that every day for a week and try to disagree with the term, “Hell Week.”

Methinks I’m getting too old for this. I envy young performers without families or a day job who can engage in debauchery every night at the pub after rehearsals or a show. As for me, I miss my girls. Haven’t seen them since Thanksgiving. I hear they’re doing well, though. They never write or call. I just see traces of their existence every evening at midnight when I arrive home and find their toys scattered throughout the living room and trailing down the hallway like breadcrumbs to their bedrooms. I think about them every morning when I step on squeaky-duck as I blindly wander through a dark house toward the auto coffee maker. If ever Mr. Coffee breaks down my proverbial goose is cooked.

So with my nemesis having a firm grasp on my schedule he prevented me from warming up and stretching out before the run through last night. Right as we ended Act I doing a little Burly Q number with choreography I felt my weary back give out and give up. “Can’t take it anymore,” it said, “I’m checking out.” So I spent the intermission break flat on my backside coaxing it to make it through just one more act. “I promise there will be no more bevels, step-ball-changes, boogie-woogie shoulders, or quick-fast costume changes,” I lied. “Just get me through the next act and I’ll give you some ice cream when I get home, eh?”

Well, my back cooperated and got me through Act II, so I imbibed with a nice, healthy bowl of Rocky Road at midnight. Would’ve been nicer were I eating Rocky Road in a Jacuzzi. I’ll send a letter to Santa & see what he can do.

The Stick is the Pits

2006-11-20T10:58:00.000-08:00

One day when I was 13 I said to myself, “Self, why do I detect a foul stench under my armpits everyday?” Hormones kicked in and it was the beginning of body odor. I was embarrassed, sure, even a little pensive when I bought my first underarm deodorant, a stick of Mennen, at the drug store counter. Why was I shy about pit stick? It wasn’t like I was trying to purchase a pack of condoms (which if I had wouldn’t have been used for another five years anyway). But alas, body odor is not a personal issue one wants to broadcast to the world, even to the smirking old lady at the drug store register.

So for the last 23 years I have tried and tested a myriad of different underarm odor preventors, all with different scents. Sticks, sprays, gels, deodorants, antiperspirants, Old Spice, Mennen, fragrance-free, Musk, Ocean spray, Fresh Scent. But for the most part I find one that I like and I stick with it. For the last 8-9 years I’ve been a loyal user of Arrid Extra Dry UltraFresh scented antiperspirant. I have previously posted how persnickety and loyal I am about fragrances.

But I’m a spur-of-the-moment, impulsive kinda guy, much to MezzoWife’s chagrin. (Look, Honey, I just bought us a new laptop!) I like to think of myself as spontaneous, though.

This weekend I spontaneously decided that it was time for an underarm change. Time to shake things up a bit. So I spent a good part of a quarter of an hour evaluating the different brands, scents, etc. I was sold on the idea of Arm & Hammer UltraMax deodorant & antiperspirant. Why not? Arm & Hammer baking soda cures odors, no? So I chose to forego the unscented and purchased the Powder Fresh invisible solid.

This morning I did indeed feel fresh after my shower and was anxious to try to new pit stick. I confidently left the house knowing I was going to remain baking powder fresh and odor free all day.

About an hour into work I noticed an odd aroma, wondering if the facilities department sprayed for mosquitoes or something. I detected a distinct smell of “OFF!” brand mosquito spray. Nah, must be the fashion designers trying a new dye again. But no. I discovered ‘twas my own armpits emitting the smell of repellant, repelling even me. The A&H Powder Fresh has not kept it’s promise and now I’m back to the drawing board.

The good news is that I haven’t been bitten by a mosquito once today!

Life is a Blur

2006-11-18T19:19:00.000-08:00

WOW! Has it been 8 days since my last post? Holey Schmoley! Let’s see, in the last eight days I:

Traveled to scenic Bend, Oregon last weekend. (4 days gone there) While in Bend I experienced what life must have been like before cell phones and email. In fact, the kids there still ride horses to school. A traffic jam is when you have to wait for the cattle to cross the road from one pasture to the other. I was there to fill in with my old touring children’s theatre employer, MCT where I helped direct one of their new musicals, The Little Mermaid, for the local youngsters in Bend. Ooooooo….the memories of working with 60 kids a week. I toured with the group for three years before finding my happy little spot in Portland. The nice thing about the job back then was that the kids went home after 4 hours. Sanity reset and restored itself every evening while two grown adults decompressed over a beer. Now I often miss those days when I’m home with two screaming kids whom I cannot send back to their parents. No, I get to live with them and the insanity never ceases. I’ve learned to live with insanity, as all parents must. Now, would you please pass the Valium. Mmmm….sweet relaxation…

The last four days I’ve spent every spare moment locked in front of my editing system trying to complete a wedding video for a client, fussing with ‘ERROR’ messages and pert near ready to kick a new vent hole in my G5. The video is about three months overdue, but any faithful reader would know that the last four months I have been booked solid with theatre rehearsals/shows, and still have 4 weeks to go before my schedule frees up. I often hear the question posed again and again, “How do you do it, Evil Baritone? How are you able to juggle family, full time job, home business, theatre and concert work, and still have time to blog?”

Two words:

Mmmmm….valium.

And by the way, if you don’t have your tickets to the holiday extravaganza, Christmas of Swing, better get ‘em quick! They’re sellin’ like the proverbial hotcakes. I’ll be croonin’ as ol’ Blue Eyes himself with the Andrews Sisters. Boo boo boo boo, my children.

Also, if you haven't been following along, Atomictumor (AT) lost BJ who succumbed to the bizarre infection acquired only 17 days ago. Our blogger hearts go out to you, AT.

EB Knows Bread

2006-11-08T08:05:00.000-08:00

Mezzo Wife never listens to me. For instance, she'll ask me what time it is. I'll look at my watch and say, "11:45." Her response? "It can't be before noon." Then she'll turn to someone else, anyone else, a stranger on the street perhaps and ask, "excuse me, can you tell me the time."

The nice, courteous stranger would his watch and say to her exactly what I said, "11:45, ma'am."

"Oh, ok. Thank you." Then she'll turn back to me and say, "it's a quarter to twelve."

"That's what I just said. Eleven fourty-five."

"I just wanted to make sure," as if my judgement of time is somewhere in the realm of guessing Zsa Zsa Gabor's true age.

So who makes the bread in our house? Dammit, Jim, I'm a Baritone not a Baker! Actually both of us defer the bread making (as opposed to the bread winning) to the Magic Auto Bread Machine. But who knows how to make the machine make the bread? Thasright...EB knows bread.

So Mezzo Wife wanted to make some freash bread the other day and bought a pre-packaged wheat variety. "Honey," she says to me, "I lost the instruction book to the bread machine. Do you know how I put these ingredients in?"

"Why, yes, m'Lady," I responded chivalrously. "You first put the water in, then pour the contents of the package. Make a little dent in the top of the powder like a volcano and pour the small package of yeast on top. Then press the button and off it goes."

"I dunno..." she said, pulling her lip with her finger the way she always does when she thinks hard. "I thought there was more to it. I better go online and look it up."

An hour and a half later (she had to respond to some emails while online, of course), I hear the bread maching cranking and whirring. Hmmm, thought I. She must have found out I was right or otherwise she would have come and told me I was wrong.

Sure 'nuf. I casually commented while passing through the kitchen, "oh, did you find out how the correct order of ingredients?"

"First the water, then the ingredients, then the yeast on top." Hmmm, thought I. Exactly what I said. But, of course Mezzo Wife would not bow to her chivalrous husband and thank him by saying, "yes, most honorable and talented husband. You were indeed correct. You are smarter than the average bear. I'm sorry I ever doubted you." Nor would I say, "I told you so."

Except this is my blog and I can do what I want here...

"I TOLD YOU SO!"

Mmmm....good bread, Honey.

Introspective...

2006-11-07T10:30:00.000-08:00

It’s been busy. Job…concerts…stage rehearsals…QuizMaster apprenticeship…video editing. Whew! Here I am, believing I’m too busy. 3+ jobs. 2 kids. 1 wife. I whine. I complain. I take my meds as prescribed. But what I don’t often do enough is sit down and appreciate the family I see on such an infrequent basis.

Today I read about a fellow blogosphere-ite, ATOMICTUMOR, and jumped to his blog. His wife of two boys fell dreadfully and critically ill over a weekend. Within 48 hrs she went from mild flu symptoms on Halloween to clinging onto life and having a hospital bedside vigil. How does that happen? Stop by. Give him your prayers & good wishes.

I spend a lot of time trying to earn a living for my family & feeding my performing habit. I spend way less time than I would like enjoying my kids and my wife. I definitely don’t spend enough time telling her how much I appreciate her. A story like the one above sure brings perspective into crystal clear view.

I enjoy my music. I enjoy creativity. But I really really love my wife, my Goonie, and my Bobo. I love you and I appreciate you. Sorry I’m rarely around to tell you that enough.

Like My Fanny?

2006-11-02T15:47:00.000-08:00

Women, you carry a lot of stuff. That’s a given. But in my mere fundamental and imperfect understanding of the female gender, I cannot grasp why all that stuff must be stuffed into a high-priced bag with some Schmuck’s name on it telling the whole world that you shopped and bought the most hip designer purse on the world. Prada. Gucci. Fendi. Versace. Raphaello. Sounds like an Italian racecar lineup.

Did you know men have to carry stuff, too? It’s true. Let’s take a brief inventory of what I have in my pocket possession today:

Wallet, roughly the size of a softball.

Transit bus pass/business card holder.

Cell phone

USB Flash thumb drive

Sunglasses

Personal keys / Work keys

C3PO action figure

$2.47 in loose change

Comb

Altoid gum

Zippo lighter (whathe…? I don’t smoke how’d that get there?)

MP3 player / earbuds

Extra AA batteries

Parking receipt

Golf tee

Pepper spray (hey, downtown can get rough after dark)

Lint

Holy Cow! Dat’s a lotta stuff! Plus a host of other things I bring to work in a (cheap) duffle bag like books & mags, scores/scripts to learn on the bus, HP Jornada pocket PC, foldaway keyboard
bills to mail, stainless steel coffee container, lunch, pens, highlighters…

AAAAAAAAAAAAGGGHHHH!!!!! Where does it all go?!

We men do not spend lavish moolah on a container for our stuff. You won’t see me walking around downtown proudly porting my Prada. No sir! Ten measly bucks’ll get you a little black fanny pack that conveniently and discretely transports small stuff and prevents the ‘George Costanza Ass’ syndrome.

Now the dilemma and arguable issue with the fanny pack: is it worn on the fanny, or on the front? My preference is to wear the pouch in front. Why? Well, if I need to pull something out of it I don’t have to twist around like a cat licking it’s tail in order to access said pouch. Does that make me White & Nerdy? Most metrosexuals would give a hearty ”YES, FOOL!”

So since I’m not a fanny pack on the fanny wearer, what should I call it? Here are some possible names I found used elsewhere in the world:

butt bag (yer butt bag is saggin’ there, dude)
bum buddy (Uhhhhhhh, no)
bum bag (a hobo duffle)
belly bag (and getting bigger with each chocolate morsal)
belt bag (matches my shoulder bag)
manbag (perhaps the metrosexuals will approve)
lumbar pack (a backbrace?)
waist pack (manly, concise...I think we might have a winner!)

What's yer vote?

Nice Underwear

2006-10-30T13:50:00.000-08:00

So one day I’m taking a shower. A guy can take a shower in his own master bath in privacy, right? So I freshen up, splash on my favorite Eau de Toilette, slip on my clean drawers, and open the door to see Goonie standing there.

“Nice underwear, Daddy.”

“Uh, thanks, sweetie.”

I no wear whitey-tighties. I prefer seamless cotton-lycra thigh-length boxer briefs that provide personal support and a luxurious, comfortable fit. So I was somewhat embarrassed that my oldest daughter caught me in my draw’s, but it was like I was wearing shorts so I wasn’t streakin’ or nothin’. These particular draw’s had a prominent classic TH red-white-blue logo flag embroidered on the front.

“I like the flag. It’s pretty,” she smiled.

“Uh, thanks, dear,” I said, trying to contort myself into a position where my daughter could not view my crotch area. “I shan’t be wearing these out in public, though. The flag will be hidden under my trousers. That’s why we call them ‘underwear’. Hehe. Now excuse me while I find my trousers.” I jumped into the walk-in closet and grabbed the nearest jeans and slipped one leg into them. Damn! My wife’s jeans. I slipped them off.

“Can I wear them in public, Daddy?” She snuck inside the walk-in, trapping me.

“NO! I mean…no, Dear. These are men’s underwear. I don’t think Tommy makes little girls underwear with this kind of logo on it.”

“Who’s Tommy?”

“Oh, uh, Tommy Hilfiger. It’s his underwear.”

“Why are you wearing Tommy’s underwear?”

Oy! 5 year olds and all their questions! “I’m not…these aren’t…He makes men’s clothes dear. It’s a brand, like the logo on your shoes.”

“Oh. Ok.” With that answer she seemed satisfied and skipped out of the closet, humming the ‘My Little Pony’ theme.

I thought I had successfully put the “my daughter saw me in my underwear” fiasco behind me (no pun intended), but Goonie has a memory like a sponge. Her retention and recollection are impeccable. Nothin' gets past this girl. Recently we went to the mall and entered through the JCPenny department store. It just so happened that the men’s clothing was nearest the door to the parking lot. We entered and started walking when Goonie spied the underwear section.

Without a hesitation nor a volume censor she blurted out for the entire store and half the mall to hear, “I see your underwear, Daddy! Isn’t that Tommy’s underwear?”

I love my kid I love my kid I love my kid…

She’s the greatest. We’re still workin’ on the self-censor lessons.

T'anks Mom

2006-10-25T08:26:00.000-07:00

Little Bobo the Klingon is finally learning English as a second language. Although she throws in a healthy dose of Klingon-ese in every sentence still, she is coming along great. We understand what she wants with words like, “’nana”, and “joooooce!” Now she has learned, through repetitive repeating from her mother, of course, to say “T’anks Mom” after she receives something asked for, like the Big Gulp size 32 ouncer of joooooce.

She also is becoming quite adept at communicating what she doesn’t want. Every evening when it’s nearly time for all little Klingons to go to bed I say “Jammies!” Bobo’s eyes widen and she shouts, “no jimmies!” and bolts in the opposite direction in her little waddling fashion. Klingons are so cute when they waddle. She is no match for my speed and agility, plus I know a few secret shortcuts through the house. But even so, catching and then hanging on to a tiny Klingon are two different ball games with two very different set of rules. If she could speak, it would go something like this: “catch me if you can, but, oh, just TRY, dear Father, to confine me. I DARE YA!” She’s gonna be hell to keep up with as a teenager.

I firmly believe that they should add Klingon ropin’ & ‘restlin’ to the annual Pendleton Roundup Rodeo events. Or at least replace the greased pig chase at the state fair. This little 30 pound wiggly mass of muscle & mucus is one slippery critter! Once grabbed she can twist and maneuver into dozens of yoga poses in efforts to elude her captor. Never mind that she may be 6 feet from the ground and could fall on top of her head. She has no worries! She’ll bounce and just start running again.

Single handedly holding her down while changing her diaper and dressing her in the proper night time attire is a feat worthy of a Reality TV show. But each night I prove my superior strength & determination and succeed in preparing my youngest child for a restful slumber. After all the squirming, all the crying, the wiggling, the “NOOOOOO!”, when that’s all done she becomes completely calm, smiles as if there was no trauma for the past half hour, and goes happily about her business as if the screaming & eluding was all part of the “Jammie Game”.

So I follow her into the kitchen for our ritual preparation of the bottle of milk. I hand it to her. She looks me in the eyes and says,

“T’anks, Mom.”

Quest for (Bus) Space

2006-10-19T10:11:00.000-07:00

**WARNING** **COMMUTER RANT** **LEAVE WHILE YOU CAN**

C’mon, people! We all have to cooperate, be conscious, and be considerate of our fellow commuters. Let’s take a look at the facts:

A typical cozy Tri-Met commuter bus contains about 51 seats (why the odd number, I dunno). Each seat is approximately 18 inches wide, so anyone who has broad shoulders (or butts) encompasses at least a seat and a half. So doing the math…let’s see, carry the one…ah! In theory a typical bus can fit 34.7 people comfortably. (I love theory. We can live in a perfect world, theoretically)

My naïve friends & acquaintances who have never ridden a transit bus always say, “I envy you. You don’t have to stress about slow traffic, hazardous roads or bad drivers. You can just stretch out on the bus, relax, pull out a paper, read a book, or just sleep all the way in to work.” Oy! The truth hurts.

What the theory above doesn’t consider, and my number cruncher geeky friends don’t factor, however, is that by squeezing ourselves into the Asana Position and standing on each others' shoulders a typical bus can cram about 101 people into the space of a college dorm room making the bus feel more like a cattle trailer, and sometimes smelling like one, too.

This morning on my crowded bus while I was feeling much like a turtle does when it scrunches into it’s shell, and reading the sports section of the guy to my left who had his paper fully stretched out and practically in my lap, I felt a little nudge – nudge – nudge to my right. Indeedy you guessed it: the lady next to me was applying her make up on a crowded bus.

Now I understand women…let me rephrase that (I don’t think I’ll ever understand women)…I mean I understand that women like to claim their ability to “multi-task”. And for some that means using the ‘free’ time on a commuter bus to do such tasks as read a book, write a book, preparing the weekly home menu, checking email, paying bills online, feeding the dog, even doing the routine arguing via phone with a significant other. And, of course, doing makeup is right there at the top of the list.

These things must get done, sure. But women, PLEASE, have some consideration when in close proximity to others. The lady to my right this morning was like a Fidgeting Flibbertygibbit and couldn’t keep still. She applied her base, shadow, liner, powder, all the while her unconscious elbow kept wedging into my ribs. It was really distracting me from catching the scores on my other seat-neighbor’s paper.

Ah, she finally finished the face-on process and I thought I’d have a nice, quiet rest of the ride. ‘Oh,’ she obviously remembered to herself, ‘I have to file my nails.’ The flibbertygibbit proceeded to rummage through her shoulder pack for a nail file, found it, and for the rest of the ride it was: scritchy scritch…scritchity scritch scritch…blow…scritcher scritchy scritch…blow…

I couldn’t help but notice her nicely French manicured long nails. How she applied make up on a moving bus without poking her eyes out was beyond the comprehension of my little coffee deprived brain.

Oh well. I did manage to catch the Cards-Mets score despite the elbow assault of the make-up lady. Drats…game 7 tonight.

Enjoy That Mocha…It Could Be Your Last

2006-10-18T14:29:00.000-07:00

I’m dyin’ here. African cocoa workers have gone on strike. WHAT!!!!???? If you don’t think that means much then you need to catch up on my addiction.

How does a strike in Africa affect us? It means that mocha you hold in your hot little hand will soon become a hot commodity. It means I must stock up on my precious M&M’s before they become as precious as jewels. The Ivory coast cocoa farmers are hoarding all their beans until they can pull a higher price for their crops. First that means 40% of the worlds cocoa beans are being stored in the barn of some impoverished farmer with a name like Koffi Kokoa, thus reducing the global supply of the base ingredient for chocolate. Those of you who are familiar with macro economics 101 will micro-instantly realize that short-supply and high-demand means we chocoholics will soon be paying higher prices for our fix! And read between the lines…they want higher prices for their beans! So when a strike is eventually settled we’ll STILL be paying a higher price for mocha lattes.

Either way, I’m stocking up on my Christmas fudge and chocolate Easter bunnies. And I advise my blogger friends who love their Cadbury Mini Eggs to begin buying low now and make a tidy profit by selling high next Spring. That is, unless one Brilliant Blogger eats them all by then.

Mind Numbing Quotes

2006-10-17T14:36:00.000-07:00

Quotes of the day:

"The singers all loathe the sight of one another, the chorus despises the singers, they both hate the orchestra, and everyone fears the conductor; the staff on one prompt side won't talk to the staff on the opposite prompt side, the dancers are all crazed from hunger in any case..."

~~ (Terry Pratchett, Maskerade)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Bean Counter Rap:

Beans! Beans! The special beans!
I let him go, I didn't know he'd stolen my beans!
And then Bang! Crash! The lightning Flash! And--well, that's another story. Never mind--

~~ Witch, Into the Woods (Sondheim)

Galagaligatendonitis

2006-10-11T09:15:00.000-07:00

Galagaligotendonitis: A term coined to describe the ache one feels in one’s wrist & elbow due to repetitive pounding of the FIRE button on video arcade games.

I was strolling through the illustrious Portland Pearl District with all it’s high falootin’ furniture stores, upper-class clothing shops and four-star restaurants yesterday. I heard from what appeared to be a mere hole in the wall amidst the glamour of the Pearl the oh-so familiar sounds of beeps, whistles, explosions, and wacka wackas of my favorite video arcade games of the 80’s. I froze, looked up and saw a small hand-painted sign above the door: “Mission Control”.

I had just discovered Mecca!

The unassuming door was ajar, filling the air with the hypnotic sounds of Pac Man, Space Invaders, Frogger, Tron, Asteroids, and the game of all games, GALAGA! Like a man in a trance I was pulled through the door and turned 11 yrs old again. This little unassuming arcade resembled a museum, hosting all the antique 1980’s electronic video arcade games. There was even an Atari station by the bar where Pong tournaments could be held. Did he say by the bar? That’s right, QBert! One can guzzle beer while blasting away centipedes!

I pulled a Lincoln out of my wallet and exchanged for a pocketful of quarters. I began dropping coins in Donkey Kong, Joust, Battlezone, Pole Position, Tempest, Defender, killing, shooting, pounding, eating, blasting! But I saved the best for last. I approached the console reverently, bowed to my old nemesis, the alien “Boss” Galaga, deposited my 25 cent offering, and the game was on!

Galaga was like cocaine to me when I was 13. I used to sell my stash of 2 dollar bills bequeathed to me by my late grandmother (sorry, Grandma. Rest in peace.) just so I could get my Galaga fix each day. Playing Galaga was better than sex! ‘Course I was a geek, a virgin geek at that, and would remain so for many (many) years, and only fantasized that sex was possibly as much fun as a stimulating video arcade game. Now with the pleasant addition of sipping an unfiltered wheat beer while playing a 25 year old video game, I still think sex might place a close second.

For almost an hour I dodged missiles, formed dual-fighters for challenge stages, blasted alien insects, offered more quarters, sipped beer and forgot about the world and all my troubles for a spell. When the Blue Boss crashed into my last fighter I again bowed to Galaga, acknowledging that he was indeed still the master, but assuring that I would return to challenge him another day.

Like, maybe, today. Anyone got change for a 2 dollar bill?

A Parent Nightmare

2006-10-09T08:42:00.000-07:00

It happened.

We thought we lost our child.

Worse, for 3 screaming minutes (felt like hours) we thought our kid had been napped. On Saturday we were preparing to go to (yet another) birthday party for Goonie and all her preschool friends at her dance studio. Mamma went outside to clean out the car & get it ready. I, the Evil Papa, was in charge of slipping some shoes onto our wriggly little Klingon baby, Bobo. Goonie said she was going outside to help mamma with the car.

After a few moments I finally trapped Bobo (Klingons are quick!) and was struggling with little monkey toes, Goonie shoved her head in the front door and said, “don’t forget the cake, Daddy!” Then slammed the door and ran back outside.

“No worries, Goon,” I yelled back. For a short eternity I thought those might have been the last words I spoke to my beloved first child.

She was outside helping mamma, I thought. Another few moments went by and I was standing triumphantly over my little frowning Bobo (Klingons don’t little cute pink shoes) when mamma came inside and asked where Goonie was.

“She was outside with you.”
“No, she came inside.”
“Yes, then she went back outside.”
“She’s not outside.”
“She’s not in here.”

Freeze. Stare. Panic. We both had assumed our oldest child was under the supervision of the other parent. In unison we began calling our precious older child, splitting up to search indoors and out. I knew she wasn’t inside, yet I looked under her covers, in our master bathroom tub ‘cause I know she likes to play there rather than her own room. I even looked in the dryer. We swapped. I searched outside. She must have gone in the back yard into her new little playhouse. I heard the escalating panic in my wife’s calls as we continued to get no answer from our child. Nope, not in the backyard nor hiding in the playhouse. Where could she have gone?

It was that moment when I suddenly realized that in the space of 10 seconds an unsuspecting child could be picked up by a passing car and gone before anyone had a clue. But here we were in a beautiful middle class suburb, roses in everyone’s yard, American flags waving proudly on poles from most houses. A perfect neighborhood. That couldn’t happen here! But it does happen all over America. It’s on the news nearly every night.

But yet where was she? I’m not one to panic or get frantic. I’m the calm one. But in that moment I felt the sudden adrenaline of fear I had never felt before. I pulled out the baritone training and began calling my child’s name so that just about anyone within a square mile must have heard. If Goonie walked off she must have heard me.

My wife and I met at the front door. No luck. Wait! Where was Bobo? In our haste to find our oldest child we seemed to have temporarily forgotten our youngest. But a glance into the living room proved she was ok as she was fervently struggling to remove those blasted shoes. Again we swapped. I searched the fridge. The cabinets. The closets. Then…

“She’s in the car!” Our little Goon was so excited to get to the party she had slipped by both of us and strapped herself in her seat. Our Santa Fe was parked across the street and we didn’t even think to look there. Of course she wouldn’t cross the street by herself and get into the car without us, we thought. But she did. She was safe, and ready to party.

Goonie had indeed heard me calling, and when asked why she didn’t respond she said she was afraid to get out ‘cause she thought she was in trouble. We showered her with kisses and assured her she was not, but she needed to respond when we call for her. Especially in a public place with lots of people around.

So we strapped in our little Klingon, who already had one shoe successfully off, and drove halfway to the party place when I remembered…

I forgot the cake.

Big Brother is Watching...Umbria is Listening

2006-10-05T14:20:00.000-07:00

I was recently reviewing my blog stats and found a hit from an outfit called UmbriaListens dot com. So I paid them a return visit. It turns out through my blog postings I’ve been scanned, evaluated, isolated, activated, identicated, determinated, demographicated, estimated, influenciated, titillated, and twitterpated! Using sophisticated, proprietary algorhythmic software, this company “mines” an estimated 40 million blog and message boards a day. Through use of grammar and language attributes, and even those silly little emoticons ;-), they can determine the demographic characteristic of a blogger, be it male/female, age, education, income, sexual orientation, favorite color, etc., of everyone in the entire blogosphere. All this ‘public’ data is captured, cleansed, filtered for SPLOGS (you’ll have Google that one!), and analyzed into relevant consumer trend topics for manufacturers and service organizations in order to formulate a strategic marketing campaign.

For this very reason do I not shop for my groceries at Safeway, and other national chain stores that make you join The Club in order to get their “lowest price.” What? That’s discriminatory of them you say? That’s right, savvy consumers. If I walk in and want to buy a gallon of Dreyers Ice Cream, Vlasic Pickles and a box of Twinkies I’ll pay about 25% more if I’m not in “The Club”. So why don’t you just get the stoopid plastic card & save a few bucks, you ask? There’s never something for nothing. I firmly believe I shouldn’t have to sign up “for free” and provide my name, address, phone number, age, marital status, home owner status, number of children, weight, dog’s name, (you get the demographic attribute collection here, right?) to pay a ‘normal’ price for ice cream. For every time I were to swipe a card at the register to collect my savings the corporation is learning about me, evaluating what I purchase, strategizing ways to send me coupons (ergo, junk mail), for instance. I’m a firm believer in civil rights and the right to privacy. I don’t want Safeway, or anyone else for that matter, collecting, analyzing and evaluating my purchase habits so they can target me in their marketing.

Case in point: Early in 2005 our little Klingon arrived via the stork factory. By November of 2004 we were receiving mailings from Babies R Us in anticipation of our blessed arrival in a few short months. The Evil Mezzo & I scratched our collective heads wondering, “how did they know we were having a baby?” We searched behind bushes and dumpsters to assure ourselves there were no corporate spys lurking about watching us, analyzing us, and strategizing ways to take our baby budget money. No spys were found. But we did find a nice pair of night vision infrared goggles below our bedroom window.

What was even more disheartening was this: not only did they know my wife was with child, but they knew the due date and the fact that they seemed to know it was going to be a girl. Whoa! Big Brother is indeed watching. How did they know? My conspiracy theory is that they probably knew the moment my wife bought that little ClearBlueEasy pregnancy test stick at Safeway (yes, she possesses and uses that cursed club card!). The evil corporation (no relation) analyzed her purchase and concluded from subsequent and frequent purchases of Rocky Road ice cream, pickles, and Twinkies that my wife was going to have a baby. Somehow the combination of those items have already been predetermined that the child would be a girl. The evil corporation shouted, “Eureka! Another sucker for baby products!” then shared their discovery (for a nominal fee, I’m sure) to other evil corporate monoliths, such Babies R Us, who devised a clever marketing strategy for expecting families with our income bracket and proceeded to swamp us with coupons and deals for baby items 3 to 4 months in advance of the actual birth.

We got a heck of a deal on an infant car seat.

Big Brother is watching, and Umbria is listening.

Where a Kid Can Be a Bully

2006-10-04T12:01:00.000-07:00

I noticed some striking similarities between kids and bully adults last night at the local Chuck E’s. It seems in the heat of battle and competition they’re both a little pushy.

When Chuck the Cheese Meister himself, looking like a giant swamp rat with a ball cap & high tops, came strolling out to lead a little dancing and throw free tickets to the throng of adoring worshipers, kids came a-runnin’, passing each other, weaving in and out, flipping the bird, pushing aside the slow moving big kids to get to the front of the group. Recognize rush hour?

As tall as my 5 yr old is, she was no match for the giant 8 & 9 yrs who had no problem shoving a little girl aside from the Skeeball alley in their quest for redeemable tickets to trade for cheap, plastic, yet covetable prizes. Ever notice the same behavior with grownups when we are at a concession stand at a sporting event during halftime? How about the frantic moms & dads frothing at the mouth when the new Tickle-Me-Elmo went on sale? Elbows fly, man! Weapons are revealed and threats of violence ensue! Yup, same thing happens at your local pizza parlor.

My conspiracy theory is Las Vegas has a deal set up with CEC to create young gamblers. Every game distributes a seemingly random number of tickets after each play, encouraging the young Future Gamblers Anonymous of America (FGAA) to insert more and MORE tokens into the greedy machines. Hmmm…slots, anyone? Flashing lights and sounds overload the limits of the senses. And that attractive, gold plated Chuck E. Cheese token. It’s not REAL money. Kids can spend all the tokens they want guilt-free, just like they will someday haplessly throw chips on the Craps table at The Bellagio.

Just like Vegas, you gotta protect your chips. I couldn’t believe when little Goonie turned to me for another token after playing a generous ticket dispensing game of skill and dexterity, I spotted an even littler girl who was lurking behind the machine. She reached around, swiped the string of tickets, looked at me and saw that she was caught and ran like a field mouse through the arcade. I did what any reasonable, protective father would do…I yelled “STOP THIEF!” and scrambled after her to retrieve those tickets! She was smaller and could squeeze through tiny spaces, but I was bigger and faster and I knew I would catch her. Plus, she couldn’t escape the premises without a parental unit with matching invisible ink stamp. She could hide, but she couldn’t run! After about 20 minutes I found her hiding under the Bob the Builder ride counting her loot. She didn’t see me sneak up behind her, but the look of shock and awe was quite amusing as I reached over her shoulder and grabbed a handful of tickets, give or take what she stole from my little birthday girl.

“You’re a naughty girl for stealing tickets,” I scolded. “Shame on you!”

Her appearance morphed from shock to pitiful as tears welled in her big blue eyes and she said, “I’m sorry. I just needed enough tickets to get the My Little Pony stamp for my sister’s birthday.”

Little birthday Goonie, lover of My Little Pony, heard the poor girl’s comment and quickly said, “let her have all my tickets, Daddy. I already got a new Little Pony from my sister for my birthday. Let her give one to her sister.”

I raised my eyebrow and asked, “are you sure? You won’t get any prize if you give away all your tickets.”

“That’s ok. I got my new Ballerina Barbie. I don’t need any more prizes.”

This suited me fine. The last thing I wanted was for my little innocent girl to redeem an armload of tickets for temporary tattoos. Can’t have her getting any idears about body art at such a young age. The little girl squealed with glee and said, “thank you! My sister will be so happy!” And she ran off toward the trinket counter to turn in her booty.

Well, she sure pulled one over on us. As we loaded Goonie’s birthday presents & matched up our invisible stamps at the door, I spotted that little blue eyed girl. She was lurking behind the same arcade game with 2 arms covered with temporary tattoos prepared to swipe the tickets of some other poor unsuspecting schmuck father & his child. Clever girl, I thought to myself.