Curls.

The show's over. We struck in record time (just over an hour!) and had our cast party, full of drink and showtunes and celebratory farewells. It was sweet, though every step offstage today was bitter, tinged with the fact that I'd never have to say the lines I just said ever again. Had I done it right for the last time? Had everything gone OK? The finality of it sunk in after Ros. and Guil. actually stepped offstage at the end and we readied ourselves for the curtain call. Michael wasn't going to have to come back for his glasses anymore. We weren't going to have to wait for Dan to come back and lead us out for the curtain call. All the lines had now been said, and now they're gone. Poof. Time had crept up on us and now it was over. Now you see us, now y-

The second weekend, while a bit looser than the first, still brought us great full houses for the evening performances and appreciative and receptive matinee groups. (Diplomatic? Of course I'll have some.) Friday night brought on an interesting development. We were hanging around backstage during the third act when Jo, the technical director, had the bright idea to curl my hair to make things more kingly and regal. I balked at first, thinking it a good joke (and just someone's excuse to play with my hair, though who am I to complain about such treatment?) but Saturday night rolled around and Jo had brought the hot curlers. After we all had a good laugh at the king's expense as he waited for the curlers to set ("LYNDA, RUN DOWNNA PACKY AND GETCHER GRANDMA SOME SMOKES, GAWDAMMIT, I'M WATCHIN MY SOAPS HEAH") the curlers went out and the results were quite interesting. Very nice, very regal, and they went with the curly fake beard I'd had to plaster on my face. Elizabeth loved it. Lynda got her hair curled too, which wasn't so much of a surprise since, y'know, she's a girl and all, and I think Jo was tickled to be able to play hairdresser for a good-natured thespian dude. We did the curls again for Sunday's show, though the backstage area was so crowded we went upstairs into the church sanctuary and sat in a little corner and had them done. I'm now able to say I had my hair done while in church, and while I don't think that's a purity point lost, it is something not a lot of people are going to be able to say happened to them as well. All in all, though, I think we agreed it was silly this hadn't been thought of earlier, but good that it had been thought up in the first place. So thanks, Jo. You rock. And thanks to Elizabeth, who got us all together. You rock. And thanks to everybody. You rock a rock that rocks.

The whole experience was just what I needed, I think. I spent too long hermitting it up here and while that's a lot of fun (at least, to a certain segment of the population) it can also be get stifling if left unattended. Getting out, meeting new and weird and wonderful people, walking a few miles each day to rehearsal and back, almost every part of this experience was nothing but good for me (with the financial exception of eating a lot of roast beef sandwiches from Nick's, though to their credit the sandwiches were large and cheap and filling so it wasn't that bad, but still a drain. Also going out several times in two weekends was tough but I stayed well within budget. And it was worth it, really.)

I just so want to do this again and real soon now.

OH IT'S MEME TIME MEME TIME MEME TIME YAY

meme stolen from a locked lucite box stashed in an airtight safe thrown overboard somewhere around the islets of langerhans

If you call me Spatch, you're you.
If you call me Slappy, you remember my days as child actor in the Lil' Gang series, playing second banana to Humphrey and Lucie.
If you call me Hustlin' Lou, you're either my third-base coach or a very unoriginal sportswriter.
If you call me Chief, you're the spunky cub reporter/photographer who gets on my nerves by calling me Chief.
If you call me Ambassador, you're a countess and no doubt fondly remember our rum-soaked nights on the veranda where we danced the humdringo and drank toasts, arms entwined, to each other's jewelry.
If you call me El Jefe, you were in my band of revolucionarios as we hid in the hills and plotted to do away with ese alcalde desdeñado.
If you call me Max Harris, you've just breezed into my office like a fever dream you don't wanna wake up from, gams scissoring across the linoleum with intent, eyes red with restrained tears and resigned desperation. Lemme guess, dollface -- the bum's cheating on you and you want my help?
If you call me Bailey, you're my normal next-door suburban neighbor whom I see about once a week when you find yourself in a jam and need some homespun advice on how to work things out. For reasons neither of us can seem to explain, I am always wearing a different silly hat.
If you call me Carlsbad, you're gonna need my electronics expertise to shut down the power in the camp for two minutes and two minutes only to create a diversion while Jinx and New Hampshire sneak through the crawlspace to Herr Kommandant's private quarters and make copies of the master key.
If you call me Miss Jackson, then you're nasty.

Phew! I'm glad that's all cleared up.