Life at the speed of summer

One of the things I find absolutely blissful about country life are those days that drift by, silent, breezy and rippling back and forth through time, as though everything is happening quickly/slowly/all-at-once. The birds squeep, the cats loll in the shade or romp through the yard, the bees buzz happily on the abundant blossoms, and the occasional car going down the road in front of the house is the only reminder that there is a world outside of this little plot of land. It is these days, when I see no one (except for Michael), when I don't leave the confines of the yard except to gaze at the neighbors fish pond on the other side of the hedge, these days that I drink in like ambrosia, knowing that in a few months, I'll be living in a hot, crowded and very noisy country in Southeast Asia.

And so it is that I take extra pleasure in recording my itinerary for the day, knowing that a year or so from now, I will look back on it and giggle.... and then sigh, wistfully.

7:30
Cat begins pounding around on the bed, looking for breakfast. Toss her out and close the door.
8:00
Give up on idea of sleeping in and focus on cat that is now scratching on closed bedroom door. Get up, feed cats, toss them outside.
8:10
While water for coffee is coming to the boil, shuffle through the hedge in pajamas to feed neighbor's cats.
8:15
Pour coffee, park at dining room table with laptop. Surf blogs. Bookmark restaurants in Singapore that I want to visit.
8:25
Let cats in. Let cats out.
9:00
Let cats in. Let cats out.
9:15
Make more coffee. Let cats in. Let cats out.
9:40
Neighbor's dog has been barking for 25 minutes. Stand at back door and yell, "Oh for God's sake, let the dog in!" They do.
10:00
Put load of darks in washing machine.
10:05
Change into gardening clothes. Begin weeding herb garden.
10:35
Hang darks load on line. Put whites load in washing machine. Let cats in. Let cats out.
11:10
Re-wash whites load with bleach because of stray red t-shirt that got mixed in to what is now pinks load.
12:00
Hang whites load on line. Continue weeding.
1:00
Give up on weeding for the day and begin to search for paintbrush with which to apply coat of tung oil to recently re-finished sideboard.
1:20
Abandon plan to work on sideboard as no paintbrush can be found. Go back to bookmarking restaurants on laptop in dining room.
1:30
Let cats in. Let cats out.
2:00
Begin searching recipe books with Michael in order to devise plan for dinner.
2:30
Let cats in. Let cats out.
3:00
Meditate.
4:20
Wash dishes. Fix door handle on back door. Put pork tenderloin into marinade. Let cats in. Let cats out.
5:00
Pour glass of wine.Take laptop outside onto back deck in order to waste time more enjoyably in the glorious, muggy thickness of another Niagara summer.
5:15
Note cats sleeping nearby on deck.

LUV YOUR DENTIST

I love my dentist. In fact, I think I may have the best dentist in the world. I say this because I just had a marathon visit, spending almost 4 hours in the chair having a root canal, then having a crown replaced. I realize that it may be rare for people to cheer for their dentist, but mine continues to do everything necessary to make me the most loyal customer in the history of oral hygiene.

I found Dr. D through circumstance. I was doing a show with his daughter and she suggested that my partner design the children's waiting area in the new dental offices they were building. Part of the contract was some bonus check-ups and cleanings for my partner and I. My first visit was not a happy one. I received the news that my gum disease was so advanced that I was in danger of losing my teeth. This was news to me since I had been obediently having yearly cleanings and check-ups with another dentist for the past eight years. The hygienist who gave me the bad news suggested that if my previous dentist had never mentioned my receding gums, he should probably be dragged behind a car. I have the rope and am still looking for him.

So Dr. D explains my new predicament thusly: "If you think of your teeth as fence posts and your gums as the earth, right now you've got a bunch of ten-foot posts in three feet of dirt. They could start to get a little 'wiggly'." He says the word "wiggly" as though he finds the word amusing, like he might say it to one of his six-year-old patients. There is no cure for this problem outside of some rather painful and expensive surgery. As an alternative, Dr. Dave suggests having my teeth cleaned four times a year. "We can't reverse it, but we can stop it." This is not something a self employed person with no health coverage wants to hear. But appointments were made and cleanings commenced, all under the guise of the aforementioned design contract, even though the freebies and discounts extended well beyond what was originally agreed to.

The good news is that we did indeed stop the advancement of the disease. So much so that I now only go for a cleaning every 4 months instead of every 3 (and I pay for the cleanings now). The bad news is that teeth, like the rest of your body, have a way of acting up as one gets older. I developed a cavity underneath an old crown and the only fix for this is removal of the old crown, root canal and installing a new crown. Now, let's clear up a few things here. Root canals are the most feared dental procedure known to man because people associate them with pain. The pain, though, is usually caused by the symptoms leading up to the procedure, not the procedure itself. That said, I can think of more comfortable things than having your mouth jacked open for 4 hours while someone drills, saws, hammers, laminates, colour-matches and generally renovates your teeth. If, however, you do have to live through this slightly surreal experience, I can only hope for you that it will be done by someone as placid, as professional, as thorough, as knowledgeable and as gentle as my dentist.

Ooh....ooh, and did I mention that he has a machine that takes a picture of your mouth and your old crown, then turns it into a 3D CAD drawing and sends the data to a small machine that looks like a futuristic bread box that carves the new crown while you watch....in 7 minutes!!!! Oh-so-cool.

So the inside of my mouth is still a little tender and the muscles in my jaw hurt if I yawn, but I received a beautiful new crown, the benefit of a 'family discount', and some of the best medical care in the world. What's not to love?

Old and Mouthy

At what age is it that people suddenly decide that it's OK to just speak their mind. To say what ever they want to say, to whomever they want to say it to, regardless of whether or not it's appropriate. I'm speaking specifically of the elderly here. We've all met them, and perhaps even have one or two of them in the family. They are the ones that blurt out things that, had they come from a younger person, would normally incite a fist-fight, particularly since the recipient of the barb is often a total stranger.

"Oh honey, you shouldn't wear that, it makes you look fat."

There are, of course, those people that have been out-spoken their whole lives, but those individuals tend to be the smaller percentage and are in a different category all together. They usually come with a reputation, built up over a life-time, and are often the local 'old coot' or 'bitter spinster'. They work hard to maintain this reputation as it keeps the unwanted at arms-length.

"My goodness, you're as black as the ace of spades, aren't you?"

No, the people I'm curious about are the ones that seem to flip a switch, waking up one morning and deciding that they have nothing left to lose. They fear not for their jobs because they no longer have them, they fear not for their personal reputations because they're old enough to not give a shit about status, and they fear not what others will think of them because they seem to be able to focus purely on themselves and their own needs.

"Are you pregnant, dear, or just spending a little too much time at the buffet?"

I remember watching Tina Turner on television with a room full of people when my Grandfather caused me to nearly swallow my tongue by announcing to the room, "A nigger with red hair? Now I've seen everything!" Try as I might, there was no way I could impress upon him the myriad of social taboos he had just unleashed.

"Heavens, you're so short you must have a hard time finding clothes that fit."

I have a theory about this. I believe that our world shrinks as we age. We need less space, we consume less, we do less, we see less, we hear less, we begin to create a smaller and smaller world around ourselves. I think that eventually, we judge everything by how it affects us and our shrinking world. We pay less and less attention to the opinions of the masses, the pundits, the press, the family, social mores and political correctness and comment loudly and clearly on those things on which we have focused our microscope.

"Don't bother bringing me coffee unless it's hot enough. I don't like coffee that isn't hot enough. Is it hot enough? I hope it's hot enough."

Perhaps these folks long for a time when the aged were venerated and given elevated status. Or perhaps a culture where us young'uns line up to hear them dispense the wisdom of their times. Perhaps I too will long for such a time when I am shuffling and mumbling.

"When I was your age..."

Is it wrong of me to tell them to shut up?

How To Get Good Service

It is a common misconception that the servants in the great estate homes of turn-of-the-century England kept their heads down and their mouths shut. Not true. It was not unheard of for a servant to tell a Master or Mistress that they had over-stepped their bounds or acted inappropriately. Lady Astor and her maid of twenty-odd years were known to have regular, epic shouting matches. The point being that an unspoken contract exists between those who serve and those who are being served and it is important that BOTH sides understand how the system works.

Part of being 'in exile' is working in the service industry, namely, restaurants. Day after day, I witness people who don't understand what their obligations are in the unspoken contract between server and customer. If you want good service, you need to fulfill your part of the bargain. And here's the great thing about it, ...IT'S EASY! Servers love serving 'diners', those people who dine out regularly, know how a restaurant works and enjoy discovering what a restaurant (or a server) has to offer. Even if you don't dine out often, using these simple tips will give the impression that you do and you WILL notice a difference in the way servers treat you.

1) ALLOW THE HOSTESS TO SEAT YOU
This may sound overly simplified, but people fight their seating choices all the time. Understandable if you're right next to the bathroom or stuck in a back corner, but how bad can any one table really be? A good hostess will cycle customers through the various servers so that no one server gets overwhelmed with too many people at once, thus limiting the time and attention spent with new tables. If you have special requests, make them with your reservation or tell the host immediately upon arrival.


2) LOOK YOUR SERVER IN THE EYE
Again, this sounds simple, but it's very common for people to address the air or the table when speaking to a server. Also, we know you're excited to be out for the evening, or perhaps you haven't seen your friends for a long time, but your server is only going to be at your table for a few minutes and then you can carry on with your conversation. Put your menu down, stop your conversation and pay attention. Part of your server's job is to 'read' you and they have a very short time to do this. Help them help you by giving them your attention. The sooner the menus can be dispensed with, the sooner your evening can really get under way.

3)KNOW WHAT YOU WANT
If your server asks if you are ready to order, and you say, "Yes", don't sit staring at the menu making "erm" and "uhm" sounds. If you're not ready, it's all right to say so. And don't ask your server, "What do you recommend?". Many servers will just suggest the most expensive item or push what ever the kitchen is trying to get rid of. At least narrow your choices down to 2 or 3 and ask for details about them, or ask the server if they have a preference between them.


4)DON'T REWRITE THE MENU
With all due respect, if you want it the way you have it at home, then stay home, or open your own restaurant. It's one thing to ask for your salad dressing to be on the side, it's another to start pulling apart the menu creating your own dish out of scavenged pieces of all the other dishes. Good restaurants, and good chefs work hard to give a range of choices to appeal to all tastes. Try it the way the chef created it, open up to the experience, you might just like it. And please don't ask for salt & pepper if it's not on the table. Chances are that if it's not there, the chef feels that the food is already correctly seasoned.

5)DON'T HELP
Unless you have completely re-arranged the table setting or have your chair pushed so far back that access is impossible, you don't need to move glasses or coffee cups for access. Let the staff work around you, just be aware that they are there. And please, please don't stack your plates when you are finished. You are not helping and it's a sure sign that you are not a 'diner', especially if you top the dirty stack with your napkin. Keep it in your lap until you leave.



OTHER TIPS
-Pull your chair in, knees under the table. People need to be able to reach the table in front of you and they need clearance behind you. A dining room is a shared space. You're not in your living room.
-Calling your server by name doesn't automatically make them your friend. Demonstrating that you know how to dine out will gain you much more respect and attention.
-Instead of asking if there are any "specials" ask what the "daily features" might be. Good restaurants have 'features', roadside cafes have 'specials'.
-Use your words. I am so tired of people who look at me and say, "Water?" or, "Bathroom?", that I now just stare blankly back at them until they articulate what they want. "Please", "Thank-you", and "May I" have not gone out of fashion.
-Your screaming child is probably not what the other diners in the restaurant planned on for their evening. Take it out of the room or get a sitter.
-Once you have finished coffee and dessert, leave. If the evening is going very well and there is so much more to talk about, a bar or lounge can't be very far away. While you are spending that extra 40 minutes chatting after dinner, someone may be waiting for your table. And if the restaurant suddenly seems very quiet, it's probably because you are the last people there. It's time to go home.

A WORD ON TIPPING
This is a hot-button issue for some people and it is those people that need most to pay attention.

Menu prices reflect the cost of running the restaurant. Servers make a much lower minimum wage than everyone else because their tips (theoretically) make up the difference. If servers in North America were paid like servers in Europe, the menu prices would be much higher and your service would more often come with a hefty helping of attitude.

Be aware that your server pays a percentage to the bartender, hostess and bussers based on what your table BOUGHT, not what you TIPPED. If you cheap-out on the tip, your server's tip-out is being covered by what the other tables may or may not have left.
Unless you have a habit of eating at one-star restaurants, it should be a rare occasion when a "zero-tip" or a "teach-a-lesson-tip" is called for. Frankly, if you are not happy with your service, it is your obligation to say so early in the meal by calling for a manager and requesting another server. If your food was improperly prepared, but your service was good, tell a manager, don't penalize the server. If the hostess was rude or the busboy spilled coffee on your dress, tell a manager, don't penalize the server. Shorting the tip is like lecturing a cat, you might feel vindicated, but the problem is far from solved. And, if you do bring issues to the attention of management, you may find that they can be convinced to compensate you with a round of drinks or free dessert.

Bottom line - Usually your service is going to be at least adequate, which means you will leave an adequate tip (10%). Most often, your service will actually be good which means you will leave a good tip (10-15% at lunch, 15-20% at dinner). Now and then, your server will blow you away and totally make your night at which point you will feel really good about yourself when you leave a stupidly generous tip. Remember, if you can afford to spend $200 on dinner, you can afford to pay the person that served it to you.

Wal-mart, the entrance to the mouth of hell

I went on a search for a new bicycle yesterday. I love my old 'granny bike' with the wide-ass comfort seat, but it has no gears and, frankly, it's just too much work going up hills or against the wind. As I was doing my comparison shopping, I decided that in order to make a proper sweep of the city, I should check stock and prices at Wal-mart. I don't know why I do this to myself. I don't like Wal-mart. I don't like what it stands for....the whole lie of the "more for less" philosophy. And I certainly don't like the fact that they're now a grocery store that specializes in nothing but processed, pre-packaged foods. But what really hurts my soul (and causes me to vow, every time, that I will never return) are the people that shop there.

I continue to be astounded at the number of fat people, women mostly because they are still the shoppers in the family, who are piling frozen dinners and other assorted 'bargains' into their shopping carts. And let's be clear, the majority of these bargain-seekers are not a little chubby. They are obese. They are fat enough that they have given up wearing anything but elastic-waist pants and slip on shoes/sandals. Their faces are set into a permanent frown from the weight pulling the corners of their mouths down. Those that have finished their shopping are gathered outside, lined up against the wall of the store, smoking and waiting for taxis or husbands to ferry them away. Making one's way to the front door is to navigate the chaos they create, a death-maze of shopping carts, baby strollers and ragged children darting in every direction screaming an endless litany of "I want, I want, I want...".

Those that are not the XXL shoppers fall into 3 categories: the frighteningly skinny, the terrifyingly old, or the tragically normal. The skinny are generally women who, for some reason, tend to favour a poofy hair style, even though this makes them look like a Q-tip with arms. A smoking Q-tip with arms. A smoking Q-tip with huge, circular eye glasses and arms.

The old are usually just that. Old, old, old. Now, I've often been criticizing for criticizing the old, being chided with, "Now, you'll be old one day too." That's true, I will be, as will we all. But I won't be old and clueless. I know plenty of old and older people with a pulse, a quick wit and an awareness of what's going on around them. The Wal-mart Old shuffle through the aisles unaware of anyone or anything around them. They drive their shopping carts into your ankles much in the same way that they drive their overly large cars into the rear-end of your economy, gas-saving, hybrid at a stop sign. They stop dead in front of you, blocking your progress, for no apparent reason. Much the same as they do in their cars. They hold up the cash line for ten minutes, digging through their change purses looking for those two pennies that will save them from being tipped over by the weight of the .98 cents in change they might get.

Sprinkled throughout this potpourri of human horror are the normals, those individuals who don't think that The Bay or Sears are over-priced, but shop at Sqaul-mart because they feel obligated to save a few cents. They have succumbed to the false barrage of "Save, Save, Save" which inundates them daily. Occasionally, I turn a corner and spot one these 'normies' and breathe a sigh of relief. Then, I start to wonder if just being in the store itself, the entrance to the mouth of hell, is what might eventually turn them into a gigantic-food-consumer or a shuffling zombie. How many visits will it take before any trace of normalcy disappears forever and their life becomes an endless search for the cheapest possible made-in-China-crap or a two-for-one sale in frozen, deep fried food? It is usually at this point that I run for the parking lot, swearing never to return and checking myself for signs of white-trash infection.

DIRTY ROTTEN HOME

It is almost 12:30 a.m. by the time Michael and I finish dealing with my lost luggage and emerge from the security area to find his waiting parents. By the time they drop us in our driveway, it is almost 2:00. Of course, in our bodies it is California time, 11:00 p.m.

Our cats greet us as only cats can do: "Oh-hi-it's-you-I-need-to-go-outside-now." (Though the next morning I wake up with both of them napping happily between my knees). Since I have no luggage, there is no unpacking for me to do. We shuffle around the house, poke through the stack of mail, rummage for food & liquor and try to re-familiarize ourselves with the place. I remark to Michael that I feel like an adult returning to my childhood home, a place that is familiar and full of my possessions, but not a place where I feel like I belong anymore.

We are both in that strange place of being tired but not ready to sleep. Our bodies and brains are in shock because we have suddenly dropped out of hyper-speed to a full stop. We are suspended. Lost. Bored. Excited. Happy. Sad.

The next morning, like animals marking their territory, we begin to reassert ourselves on the place. Me cleaning and reorganizing inside, Michael digging and weeding outside. My luggage arrives, intact, late in the afternoon and the long process of sorting through the 'stuff' begins.

THINGS I WILL NOT MISS ABOUT BEING ON THE ROAD:
Riding the bus every day. Hotel rooms. Bad coffee. Trying to find a decent restaurant. Not knowing where we are. Crappy, old theatres.Doing the show, doing the show, doing the show.

THINGS I WILL MISS ABOUT BEING ON THE ROAD:
Riding the bus every day. Hotel rooms. Local coffee shops. Stumbling on a great restaurant. Not knowing where we are. Amazing old theatres. Doing the show, doing the show, doing the show.

Though I have a long list of things that will need to be attended to over the next week or so, I suspect that the rest of today, and probably much of tomorrow, will be spent rummaging through the house, trying to remember where I left my life.

DIRTY ROTTEN TEMECULA, CA

We are performing at a Casino/Resort in a facility that, while pretty to look at, and fairly new, wasn't built to have Broadway shows. It was created to host the myriad of has-been rock bands who's posters adorn our dressing room walls. Styx. Lynryd Skynyrd. Foreigner. What this means is that the dressing rooms are large and lavish and built for rock 'n' roll partying but the wing space on the stage can barely contain all the set pieces for the show.

The audiences are not large and because the theatre is barely half full for our shows, they tend to be quiet and somewhat......hmmmm, how do I say this diplomatically...........dull as yesterday's dog food? Our energies are running high since this is our final venue, but no matter what we do, we can't seem to convince the audiences to come out and play with us. By the final performance on Saturday night, we have given up on the audience completely and are doing the show for our own entertainment. We have, for months, played to gigantic crowds that have leapt to their feet screaming enthusiastically. It is this memory that we hold on to as we take our final bow for a scattered group of people who seem more interested in getting to their cars than SITTING through our curtain call.

After the show, there is drinking. It is 5:30 a.m. before Michael finally crawls into bed. (Oh, and speaking of 'BED"....don't ever, EVER stay at an Extended Stay America. We've stayed at two now and they were both on high on the crap scale. This one in Temecula is the most uncomfortable bed and the worst pillows of the entire tour. By the second day, I can barely move from the pain in my neck).

In the morning, there are hung-over faces stumbling onto the bus. There are also some that simply refuse to give in to the hang over and just keep drinking (but I'm not mentioning any names ...jjc).

May I rant about United Airlines for a moment? Our reservations are always made in groups of four. I am always booked with Brian, Steve and Heather. Because Brian and Steve opted to try stand-by and leave early in the morning, when Heather and I try to check in the reservation system says that we have already gone with Brian and Steve. The desk attendants have no idea how to fix this so our check in is long and painful. Also, if a tall person (say our Howard who is 6'6") wants an extra 3 inches of leg room by asking to sit in an exit row, they now have to pay $54.00. Isn't that a discriminatory policy? AND, some boneheaded executive has decided that cash is no longer acceptable on an airplane. So not only does one have to pay hugely inflated prices for dusty bagels and doll-house sized cans of tuna, it's credit cards only. What kind of a ridiculous fucking idea is that? And isn't it illegal to refuse to accept legal tender?

OH..... AND......because my reservation was a fuck up, my luggage didn't arrive at Pearson. Neither did Heather's. By the end of 10 hours of travelling, I was not interested in listening to the UA rep. as he pointed to his computer screen explaining where my luggage was last seen. I snapped, "Why are you telling me where it was sent instead of telling me when and how you're going to get it here?" What ever happened to the 'service' in the Service Industry?

Fitting, somehow, that our last travel day would be one of the most trying.

By request....bonus photos from Chihuly exhibit

DIRTY ROTTEN MESA, AZ

Our two shows in Mesa pass without incident. The theatre is another multi-million dollar palace of the arts that defies description. We are in the largest of four venues in this stunning and beautifully landscaped performing arts center.

As we have the afternoon free on the day of our second show, Michael and I, out of all the possible options for wasting a day in Phoenix, decide to take in the Chihuly exhibit at the Phoenix Desert Botanical Gardens. We couldn't have loved it more. Aside from the mind-boggling Chihuly glass art set into the stunning desert landscape, the gardens are amazing....and gigantic. We walk for over three hours in the searing, 100+ degree, desert heat. I'll let the attached photos say the rest.

President Obama's commencement address at ASU means that we have to leave extra early for our show on the second night since there are security-motivated road closures all over Tempe/Mesa. As we drive past the airport, we can't help but notice Air Force One parked prominently on the airfield.

We are back in California for our final 3 performances. I am happy to have escaped the oppressive heat of the Arizona desert. Standing outside on a cloudless Arizona day is like standing on a hot stove with someone pressing a larger than life, heated anvil down on your head. Here in Temecula, the sun is shining, but not at a temperature that melts glass, the breeze is blowing but it is gentle, not like a blast furnace, and there is a softness in the air as opposed to breathing in the tiny particles of desert that buff the inside of your nostrils. I've got that 'California feeling' again, and look forward to feeling it until we fly home on Sunday.

DIRTY ROTTEN PHOENIX, AZ (PART 2)

The cast spends the week in Phoenix making the most of everything the city has to offer, even though the heat is kicking us all in the ass. Often times, when I ask if something is within walking distance, the locals will reply, "Sure, you could walk that, it's not too hot today." Around here, 'not too hot' means 104 degrees....clear, cloudless sky, no breeze. I have never taken advantage of a hotel swimming pool so often in my life. I've learned to take advantage of the outdoor seating that offers a ring of cooling misters, small nozzles that create a curtain of fine spray that keeps the area around you cooler.

The audiences in Phoenix gradually improve through the week. They're a funny lot. They really love their live theatre here and, on the whole, are fairly entertainment educated, so they can be choosy about what they laugh at. We also discover that timing here is a little slower. Through the week we learn that letting everything land and sink in for one extra beat makes a huge difference. Strange. By Saturday, we know how to play them and are relieved to find that we're still funny (after the silence of Thousand Oaks and our first few Phoenix crowds).

A full 8 show week (that means wrapping up by doing a marathon 5-show weekend!) in mind-numbing heat, leaves everyone more than ready for a day off. Michael and I make plans to join Duff who has a friend with a ranch and horses in Tombstone. We are invited to stay the night as it is a 3+ hour drive. Sadly, we have to cancel because Michael has to do a load-in to our new venue at 7 a.m. on Tuesday morning. You see, we are now moving the show to Mesa, which is only 20 miles away, so we're not moving hotels, just venues. It's kind of a pain in the ass and we are very disappointed to miss out on riding in the desert. Michael and I make the best of our disappointment by buying him some fabulous clothes at Macy's, going to see the new Star Trek (it's fantastic), enjoying sunset cocktails at the revolving restaurant atop The Hyatt, and dining at the local Thai place which serves up some of the best tasting Thai cuisine I have tasted anywhere in the world (including Thailand).

As we are mere days from coming to the end of the tour, everyone is starting to talk of home, getting back to their lives and their next jobs. In talking with K.K., I admit that home feels like a slightly foreign concept to me at the moment. "What is this 'home' you speak of? What do I do there?" For so long, home has been just another hotel room in another strange city in a country that I am bouncing around in like a rogue racquetball. A strange existence, to be sure. It's no wonder they call us 'gypsies'.

DIRTY ROTTEN PHOENIX, AZ

I forgot to mention in my Thousand Oaks entry that Falcucci hurt his back mid-way through the run and had to have Duff cover some of his track, including carrying Stephen Patterson in the hotel scene. This sounds plausible on paper until you remember that the smallest guy in the company(5' 5", 150 lbs) has to lift and carry the biggest guy in the company(5' 10" 190 lbs) up four stairs and down four more on the other side. It was hilarious to watch. Poor Duff could barely make it. He did it for a few shows and then suggested that we find another solution before he became crippled.

Our Phoenix hotel, Hotel San Carlos, is something of a local landmark. Built in the twenties and inhabited by many famous people through the decades, notably Marilyn Monroe and Mae West who often played the theatre we're in. The hotel is now a trendy boutique place with a sassy lobby bar and restaurant. Unfortunately, our arrival is a disaster. The crabby old ladies behind the desk do not have our keys ready and are completely uninterested in being hurried or told what to do by Tyler. Then we find out that some of the rooms are not ready. Yelling ensues. Managers are called.

Very little about the hotel has changed since it was built. Because of it's age, the rooms are very small, a bit of an issue for Michael and I sharing since we'll be here for 10 days. In our room, the bathroom floor is, for some reason, 6 inches higher than the bedroom area, requiring you to step up on entry. Again, because of the age of the place, there are no counters in the bathroom and the tub/shower is tiny. The crew, who have already spent one night here are pretty unhappy with how thin the walls are. Michael says he was actually kept awake by the snorer in the next room. (Michael, who can sleep through a war). Long story short, people are unhappy, a meeting is held before the show, it is announced that we will move. The next day we check into a beautiful Wyndham Hotel which is one block away. Everyone is much happier and there is much, much more space.

During our first show in the stunning Orpheum Theater, I pull a classic. I miss an entrance. It is the apron scene near the end of Act 1 where Brian and I sneak to the center of the stage behind our rolling palm trees. For this performance, however, there is only one palm tree rolling to center stage because I am in the upstage crossover thinking, for some reason, that we've already done the palm tree scene and I'm waiting for Heather to start singing. Eventually, reality hits me in the head and with a start I exclaim, "Oh crap! I'm not there!". I race to the stage where I find Brian standing, lonely, forlorn and little bored behind his palm tree. What I don't realize is that my mic is on, so the entire audience has heard my exclamation. Later, the crew tells me that since this is a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence, there must be some kind of planetary alignment happening and they're all buying lottery tickets.

Oh, and did I mention that it's 100 degrees here?!?!?

DIRTY ROTTEN THOUSAND OAKS, CA

The company makes the most of our long stay here in Thousand Oaks. We are so close to everything. The hotel is surrounded by restaurants, shopping malls, movie theatres and a fantastic Whole Foods grocery.

A car rental can get you to pretty much any part of L.A. that you want in under an hour. The girls are driving downtown to take yoga and dance classes almost every day.

Michael and I spend a day driving down the Pacific Coast Highway. We have the most expensive breakfast in history at a chi-chi place in Malibu, but everything is organic this and farm-fresh that. We walk the beach at Point Dume and watch a sea lion surf the waves. We walk the Santa Monica pier and surrounding shopping area. While Michael is off taking a picture of something, I have the quintessential L.A. moment. I am standing in Palisades Park, people watching. Out of the glare of the sunshine, an angelic figure floats toward me. I can make out a beautiful young man (16-20...it's so hard for me to tell anymore). His skin is flawless, his teeth are perfect, his tight, white t-shirt reveals his model-perfect torso. He truly is gliding toward me because he is on a skate board, his long, golden-blond hair trailing in the breeze behind him. He is an Abercrombie & Fitch cover come to life. I am, of course, staring. As he passes me, he glances over the top of his Ray Bans and in the briefest milli-second, in a single flicker of a perfect blue eye, I am scanned, judged, packaged and dispensed with as he glides off through the crowd. Beautiful and cold. So L.A. We drive home through the mountains on a wind-y little road that takes us from the Pacific Coast Highway through the canyons to Thousand Oaks with breath-taking views of mountain mansions and farms all the way.

The next day, we have the second oh-so-Los Angeles experience....and earthquake. Just a tiny one, by L.A. standards. A mere 4.4. I was sitting in the hotel room and actually thought that the noise was being made by the noisy person above me. I was almost ready to pound on the ceiling when I realized what it was. Because I was on the ground floor, it was all a little less dramatic than for those on floors 3 and 4 where drawers slid open and pictures went askew.

We all enjoy the theatre in Thousand Oaks, but the audiences are consistently quiet and withdrawn. They don't like sex jokes and are completely uninterested in toilet humour which, unfortunately, is a large part of the show. Several of the cast's L.A. friends reassure us that this is a typical response for Thousand Oaks which tends to be an older, reserved, monied crowd. We are are pleased to hear that we have not suddenly lost our ability to entertain, but are disappointed that we don't get much in the way of feedback from the crowds. Our weekend wind-up in Thousand Oaks is one of those marathon 5-shows-in-48-hours nightmares, and comes at the end of 14 straight days without a day off. A little unbridled enthusiasm would be most welcome. Alas, it does not materialise and we do our best to crawl, valiantly, to the finish line.

Everyone is looking forward to a day off. I plan to spend the day in West Hollywood with Duff. Michael, sadly, has to leave for Phoenix with the crew so can't come out to play with us. I reserve a convertible but when I arrive at Enterprise, they are sorry to tell me that they can't fulfill my reservation. I make them give me a fully loaded, brand new BMW for the same price. Duff almost squeals when I pick him up on Santa Monica Blvd. We shop Melrose, we drive through Beverly Hills and all over WeHo, we eat, we drink and we shop some more. The sun shines. Life is good.

DIRTY ROTTEN BAKERSFIELD,CA

You know how sometimes, for no good reason that you can remember, you get totally the wrong idea about a person or place before you've even seen them? I had that idea about Bakersfield. For some reason I thought it was a dusty, broken down hovel of a town. Imagine my surprise as we drive into a bustling, lush, verdant and tidy little city. The Four Points Sheraton also contributes to the feel of the place. The decor makes me feel like I've walked into the catalogue. Everything stark white and ice blue and very spartan, punctuated by tiny splashes of powerful colour. The bathroom is so sparse and white that I need sunglasses. IkeaSooooo Scandinavian.

The theatre is bizarre. It's a strange hybrid of arena and theatre space, designed more for a Madonna concert than a Broadway musical. The stage is vast, you could play football in the orchestra pit, the house is vast, and the possible right-to-left spread of the audience could give an actor whiplash. Also, unlike other arena-type spaces we've played, this one does not have the usual raised, temporary stage. Instead, we are playing on plywood panels laid down over concrete. (A first in my checkered career). Much quieter for rolling sets, not so good for dancers. Once again, we are lifted out of the odd, and not always comfortable surroundings, by an audience that plays along and loves the show. We celebrate having played our last arena AND our last one-night-stand! It's back through the Tejon pass, through all the farms, orchards and vineyards to Los Angeles where we will play Thousand Oaks for a week.

DIRTY ROTTEN CERRITOS, CA

I gotta say, I really, really like California. I've been here before, several times, and I've always enjoyed myself, but spending so much time here now, I realize that it just feels good here. I guess that's why the population of the state is 38 million.

Most of us enjoy a day of thrills at Six Flags, which is really nothing but a park for coaster junkies. My voice is hamburger from screaming all day. The new X2 coaster, first of it's kind in the world, is RIDICULOUS!!! I think I actually saw my life flash before my eyes. What makes this ride unique is the fact that they've put the seats out in space beside the track instead of above or below it. ...And the fact that seats rotate. You make the initial climb to the top going backwards but then your seat suddenly pitches forward so that you plummet toward the earth in your first gut-wrenching drop FACE DOWN! I think I liked it, but I was too terrified to be sure. The string of profanity pouring out of my mouth during the ride prompted the guy next to me, at the end of the ride, to lean over and calmly ask, "First time?"

The final ride of the day was Goliath that I rode with Mike Donald. Because there's no up-side down sequences, the ride doesn't have an over the shoulder harness, just a lap bar. The initial climb is stupid.....twenty stories! Mike and I are in the second seat of the first car. As we are about to go over the top into the almost-straight-down descent, the random girls in front of us turn around and say, in unison, with saucer-eyes, "Guys, seriously?". Then there is only screaming.

After our last two hotels, the Marriott in Norwalk (not the virus place, that was Ohio) feels like the fuckin' Ritz-Carlton and we are very glad to arrive. Time begins to change our opinion though....

-I am given a key package that says "Greves/Brown on it. I go to the room and assume that Michael hasn't had time to check in yet. I call Michael and he says, "Um...don't you see my stuff all over the room?" It seems they have given each of us a room, even though we are sharing. I also find out later that no one can find me (us) because we are apparently listed as a person named Greves Brown.
-The lounge, which looks beautiful, doesn't ever seem to be open when we are around, even closing at 10:30 on a Friday & Saturday night. It's not open at all on the Sunday because the bartender phoned in sick and no one covered the shift.
-The restaurant which, again, looks nice, has appalling service. Michael has to eat his breakfast as someone is vacuuming around him.
-Room service is always, always busy. Anyone who tries to reach them over and over again eventually gives up and calls the front desk to have their order walked over to the room service phone.
-On returning after our show on Saturday night, none of our room keys will work and we all have to stand in a line-up at the front desk to have them re-programed while Tyler yells at the desk clerks.
-Oh, and for some reason, there is only one, yes one, lonely lounge chair by the pool. Weird.

But the rooms are clean, the beds are comfortable and no one seems to care how late you stay in the jacuzzi (as those who stayed in it until 4 a.m. getting drunk and naked will tell you).

The Cerritos Center for Performing Arts is amazing. Stunning design, brilliant in it's execution, and mind-boggling in terms of the different configurations it can assume. It's worth a visit to the site to see this outstanding example of architecture. (The library that is part of the same civic complex is also amazing, containing a gigantic aquarium at it's center. Here is a video of the library and the theatre as it re-configures itself.) One of our truck drivers tells me that the local crew at this theatre is such a well oiled machine that they have our two trucks unloaded in 26 minutes!!!

The audiences, over the course of our 4 shows here, never really get rolling. They remain quite reserved and quiet across the board, though the blame for their silence during our Saturday matinee lies squarely on us as the pace of the show is slower than Bush doing calculus. I will miss my beautiful dressing room that had it's own private balcony where I could sit and read in the California sunshine.

DIRTY ROTTEN VALENCIA, CA

We are spending a day off here in beautiful Valencia, home of Six Flags Magic Mountain, where we will be for most of the day, hurling our guts out and trying to withstand the g-forces on their collection of mammoth roller coasters.

Heather wrote a song which she sang to us on the long bus ride yesterday. Though most of the jokes are 'insider', I thought it was worth publishing it for y'all.

Heather's Tour Song

Starbucks and Subways
Wal-Mart, Ruby Tuesdays
That's how we spend our days
OUr life on the road

Eight-thirty for Nine, nine-thirty for ten
We load up His Majesty and hit the road again
With slippers on our feets
In our sweet pimped-out bus seats
I wonder what movie Jess picked for today

I wonder where our lunch stop will be
It better come quickly cause I have to pee
There's only one toilet and it's a long line
Gotta get to the Walgreens to buy my purse wine

Pei-Wei, Panerra
Don't forget Cracker Barrell
That's how we spend our days
Our life on the road

We've bussed 'cross the country
My butts getting lumpy
And Tyler's "nawt happy"
What state are we in?
I'm feeling the jet lag
Get Christy a barf bag
Oh fuck! I just dropped my PSP again

Days off for sightseeing the beach or the zoo
Just bought cowboy boots
Ladies unpack your 'cutes'
In the VIP section we party with class
Especially when our girl gets voted BEST ASS

"Continental" - Conti for short
Don't care if I'm fatter, I love waffle batter
I can stock up my snack bar
They saw me, Abort

Oh Denny's and IHOP
Grilled cheese at the truck stop
That's how we spend our days
Our life on the road

We arrived at five-thirty
You've only one hour
for a shit and a shower
Before the bus call

I wonder what sets will be cut for doay
And the dressing rooms are a good half-mile away
Pauls' calling the show from his personal bathroom
But YES! I just heard that there's snacks in the Greenroom

Oooooh Starbucks and Subways
That's how we spend our days
We've seen every season
From mountian to ocean

A cast like no other
We've laughed all the hours
'Cause that's what it's like for
Dirty Rotten Scoundrels

DIRTY ROTTEN REDDING, CA

The drive to the very northernmost part of California is an eye opener. We drive for hours and hours through more orchards and vineyards than I have ever seen. Mile after mile after mile of neatly organized rows of trees and vines, all watered by a major aqueduct that snakes it's way through the valley.It is agriculture on a grand scale.

The location of our hotel in Redding is not quite so panoramic. (I discover later that Duff's family has told him to pass along to us not to walk anywhere in Redding at night, and that our hotel is on "meth row".) We are staying at the hotel that all of us love to hate, The Quality Inn. It's a brilliant stroke of marketing to call this chain "Quality", but I am sure that no one who works for the chain could define or even spell the word. The slack-jawed heifers behind the desk at this particular hell-hole are especially stupid.

At Check In:

Tyler:
This is Patrick Brown, he's sharing with Michael Greves who has already checked in, so could you just give us another key to whatever room Michael is in.

Stupid Brunette Girl Behind the Desk:
(Looking at the cast list)Brown? Greves? Michael?

Stupid Pink-haired Girl Behind the Desk:
(stares blankly through little piggy eyes)

Tyler:
Michael isn't on that list, he's on the crew. They've already checked in.

Brunette:
(Still staring at the cast list)
(Time passes)
He's not on this list

Tyler:
No. That's the cast list. Michael is on the crew.

Pink Hair:
(Still staring)

Brunette:
I'll have to find that other list.

(time passes)

Tyler:
All right. Could you? Please?

Pinkie:
(Stares)

Me:
Um.....couldn't you just look him up in the computer?
(Both desk idiots now look at me as though I've just spoken Greek)

Dumb Brunette eventually discovers what room Michael is in and asks Pinkie to make a new key. To my astonishment, Pinkie breaks her statue-like stance to make me a key, though she does not move off of her stool.

The theatre is another space that shouldn't be hosting us, but is. It is actually the Convention Center, and has arena-style seating, no orchestra pit, and dressing rooms that used to be offices and are up several flights of stairs. The audience seems very far away, but they are loud laughers, thankfully, and respond enthusiastically throughout the show.

On the local crew is a very, VERY handsome young man with dark hair, dark eyes, just enough five o'clock shadow, and a smile that could make Hitler blush. All the women and gay men are aflutter over this guy, and he is much discussed and flirted with. In the girl's dressing room, they discuss the dirty things they'd like to do with him. Several times, in her most lecherous, hillbilly voice, K.K. says, "He's yummy. I'd like to poke him." It's only at the end of the night that one of the dressers, who has been in the room with the girls all night, says to the girls, "Is he the one wearing a t-shirt that says, STAFF?". The girls affirm this to be true. The dresser says, "Oh, that's my son."

During one of my final scenes in the show, I fall apart like I have not fallen apart on stage for years and years. I am about to make a rather purposeful entrance that helps lead us to the big plot-surprise of the show, where I announce that, "The Jackal has been captured". Just as I step on to the stage, my suit jacket catches on a piece of scenery which is being stored in the wing I am entering from. Because I am moving quickly and with purpose, from the audience's point of view, it looks as though I am being yanked back into the wings by an invisible hand. They do not hear the tearing of my suit fabric as my jacket pocket is almost ripped off. Nor do they hear Stephen, Cooch and Chad, waiting to enter directly behind me, burst out laughing. I try to ignore them as best as I can, and make my entrance. The problem is that the whole series of events has just struck me as being so hilarious, that I can't speak. I can barely keep control of my face, scrunching it in a bizarre parody of seriousness as I make my way to where I should stand. On a normal night, Brian, who is already on stage, would unlatch the briefcase he is holding and prepare to open it, but would be stopped by my entrance. On this night, because I have not yet spoken, he is finding new and interesting excuses to NOT open the briefcase because his character cannot, yet, know what is inside. Eventually, I manage to squeak out my line, and Stephen, Cooch and Chad make their entrance. Stephen is a mess and as I catch the odd glimpse of his twisted, pained, laugh-suppressing face, and hear the odd squeak in his voice, my own attempts at recovery are thwarted. The crew, now aware that something is up, has gathered in the wings to watch the carnage. The orchestra, also aware that things are not as they should be, is grinning up at us like lunatic mimes. I, thankfully, have no lines for a few minutes and manage to gain a little control by staring at the floor as I listen to Stephen struggle through a few lines of song. We are both doing our best to avoid eye contact, convinced that any control we have gained will dissolve if we face each other. Eventually, somehow, over what seems like eternity but is, in fact, about 3 minutes, we manage to make it to the end of the scene and, without further incident.

Later, in the dressing rooms, Stephen thanks me for a memory that will stay with him for a very long time (and a theatre war story that'll be dragged out in many a post-show bar).

DIRTY ROTTEN SAN BERNARDINO, CA

...and dirty and rotten it is. We were warned that San B. was not the most hospitable of cities, but we weren't prepared for just how.....well, ...sketchy the city is. We are staying at a Hilton, with a pool, which is a good thing because the weather is scorching hot and there is virtually nothing to do here. The drive from the hotel to the theatre reveals a Bail Bonds office in every block, some of them advertising that they have an office conveniently located directly across from the jail. We are warned not to walk alone in the vicinity of the theatre at night, or around the hotel for that matter. (One of the "Oliver" cast was robbed at gunpoint not too far from our Hilton). There is a grocery store across the street from the theatre (where the boys witness an altercation that comes close to a knife fight one afternoon). I discover that they carry liquor, but I also discover that the security procedures needed to actually get it into my hands are not unlike trying to open a Swiss bank account. Duff visits the mall near the theatre (another place we are warned not to go) and says it's like the set of a horror movie, with most stores closed or closing, the whole place dominated by a dis-used, old merry-go-round. Oh, and did I mention that San Bernardino holds the dubious distinction of being where McDonald's started? Ray Croc's very first hamburger stand was right here.

The theatre is another one of those old vaudeville houses with a proscenium arch right out of The Muppet Show. There's even premium gold boxes at the edge of the balcony for Statler and Waldorf. But this also means that, once again, we've cut many pieces of the show, not as bad as an arena show, but still a pain. Also a pain is the fact that the wing space is so small that one is constantly bumping into someone trying to maneuver around the set pieces. The local crew has gotten very comfortable working the space though, so much so that they have forgotten how close they are to us when we're doing a scene on stage, so we are treated to their full-voice conversations the entire time. (They are, in fact, so loud that our bass player tells me that our mics were actually picking up their voices and broadcasting them directly into his headphones.)

The unseasonable heat is pushing the A/C capacity of the old building to the limit. Well, depending where you are. On the side of the stage that my dressing room is on, our little rabbit-warren of closet-sized rooms is sweltering. On the other side of the stage, the ensemble girls are so cold they have to keep a window open to let some heat in. We are not alone in suffering the heat. Every performance, I can see the waving of stark, white programs out in the darkness. The scene that K.K. and I do in our extra-plush terry-towel bath robes is a particular treat. A bit like putting on a parka to work in the garden in August....in Niagara.

The first night audience is absolutely rabid. (They do a lot of hooting in San B.) We could have walked onto the stage and carved a notch in a stick of wood and they would have screamed and applauded like asylum inmates. We play most of the shows to very full crowds, except for Sunday night. Mike Donald remarks that if all the Sunday night people had come for the matinee, we could have had a full house. Though it isn't really quite that small a crowd (700) it feels like it, especially when we are staggering under the heat. We are happy to finish up.

The morning is an easy start since we don't roll until 10. Cast and crew are milling about, drinking coffee, eating bagels, enjoying the California sun. We have a full day of driving to the cute little city of Sacramento, where we will spend the night. Then on further north (almost to Oregon) to Redding, CA for our next performance.

DIRTY ROTTEN BOZEMAN, MT

And we're back after a whirlwind week that could have been relaxing, but I suspect not. Though a change IS as good as a rest.

Michael and I waken at the crack of crow's piss on Monday morning to catch our flight to Vegas. The payoff is that we are checking into our hotel (The Luxor) by 11 a.m. The rumours about the long lines at The Luxor's front desk are true, but service otherwise is very, very good. Our room, as luck would have it, is ready, and we stagger into our 21st floor suite, complete with hot tub overlooking the mountains. Sadly, Vega has so much to offer that we will never get around to the hot tub.

Vegas is delicious and much changed since my last visit. I drag Michael, mercilessly, up and down the strip, indulging in every possible excess (it is Vegas after all). "La Reve" at The Wynn, "Believe" at The Luxor(See note below), "Ka" at The MGM, the roller coaster at New York, New York, cocktails and caviar at the Eiffel Tower Restaurant at Paris, shopping at Venice and Bellagio (ask Michael about his new Prada bathing suit), manicures at The Mirage, tasting menu at Emeril's (ho-hum) restaurant in MGM, and more martinis and slot machines than I can remember.

As we have another crack-of-crow's-piss flight to Calgary, the decision to stay up until all hours drinking and playing slots is probably ill advised, but what happens in Vegas only follows you as a hang over. We arrive in Calgary late on Thursday afternoon and are whisked away to the wilds of Airdrie for home some home-cooked deliciousness and calm. The next two days are a blur of visiting. Friday is egg-colouring day at the homestead, but I manage to drink my way through the throngs of attending children, some of whom, I'm told, are relatives. Friday night is our visit with a throng of rarely seen but cherished friends at our favourite Mexican restaurant, followed by a quick trip to StageWest where we catch the second act of "Boeing Boeing" (would someone please stop Marty Fishman from making good actors look bad?!?!) and a visit with more amazing friends who are still in the biz. Saturday is the big family Easter dinner which is lavish, delicious and entertaining but over-populated by children.

Sunday is another rising-sun-departure as we are being driven to Bozeman by my sainted Father and Step-Mother. The drive is a 9-hour blur of reading, napping and mountain views.

Bozeman is another arena-trying-to-be-a-theatre show. Have I mentioned how much I hate playing arenas? Again, most of the major set pieces and drops are cut. Again, we are yelling to be heard over the roar of set pieces rolling around on the hollow stage. And also, again, the audience is capacity and crazy-happy. It seems that no matter how bitter we are, we can't help but bring happiness to the people. We are now faced with two days off in Bozeman. Have I mentioned that I'm over Montana? Two days off here is a bit like two days off in your basement. Two days off in your car. Two days off in your bathroom. You probably could find something to do, but it will only entertain you for a few desperate moments. It's a bit like waiting in purgatory before we have to get up at 4 a.m. on Thursday morning so that we can fly to California.

*Note re: Criss Angel
Everyone, well, lots of people, are trashing this show. While I admit that it has some problems, most of which could be cured by a good writer and some major clean up on the transitions, it is a great night of thrills. I was enthralled and entertianed. Most of the furor seems to come from the content of the show which is very dark, macabre and twisted. I will say this......we saw "La Reve", which is the hot new ticket in Vegas that everyone is wiggling about. It was pretty, sometimes breath-taking, and a stunning use of technology. When all is said and done though, I felt empty, left with nothing, unchanged by the show. The Criss Angel show took risks, sometimes failing miserably, but at least it thrilled me, challenged me and left me lots to think about.

DIRTY ROTTEN RENO

People who can't afford to shop at Holt Renfrew, shop at The Bay. People who can't afford foiegras, buy Spam. People who can't afford Las Vegas go to Reno. Not only are we inundated with far too many brush cuts in sweat pants, 56D cups in sweat shirts, and polyester pant suits topped with lavender rinse, we are staying at Circus Circus.

Now, we've stayed at a lot of hotels on this tour. Some spectacular, some that make you want to peel your skin off and mail it back to yourself. In my personal opinion, this is the worst hotel ever. It's past it's day and starting to look it, the service is deplorable (but that seems to be the case everywhere in Reno), the housekeeping is not very good (I discover M&M's on my floor and Sarah finds the previous guest"s toiletry bag still hanging in her bathroom), and the long walk to the rooms in the Sky Tower is complicated by several sets of stairs that one needs to negotiate with one's luggage! Add to all of that the fact that the place is CRAWLING with children and you have my own personal kind of hell.

As I leave my room one day, there are 3 children, all under 5 years old, playing in the hallway....not an adult in sight. (Probably in the casino trying to win the money for this month's payment on the trailer home). I scowl at the urchins sufficiently enough to send them back to their rooms...or at least out of my sight. We find out that most of the children are here for a wrestling tournament. Twenty-two-hundred, twelve-year old boys have converged on Reno. (Why me? What next, locusts?)

The six elevators in our tower are miserably inadequate to service a full hotel. Often, you have to let 2 or 3 cars go before you can squeeze in to one, and this, after waiting several minutes for each car. Steve tells me that he eventually gave up one morning and walked down 20 flights of stairs with a long line of people who were doing the same.

Downtown Reno itself is looking pretty sad. A world apart from it's richer, sassier sister, Vegas. Everything is dusty, empty, closed or closing, and vagabonds, loonies and unsavories accent the streets. Everywhere we go, we find that service seems to be a lost art. We are studiously ignored for as long as possible, then grudgingly serviced. In a way I can see how it got this way because I'm pretty sure nobody makes much of a tip from Bucky Ballcap and Bertha Bingohall. At The Sienna, Reno's supposed "boutique hotel", I finally get the world's most watery martini from the careless bartener, and then have to pay $11.00 for it. I do have to add an exception here, though, and say that the food and the service at Mel's Diner are great. Perhaps that's why they've been there since 1947.

The theatre is very nice and supports a full season of Broadway shows and it's own Philharmonic series. We play 5 shows, all of them very well attended with vocal, responsive crowds. This is good news for me since I am still feeling like crap and need all the support I can get. The illness has turned into a wet, lung-rattling chest cough that makes me sound like an alcoholic, asthmatic smoker. Try singing and dancing a romantic duet through that!

Somehow, in spite of it all, I make it through. Through the impossibly overpopulated hotel. Through a manic five-shows-in-three-days. Through a whirlwind of visiting family, producers, possible producers and a host of sundry "somebodies" and hangers-on. Through phlegm, low oxygen, petty bickering questionable acting choices, I make it to the Easter hiatus. And that means that Michael and I get to spend a week of play-time together. First in Vegas, then in Calgary. Yee-haw. I hope my lungs can take it.

DIRTY ROTTEN GREAT FALLS, MT

"Dirty Rotten Scoundrels" on tour...

I rest as much as possible on the bus and say as little as possible (imagine me resisting the impulse to speak) in order to preserve my voice. When we arrive in Great Falls, I take a brisk walk to see how quickly my energy level drops. I have a peculiar sensation in my mouth and it takes me a while to realize that I'm back in the prairie and I can taste the dust where ever I go. The walk goes well, my energy seems fine and my voice is about 80% restored so I decide to do the show.

We're in yet another weird-ass venue that requires a list of cuts from our sets and backdrops. It's been so long since we've done the full show that we're all having trouble remembering what it looks like. By the middle of Act 1, I am soaking wet and am relieved to hear that the rest of the cast is too. I don't have a fever, the theatre is simply the temperature of molten lava. It's a good, solid show and a great crowd and my voice manages to make it through to the end. Sadly, even though it is Jeffrey's birthday, I feel that it would be really irresponsible of me to go out and drink with the cast. So I go to bed.....

....and bed seems to be where I'll be spending my day off here in Great Falls. Ah....Mah.....Gahw! Being stuck downtown is not unlike being banished to the unfinished basement that your Grandparents refer to as the 'rec room'. I mean, I'm pretty good at entertaining myself but there is NOTHING here, and what there is carries an air of dusty, last chance desperation. Not to mention the assortment of broken down people who have the same last chance air. I hold a door open for an old man with a cane. Instead of thanking me, he hits me up for change. I tell him he gets money or politeness, not both. (Note to self: Buy a couple of hits of acid in order to stay entertained during 2 days off in Bozeman, MT!!!!).

The most interesting thing I've come across here is the classic 50's cafe down the street. This is no kitchy retro-diner, this is the real thing, complete with counter stools, juke boxes in the booths and hoodlums ordering cheese burger deluxe. The reason the place is so interesting though is because it has one of the grumpiest waitresses I've ever seen. She is such a sour-puss that she doesn't even raise her eyes from her pad when she speaks to someone. All I can think is, "Honey, I know you're a hundred and four years old, but you can't hold me responsible for that". She is, in fact, so miserable, and giving everyone (including the cook) such a hard time that I am wildly entertained.