Since my mighty blog-roll of TWO POSTS (that’s right, count them, TWO) has disappointed
Steffen, I thought it best to treat all four of my regular readers (you know who you are) with an accounting of why I have not been feverishly updating this blog every day, sharing with all four of you my wit, my wisdom, and random acts of cruel injustice.
In a word, I am a theater festival whore. And that really takes up so much of my time, especially now, during the opening of the
Woodward Shakespeare Festival, that I don’t have time -- yet -- to become the blogging whore that I am so obviously meant to be.
Do you have a theater festival? Would you like some help running it? Would you like me to give generously of my time as an unpaid volunteer? Well, I’m ready, willing, and able to help you out -- because I’m a theater festival whore. You have a theater festival, anytime, anyplace, I’m there for you. Come on, give me your festival -- you know you want to.
That’s how I got roped into
lecram’s brainchild, the
Rogue Performance Festival, and now (because I am a fool), how I got roped into managing the Woodward Shakespeare Festival, Fresno’s own Free Shakespeare in the Park event.
The Shakespeare Festival opened last night, and the preparations up to the event were a Bataan death march of endurance — like every furshlugginer theater festival I have ever worked. Why do I do these things to myself?
My day yesterday:
4:00 AM: Wake for live TV remote from Woodward Park to promote the festival. I had gone to bed at 1:30, and really, why would you need more than 2.5 hours of sleep? (Since April, I’ve been conducting an on-going experiment in sleep deprivation. I’m down to an average of about 3 hours a night.)
4:45 AM: Arrive at park to find that the actors from
A Midsummer Night’s Dream are there, the TV people are there, but the one person who both knows how to turn on the lights at the amphitheater is not. Wailing and gnashing of teeth.
5:05 AM: Light person arrives. Still can’t turn on amphitheater lights. TV people assure me that their lights will do the trick.
5:20-7:45 AM: Broadcast six live remote spots promoting the festival on early morning TV. Lack of light proves hardly a problem at all, as sun comes up after first segment. The actors are charming, funny, and surprisingly PR-savvy, and the whole thing works like a dream.
8:00-9:00 AM: Treat the actors to breakfast at high-priced psuedo-French chain restaurant. You have to do something nice for people who worked for you at an hour when they’re ususally just getting to bed.
9:30 AM-3:30 PM: Office work. I’m the business manager of the Woodward Shakespeare Festival, but I’ve given myself the much fancier title of Operations Director. There are an amazing host of niggling details to be dealt with. There needs to be an addendum to the program, freshly printed yesterday with the usual crop of omissions -- mostly people who ought to be thanked. There are signs for the venue that have to be designed and printed; forms to be filled and submitted to various local agencies; phone calls to be fielded, etc.
And of course, because this is a THEATER, all work is complicated by the constant onslaught of gossip, drama, politics and conflicting egos. I don’t mind. I’m a small, petty person, and I always enjoy having an opportunity to make someone else feel bad.
3:30 PM-5:45 PM: Errands. Programs need to be picked up from the printer. So do T-shirts. And the program addenda need to be printed and collected. Plus there’s some Woodward Shakespeare Festival vendorware that I’ve been storing at my ex-girlfriend’s house.
And in the midst of delivering things to the park, I’m conferring with the house manager, making sure the security guards will arrive, etc.
Now, keep in mind, that while I’m doing all this, I still have to go to the office, print out some bookkeeping and reserve seating forms, go home, shower off the Fresno summer heat, stick contact lenses in my eyes, and make it back to Woodward Park for the Festival opening ceremony, which starts at 6:00.
At 5:45, as I am stuck in gridlock traffic on Herndon, it occurs to me that I won’t be able to make it. I whip out my cell and start delegating my remaining errands. I call Brooke, an actress and our most hardworking volunteer.
“I’m not going to make it for the opening ceremony. Can you take charge and make sure things go OK?” I ask.
Brooke begins to cry over the telephone. Through her sobs she says, “Sure. Yes. Whatever. I’ll do it. Don’t worry about a thing.”
5:45-6:45 PM: Preparation. I am soaked through to the skin with my own sweat and filth. Shower. Change clothes. Stick in contact lenses. (I hate those furshlugginer things, but my ultra-fashionable Paul Smith glasses that correct my powerful astigmata aren’t very Shakespearean. And if I act blind, I’m likely to kill one of my fellow actors.)
7:00-8:00 PM: Finally arrive at the park ready to perform -- probably about an hour and a half later than I should be. Quickly check up on the concession stands, making sure everybody has what they need.
8:00-10:30 PM: The Performance. You’ll just have to see this for yourself -- there are 11 more performances of
A Midsummer Night’s Dream through August 12. Check
here for details. I do have to say, my Bottom is magnificent.
10:30 -11:30 PM: Schmoozing with my many adoring fans (at least five); getting out of my filthy costume and into my filthy street clothes; theater cleanup.
12:00-4:00 AM: Drinking. Hey, after a day like that, I’m entitled to relieve some stress.
