- This continues to be a phenominal season. Even with as much fun as I had with a stage show last year, I keep thinking back to how the season had me feeling about myself (“old, broken, fat and unattractive”, as recorded in my final weekend wrap-up from last year). What a difference a year makes. A day does not pass during this year’s performance that doesn’t well and truly shatter that image for me. It’s quite an ego-stroke, and can be overwhelming at times.
- After Last Huzzah on Saturday,
told me that a group of young ladies sitting next to her had the following conversation: “God, that Casanova guy is soooooooo cute!” “But he’s like old enough to be your Dad!” “Who cares? He’s totally HAWT.” Take THAT, old broken fat guy from last year…..
- Performing with
and is a treat. We work so well together. Hell, on Saturday we wooed an entire family, fer chrissakes! Veronica and Beatrice flirted with Grandpa and Dad, Casanova did his thing with Grandma and Mom, and then, as they were leaving, they asked us to pose for pictures with their KIDS! The perfect group interaction, and done right in front of the Entertainment Director. ‘s birthday party after Festival on Saturday night. A much-needed hot tub, good friends, good food, and both and I commenting about how we could never have envisioned being there together, from where we were 20 years ago. (And, on a related point — the conversation with him on Sunday evening, which cleared the air of those 20 years, was also quite welcome.)
- Watching Minion (my oldest daughter) come into her own out at Festival, and seeing my friends start to see her as the wicked-smart, funny and cool person she is, rather than just the role of “
‘s daughter.” Proud Dad moments abound.
- Casanova’s New Trick: To deliniate myself from the other men out there, I have been kissing hands “in the Italian fashion” — turning the woman’s hand over at the last moment, and kissing the pulse-point on the wrist, instead of the back of the hand. Of course, this has gone over so well that the other gentlemen out there have been copping my bit, and starting to imitate me. So, I decided to “kick it up a notch”, and show these boys that it’s not about the kiss — it’s about the eyes. I broadly proclaimed that I need not even touch my lips to the woman’s skin, and yet they would know that they had been kissed. I lock eyes with the woman, never breaking their glance, and stop with my lips almost touching their hand…at which point I exhale ever-so-softly. I had women blushing, squee-ing, saying “DAMN.” and “Ohgodohgodohgod…” — All without even making contact with my lips. Casanova is TEH WINNAR.
- The best thing about this weekend, though….and easily the best thing to happen this season…if not my entire performing career: I kissed the hand of
, and she told me that I truly embodied the tradition of Tommy Atkins. (For those unaware — Tommy was the Lord Mayor for years, and, when I was a high school student involved in theater with his kids, he and Verna (his wife) were like my extra set of parents. I looked up to him as the paragon of the dashing gentleman out at the Festival. He died a while back.) I lost my character, and tears welled up in my eyes. I had to take a moment to collect myself. Then, a few minutes later, I ran into , kissed her hand, and she told me the same thing. I was so honored by these two women, I can barely speak.
- Performing with
- Possible fallout from The Last Huzzah on Sunday. Lord Robert Dudley sang a verse of Two Magicians that crossed over the PG-13 line…and we had no idea it was coming, since he didn’t tell us he was changing what he’d done on every previous performance. It was bawdy, it was hilarious, and the audience loved it….but of course, I’m sure that the office will get a complaint or two, and that means that I’m expecting to be told that we can’t do the song any more. The cast already got a warning for being “too bawdy” on Saturday. The E.D. doesn’t seem to understand that if he’s getting a handful of complaints, that means that literally thousands of people LOVED it. The fucking Church people can go screw themselves. Send ’em to Branson, Missouri — we shouldn’t have to change what we’re doing to suit the tastes of a vocal minority, damn it. I’m prepared to argue this….I’m just hoping that I don’t have to.
For the record, the verse was: “She became a horn, a horn all brassy bright; and he became the tune, and she blew him every night.” It KILLED. I lost it, nearly falling down on the cobblestones I was laughing so hard — the crowd roared its approval and laughed along with us.
- Drunk Female Patron: Saturday saw the arrival of another example of the darker side of playing the sort of role I’m doing. A drunk patron who had no limits. I was sitting upon an iron bench outside of a merchant’s shop, and she hopped into my lap….AND STEPPED ON MY JUNK. Full on. OW. Boot down on the codpiece. Against the iron bench. OW. I lifted her a bit, so that the pressure was off….but then the Festival photographer wanted a picture. As he’s clicking away, he says “Give him a kiss.”
She starts gnawing on my face, jawline and ear, as I try to breathe through a cloud of wine. Then she was gone, off to molest
(grabbing her tit down in her bodice). Yeah, she was a real winner, that one. I’m surprised she didn’t try to blow me, right there in the lane.