Thursday, December 16, 2010

Somewhere between 'odd' and 'boring.'

We staggered through the entire show last night. Only took us about six hours. Actually, less than two. But it felt like six. Nothing to do now but keep at it.

In a few days Angie and I are heading back to Missouri for Christmas. Well, Springfield. I don't really think of Springfield as 'Missouri,' although it obviously is. I have very few bad memories of Springfield. That's where I attended undergraduate school (SMSU, now MSU). Those days were mostly a lot of fun. It's the earlier days, the days of growing up in small-town, mid-Missouri that were loathesome for me. I'm always a little amused when I hear people talk about 'the good, old days.' Here's a simple and misunderstood truism: these are the good, old days.

Anyway, lots of things planned for the ten-day break in the Ozarks...seeing old friends, hanging out with Angie's family (shockingly normal as compared to mine), eating out at lots of not-to-be-missed restaurants (Springfield, oddly enough, is quite famous, locally speaking, for its 'cashew chicken' of all things).

Angie has been getting lots of calls from her family along the lines of 'what does Clif like?' This is our first Christmas as a married couple. The Peabody clan is trying to get a read on me, I guess. I've met them all, of course, but they don't really know me and vice-versa. At this point I guess I'm still just the 'bald, quiet guy that seems to always be around our Angie' to them. Except, of course, her immediate family. Her mom and step-dad and her dad and step-mom, that is. I think they like me well enough. I certainly like them.

So I hear her on the phone with brothers and aunts, etc. I only hear Angie's side of the conversation. "Well, he likes to read. He likes Bruce Springsteen and Frank Sinatra. He likes argyle socks. Um. What else? He likes hats. What? No, he doesn't care for tools. He doesn't do tools. Hm? No, he's not really into NASCAR. I'm not sure he'd read a NASCAR magazine. He likes boxing. Yes, I said boxing. As in, 'boxing matches.' Yes. Muhammad Ali, that sort of thing. He likes to watch old fight films. He collects them. I said he collects them. No, not boxers. Boxing MATCHES. Yes, to watch. Hm? Oh, yes, he's seen them all. He know who's going to win. He likes to watch them anyway. What's that? No, I don't why. I haven't a clue. But that's what he does. Oh, yes, books. That's always a good idea. He loves books. Well, he likes fantasy. I say, fantasy. Books about wizards and elves. I don't know why. But he does. Uh, huh. Wizards and elves and thirty year old boxing matches. Hm? Oh, yes, he listens to music. He likes Frank Sinatra. But he's already got all those CDs, so don't get any of those. Well, he likes Bruce Springsteen and Elvis Costello and Tom Waits. Tom Waits. He's a singer. He has a growly voice. Yes, he likes that. Yes, I know. He's somewhere between 'odd' and 'boring.' That's him exactly."

So back at rehearsal tonight. I told our director last night that I was having a 'mid-rehearsal crisis of confidence.' He said, why? I said, because I know all the notes I just have no idea in which order they go.

Franny and Zooey are silently demanding a walk. I shall take them.

See you tomorrow.

No comments: