It’s showtime at the Spencer Community Theatre this week, and the show in question is Always, Patsy Cline, a sweet little thing about a sweet little country gal leanin’ back into some sweet old country songs (and the fangirl who became her friend and correspondent). On stage, should you attend a performance of this show, you will see the following:
1) A simple set including items meant to represent a 50s/60s kitchen in Houston, TX and a big ol’ honky tonk called the Esquire Ballroom, also in Houston.
2) Two women in vintage outfits and some absolutely fabulous period wigs (Louise’s wig is brilliant, really).
3) A bandstand toward the rear, on which are stationed the Bodacious Bobcats, a hot little combo featuring piano, bass, electric lead guitar, drums, fiddle, and acoustic tenor guitar. All of the players are named *.Bob, including Bobby Bob the drummer, whose mama loved her so much she named her twice. They are all in proper cowboy drag, hats and all. HATS!
Yours truly is bringing to life the musical stylings of one Billy Bob, fiddler and acoustic guitarist.
Yours truly is already freakin’ exhausted, and the show starts tonight. Must…get…better…sleep…
Anyway, all of the above is meant to serve as an explanation (for the sake of all five of the brave souls who regularly read my mad mumblings) for my failure to post anything in the Challenge or anywhere else on the blog this week. My mind is full of Bobcat (and is grateful not to be in the band more appropriate to her age and station in life, the Creepy Cougars).
There are, of course, a few things I’ve wanted to blog about and just haven’t had the energy to write (between writing syllabi/doing course prep and rehearsals).
1) One of the only things that’s allowed me to stay awake on my long late-night drives home from the theatre is the fact that, for some reason, my car radio picks up WBBM 780, The CBS affiliate back in my old Chicago homeland. It’s the most amazing, disturbing thing. There I am driving at night, unable to see much beyond the road itself, listening to the same traffic reports and news items and names and places that framed most of my life before I moved to my current Bucolic Rural Hamlet, and I am momentarily confused. I am simultaneously hoping for and terrified of the possibility that the next road sign will belong to far-off Illinois and not northwest Iowa — hoping, because I kind of miss it, and terrified, because there’s no freakin’ way it should happen. The commercials are different, the voices are different, the names are different…ads for industrial plumbers with Irish names instead of Dutch or Swedish or Norwegian, for example. Suddenly, the only governmental names that matter to me are names like Jesse White or Pat Quinn instead of Matt Schultz or Terry Branstad, and the license plates all seem horribly wrong, and I keep wondering where all the traffic is.
I keep listening, a little homesick, and it keeps me awake and alert for deer.
2) Today I got to experience the new panoramic x-ray machine at my dentist’s office. It is a bizarre experience. Chin in the cup, suck on the straw thingy, don’t move while the machine hums its circle around your head…
What I found most fascinating, though, was the resulting image. There’s something chilly and rather beautiful about it.
Consider an example or three: