it goes without saying

The Guy was sick during the first week of December, a minor illness that took him out of the hamster ball of work for a grand total of two days. It goes without saying that shortly after he recovered, my tender solicitude for his well-being and every comfort was punished by contagion: thus, an entire week went by in which I managed exactly three hours of face time in the office.

Three poorly chosen hours, as it happened. The strain of coming into the office and facing the purple monkeys initiated a vicious relapse, which sent me back to my bed for another three days.

Things I did while I was sick:

1. Watch West Wing Season 2, half of West Wing Season 3, Fellowship of the Ring, Blade, and the first half of Pride & Prejudice BBC.
   
2. Read American Gods by Neil Gaiman, Sunshine by Robin McKinley, Monstrous Regiment and Interesting Times by Terry Pratchett, an innumerable list of books by Georgette Hayer, Rumpole and the Primrose Path by John Mortimer, several Agatha Christies, King Hereafter by Dorothy Dunnett.
   
3. Eat instant soup.
   
4. Drool.
   
5. Cough.
   
6. Clean drool and instant soup from kitchen floor.
   
7. Whine.
   
8. Daydream about jabbing Bush with the business end of an empty flu vaccine syringe.
   

I didn't get the flu vaccine, which seems -- in retrospect -- to have been a bad idea. Then again, a few months ago they were saying in the news that the federal government was asking people not to get the flu vaccine unless you were over the age of 206, due to critical national shortages. Why I should have chosen this particular moment to attend to an announcement from a government I loathe and disrespect, I have no idea. All I know is, that's the first time I've done anything Dubya asked, and look how well that turned out. We'll be revisiting this subject come tax time, President Wanker.

"Give me your money."

"Say you're sorry first."

In the 2nd grade, I played Lucy in my class production of You're A Good Man, Charlie Brown.

My memories of the occasion are vague; however, I seem to recall that our teacher asked for volunteers to play Lucy, and the entire class shouted my name. It was a unanimous decision on the part of my classmates. Apparently, even at that early age, I projected the right degree of menace to play the neighborhood bully. At the age of 6, I was already being typecast. This is the sort of thing that scars one for life.

Children that age don't really understand the concept of acting. Given a character, they instantly select the person who already best fits the role. I was, it seems, a formidable 6 year old. Personally, I thought I was better suited for the role of Schroeder,

I've only had three brushes with the theater as anything other than an audience member. Drama as a subject has never seriously interested me; in my youth I was something of a drama queen, but then, most children are. Drama queens are, by nature, self-serving and self-engrossed: narcissists in the most annoying sense, but even in a sea of irritation there is variation. On the one hand, you have drama queens who prefer to hoard their angst by making private exhibitions of themselves to their closest and most martyred friends. This is the stuff that I was made of. On the other hand, you have generous drama queens, who prefer to share the blazing pimple-riddled pestilence of their personalities with the world.

This is the stuff that my high school drama class was made of.

In my senior year, I found myself one class short in my fine arts requirements. At 16 years old, I'd been playing piano for 13 years, performed with the Berlin Symphony, toured the US for 6 years doing concerts, performed in NHK Hall, Japan, was a member of a semi-professional piano trio--

--and I was one class short in my fine arts requirement. The public school system in America is baffling. This is how I ended up playing the piano in my high school's production of Grease, my third brush with dramatic greatness.

It was all very embittering. I do not care to revisit that memory. Let us just say that your average American high school is not a hotbed of talent.

Moving on.

My second experience with theatrical stardom was in middle school, when I was (for whatever reason) inspired to audition for the local theatrical production of Ozma of Oz. I auditioned for Ozma.

I landed the part of a Munchkin. Hindsight suggests I would've made a great Belinda the Chicken. Opportunities missed. (Alas.)

This brief fling with the great stage was notable for three things.

1. I was an adorable Munchkin. Bite me.
   
2. I had a single line: "Oh, no!" I imbued that line with a pathos unmatched by your most tragic Shakespearean character actor. They took it away from me and gave it to someone else. I was devastated.
   
3. I got back at the director by falling down on opening night and squashing my hat. In fact, people still remember my stunning performance as the last Marx Brother. "Remember when I was in Ozma of Oz?" "Oh yeah. You were that smurf that fell down." Which just goes to show you that some lights can't be hidden.
   

My mother had to make my costume. She did so without much complaint, an act of self-restraint which she compensated for by inserting commentary instead. "This is a very big hat," for instance. "You have a very big head."

"Why does the big hat fall off your big head? We will have to staple it on."

"Are you wearing underpants? Make sure you wear underpants. This costume does not have a bottom."

"Don't make the other children cry. It is very rude."

"What did I tell you about making the other children cry?"

"Your legs are so round. It is so cute!"

"This is very much work. I am very glad you are not the chicken. I think it would be very difficult to make a chicken costume."

"That girl looks very nice in the chicken costume."

"For Halloween this year I think you should be a chicken."

"Ask the nice chicken girl if you can borrow her costume."

"Please do not sit on your hat, Yuhri. It is very fragile and pointy."

You get the idea.

We're headed to Seattle tomorrow night for a week-long visit. Wish me luck. I leave you with the following: a picture of my sister climbing a cliff in Joshua Tree. Please note the pink spangled leotard she's wearing. And the ... other thing.

"Why're you wearing a pink tutu?"

"I was depressed."