Community Theater and Politics

 

politics - noun - the process of making decisions in groups involving the distribution of power, resources, and status; the maneuvering for influence within an organization (Merriam - Webster).

Say what you will. Politics is inherent in every human organization on the planet. You get x-amount of people together anywhere, anytime, or for any reason, and there will be a power play, someone grabbing for leadership. And when said person achieves power within the group (or who already has control), there will be favoritism. Some will win; some will lose. If you don't like it, you know where the door is.

Community theater is not immune to the aforementioned. In fact, politics in the production of plays is rife. I can't blame anyone in particular, just human nature. As an actor who has performed gratis or for a semblance of a paycheck, I have walked in and out of community theaters. I don't know about you, but I despise politics in all of its many forms simply because I don't like cliques or popularity contests. I believe in equity, good ole fairness, something that has gone out of fashion of late along with me as an actor. I audition (when given a chance), garner a part (usually one that no one else wants to play or can play), make my mark (or I think I do), and turn out to be the woman, not for all seasons, but for only one or two. It's not because I don't do the job well. I do. It is because there are actors in the troupe who are younger and prettier than I am of late, those whom the director favors. Granted, I used to have the same effect on directors, usually the men. In college, I fell into the elite theatrical clique and found myself being pre-cast, cast, and recast over and over again. But life is a balance. Isn't it? I should be glad I had been given a slice of the pie fifty years ago.

Nowadays, I am finding that the competition to fit in anywhere in the community theater realm is too fierce to tolerate. Here in Los Angeles, the traditional politics has continued and is perpetuated. I have found that some amateur and professional theater companies alike tend to be on the cultish side in that there is the director (or president), usually the founder of the company, who calls all of the shots. The minions kowtow to him or her in all cases as they want to keep being involved in the productions. If you don't fall into favor with the Grand Poohba, you fall out of favor, meaning the auditions cease to be publicly announced, and you are left out of the mix as the same actors keep getting contacted and cast. A public company soon becomes a repertory one, meaning a closed organization. End of story. Unfortunately, I've see it over and over again. 

Another thing that seems to be on the inequitable side is that actors who will never get paid are treated as though they should be paid. Which means that even if you are planning to audition for a community theater production, you have to be prepared to present a head shot, resume, and two monologues. Huh? What happened to reading from the sides? In addition, the rehearsal schedules are exhausting. Actors, who usually have day jobs or who attend school, are required to rehearse about 25 hours a week. I have been told that in L.A., there are so many actors vying for the golden ring, that community theaters have become showcases that agents attend looking for random talent. When this happens, all of the fun gets torn to shreds, sucked up, and diffused somewhere beyond the proscenium arches and the fourth wall. Amateur theater becomes professional sans monetary compensation.

A word to the wise: all of the above is not meant to discourage those of you who wish to participate in community theater. My purpose is just to be real and to present the truth of the matter. No matter what you do, you'll wind up contending with politics. It is just part of life. Being prepared in advance might make the inevitable a bit more palatable. Your passion for theater of this kind will have to keep you hungry. 

#CommunityTheater, #theater, #politics, #acting, #PersonalEssay, #blog, #blogger

The Malady Pneumonia, Seriously, Folks

 

malady - noun - disease or ailment 

A few months before I picked up the malady pneumonia via the HVAC system sixty-five days into a world cruise, I was told I should get vaccinated for pneumococcal pneumonia. Of course, I agreed because I mean, who wants to get sick while on vacation? What I didn't bother to do was read the fine print, meaning educate myself as to the vaccine's promises and accomplishments. Like what all should do before voting for a political candidate. After all, ignorance (not even the blissful variety) has never been proven to be worthwhile. According to the Centers for Disease Control, the "vaccination reduces the incidence of severe invasive pneumonia." Ah, huh. "Reduces" is a key word here. "Refuses" does not mean that it prevents the incidence of the disease, just that it minimizes the chances that 1. you will die or 2. you will wind up in a hospital for a week or more. 3. you will get double pneumonia, a death sentence. Admittedly, if I had read the fine print, I still would've been pricked. But I also might have been more vigilant and thought twice about engaging in risky behaviors, such as diving into an ice-cold pool while in Melbourne, Australia. (My spirit is way younger than my body.)

In case you have been lucky enough to steer clear of pneumonia, I will say that it isn't pretty. Although I have been fortunate enough not to have contracted COVID, according to my friends who have had it, in most cases, it isn't as bad as pneumonia. When I was 36, I wound up with walking pneumonia and pleurisy, a difficult combination as the latter is extremely painful. Back in 1995, when you came down with the duo, you went to a doctor who prescribed antibiotics and codeine, a narcotic opioid that was once used to reduce pain and coughing. It worked like a charm. Unfortunately, due to the addictive nature of it, it is no longer widely prescribed albeit I was able to procure a generic version of Tylenol with codeine on the ship, which really helped me, especially to sleep. (And no, I did not become addicted to it.) Naturally because I was young and resilient the first time I had the malady, I was up and out of bed within days. I even mustered the strength and courage to leave my narcissistic husband who, during my illness, had refused to get up off the couch to help me care for our daughter who was four at the time. (There is always a silver lining in the cloud.)

This time around, my body is just too mature to be able to shake off the malady easily. After over a month since the initial symptom of major congestion arose, I am not coughing as much, the mucus is not as bad, the pain in my ribcage from violent bouts of uncontrollable coughing is not as severe, and I breathe a bit easier now that my lung is pretty much clear. Yet the fatigue is still present. I have felt terrible for so long, I am not even certain as to what feeling good looks like. And I am afraid to leave my apartment as my immune system has been compromised. I will just have to see what the doctor says tomorrow and then will have to jump back into risk taking mode, something I've grown to be good at yet not entirely successful at.

What can I say? It sucks to be this sick, and my heart bleeds for people who are in much worse shape than I am because over time (six months?), I know I will be fine. But others may not. I'm not complaining. I am still kicking, albeit maybe not as high as I used to because I find myself out of breath after doing it. 

Actually, on the flip side, I am thankful. If I had never gotten the vaccine, chances are I might not have survived, or I might have wound up all alone in a malaria-infested hospital in Bangkok. So there is definitely something to be said for getting vaccinated. (So there, Mr. Kennedy.)

#pneumonia, #diseases, #vaccines, #health, #blog, #blogger 

A Not-So-Steep Learning Curve

 

learning curve - noun - a measurement in the rate of progress re: learning a new skill. A steep curve indicates high difficulty, whereas shallow curve points to the opposite (Reddit). 

If you happen to be blessed with common sense, you can often tame a steep learning curve. Perhaps not when it comes to mastering chess, however. But if you take a risk to learn via experience and can put two and two together, chances are it may be easy for you to walk away with knowledge worthy of sharing.

For those of you who followed my progress when I was on the world cruise, you know that at day 60 into the 114, I wound up contracting pneumonia from a faulty HVAC system on the Coral Princess and disembarked five days later in Bangkok, Thailand only to arrive back home in L.A. some twenty hours later via a United Airlines flight. But what you may not know is what I learned from the interrupted journey. 

I, a.k.a. "Girl interrupted," can honestly say that the gains from the risks of going on such an adventure far out number the losses. The trip itself represented a not-so-steep learning curve. The most important takeaway was that 2,000 international peoples (a cross section of Earth) with a common interest (travel), and perhaps a common language (English), can live in a small space (118,00 square feet), comparatively speaking, peacefully. Yes, when put in just the right situation, humans of all religions and political affiliations can get along, something the politicians may never quite comprehend.

Another tidbit of knowledge that I walked away with is that the Pacific Ocean is so incredibly vast. If you travel by jet, you can't get an idea of the size of it and of the world in general. Travel via cruise ship is worth any price so that you can understand how small you (and your problems) are compared to the greatness (and complications) of the planet. (F.Y.I.: Humility is not a bad trait to embrace.)

Another significant insight I now grasp is that the natural beauty of the world is so divine that it is worth saving, no matter the cost. I visited 26 ports in about twelve countries on three continents, or roughly half of the globe in terms of mileage. The most spectacular to the eye was French Polynesia. That said, global warming is taking its toll on the wildlife. (Yes, it is a reality.) An avid snorkeler for the past fifty years, I noticed when underwater that the number and types of marine life have diminished compared to when I spent time exploring depths from the surface in the Caribbean during the 1970s and 1980s. The water is getting simply too warm for many of the creatures, and they are becoming extinct.

So that's all I can think of right now, but I'm sure I could unearth more if I had more time. In summary, the aforementioned were not hard to come up with as I kept my eyes and heart open and common sense turned to "on." 

In parting, I will leave you with this: Nothing is ever lost even if you have to jump ship midstream. 

#travel, #cruise, #vacation, #knowledge, #common sense, #blog, #blogger

An Inopportune End to the Cruise

 

inopportune - adjective - something happening at a poorly timed, unsuitable, or inconvenient moment. (Dictionary.com)

The funny thing about life is that no matter how well a lubricated engine may be running, a wrench can fall into the mechanism at any time and cause rod knock, the inopportune cessation of forward motion, the immediate end to all "best-laid plans of mice, men," and a sixty-seven-year-old retired woman. 

For those of you who have been following the progress of my 115-day world cruise via this blog, you might have noticed that the piece about Bali was my last entry, which was a couple of weeks ago. Somewhere between March 10th, when the initial symptom of congested sinuses appeared and my diagnosis of pneumonia (so much for the vaccine) ten days later, the wrench fell and the trajectory of my trip changed radically. My illness most likely resulted from lack of sleep (my bed was right above a drum set in one of the late-night lounges) and the bacteria-infested HVAC system onboard that my fellow passengers felt comfortable enough to cough directly into. Unfortunately, I spent about five hours over five days and six thousand dollars charged to my credit card in the medical center of the Coral Princess, lapping up intravenously fed antibiotics while occasionally noticing the changes of scenery from out of a porthole by the hospital bed. Portions of Kuala Lumpur (the lackluster terminal at the port), Penang (a beautiful, mountainous city not unlike Rio), Singapore (a view of Korean cruise ship), Ko Samui (Thailand's Caribbean), and Bangkok (too far inland to be seen from my viewpoint). As the generic potion being fed was doing more harm than good to my body (it gave me heart palpitations and minor convulsions), I was forced to make a decision between two potentially hazardous options: 1. Be ferried and admitted into the nearest hospital in Bangkok 2. Have my daughter find me a flight out of Bangkok to L.A. As the first was so much more risky than the second, I went with the second as there was no way I was going to be left alone in a Thai hospital teaming with way more lethal illnesses like malaria than basic pneumonia. Although the ship's doctor did not agree with my choice, I signed the right waver thereby putting my life into my own hands, which is where it should have been anyway considering the circumstances. 

The next day, I found myself at the mercy of an Uber driver, a young Thai woman and her sleeping child who lay shotgun in the front seat. The driver did not speak much English but understood where she was taking me, nearly 1.5 hours from the port. Averaging 40 KPH over the speed limit, she got me to the airport (with a name way too long to mention or pronounce) forty minutes later. Needless to say, anything worth seeing sped by so fast that I could only make out blurred outlines of tropical swamp land, warehouses, innumerable trucks, and a rest stop of all American fast food restaurants. Only the signage reflected an Asian country. The airport was chaotic: six lanes of traffic, single cars stopping to unload mid-flow in any one of the lanes, a departures terminal that looked like a string of about four Costcos put together, and no curbside porters. Just carts and chaos. My driver lugged my one huge suitcase from 1986 onto a chart, and once inside, I wheeled it in and out of towering Asian icons until I found the United Airlines counter in row G. Luckily, I had spent the big bucks to buy a premium ticket, which included a wheelchair, a true lifesaver as my gate was probably about a mile from the check-in counter. The trek on foot would have killed me. To make a long story somewhat shorter, I was wheeled right onto the plane which first flew to Hong Kong (another port that I was scheduled to visit on the cruise) and then to L.A., some twenty hours later. I had not been as happy to be on American soil since 1976 after returning from a month-long concert tour of Communist Poland.

So my number-one-bucket-list dream trip went from the sublime to the virulent within a matter of days. What's left is a litany of insurance forms to file that will hopefully result in a partial refund and many more antibiotics to take as I recline in my bed, virtually quarantined for the next three weeks. At least I'm not dead...yet. Either way, I will take with me more than one vintage suitcase of wonderful memories of around 23 exotic ports of perfection and about four new life-long friends. Priceless. 

Do I have any regrets? No. Would I do things differently if I had the chance? Yes. I would spend a few thousand more and reserve a room with a balcony so that I could have peace, quiet, and access to fresh air. And by the way, I don't recommend that you take a Princess cruise in the near future unless you have an immune system made of steel. Just sayin'. 

#travel, #PrincessCruises, #pneumonia, #Bangkok, #blog, #blogger, #personal essay 

Entering Asia: Anachronistic Bali

  

anachronistic - adjective - belonging to a time other than what is being portrayed. (Oxford Languages)

Bali, Indonesia is an island of distinct contrasts. It is as though it is involved in a tug-a-war between its past (its own culture influenced by firm belief in Hindi polytheism, the anachronistic side) and its present (Western culture, primarily American). Although seemingly at odds with each other, both have managed to coexist extremely well by allowing each other separate beds in the same garden to grow. 

As I was waking up to the heat and humidity (80 degrees F with ninety percent humidity at 9 a.m. soon to become 90 degrees) of Bali, the port in Benoa was painted in tones of grays. Normally colorful, the "jukung" Balienese boats (outrigger canoes) blended into the banal atmosphere. But the monotone look did not last long. It ended with the entrance of our animated tour guide Shoopy, dressed head to toe in red and black, two hues that would repeat themselves throughout the day in the pagoda-style architecture and temples. While inside of the bus, despite being effervescently friendly and completely complimentary (he said one of my seventy-year-old bus mates looked like she was seventeen), as his accent was so pronounced, I could only understand every third word he said: "Seesemmes so fities ah plastic bags, memistro tofememe cookies and coffee." You get the picture. 

I did pick up on one entire sentence in English, though: "No money, no honey." Which was pretty much the theme sentence for the day. Other than a few minutes spent at a magical Hindu temple (I had to wear a makeshift sari to hide my knees) and interesting artifacts museum, featuring prehistoric bones and other fossils, we were taken to one shop after the other (most likely owned by the cruise companies) with the sole intention of getting us to improve the Balinese economy. It was something that I did buy into as I pretty much felt sorry for them. In between the splendid, ornate temples, thousands of motor scooters and SUVs were slums and filth despite Bali's being a huge tourist destination. 

On the day of our arrival, the city of Denpasar was preparing for their New Year's festival, so the mood was celebratory and decidedly American. Oddly enough in a park across from the temple that we visited, there was a live classic rock concert going on before noon. As we stepped off of the bus, we were serenaded by "Knocking on Heaven's Door" by Guns and Roses (how ironic!) and later "Listen to the Music" by the Doobie Brothers, covers performed perfectly. A Honda 150 rode in front of me, the female driver of which was wearing a UCLA Bruins T-shirt. I had just enough time to give her a thumbs-up and to say, "Yay, Bruins!" Which she probably did not hear. (Although the U.S. may not be universally appreciated these days, I suppose California is still considered to be cool.) Within a block of us was a Burger King, a McDonalds designed to look like a Hindu temple–proof of my opening insight–and a Pizza Hut. Were the locals trying to make us feel more at home (so that we'd spend more)? Or had our culture completely won them over? Who's to say?

Before closing, here are some fun facts I learned about Bali: There are 4.5 million people on the island of 2,230 square miles. Two hundred languages are spoken. Cock fights are allowed, especially during New Year's. The people are highly creative, known for their batiks and woodcarvings, gold and silver jewelry. The "Love" portion of the Hollywood movie Eat, Pray, Love (Julia Roberts) was filmed there. I recognized some of the locations probably because I saw the movie more than once. 

Did I like Bali? Yes. And I can't quite say why. Maybe I just appreciate anachronisms, colors that clash.

#Bali, #travel, #cruise ship travel, #Indonesia, #blogger, #blog

Fremantle and Perth: Hooroo, Australia!

 

hooroo - Australian slang term for goodbye.

After 365 degrees of Australian coastal exploration, we wound up spending a final day on the continent, touring the sister cities of Fremantle and Perth, West Australia. My first impression of the port in Fremantle had more to do with my home state than of Australia as when I stepped out onto the balcony of the stern down the hall from my stateroom, what should I see but the stern of a Sicilian container ship by the name of Grande New Jersey. Ha! One never knows what one will find halfway around the world. 

I pretty much knew this area of the country would be extra friendly from the second we stepped onto the gangplank as we were greeting by a local band playing a rock 'n roll classic from the 1960s. Our German (?) tour guide Ingrid met us at the bus driven by a young woman from Africa. Needless to say, Australia is a country of diversity. An Australian resident since the 1980s, Ingrid had memorized all of the ins and outs of the area. As we rode through Fremantle, a small town reminiscent of Skagway, Alaska (but not as rustic), she pointed out the jail, which convicts from the U.K. built in the 1800s to house those guilty of minor crimes (the murderers were hanged). The prison was in use until an uprising closed it in 1992. At present, it is the primary tourist destination in Fremantle other than Cottesloe Beach, famous for sharks and surfing. And no, the two don't go together well. Ironically, there was a shark net cordoning off the water, but no surfers as there wasn't any surf. (Wrong time of year, maybe?) What stood out for me were the colorful, modern art installations right on the beach and the throngs of school children, all dressed in uniforms. Apparently in Australia, both public and private school students wear uniforms except the private school students have the advantage of donning "designer" looks for the sake of class differentiation. Personally, I'd rather be an unobtrusive, public school Aussie kid. 

On the way to Perth, we drove through Billionaires' Row, a neighborhood similar to Beverly Hills composed of fabulous multi-million-dollar homes of various architectural styles, ranging from Tudor to ultra contemporary. Like much of urban Australia, the gold rush made the inhabitants rich. Apparently, the largest nugget in this area weighed 75 kg (I weigh 52 kg). So yes, it was massive for a solid gold rock. 

About an hour later, we arrived in Kings Park, way larger than Central Park, overlooking the skyline of Perth. Most of the park is still bush although part of it houses the Western Australia Botanical Gardens, an expanse of beautifully sculpted areas of rocks, ponds, grass, and indigenous vegetation, including the 750-year-old Gija Jumulu (Boab tree). (It looked its age.) After a side trip to a wonderful gift shop selling gorgeous local artisans' wares, we re-boarded the bus for Perth. We spent the next thirty minutes touring the town, taking in all of the sights of Perth, a very clean city. (I only saw two homeless people.) The weather, like that of SoCal, is moderate all year round as Western Australia has a Mediterranean climate. 

On the way back to the ship, we took Canning Highway, the inspiration for Australia's Bon Scott's AC/DC hit, "Highway to Hell." According to Ingrid, underaged Bon had visited his favorite bars along this highway, often getting in trouble with the police. Sadly, alcohol poisoning eventually took his life when he was only in his early 30s. But the song most certainly lives on and on and on.  

Overall, Australia as a country met my often grand expectations. If all goes south in my neck of the woods, I could easily see myself living in Melbourne, which was my favorite city destination on this expansive leg of the journey. Hooroo, Aussies, kangaroos, koalas, cockatoos, etc. I will miss you all. 

Stay tuned for adventures in Bali, Indonesia. 

#WesternAustralia, #Perth, #Fremantle, #travel, #cruising, #PrincessCruises, #blog, #blogger

Preternatural, Natural Adelaide and Perth

 

preternatural - adj. - beyond what is normal (Oxford Languages)

Although the third largest city of Adelaide, Australia (a near duplicate of Grand Rapids, South Dakota) did not impress me, Cleland Wildlife Park, a multi-acred expanse devoted to the preternatural, natural animal species of Australia did. And I almost sailed out of Australia sans seeing these creatures, unique to the continent. Shame on me! If I had, I would have missed out on Australia's true worth: its amazing marsupials, etc.  

When my friend Victor, a self-pronounced Mexican playboy, and I were informed by our tour guide that we would have only an hour and a half (too brief) to explore, we hit the dusty trail at the park's entrance, running. It was in vain as by the time we arrived at the koala habitat, there was a long line of tourists waiting to pet and hold one of about three koalas. Fortunately, there were other koalas to see, so rather than spend time waiting, we just watched while the three left in the cage entertained us. If you have never seen one of these cuties, definitely try as they are worth the admission price to the right zoo. 

What I liked about this preserve was that the kangaroos (big and small, old and young) were left to roam freely. The little ones were extra friendly, and we enjoyed feeding them pellets, the kind you'd feed rabbits. But be careful. They have feet like ravens' and the claws are just as sharp. We also saw a lazy yellow dingo, a dead ringer for a yellow lab mix, wallabies (very small kangaroos), and a Tasmanian devil, who behaved like the Pope at the Vatican. In full control of his audience, the little devil (who had the face of a bear cub) would come out of his log home to greet the onlookers and then would retreat after about two minutes. He did this intermittently to keep everyone in place, hungry for the next appearance. Clearly, the critter really knew what he was doing. 

Before having to report to the bus, Victor and I took in the huge pelicans, musical cockatoos, and content wallabies (mini kangaroos). Although I tried hard, I couldn't seem to locate the wombats (that are a cross between guinea pigs and woodchucks), but I was told that they were out of sight, asleep, anyway. 

If you are anywhere in Australia, don't forget to get to a wildlife preserve. They have them near every major city. You won't be disappointed. 

Last stop in Australia: Perth

#Adelaide, #Australia, #animals, #wildlife, #blog, #blogger, #travel