I bought my first car when I was a freshman in college. Although I had always had access to a car during high school, this was my first shot at actually owning a car in my name, and I was excited. I purchased it from a friend and neighbor for five hundred dollars cash, and predictably, it was an absolute piece of garbage. It was a run down hatchback 1988 Chevy Nova whose poop-colored paint job could in most places still be discerned despite the gaping rust holes in the body work. The previous owner, who was a bit of a do-it-yourselfer, had welded together a huge roof rack made out of what I can only assume were construction grade steel girders, and had bolted it to the top of the car by drilling several six-inch bolts through the interior ceiling. While this rack would probably have been great for transporting military equipment or jumbo jets on the top of the car, it was not terribly conducive to good gas mileage, or any kind of aesthetic sensibility. Regardless, it came with a sound bill of health from said previous owner, and additionally, he promised to help me do whatever repair or maintenance was needed on the vehicle.
I bought the car when I was home on spring break, and took it back to college with me. It made the trip without a hitch and I was immensely happy with my purchase. I thought nothing more of it, until one rainy Sunday afternoon when I decided to make a trip to the public library to do some research for a paper I was writing - ironically enough - on clean fuel options. I walked out to my car, got in, turned the key, and nothing happened. Literally nothing. No sound whatsoever emitted from under the hood. I panicked and called my the guy who sold it to me.
“Eric, my car won't start.”
“Is it raining?”
“Well, yes, but what difference does that make?”
“Well, sometimes it has a little trouble starting in the rain. Give it a little gas when you turn the key.”
“Eric, a little gas is not going to do the trick. There is no hint that the car is even thinking about possibly trying to start. The engine isn't even making the sick car sound.”
He told me to give it twenty minutes and try it again. It still didn't start, regardless of how much I cursed at it and called it names and talked about its mother being a dump truck. An hour and a half later, and I was disgruntled, disheartened, and still behind on my research. I halfheartedly called the car a couple more dirty names and went inside.
A few days later, on a whim, I decided to see if I could get the car going. It started immediately, with no trace of it's prior angst. I was disgusted but also relieved. Perhaps it was just a fluke – one spot of bad luck for an otherwise good car. But of course that was not true. Over the course of the next few months, without fail, every time it rained, the car would flatly refuse to turn on. It got to the point where if it was raining when I woke up, I would call my work and let them know I was going to be late. And god forbid I were driving the car when it started raining, because it would turn off on the spot. On more than one occasion, the car actually stalled in the middle of an intersection, resulting in me pushing it, by myself, through the rest of the intersection and out of traffic. I'm not exactly sure how many of you have pushed a car by yourself, but it requires pushing from the driver's side with the door open while you simultaneously steer the car. Verdict: it fucking sucks.
During the life of the car, I took numerous trips to the auto body store in an effort to remedy this problem. I took the alternator out and had it tested. It worked perfectly. Starter? Check. Fuses? Check. New plugs, cap, and wires? Check on those too. I eventually got tired of wasting money and stopped buying new parts, but after only a few months, there was no fix under $100 that I hadn't tried.
This alone would have been bad enough, but the really messed up part was that while all this was happening, other stuff was breaking or going wrong with the car as well. The rear struts were old and crappy, and if I went around a sharp turn, especially during colder weather, they had a habit of getting stuck in the compressed position. They would stay stuck that way for anywhere from a few seconds to about twenty minutes, then hammer back into place with a terrifying suddenness that would almost cause the car to swerve off the road. The felt interior ceiling was falling apart, so I ripped it out and replaced it with a bolt of fabric from a craft store, which I stuck on with an exorbitant amount of carpet glue. Fuses blew regularly; with such a frequency in fact that I kept a stock of spares in my glove box in case one happened to go while I was on the road. For a while, the fuel mix (yes, it had a carburetor) was set too lean, so the idle speed would sometimes drop too low and the car would stall. I took it to a mechanic to have the mix tuned, and it drove the gas mileage through the floor. There was no middle ground; either no acceleration or terrible mileage. One day as I was leaving work, my car started with a horrifying roar, of the sort that might actually wake the dead. This continued all the way home, where – upon further inspection – I found a baseball sized hole in the muffler. Shortly thereafter, my brakes started making a hideous screeching noise (imagine: velociraptor crossed with terrible freight train accident) and when I took it to the mechanic he told me that I had inadvertently worn down my brake rotors to the point where it would be almost impossible to fix them. This shit kept happening and happening, and the expenses kept adding up. Over the course of three months, I put more money into parts and repair for that car than I have put into my current car in three years.
As you can probably imagine, I got fed up with this, and pretty quickly decided to sell the car. And by that I mean I got laughed at (literally) when I asked my mechanic how and where he thought I should sell it. His answer: “If you can, drive it to a tow-away zone and leave it there. That way you won't have to pay someone to take it away for you.” I ended up donating it to the “Boys Ranch” so they could scrap it for parts. They towed it away for free, and I got tax credit, and the removal of what had amounted to a huge pain in my ass. I consider that a success.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Sunday, July 19, 2009
The Burning Fury of a Thousand Million Suns (aka Odyssey #2)
In coming from upstate New York to Des Moines, Iowa, I had literally one of the worst drives of my life. Over the course of about thirty hours, each event compounded upon the one previous to create the worst travel experience since the Florida Odyssey. Here is the course of events:
Thursday, July 16, 2009
7:15pm: I finally get back to Albany NY, from PRG in New Jersey. I had expected to get there about 5:30. No matter.
7:16pm: I get into my car and start driving from Crossgates Mall in Albany. The roads around Crossgates are labyrinthian.
7:16:30pm: Immediately upon entering the freeway, I get blocked by a semi, and get shunted onto the northway, instead of the thruway west like I wanted.
7:17-7:25pm: Numerous actions taken to remedy situation.
7:25pm: Get back on Northway, then thruway, going the right direction.
8:30pm: Get on STE, to the sun setting into the Alleghenies. Beautiful.
10:00pm: I decide that I will drive 100 more miles, or until midnight, whichever comes first. I am on the interstate, and there seems to be numerous places to stop for the night.
10:15pm: All traces of life vanish. There are no more exits, and the road is pitch dark. I find this to be kind of sketchy.
10:35pm: Still nothing. No lights, few other cars.
11:05pm: My gas needle is on E. I start looking for gas stations. There aren't any.
11:26pm: There is a sign for a gas station off exit 29. I follow the signs into one of the most depressing small towns I have ever encountered. The gas station is closed. New York has a law that gas pumps must be shut off after the store closes. I curse everything that is good and holy.
11:28pm: I get back on the expressway. My gas needle is now below E. I proceed to get nervous.
11:46pm: After two fruitless exits, I find a gas station that is open. I fill my 11 gallon gas tank with 10.6 gallons of gas. Close call.
11:47pm: I get back on the interstate and begin searching for a hotel in earnest. Predictably, there are none.
Friday, July 17, 2009
12:13am: I see a sign for a Hampton Inn. There is a god.
12:15am: Hampton Inn is full. There is a god and he hates me. The desk clerk at the Hampton tells me that there is one room available at the Country Inn across town. He tells me to go fast because it is the last room available in at least 50 miles.
12:16am: I drive to the Country Inn like I'm black and the LAPD is chasing me.
12:24am: I get to the Country Inn. The room is still available. I get charged a small mortgage. Like literally, I paid less for a hotel room in Midtown Manhattan than for this Country Inn in bumblefuck NY. Predictably, I am not pleased.
12:16am: I shower off a day's worth of New Jersey grime, and then pass out.
7:45am: I wake up and raid the continental breakfast. By god I am going to get my money's worth out of this hotel.
8:03am: two bagles, a muffin, an apple, a bowl of cereal, and three cups of coffee later, I am ready to hit the road.
9:15am: I am already in Pennsylvania. I see a billboard advertising “Fireworks, Karate Supplies, Swords and Knives.” Perhaps my fates have turned.
10:23am: I cross the border into Ohio. I am all that is man. I stop at a rest stop for a celebratory Coca Cola and a tank of gas.
11:42am: I realize that I don't have my cell phone. I proceed to tear my car apart, almost driving off the road in the process.
11:44am: No cell phone. I realize that I left it on top of my car at the rest stop. It is now somewhere in the middle of I-90. About 100 miles behind me. In the pouring rain. God hates me, there is now no doubt.
12:10pm: I spend a dollar per minute to call my dad on a pay phone and let him know that my phone is toast. The only people who use payphones are homeless. I feel homeless.
12:16pm: I get back on the interstate. Only 500 miles to go.
3:24pm: Traffic backs up on the 80/90 in Indiana.
3:26pm: This is by far the worst traffic jam I have ever been in. Please note that I cut my teeth driving in Chicago and Orange County, CA.
3:28pm: I turn off my car and get out. On the side of the freeway.
3:44pm: Traffic starts to move again. I leisurely get back in my car and start driving. For 20 feet. And then stop and turn off my car again.
3:46pm: Two state police cars drive past me on the shoulder of the road. I am excited because I think they are going to divert traffic.
3:47pm: I notice that the police are not diverting traffic at all, but are instead giving tickets to people who are using the turnarounds to avoid the traffic jam. This is why people hate the police.
4:18pm: Traffic finally subsides. I have spent an hour going 2 ¾ miles. The reason for the traffic: one lane closed for 150 feet so construction workers could pick up road cones.
4:18:05: I contemplate what I might have done to piss off karma.
4:18:07: after some contemplation, I realize that I am probably pretty lucky that karma let me off this easily.
4:45pm: Because of the hour spent going nowhere in Indiana, I have hit full on Friday afternoon Chicago rush hour traffic (note the time change from EDT to CDT – I didn't actually make it from eastern Indiana to Chicago in under half an hour).
5:35pm: After spending almost an hour fighting assholes on the East-West Tollway, I am out of traffic and almost to Joliet. And I feel strangely at home.
6:10pm: Easy sailing through Illinois. Midwest expressways are ugly. I miss the Alleghenies.
6:53pm: Almost to Iowa. Score.
6:54pm: Construction on I-80. The interstate is down to one lane for 10 miles. So close, and yet, so far.
7:13pm: I finally make it into Iowa. 197 miles to Des Moines.
9:44pm: Arrive Des Moines. It is dark, cloudy, and cold.
10:15pm: I eat Jimmy Johns, and fall into a deep, comatose sleep.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
7:15pm: I finally get back to Albany NY, from PRG in New Jersey. I had expected to get there about 5:30. No matter.
7:16pm: I get into my car and start driving from Crossgates Mall in Albany. The roads around Crossgates are labyrinthian.
7:16:30pm: Immediately upon entering the freeway, I get blocked by a semi, and get shunted onto the northway, instead of the thruway west like I wanted.
7:17-7:25pm: Numerous actions taken to remedy situation.
7:25pm: Get back on Northway, then thruway, going the right direction.
8:30pm: Get on STE, to the sun setting into the Alleghenies. Beautiful.
10:00pm: I decide that I will drive 100 more miles, or until midnight, whichever comes first. I am on the interstate, and there seems to be numerous places to stop for the night.
10:15pm: All traces of life vanish. There are no more exits, and the road is pitch dark. I find this to be kind of sketchy.
10:35pm: Still nothing. No lights, few other cars.
11:05pm: My gas needle is on E. I start looking for gas stations. There aren't any.
11:26pm: There is a sign for a gas station off exit 29. I follow the signs into one of the most depressing small towns I have ever encountered. The gas station is closed. New York has a law that gas pumps must be shut off after the store closes. I curse everything that is good and holy.
11:28pm: I get back on the expressway. My gas needle is now below E. I proceed to get nervous.
11:46pm: After two fruitless exits, I find a gas station that is open. I fill my 11 gallon gas tank with 10.6 gallons of gas. Close call.
11:47pm: I get back on the interstate and begin searching for a hotel in earnest. Predictably, there are none.
Friday, July 17, 2009
12:13am: I see a sign for a Hampton Inn. There is a god.
12:15am: Hampton Inn is full. There is a god and he hates me. The desk clerk at the Hampton tells me that there is one room available at the Country Inn across town. He tells me to go fast because it is the last room available in at least 50 miles.
12:16am: I drive to the Country Inn like I'm black and the LAPD is chasing me.
12:24am: I get to the Country Inn. The room is still available. I get charged a small mortgage. Like literally, I paid less for a hotel room in Midtown Manhattan than for this Country Inn in bumblefuck NY. Predictably, I am not pleased.
12:16am: I shower off a day's worth of New Jersey grime, and then pass out.
7:45am: I wake up and raid the continental breakfast. By god I am going to get my money's worth out of this hotel.
8:03am: two bagles, a muffin, an apple, a bowl of cereal, and three cups of coffee later, I am ready to hit the road.
9:15am: I am already in Pennsylvania. I see a billboard advertising “Fireworks, Karate Supplies, Swords and Knives.” Perhaps my fates have turned.
10:23am: I cross the border into Ohio. I am all that is man. I stop at a rest stop for a celebratory Coca Cola and a tank of gas.
11:42am: I realize that I don't have my cell phone. I proceed to tear my car apart, almost driving off the road in the process.
11:44am: No cell phone. I realize that I left it on top of my car at the rest stop. It is now somewhere in the middle of I-90. About 100 miles behind me. In the pouring rain. God hates me, there is now no doubt.
12:10pm: I spend a dollar per minute to call my dad on a pay phone and let him know that my phone is toast. The only people who use payphones are homeless. I feel homeless.
12:16pm: I get back on the interstate. Only 500 miles to go.
3:24pm: Traffic backs up on the 80/90 in Indiana.
3:26pm: This is by far the worst traffic jam I have ever been in. Please note that I cut my teeth driving in Chicago and Orange County, CA.
3:28pm: I turn off my car and get out. On the side of the freeway.
3:44pm: Traffic starts to move again. I leisurely get back in my car and start driving. For 20 feet. And then stop and turn off my car again.
3:46pm: Two state police cars drive past me on the shoulder of the road. I am excited because I think they are going to divert traffic.
3:47pm: I notice that the police are not diverting traffic at all, but are instead giving tickets to people who are using the turnarounds to avoid the traffic jam. This is why people hate the police.
4:18pm: Traffic finally subsides. I have spent an hour going 2 ¾ miles. The reason for the traffic: one lane closed for 150 feet so construction workers could pick up road cones.
4:18:05: I contemplate what I might have done to piss off karma.
4:18:07: after some contemplation, I realize that I am probably pretty lucky that karma let me off this easily.
4:45pm: Because of the hour spent going nowhere in Indiana, I have hit full on Friday afternoon Chicago rush hour traffic (note the time change from EDT to CDT – I didn't actually make it from eastern Indiana to Chicago in under half an hour).
5:35pm: After spending almost an hour fighting assholes on the East-West Tollway, I am out of traffic and almost to Joliet. And I feel strangely at home.
6:10pm: Easy sailing through Illinois. Midwest expressways are ugly. I miss the Alleghenies.
6:53pm: Almost to Iowa. Score.
6:54pm: Construction on I-80. The interstate is down to one lane for 10 miles. So close, and yet, so far.
7:13pm: I finally make it into Iowa. 197 miles to Des Moines.
9:44pm: Arrive Des Moines. It is dark, cloudy, and cold.
10:15pm: I eat Jimmy Johns, and fall into a deep, comatose sleep.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
This Is What I Went To College For
Due to a few conversations I've had recently, I think that many people may be under the (false) impression that that backstage elements of a theatrical production are rehearsed to almost an exacting science. I wanted to take the time to correct that terrible misinformation here. As a general rule, we (theatrical technicians) don't really expend any more time or energy at our jobs than most people do, we just happen to be really good at what we do, which makes it easier to slack off, but still look like we're doing a good job. A perfect example: right now, as I'm writing this piece, I'm in the middle of running lights for a dress rehearsal of an opera. I'm listening to my stage manager over the headset in one ear, listening to Amos Lee on headphones in my other ear, and listening to the opera not at all.
When I'm running lights, I literally sit in a dark booth and push one button (GO) to make the lights change for three hours. That's it. Predictably, this is boring as fuck, so I generally use shows as my time to get some work done. They could make a Windows Mobile commercial about all the shit I do on my phone during a show; I have literally negotiated a contract with another theatre company via email while running a show for my current company. I check Facebook and Twitter, read the Times or the New Yorker, do the crossword; basically anything that a person with a normal job does in their cubicle when they're not supposed to, I do at the light board. Except here nobody cares.
Many people also think there is some sort of protocol for the communication that goes on during a show, which, to an extent is true. There are definitely things you can and cannot say on headset (“go” being a thing not to say, unless you are the stage manager calling a cue), certain times not to talk, and so forth. However, the further you get into the run of a show, the more comfortable everyone gets, and the more relaxed the headset etiquette gets. We have conversations, make plans for where to go drinking after the show, play games, take bets on who will be late to an entrance, &c. During today's matinee of Madama Butterfly, one of the ASMs (that's assistant stage manager, for you laymen) decided that the third act overture was a lot funner if you meowed along with the melody. Which she proceeded to do, as Puccini rolled in his grave. But it was a lot funnier, to her credit.
Basically, the upshot of all this is simply, the next time you go to a show, just be aware that it's being run by people who are screwing around at work just as much as you do. We're just better at it than you are.
When I'm running lights, I literally sit in a dark booth and push one button (GO) to make the lights change for three hours. That's it. Predictably, this is boring as fuck, so I generally use shows as my time to get some work done. They could make a Windows Mobile commercial about all the shit I do on my phone during a show; I have literally negotiated a contract with another theatre company via email while running a show for my current company. I check Facebook and Twitter, read the Times or the New Yorker, do the crossword; basically anything that a person with a normal job does in their cubicle when they're not supposed to, I do at the light board. Except here nobody cares.
Many people also think there is some sort of protocol for the communication that goes on during a show, which, to an extent is true. There are definitely things you can and cannot say on headset (“go” being a thing not to say, unless you are the stage manager calling a cue), certain times not to talk, and so forth. However, the further you get into the run of a show, the more comfortable everyone gets, and the more relaxed the headset etiquette gets. We have conversations, make plans for where to go drinking after the show, play games, take bets on who will be late to an entrance, &c. During today's matinee of Madama Butterfly, one of the ASMs (that's assistant stage manager, for you laymen) decided that the third act overture was a lot funner if you meowed along with the melody. Which she proceeded to do, as Puccini rolled in his grave. But it was a lot funnier, to her credit.
Basically, the upshot of all this is simply, the next time you go to a show, just be aware that it's being run by people who are screwing around at work just as much as you do. We're just better at it than you are.
Ed. Note
Um, so apparently this Berkeley Rep Fellowship thing is a somewhat bigger deal than I previously knew. The program has been written up on both the Stage Directions website and on Broadway World.com. I, as well as the other fellowship recipients get a little write up. I actually had no idea about either of these articles until they were pointed out to me by (in order) my girlfriend, my former TD, and an audio engineer I worked with several years ago. Check it out!
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
New Job
So, dear readers, it's time to break the news on my blog: I finally have a job for next year. I have just signed a 10-month contract with the Berkeley Repertory Theatre (I mailed it out yesterday), so it looks as though I'm about to become a resident of the California Republic. At this stage, I don't know much about the gig, other than I will be working at an internationally renowned LORT theatre, under one of the best master electricians in the business. Oh, and I'll be teching the world premier of Green Day's musical. Yeah that too...
It's really quite gratifying to find that, after four years of what sometimes seemed like fruitless labor as an undergraduate, I'm actually employable, and might just become a productive member of society after all. I'm also relieved that, at least until next June, I won't have to put my bar tending and coffee making skills to professional use. For that, I have a lot of people to thank, not the least of whom are my professors and co-workers at school, and from whom I learned a lot of lessons, both inside and outside of that theoretical realm we like to call academia. To be fair, quite a few of those lessons dealt with what not to do in the professional world, but still, those are good things to know as well. I also have to thank my parents for putting my broke ass through private school with a minimum of student loans – for someone who is trying to become a professional artist, that is incredibly important. Once again, I'm able to count myself among the successful – although lucky is probably more accurate – few theatre professionals who are able to go on doing what they love for the length of yet another contract. So raise your glass, pour one out for the homies, and keep them fingers crossed. Here's to new beginnings.
It's really quite gratifying to find that, after four years of what sometimes seemed like fruitless labor as an undergraduate, I'm actually employable, and might just become a productive member of society after all. I'm also relieved that, at least until next June, I won't have to put my bar tending and coffee making skills to professional use. For that, I have a lot of people to thank, not the least of whom are my professors and co-workers at school, and from whom I learned a lot of lessons, both inside and outside of that theoretical realm we like to call academia. To be fair, quite a few of those lessons dealt with what not to do in the professional world, but still, those are good things to know as well. I also have to thank my parents for putting my broke ass through private school with a minimum of student loans – for someone who is trying to become a professional artist, that is incredibly important. Once again, I'm able to count myself among the successful – although lucky is probably more accurate – few theatre professionals who are able to go on doing what they love for the length of yet another contract. So raise your glass, pour one out for the homies, and keep them fingers crossed. Here's to new beginnings.
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