The Wheel of (a week's) Time...

You know what's hard? Pantomiming the driving of a vehicle in an effective manner. I would go so far as to say that simply pantomiming steering a vehicle in an effective manner is tough. Accomplishing this feat whilst acting, focusing on the emotions and intentions yet making it all seem instinctive, effortless? For that, my friends, we have a special acting term: SUCKY. ("Very sucky...!") I should know. It's one of those things -- right up there with the Marx Bros. mirror bit -- that I am routinely asked to perform with little-to-no regard for how insanely difficult it is. It is an idea that is simple, so (ergo, ipso facto, obiter dictum) them what aren't actually obligated to then execute said idea tend to assume that said execution is relatively simple as well. Well I say: Horse Hockey.

So. Josh Sohn's Flowers (see 1/25/10) is set predominantly within a taxi cab, and one that spends most of the play in motion. As ours was a production limited in both time and money, I opted to forgo the rear-projection, Dewey-decimal-encrypted sound cues, and even the flown car chassis. No, instead I made my priority four chairs, a couple of sound cues and one specific bit of vehicular-motion-implying choreography. Oh, and a free-standing steering wheel. That's a little specialized, thought I, but heck: I've seen one somewhere before, and it must be a pretty common necessity for plays now-a-days; I'm sure some theatre person or other will know a company with one I can borrow or rent...

Alas, no.

In my ten days of searching, I had only one lead, and that ended up being a dead end due to the theatre having recently cleaned out their storage. In addition to that, finding just a steering wheel, with no mounting or any other assemblage, was also proving harder than I had thought. Garages in and around NYC have precious little space for keeping such a rarely necessary spare part, and the wheels that are around (but are unattached, so to speak) are often gutted semi-circles of plastic where buttons and airbags used to be. There's little auto-salvage of worth that isn't miles out into the boroughs, and I had no time. So. On a Thursday night before our final rehearsal, I ventured out to Brooklyn to GET IN THE ZONE of all three of their AutoZones (endorsement gleefully submitted).

There was much prelude of calling the stores and getting - um - somewhat uninformed "assistance" (No no no: I said "steering wheel," not "steering wheel cover." No, the actual wheel, itself. No, not a tire, for mrgrph's rarghnlsik...) but suffice it to say there were not one but TWO steering wheels for sale at my first visit to an Atlantic Avenue AutoZone. I opted for the $30, somewhat dragster-looking one, rather than the more classic $100 kit with "mahogany" (read: red plastic) grip. Call me crazy:
From there it was a question of making a stand for the thing. Now, I am a very organized person who likes to plan everything in advance and is rarely forced to improvise. (The preceding sentence is a total fabrication.) However, I had little-to-no time in which to construct a somewhat reliable stand that would not only hold the wheel up, but allow it to turn. I considered all sorts of possibilities on the subway from Brooklyn to Upper East Side -- I'm still wondering if I could find a door handle mount that might allow for turn resistance and a proper stop point -- but by the time I made it to Home Depot, I was pretty well settled on "simple" plumbing hardware.

The longish bits (technical term).
The joinish stuffs. (Very technical jargon, don't be embarrassed about totally not knowing it.)

The bits you see above are the final result in terms of ingredients, but initially I didn't know with what sorts of things I had to work; it was a little bit like seeing Legos for the first time, and trying to attach them diagonally to one another or make a one-bump lock that allowed a piece to turn around a bit. (No one with me on this? Just me? All righty then....) I was pleasantly surprised, however, to discover that before flexible plumbing solutions developed, plenty of folks struggled with questions of angles and changes in pipe width. Of particular excitement were the varied lengths of "nipple" above (and, on the barcode, no joke: "five-inch black nipple") and the hex-nut-looking thingamajig, which converts 3/8 inch threaded pipe to 1/2 inch. But the pièce de résistance was the 45 degree joint. I doubt the good people of Home Depot have ever seen that kind of unbounded expression of enthusiasm in the plumbing aisle (they're probably still trying to clean up that aisle).

Now there followed about 24 hours' worth of trail-and-error. In a perfect world I would have had access to some kind of very heavy, fold-able music-stand base. (Actually, in a perfect world I would have been able to find a flippin' free-standing steering wheel in someone's prop closet.) Things being as they were, I came up with the below to solve the problems of a secure base that pitched things at the proper angle. Initially all three legs had the rubber stopper you see below on the stabilizing leg, but it didn't clear out the wobble caused by the lower T-joint making contact with the floor, so I had to get a couple of 90 degree joints for the other two feet.

Don't worry, honey; I bleached the table after all this photographic genius.

It's a great base in terms of setting the angle of the rest; it's only okay for stability. A sandbag or the like would make it rock-solid, and frankly, this is pretty good for NYC purposes in that it's awfully portable. It was less so initially, when I had a single three-foot length of pipe for the main shaft. But, as a bonus, I felt COMPLETELY BAD-ASS walking down the street with that. Anyway.

Twice. I bleached it twice. Cross my heart.
The actual mechanism of a turn-able wheel, while not terribly complex, was interesting to figure out. The hex-shaped conversion piece was a great find because it allowed me with the help of a few washers to create a rather more stable bed for the wheel. Without those pieces, the wheel would have wobbled on the millimeters of space between its central hole and the axle (tiny nipple!).


Once it was all sandwiched together, I started getting excited. The 45-degree joint seemed like my best bet in the store, but I couldn't very well construct the whole thing there, so there was no way for me to know how it would present. Damn my boring geometry teacher! I pretty much had to give it up at that point and just see how we did. I couldn't do any better, at least not for this go-around.


Dude:

What? WHAT?! Oh yeah - that was me, I did that. Me. Recognize.

It so worked. I mean, it's not going to trounce Avatar for scenic design anytime soon, but look at the angle of that wheel. Just look at it. It's a thing of beauty, borne of truth. That is undeniably a prop that will turn any set of two-to-six chairs into a motor vehicle, is what that is. I plan to be renting it out, never you fear, and at the exceedingly reasonable rate of $100/hr., with only a $5,000 security deposit. Sure, the wheel looks like it belongs on a stock car. Sure, the frame sooner inspires thoughts of Supper Mario Bros. than it does aerodynamic internal combustion machines. And yes, the wheel continues to turn ad infinitum, turning anyone who drove such a vehicle into some strange singularity of time and space.

But for ten minutes worth of a show, an actor who otherwise might didn't have to mime a steering wheel.

The Perfect Notebook

It is one of those personal, secret blessings of my work as an actor/"creactor" that the work necessitates the use of notebooks. By secret blessing, I mean a requirement that makes me very happy for somewhat irrelevant reasons. I love notebooks. Something about their organization, informality, yet relative physical permanence satisfies me in a very personal way. (See the manila-folder sequence in

Stranger than Fiction

for a nice illustration of a secret blessing of one's work.) I find this a bit odd, this affection for notebooks, since I generally detest hand-writing when I could be typing. It is, however, undeniable.

I would like to design my own notebook. Not just design it, mind you, but get it made, so I can use it. Maybe I could turn this into a profitable enterprise (imagine funding my acting career with notebooks--I'm giddy at the thought) but primarily I'm simply interested in making something that helps me work. I have favorite notebooks as it is, mind you.

Moleskine(R)

is and always will be a classic, and they produce an impressive variety of sizes and custom uses. I also use the "

Katebook

" quite a lot for shows. They come in a variety of sizes as well, and are easy to paste script pages into; their best feature by far, though, is the colored page edges that neatly pre-divide them into 3 or 5 sections.

Neither of these brands satisfy completely, however. There are very particular aspects to working on the kinds of shows that I do, which require special considerations. It is a simple matter to answer these demands -- it's just that no one's done it yet, as far as I know. Someone, please, let me know if my answer is out there somewhere. In the meantime, what follows is a kind of verbal illustration of my dream-notebook.

  • Size. A critical aspect. THE critical aspect, in many ways. I at once need something that fits easily into all of the bags I practically live in, and with the capacity to hold a lot of information in an organized fashion, and something that can be comfortably held in one hand. Because I'm often acting with it, see, and taking notes. A good size for me has been the 6"x8" Katebook; it's perfect for pasting standard script pages in, and not too cumbersome to hold (though a little thick/heavy when approaching the end of a rehearsal period). I might go with something more 7"x8", however, for various reasons to be further explained. And a little thinner; say, 1/2" to 3/4"?
  • Durability. It must withstand the worst atrocities you may imagine, for not only will it be dropped, it will be thrown. And it will get wet. It may even be exposed to a Meisner exercise gone wrong.
  • Binding. A tricksy question, my precious. I dig the hardcore durability of the Moleskine(R), but the notebook must be able to be folded in half, for hand-holding. Plus, with items added to it, it need to be able to expand a bit without turning into an effective doorstop. Which leads me to believe good ol' spiral binding is still the way to go. However, it should be with a thick strand that's very resistant to flattening or uncoiling, and that spiral needs to have a covering. Fabric, maybe. Something that saves it from the various abuses that taking a notebook in and out of containers invariably inflicts upon ye olde spiral binding.
  • Cover. One of the best things about a Moleskine(R) is one of its most subtle features -- the cover. It's lightweight and pliable, yet coated with a material (formerly leather, not sure what now) that makes it extremely durable. The only fault I find with it is the color. It makes the outside fairly useless for titling or what-you-will. So in my world, the cover is the same stuff, only a lighter color. Not white, but perhaps a nice tan or beige. Rounded corners.
  • Paper. Durable, yet fairly thin. Not so much so that ink bleeds through, but often the extra weight of a notebook has to do with using a kissing cousin of cardstock for the paper. The paper needs to have those color gradations on the edges that the Katebook has. And most importantly, it should be graph paper. GRAPH. PAPER. Why? It's the best. You can write neatly portrait or landscape, make neat columns and such, and drawings look fancy-fied by it. Rounded corners.
  • Features. The elastic strap on Moleskine(R)s (it closes the book by wrapping around the right lateral edge) is perfect as container and place-holder. Most of these also have some sort of expanding wallet attached to the inner back cover for scraps of paper. In my notebook, there will be one such on the front cover, just big enough for one or two sheets (contact sheet, schedule) and a larger, compartmentalized one on the back. Both will fit an 8 1/2 x 11 sized paper, folded in half along the horizontal. Finally, within the spiral binding, there will be a place to hold a pencil. This will be a special design, as it will need to be suspended in such a way that it doesn't interfere overmuch with the opening and closing of the notebook.
  • What it won't have. A spring clip -- too cumbersome, and ultimately non-useful. Other pockets -- huge increase on bulk. Removable paper -- unavoidably comes loose (this is a problem with the Katebook) and it's spiral anyway; torn edges be damned. Zipper closure -- notebooks were intended to be opened faster than that, douche. Pre-printed pages -- if I want a calendar or metric-conversion table in there, I'll use paste. Anything that juts -- why would you do that to us? It's like some kind of sick, Nazi, social experiment, watching people fumble getting things in and out of pockets and bags.

The only thing left is what to call it. And, you know, actually diagramming it, producing and distributing it. Marketing it. Legal action when I get sued by both Moleskine(R) and Kate's Paperie. Aw, forget it! Who needs the aggravation?

Anything is worth the realization of the perfect notebook...

Update 3 June 2008: Ask, and the good people at MAKE shall provide!

ITALIA: June 20, 2007


Okay: I was a bit hasty when I encouraged you to avoid thinking of Bevagna’s “Medieval Festival” as though it were an American “Renaissance Festival.” The similarities are, in fact, quite arresting. The only distinctions appear to be that 1) The Medieval Festival is taking place in a town of the appropriate age, and 2) A Renaissance Festival includes dragon puppets and magic satchels and things of this nature. In all other things the two resemble one another quite closely. This town has even erected some pseudo-historical structures constructed from cast fiberglass and molded polystyrene, the ethos behind which we have been scratching our heads about all the live-long day.

It has been a long day. So long, in fact, that by 5:00 we had had enough and David rented us a room in a nunnery ("get thee to"), and we had a nap. It was well worth it. Prior to that, the day started at 6:30 in the morning in order to try to arrive in Bevagna on time to meet Andrea and Natsuko when they got there. The drive was intense—almost two hours, and full of the most winding roads I’ve ever driven on. I’m pretty certain there were a couple of times there when we traveled back in time a little, the road curled back on itself so impossibly. We split the drive with a quick stop for breakfast and a walk in Todi. We didn’t stay long. My impression is that the city is built on a spire. You walk steeply uphill to its center, and jog in a sort of controlled fall to get back to where you parked. When we got through all that, we didn’t land in Bevagna until 11:00ish.

When we met up with Andrea and Natsuko in the central piazza, we all five promptly headed off to a bar for l’acqua and caffe. It was an incredibly hot day, just getting warmed up. When we could justify sitting under umbrellas no more, we headed off to visit with one of Andrea’s friends who was also working in his quarter. The “Medieval Festival,” it seems, actually dates back to the time it honors. Bevagna is divided into four quarters known as gaiti, or gates, which refers to the town having essentially four walls, each with its own entrance. Back in the day, the gaiti were fiercely competitive. Each had there own church, their own laws, etcetera. It got so territorial at times that the gaiti would put up chains across their borders, and anyone caught on the wrong side would be killed. (Suddenly Romeo & Juliet becomes credible in a whole new way.) The festival continues in this tradition with—we hope—less bloodshed, by forming itself as a competition in authenticity and entertainment between the four quarters. Andrea’s role in all this was to a play a sort of wandering clown for Gaite Sant Giorgio.

His friend whom first we met is a painter of icons and frescoes. This was an amazing visit. We went into the workshop he had set up for the event, and it’s hard to imagine anything more genuine. I couldn’t stop taking pictures. Essentially, he gave us the full tour and lecture on his technique, hours before he would be expected to do it for the public. From color making to charcoal graphing to gold leafing, it was fascinating. I couldn’t even understand a fifth of what the guy was actually saying, and it was still fascinating.

Afterwards we all went to lunch together in the main courtyard of Sant Giorgio, where later that night the quarter’s feats would be held. Sheets were hung at intervals, over tables still stacked atop with their benches, and we met other performers and artisans of the gaite who were there for their midday meal. And, essentially, we were served a full Italian meal with wine amidst really charming and interesting people…for free. Guests of Andrea. This is the least of what we owe this man. It was a marvelous meal. After that we followed the man in charge of running the coin-stamping site into his cool basement workshop, were he minted each of us a medieval Perugian coin. Then Andrea walked us around the town to visit the other quarters, the outlet for the town’s water supply and one of the churches. Finally it was time for him to prepare for the evening at his digs in the quarter’s nunnery. (Get thee to one, go!) This was when our fatigue drove us to rent rooms there, and we napped until past 7:00.

When we woke, famished, the evening’s festivities were just getting under way. David couldn’t wait for one of the feasts to squelch his hunger, and we weren’t in a hurry to disagree (though I admit I might have waited for the experience) so we dove into the only open restaurant we could find in town. While there, Andrea found us, and whilst in character. He had donned a medieval tunic and accentuated it with his customary (and costume-ry) props, like a helmet and the collapsible sword I used for a scythe in our clown piece, and an ashtray breastplate, and was wearing a Pantalone mask. He was wildly funny, carousing with every person in reach like a drunken soldier on holiday. We agreed to meet up later for a drink, and we were off to the central piazza again to people-watch during passagiata. Everyone was out to impress that night, from packs of pre-teen boys to elderly couples walking hand-in-hand. We agreed that the festival was really just an excuse for a super-passagiata.

After wine with Andrea and Natsuko David decided he was feeling spry and we left our monastical digs to drive the two hours back to the agriturismo. I was asleep before we got out of Toscana. The love of this country wears me right out.

WHO'S WITH ME?

A Guy I used to know (and I don't mean Jesus by my all-caps action; his name was actually "Guy [pronounced like 'dye,' not 'dee']" had this character he would pull out on occasion, named Philo [pronounced "Fie-low"][sp?]. Philo was famous for boisterously proclaiming inanities and absurdities, usually of the fairly offensive variety, and then seeking consensus from the room. Usually the room was full of strangers, and usually Philo received little-to-no seconds of his motions. I.e.:

"I say, cute as they may be, baby seals were put on this earth for our carnal pleasure, and, ultimately, for us to club to death. WHO'S WITH ME?!"

That was the format. "I say,

[

insert shocking statement here

]

. WHO'S WITH ME?!" But don't get the wrong impression about Philo. I rather loathe discomfort humor (Ali G. et al, shock-jokes, etc.) but found Philo hysterical, mostly because he was so impotent. There was no fear of him fulfilling any of his plans, or investing in diabolical real estate (

Evil Mastermind Headquarters

, for example) unless someone--just once--would back him up. He just made these shocking proclamations and stood there, expectantly looking around him for raised hands.

Well, I have since adopted the jokes for those moments in my life that need levity. It breaks tension well. Just recently, however, I have discovered that more and more I might be just a little Philo. I might be suffering from a mild form of Philo-itis. Hence the subject of today's entry, kiddies:

I sure wish I could stop checking out the ass of every woman I notice.

WHO'S WITH ME?!

...

Oh. Okay. Fair enough. But my point is: I want to stop. This is exactly the kind of behaviour I dislike in "men." When I catch my dad at such antics (or, really, anything that indicates he still has blood flow from the navel down) I think, "Don't be that guy, dude. Don't be that guy." It's gotten astonishingly automatic, though. I am beginning to wonder if ending this behaviour is actually an option for me. And not just because I feel helpless against my primal urges (though I rather do and am), but because those urges have been so neatly integrated into my supposedly more sublime aspirations.

Witness this morning. After more video editing (thank God for removable hard drives) and on my way in to work, coffee in hand, I did me espy a woman crossing Park Avenue with a child who was presumably her own. She was not too terribly New York; active and vibrant, but not dressed to the nines, made-up prettily, but not beyond a comfortable degree. Maybe mid-thirties (alright: "

thirtysomething

"), and there was something about her smile, her interaction with the child and traffic that made me think to myself, "I'll bet she's making someone very happy."

WHEREUPON I PROMPTLY CHECKED OUT HER ASS.

(

It was nice enough. The jeans obscured detailed observation, but seemed well supported by a reasonably firm, round infrastructure.

)

WHAT the HELL? Am I doomed to emulate the fourteen-year-olds I'm presently teaching? Shall I revert to finding something entertaining just because it's crudely put? Will I forever be a hunter-gatherer of the

junk

to be found in

trunks

? And can Batman and Robin possibly escape the umbrella factory alive?

The answer to all of the above is probably: Yes. It's useless to fight primal urges, expending energy that would be better used to focus those appetites toward valuable ambitions, like learning how to

decoupage

. Which is to say, the primal urges fuel all our endeavors, even those that end up approaching the sublime (though I can't quite bring myself to categorize decoupage as sublime--such artistic snobbery on my part). I say we just accept it, all we guileless guys who have a conscience about this sort of thing, and just try to be as subtle as possible about it.

WHO'S WITH ME?!

Times of Giving


Short post today, folks. Lots to do. LOTS TO DO. MUST GET DOING DONE. MUST ARRANGE LOTS INTO LOTS.

Christmas (or the choose-your-own-holiday period) generally stresses me out in a very unique way. I mean, Anxiety and I know each other pretty well (there was even this night in Paris, but Anxiety and I agreed never to speak of it again), yet this particular time of year really cranks it up a few notches for me. Socially speaking, I am not High Functioning Jeff(tm). I have about the conversational skills of a Tickle-Me Elmo. But, correspondingly, my wherewithal for and interest in doing crafts is enhanced exponentially.

I can not help but wonder if the two might be related.

Anyway, Christmas comes early this year (OH MY GOD OH MY GOD) for me and mine. Jenny has to work at the hospital on the 25th, so my parents are coming into town in a matter of hours to celebrate here, now. That's the kind of parents they are. They rule. Plus, they already set a precedent for coming to see my shows in the most remote ends of the earth, so not working around Jenny's work schedule for the holidays would have sunk them in deep, deep tinsel.

I'll be traveling again, after the wrapping paper has flown and the Moliere has been seen. First down to Hagerstown, MD with my parents, then off to northern Virginia (NoVa) to see friends. There's a fairly big reunion of people I knew (and actually liked) in high school planned, and I surprise myself by my desire to attend. It's not that I am surprised to want to see old friends, exactly. It's just that reunions are another thing that fill me with anxiety.

What is this thing that makes me so wary of good possibilities? I put it to the universe. Universe, call me sometime. We never talk anymore.

I've got to run. Much wrapping and riddle-writing and packing to do yet. Avanti!