Engage Ears, Disengage Thumbs

Tea: Blood Orange

Music: Peabo Bryson, "Pretty Women"

Time: Night.

The drama department at the local high school put on Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street tonight. The venue was tiny, the set (which my son helped to build) outstanding and the production thoroughly enjoyable.

Imagine my (insert word conveying baffled, bemused anger) when I noticed that the high school girl in front of me was sending and receiving text messages during the second act.

You wouldn't do that on Broadway or the West End. (You wouldn't do it off-Broadway or even off-off-Broadway. You wouldn't even do it during an overblown, check-out-my-acting-for-Jesus production of, say, The Screwtape -- or, if you will, Ska-Rew-uh-Tay-Puh -- Letters.)

I share the belief that you learn how to play a big house by playing a small one -- and I believe that to be true not only for performers, but for what Robert Fripp would call the audients. Practice courtesy and respect for the company in a community theatre, and it will carry over should you ever score tickets to something big. And trust me, the more people pay for a show, the more they're likely to want you tossed out if you're disrespectful and disruptive.

I hope the young texter gets that message.

Here endeth the rant.

Tonight's story: Lord Dunsany, "The Unhappy Body"

A Reprieve for Desdemona

Tea: Chrysanthemum

Music: The Who, "Won't Get Fooled Again"

Time: Night

On the spur of the moment this evening, I hied myself to Southmoreland Park in KCMO to see "Othello," as presented by the Heart of America Shakespeare Festival.

(Sometime before I die, I will see every Shakespeare play live (and I seriously want to see some of them in Central Park). Before tonight, I had seen:

"King Lear," with Anthony Hopkins in the title role;

"Macbeth" (yeah, yeah, so jinx me), starring Jonathan Pryce;

Heart of America presentations of "A Midsummer Night's Dream" and "Much Ado About Nothing" (the latter twice);

A high school drama performance of "A Midsummer Night's Dream;" (By the middle of the play, we were all snickering at the dirty parts. The kids in the cast, of course, began emphasizing them.)

And a version of "The Tempest" seen at Kansas State University (I cannot, for the life of me, recall the traveling troupe's name) -- presented by a cast of five players, dressed in white and without props or scenery, using only their voices and body languages to indicate the shifts.

Anyway ... as said, tonight was "Othello" -- or most of it.

(Warning: Spoilers follow.)

There was a brief shower in the second act, before Othello strangles Desdemona (but not in time to save Roderigo, which was fine by me. He was portrayed as such a whiny wuss -- which he was, admittedly -- that I was rooting for Iago to run him through and put him out of everyone's misery.)

I really wanted to borrow one of those stage swords and use it to shut up the guy yapping behind me, too. (I wouldn't have stuck him with it, really. Not too hard, anyway.)

Anyway ... check the forecast, if you're in town, and go see a performance before it closes (last night is July 6). And if you see a bald guy scowling at you because you're talking ... wave hi and zip it until the play is over.

(Okay, so go ahead and laugh at the naughty parts ... you know you want to.)

It's up to her, New York, New York

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang

Music: Mott the Hoople, "All the Young Dudes"

Time: Night.

Another one of my clan is about to experience New York.

The soon-to-be-senior daughter's high school chorus leaves at some ungodly hour (translation: before noon) tomorrow.

She'll be back on her 17th birthday. While she's there, she'll sing at the top of the Empire State Building, visit Times Square and see a couple of Broadway shows ("Legally Blonde" and something else chickish, the title of which escapes me at present. Could be worse. She could be seeing "The Sca-REEWWWWWWW-uh TAY-puh Letters." Don't ask. It's a long story.)

She'll come home, as I did, with her world both expanded and shrunk. I'm interested to see if she falls in love with the city, too. I hope she does.

She'll

Thoroughly Something or Other

Tea: Lapsang Vanilla with Honey

Music: "Thoroughly Modern Millie"

Time: Night.

I went to see a really good high school production of -- well, I'm sure you can guess the musical -- tonight. Good casting, solid performances. And lest anyone forget those out of the line of sight -- it was a spot-on night from the pit and the stagehands.

It takes so many things to make any production come together. It only takes one thing to mar it. The box office loses a ticket order. An usher abandons post. A cue gets missed, a reed squeaks ... and the spell is broken.

Check that. The spell's bent, not broken. Even a wretchedly overacted performance by the star (who, being the director as well, managed to fail at two jobs simultaneously) in an off-Broadway production of "The Screwtape Letters," which I saw in November, couldn't detract from the flawless performance of the lone supporting character.

Sometimes, the magic's not in the grand things but in the small. Sometimes it's in a moment that passes, yet resonates. And sometimes it's in even getting something to the stage at all.

So what's it all mean?

Who knows? But every day is showtime, isn't it, in one way or another? So dim the houselights, turn your cell phone to "vibrate," and we'll get some ice cream at intermission.

Cup VIII: The Past, in Passing

Tea: Moroccan Rose and Mint

Music: Howard Jones, "No One is to Blame"

Time: Late night into early morning

Going to crowded street festivals alone is both strange and settling.

I talk to strangers -- a necessity for a freelancer. The next person I chat up just might have the greatest story idea ever, or maybe just an interesting story to borrow, adapt and weave into something fictional.

But in the next moment, I slip into observer mode and become almost invisible. It's an oddment, though, that I always seem to be walking against the stream of people when I'm in that frame of mind and sense.

Last night (or earlier tonight, if you will) at the Plaza Art Fair, I was in sociable form early on. I joined mailing lists and entering drawings for free tickets to hear chamber music or a symphony orchestra, take in "The Nutcracker" or a Broadway musical revue, see a play at the Missouri Rep -- or maybe something a little edgier at the Unicorn (or perhaps, if I'm really lucky, a play about flesh-eating zombies.) I'm not even that big an opera fan, but I'd be up for some Puccini or Mozart if I happened to score free tickets. And while the Shakespeare productions every summer are already free, reserved seats -- not to mention guaranteed parking, which can be a pain -- would be pretty cool, too.

I ran into someone I hadn't seen for several years, only to find out she works for my cousin. Two minutes after that, alone once more, the switch flipped and I was on the outside looking in.

Sometimes I notice faces, sometimes something in a frame, sometimes a snatch of conversation. This time, it was a swish of red hair, a few inches past shoulder length.

We passed, going opposite directions on Nichols Road. She was with her family, perhaps part of a larger group. It took a few seconds for the memory to kick in.

We dated -- twice, I think -- more than twenty years ago. Never a gigantic spark, which is one reason there weren't more dates, but I was on sort of a mission to go out with every attractive redhead on campus.

Hours later, I still can't recall her name. Surprising. I'm usually good with names. There was a moment, when I was still trying to figure out who she was, in which I thought she might have recognized me. If she did, she didn't show it. No offense taken; I look a good deal different now.

She has aged beautifully -- but her smile still doesn't touch her eyes.