grrgoyl

My, my, my I've been quiet. TOO quiet. Which is good news for everyone, because instead of writing a hugely epically long post, I'm forced to reduce it to key highlights from sheer lack of memory. So I have those, plus a large number of mini-movie reviews.

First, to wrap up the Parade of Homes 2011! I've been back to MyFriendDeb's to go on an unrelated outing. She wasn't exactly ready when I arrived, however, her pace of preparing to leave could be described as "hustling" if not "frantic," and we walked out the door five minutes later rather than twenty. If you knew Deb like I know Deb, that right there is as good as an apology, my friends.

In fact, Ryan was supposed to join us that day, but bailed at the last minute because he was spending the previous night with John (translation: drinking). While I'm not thrilled he's regressed back to him after more than a year's break, hey, whatev, I'm not his mother. But as I told Deb, I just knew it would be followed by a Facebook pity party about how much his life sucks and bemoaning being surrounded by losers all the time.

Sure enough, that night Tery was checking her page when she read it to me: "Last day off for 8 weeks and I didn't even do anything fun -- laundry and Facebook. Yippee." My first impulse was to comment "Awww, too bad you don't have cool friends that invite you out to an awesome day in the mountains." But I knew he was probably hoping for/expecting something from me, so I gave him stony silence instead. Because I'm done. And if you know me, it takes a lot for me to be done, but I'm there.

~*~

Tery FINALLY gets mountain biking. She lowered her saddle by two inches, and that has made all the difference between feeling like she was in control and feeling like she was going to pitch over the handlebars any minute. It also helped her feet reach the ground for dabbing, something she couldn't do before and something I was unaware she couldn't do. I wish I could take credit as her mentor, but the suggestion was made by an older woman hiker on the trail who noticed Tery sitting too high. Consequently we returned to Little Scraggy and, as predicted, she loved it--though probably wouldn't have without the adjustment. She is putting together a little video of our adventures that might be published here. Turns out she's quite the Steven Spielberg, because there wasn't much to work with.

~*~

Oh right, so I'm on the pill! Which still sounds weird to say a week later. I'm happy to say it was simply a matter of going to the clinic and asking for it: No intrusive questions about why I wanted it or lectures on the moral implications, etc. (Of course I did go to Planned Parenthood which might have had something to do with it). Didn't even have to lie about only wanting it until November and that was all, just "how many packs would you like?"

Tery's first reaction to the news was "Great. You're free to sleep with guys now," as if her only objection was with unwanted pregnancy (it certainly is not).

I spent the second day researching possible side effects, which include headaches, nausea, breast enlargement (PLEASE GOD NO), weight gain and mood swings. This last one worried me the most (not helped by kavieshana's reassuring "You're about to turn into Queen Megabitch") -- I'm unsettled by the thought my mood can be artificially affected (control issues), and I spent the day imagining that a mood swing was gestating inside me like a chestburster alien. Tery isn't concerned about it; she thinks it's not something I would consciously notice, and anyway she's holding out hope that I'll be nicer, as if I'm so mean now there's nowhere to go but up (I really don't think I am).

There was one incident when we realized twenty minutes too late that the new "Office" wasn't recording, but I'd like to think that would have happened with or without chemicals. Other than that I've experienced a few episodes of random and extremely intense horniness, which I might blame on the medication. But if that's the worst that happens, I can certainly live with it.

~*~

In biking news, I think I've seen the guy whose picture you find when you look up the word "dickhead."

On my route I have to cross traffic three times, which is only a big deal during rush hour, as I've stated before when people don't care about anything but getting to work (or home) and God help anyone that gets in their way. One of these intersections is by far the worst, and that is where our story is set.

In fact this was afternoon, so the traffic was (mostly) returning home. I waited on the curb with a fellow lady biker and a male pedestrian. At one point the traffic cleared, no cars coming, so we all started across (it wasn't just me taking liberties here). We had almost made it to the opposite curb when traffic started coming over the hill. Let me explain that from the top of this hill drivers have clear visibility all the way to the intersection, a good 100 yards or so. Plus there were three of us in a big cluster, not one lone hard-to-see person. In theory, should be plenty safe for everyone, right?

As we were all just about to reach the opposite curb, the guy whose lane we were crossing (an SUV. Act surprised) suddenly slammed on his brakes so they would let out a dramatic ear-splitting squeal, as if it was a blind turn and he had just noticed us and came within inches of hitting us. You know damn well he saw us from the top of the hill, and you know damn well he deliberately avoided braking until getting right on top of us (in fact might have even accelerated a little) just so he could do that. Really? You want to be That Guy? Because no one likes That Guy.

Dick. Head.

I've found forums about traffic laws featuring bitter arguments in the comments over who the bigger idiots are, cyclists or motorists. Obviously it's a case-by-case basis, but I think motorists are by far more careless and dangerous -- most of the time they barely notice each other, let alone someone not driving two tons of death-dealing steel. And I include myself in this category: I'll admit I've almost hit people in the crosswalk because I wasn't paying attention. And conversely I'll admit I've done some stupid things on a bike because I made an incorrect split-second decision. But a cyclist's bad judgment will get themselves hurt more often than a motorist, whereas the converse isn't true.

I think one solution would be a mandatory day on a bike for everyone (I'd actually love a week, but let's be realistic), so they can get a tiny taste of how scary it is trying to negotiate traffic with people who either don't see you or who don't think you deserve to be on the road. And I nominate That Guy to take the first shift.

~*~

Now, movies! Oodles and oodles of movies! So many that these are mostly mini reviews. No spoilers really, except maybe for one or two you've never heard of/couldn't care less about. I've bolded all the titles so you can skim easily. Behind the cut: 127 Hours, Wrecked, The Reef, Trollhunter, Shiver, Piranha (1978 and 2010), Insidious, The Last Airbender, and Paul.

( ::I have too much free time:: )

I know no one else wants to hear this pseudo-complaint, but today is the first day Denver went above 95 degrees. For awhile there I was wondering if summer was ever going to come! But I was a good girl and went for my bike ride at 8 am, before the heat started pressing me down and changing my mind. I rode for 2 hours, and decided to head home when even my iPod earbuds felt too hot and heavy to wear.

I took another picture of my brook: I know I said it was "off limits" to bikes, but there's still some controversy (in my head) about that. Deb (who is a big hiker and knows all about state parks) says budget contraints meant they could only afford one sign, and so were hoping to keep half of the bikers off the trail at least. I'm not so sure -- other paths have just a tiny road marker on the side with a "bikes banned' symbol that I respect. I can't believe those cost so much they can't put one up if it's really that crucial.

So I reached a compromise and instead biked in on the big, wide gravel path that leads straight to the stream, ignoring the lovelier, smaller side paths that wend through the meadows.





Sunday MyFriendDeb and I again hit the annual Chalk Art Festival downtown. Perhaps it was because it didn't rain so there was no sense of tragic urgency, or perhaps the artists weren't as good, but not nearly as many pieces really impressed us.

Another slow news week, but when has that stopped me?

First, some gym characters. As I've said earlier, I am refreshingly nonjudgmental at the gym, not least of all because I've hardly reached my goals either, despite going three times a week religiously. Like my good friend Dan Savage says, if I see a really overweight person there, my first thought really is "Aw, good for them." In fact my inspiration is a kind of heavy guy who plugs away on the ellipticals for 30+ minutes a day without ever pausing. After 10 minutes I'm seeing stars and wondering if it would really matter if I stopped early (however, this is up from 5 minutes back when I first joined, so that's something).

But these two people caught my attention on my last visit because they were so odd. First was a doughy woman I'd never seen before on the ellipticals. I normally wouldn't have given her any thought, except for the fact that she wore a Camelbak™ hydration system, which is a bit of overkill when you're using one machine that in fact provides the user with a cupholder for a water bottle. And Camelbaks™ ain't cheap either, so this was clearly someone who enjoyed shopping for their workout more than working out (not that I'm one to talk, having just bought my third iPod case, not to mention the $30 or $40 I blew at Goodwill on a whole new gym wardrobe).

But she was nothing next to the guy I watched during the rest of my workout (well, there aren't a lot of exciting things to look at to break up the monotony of an elliptical). He was built, obviously serious about weightlifting. Again, at first there was nothing unusual about him, until I noticed what he was doing. He was slowly collecting weights from other machines and putting them onto the machine I assumed he intended to use. He'd ponderously retrieve one weight, haul it to the machine, hoist it up onto the bar, then stand there looking around. He was also wearing earbuds so he'd occasionally mouth some words and wiggle his hips a bit (which looks really silly, I don't care how in shape you are). Then off for another weight, repeating the process tediously and laboriously.

After doing this for about 30% of my workout, to my surprise he suddenly marched across the gym to use one of the machines that I use all the time, the ones I think of as considerably more girly than the free weights. After three or four reps there, then it was back to his original machine, where he began removing all the weights, moving just as slowly and painfully (with frequent pauses to lip synch some more). He never actually used the machine he had loaded (and unloaded). It was crazy. Either he just liked creating the impression that he was going to lift all this weight, or his secret weapon to body building had less to do with actual weightlifting than weight stacking. I'm not sure. It was crazier than the guys who do like two reps (actually LIFTING the weight, mind you) and then spend fifteen minutes staring off into space.

He sort of reminded me of my coworker, Debbie at the warehouse, who was also fond of dancing and singing next to her desk when she was supposed to be working. Debbie thought she could do whatever the hell she wanted (i.e. only actually work about 10 minutes out of an 8-hour shift) and then cry discrimination if they did anything about it. She eventually discovered she was mistaken, after many long (long, long, frustrating) months of me secretly documenting her every move and reporting to HR. So I guess that's when my real career as a snitch began.

~*~

I've caught some comings and goings of Tracey on my spycam, most notably one video where she looks to be carrying an armful of something that resembles the suspicious aluminum tubes that started all this nonsense:



Tery wonders if she hasn't already spotted the camera -- where she used to tiptoe quietly up and down the stairs (which would make her the perfect neighbor if not for, you know, the meth lab), now she explodes out of her door and hurtles down the steps like Secretariat leaving the gate at the Preakness. I can't worry about it. Maybe if she's aware of it, it will be enough to keep her honest, or at least move her lab somewhere else, which is all I really want. I'd love to get her put away for good, but a close second would be making it difficult enough for her to conduct business three feet from our front door that she finds alternative accommodations.

The beauty of it is, even if she does find the camera, she can't do anything about it. Recording public areas is perfectly legal; she should know, she's had a camera trained on the parking lot practically since moving in. Plus I believe the only people who are bothered by being videotaped are people who have something to hide.

~*~

In case anyone is wondering why I haven't ranted about the California Supreme Court upholding Prop 8, it's because after my initial outraged reaction to what seemed like a completely nonsensical legal ruling, I searched long and hard on the intraweb until I found an article that explained it in simple enough terms. For those of you who have no idea what I'm talking about, well that just proves what my good friend Dan Savage says -- that gay rights headlines are like a dog whistle, only noticeable to teh gays and the nutjob bigots.

Basically, the court voted that Prop 8 outlawing gay marriage in CA and its method of passage was perfectly legal; however, lacking any retroactive wording, so are the 18,000 gay marriages that were conducted between the Court legalizing them and the voter-approved amendment.

So currently gay marriage is legal for 18,000 couples in California and no one else. Just when you thought the state couldn't get any wackier.

It's not the resounding victory I had hoped for, but I understand it was the best the Court could do after being put between a rock and a hard place. I expect Prop 8 to be shot down completely after another vote, after the fence-sitters have some time to get accustomed to the idea and realize that the sea isn't boiling and it isn't raining blood, which is what the zealots want us to think.

No, what angers me is the attitude of MyFriendDeb, who is otherwise wholly on our side.

She had a rough childhood; not rough enough to make headlines or require therapy, but enough to sour her on the whole idea of marriage, for anyone. For me, it's only partly about legalities. The bigger principle is the fact that people think they have the right to decide how other people live. That my relationship with Tery, 17 years in July and still doing better than a lot of straight marriages, is less worthy of legal recognition.

And I guarantee that if it was Deb's rights on the line (or being subjected to popular vote), she'd agree.

But she'd rather spend her energy getting worked up about the REAL injustices of life: getting a tax refund check (Uncle Sam held her money unjustly for a whole year), the fact that her 6-button mouse doesn't work with Windows Vista, and potential employers who do mandatory drug testing (violation of privacy, despite her being even more straight edge than me). Yep, 10% of the population treated like second-class citizens, and these are the things that have her panties in a bunch.

~*~

Enough of all that unpleasantness. I snapped this photo of my Mitten who appeared to be engrossed in the program on TV:



My Otta May question was too easy (JeffyJeff answered me privately in an email. It was of course Whoopi Goldberg in Ghost). How about this? Name the scary movie Kitten is watching.

MyFriendDeb and I returned to the Parade of Homes this year. The parade this time was not held in a "community" like last year's Pradera, but rather it was hosted by "Reunion, CO." I put it in quotes because when I asked Tery where the hell Reunion was, she told me it was one of these new fake towns going up everywhere on the outskirts of Denver and Aurora.

Ahhhh, Reunion, CO (which is actually a township or something in Commerce City, CO, best known for its foul-smelling industrial smokestacks). What a welcoming name, with streets like "Heartland Drive" and "Unity Street" (I'm not making this up). All they need is for John Cougar Mellencamp to move in to complete the image. It doesn't get more American pie, good old family values than this (except that the town is built on what used to be farmland and is about 5 miles from Denver International Airport). It does look like Main Street, USA. Sadly, the houses on the parade this year were just about as nondescript.

So nondescript that, despite finally remembering a camera after taking the tour two years in a row, I ultimately took pictures mostly of the bizarre kooky things that rich folks are putting in their houses these days. ( ::won't you join me on my walking tour of the houses of people with more money than brains?:: )

Those wacky, wacky rich people.

Finally a picture post wouldn't be complete without some critters. I won't bother cutting these because they're tiny and cute and I want everyone to see them.


Blackjack, the Sheltie that could power a small city with his excess energy.



My Beanzy. Who could ever think he was nasty?



Finally, my gay, gay Xandir. While in the hospital overnight for an infection (he's fine now), he didn't have Gideon to lick so he settled for this Petco baby instead. We might have adopted the baby if Petco hadn't picked him up.

It's August so it must be time for Denver's Parade of Homes again.

This year's Parade was held at a development called "Pradera." Its tagline, according to the official program, is "Live where you belong." Which sounds pretty unapologetically classist to me. Might as well call it "Pradera: Priced to keep out the undesirables."

Just like last year, we thought we'd be clever and start with the last house working backward. This also made more sense because the last house was at the very top of the hill, and who wouldn't rather work down rather than up a big hill? Unfortunately it seemed that a lot more people had the same idea this time, but what can you do? Apparently no one works on Monday mornings anymore.

The first one we saw was "Dolce Vita," a house that was the most remarkable because an accidental fire had burnt it to the ground just as it neared completion. The builders worked 24 hours a day for 79 days to rebuild it, finally finishing it a second time 15 minutes before the official judging began (or so the informational pamphlet claimed). For this reason we could forgive the fact that the basement wasn't finished and most of the doorknobs were a little loose. Being the result of such hard work and dedication it was indeed an architectural marvel, but didn't really make much of an impression on me. It swept most of the awards, but only in second place.

First place went to "Synthesis," a house devoted almost entirely to an Asian decor. My sister Nancy would have bought it the minute she stepped in the front door. It had lots of nice touches, like shoji screens on the windows and fountains and waterfalls almost everywhere you looked, not to mention a beautiful tear-shaped copper sink in one of the bathrooms. But the lines were a little too clean and the color themes a little too stark for MyFriendDeb's tastes. She put it best when she described it as "aggressively Asian." The only reason we could see that it was called "Synthesis" was because of a couple of art pieces in a bedroom that were aggressively African just to shake things up a bit, and glaringly out of place. The problem with the house, we decided, was that the decor was so uniformly and overwhelmingly Oriental that decorating or furnishing it with anything slightly more Occidental would be hopelessly at odds with the rest of the room. And our hodge-podge stuff, barely a step removed from a dorm room, simply wouldn't do at all.

Third place went to what I consider to be my dream house, "The Outlook." I'm kicking myself for forgetting my camera, but I LOVED this house. It was done in the Arts & Crafts style, which I adore. Mission furniture, oak, stained glass, that's what I'm talking about. It was one of the smaller homes at a paltry 6200 square feet, but that's what I liked about it. The rooms were cozy, warm and inviting, and didn't echo like the vast spaces of the fancier homes. They also felt like rooms you could live in, not just keep in suspended animation to show off for guests. The color theme was autumn leaves, all burnt reds, golds and browns, but brought to life with the generous use of primary-colored glass accents everywhere, like in the tile, or the risers of the staircase made of concrete embedded with glass blobs, or the artwork, or the stained glass windows. I really can't do it justice with words, WHY didn't I bring my camera?? The only pics I can find online are these: The wall outside the master bedroom and A sink, which doesn't give you much of an idea what the rest of the house looks like. Trust me, it was simply perfect. Tery liked it too, but in a sad commentary on how she views living spaces, her only remark was, "This is a house I feel like I can clean myself." At $1.8 million, we'll be making an offer on it about 4 lifetimes from now.

Not all the houses were impressive though, despite all having million-dollar-plus pricetags. The "Villa Della Viste" was decorated with horribly uncomfortable-looking French furniture and had an exceedingly silly name. The "La Chiripada," the only house that was sold when we looked at it, seemed nice enough but the floor plan was awkward and made very little sense. For instance, it boasted a detached building in the front yard that was set up as a free-standing office. Nice, except it had a clear view of the master bath and the lady of the house's spa tub, which itself also overlooked the driveway and front entrance of the house. Huh? There was a little girl's room directly off the kitchen, Tery explained for the stepchild that had to get up every morning and stoke the fire. The workout room was huge and consequently mostly empty, with a putting green and driving net stashed in the corner almost as an afterthought. Bleah. Behind the wet bar in the basement was a small room with an elaborate, wrought iron door with twisting vines around the bars. Can you guess what the room was? You don't have to, because it quite unnecessarily had a huge stylized sign above it declaring that this was the "Wine Cellar." It was downright insulting, I tell you. I joked about an improvised wheelchair ramp leading from the great room to the patio outside, a piece of plywood painted safety orange and thrown down, how it really didn't fit in at all with the granite in the kitchen. Hee! I went from room to room declaring my intense dislike of the house, and a passing old man agreed with me, "It's too dark!" he added. $2.2 mil for this, you must be mad! I would have viciously crossed it off my list even if it hadn't already (inexplicably) been sold.

But by far the absolute worst was unfortunately the last one, and therefore the one I remember the best (besides my darling "Outlook," that is). "The Aldwyn." You can tell from the name already that it's a real winner (I'm joking, you probably can't). The first thing you see when you enter this house is the formal dining room, a room which I consider practically useless in any house and hardly the first thing I want to come home to. But it gets worse. From there you entered the kitchen, a hideous work of design with 50's-esque tiles in a repeating retro (but not cool retro) ornament-shaped pattern, and "pre-distressed" farmhouse style cabinets. Ugh. Off to one side was the library with artwork depicting -- I kid you not -- the apostles exploring Christ's wounds. THAT has wide appeal. And nooks in the shelving with big, heavy devotional books propped open and illuminated with museum lamps. Creepy. Off the library was a bathroom with an embroidered poem, something about bad little boys and girls being attacked by "ghoulies" and ghosts and pray for Jesus to save you, children. Nice. Throughout the house were these huge, obtrusive wooden beams obviously designed to resemble a gothic cathedral. Fuuuuuuugly. Over the stairway was a normal-sized window that was set 10 feet up the wall. I wouldn't have a problem with this except for the shroud-of-Turin-colored drapes flanking it that cascaded all the way down and pooled onto the floor. I'm sure when they were drawn closed it created the illusion of a massive window behind them, but opened as they were they just looked retarded. And I tripped on them. The house also had a 4-foot high room accessed by a 4-foot high hallway, clearly meant to be a kid playroom, as well as another room with a kiddie stage and a treehouse built in. If you ask me, this is two rooms too many to devote to only children. I also didn't care for the little girl's room that featured a small writing desk turned diagonally, CEO-style. The only other thing I clearly remember about the house was the master bath. It had a large, centrally placed tub like all the others, except this one looked like a person-sized vegetable sink, perfectly rectangular except for a 5-degree slope on one side for luxurious reclining, because everyone knows that bathtubs with rounded, curvacious edges are nothing but an invitation to sin.

Gah. If I'm going to shell out $1.6 mil for a home, I'd like one that isn't so aggressively preachy. The whole house seemed to scream "FAMILY VALUES!" and "FAG, GO HOME!" (okay, that might have been a bit of paranoia on my part). I was gratified that the judges seemed to agree, as the house deservedly did not win a single award. Burn it to the ground, I say, and salt the earth. I hated it that much.

Some overall observations: I don't much care for the new trend of making all the bathrooms but the master these dark little rooms. And I don't understand the tendency to stick the commode into its own little hallway off the main room. Most of them feel like prisons, and like Tery said not even any room for a magazine rack or some reading material (don't laugh, if it weren't for this multitasking I wouldn't get any reading done at all these days).

Tery doesn't see any wisdom in putting what is obviously meant to be a teenager's room in the basement with its own door out to the back patio, for ease of sneaking in (or out) late at night. I agree.

Finally, while sitting on one of the four patios at the "Synthesis," I told Deb how hard it was for me to wrap my mind around the idea of people being able to afford these homes without having to work 24 hours a day. This is because I myself work two jobs just to be able to afford our measly $800-a-month mortgage. I just can't imagine buying a million dollar house and not worrying night and day about paying for it, no matter what my job was. You can take the girl out of the working class, but you can't take the working class out of the girl. Luckily, I don't foresee this being a problem in my lifetime.



My Crackwhore update really isn't terribly exciting. We STILL haven't heard the dogs since last Thurs night. It's as if they've evaporated into thin air. We don't know what she's doing to keep them quiet, or if they are even in the unit, but the silence is breathtaking. It makes me really, really, REALLY glad I didn't follow the Alcoholic down her path of vindictiveness. She did take the screen a step farther and cover the sides as well, taking the pressure off me of staying on top of the poop (so to speak). This also is an indescribable relief. Not to the Alcoholic of course, but she can at least drown her pain.

Finally, Kay. She couldn't wait to tell Tery a "really funny story" at work the other day. She's planning a trip to Africa to help build a hospital for the locals. During the final week they get to take a safari. Before you start admiring her selflessness, she told Tery about her father's pricelessly amusing reaction to the news, which was "Africa....isn't that country full of Negroes?" Oh, what a knee-slapper. Yes, Kay, racism is hi-LA-rious. Again, Tery didn't know what to say. If nothing else, I think it sheds some light on why Kay is as tactless as she is. Like father, like daughter. Like hell.

I'll never forget the first play I went to see. I couldn't have been more than 8 or 9 when my mother took me to the local community theater's production of Hamlet. Small troupe, small stage, small audience, enormous impression on my young mind. I was absolutely entranced, and begged her to bring me back to every subsequent show left in the run (which was about three more). It was also my first introduction to Shakespeare, and even at that tender age I don't remember having any trouble understanding the play (but having taught myself to read by the age of 4, this is hardly surprising). To this day it remains my favorite (besides Romeo & Juliet).

The only other play I can remember seeing before the age of 10 is Agatha Christie's And Then There Were None and again wanting to go back (this time only once more). I was bitten by the theater bug, though not hard enough to ever want to be an actor. In high school I attended Godspell, then worked backstage for Fiddler on the Roof and our church's yearly Passion Play. I was lucky enough to have a best friend whose father's employer offered tickets to Cats, once at the Winter Garden and a second time in Hartford. The third year we got to see Les Miserables. Then it was on to college and a world of theatergoing opportunities (love that student discount!)...Sweeney Todd, Equus and best of all, Jesus Christ Superstar (all amazing beyond words). Then I met Tery and saw her sister perform in Runaways in Boston. I saw Mump and Smoot in "Ferno", Canada's premier "horror clowns," at the Yale Repertory Theatre (still have the program). Since moving to Denver, we've seen Stomp!, Blast! (Stomp-like, except with drums and bugles), Rent and best of all, The Lion King (which comes with its own enormous ticket-buying saga, too lengthy to describe here).

I don't know why live theater is so enthralling to me. Perhaps it's the artifice, the clever, low-budget designs used to simulate a real environment. Perhaps it's the naked vulnerability of the actors, up there with no safety nets, no camera tricks or editing rooms to fine-tune their performance, baring their souls night after night. Perhaps it's the immediacy and the in-the-moment feeling of a live show. Probably it's just a combination of all of these. But each and every performance I have seen has left an indelible mark on me, like a tattoo on my brain. While the rest of my life blurs by, all but forgotten, these magical nights remain like bright little archipelagos in my memory.

I only mention all this because last night I was invited by MyFriendDeb to see Big River, the story of Huck Finn told with a half deaf/half hearing cast. She won the tickets from a radio station, so all the better. The play itself was excellent, with inventive set designs and a unique collaberation between the hearing and deaf actors....for example, Huck's "Pap" was played by two actors, dressed identically, although the deaf one was noticeably skinnier than the other. With no explanation given or necessary, both actors shadowed each other, sometimes with comic and sometimes with creepy effect. Huck himself was deaf but his voice was provided by Mark Twain, who never left the stage. Deb was impressed that he could speak and sing with such emotion while appearing to stand detached and still. I was more impressed by a different speaking actor who belted out his deaf counterpart's lines while stretched out on the floor in front of him. The big ensemble numbers looked very cool with 10 people signing the words simultaneously, especially at the end when the music cut out but they kept "singing" silently.

Apart from the play itself, the journey downtown was equally filled with highlights. I agreed to drive to the train stop and backed out of the parking spot at Deb's complex...straight into the trash enclosure behind me, with a bang so loud I swore my bumper had to be totally crumpled. I reluctantly got out to assess the damage, but not so much as a scratch. Have I mentioned how much I love my Honda? At the train stop as we waited and chitchatted, a scruffy, shifty-looking fellow wandered around us in a circle with his bike. I was talking about getting roped into donating to the policemen's widow fund by phone, hopefully at least in exchange for a sticker to put on my car. I was sharing my ex's theory that when stopped by the police, that sticker might buy you a little leniency.

"Nope, nope," he loudly cut me off. "They don't give a damn about them stickers. I had one and they still threw me in jail." Well, I was thinking more along the lines of a minor speeding infraction. I don't imagine they make much of a difference in the case of say, vehicular manslaughter or outstanding arrest warrants. I don't mean to judge someone before knowing them, but I'm sure there's a very good reason he rides a bike now. Thank goodness after imparting this bit of wisdom about dealing with The Man he got bored and returned to shaking his fist at every train that whistled by marked "Out of Service," as if the RTD was deliberately mocking him.

We got into the city without further incident and into the theater. I was feeling a little underdressed in my semi-dressy black short-sleeved shirt and jeans, until a guy walked down the aisle wearing a greasy trucker's cap, faded black Harley t-shirt and jeans. After seeing two (much better-dressed) guys together that left an obvious trail of gayness in their wake, Deb started to tell me about a new guy at work. In her words, "He's really funny and interesting, except he's gay." What she meant was, "I might find him attractive if not for the fact that he's gay," but I chose to interpret it as slightly more derogatory. I wryly thanked her for tolerating me all these years and we both had a good laugh. As the show's start time began to draw closer, we realized that something was going to happen that never would have if we had paid for our tickets: the rest of our row AND the entire row in front of us was completely empty. Which sort of made up for the fact that the seats weren't really that terrific for being won in a radio contest. And, wonder of wonders, we even had people behind us who somehow fought the urge to kick our chairs the entire time. Is it possible that civilized, courteous folk DO still exist?

Our seats were perfectly positioned for intermission, however...close enough to the back of the auditorium to get to the restroom before the lines started forming. The ladies' room was obviously carefully engineered to discourage lingering. Ample seating (for a change) but only three mirrors for cosmetic touch-ups (more importantly nowhere near the sinks), and the motion-activated sinks actually cranked the heat up automatically to uncomfortable temperatures if you tried to scrub too long. The message was clear: get in and get out, ladies. Deb and I were both quite thirsty after the first act, so agreed to split an extortionately-priced bottle of water from the bar. Call me crazy, but when I pay $3 for plain old Aquafina, I expect it to at least be cooler than room temperature. Deb quipped, "So where do we go to buy the ice?"

The train ride home was equally uneventful, except Deb was facing two women speaking in sign language and confessed she felt like she was eavesdropping, even though she can't read sign language. According to our program, Wicked is coming in Oct, and Little Shop of Horrors after that. As Deb said, "Good. That gives me plenty of time to sell all my stuff to buy a ticket." *sigh*