Mo' Measure

The director informed us that our sponsor, the owner of a local art gallery, had asked her for a "convivial" quote from the show to put on his preview invitations. Unfortunately, it's not a very convivial show: the fun characters spend half their time in prison, and the surly characters spend all their time complaining. I guess there's just no way to convey the wacky side of sexual harassment.

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I'm told that my costume will be velour--with gold chains, and a leather jacket. This is impressive, but I hope I don't offend any actual pimps with this get-up.

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Last night the director told one of the cast members, "You probably oughta make some noise during the rape scene."

This is not something I expected to hear doing Shakespeare.

Hey Police!

Just to be on the safe side, I thought I'd post this for posterity:

This evening when I arrived home, I discovered that my son had thrown his sister's cell phone into the attic, and my daughter had locked her brother's guitar in her room. I told them to return everyone's rightful property, and added for good measure that they were behaving like assholes. My daughter, in spite of hearing this every day at school, on television, and at the movies, inexplicably takes grievous offense whenever either I or my wife says something remotely like this.

She (I presume) told her biological father, Eddie Kirkland, as much, when he picked them up for the weekend.

A little background. Eddie once took his then-wife, (my current wife) by the throat and threw her over the coffee table for beating him at a game of gin. During the bitter custody battle, one of our key pieces of evidence was a recording of Eddie cursing a blue streak with the children present. After the custody battle was over and my wife and I had gotten married, he served six months in drug rehab for running a methamphetamine lab out of his trailer. This was a significantly lighter sentence than mandated by the Federal Government.

Anyhow, five minutes later the house phone rings. I don't answer it, as anyone interested in speaking to me knows to call my cell phone. The answering machine picks up, there's a click, and the phone rings again. Answering machine, and again.

My cell phone rings. I answer.

It's Eddie.

"If you ever fuckin' cuss in front of my kids again, it'll be the last thing you ever do!" he shouts.

"Yes, sir," I reply. (I should note at this point that there is about as much sarcasm in my voice as is humanly possible.)

"I mean it! Don't mess with me, punk!"

And he hangs up. Or maybe I do.

Should I presume that this is a credible death threat? Probably not--in spite of Eddie's criminal record and sociopathic tendencies, I doubt that killing me would do him any good in the long run. But just in case; should I mysteriously vanish sometime, I'd wager that the prime suspect would be James Edward Kirkland, Jr. of West Memphis Arkansas.

You can never be too careful.