Okay, so I lied...

...but not intentionally. I really did mean to post yesterday, but I have been having trouble with my domestic internet connection (we're entering couples counseling next week...) and so the only access I have to this crazy alternate universe, not having a laptop, is my work computer. So, here I am, on my first day off in a month, relaxing, blogging, and not thinking about work...at work.

The irony is indeed not lost on me.

(does anyone else think I use ellipses way too much? Maybe I'll switch my preferences over to ampersands...oops, I mean: &&&)

So. This past weekend. Yup.

Did I tell you my mother and Mike eloped in Vegas on Halloween? When your screams at the monitor have subsided, I have to tell you, these are words I NEVER expected to string together in one sentence. Have you finished screaming yet?

Basically, my mom and Mike have been trying to get married for the past year. I mean, really, truly trying. Due to circumstances beyond their control (much like the subjection of our eye-glazed attention to the media circus following the passing of Anna Nicole Smith; Nothing could control that tidal wave of inanity), Mom and Mike basically seized the first chance they had to become legally joined. It just so happened that the first chance available was on Halloween 2008, at the blessed, sacred grounds of the Chapel of the Bells in Las Vegas, Nevada.







If you had asked me as early as six months ago if I thought my proper, Kennedy-loving, Miss Manners-quoting, Martha Stewart-emulating mother would voluntarily exchange vows with a retired-Military, Family-Man-in-all-senses-of-the-word, upstanding Conservative in VEGAS at MIDNIGHT standing behind a couple dressed as Frankenstein and (you know what's coming next, don't you?) the Bride-of-Frankenstein, I would have snorted and responded with some snotty comment about swine with wings.

I'm pretty sure Evelyn, my card-playing, pony-handicapping, foul-mouthed, Jersey-ite grandmother is busting a gut in Heaven just about now. Wait'll she hears that the friends-and-family-wedding-celebration is taking place at one of the local casinos in January. The Heavens will just open up and spew forth celestial laughter like a slot-machine.

God bless you, my new and wonderful family. Mazel tov and shalom. I love you all.

xoxo,
D

A Pledge

For no reason whatsoever, I have decided to make an entry every day for the month of November. I guess one of the reasons for doing so was that October turned out to be such a bizarre month in oh-so-many ways that should November follow suit, you can say you read it here first, folks. I do realize I'm doing grammatical acrobatics...bear with me.

On the work-front, we (and by 'we' I mean me and my asylum-away-from-home, the sometimes beloved SDJT) have been herding cats. Literally. Well, I guess not really literally...we're producing a youth-theatre production of CATS. Seriously. I wanted that to be the marketing angle: CATS! (seriously). Too bad Xanadu snagged it first. For the past two weekends with one remaining, thirty-five young people, aged eight to eighteen, have been leaping, meowing, hissing, scratching, singing, and tour jette'ing across the stage of the Casa del Prado Theatre. Fur and feathers flying, this is the stuff that reality-show dreams are made of with our lives rounded by a (very) little sleep...(sorry about that, Mr. Shakespeare).

Can I vent for just a second?

(of course you can, D, this IS your blog, y'know...)

Thank you, imaginary lurker-fan.

I love where I work. I love the people with whom I work. I, for the most part, love the work itself. However, I am sick to death of dramatic, gay men. Can I say that here? If one more person with an XY chromosome throws a double X diva-fit, I will run screaming out of the theatre into the first monster-truck rally I see. I will have really bad sex with a red-neck male chauvinist who has no idea how to pronounce "sensitivity" much less spell it. I will become a lesbian because there certainly is far more p.m.s.-spiked estrogen in male theatre artists at any given time than the worst ladies' night at the Flame.

Whew. Thank you for that. And forgive the vague details, but I must sign off. I will share stories, I promise, and there are many. Also, I have a lot of stuff miraculously unrelated to work I wish to share. We got time. At least a whole month, in fact.

'Til then, I remain...

Sincerely yours,
D

Prayers, please...

...I have a heavy heart.

Please, God, carry me.



"...the blues are because you're getting fat and maybe it's been raining too long... You're just sad that's all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you're afraid and you don't know what you're afraid of. Do you ever get that feeling?"

--Holly Golightly, Breakfast at Tiffany's

Aaaand it's time...

...I'm back.

With the post vice-presidential-debate commentary blaring in the background, Molly the demo-cat (she swipes left...) striking a very Egyptian-like pose next to the monitor, and the dryer tumbling my jeans and other unmentionables about 15 mph, I'm feeling an odd state of zen. Odd, because even as I type I can think of at least a dozen reasons why I should be stressed. Zen, because in spite of it all, I'm feeling pretty groovy.

I'm trying very hard not to be controlled by my emotions all the time. When my emotions control my actions, I get in a whole heapful o' trouble. I especially cater to my (for lack of a better term) "omitted" feelings: I don't "feel" like doing something, so I don't. When the omitted feelings start including activities like bill-paying and eating healthy and going to bed at a decent hour, well, then...you can imagine the scenario from there.

Anyway, I'm really trying to work on the whole thing because mostly, I just "feel" like doing nothing. So, guess what happens? Even trying to record this for cyber-posterity is a bit of a chore because...well, I guess a body in motion stays in motion, a body at rest stays on the couch eating pints of Ben 'n' Jerry's and watching bad made-for-T.V. movies on the Lifetime Channel.

Did I say that out loud?

I digress yet again.

Hopefully, the smallest nudge toward self-discipline (i.e. a simple blog entry) will help other areas toward control. 'Til the next nudge, I leave you with this moment of zen...




Attempted somersaults by two-year-olds in party dresses is some fantastic therapy.

Post-Modern Prom

Every so often I am reminded that I am indeed living in 2008. By that, I mean I've watched traditions and coming-of-age rituals shift little by little as our culture evolves. For instance, about 5 years ago my good friend Gayle and I were shown beautiful baby pictures by a mutual friend who just became a proud papa. There was nothing unusual about this that separated it from all the proud, photo-bearing daddies of yesteryear except we watched the photos as a digital slide-show. On his laptop. Uploaded from the mom's Blackberry. Who lived in Seattle with her wife and the baby. Turns out our friend, the dad (who is gay and was living in L.A. at the time with his boyfriend) fed-ex'd his frozen sperm to Seattle to impregnate the soon-to-be-mom (who was his ex-girlfriend from high school) who was ovulating. There was picture after gorgeous picture of Baby with Mom and Dad, Mom and Mom, Dad and Dad, and every combination following, not to mention hordes of grandparents.

Fast-forward to last Saturday night. It's June and the season of Prom hits with a traumatic vengeance this time of year. You remember prom, right? Agony over dresses that fit or didn't fit, the prom-date you dreamed about having, and the guy or gal with whom you actually ended up going. The awkwardly-posed pictures before you and your date could escape and the even more awkward comments from your parents or your date's parents or, worse, younger siblings. It's one of those special events where every moment is miserable except our selective memory of it.

Since I work mostly with teenagers, I am subject to the angst that is June every year. This past Saturday we had two shows in the theatre that happened to coincide with one of the many proms. Basically, this meant that two of the actors had to finish two shows, get hurriedly changed and dressed for prom all at the theatre. I volunteered to stay and take pictures. Walter, our costume manager, and his common-law assistant Richard volunteered to do our girl's hair and make-up. After the last show finished, our respective prom king and queen rushed off to separate dressing rooms to transform themselves, Walter and Richard flung curling irons and hair pins about, and I shooed away lingering children and audience members.

Twenty minutes into this equivalent of a Nascar pit-stop, I hear a panicked whisper, "DESHA!".

"What?"

"DESHA! COME HERE!"

"Kevin, WHAT?"

I walk over to the bathroom door to find a distraught, sweaty adolescent wringing his hands.

"I can't find my tie."

Pause.

In the face of tragedy, the human spirit somehow finds the strength to rise above the fray and soothe the underlying terror of the heart. What followed then was nothing but pure, theatrical ingenuity. A pink sash, used as a prop in Act II, was somehow deftly fashioned into a debonair cravat. Our prom king was dressed and breathing regularly.

Mysterious squeals and soothing murmurs could be heard from the girls' dressing rooms. I called up, "How's everyone doing up there?"

"Just fine--(Erin, if you move your head one more time, I swear...)--we'll be down in a moment!" Walter's Alabama drawl floated gaily down the stairs.

I sat awkwardly with Kevin in the third row of the theatre, waiting for Cinderella to descend. All of a sudden, I felt weirdly paternal. While our girl was being clucked over by not one, but two mother hens (way more motherly and hennish than I, I might add), I uncomfortably studied my cuticles and pretended not to notice the buckets of sweat soaking the armpits of our young man. I had a sudden urge to hand him my car keys, a flask, and a condom and warn him to have a good time but not ruin his future tonight.

What felt like an eternity later, our princess emerged, rosy and smiling with way too much eye-makeup. Parents and friends showed up with flash bulbs popping and Richard weeping until finally the entire entourage migrated toward the parking lot to travel to a world of dim lighting and disco balls, abandoned high-heels and runny mascara, temperature-raising anticipation and badly-concealed panic. Ah, prom! Even though the cast list has changed, the characters are still the same.

It's good to remind myself of just how neurotic I can be...

Blast from the past: This is the one and only entry from a blog I started close to two-and-a-half years ago. I'm getting rid of that blog, but, being the pack-rat that I am, I can't stand to throw anything out without some sort of record of it.

I don't think there's any lesson to learn from this other than the more things change the more they stay the same, I guess.

Real update to follow. I know...promises, promises.


xoxo,
D


Tuesday, December 06, 2005
So much to say, so much to say...

I feel frozen.

Rooted to my IKEA chair while waves of self-consciousness wash over me. I think eventually I'll get over my post-shyness (or maybe just get bored with it) and type out everything I said I would record for the past ten years or so. In the meantime, it feels like so much indulgent pressure to write something out that someone else might actually read. Or maybe not. Perhaps this blog will float through the flotsam and jetsam of cyber-space like so much other debris.

I mean, who really reads this?

Aside from me and anyone else I feel bold enough to tell about this journal's existence. That last sentence was a grammatical nightmare, I know.

Perhaps there is a sense of pseudo-power in this pseudo-anonymity. Is this post already too neurotic to read past the first few sentences anyway? I digress, I digress...

Enough.

I'm already tired of myself.

Shameless Self-Promotion

Junior Theatre artistic director Desha Crownover takes pride in her work with kids
By Valerie Scher
UNION-TRIBUNE CLASSICAL MUSIC CRITIC

ARTISTIC DIRECTOR: Desha Crownover

COMPANY: San Diego Junior Theatre

UPCOMING: “How to Eat Fried Worms,” Friday to March 16, Casa del Prado Theatre, Balboa Park

KEY COMMENT: “It's so rewarding working with kids who are taking time out of their schedules because they really want to be here.”

WEB SITE: juniortheatre.com


February 24, 2008

Walk into Desha Crownover's office in Balboa Park's Casa del Prado and you can't miss the big, cuddly toy dog that would look at home in a children's playroom.

Formerly a prop, the floppy-eared pooch is a permanent reminder that Crownover's job is all about kids and families.


As artistic director of San Diego Junior Theatre, she's responsible for choosing the shows (and directing about one-fourth of them) at the nation's oldest continuing children's theater, now celebrating its 60th season.

“The kids learn about working in a collaborative artistic realm. And the audience includes kids who have never seen theater before,” says the 35-year-old San Diego native. “There's a really cool synergy. I take a lot of pride in it.”

Enthusiastic and engaging, with a bright smile and an easy laugh, she's the perpetually busy queen bee in Junior Theatre's hive of activity. Supported by a $1.4 million budget, the nonprofit organization is presenting 13 shows in three sites (the 654-seat Casa del Prado Theatre, Chula Vista's 110-seat Theatre on Third and La Jolla's 108-seat Firehouse YMCA Theatre) during its 2007-08 season, which continues into August.

Though Crownover has held her job for only a year, she's thoroughly familiar with the company, having staged a variety of company productions since 1997.

“It's constant chaos,” the Linda Vista resident says in a way that makes chaos sound like a good thing. “Coming to work here could almost be a (TV) reality show. Anything can happen on any given day.”


With productions ranging from musicals to dramas, activities including classes and camps, and celebrated alumni like Tony winners Brian Stokes Mitchell and Christian Hoff, Junior Theatre is a prominent part of a thriving local scene that includes J*Company Youth Theatre, Christian Youth Theater and Peter Pan Junior Theater.

Crownover's own introduction to the art form came when she was 6 years old and living with her family in San Jose. She portrayed a wolf cub in a junior troupe's production of “Little Red Riding Hood.”

“It was the greatest thing ever,” recalls the elder of two daughters of a mother who was a real estate agent/manager and a father who was a government contractor. “To be onstage and feel the audience watching you is an amazing experience. I loved doing that.”

In addition to appearing in a variety of shows, Crownover took piano lessons (and later taught them), enjoyed speech and debating activities and considered becoming a TV news anchor. But after taking an acting class, the then-20-year-old communications major at UCSD switched her major from communications to theater because she was determined to “somehow be involved in the theater process.”

She fell in love with directing while receiving her Master's in theater at San Diego State University. After gaining a reputation for working well with youngsters at such companies as Junior Theatre and Santa Fe Christian Theatre, she was the logical choice to become the successor to Junior Theatre artistic director Michael Anthony, who left the post for health reasons.

Working with executive director Will Neblett and the company's season selection committee, Crownover aims to make the company's shows an “enjoyable experience for the whole family.” Though she served as assistant director last year for the Old Globe's production of August Wilson's “Two Trains Running,” Junior Theatre is where she makes full use of her abilities as administrator, teacher and mentor.

Should students need it, Crownover has advice about everything from making theater a profession (“It's so hard – only do it if nothing else makes you as happy”) to conquering stage fright (“Take the focus off you and remember you're there to entertain”).

And if anyone needs extra support, the toy dog in her office is always available for a hug.