New Blog!

Hello readers,

To create a more user friendly blog without popups and a bit easier to read, I've started a new blog over on wordpress where I will be blogging.  You can find it right here.  

 

Cheers!

Allegra 

She Resisted
Since I started reading the Harry Potter books in 1999 (at which point only the first two had been published), I have been espouting one big prediction:

Harry will die. 

But not for any story / plot reason, not because JK wants to give her readers a healthy look at death, it's much more lowbrow than that.  My prediction was based upon that no writer could resist starting the framing device of starting the first book of a seven book saga with a chapter called "The Boy Who Lived" and subsequently title the last chapter of the last book "The Man Who Died".  It was the literary equivalent to "shave and a haircut...two bits!".  No writer could resist.

She resisted. 

I will not reveal whether or not my overal prediction was right in case anyone stumbles upon this who has not yet finished the book. 

I'm still trying to figure out how I feel about this last book.  The thing that pissed me off about reading it was that, as Rowling ties up plot lines (which she does very well, don't get me wrong) she employs scenes set in familiar places, characters we haven't seen in a while, spells, etc.  Of course, this to most readers will be "ah ha!  I knew that was going to be important!" but for me, I kept getting these little pangs of nostaligia: awww, mandrakes!  Ron just said wingardium leviosa! there's the plant Luna gets her crazy radish earrings! And I hated that I had that reaction.  Ah well.

And I'm still trying to figure out how I feel about the ending of the series, what has been for me a near decade long obsession.  I've been wearing my Potter glasses (yep, they're real.  I didn't get them to look like Harry Potter, but I'd been coveting black plastic round-rimmed glasses my whole life, found a pair a couple years ago, put them on and realized I looked exactlly like the boy wizard), my Potter watch (a replica of Mrs. Weasley's grandfather clock), and the Ravenclaw wristband Amy knit for me (I would so be a Ravenclaw) since movie 5 came out nearly two weeks ago. and vowed to keep those three items on until I was done with the book.  I've now switched back to my normal specs.

I've spent the last year traversing the country with Buckets and Tap Shoes, almost always bringing my own car and listening to the Potter audio books every mile of the road. 

Potter was one of the things that stuck out on Amy's myspace page and made me to decide to email her back (accept her bribe of pizza and beer, as she would say it).  And every so often our conversations have broken into random Potter discussions--what would happen in the last book, who would survive, what  details from earlier books would end up being important.  But we won't have those anymore, since there are no more books, no reason to predict and get fervent about one side of the argument or other.

And when Karen and I broke up, the one thing that really hurt, and part of me hoped maybe she'd reach out this last week, was that she couldn't imagine getting the last book without me.  And I told her we would.  Because it didn't matter to me if we weren't together anymore.  That was no reason we still couldn't go to the movie, get the book. 

But we didn't.

I can't imagine the kids that I used to substitute teach back in 2001, 2002--3rd graders at the time, who nicknamed me Dumbledore and gave themselves all Potter nicknames.  They are now ready to go to high school next year, this book must, either conscious or subconsciously, feel like a rite of passage into adult hood. 

And even though I'm 27, the ending of the series seems like a rite of passage to me. 

Is it bad that, even before the Fringe this year begins, way before the lottery, over a year from the 2008 festival, I've already got my next show on the brain? 

It's called "After Potter".  I think a road trip needs to be involved.  One timed so that I hit play on my iPod with the first chapter of "Sorcerer's Stone" when I leave the driveway, and so that the words "All was well" are read as I hit the driveway upon my return.

Amy wants to come.  I think I like that very much.

KILL ME NOW
I've just spent the last hour listening to Kenny G snippets for pre-show music for the show.

I think I just threw up a little bit in my mouth.

If this show doesn't kill me...
Since Memorial Day I've been a completley productive monkey.  My front of house staff is complete, I've collected nearly all the information I need (still waiting on performance times from one show, and venue info from one of our venues), conducted our first front of house staff meeting (which included Amy and I having to clean up the house--and buying a vaccuum cleaner, borrowing a grill, and Amy getting a crash course in how to cook on a grill) and now that most of my staff duties are done until July, have turned my attention towards the show.

It's been a bit revamped.  I've added two more pieces of music.  One being the first part of the sax concerto that nearly sent me to my grave the last time I played it.  And I've revamped the show.  Out went one of the pieces I was sure I was going to have in it.  So the show structure now looks like this:

Tour Diaries Part I (short journal entries from on the road with Buckets and Tap Shoes)
Prelude (the introduction to the concept of the show)
Music - Scaramouche mvt. I: Vif
Going Straight (it might not be what you think it's about.  But it might be)
Music - Harlem Nocturne
Silence (story about my mom's heart attack)
Music - pt. one Glazunov concerto
Remembering the Lemons (story about Mont-St-Michel)
Music - Perthshire Majesty
Tour Diaries Part II

Depending on time, my "Prayer to Whom it May Concern" may find a home between "Remembering the Lemons" and Perthshire, but I'm not sure yet. 

And I've been practicing.  An hour a day, working on the Scaramouche right now.  And as of 11.47, I have one section of it completley up to tempo, and probably will have another section up to tempo by the time I'm done today.

That's if I don't faint.  Which I thought I might a little bit ago.  Or puke more. 

It's not the smoking, I don't think, because my breath support is exactly where it should be.  I'm just out of shape.  I forgot how much it takes to play like this.  I hope I haven't sold my time short, and can get it ready. Because if I do, I think this show is going to really, really, be cool.

What does your car say about you?
I came across this article this afternoon and thought it was very apropos.  What does my car say about me? 

We got the fuel pump working.  Both pressure and volume good and getting to the engine.  Then Larry went to start it. 

Nothing. 

As one who doesn't work on those Hitlermobiles (tm Bill Steitler), Larry was at a loss as what to try.  I called VW man in Minneapolis and he suggested two things.  1) the fuel pump regulator was also off.  Larry ruled that out quickly by some tests.  Or, 2) the engine control module (the motherboard, if you will) had gone bad.  Except Larry, or the town of Rawlins, or apparently the entire south / mid section of Wyoming, had a way to test that.

A 111 mile tow to Casper later...and the story will continue in the morning when the VW dealer opens shop at eight and will hopefully be able to quickly and inexpensively diagnose and fix the issue. 

So my car is sick.  Stuck.  Fixing one thing, and another random, slightly but not entirely related malady happens.  It's brain is probably broken, losing the ability to sort out the mundane functions of its mechanisms in order to function reliably. 

I'd say my car is reflecting me quite accurately right now.  'cause for some reason, that's the rut I've been in the last month or so. 

But tomorrow is a new day.  The sun will shine (after the forecasted snow storms tonight--I shit you not).  There will be a result.  And I will get home.  Somehow.  I'm just not sure when or at what cost at the moment.

But I've still got cute shorts.  And a tan.  And a king sized bed with cable.  And a monkey under my arm.  And there's no bat in my hair. 

And, for all of that, I am grateful.

If I ever think I'm having a bad day...
...I'm just going to read this.

I'm currently in Rawlins, Wyoming.  I was heading out to Ogden Utah for some shows with the Bucket Boys last week, and on Thursday right before getting back on the interstate in Rawlins, the car decided it didn't want to go anymore.  I was towed from a Holiday Inn Express parking lot to pretty much right across the street to the Sinclair gas station, where the only mechanic in town works (well, there are a couple others but they refused to look at the car upon hearing it was "foreign"). 

Larry the mechanic looked at my car and said, "A Volkswagen, huh?  Hitler died 50 years ago and we're still supporting him".  This did not invoke much sense of security or confidence in me for my little car.  As I waited for him to look at the car, I got to talking with a couple who saw my Kalamazoo College sticker in my window.  They asked what I was doing sitting on the bench outside the gas station.  I told them.  They kinda nodded and said, "yeah, we're here with a woman and her son who broke down last week.  I think they'll get on the road today.  Our church and another church have been helping them out." 

I had never contemplated the fact that a car repair could take more than a day or so. 

I told Larry the problem, and he said it sounded like a fuel filter.  We got that installed, got the car started, I let it run a little bit and took off out of the parking lot.  I had just merged onto I-80 when the car sputtered and died again.  In a construction zone.  I got it off the road as much I could and called the tow man to bring it back to Larry.  As I waited for the tow, a pickup truck pulled over that had two people in it--a very pregnant woman and a guy about my age with three teeth.  In his slow Wyoming drawl he asked, "so what's the problem?"  I told him, he gave me a couple suggestions to try, and then said, "You LDS [Latter Day Saints - Mormon]?" I said, "no sir, Catholic."  And with that, he and his wife looked at each other knowingly and said, "that's too bad.  If you were LDS, we coulda helped a little more" and took off.

Larry's best guess is that it is the fuel pump.  But he didn't have that part.  He said he could order it for $580 + labor, but it wouldn't get there until Monday or Tuesday.  That's when I started to stress out a little bit, more about the time than the money.  The good thing was, my parents were coming out for this show and then continuing on to a vacation around the national parks in Utah and Colorado, and were a couple hours behind me. 

Larry'd never worked on a Volkwagen before.  The only one in town who had is on vacation for two weeks.  Larry's wife who owns the gas station called her sister in Rock Springs (100 miles away from Rawlins) who owns a Volkswagen and asked where she got her car serviced.  She said she took it to Ogden.  Which was where I was trying to get. 

We checked into the hotel next door to the gas station to brainstorm plans. 


Number five is what I decided to do.  I called Checker auto parts who said that they didn't have the part in stock, and couldn't even order it because it was an Advanced Auto Parts part (they share an online database).  The closest Advanced Auto store was in Laramie.  I called them, and they didn't have the part either.  It would have to come from the warehouse in Kansas City, Missouri, then they could express it over to the mechanic here.  But it wouldn't get her until Monday.

And that's what I did. 

As I type, I'm sitting in the lobby of the Quality Inn in Rawlins since I had to check out of my room at eleven.  The part arrived about 11 AM, and Larry is currently working on the dreaded Hitler car.  One of two things is going to happen.

He's going to get it running here, and I'll get on the road soon.

He's not going to be able to fix it, and I'll be stuck in Rawlins for an indeterminate amount of time.

I'm banking on the former.

But at least it's not a bat in my hair. 

And I'm wearing really cute shorts today.

A Year Ago Today
Last year on May 3rd I woke up and walked in to work.  A coworker asked how my Grandpa was doing, since I'd been down to see him over Easter and he wasn't good, and also when I was leaving on my road trip. 

I told her that I was leaving in ten days,  that he was still hanging in there, and I'd made the decision that if he died while I was gone, I wouldn't come back for the funeral.  He wouldn't want me to do that. 

Two hours later my mom called and told me he had died.  I didn't want to break down at work, so I flipped into business mode.  I told my boss what happened.  She told me to go home.  I remember walking home and calling HR to request funeral leave.  The woman asked when the death occurred and I said "about an hour ago."  There was a pause on the other end of the line before she said that people usually wait a day or two before figuring out the particulars.  But the particulars were what I needed to concentrate on so I didn't concentrate on anything else.  Target, the big multi-million business that it is, requires that employees bring in two copies of the funeral notice or orbituary and send it to HR for your leave pay.  Three days if the services are within 250 miles--five if more than 250. 

I called Karen's cell at work--I think I left a message.  I don't remember. We were supposed to have people over to watch Race and have dinner.  I was making a Pavlova for the first time.  I'd tried to make one the night before and it didn't work.  I didn't have the right sugar, let the vinegar and vanilla sit too long in the mix before putting it in the oven and it turned into a big pile of sloppy gross shit.  I think I said then that I still wanted people to come.  I needed something to do. 

I threw out the first pavlova, went to the store and bought different sugar and more eggs.  I washed the needed dishes, and got to work.  Five eggs whites in, I dumped in a yolk in by accident.  Had to start over.  Three eggs into the next attempt I broke a yolk in the whites.  I needed six.  There are only twelve in a dozen. 

I stared at my fucked up third attempt, and grabbed the last three eggs still in the carton and hurled them at the kitchen window.  And that's when I cried.  Broke down, the yolk of my grief spilling into the whites of my eyes, turning them red.  My parents were in Montana, my mom flying to Sioux Falls later that day to make arrangements.  My sister was there, too.  Everyone I knew was at work, cell phones switched off and I couldn't steady my hands to type.  It was a momentary depth of lonliness I never want to feel again.  I didn't expect a death to hit me like that.  It wasn't unexpected. 

I'm not sure how long I sat there.  But I knew I needed to get that dessert done.  Get it right.  Get it perfect.  I went back to the grocery store, and bought another dozen eggs. 

It finally dawned on me to separate the eggs one at a time in a second bowl, then dump the white into the large mixing bowl.  If one broke, it wouldn't ruin everything.  I had another chance. 

I broke a couple.  But I finally got six perfect egg whites, mixed it with the right sugar, and watched my first pavlova take shape.  And it came out damn near perfect.  I cleaned up the window.  And, until someone reads this, if anyone does, no one else knew about that afternoon.

I thought about those eggs and that day as I drove from Lake George, NY to Franklin, NH today.  I thought about them when I talked to my mom on the phone to tell her I was on the road, hearing that note of sadness in the back of her voice that hasn't left yet.  Maybe she was expecting me to bring up what today was.  I didn't.  It was clouding up my brain enough as it was. 

I don't really know why I wrote this.  But it was in my head, and I didn't want it there. 

When Temping goes Awry, Party IV

I just listened to an instrumental, easy listening version of Britney Spears' "Oops, I Did It Again".  And it amused me greatly.

I also had a realization that my idea of hell is being surrounded by rich evangelical types.  A bit ironic, since they all think they'll end up sitting on the right hand of God, isn't it?

Ineffectual Telemarketing

This is the conversation I just had on the phone:

Me: Good morning Big Boy's Companies, this is Allegra how can I help you?

Caller: Hi, this is Jeff.  Did you notice the crack on your windshield?

Me: I'm sorry, what?

Jeff: Did you notice the crack on your windshield?

Me: Who are you looking for?  And what vehicle are you speaking of?

Jeff:  Well, I was just wondering if you noticed the crack because if you did you should bring your car to one hour glass.  But it sounds like you don't have one.  Good bye.

Alec Baldwin

I've been hearing for the last day on the radio all about Alec Baldwin's "shocking voicemail" to his daughter.  I found this transcript of it on TVGuide.com today:

I don't give a damn that you're... a child or that your mother is a thoughtless pain in the ass who doesn't care about what you do," he reportedly railed. "You've made me feel like [doody].... You better be ready Friday the 20th to meet with me.

It's not nice, that's for sure.  But does that really warrant taking away all his visitation rights?  Maybe I'm a bit jaded and desensitized in this arena, but really.