I wrote the following on March 22, 2011 and until very recently I had completely forgotten about jotting down this terribly uncomfortable and disturbing interaction at that terrible Irish bar all the way at the end of South Street. You probably know the one. The following is the text exactly as it was written years ago.  

THE ENCOUNTER- a true Philly story

I walked upstairs from the bathroom, schooched my way behind the patrons at the bar and bumped into him. He turned around, "Oh, I'm sorry darlin'. I like your sweater. We're both wearing sweaters". He takes my hand, we shake. He is obviously drunk. Beyond drunk really, a state rather unexpected for a Monday night. I try to continue on my way, he once again reaches to shake my hand (I assume), and an awkward arm sonata occurs. I play flirtation, cold flirtation in order to get back to my seat and my beer. It's often the best option when you're unaware of what manner of inebriated fool you are speaking to. Instead of surrendering to his palm I contract my hand, extend my pointer and thumb in a gun-like form. I click my tongue twice emulating a pistol. A safe way to express: nice meeting you, you're drunk, I'm out of here. Not the wisest decision, but hindsight is 20/20.

"I have one of those", he says as he lifts up his cream colored sweater to reveal a handgun. "I'm a cop". I fell every muscle in my body grow tense. A cop, in a bar, barely able to form coherent sentences, with his gun an arm's length away. Right away I went into some form of crisis mode. I remained a touch coy and engaged, all the while preparing to retreat at any moment. The proper option I thought, especially when I suddenly was hyper-aware of the bullets nestled in their holster just below his right hip. And without even being asked he pulls out his wallet and proudly displays its contents. A license and a badge. Officer C---, drunken fool. "I shot a guy down on 12th. Which way is that?" I point west, eager to end this whole experience. Much to my horror he continues, "It was about 3 years ago. Black guy. He shot at me first, though." How to respond to such a thing? What terrible cop drama am I caught in? I nod my head, acknowledging that he has just told me something that I never wanted to hear, let alone at an open mic night at a neighborhood bar. He echoed my earlier hand motion along with the click, click of the hand-puppet gun. "It was awesome", he brags as he then charades the aim and precision of shooting his actual gun, along with sound effects. "Ba-boom", he croons as he reenacts the kick back of his weapon. There was pride and joy and ego in his voice and eyes. He enjoyed shooting this man all those years ago, enough to immediately find a way to bring it up, and aimed to impress me with his story. This was a man I did not trust. An insincere soul. A very tangible threat. A cop? 

"You got a boyfriend?", Officer C--- asks and I head towards my beer, my bag, and the exit. "Yes, I do" I said assertively. He interrogates me with his eyes. "Yes, I really do", finally losing the soft, safe edge of a young romantic. He takes my hand, delicately, and kisses it. I fill with discomfort and disgust. Racist, killer, Officer C--- with the gun on his hip has drunkenly hit on me. Filled me with the feeling of rotten justice, much like putrid vegetables. I may have even told him my first name early in the encounter. Finally, with as much girlish charm as I can stand to fabricate, I excuse myself. "Well, I've got a beer waiting for me". He takes my hand again. "Goodbye, miss". "Goodbye...sir". I swallow the rotten lump of that term of respect. He didn't deserve it, not one bit. I rush back to my stool, my bag, and my beer.

In all this happening lasted only about 5 minutes, but I felt like I had been trapped in a timeless void. It was beyond uncomfortable. I sat down, took a breath, recounted the disturbing tale to my roommate sitting next to me, and upon his urgings wrote it down quickly, which is what you've just read. After I was finished with the last sentence I calmly put away my pen and sipped deliberately at my lager, forcing myself to forget the matter and enjoy the music.

There's been a great deal of emotional out-pour following the recent tragedy in Newtown, CT and I must admit I have found myself wanting to join in the cries for a closer look at our legislation around gun control and ownership. More importantly the reform of our treatment of individuals with social and mental disorders and the need for more resources for families of children with such needs has to be acknowledged. 

Something we frequently ask ourselves in the theatre is why?  And the answer has never felt so very driven as is does with Simpatico's upcoming remount of  THE AMISH PROJECT.

Why this play? Why now? Because it is all around us. Violence is constantly in our news feeds and is all too common in the lives of our young minds. With the recent shooting in Newtown, Connecticut we are reminded of the horrors of the world and the capacity of terror a single person can unleash on the most innocent of people - children with amazing futures ahead of them whose place of education quickly transformed into a place of death. It's not fair.  

In the next few days I will begin my dramaturgical research for the play with Amish Grace, the book which served as inspiration for Jessica Dickey's moving work. Please look to Simpatico's Blog for updates on this research. 

In honor of Simpatico Theatre Project's A Bright New Boise wrapping up the second week of rehearsals I'd like to share...

With those long hours at Hobby Lobby it's important to stay nourished in the florescent  sea of faux flowers, styrofoam, and back-to-school displays. 
What better substance to keep you moving than this exquisite sludge?

- layer ingredients in a large glass or mason jar, making sure to put liquids towards the bottom with yogurt and frozen fruit in the middle and top it off with a little more liquid 

OKAY so the key to making this smoothie is the proper tool ...

Seriously, the greatest kitchen tool of all time. 

Now blend it. Blend it good. 

The thing I love about these jars is that you can see what's going as your magical blender wand does its thing. And you can seal it and play with the little bubble thing in the middle of the lid. And it can freeze. 

So there you have it. That's the highly coveted concoction of mine which will make frequent appearances in the rehearsal room. 

Get yourself an immersion blender and enjoy some smoothie time!

AND COME SEE A BRIGHT NEW BOISE in October!

It's been a hell of a morning. 

Around 7:15 this morning I was lured out of slumber by a series of increasingly frantic knocks and doorbell rings. As is customary in my house the door went ignored. But the knocking continued, and the ding-dongs continued, and my sleeping did not continue. I heart the clunking of footsteps coming down from the third floor to the second the first and voices at the now open door. I heard footsteps coming back upstairs and stopping just outside my bedroom door. I heard a soft 

"...Katherine?"
 "WHAAT?!"
"They're gonna tow your car"
"WHYYYYYYYYYYYY???????"

And there I go, clumsily feeling around for some sort of clothing article to cover my crumpled pajamas, eyes squinting from a shattered morning of sleep. I stumble outside, looking for the evil being who disturbed our early morning peace, and was staring at the nicest guy in South Philly - our neighbor who gently explained that they were starting construction on the corner and he was worried that they might tow my car. {Of course they only put signage indicating no street parking late last night]. I sighed and thanked him, fumbled for my Volvo's keys and prayed my brain was alert enough to parallel park. Which it was, and on the left side at that. 

You ever have one of those moments where you're talking about something and you realize that your point gets lost in translation? And you fight and fight to find some words of redemption for your brilliant thoughts but the more you jabber the less sense it seams to make. So you settle for making some terribly unsure face...

...and promptly spurt out:  "sorry-that-probably-made-no-sense-awkward laughter-I'm-really-bad-at-explaining-things-sorry-pathetic pseudo-shrug-so-anyway-I'm-done-now". [Alternate deflection of attention metohd: slowly trail voice out while looking around for anyone else to make the slightest move to save your from drowning in your own incoherence].

Happens to me about once a day. 

I've never been one for history. I don't mind doing some research (read: searching google and wikipedia for any and all condensed information), but academically it failed to strike my fancy. Although that might have been a bi-product of the way in which it was presented to me in my early education years. 

But I am going to change my own mind. Kind of. I've once again joined the production side of things, but this time there's no renderings for me to present, or legistics of staging - I'm going to be the expert. Or at least try to be. There's really no one true definition for what a dramaturg does, and really what is required is completely dependent on the type of project one is investigating. 

I had the pleasure of sitting in on auditions for this project and serving as the reader for each actor, so I already got a head start. We learned a great deal in auditions, I feel like that's always the case isn't it?, about characters and how they want to fit into the world of the play. In the audition process I was able to chat with the director about casting and how she saw it all falling into place. So I have an idea of what needs to happen, and I certainly feel like the team is all on the same page, which is most important. And now I begin to use the powers of the internet. Looking up references left and right, plotting out locations on maps (if there's anything I cringe at more than history it's definitely geography), searching through images, and putting out feelers in numerous directions to see where the keys to unlocking this world hide. They are out there. I'm going to discover them. And I'm going to like it!

It's been a busy few months for me. Lots of work,  auditions, a handful of callbacks, and piles of laundry and dust accumulating in my bedroom. But soon, so very terrifyingly soon, my google calendar transforms into a desert of blank time slots. I've got nothing. 

And it's freeing. And awful. 

So I'll do my laundry, and maybe I'll finally dust my ceiling fan instead of just observing the layer of fluffy grey tinting my beloved fan. 

And the lack of income? I guess I'll figure that out, too. 

Meanwhile, I'll be blogging about popsicles. Really. 

UPDATE: So sorry to disappoint, but looks like popsicle blog will have to wait.  No explanation necessary. Just not doing it. 

We've all been there: those excruciating hours that turn into days while you wait to hear...anything. Any news. Any acknowledgement. Anything.  It's a universal experience (although the business world is a bit more quick to crush your spirits).  And what can you do? This is the point where you no longer have even an iota of control. 

The feelings of anticipation and dread and resignation and indigence slosh into one another like a slop bucket full of disaster, and the only thing to do is to go forward with the day and keep on submitting for more opportunities to go in, stand emotionally exposed in front of those whose decision determines the immediate future, go home, and prepare for the verdict. 

I've never been good at blogging. It always feels so forced, so uninteresting, and so self-masturbatory. And at the core of it, that's exactly what blogging is. I mean, who am I to think that what I say is worth reading? Look at me, I have this website for myself. A professional glimpse into who I am. So I suppose this blog will include reflections and frustrations revolving around auditions and the heartache of being a theatre artist. 

It is a heartache. It's a tease. One minute you are elated and your heart is pounding, the next you feel so dejected and almost swear never to do it again. But you do, and it's amazing, and you can't remember why you fought in the first place. We're whipped. But it's okay. We'll make it through together.