A new keyboard exercise, based on Keite’s funny poem. You can also listen to it.
Kicking around on a piece of ground in your hometown
We love spelling; it makes us feel normal
Yours truly went to the National Spelling Bee in 1981, representing the fair state of West Virginia, including Putnam County. (The damned word was “fulsome“. I came in at #40 in the national competition.) So it’s only reasonable that I should fall utterly in love with the score from “The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee,” an adorable little musical that celebrates the essence of geek. It speaks to me!
I can program a computer, choose the perfect time
The choice of February 2, 2006 was significant.
Stop dragging this butt around
Rehearsals are great fun because I can strike up a great deal of trouble without saying a damned word. The key to being truly obnoxious is using the standard actor library of facial expressions. As we’re rehearsing Valerie’s new play, I start a conversation with Allison, who I’ve just met. Allison is a rangy, cordial, easygoing Texas actress who produces her own theater and does occasional stage reads. As I chat her up, she sort of reaches behind my head and tugs on a tuft of my hair.
“What, is something wrong with my hair?” I ask.
“Oh, I think you have stuff in it,” says Allison.
“Oh, yeah,” I say. “That’s, um, hair product. I put in some extra product today.”
“Product?” she asks.
“Product,” I say.
“Actually, it’s not the product,” says Allison. “Your hair is sticking up in back.”
“It’s the product,” I say.
“This look is okay for really young men,” she contemplated, tugging on the back of my head. “But for older men? it’s not…” She trailed off.
At this point, I turned and gave her look #43. Now look #43, for those of you who are not professional actors, is a mix of sadness, offense and surprise.
“Oh? I didn’t mean? that is…” She covered her mouth. “Did I just really say that?”
“I’m not so old as that,” I said, subtly shifting into the #43a sequence, my lips quivering, tears in my eyes. “Not… so… very… old…”
She laughed nervously. “Oh my God. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Oh, look at my hair! It?s got gray in it, yes? Gray! Can you imagine that?”
I snuffled. Cue #43b. “I think… it looks very nice.”
Allison proceeded to turn a beautiful shade of mauve and remained thus for several minutes at least, until I changed the topic of conversation to balls. Pool balls. It was a plot point in the play. Never mind. So later, the cast is hanging out around the piano and I’m playing every 1980s pop song ever written and Allison comes up. “Wow, you have an astounding hidden ability with the piano,”she says.
“Thanks,” I say.
Conversationally, she asks, ?Do you have any other hidden abilities??
I give her look #76. This is the look that Riff Raff wore around during most of The Rocky Horror Show, kind of a lecherous lustful dangerous evil grimace thing. Allison cackles and gives me a light swat on the butt.
“I’m not even sure what that look means,” I say.
Allison says, “Yeah! Uh, did I just touch your butt?”
I go back to #43a.
Allison says, “I don?t even know you that well and I just touched your butt. Oh my God.”
Seamless transition to #43b. I say, “Not just touched. Grabbed my butt.”
She?s back to mauve again. “I did not grab your butt!”
I break out of #43b long enough to say, “That, right there, was a full-on butt grab you did. Big old handful of my very own personal butt.” Back into #43b. She just starts cackling again, so I go over to Tom, the director, and say, “Do something about Alison!”
“What did she do?” says Tom.
“She grabbed my butt and called me old!” I say.
“What do you want me to do about it?” says Tom.
I collapse into his arms, break into #76 and holler, “I want you to grab my butt and call me old too!” I love rehearsals.
The world was ready for a new kind of music
Couple upcoming gigs of note: I’m playing the Plush Room on February 21, covering strings for Rick Lasquette. The Plush Room is a tony cabaret/jazz venue off Union Square. Also, on January 29 I’m doing a staged read of Valerie’s new play, Proposition Lounge, at Foothill College. Tom Gough is directing.
And if I had the choice, yeah, I’d always wanna be there
Thank you for filling out our online questionnaire. If you have not already done so, please consider mailing a voluntary remittance of $60 to help pay for the cost of the Anniversary Report. Please make your check payable to Harvard and Radcliffe Class of 1991 and mail to: Harvard Class Report Office 124 Mt. Auburn St., Sixth Floor Cambridge, MA 02138 If you would prefer to use your credit card, please return to the 1991 Web questionnaire at http://www.haa.harvard.edu/class/html/cro15.html and follow the link to make a voluntary contribution via credit card. Thank you. Please disregard any unusual characters you may see in your report. They represent codes that will be translated in the editing process. YOUR RESPONSE: Class: 1991 First Name: John Middle Name (if any): W Current Last Name: Byrd Home Country: United States Occupation: Vice President of Business Development Type of Business: Video games Spouse: Amanda Kalikow Byrd Date of Marriage: Aug 22, 1998 Spouse's Degree Inst. 1: Harvard College Spouse's Degree Year 1: 1991 Spouse's Occupation: Director of Development NARRATIVE: What a great fifteen years it's been! Shortly after graduation, I gained the ability to reverse time for up to ten seconds. After my death, the evil clown Slo'or reconstructed me from my DNA fossil record. Now I can only be harmed by lava. Current personal goals include conquering all of California and enslaving it unto my dark, indomitable will. Armed with my dystronic Stratocaster, my plan cannot possibly fail this time. Bwah hah hah hah! __END OF RESPONSE__
Lord, them Delta women think the world of me
Down three flights of stairs, up two, jump on the subway; dammit it’s the wrong one! An unwanted side trip to seething Shibuya Station, and I can’t cross to the eastbound Hanzomon line without exiting, down three flights of stairs, up one, across the courtyard, down four flights, up two, caught the subway ten stops to a flat escalator snaking up a low hill to the limousine bus (same as a regular bus, still) to Narita Airport, where I flash a passport and hustle through the Red Carpet Club (returning someone’s lost passport on the way) to United 852 (exit row) to SFO to walk through immigration control then twenty percent tip to a taxi home.
Eight thousand, six hundred, thirty-two miles, three days, thousands of dollars. Is what I have to say so damned important?
When it’s time to leave here I hope you’ll understand
Commute today: the wife drives me (in the new Prius) to the airport, and it’s ten minutes in the red-carpet lounge for a mini-bagel and coffee — seat 1C to LAX, a shuttle to the Tom Bradley International Terminal, through customs, into the ANA first-class suite for more coffee, then eleven sunshine-filled hours to Tokyo, then a bus takes us to the main terminal, through immigration, a limousine bus (it’s just a regular bus, only more expensive) to Akasaka, up the hill to Villa Fontaine Roppongi.
