Work? No thank you, I've had too much already.

A friend recently asked me what my day typically consists of. That's difficult to explain...

We have 1.5 days off per week. The days off can be any day of the week, and you know months ahead of time when they are and can plan ahead. They usually end up being Mondays all day and Tuesday until 6PM because the theater is dark on Monday nights. Other than those days, we have to be available for rehearsal. That doesn't mean that we always have a rehearsal or a performance; it just means that we can only plan one day at a time. Ok, yes, the song is going through my head... “One day at a tahahaaaaaahhhm, sweet Jesus” Maybe, that’s my next million Euro idea, a twelve step program for musicians. They could think of it as three measure of common time for a cure. Nerd alert. Ok, so, the daily schedule is available by 1:30 PM on the preceding day. So, if you want to plan something for tomorrow, and it’s not 1:30 yet, you gots to wait, son, and that’s just all there is to it.

The theater workday is split up into two sections, called Morning and Afternoon. Morning means from 10AM until 2PM. Afternoon means 6PM till whenever. So, if we had rehearsal in the morning for the full time and then had a long show at night, we would work a normal 8 hour day like most normal people. This doesn’t really happen, though, since rehearsals can only last 3 hours and 20 minutes, with a 20 minute break inclusive) We rarely have a full length rehearsal and then a long performance, though. The theater basically shuts down from 2PM until 6PM everyday. This is our “Quiet Time.” This is really nice. You can take a nap, go grocery shopping, work out, go swimming, take a hike, whatever. 4 hours rest time before the evening show is just right for a lot of things. It’s also a really nice time for a nap.

Ok, what I am saying is, this job is a total joke. We hardly have to work at all, really, and are just lazy. But, hey, it beats working construction. And, for this, I get paid more than the average German. I am not rich, but making a salaried income has definitely made it easier to balance my budget, and get ahead financially. Money bad. Josh with money good.

Which brings up an interesting point: job security. I am tenured here. I have worked here the required amount to be tenured, which means it is next to impossible, under German law, to fire me. In order to get a written “Warning”, you would have to do something pretty bad. In my first year here, I missed an entrance. I was so mortified (American work ethic + American stage training = guilt beyond compare.) I asked my colleague if I would receive a Warning for that. He laughed and said no. When I asked him what I would have to do to get a Warning he said: If a stage manager comes to you and tells you it's time for you to come to stage, and you just look at them, cross your arms, and say, "No, I don't want to go on stage.” that would warrant a Warning.
“And I would need THREE such occurrences to get fired?”
“Yup.”
Damn, I'm golden. Yay, antiquated, overly-unionized, restrictive, centralized German labor laws that arte crippling the country’s economy, yay. Sorry about your economy, nice German people, but thanks for the dough.

Holy Order, Batman

I just want to know why I always have to play a priest.



Well, if I have to play a priest, I may as well make him lascivious and Rabelaisian like a persnickety Ben Franklin in vestments.

Osies and Skinheads

Can it be that I have been thinking for the past 12 hours about what I could possibly write in my blog, but have found nothing. Can it be, oh gods, that my life has become dull of late? Be careful what you wish for, right?

Eastern European people, that is, those having grown up in Communist countries are weird. I can’t quite put my finger on it. They are wonderfully simple, and kind of “wholesome”, yet dubious somehow. I have been here for quite a while and have worked closely with “them”, yet still don’t have them figured out. Hmmm.

At McDondald’s the other day, I saw a group of skinheads waiting in line for their food. They had those old, German flags on their coats, tattoos, and just looked as Aryan as could be. Yet, they seemed friendly in some way. The people around them didn’t shun them, even if they may have been privately afraid.

I am starting to think that Europe is all about a place where the typical uniforms to which I have become accustomed are blurred. Maybe I have just been out of touch for too long. You see young white kids here, dressed from head to toe like their favorite rappers, even though you not a one of them has any concept of what the real ghetto is. You see young girls dressing like Britney, but with their overgrown bellies, hanging out between their short tops and low-riding pants. (Please let this style go away. I mean, I know the whole woman’s body image has progressed and that young women with a little extra weight should feel comfortable enough about themselves to just let their bodies be what they are. But, do we have to see it? Seriously.)

Anyway, these skinheads, ro whatever they were, are standing there, looking imposing, scaring me in some deep way, and up comes what is, apparently, an old friend of theirs. The guy is Turkish. For all of you who may not know, German Skinheads don’t like Turkish guys. But, they hugged and even kissed each other in the Turkish fashion.

It was at this point that I because sorely confused (you know, like in the Bible the shepherds were “sorely afraid”...) I just don’t get it. Is something not right here? Racism is such a confusing topic, you know. It reminds me of those stories before the Civil War where the plantation owner would cry like a baby and mourn for days at the passing of his Mammy that raised him. by all measure a racist, the owner couldn’t help but feel a tug on his heart at his mother-figure being taken away, even if she was black. Imagine how conflicted the brain and feelings of this owner must have been. Racism is not so simple as one might think. Perhaps these Skinheads at McDonald’s had some childhood who was Turkish, a friend that they could not deny. One can imagine that Skinheads were not always so, that they became so in their teenage years, and became harder and harder as time progressed. But, their heart was still alive in spite of their philosophies chokehold upon it. They could not deny the friend that reminded their spirit of earlier days, when they didn’t need to be hardened to the world.

Or, they could have not been Nazis at all, not close-minded, even friendly in spite of their appearance. But, that isn’t nearly so interesting to imagine.

A Cold, McDonald's Wino

AM BOP* 1 Wildschütz
PM BOP 3 Wildschütz

I kicked this cold’s ass! Yes! Now I have that awesome, euphoric feeling that one has when one starts to feel normal again and just thanks God to be alive like every minute of the day.

I just had to go to McDonald’s last night. I know it sounds stupid, but, I started to have dreams about giant floating hamburgers when I was sick and I just wanted to eat them but couldn’t. So, I got dressed, walked to McDonald’s and chowed. Apparently, because yesterday was yet another state holiday (All Saints) everyone else thought they should eat at McDonald’s, too.

Eating at McDonald’s in Europe is always funny. Once you’ve been here a while, you can never be sure what new products actually came from the States, and which ones are just being pawned off to Europeans as being “American-like”. Perhaps someone will help me with this one, because McDonald’s newest sandwich, the Big Tasty Bacon doesn’t sound American, somehow.

I was remembering something that happened a couple of weeks ago... I had gone to the Pfalz area of Germany for my weekly voice lesson. It is very rural and flatter, like France, which is only a few miles away. Pfalz is known for its wine. You can see vineyards all over the place there. And, about this time of the year, just after the grapes have been picked, you can drink Neu Wein (New Wine.) It's basically grape juice with about 4 per cent alcohol. I stopped off at a little town on the way to my voice lesson one day and saw a little sign that advertised New Wine. So, I walked up and rang the buzzer. Out came a farmer, who was very amused that some American was stopping to get a bottle of new wine in his extremely isolated town. He just talked and talked, and took me back to where the wine is made. It was amazing. They have a room with about 15 gigantic, stainless steel vats (500 gallons, maybe, I don't know.) He just went up to one, pulled out a glass, opened a spigot at the bottom and let me taste what is basically what the grape juice tastes like after just about a week. It was so sweet and good. Really good. So, I bought a bottle, (for about $1.25.) He explained that the top had to be kept very loose because the fermentation process would produce a lot of gas that would need to escape. The grapes, at that stage, change their character almost hourly, he explained. So, Chris and I enjoyed a small glass daily for several days to taste how wine grows. The farmer was right. Every time we opened the bottle, we found that we were drinking something entirely new. New wine.

* Bühne Orchester Probe—Rehearsal on stage with all learned staging, dancing, without costumes, with orchestra.

Retort: to tort again

Karen and I have had a bit of a squabble, I’m afraid. She is a medical student in her residency in New York City, where the bad salsa that Pace is better than is made. I have come to really enjoy, nay, be addicted to, her blog. She is a funny lady. But, recently, her blog has fallen into disarray. The response to my simple, hey, let’s just say it, admirable and neighborly request for more content in her blog evoked hysterical diatribes about being too busy. So, I retort.

Karen, sorry, you baited me, and I think we all know what that means...

Questions:

1. How can one colon be removed from more than one person? Now, that’s newsworthy.
2. Why weren’t there any cool, little hyperlinks that would show us, if we so chose, cool pictures of what a, let’s say, “rectal prolapse” looks like? I would rank it as highly as your perfect pumpkin.
3. Instead of calling me a “some people”, I would have preferred to have been called “the people”, “one of the elite”, simply “The One”, or “One of the God’s Themselves.”

At the University of Kansas, people used to call me “the Josh,” which I thought was endearing until they changed it to “das Josh” in order to better accentuate my androgynous nature. Then again, they also use to call me “the anti-gay” because I was gay but had none of the preferred gay qualities (i.e., I was overweight, could not, for the life of me, decorate my house, did not know Bette Midler’s life story from cradle to, ok bad expression, from then till now.) I’m beginning to think those friends were kind of mean...

4. On October 29th, you said that you had just spent a half an hour looking for a video clip. I would have preferred you spending that time WRITING.

Now, my love, and I call you that with real feeling, please don’t make your stories of your highly-adventurous life oberflächlich by quoting others. You are a gifted writer, and I want to see you singe the pages with the already-searing venom (I love the imagery of hot venom somehow) that your residency creates. Specifically, I would love to hear more about the drama (I know this was a big surprise) and tales of how you have been pimped. (Now I know what MTV passed on the “Pimp my First Year Resident” pilot. It has no ring to it.) (Parentheses. Addictive. Help me.)

I know you must hate me now. But, don’t. Just think of it all as latent jealousy. I wish I had the exciting, constant banter that one can see on “Scrubbs.” Just think, that is your life! And, being in New York, and all, definitely adds more excitement to the pot. Give some of that... that verve...that vigor...that venomed vervy vigor vibarting vithin.

Poo.