Mastering the head tilt.

Jennie and I at Sardi's after God of Carnage and posing with Newark Bear's mascot Ruppert.

Centered

Greenwich Village, NYC. I have been here 5 days and this is the first time that I have sat long enough to write. Just for my own sake of keeping a journal of sorts, I am just going to post some facts. I arrived Wed. evening and the studio on Cornelia is – as always – small but efficient. The Italian façade of the makes me feel as enter it looks as if I am walking through a street in Venice or one of the little towns in Cinque Terra. Also, I have a fire escape that I have managed to crawl in and out to. Like my apartment on Morton, I call it my balcony.

It is extremely hot in nyc – stand and drip weather. Also, the studio is on the 4th floor, so it is sultry. On Thursday evening, I sat out there and watched the world walk by. I felt like I was in a Spike Lee movie hanging out on the fire escape trying to find reprieve from the city’s heat.

Wednesday evening, I decided to just walk around the neighborhood. I feel so…what? Happy? Complete? Invigorated? Centered. As I walked up 7th Avenue I was spotted by Jose across the street at Kavaras where he serves Pizza. He came out on the street, waved and yelled my name. After declining his gracious offer of free pizza and beer, I continued on my stroll. The days have been sweltering, but the nights are gorgeous. As I walked down Carmine Street, Kevin came out of Daddy O’s and said, “Really Kim, you are in town and just going to walk by?” It is nice to be missed.

Thursday, I got up and took the train to Newark NJ to watch an Atlantic League game between the Newark Bears and the Somerset Patriots. It was an 11 am game, which means daycares galore. In fact, I could not locate the ticket office, so I stopped a gentleman for directions and he said, “Lady, if you can stand all the kids…here is a ticket, just go on in.” Sweet. I just walked over to first base, took a seat in the front row and settled in.

Long game short, The Bears lost 27-10. Yep. 27-10. Obviously not a great game, but there were some fun plays, a couple rhubarbs (Bears coach and former big leaguer Tim Raines got thrown out in the second inning), and it was a sun packed day filled with excited children.

Thursday evening, I took my sunburned body up to Midtown where I did standing room to watch Next to Normal starring Alice Ripley. Her performance was masterful. The show was brutally funny and the music was as if Tommy and Spring Awakening had a child.

Friday, I actually went to the gym. Chris at NYSC worked me a heck of a deal for two weeks. My trainer Nathan would have been proud as I worked out long and hard. It was me, three herculean gay men, actor Maura Tierney and her boyfriend, and one elderly black man in jeans and a button-up work shirt pumping iron.

Friday evening, I went and saw Mary Stuart with Janet McTeer and Harriet Walter Another treat. I was in the front row, which for musicals or comedies is frustrating for a director because I can’t watch patterns, but for a classic like this, it is perfect because it is all character work and I could see and feel each blink, tear, pause and flex.

My sister arrived around midnight. We sat on the fire escape and discussed world issues before heading to bed.

Saturday we shopped. I love shopping with her. Actually, I am blessed because truth be told, I would choose my sister first to do most anything. Together we call ourselves the “I’m in girls.” We both come a place of yes. We love adventure and laugh a lot – it is a wonderful combination.
We managed to score the last two standing room tickets for God of Carnage starring Jeff Daniels, Hope Davis, James Gandolfini and Marcia Gay Harden. It is official….I am having a great theatre trip. This performance was a delicious recipe of contrast: subtly and unbridled anger, sophistication and barbarism, cunning wit and empathic sincerity. Also, the vocal work was seductive. Each voice was unique and compelling, especially the female’s.

Sunday, Jen and I won the lottery for 9-5. I loved this movie when it came out my senior year of high school. I wore the album out. The musical was over the top fun. Allison Janney, Stephanie Block and Megan Hilty were infectious. I have a girl crush on Janney – so smart and unsuspecting beautiful and talented. I loved the face that the choreography respected each note of the music – even as it underscored dialogue. An entire ensemble flicking their wrist on a 4 count or heightening all knees on the 6 count made for a seamless 2 ½ hours. We were still singing the theme song at midnight last night.

Jen and I stopped to see Hercules and his wife at his gourmet grocery store. As always he asked about his buddy Teake. He even wrote him a note that I need to deliver.

After a beautiful dinner of lobster ravioli at the café down the street from my studio where we met a fun but slowly annoying Bostonian/English couple. Also, two of my former students from my O’Gorman days ran into me on the street on Saturday, so Jen and I met up with Molly Casey and Kalli Kirk at the White Horse. I am forever humbled by the intelligence, talent, sensitivity and beauty of my students. These two epitomize all of those nouns. It is gift to be able to watch and learn from them as they make their way through life, love and careers.

Jen and I went to visit Luce at Daddy-O’s on our way home. Great guy – fun to catch up with him too.

Jen took off at noon today, and I decided to grab a salad and Panini at Pepe Verde on Hudson and 11th. I am watching the film crew prepare for the shooting of “Game Dahy” starring Jennifer Lopez. No J-Lo sighting yet…but Daphne Rubin Vegas just walked by. Speaking of sighting, Billy Cudrup was at the White Horse with us last night.

Off the gym and maybe a run before the rain drifts in the evening.

The following post is a combination,reworking and extension of a couple of entries that I published last summer. As it is up for consideration for publication in the 2009 Canaries Program, I would welcome all criticism.

Confessions of a Canaries Host Family

The apple doesn’t fall very far from the tree. My grandmother had a phrase “just enough,” which meant no matter if 2 or 20 showed up for dinner, everyone would walk away full. Additionally, growing up, my parents opened our home to anyone who needed a meal that night or a bed for a year. In 1996, when my oldest turned 12 he seemed to receive a social life as a gift. My precious summers of full access to my children were at risk. I needed to think - quickly. An ad in the Argus Leader was asking for host families for the Sioux Falls Canaries. Perfect. Now, we would continue my family’s tradition of opening our home while creating a reason for the family to gather at ballpark every night. We would support an eager, young player, and my sons would still be accountable to me. It was manipulative, and it worked.

My children may have grown up under the lights of the Birdcage, but I too have grown to love the game. Because my professional world is splendidly full of drama, deadlines and cacophony, I have come to crave the lack of clock, the subtly of conversation and the possibility within 54 outs. From my traditional baseball buddies in Section E to the wide eyes of a four year old near the dugout, this professor has been taught valuable lessons on life through the game of baseball.

My baseball education has come from all over the yard. In the early years, the host families would sit proudly together in Section U. We compared notes on “the boy’s” behaviors on and off the field, rocked their babies as wives and girlfriends came to visit, and planned Canary family barbeques and karaoke nights.

Before the new stadium, my children ruled the terrain of the Birdcage like it was their private board game. Teake, my youngest, used to take great pleasure of turning himself into the fans services desk in order to schmooze the sweet college interns out of ice cream. This kid perfected his lost child act in order to hear his name announced - along with the batters - over the public address system. My boys knew the best place to snag foul balls and get early autographs. I watched from behind a chicken wire fence on the first base line as I studied for my advanced degrees between innings. While studying theatre history and theory, I empirically received an education in baseball philosophy. To this day, I bring a book and a tablet to each game. Many an essays and poems have been written and - sometimes - communally recited to first base coaches, fledging opposing pitchers, and occasional misguided baseball officials.

Along with the new stadium, came seat relocation, new friends and age old conversations. Ask a real baseball fan what is the biggest obstacle is to a beautiful day of ball, and you will not hear a reference to the weather, player injury or even the concession stand’s late season lack of Cracker Jack (and yes, it is Cracker Jack with no “s;” please take note and adjust your singing along in the 7th Inning Stretch). The number one thing that can ruin a day of good ball for a real fan is the banal chatter of those who have crept in the seats behind them. From Baseball Betties discussing their favorite nail color to the know-it-all, armchair, little league coach pontificating over each play, excess banter is worse than a 2 hour rain delay. If one really wants to disrupt the play of the hardcore fan, heckle one of our own players. This will typically result in an episode that resembles the last page of Shirley Jackson’s The Lottery. It isn’t pretty. This blatant intolerance by the old school fanatics has taught me great discipline in discourse.

For three years, I proudly wore the title of “Queen of Section E.” It wasn’t a position for which I had to campaign. As the only woman in a total testosterone section of baseball diehards, all I have to do is sit attentively, buy a round once in awhile, and offer up meaningless Canary trivia facts; I am the go-to girl for names and years. Who was the first player that Ila Borders stuck out? Paul Cruz 1997. Who was the hothead who “got naked” by disrobing and throwing his uniform and glove in center field as a reaction to bad calls? Chris Powell 96-97. Who was the cocky catcher who played every position in one game? JP Faust 2000. As a theatre professor, I remember the drama. As savvy baseball enthusiasts, they remember the numbers. It is a working mix.

In 13 years of being a host family, we have seen 25 players come and go from our home. Some were tough to see leave such as Jason Pearson who continued lived with us in the off-season for two years. The same is true of Matt Koziara who also stayed, married the girl to whom I introduced him, had two beautiful children and lives down the street. It is because of men like these that we continue to open our home. They are brothers, sons and role models in our house.

I wish that I had kept copious notes throughout the years. Confessions of a Canaries Host Family sounds like a potential best seller. It would be bursting with rich family memories such as Splitrock Creek fishing, learning Spanish, and Northern League road trips. There would also be chapters on boys behaving badly. However, we have discovered throughout the years that if they are ungracious, bothersome or just plain stupid in our home, they typically do not last long on the baseball field either.

My own boys no longer attend games with much regularity, and I may only have myself to blame. Yes, they may be victims of overexposure. We rarely missed a home game at the Birdcage. My children have sat on countless summer evenings watching names like Steve Howe, Darryl Strawberry, Ozzie Conseco, Jack Morris, JD Drew, and George Sherrill work their way back, around and out of major league baseball. In our home, we celebrate the opening day of MLB as enthusiastically as Easter and Birthdays…with presents, cake and decorations. All of these are holidays are rich with hope, growth, and resurrection. So, when Tyler, the oldest, was searching for his first part time job, I encouraged him to work where we play.

One of the items of Ty’s job description was to wear a purple cowboy outfit, strum a stringless guitar and lip-synch “Happy Trails to You” when the opposing team pulled their starting pitcher. This “performance” took place on the opposing team’s dugout. The outfit itself was the issue. The chaps, the vest and the 10 gallon cowboy hat were all made out of purple bathroom mats - the hot, furry, 1970’s kind. Tyler continues to resent me for insisting that one learns work ethic by sticking it out and sucking it up….even when it is 95 degrees and furry clothing are involved.
However, I continue to use the game to create memories in our home, and I take victories where I can find them. Despite the cowboy outfit, Tyler remains a baseball fan. Like me, he loves the sound of a wooden bat; he has an unbridled vocal and physical enthusiasm for a well turned double play or a key long ball; he respects the game and its players.

So, in the summer of 2008, I threw a breaking ball. I told him that we needed to attend to a serious matter that would require him to take a day off of work….I threw him off, and I meant business. Then came the curve. “You and I are going to Yankee Stadium, in its last season, to watch the Yankees and the Sox.” I sat him down.

On Sunday, July 6th, Tyler and I walked into Yankee Stadium. Me in my Bernie Williams #51 official Subway Series jersey, and he in his Manny Rameriz #24 t-shirt. Together Ty and I have walked through Italy and shared the works of Michelangelo, the canals of Venice and the shores of Capri, but walking to our sweet seats between 3rd base and Monument Park may have been one of my favorite moments of all time.

The final score was 5-4 Yankees in 10 innings. Joba was the starting pitcher, Mario Rivera closed it out and Alex Rodriguez homered to deep left. I was thrilled. As a Red Sox fan, Tyler was verbally abused…but he, too , was pretty, darn happy. Together we shared a gorgeous night in the Bronx, a great game complete with extra innings, and a piece of baseball history.
Back in Sioux Falls, I have become accustomed to going to the yard alone and not just the Birdcage. I often take my quest for baseball serenity on the road.

On one of my green cathedral crusades, I stopped at the oldest minor league park in America in Evansville, Indiana. It was here that A League of Their Own was filmed. The Frontier League team – the Evansville Otters – that call Bosse Field home, employ some of the cutest local high school girls to don replica uniforms found in the film and host the on-field promotions and games.

The film is best known for the phrase, “There is no crying in baseball.” However, when these darling young women break into dance fillers between innings, it took everything in my power to not interject, “There is no dancing in baseball. Take off the costumes. Sit down and watch the game!”

Maybe I was just reminded that women understanding, appreciating and loving baseball is as rare as a triple play. One evening, I was enjoying a gorgeous night of ball at Haymarket Park in Lincoln, Nebraska when I was approached by a man who wanted to know who I was there to watch. “All of them,” I retorted. He could not grasp the fact that I loved the game so much that I would a) travel alone to watch it b) sit alone and relish it.

Last summer, I befriended another woman who is as loyal to the play at the Birdcage as I am. I have admired her from afar in past years. Furthermore, I have enjoyed watching her grow - literally - as a fan. For the 2008 season, I moved closer to the play. My seat located in the front row on the first base line, placed me next to this other die hard Canaries fan, and we immediately bonded. Jasper and I became true baseball buddies.

We discussed our favorite baseball players, food and songs and agreed on many of them. The one thing we most have in common is that we love to….color, cut and paste. Did I mention Jasper is four?

Jasper inspires creativity. Together we constucted an All-Star scrapbook, and with her new baseball friendly arts and crafts suitcase, she drew intricate pictures with corresponding stories that entertained all of Section D inning after inning. Well, almost everyone was entertained.

Canaries pitcher Pat Mahomes is Jasper’s number one fan; she reciprocates the adoration. He gives her gum and has taught her the proper arm gestures for the YMCA; she gives him oodles of smiles. Pat Mahomes is no different from any ball player that I have ever met - he knows where every gorgeous brunette is in the stands, and Jasper is no exception.

Pat has reprimanded me on many occasions that when we are creating, we put actually ourselves in the path of danger. Even though I do not think he gives me enough credit as the Mother of Multitasking – I can watch the game, draw trees and color ghosts between pitches – his concern has warrant. Foul balls come quick. We need to pay attention.

So, Jasper and I rehearsed the drill. “Heads up!” is the signal for us to throw our heads down between our knees. I have never thought of the conflict of language until I actually had to practice and explain it to a four year old. Leave it to a child to point out the fact that “Heads down!” would just make more sense.

This was not enough for Pat. He knows that a little body like Jasper's is no match for a ball whether hit or overthrown. So, one evening, when he strolled across the warning track, leaned over to me as Jasper was sitting on my lap, and threatened through a whisper, “If anything happens to my baby girl, it will be you and me”….I listened. Jasper and I agreed to pick up our cuddling, conversation and creativity between innings so she could return to her father who was packing a glove for protection during actual play.

I – like Pat Mahomes – have fallen in love with a season ticket holder brunette in the front row. Together she and I have had serious discussions about issues such as hot dog vs. chicken strips (hot dog hands down), the necessity of “K’s” to a solid defensive outing, and the truth in bubbles as a positive addition to any sporting ambiance.

Jasper is a true fan, and as long as we practice safe fan etiquette, I hope to continue sharing our love of the game for seasons to come. Furthermore, as long as Jasper is my baseball buddy, “There is no crying in baseball” – only lyrics to Take Me Out to the Ballgame, high fives and lots of laughter.

My own children are now grown, and the experiment that I began in 1996 has resulted with mix success. They may not be choosing their season ticket seats anytime soon, but my sons continue to appreciate the game and its metaphors. Through seasons, games, innings, pitches and outs, they have learned to celebrate a game where it is individuals who score – not balls, and that you have to go home to win.

Who is Teaching Who?

Rules. Lessons. Advice. In January, while playing with other grown-ups at the Sundance Film Festival, I was reminded of my own rules, lessons and advice. This is what I get when those other grown-ups used to be my students. After 23 years of teaching, I am proud to call former student…friends.

So, three (Christen, Cassie and Angela) of my best and brightest joined me in Park City. After a less than stellar screening, Christen asked for my thoughts. I must have grimaced because she followed with, “Do we have to save it to the bus? “ I laughed, I cried, I had a catharsis.

Rules.

It is thirteen years after her graduation, and she is still adhering to rules I taught her when she was 14. “Save it for the bus” meant that my dear oral interpers or actors were not permitted to critique the competition until - you got it - they were safely in the van (or bus) after the event. Once in the vehicle, they were allowed to vent. …for ten minutes. Comments came quick. They were brutal, judgmental and petty. Then, they were to assess the learning curve, make personal and presentation adjustments, and let it go.

“Save it for the van” is still sound, applicable advice for most situations. One should always put some time and space between experiencing frustrations and expressing them. Furthermore, placing expiration dates on grumbling would alleviate a lot of wasted negative energy and ugly verbiage.

Lessons.

Before I left for Park City, I posed my air travel Q and A with Teake. I am not a fatalist nor does flying make me mortally anxious. However, I use my journeys to proctor a pop quiz to my children. It is the perfect time to make sure that they were – at some point – listening. The test consists of one easy, essay question, “What did your mother teach you?” I told you it was easy.

Without missing a beat, Teake rattled off the answers, “Number one – be kind even when it is inconvenient. Number two – screw savings; see the world. Number three – love people the most when they act like they want, deserve and need it the least (Teake calls this rule ‘The Tyler Years 16-24’).” I was a proud teacher and pleased parent. If Tyler was taking the exam, he would unquestionably substitute “Choose to be happy” for #3.

Advice.

Asking questions results in power. If there were ever three women who demonstrate mastery of this skill, it would be my Park City roommates. Everyone wants to think they know something and – typically – are eager to share. Sharing results in connection. Connection results in networking. Networking results in relationships. Relationships result in friendship and work. Friendship and work result in a richer life – metaphorically and literally. Everywhere these three went, they asked and asked and asked. Free screenings, access to A-list post-parties, potential professional collaborations, and job interviews were realized.

Rules. Lessons. Advice. I am only as good of a teacher as I am a student. I am eager to continue to live, love and learn…from the other side of the desk.

I will end this writing with a call for submissions.

If you would like to contribute to this article, please feel free to post. What did you hear? Learn? Teach me…I am listening


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Shine On....

This little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine.
This little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine.
This little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine.
Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.

As a small child this was my favorite Sunday school song. Even today I find myself sneaking it into my shower repertoire between the Oscar Meyer song and the Tanya Tucker’s classic Delta Dawn.

This song is based on the Mathew 5:16 verse, "Let your light shine before men, that they may see your fine works and give glory to your Father who is in the heaven." I love this verse and as an oldest child who should be in Type A recovery, I live this verse. I have always worked hard – to be all things to all people.

I am still trying to scrub off the residue of a difficult year. This film – this coating – not only was confining, it was humiliating. It was heavy. It was dark. For the first time in my life, I struggled to keep my pilot light lit. It was being blown out by individuals who were not interested in my past fire…the life and work that sparked my daily existence. I was not in a place of warmth, and I could not find the energy to continue to stoke my own flame. Personally, professionally and spiritually I was burnt out.

It is officially advent – the season of hope and light. It is my favorite time of the year. As South Dakotans we have the corner market on viscerally living the season in our northern plains snow globe – a safe, small world of controlled blizzards; it takes very little outside motion to disturb our Currier and Ives aesthetics. However, I have noted that when you turn a snow globe upside down all the structures remain frozen in place…the buildings, the flora, even the light posts are fixed.

As we return home to gather around decorated Christmas trees and fireplaces, it is a good reminder that no matter where we have been shaken and tossed throughout the year, we eventually can settle again in the warmth of family and home – whatever and wherever that may be. However, once it has been shaken, it can never be the same as it had once been.

While wallowing around in the muck of my life, I have been advised to just get over it. Be happy. Smile. Forget about it. Move on. However it is all too heavy to just pick up my life where I left it last spring. So, I am choosing to work out so I just get stronger – call it an early New Year’s Resolution. I am going to bench press my bad press. I am going to squat out the external squawking. I am going to keep my chin up by doing chin lifts, I am going to free up the weight of regret with free weights. I am going to own it so that it all seems lighter and then – just then – maybe I too will lighten up.

My favorite advent scripture is from Isaiah 9:2,6

The people walking in darkness

have seen a great light;

on those living in the land of deep darkness

a light has dawned.

For to us a child is born,

to us a son is given,

and the government will be on his shoulders.

And he will be called

Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God,

Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.

I have been walking around in darkness long enough stumbling and uncovering potholes – about me, my friends, my family, my past and my future. However, I believe that I see a soft beam of light (his name just may Teake Bartling) willing to lead the way. God placed the boon of light in each of us, and it is my responsibility to “let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.” I am gaining strength and building my fire with the dense kindling of my past, and hope to soon illuminate love and reflect wisdom to those in my path.

“Hide it under a bush”….No more.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN from NYC!