So �King Lear� is finally over, and now I have a chance to update. After I got back from Ireland, I immediately got sick, which was sort of OK because even though I missed two weeks of class and am still making up the work, it gave me tons of time to sit at home all day and make the costumes. I had various people come over to help, but I would like to point out that I was the one who sewed and serged everything, and everyone else (except pAndi) just cut things out. Anyway, the week of the show, I got about 8 hours of sleep over four days, and I was like a zombie by opening night. I was afraid I would fall asleep, but adrenaline kept me awake and biting my finger nails. That night Tim and Albany and Jakeland took me to dinner, but I fell asleep at the table. Tim inadvertently stuck an Andes Mint up my nose (don�t ask) and I woke up sputtering and he took me home.
I was really proud of the way Lear turned out. Stockmann and I fought so hard for the space, and I killed myself on the costumes, and we were really beset by lost of shit. Our Edgar�s schedule blew and he was never there, we lost our first Albany and the second is a Cooper student who had trouble getting out of classes to rehearse. Our Cordelia was arrested for protesting the war, etc.
Even getting up the theatre was a challenge. I was on the subway going up to opening night and there was this huge guy in the middle of the train eating greasy fried chicken. The smell was gross, but it was even worse when he started just throwing the chicken bones on the floor. Eventually, the train stopped short and the remains of the chicken and some French fries were tossed to the floor. He ground them into the linoleum with his boots. The smell was awful but that in no way prepared me for what was to come next. By now, no one could stand near this guy; he was taking up two seats and there was nasty fried chicken mess on the floor around him and everyone was afraid of slipping on all the grease. Anyway, he takes some papers and a bag of weed out of his pockets and then proceeds to roll the world�s biggest joint. And then, AND THEN . . . HE LIGHTS IT!!!!! He�s sitting there on the E train smoking a joint, and the whole car is pressed up against the ends of the train trying to get away from the stench. This was not your typical sweetish musky pot smell (I went to Lilith Fair and countless Dave Mathews concerts in high school people, no need for excitement there), it stuck like burning rope. Who knows, this guy was so cracked out that it might actually have been hemp he was smoking. It was really foul. At the next stop, everyone just pours out of the car and races up to the next one, none of us could stand it any longer. It was the weirdest thing I�ve ever seen.
And speaking of pot (I know, I know), at the cast party, Stockmann and I were the last ones to leave the bar. Since the smoking ban, I�ve been going out more because I feel like less of a nerd hacking all the time. Anyway, Stockmann and I are just sitting on this couch in the back of the bar chilling, trying to summon the will to go out into the cold and go home when this guy comes and sits down across from us. He takes a joint out of his top pocket and lights it. I lean over to him and I say, very politely, �Look, it�s a big bar and I�m highly asthmatic. Would you mind sitting somewhere else to do that, please?� I mean, the bar was practically empty, it being a Sunday night (actually early Monday morning), why was he camping out at our table? �Oh don�t worry,� he tells me. �It�s not a cigarette, it�s pot.� �That�s very nice,� I tell him, �but I still have asthma.� �Oh,� he says, a little crestfallen. �Sorry. I, like, appreciate your sensitivity and all. Dude.� �Look� I say, because I feel bad for him. �We�re leaving soon. Just give us a minute to vacate and this table is yours.� It was the only really secluded spot in the bar, so no wonder he wanted it. He was really impatient, and the absolute second I stood up and put my coat on, he lit back up. Weird. Why do I attract marijuana smokers?
I wonder would �King Lear� would have been like if Shakespeare was in the habit of getting high? �Dude, you and Goneril can have half my land, and Regan-babe, you can have half, and little Cordy over here gets the third half.� �Uh, Dad . . .� �Not now Cordy! Who wants a hit? Let copulation thrive, my people!� Um no, maybe not.
