Wayne Newton

I am listening to Wayne Newton. He sounds like a woman.

I am doing a last minute search for some songs for the soundscape of this show.

I know I am supposed to write about the show, but I don't really feel like it. It is at that point where every night it's two steps forward, three steps back, one step forward, one and a half back -- you get the picture. And it is always at this point that I wrestle with the balance of trying to fix everything that I can actually fix, and handing it over to the actors to find the life and breath in it for themselves. Because the actors have such varied levels of experience, I worry that I may not be trusting them as much as I should, or normally would. But it's tough. I see the potential. And I want that potential realized.

So we won't talk about the show. The set and lights are so lovely, I couldn't ask for better, smarter, wiser designers. What a treat.

I just talked to my parents. They are moving tomorrow from the house we have lived in for twenty-seven years. They are so very excited about the move that it is kind of hard to get nostalgic about it. I know it's a good thing for them, but still -- I'll never step foot in that house again. That's a weird sensation. It makes me very melancholy. I wish my schedule had allowed me to go up and help them, both for the opportunity to lend a hand and to say goodbye to the house. I only get up there maybe twice a year now, but still -- it's our house, you know?

Strange. Change.

I miss them, I miss DC, I miss my friends, I miss my bed, I miss my brother.

But this has been a worthwhile experience. Reminded me what it is to be on my own again.

So, I promised a story about dippin' dots. A friend came up with me on the last trip back to West Virginia, and we had access to a vehicle (sometimes the pick up truck, other times a tiny red miata. How's that for oppositionals?) We made a trip to Martinsburg, WV, and to Hagerstown, MD. At the mall in Hagerstown we wandered around like obnoxious city folk and marveled at suburban delights like the "Amazing Lighter" and the "Crystal Magic" kiosks, Hot Topics, and yes -- the Dippin' Dots. I had never had Dippin' Dots, so I asked the salty young teen minding the booth how they can mix two flavors and not have one motley flavored mess. She rolled her eyes at me.

The Dippin' Dots were delicious. And she was right, the flavors stayed separated. Amazing.

It got me to thinking -- I have been talking a lot with one of the girls (and I mean girl, she's nineteen) who works at the B&B where I'm staying, about her boyfriend, who is also from here. He is at Carnegie Mellon, and it seems every interest he has is in an effort to separate himself as far as possible from his small town West Virginia roots. He listens to indie bands. He watches foreign films. He reads Plato. For fun.

And I thought about us city folk marveling at the wonders of a small town. How excited we were at the Dippin' Dots, and to have breakfast at a real live truck stop, and the glee we expressed every time we passed "Skeeters Auto Body Shop! Skeeters!", and how I insisted we go to the Dairy Queen on the day we couldn't go to the Dippin' Dots. We revel in these wonders of Americana, while someone like my young friend's boyfriend does everything he can to distance himself from them. Interesting.

And in our revels, are we just poking fun? I can't always tell. I mean, Dippin' Dots ARE amazing, now matter how you slice it. And so are greasy eggs in a place with paper placemats and formica countertops. But I am sure we wouldn't appreciate these things half as much if they were our only option.

We can choose to enjoy them. And then we can go back. I guess that makes all the difference.