Cleveland, pt. 3 - Ain't Nothin' but a Hound Dog...

ROCK HALL

Yes, you guessed it, we went to the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. And yes, we took the dog.

Now, after reading the last entry, I can imagine you would think such a move foolhardy - or maybe just asking for trouble. I assure you, we were fully prepared to turn right around, proverbial - and actual - tails between our legs, and head straight home at the slightest sign of trouble. One look askance, one prohibitive attempt, one word from anyone in uniform, we were ready to turn & go. Honest injun.

What instead did we get? Smiles and open access all over the place. Leave it to the Rock Hall.

Let me just say - we were generally afforded easy access to most public areas. It's not like all of Cleveland was on lockdown. Far from it. But after our last experience, we were understandably a little gun-shy. But rather than consternation, we got enthusiasm. Where before we had the fuzz, now we had fuzzy-eyed smiles. And it was such a great challenge for Tag. Loud noises, thumping beats, dark areas with people milling about, floors with lights underneath, escalators (!), and all sorts of new environments. He did great.

Granted, he was a little interested in sniffing the wheels on Elvis' purple Cadillac. So we kept moving. And made sure to take regular potty breaks.

But his was the admiration of all the staff, openly accepted by everyone around, and - as always - to their own frustration, because as everyone knows: you don't pet a service animal with its vest on, 'cause it's at work. Even if it's an adorably sweet, 8-month-old Yellow Lab puppy learning to serve a future handler with all the faithfulness and determination of Rin Tin Tin, you don't pet a service animal with its vest on. In fact, if you are in any close proximity to the animal, you're doing its handler a favor not to even look at the animal, not to even acknowledge it. It needs to learn that, regardless of how large the crowd of people around it may be, there's only one person to be concerned with, one person to be responsible for, one person to be seeking the approval of - its handler.

Even if you're just standing there, smiling at it, or offering an open fist in a show of harmlessness - you're tempting the dog to distraction. You're not actually making the dog any calmer - you're just making yourself calmer. In fact, the best way to calm a dog, to show that you're no threat, is to ignore it. But some people think that they have to calm the dog, when in fact they're only calming themselves.

Because some people are just scared silly of dogs. Some people are scared silly of dogs even if they're 8-month-old Lab puppies. Some people, who might work as ushers at the movie theater where Tag and I went to go see "Watchmen", might back up and go three or four seats deep into a row as you pass, afraid that he's going to take a bite out of them. Some people, passing by you in the mall, might even ask if he's a pit bull.

Yes, it really happened. As the owner of a pit bull myself, subject to condemnatory stares as if I threaten limb and life by walking such a deadly beast on the street, I have to laugh at this on so many levels. I know pits have become the very face of evil in urban America, as if they were Osama bin Barkin himself, but has the spin gone so far as to call all canines into question? What irrational fear is next? Kittens? Pasta? Oh dear...

ANYway, the Rock Hall is one of those museums which looks like you're only going to need to spend a couple hours there, and then you leave wishing you had the whole day to slowly look at the exhibits. And it's often not the exhibits that you think you'll be fixated on that you actually spend most of your time appreciating. David Bowie's Ziggy Stardust costume? Sure you want to see it. Michael Jackson's sparkly glove? Of course. But what about the recorded interviews with Jerry Wexler, the reporter-turned-producer who first signed Led Zepplin? Brilliant. The video clips of bible-belt personalities proclaiming the evils of rock & roll? Hilarious. The note written by Mick Jagger in which he asks the editor of Rolling Stone what he gets in exchange for agreeing not to sue for rights to the name "Rolling Stone" or the use of the image of his lips & tongue? Fascinating. Rock has always been as much business as art. As much showmanship as craft.

But it's also been the product of far more committed artistry than fits on a CD jewel case insert. Witness the development of black musicians in the early part of the decade, and the negotiations they had to go through to get recorded, heard, paid. The early guitars built out of baling twine, plywood and screws that buckboard-riding troubadors carried on their backs during the depression. The rejection letters for early albums, now proudly displayed like trophies. It's a cool museum because it actually gets you closer to the lives and work of its inductees, and that's the inspiring thing.

My favorite was the series of still photos of early Screamin' Jay Hawkins - he looked like a young Nat King Cole. But a few concert 'stunts' became popular, and soon he had a whole new career. Like Alice Cooper and his oh-so-carefully constructed stage persona, so at odds with the Scottsdale golfer we know today.

There is the business of the art.
And then there is the art of the business.
And then there is the art of the art.

And all three struggle for dominance in any popular art form, I imagine.


HIGHBALLS AND HEART-BREAK

And lastly, but certainly not least, we paid a visit, during the Monday day off, to the home of Angie's grandmother Margie and her husband Kenny, in Tiffin, Ohio.

A little background, before we begin.



In 1822, Josiah Hedges built the first frame house and saw mill on the Tiffin side of the Sandusky River river near the juncture of Rock Creek. He named his settlement after his good friend and Ohio’s first governor, Edward Tiffin. Bitter feelings soon surfaced between the two communities on the opposing banks of the river. Tiffin, at this time, had very little to offer as compared to Oakley (later called Fort Ball). Hedges practically had to give land away to induce settlement. The elite settled in Fort Ball, while Tiffin just barely survived until the two towns merged in 1850.

Agriculture was the mainstay, but the discovery of natural gas in 1888 brought industrial growth. Plumbing, furniture, automobile & machine parts, machine forging, metal fabrication, and insulation. Heidelberg College was founded in 1850 by the Reformed Church in the United States (now United Church of Christ), and Tiffin University, a business and liberal arts school, was founded in 1888. The mid-census estimate in 2005 was 17,438.

Had Tony Reed & Marianne Hoover never left, it would have been 17,440.

Of course, progress and youngfolk being what they are, they did. And the rest is history. But Kenneth and Marjorie Seislove (Marianne's mom remarried about 25 years ago) remained. And two more immovable community pillars I cannot imagine. Many and ribald are the stories I have long heard. And attendees at Angie's and my wedding would have had the opportunity to meet "Grandma Margie," but I had yet to meet Kenny. He of "Judas Priest, Kenny!" fame, one of Grandma Margie's more famous expressions. Another was the frequent and innocent inquiry, "Hmm. I'm dry. I think I need a highball. Anybody want a highball? I think I'll have a highball."

So yes, we had highballs. Which, in the Seislove household, is whiskey and 7Up. Other recipes may use bitters, grenadine, vermouth, ginger beer, brandy, gin, and who-knows-what-else. But like everything else in Tiffin, the highball is simple, straightforward, not particularly fussy, and strong enough to pack quite a punch. If it wasn't highballs, we were drinking Kenny's homemade wine. Which, I have to say, was a pretty good dessert wine. It also packed quite a punch.

Margie's just recovering from a hip replacement surgery a few weeks ago - her first time in a hospital. She took one pain pill the day after, and it's just been Tylenol ever since. Very. Hardy. Stock. Nonetheless it's slowed her down a bit, and Kenny's been doing some of the cooking. But of course, on the way home from the hospital, knowing that Angie and I were coming to visit in a little while, she stopped off to get some fixings for a pie. She made it that evening. As you do.

Kenny, meanwhile, also into his 80's, only recently discovered that it might be prudent at his age to find help when trimming tree branches on a ladder, gravity being yet older than Tiffin. But they have a beautiful kinda-ranch-style home on a few acres, with a garden that was dead asleep at this time of year but which pictures can prove is positively Edenic in the summertime.

They are also two of the most wicked players of Hearts as I should ever hope to encounter. Not just good. Not just practiced. Wicked. And remorseless. If they played Hearts in Vegas, it'd be a bloodbath. If the Queen of Spades were an icepick, Margie would be a murderess. If stone faces cut diamonds, Kenny would be in high demand.

But a couple of fine, home-cooked meals helped us heal our wounds. That and a couple more highballs. And as we spent the evening in the guest bedroom, reading and falling asleep, Angie made a fun little discovery which, all ye Reeds herewith yet reading, I'll invite you to inquire about. It's really a story best heard aloud and from her...

AND SO, FINALLY, WE ARRIVE AT THE END...

What else? Who knew I had so much to write about Cleveland? Not I. It's not like so much really happened. We had a decent time - and for all my glib derision, I could easily tell that there's far more to Cleveland than what's apparent during two weeks in the middle of winter, downtown & without a car (we parked ours at the Cleveland Playhouse actor housing for the stay). And as we headed out to Toronto the following Monday, we drove through a lovely park, the Cleveland Cultural Gardens, where a long swath of land comprises adjoining gardens and parks in the name of 35 (and still growing) separate culturally designated greenspaces - everything from Serbian Gardens to Armenian Gardens to Ukranian Gardens... As the website says,

The Gardens embody the history of twentieth-century America. They reveal the history of immigration to, and migration within, the United States. They comment on how we have built communities and constructed our identities as individuals and collectives. The gardens reveal the stories of the major conflicts that gave shape to the century: World War I, World War II, and the Cold War. They also provide insight into the large social, economic, political, and cultural upheavals that roiled through the nation during the last century: the Great Depression, suburbanization, the Civil Rights Movement, and the deindustrialization of America's industrial heartland.

They are also beautiful. Touching in their quiet majesty, humbling in the modesty with which major world events are symbolized, and inspiring in taking on so large and enduring a project of civic development, one that reminds them of so much of the world around them, even as the world around them marches on so potentially indifferent to its existence - for instance, making cheap jokes at their expense on some random website, like your humble author.


As as we wound our way out of town, I thought back to our visit with Marge and Kenny, to my own hometown of Huntington, West Virginia, and to a tombstone I saw in the Erie Street Cemetery, on 9th & Erie, while walking Tag one day. It's a shabby old cemetery, but still there, in grand - if grizzled - testament to the funereal aesthetic of its day: death - and the dead - are to be hallowed and heard.

One tombstone marks the graves of Lorenzo Carter and his wife, Rebekah. Lorenzo takes credit as being Cleveland's first white settler. He first built a log house for his family, then established a trading post, general store and central gathering point in the Flats for Cleveland's settlement. It is hard to imagine Cleveland as a vast, wooded, untamed region. Yet, the Carters persevered, raising 9 children and fighting against various diseases and the elements. The plaque above their tombstones reads:

They remained--Others fled.

For all of us who have fled for big cities, for big paychecks, for dreams to chase elsewhere, and for ghosts to leave behind - these typically simple, Ohioan words remind us of the value of our humblest beginnings, our earliest nurseries, and even our deepest scars of memory: without them, all of them, we would not be.

Cleveland, pt. 2 - Barking & Entering

Long story short: the bowling alley called the cops and I got kicked out with my service dog....

Now, this is a story that, once I get started, anyone who knows me will hear during its recounting, faintly in the distance, the sounds of trumpet blare and cavalry charge. So keep in mind the author's predilection for The Good Fight. That being said, well aware as the author is of this predilection, he actually performed pretty admirably and with appropriate restraint, if with some admitted posturing and righteous sneer.

OK, so - short story long:

I get there with Tag, after having taken him on a 30-minute walk. It was a Sunday night, end of a five-show weekend, and Tag had had his share of crate-dwelling. So I thought it would be good to take him on a healthy walk before putting on his vest and taking him indoors again.

Duty done, he donned the vest and in we went to The Corner Alley. I introduced to the host myself and my service dog as such, wearing his properly identified "Service Dog" vest. We proceeded past the restaurant section, past the pool tables, to the bowling alley. Tag was excited, looking around, but quiet as a mouse and under my control the whole time. The concept of people lining up one after the other to grab and throw at great velocity what - to him - were simply oversize versions of the tennis balls he uses to fetch was AWFULLY attractive to the 8-mo. old puppy, service training or not. He was riveted to them, quickly turning his head from one to the other, and often standing up and then sitting back down. But he stayed put, he wasn't yelping or whining; and he & I simply stayed behind the familiar half-moon bench, nowhere near the food, nowhere near the bar. And we watched the company bowling just as happy as you please.

Now it was clear to me that as patient as Tag was being, with all the commotion and noise he was unlikely to lie down and fall asleep like he usually does when we take him out to a restaurant or a movie. There was just too much unusualness to look at. And I was figuring on staying and watching for about twenty minutes or so and then taking him back to the hotel room. I was just going to give him a chance to get accustomed to the environment, and then we were going to leave.

However, not eight minutes after we were there, the manager - a man by the name of Jeff Poe (click on photo #9) - came up to me. Smiling and the very slightest bit apologetic, he explained to me that while he loved dogs, had a couple at home himself, he understood that Tag was a service dog in training only and he wouldn't allow him inside his establishment. They served food there, after all (and here began the insinuation I was trying to 'pull one over' on him), and he couldn't have 'pets' there. I returned his smile and explained that Tag wasn't a pet, he was a service dog.

"But is he your service dog?" he asked. Well, I explained, for the purposes of defining any kind of ownership at this point, yes he would be considered my dog, or at least in my care. "But are you disabled?" he asked. I explained that actually my MS does legally qualify me as 'disabled;' but no, I freely admitted, this service dog was a dog in training, in my charge for the purposes of gaining experience in public settings. And according to the Americans With Disabilities Act, service animals should be afforded all access to public accommodation as would be able-bodied individuals, at work or in training, and regardless of the level of disability of their handler.

That's where the disagreement began. Very quickly, the guy says, "Look, this is gonna go one of two ways: either you're going to leave on your own, or I'm gonna have you thrown out." Fine - the gauntlet was thrown down. Call the cops, I told him. I'd rather at least be thrown out by the police than by his flunkies. At least cops wouldn't get violent and I'd have a badge number to file a complaint with.

"Look, I serve food here," he said.

"Handicapped people have to eat too," I said.

"But you're not disabled. What's your disability?" NOTE: even his asking this question is illegal, according to the ADA.

"It's not about my disability, it's about the dog getting the necessary training and exposure to ably perform as a service dog. Where else can he practice being in a restaurant, other than being in a restaurant?" Bear in mind, also, that we weren't actually in a restaurant - the restaurant was on the other side of the business. We were in a bowling alley.

"Look, this is my business, I can ask anyone I want to leave."

So now he was making this about being a business owner. I could have continued to argued about the compromises willingly undertaken by any business owner within a society of commonly-held laws, but I realized how futile it would have been, and simply restated my point: it's the law, man. It's the law.

Although after he called the cops and I waited for them to arrive, I did keep talking to him. I didn't swear, I didn't yell (though I did refuse to allow him to interrupt me and was sure to finish all my sentences). The fact is that, more than most states, Ohio goes particularly far in guaranteeing the rights of all service dogs and their handlers, at work or in training. It's specifically spelled out by the Revised Code Section 955.43 that "The dog must either be serving as, or be in training to be, a guide, leader, listener, or support dog."

However, such specificity was lost not only on Mr. Jeff Poe but also on Cleveland Police Department Officers Ryan (badge number 1675) and Grady (badge number 1686). These two boys in blue were very polite, very friendly, and in vocal agreement with me, after we had left the bowling alley and were talking on the sidewalk outside of course, that I had EVERY legal right to be there with my service dog in training. But that they felt it was their responsibility as police officers to help serve the requests of the local business owners. And so, as I summarized back to them my understanding of their peacemaking efforts, it was his right to kick me out, and my right to sue.

Which is, of course, wrong - it would be like saying "We know black people have a right to bowl here, but he has a right to kick them out and they have a right to sue." But obviously, I wasn't going to press the issue. Not without actually living in Cleveland, not with a trip across the Canadian border coming up, and not with somebody else's dog for which I was responsible.

So, I took Tag back to the hotel and returned to the bowling alley. Angie had continued speaking with Mr. Jeff Poe to see if she might reason with him, and perhaps the tears of a pretty blonde woman who wasn't spouting the Revised Code of Ohio's Civil Rights Law back at him were simply a more effective tool, but he seemed to soften his position greatly, to her at least. But when I came back fifteen minutes later, I was there for a good hour afterwards and he made no effort to reconcile a damn thing.

So - according to my rights under the ADA, I filed a Title III complaint with the US Department of Justice, alleging improper expulsion on the part of the business owner and the police; I filed a complaint with the Ohio Attorney General's Office; I filed a complaint with the Ohio Commission on Human Rights; I filed a complaint with the Cleveland Better Business Bureau; I filed not a complaint but an informational letter with the station commander of the Third District of the Cleveland Police Department in which I stated that while respected their intention to simply defuse the situation, they were in error in enforcing the business owner's request; I sent copies of the letter to both of the officers; I filed letters of complaint to the Corner Alley manager Jeff Poe and the general Manager Scott Gotto; and I even filed a complaint with the Greater Cleveland Bowling Association, for good measure.

Now - I must repeat, the cops were very cool about it. And in fact, in subsequent calls to the District office during which I spoke with the Sargeant on Duty, I was given to understand that the officers' supervisors were well aware of the officers' mistake. And I wouldn't be surprised, given Officer Grady's later phone manner when efforts were made to get an incident report (with which to file the above listed complaints), that he and his partner had been sternly spoken to. So I didn't make any formal complaint with the police department. Teachable moment, everyone learned a lesson, leave it at that.

But I thought this point was particularly interesting: both officers (and the bowling alley manager) tried to ameliorate the situation by explaining that they were ‘dog lovers.’ I need to be clear on this - the issue has nothing to do with a person’s love of animals. This is not a pet, it is an instrument of utility. It requires training on site. As far as the legality of its presence, at work or in training, it is considered the same as a wheelchair or a crutch. Regardless of the level of disability on the part of its handler and so long as there is no undue disturbance, it is legally accepted in all areas of public accommodation. Period. (They might as well have said, "Oh, don't get me wrong. I love handicapped people. Really. I've got a couple of 'em at home myself. But I know enough not to bring 'em to work or to a restaurant with me.")

A service animal is not a pet any more than is a wheelchair or a cane – it is a necessary tool for individuals with disabilities. Naturally, the on-site training of service animals, both by people with disabilities and without, at public accommodations such as The Corner Alley, is critically important. Such exposure makes all the difference between a reliably effective & capable service dog and an unreliable one. A service animal cannot be trained to function in a restaurant or any public accommodation without being allowed entry. When properly identified, under control, and not causing undue disturbance, there is no reason why a service dog in training, regardless of the disability status of its handler, should receive any less consideration than any service animal at work.

Nevertheless, not a week later, as Angie was running her errands and dropping off some mail at the post office, she was finger-wagged by the postal worker that "pets" were not allowed, and in the future, she was not to bring her "pet". All the same points were made, all the same appropriate service-attire was clearly in evidence, and this was even a government office, but still - the same confusion was made.

So, we're pulling out the printer again....

Cleveland, pt. 1 (Cleaveland? Cleavland? Cleevland?)

TRUE STORY: Moses Cleaveland, born in Connecticut, Yale graduate, soldier in the Revolutionary War, captain of the then-newly-formed Corps of Engineers, member of the Connecticut convention that ratified the US Constitution, shareholder in the Connecticut Land Company, founded this city on the banks of the Cuyahoga in 1796. Afterwards, he promptly turned around and went back home to Connecticut. He never, ever returned.

So you see, Cleveland was in fact founded as a place to be from, rather than a place to be. By 1820, 24 years later, the population tipped the scales at 150. Tourism was obviously one of its weaker industries.

ANOTHER TRUE STORY: Originally "Cleaveland" was spelled like the Land in which you Cleave things. As was its namesake. But in 1830, the first newspaper, the "Cleveland Advertiser," couldn't fit the extra "A" into the headline title, moveable type being what it was. So "Cleaveland" became "Cleveland."

Why it didn't become Cleavland or Cleevland or Claveland is a matter best left to personal speculation, but the new spelling was readily adopted by the "public." All 150 of them. Let's be generous - call it 175. But to go through the trouble of changing the name of a town for the sake of a newspaper readership of 175 seems like an odd business decision, one rivaled only by the notion of even starting a newspaper for 175 people, of whom probably only 30 could even read at all. But business acumen, like tourism, seems also to be a civic challenge.

Perhaps such a site was inevitably destined to be the City of Rock 'N Roll.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

In we rolled to "The Forest City," "The Cleve," "The Land," "The Metropolis of the Western Reserve," "America's North Coast," and "C-Town" (hence the grocery store chain?), as it has variously been called, on a frigid, Minneapolisian night. It was a cold soon to thaw, soon again to descend, soon yet again to thaw, soon once more to ... you get the idea. We went from sweaters to shorts, back and forth, the whole time.

It was big city living, after our week in East Lansing. They had sidewalks. They had third floors. They had Subway. What more can a body ask for? And so we settled in for a two week visit, content to walk the streets that gave birth to the "Record Rendezvous," Leo Mintz's little shop specializing in "black music," later termed "race music," later termed "rhythm and blues." Alan Freed bet the bank on Leo's little record store with his Cleveland radio program "Moondog Rock'N'Roll Party," and one year later he capitalized on his corner of the market with the Moondog Coronation Ball, the first ever rock concert billed as such. And it was right here in Cleveland.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

So we settled in for a two week visit. Two weeks of taking Tag down to the lakefront, to play Fetch The Green Bone. Two weeks of nightcaps from Danny, the bartender at the Wyndham Hotel, where we're staying, whose Hendrick's Gin martini was once touted by Richard Thomas himself as an exemplary example of the species (that being back when I toured here and stayed at the same hotel, and played at the same theater, the Palace, with TWELVE ANGRY MEN).

The last time we stayed here, however, there was a massive construction project going up and down all of Euclid Avenue, involving cement mixers, dump trucks, street-tearing-up machines, and much commotion all beginning at 7am. These being mortal enemies of all actors and other late-sleepers, we left Cleveland so much the blearier because of it; but I am here now to say that this massive construction project, this public transportation coup, this gem of general population locomotion, has finally been completed.

It's a bus lane.

Seriously.

Anyway, it was quieter downtown, to be sure. Dead quiet. Like the kind of quiet that makes you start listening for the "clink, clink, clink" of some gun-slingin' lone wolf, ready to stare down his adversary along the main drag only recently vacated by townsfolk who shuttered the windows behind them as they ducked inside their pueblo-style saloons and barber shops.

Much like old Moses Cleaveland himself, lots o' folk have left town, here. And businesses. Maybe it's the economy. Maybe it's downtown. Maybe it's the weather. And it's not like children could have played 4-square in the streets. But it was quiet.

Tag did his best, though, to be a goodwill ambassador, even charming the eye, during one morning walk & romp, of one city councilman Joe Cimperman who, in a fit of enthusiasm and generosity, bequeathed to us his City Council Member's pin, which sports the official Cleveland motto: "Cleveland: Moving Forward."

A bold choice, seeing as it's so close to: "Cleveland: Let's go, people." I mean, I understand the concept behind it. I just think they need a better publicity agent.

At any rate, he tells us, "I love your show!" and gives us his card. We thank him and offer to have our company manager contact his office about some complimentary tickets. And in the most effusive manner possible, he explains that although he's never actually seen the show, and while he doesn't have time to make it to any of our sixteen performances, he's "one of those people who can sing the soundtrack to 'Rent' before they even see it," which seems to make sense, if you only ever buy the album and never attend a performance. But love is a many-splendored thing, and if - for City Councilman Cimperman - love is best held at a distance, than so be it. He was glad to have us there, and we, Starbucks in hand and dog wandering about a lushly green, downtown city lawn, were just as glad to be there.

The week passed uneventfully, and as Sunday rolled around, we looked forward to the weekend out that company management had planned - bowling at The Corner Alley, in downtown Cleveland. Bowling is a fun endeavor for a bunch of actors. We're none of us very good at it, although it being a musical theater company, there are at least several graceful - if fruitless - poses struck among us in the pursuit of a strike. But bowling is rarely about the game and almost entirely about the companionship, so of course, we thought, what a great opportunity to take our service-dog-in-training.

East Lansing, MI

You know, there are just those cities you go to that there's really not that much to say.

East Lansing.

The name pretty much says it all.

The discovery for the week was Woody's Oasis. Because really, when you think Mediterranean, you think East Lansing. And when in East Lansing, where else does one go for a "falafurger" at 11:30 at night? Angie and I also sampled some local brews there. Not surprisingly, Michigan has some good local beer. And Woody's offers buckets of six at a time, and you pick from a list of bottled local varieties to be kept on ice until you get around to them with your meal.

Our hotel, the Candlewood Suites, was not particularly promising at first, to say the least. We moved in, only to find ourselves in a small studio "suite" directly - and I mean DIRECTLY - below the tile-covered lobby floor. Every high-heeled shoe, every wobbly-wheeled rolling suitcase, every sliding back or forth of the refrigerator door in the "Candlewood Cupboard," keeping Lean Cuisines & Hot Pockets cool for the next customer - we heard it all. And Tag, who at this point, after a day-long drive in a car with two strangers and then unloading in the cold, dark, Michigan night, was wondering just what the hell he'd gotten himself into.

However, the next morning, Candlewood generously made amends by not only moving us but placing us, at no additional charge, in a one-bedroom suite at the end of the hall. This suited everyone MUCH better, especially Tag, who now had two rooms to run back & forth from. Or, if not run, at least to stretch his legs between.

What else to say, really? The theater, oddly enough, was under construction - or renovation - WHILE we were still performing, which led to some difficulties: concrete dust everywhere, the need to have the 'airborne particulate' count counted, and all sorts of difficulties on the part of the crew during their load-in & load-out.

There was an evening viewing of "The Big Lebowski," white russians included, that helped to pass one cold winter night. And Tag enjoyed the golf course next to the hotel which was on winter hibernation, resulting in the absolute PERFECT terrain for fetch ever dreamed by man or beast. You can see the video here, on the Dog-Swap Blog.

Other than than...I got nuthin'. You know, it was East Lansing. I mean.... East Lansing.... I mean..... oh.... man, it was a week that just came & went... Sometimes a week's just seven days...

St. Louis, MO

Lawdy, Lawdy....

If you had told either Angie or me, both veterans of work at the Repertory Theater of St. Louis, that we would one day return to stay at the Rep Theater housing, for two weeks, with our spouse, both employed in the same show, a musical no less, on the road for a year, with our dog, a 65lb. pit bull, a car, and having left our apartment which we now own but which I've spent less than two full months in...well, you can imagine our response.

But as we pulled into the parking lot of the Garden Apartments in Webster Groves, MO, a suburb of St. Louis, the home of Webster University, and literally a quarter mile from the university theater where my father worked while he earned his doctorate, the first theater in which this author ever performed (at less than 2 yrs. old, and without an Equity card, let it be noted) and also a quarter mile from the first house to which said author was returned subsequent to his birthing and in which he was reared lo, these 41 years ago, the thought occurred to me with the Weight of Great Profundity and the Recognition of Harmonious Resonance, " The more things change..."

Here's the deal - travelling with our Rather Very Large, or at least, Rather Very Heavy dog, we sometimes can stay in the company hotel options, sometimes not. St. Louis was one time during which we could not. Angie, in her inevitable cleverness, called the company manager at St. Louis Rep. Could we stay there? she queeried. Would they be alright with a dog? she inquired. Could we park there? she requested. And how much would it be? she ultimately asked. Long story short, Yes, Yes, Yes, and Cheeeep. Deal done. Booked it & took it.

So on our drive down to Missouri from Ohio, we checked in with the company manager who explained she'd leave the apartment unlocked & we could settle up in the morning. No rush. Make yourselves at home. And so we did, quite happily. And you know, I'm not quite sure, but I almost think I lived in that very apartment once, during on of the earlier shows I did at the Rep. I'm not sure, and granted all the rooms are much the same (room-by-room renovations notwithstanding). In fact, I wouldn't be surprised to learn that the VCR in the room was the same. Certainly, the advent of wi-fi internet connectivity was the clearest sign of the times. But other than that, well - close my eyes, and I might well have been doing KING LEAR in October of 2001.

More surprising still was the serendipitous online inquiry into the current St. Louis Rep season, at which point I discovered they were in rehearsal for THE MIRACLE WORKER, and playing the role of Helen Keller's mom was my dear friend Krista Hoeppner (seen here, in the role of Kate, in production photos from the show). Quickly, I shot off an e-mail note to her, presumably unaware of my presence in St. Louis. How funny you're in St. Louis, I wrote; I know those apartments well. Where are you? I asked. As luck would have had it, she was online at the time. Apartment K-1, she wrote back soon after. Now, Angie and I were in Apartment J-1. Literally, precisely, Right Next Door. And so it was, in the morning, I kept one eye out the window and, as I saw her trotting off to rehearsal that day, we casually opened the door and bid one very surprised Krista good morning.

Sometimes, this world is so - very - small.

And visiting Krista at the time was her husband Jay Leahy, entertaining the troops as well as anyone who knows him would assume him to be. And one of Krista's castmates was one John Rensenhouse, late of many St. Louis Rep shows but beknownst to me as Cornwall, in the production of KING LEAR of which I was a part. We shared a dressing room and the daily CryptoQuip during LEAR's tenure, and it was much fun catching up with him.

The Rep housing worked out perfectly. Long walks with Butley along winding, leafy, brick-housed streets - that is when we weren't walking across campus quadrangles & lawns. A university gym we joined which gave us access to a full health club facility within a short walk's distance. A full kitchen. A living room. And - luxury of luxuries - a front door opening up onto a small courtyard, such that morning canine peeing was no more an event than opening the door, waiting for a minute, then recalling the dog, shutting the door, and returning to bed. So THIS was how the Other Half lived.

Now, as the the theater. The Fox Theater, aka the Fabulous Fox, is ... well ... big. Something like 4,500 seats. Our nightly audiences were probably a modest 40% percent, or 1,800. But they were good houses, surprisingly audible for a house of that magnitude. And of all the "ohmygoshthistheaterisfullofhistoryandyoureallyshouldlookaround" theaters that I've played, the Fox is one of those at the top of the list. Gaudy, grand, luxurious, bejeweled, bedecked, and truly amazing. A lobby that feels like a ballroom at the Ottoman emperor's palace. And a first balcony circle along the back of the house offers a full-service dinner menu during the show. Here's how big the theater is: you can't hear a single fork clink or plate clatter from the stage during the performance.

I know - because after six months, I finally got a chance to do the role I've been understudying all this time. Henry Stram took the day off to visit some family in Kansas City, and I covered for him for the first Sunday's matinee and evening performances. It went fine; very fun to finally get up on stage with the rest of the cast, and it's such a talented group of performers that it's a real treat to be able to not only see their work up close but to be able to work with them. Including Angie. Nonetheless, for this tour, I'm really very happy to be backstage, at the keyboard. I mean, I didn't take this job to actually work for a living; I'm sort of like a farmer paid a subsidy to not farm - paid, in other words, not for the work I actually do as instead for the work I'm not able to do, or able to try to get. (Of course, in this economy, that's not such a loss.) But such is the life of a professional, sometimes. And such is my guilty pleasure, this yearlong busman's holiday, which I've enjoyed perhaps shamefully more than I imagined I might.

So - Hmmm, taking in St. Louis. Well, not a lot of that really happened. We did dine at Favazza's the first night. St. Louis is known for good restaurants, and good steak & Italian, in particular, and Favazza's was not a disappointment. I opted for the best and truest test of an Italian restaurant: the spaghetti & meatballs. Now no, it wasn't as good as my grandmother's recipe (which then became my mother's and then my sister's), but yeah - it was good. We also had lunch one day at Sqwires in Lafayette Square. Built in an old industrial & manufacturing complex, Sqwires effects the task of urban revitalization very well: take an old, rundown, brick industrial plant, clean it, add swanky fixtures straight from the pages of a chic design magazine, serve really good food, and do little else. 'S all you really need. We only had lunch there, but it pointed promisingly to great dinner & music.

We did spend a lot of time over at Washington University, helping out Angie's friends who both teach there. One is a writer, Carter Lewis, who asked us to serve as actors for his undergraduate playwriting class, and is one a director, Andrea Urice, who asked us to talk to her class of actors, to whom we tried to give a reasonably accurate description of our professional experiences while not frightening them so much that they changed majors. Angie had been directed by Andrea in Carter's play Ordinary Nation at Rep. Theater of St. Louis while I was on tour with the first year of Twelve Angry Men.

The talking to the actors was a simple, straightforward affair - two hours or so. And they had great questions & were extremely interested & prepared. The rehearsal & performing for the writers was more intensive, but it was fantastic, actually. Very good, short one-acts - six of them - which were written with two late thirties, early forties actors in mind, one male, one female (part of the class assignment being to actually write for your actors). I was very impressed, by the breadth of styles, by Carter's skill at nurturing their work without imposing his own style onto it, and at the level at which the students had been able to provide actors enough material with which to work, without providing so much as to dictate the performance, or trying to direct from the keyboard. And it was a nice change of pace from the routine of the show...

Other than that, not really so much to say. No, we didn't get any Ted Drewes ice cream. No, we didn't go up in the St. Louis Gateway Arch, opened to the public the summer of my birth which, I've always suspected, was the arch's real cause for commemoration. Such things would have made more sense, had this been our first time in the Gateway City. But this time, yours truly had a fair amount of rehearsal, and we also had other goals in mind, not the least of which was The Big Swap.

THE BIG SWAP

OK. So this would really be a crazy story, were it not something happening to us while on this tour, crazy stories apparently being the norm. Let me point out the preceding events & details, and perhaps you can guess the end result:

• We own a 65 lb. pit bull.
• There is a province-wide ban on all 'bully breeds' in Ontario.
• Knowing we were going to be playing Toronto, we had investigated all the various possibilities, including a Cleveland - NYC - Toronto drive, during which we'd leave Butley with his walker for 5 weeks.
• Butley was recently certified as a therapy dog in Des Moines.
• The therapy dog evaluators we met are also training an 8 mo. old golden lab puppy to be a mobility service dog.
• Said puppy, "Tag," is at the point in his training where he knows a series of commands and needs most of all to be exposed to a wide range of experiences. Such experiences as one might accrue while on national tour with a Broadway musical.
• St. Louis is about 5 hours away from Des Moines, and said evaluators are willing to take a vacation in June to Louisville, after law school is done.
• Said evaluators love Butley.
• Said evaluators are very generous.
• Said evaluators are a little nuts.
• Said evaluators made the offer all on on their own.

So yeah. We traded dogs for three months.

O. M. G.

To that end, I introduce to you the official dog-swap blog: http://dog-swap.blogspot.com/. This is run by both said evaluators and yours truly as a way we can both keep each other apprised of our respective dogs' status, share video, training tips, etc.

K-9 laden as this online report has been already, I'll spare you, gentle readers, from merely repeating what can already be found on the other blog. But let it suffice to be known that:

• Yes, we miss Butley.
• Yes, we're glad to have Tag.
• Yes, we're glad we don't have to worry about the ban.
• Yes, we know it sounds kinda crazy, but it really works out well for everyone.

Butley's getting to live & work with a professional dog trainer for three months. We get a dog we can take into any hotel, any restaurant, any grocery store, any theater (remember: he's a legitimate service dog).

And so, at the end of our stay in St. Louis, we traded dogs. Followers of the Rude Awakening blog, I introduce Tag:


Tag, meanwhile, is missed not only by his trainers but by the family who also helped raise him. To give them a little video hello, and to show everyone how much Tag's life is about to change, I present to you the official Tag Swap video:



So, while Butley's in farm country with his two new canine housemates, Cadence & Roggen, and his two new human handlers, Nicole & Eric Shumate, Tag has assumed the mantle of world traveller. And you, dear reader, have now TWO blogs to follow, if you so choose. For all you time wasters, forget Facebook. Let our blogs be the cause of your diminished productivity.


And yes - that's the ACTUAL house that modeled for Grant Wood's painting "American Gothic". The picture was taken on Butley's ride back to Des Moines from St. Louis, to begin his Iowa "residency."



And so, in light of the odd circumstances, the impossible coincidences, the remarkable arrangements, and all the surprises that seem to constitute our regular existence, we close as we opened, with the bowed-head-shaking, knee-softly-slapping, tongue-gently-clacking exclamation....

Lawdy, lawdy, LAWDY...

Columbus, OH

Gentle readers,

Regret is a funny thing. None of us seem to want it - and yet we all seem to have it. About something. And those of us who deny having it do so at the risk of incurring accusations of denial, of suppressed memory, of the re-writing of history. Regret would seem to be like psychic flatulence - we all fear even the mildest case of our own in a crowded room, yet we only take note at the most egregious infractions of others (and some may be truly egregious). Continuing on down the path of this simile is, doubtless, a doomed affair. And yet the point, I think, is made. Moving on, then, I can only say that, for those regular followers of these minor missives who have even noticed a delay at all in my posting hereto, I must express my apologies, my regret, not for my actions but for my nature. I can get easily distracted. I am distractible. But as we are, thus we must ever be; and so, the inevitable delay was surely that - inevitable.

So - Columbus.


Arriving in Columbus was, yet again, an exercise in cold-weather logistics. Unloading at the hotel was bitter, not helped by the fact of our late evening arrival and the having-already-set-long-ago sun. We've been inordinately lucky, throughout the trip, to have enjoyed clear driving weather on every commute thus far, save for the occasional and passing rainstorm. But safely cocooned in our temperature-controlled, all-wheel-drive, Beverly-Hillbillies-laden Forester, we have often experienced the winter chill en route as the unfortunate arctic blast to be endured while refueling. But when travelling after sunset, the condensation inside the car often results in a frosty buildup on all windows but the windshield, and we have to resort to the periodic interior scraping that reminds me of U-boat sailors 'bailing the hatch' or 'stoking the main' or whatever it was that U-boat sailors would do mid-journey to keep their submersibles operational. (I say U-boat, because - when we're fully loaded up - that's a bit what the interior of the car feels like.)

Nonetheless, once ensconced in the motherly arms of yet another anonymous dwelling, we three hunkered in for the night. Or rather, after Angie and I had sallied forth for some dinner, we three hunkered in. Hunkered down? Somehow it felt more like hunkering IN.

And for dinner, we discovered the first of many fine little gems in this former post-graduate home of my once childhood friend and now graphic designer, Brad Egnor. This is a town which Brad has talked about fondly in the past - not without some sense of having outgrown it, and yet fondly nonethless. He spoke of there being a certain subculture, a certain funky flair that seeps into the town in nooks and crannies. In fact, while we were there, I saw at least a couple references to Columbus as being the "indie art capital of the Midwest." And having been there I can believe it, based on the short, shivering week we spent.

Exhibit A: Tip Top Kitchen & Cocktails. Where else in the Midwest would you go to find a spacious and yet cosy feeling pub, fully stocked with local microbrews and domestic & imported favorites, many on tap, with a menu that stretches far beyond the usual pub grub to include quiche, spaghetti & meatballs, meatloaf and sweet potatoes, all manner of delectable salads, a jukebox stocked with great alt rock selections from the 90's (sorry, Beyoncé fans), a knowledgeable bar staff and a very friendly waitstaff, all open - kitchen included - until 2am? 2AM, mind you, being, Midwest-wise, the biggest cause for bragging rights in any downtown eatery.

Yea, and verily did we dine there. And it was good.

Columbus audiences were ... fine. You know, they clapped when they should, that laughed & gasped, for the most part, where they oughtta. Granted, two boys kissing wasn't high on their list, though I imagine the Guilty Ones who were in the audience were all the more appreciative for our kind of theatrical fare. But the kind of folks in Columbus who pony up the pennies for a Broadway Series ticket were, as like as not, just very polite to the point of undue restraint (though they did come alive at the curtain call). Also, in these enormous houses such as we're wont to play, it's often hard to hear the audience response. What would have been booming back at the Atlantic often feels, in these enormous old vaudeville houses, like politesse. However, I think everyone felt like they were turning in good shows and, as I say, the curtain calls were enthusiastic.

Hm - did I actually just talk about the show right there? I must be slipping - back to the REAL part of the tour. Our adventures.

Another fun part of Columbus was German Village. One would - well, THIS one would, at any rate - presume that there was a large German contingent that helped found and settle Columbus. I will leave that possibly mythic interpretation to others to dispel, but should that prove to be the case, the very existence of German Village, if not the preponderance of German street names, German or Yiddish restaurants, and other such Germania would no doubt be the first, biggest clue.

And my own personal favorite discoveries were Katzinger's Deli and the German Village Book Loft. I'll call them Exhibits B and C.

B - Katzinger's Deli: Were you to judge solely on the basis of the available option of cheeses, olives, olive oil, ethnic desserts, knishes and latkes, and such, you would surely think you had stumbled into a very small tasting room for Fairway in New York City. Katzinger's is, to be sure, MUCH, MUCH tinier, and not a grocery but a deli. But the same sense of avocational devotion to their product imbues every answer to your questions about the available foods on display. Fun little chachka-candies, sandwiches with names that sound like songtitles from an Arlo Guthrie album ("Jimmy's Photo Finish", or "Bob says 'Ella Makes My Day'"), Frosttop rootbeer (which I have only ever had elsewhere in Huntington, WV), and an overall vibe that's part Midwest hospitality, part Vermonter stubborn individuality, and part Upper West Side old world import.

C - Book Loft: In a large house, or actually - I think - a series of houses which have been functionally attached, you wander from room to room, stacked floor to ceiling with books all categorized according to the room's designation. The Graphic Novels room. The Science Fiction room. Not to be confused with the Fantasy Literature Room. The Dead, European Classicists' Room. You get the idea. Meanwhile, posters from movies past and present adorn whatever wallspace remains. Ask for directions to the bathroom and they run something like, "Go up to the North East Wing, turn left at Military History, and it's behind the 'Napoleon Dynamite' poster." Angie and I spent over an hour there. We bought nothing. We barely saw every room. As I left, I felt like I had just leafed through every page of a terrific magazine, which is one reason I love to browse through bookshops: dilettante-reading, perusing only book jacket backs and clipped & posted reviews, and feeling amply read for the day...

Add to the list of exhibits, along the way, COSI, the Columbus children's science center. Hands-on doesn't really begin to describe COSI's mandate. Hands-in, hands-full-of, hands-all-over - these may all come closer.




Above you see one Angela Reed astride a participatory demonstration of weight and counter-balance. Tour weight notwithstanding, we could both make it to the end & back, securely strapped in and nudged out onto the wire, peddling over the heads of ninth-graders who doubtless thought us very silly and yet envied us all the same. There's an enormous human skeleton, accurately constructed out of wire mesh, bone-for-bone; a hot-air balloon duo that you can, with the push of a button, heat & deflate up & down a wire; there's an actual car outside that, in the warmth of the summer, can be lifted, with the remarkable help of a complex system of pulleys and cables, by one average-strength human being; there's a rotating optical illusion that, when stared at for thirty seconds, makes all the hallway look like a scene out of "The Matrix", with the very walls wobbling, the people a bit two-dimensional, and the carpet seeming to squirm underneath your feet.

There is also: Rat Basketball!



Ginger and Marianne, two lab rats who each get a single Cheerio when they put the unused & modified ball of a roll-on deodorant through their own assigned basket, met on the field of athletic battle as we cheered them on. We, the audience, were divided into cheering sections. We cheered for Marianne. She lost. My theory is that if she'd been playing for Cap'n Crunch, we would have won.

Meanwhile, although our constant canine companion was underwhelmed by the frigid outdoors, the discovery of snow-covered, riverside Bicentennial Park was a a great joy and much gamboling about was had by one Butley Cerveris-Reed. Apparently, the abundant presence of goose poop just below the snow was intoxicating, although the frozen nature of the hardpack forced a difficult choice: dig or run. After some indecision, he wisely opted for run. (I imagine the experience was much like a cat's atop a mattress filled with catnip.)

My dad and his wife were able to visit, while we were there, Columbus being about three hours from Pittsburgh. It was at that point, after I counted the weeks and months backwards city by city, an idiom which my father considered reminiscent of a Johnny Cash song, that it had been over a year since I'd seen the two of them. As the profound reality of the length of my touring sank in, I wobbled a bit. Can it be? Really? It had felt so much like we'd been in touch quite often, which of course we were, thanks to every modern means of communication, and yet no meeting in realtime. A warning to us all, I suppose. When I was a very little kid, I remember hearing Harry Chapin's "Cat's In The Cradle" while with my mother in the Dairy Queen in Prestonsburg, Kentucky, one summer when the family had gone down to accompany my dad's then-annual stint as musical director, and thought I to my six-year-old self that the son in that song would never be me. And actually, throughout my life, I've strived to ensure exactly that. Nonetheless, as I replayed a time-lapsed year in my mind, I felt like I had come dangerously close. And I don't even have sick children to blame it on (a quick test of your lyric recollection, for all you forty-to-fifty-somethings out there)...Anyway, lesson-learned.

It was a backward recount, by the way, for which we had more than ample time as it was a task undertaken while waiting for service at the hotel restaurant. For anyone staying at the Doubletree in Columbus, it's a nice enough place in many respects, but HERE IS FAIR WARNING: don't plan to eat or drink there! Not unless you're a particularly singular fan of cool soup, warm salad, difficult bartenders, and waiting-time of paint-drying duration....

Yet another exhibit of the alternative culture trendiness that one can find in Columbus, in the very trendy "Short North" area, is the evocatively-named used CD & vinyl store, Magnolia Thunderpussy. At said store, I managed to acquire a recording of Stephin Merritt's soundtrack to the 2002 film "Eban and Charley", a cherished and gladly purchased anew CD of Porno For Pyros' self-titled debut CD, a used copy of Mercury Rev's "Deserter's Songs," a disappointing Mission of Burma's "ONoffON," and - because one simply must get one if one can - a Magnolia Thunderpussy t-shirt, dark blue with yellow logo & lettering. [NB: it would appear that the store's name comes from the band, Magnolia Thunderpussy, whose website describes it as "...a source of pride and inspiration for Westside LA’s mid-‘80s underground,... the first high school age band to earn a record contract with legendary indie label SST."]

If only I was a cool, indie musician who could garner yet more alternative cachet by sporting such a t-shirt at his next gig, even more coyly obscured by the Fender Stratocaster across his chest...Instead of a 41-year-old actor who can play the iPod and little else, posing as a cool, indie musician who could garner yet more alternative cachet by sporting such a t-shirt at his next gig, even more coyly obscured by the Fender Stratocaster across his chest.

But we all have our place in this world, no? 'Course, try telling that to this abandoned shopping cart, left smack in the middle of the ice of the frozen solid Scioto River.


The shopping cart seemed to be a remaining relic of a poetry event held literally on the ice of the Scioto, which runs through downtown Columbus, an event demonstrating both the cold of the area and the resiliency of its population. What to many of us would be cause to retreat inside, to Columbusians (?) was merely another performance venue.... And long after the event was left over, the cart there still remained, like a Duchamp sculpture, quizzically and beautifully out of place. Much like the Midwestern subculture we were lucky to discover, much like the "indie art capital of the midwest" itself, nestled amongst the cornfields and combines of Ohio.

Still, I'm tellin' you. It was cold....

Minneapolis

Cold.

Ass cold.

I mean - COLD.

And yet, not without cause for fun.


One Surprising Note About Minneapolis in the Winter: They don't sell long underwear. No, let me say that again. There is no long silk winter underwear on any of the shelves. At a time when the temperature dips below 0 degrees Fahrenheit in the evening, when the streets are black with city slush and parking meters are bagged to prevent their use (leaving streets clear for snow removal), a city which is one of the northernmost major cities in the continental United States, whose very own football team's name recalls far off, distant lands with savage winters, and where even the local dialect seems intentionally designed to keep the opening to the human mouth as small as possible, to preserve as much body heat as possible ("Ooooh, yah, shure, I knooooow it...") - there is not a single pair of long, silk underwear in any size below XXL on the shelves of Macy's, Target, Marshall's.

I asked a sales clerk how this could be, and her response was, "Oooh, yah, gosh, I dooon't knooow. Guess we all bought 'em up, y'knooow?" I gave up looking. We're here for a week. I can use the skyway.

This is now the second time I've been to the home of Mary Tyler Moore on tour, and both times it's been smack in the middle of winter. I think that's enough.

But it has proven to be the land of surprising coincidence. My friend, Paul Fontana - sporting a new Inigo Montoya look - happened to be in town, in his capacity of Education Director for The Acting Company, which is debuting their production of Henry V here at the Guthrie. Thanks to Facebook, we realized our mutually serendipitous city status, and made use of the chance to catch up over a drink at the Marquette Hotel.

Also, a friend who was an undergrad in the theater department at UCSD while I was in grad school there, Elise Langer, has recently emigrated to these hinterlands and set up shop. I caught a Sunday matinee performance (in between our own matinee & evening shows) of Open Eye Figure Theater's new production of "Snowman." A brilliant and visually arresting fable that was a great midday surprise.

We also visited the Walker Arts Center - in equal parts, an inspiring, confounding, stultifying, and astounding artspace that has a broad range of artistic work. Kind of great - kind of weird - always worth a look.

And the Minneapolis audiences share the enthusiasm of their Iowan cousins. Always nice for the cast to be subjects of such adulation. In this series of one-week stands we're in the middle of, that's exactly what they need to keep their spirits up.

Beyond that, there's a shocking paucity of reportage to be had. Call it the fault of the icy conditions. We enjoyed the comfortable, king-sized bed of the downtown Radisson and the luxury of HBO, which we haven't had for awhile, actually. What can I say - it's tour. Some weeks, you just wanna hibernate...

Oh, and yes ... GO STEELERS!!!!