January 23, 2014

4:40am

David Calvitto and I are spies. Our duties consist primarily of patrolling the empty streets around the James Island YMCA (where I swam and did gymnastics as a kid). We are watching and being watched, even though we almost never encounter other people. It's like a ghost town and I jaywalk like crazy! It's very satisfying. Sometimes I push a stroller for cover, but surely anyone can tell it's empty because I race with it through the streets, weaving and bouncing.

The other project we are working on is reviewing local Seattle documentaries for screening at the Northwest Film Forum. Most of them aren't very good, but there is one by international bestselling mystery author Lisa Scottoline that we like, about the intersections between Shakespeare and crime. She's really pushy though - she won't stop calling. Finally we agree to include it at the Film Forum, because Ken Holmes has offered to be her handler. He tells us his wife's name is Lisa, so he feels competent in the area of negotiating with people named Lisa. [NB: I am sure Ken's wife in real life is very nice and doesn't require special handling due to being named Lisa. I wake up feeling guilty about this completely unfounded insinuation.]

6:50am

The GIA offices are now at Seattle Center, in a big open floor plan, corporate-cafeteria-style building. The whole staff meets at a large high table near the empty buffet line. Everyone is sitting quietly, so I ask my boss, Janet, if she has heard back yet from the Dodge Foundation about whether or not they want to continue with the Arts Education Funders Coalition. Janet stares off into space as if she doesn't hear me. I realize everyone is staring into space, and I'm the only one talking. Then they all get up to go put on the play at Book-It.

I need to run an errand first, and besides, I'm playing the old cranky granddad, and I only have six lines, which I can completely wing, even though it's been a month since we last performed it.

I start walking down to lower Queen Anne, because my old friend George Weld is having a going-away party, and I want to drop in to say goodbye. There are people milling about everywhere, and it's taking forever to get to the house where the party is. There are adorable children running around and I want to chase them, but I am running short on time. Finally I get to the party, and George is already completely wasted. Well-wishers have been plying him with booze all afternoon and he can barely stand. I say my goodbyes and best wishes, but I know he won't remember later. That's okay. He's going on to better things.

I head back out and the people traffic is even thicker. The show is about to start, and my entrance isn't for awhile, but I'm starting to legitimately worry about being late onstage. I debate skipping the costume - it isn't really necessary for the old grump, although I'm not wearing any shoes, and that might be odd. I feel like it's all going to work out fine. [It is so nice to have performance dreams without the anxiety now!]

I get to the northern edge of Seattle Center campus - so close! - and reach a physical impediment - the sidewalk is closed because Randy Ramsey and Ariel Kemp are burying a pirate ship in concrete. They are very friendly and talking in pirate gibberish. It's great to see them both, and this project is AWESOME. Why doesn't Seattle Center have a pirate ship half-buried in concrete?

8:54am

Margaret Carter is having us over for homemade pho. It's delicious and very noodley. Chris starts digging around in my bowl, uninvited. I ask, "What are you looking for?" He says, "The EGG!" In fact, there is a whole egg at the bottom of my bowl. I hand it to him.

We are sleeping over at Margaret's before I have to be at the airport, because the GIA staff is now helping out the ground crew for flights going to our conference. Joshua and I are sleeping in giant puffy white beds side by side. My childhood cat, Princess, is sleeping on Joshua's bed, but I make noises to get her attention. She jumps on my bed, walks up my body, and tries to take something out of my mouth with her mouth. She's very strange.

I get to the airport early the next morning. I drive slowly through the parking lot where a young boy, maybe 8 years old, is driving a red Prius up and down the hill, back and forth, and then flipping like a skateboarder on a half-pipe. He's so cute (he looks like Kid President, in hindsight) but that seems a little dangerous.

Abigail and I are assigned to a gate together. The actual airline employees are all dressed like '60s stewardesses. So stylish. I am supposed to be checking people in next to the gate, but there is one passenger - a businessman in an expensive suit - who keeps demanding that I sell him a ticket. I tell him over and over that we are not airline employees and can't fulfill transactions, but he ultimately forces his $432, mostly in ones, on me. I take it to the stewardess lady at the gate myself. Humans!