Okay, I started a really thought-provoking post and got off on a rabbit-trail and now I have about 27 column-feet of rambling with absolutely no social relevance. I’ll work on editing that one, but in the mean time, look what showed up this week! (Click the picture for details.)

In other news, classes end next week. Forecasters predict a 74% chance that my brain will resume competent functions shortly.

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Once upon a time, a child was born.

The child’s parents loved her very much, and promised to give the child everything they could to make her happy and healthy. They gave her healthy food and lots of toys to play with. Life was good for the child… except for one thing. Her parents, for whatever reason, had a very limited vocabulary. In fact, they knew only one word: “bang.”

And so, as the child grew and entered society, she too responded to every initiated conversation with the only word she knew.

“How are you today?” “Bang.”

“Would you like a cookie?” “Bang.”

“May I see that toy you’re holding?” “Bang.”

At first, people thought “the Bang Child” (as she came to be known) was quirky and cute. “How funny,” they said to themselves. “She must be so wise and witty to respond to everything with such pith.” Every conversation with the Bang Child was a game: how many different ways could she say “bang”? Could anyone get her to say anything other than “bang”?

But one day, one of the Bang Child’s teachers noticed a disturbing trend: the other students in his class began to limit their vocabularies as well. It didn’t take long for classroom discussion to devolve into nothing more than “Bang” … “Bang!” … “BANGBANGBANGBANG!!!”

The teacher, not wanting to interfere with the individuality of his students, sat in the center of all the banging and said, rather timidly, a different word:

“Quiet?”

But the banging continued. So he tried again, a little more insistently:

“Peace…”

No change: “BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG,” continued the class. Now the teacher was beginning to grow anxious. He raised his voice still louder:

“Please!”

But even that word didn’t make a dent in the noise the Bang Child had started.

Finally, the teacher, completely out of patience and desperate to put an end to the banging, shouted with all of his might:

“STOP!”

…and there was silence.

The children, frozen in mid-“BANG” by the sudden, unexpected cry, slowly turned to look at their teacher, waiting to see what he would do next. Would he continue to yell at them? Would he punish them? Spank them? Shout “BANG” himself?

The teacher took a deep breath, and walked slowly toward the Bang Child. She looked up at him, frightened of what might come next.

“Bang?” she whispered.

The teacher looked down at her, took her face gently in his hands, and shook his head. “Love,” he said, a tear forming in his eye.

“B—” began the Bang Child, but the teacher pressed a finger gently against her lips. “Shh,” he insisted. “Love….”

Every eye in the classroom was fixed on the Bang Child. She glanced from face to face, as she struggled to break free from the comfortable word that had been her only vocabulary for her entire life.

Then she looked back at her teacher. He slowly mouthed the word again, and her tongue haltingly reached toward the back of her top teeth.

“L—” she said.

The teacher nodded, smiled. “Love,” he whispered, his voice trembling.

“Lah—” said the Bang Child.

The teacher put his top teeth against his bottom lip. “Vvvvv…” he hummed gently.

The Bang Child looked at her teacher, and her eyes opened wide—wider than they ever had before.

“Llllll…. ah….. vvvvv,” she said.

The teacher gasped, and waited. He said nothing.

“Love,” said the Bang Child.

“Love,” nodded the teacher.

There was a long moment of silence as the Bang Child turned her gaze upon the faces of each of her classmates in turn.

“Love,” she said at last.

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This is getting exciting.

Look what I just bought:

(The markers, not the cat. Allie is just practicing in case Vanna White realizes who the real beauty is.)

“Why are Sharpies exciting, Dave,” I hear you asking.

Well, first of all, it’s David, please, not Dave. And second of all: the Sharpies are in case folks want us to autograph these:

or these:

Furthermore, tomorrow we’re going to a studio to get some practice recording, and maybe lay down a few tracks for a demo CD.

It’s almost as though we’re actually, like, a real performing group! Imagine the fun! Imagine the fame! Imagine the popularity!

Of course, I have to go do laundry first, and deal with a sinkful of dishes.

Just, you know, to keep it real.

But aren’t you pleased it’s been less than 3 months between posts this time?

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ALL RIGHT, FINE.

Here, for those of you who have so little going on in your own lives that you feel an irritating void when you can’t live vicariously through mine, is a summary of the last 12 weeks. Don’t blink.

On Thursday, January 11 I had an appointment with my GP for a routine DGOBCHFNS. (That is, I saw my General Practitioner for a “Dave’s Getting Old; Better Check His Fluids ‘N’ Stuff” check-up.) My thallasemia was under control, and my LDL was at the high end of normal, but fine. My blood pressure was a little high (it always is when I’m in a doctor’s office), though, and my HDL was lower than the doc would like. Happily, exercise is good for everything that ails me (including the love handles that someone snuck up and surgically implanted on me while I wasn’t looking)—so there was another kick in the butt to get moving regularly. I also asked the doc, somewhat gingerly—I’d done a bit of research on this one, and the word Botox had shown up in one of the answers—whether he might be able to recommend a treatment for hyperhidrosis. (Anyone who’s spent much time with me knows that I’m a “sweater”—and not the kind Amie makes.) He did—a prescription antiperspirant known as Drysol. I was skeptical, but picked up a bottle to try.

On Sunday, January 14 (yes, three days later) 3.12 had a gig at Unity—two songs at each of two worship services. Not terribly high-stress, but by the end of a regular morning of worship I was historically two large wet spots surrounded by a tank-top-shaped torso. As the second service ended I realized two things:

1. My armpits were dry. (As in, not even moist.)
2. Drysol was my new bestest friend.

On Saturday, January 20 I sang (with Deb) at a friend’s wedding at MCC of the Spirit. (Yes, that MCC of the Spirit.) It was a challenge, walking into that building, pressing through the ugly memories like those filthy hanging plastic strips they hang at loading docks, trying not to get smudged or mess up my hair. I saw a lot of familiar faces—some of which smiled to see me, others of which turned their backs and walked away. But I went, and I sang, and I left feeling good about myself. That place will never again feel like home… but at least it no longer feels like enemy territory.

On Monday, January 22 classes began, the first day of my fourth semester as a college professor. A new semester always brings new challenges, but this semester, my relationships with my students and my colleagues are really gelling (thanks, Dr. Scholl, for stealing that word from the rest of us), and that “waiting-for-the-other-shoe-to-drop” feeling is finally gone. I, in other words, love my job. (There’s a big smile on my face as I type that.)

February happened. I know this because I see lots of things on my calendar for that month, and I vaguely remember even actually being present for some of them. We had a couple of big snowstorms, which I took as God’s way of telling me it was nap time.

The February-March cusp flew by unnoticed, as I spent that week chained to the OrchEXTRA console, making final edits, cuts, and vamps for Les Mis. (No, not a single element of my dream came true.) The kids brought tears to my eyes every bloomin’ night, they were so good. Made me proud.

On March 18 I auditioned for the next Theatre Harrisburg musical—The Secret Garden—and was cast as Dr. Neville Craven. (Yes, this means I get to sing “Lily’s Eyes,” which is always the next question from anyone who knows the show—which I don’t. I’d be much more excited about this if I weren’t so bloody nervous at having to match the vocal talent of the guy who’s playing Archie. He’s really phenomenal.)

And… um… that’s kinda it for the play-by-play. (See? My life really is too boring for words!)

Of course, absent from that list of dates is any hint of all of the work I’m putting into 3.12. We’ve been singing about once a month, but word is spreading and we’re getting requests from more and more churches and organizations. In fact, we’ve had a couple of wonderfully generous donors offer to finance a couple of major expenses for us, so we’re now (very timidly) starting to talk about releasing a CD later this summer.

Actually, 3.12 has been such a wonderful thing for me that I could probably fill several pages just rambling about the experience. But I want to save something for my next post….

I’ll see you in June. Maybe sooner. ;-)

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I haven’t told you yet, have I, that this year’s musical at the high school is Les Mis?

It is.

We’ve been in rehearsal for about three weeks—we open March 1—so we’re getting to the point where folks pretty much know their parts and now I’m starting to work on, like, musical stuff.

But I think I’m going to need to re-evaluate how much energy I’m pouring into this production.

Why?

I just (well, at 5:08 this morning) was awakened by my first official production-related nightmare:

• It was opening night
• and I was playing Jean Valjean, the lead (for some reason—this didn’t seem odd to me in the dream)
• and I didn’t know my lines
• or my songs
• and I couldn’t find my costume
• and there was some blonde chick who kept telling me we ought to store all of the office supplies together (even though this was totally unrelated to the production, and I wished she’d just leave me alone)
• and one of the special effects had gone wrong and my music was wet
• and the piano was out of tune
• and we were performing the show in the food court of a shopping mall
• and I realized, just minutes before curtain, that the accompaniment tracks hadn’t yet arrived and I would have to play the entire show on the piano—except I couldn’t because (see above) I was playing Valjean for some reason.

Sometimes I wonder why it is I don’t drink.

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