tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2482196565552302402024-03-05T12:11:33.960-08:00Jeffrey Scott ParsonsA blog to make you laugh, think, and face life with a smile.JSPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10630362779316980639noreply@blogger.comBlogger101125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248219656555230240.post-50942367040925659362018-12-24T06:52:00.001-08:002018-12-24T06:52:23.661-08:00We're All Innkeepers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEido80_8qVeoBx62h3vnBvm7CNzBwladHFp39UI4_ynzR07s-BPnFAnPNK2L1QQmYnbEoqIae9BEQzDEZuPyz9Vh_MxOdrAcTuKGX9UtHCSMJ614-xXQouCIVpVgQvpPH3452IGPwE9RORr/s1600/bethlehem.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="1024" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEido80_8qVeoBx62h3vnBvm7CNzBwladHFp39UI4_ynzR07s-BPnFAnPNK2L1QQmYnbEoqIae9BEQzDEZuPyz9Vh_MxOdrAcTuKGX9UtHCSMJ614-xXQouCIVpVgQvpPH3452IGPwE9RORr/s400/bethlehem.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Happy Holidays, Friends!<br />
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And just like that we're one day away from Christmas 2018. That means we're also one day plus a week away from 2019. It's become a tradition for me at the end of the year to write letters and blogs that draw some sort of parallel between our lives and this beloved holiday, and since I only have one other post to show for the past twelve months, here I am! Thanks for reading. :)<br />
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So, let's talk about this innkeeper guy... you may have heard of him. Mary and Joseph ride up to his inn, looking for a place to rest because Mary is super pregnant, and they've traveled all the way from Nazareth to pay their taxes. (Thanks, Caesar Augustus.)<br />
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Anyway, the inn is full, so the innkeeper sends them away, and we all cringe because you know that's the beginning of the worst Yelp review ever. At the same time, though, do we blame him? Isn't it supposed to be our goal to create something so popular, you sell out your inventory? Wasn't the innkeeper just an entrepreneur living by the capitalistic ideals of supply and demand?<br />
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I guess that's the reason why, with our very busy lives, I don't feel like using the innkeeper's story to "guiltify" us into taking on even more. Instead, I feel this story begs the question, "If our inns are full, what are they full of and why?"<br />
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If we operate our lives so completely sold out that we have no room for love, charity, or your run of the mill, life changing miracle, is it possible our "inns" might be emptier than we think?<br />
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What I'm trying to say is this year I found joy in making room as well as giving it away. I said "no" to a few things (maintaining a regularly updated blog, for example?), and that comes with consequences. But the good news is it made room for some stuff I tend to turn away, namely, "Creative Freedom, Conversation, and Community."<br />
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The even better news is this time of year has the magic to remind me how much room there can be, so there's no way I'd turn away the opportunity to share some love and say to each of you, "Thank you for making room for me."<br />
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With love, gratitude, and a few sugar cookies,<br />
<br />
Jeffrey Scott Parsons<br />
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<br />JSPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10630362779316980639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248219656555230240.post-70016943195314226202018-02-21T09:32:00.001-08:002018-03-28T09:42:03.327-07:00COMFY<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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One of the great dichotomies of modern life is...</span></b><br />
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...graduating from college with a performing arts degree, so you have to use words like "dichotomies" to make the degree feel worth it.<br />
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Kidding.<br />
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One of the <u>true</u>, great dichotomies of modern life is we're constantly being told and sold how to make our lives more comfortable while the most important moments in our lives remain anything but. Sounds like a good reason to tap dance, right? I thought so too. ;)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-pNiwSYS5YUuHkvb7wVkWliHtxQRQSoeBNe9KFUdoIKA-dds8rw_VX8Uk7L1u-xXkUG_QuapfSEPzIdMsLen2PHXShd5VAaElhN_oHreJPl0aPNBt1eETMW6dEAFparGb6JsFbdDGOaBE/s1600/Comfy+Photo+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1036" data-original-width="1600" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-pNiwSYS5YUuHkvb7wVkWliHtxQRQSoeBNe9KFUdoIKA-dds8rw_VX8Uk7L1u-xXkUG_QuapfSEPzIdMsLen2PHXShd5VAaElhN_oHreJPl0aPNBt1eETMW6dEAFparGb6JsFbdDGOaBE/s320/Comfy+Photo+001.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
COMFY is a one man show I've created that, using all my favorite buzz words, is the most authentic, vulnerable, and rewarding project I've ever worked on. I'm not going to tell you specifically why because you gotta come to the show. Don't trust me? Here's a quote about my recent Los Angeles debut.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14.666666984558105px;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;">“Parsons is so sincere and so sweet and lovable that his time onstage is totally mesmerizing. Don’t miss him wherever he appears!” -Don Grigware, BroadwayWorld.com</span></span></blockquote>
Also, I sing and dance my butt off. Need more convincing? I'm now going to list a few other reasons why I'm proud of COMFY...<br />
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<ol>
<li>It is unlike any other cabaret show I've ever seen, using dance and multimedia in a fresh, new way.</li>
<li>It uses something very old school, like the "song and dance man" tradition I love so much, to explore the complexities of my very modern life.</li>
<li>It's funny!</li>
<li>It is written to be enjoyed by a diverse crowd of backgrounds, beliefs, and (gasp) political leanings, and by the end, I believe we all feel a lot closer.</li>
</ol>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;">I'm bringing the show to a town near you! Of course, I first gotta know where your towns might be... If you would like to see COMFY, drop me a line. I'll get my tap shoes there as soon as possible.</span></div>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;">xoxo</span></div>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;">JSP</span><br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwl_r_R2isKpH4Gk-y12RMwl5wHlk0nDS5T1S8eK76tT7gnBXPTdiHizoYzLNDImn8HWSMaLwZNx3VhtFZK0Q' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;">(video by Mike Patton)</span></div>
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JSPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10630362779316980639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248219656555230240.post-25280007460800362422016-12-24T14:50:00.000-08:002016-12-24T14:50:05.284-08:00NOEL<br />
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Reflecting on my sometimes long, sometimes short list of completely non-threatening, first world problems, always ranking high on the list is something I'm almost ashamed to admit... almost.<br /><br />
As petty as it may sound, I find it painful when words don't fit in songs using their everyday pronunication. For example, adorable pop kitten Katy Perry's song "Unconditionally" is constructed in such a way that she sings both "uncondi-TION-ally" and "un-CON-ditionally," but never once with the emphasis on the right syllable. Feel free to check it out, but don't mention I sent you.<br />
<br />Meanwhile, on the complete opposite side of this pet peeve, one of the best-used words in music is one we hear a lot at the time of year: Noel. If you like, go listen to a quality recording of "The First Noel" and try not to be impressed by the ease with which that one word manages to rise and fall both reverently and majestically.<br />
<br />"Noel" is a French word borrowed by us English folk to mean "a Christmas carol," and hark the herald angels it was. I guarantee the musical ease of "The First Carol" would leave much to be desired. But the truth is "Noel" is even older than that and can be further traced to its Latin root "natalis," meaning "birth."<br />
<br />Now I know 2016 wasn't an easy year for a lot of us, and not in a Katy Perry song type way. In fact, as I think about some of the people that might read this, 2016 sucked pretty hard. (Sorry for the language, Grandma...)<br />
<br />To any of you that may be suffering, please know my heart and thoughts have been with you. I know pain is real, and I stand with you in it, knowing you'd do the same for me. Even when words don't quite fit the songs we're trying to sing, I believe there are always better days ahead, in the journey as much as the destination. The only requirement is we keep moving forward. May that be the gift we give ourselves this Christmas: the gift of moving forward.<br />
<br />And maybe one other... I invite you to take a moment this holiday season and sing "Noel." Not just because it's Christmas, and certainly not because it marks the end of 2016, but because it might be the birth of something new.<br />
<br />Happy Holiday,<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Jeffrey Scott Parsons</span></h4>
JSPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10630362779316980639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248219656555230240.post-43399745398106194792016-09-04T09:54:00.001-07:002016-09-04T09:54:12.588-07:00That One Time I Thought Like That Guy Running for President
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I grew up in a town filled mostly with good "blue
collar" folk. Many families made livings in construction or farming. My
grandpa ran a successful livestock business for 50 years. My best friend's
family had a dairy. Others had family fruit stands supplied by their own
orchards. It was the community in which I was born and raised, and, despite my
love of sequined clogging costumes, I was always proud of it.</div>
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After I graduated high school, however, my hometown started
changing. Many of the farmers grew old and sold their land to real
estate developers. Soon, there were far fewer orchards, and in their places,
suburban communities with ironic names like, "The Orchards." </div>
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I was annoyed.</div>
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Some of it was because I have a general anger problem toward
people cutting down trees. (I blame <i>Ferngully</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.) But in a more general sense, I was upset because I didn't like how
mowing down the farmland was changing my town.</span></div>
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I didn't like that now when it rained, the highway flooded because the mountainside had pavement instead of soil to absorb the
moisture.</div>
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I didn't like that with all the new homes on the city water
line, we could no longer wash the dishes and take a shower at the same time.</div>
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I didn't like that instead of the blue collar families I
mentioned earlier, I heard more people at church speak about how
"inspired" they were by poor people.</div>
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But maybe most of all, I didn't like that the great influx
of citizens had no idea who my family was. My grandpa helped build the church
many of them attended. My grandma was a member of the Daughters of the Utah
Pioneers. My mom played the organ at every funeral, ever. My father served on
town councils and committees responsible for flood prevention. Not to mention I
performed at the 4<sup>th</sup> of July pageant every year, people!!</div>
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I saw so much history around me, and none of the newbies
seemed to care one bit that without it, they probably wouldn't have moved
there.</div>
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----</div>
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Upon witnessing the recent political platforms spreading
across these fine United States, I decided to take a long, hard look at what I
find so displeasing in the way many have begun talking about immigrants or
people different than themselves. Once I identified it, I looked within to see
if I have any ounce of that myself. What I found was what you just read.</div>
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The hard truth is when change is thrust upon you, especially
in an area where you feel ownership, like where you live, feelings of
powerlessness and frustration arise from dealing with the consequences of
decisions you had nothing to do with.</div>
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Similar feelings may result when parents announce baby #2 is
on the way, or when children are forced to share their toys with others.</div>
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The problem is we're adults. </div>
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While my resentment about my hometown was real, it certainly
wasn't meant to be literal. I don't want to keep people from populating the
city I grew up in simply because I was there first. That's childish. If
anything, my seniority only proves I can understand why others would want to
experience it for themselves. </div>
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Yes, that means there's change, and change isn't easy. There
are cultural shifts and new problems to solve. But that's when words like
"compromise" and "working together" come into play. You
know, the kind of stuff we learned in kindergarten.</div>
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As adults, we make these words happen by electing leaders to
help facilitate them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That's why I
hope my hometown officials can bring its citizens together, both old and new,
to compassionately ensure a high quality of life for everyone. Did my hometown grow too big too fast? Maybe. But for heaven's sake, nobody needs to ban or
kick anyone out, especially based on race, religion, or sexuality.</div>
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Comparatively speaking, I hope as a country we can elect
leaders that first recognize the complex and nuanced issue of when and how
individuals become US citizens. We can then hold those leaders accountable to
creating a pathway that ensures everyone the high quality of life that has
always made this country great. </div>
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It's not as easy as we'd prefer, but most things after
preschool haven't been.</div>
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It was surprisingly difficult for to me admit my biased feelings toward the
new neighbors, but I believe I've handled them like an adult. I invite everyone
in this homeland I love so dearly to do the same.</div>
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<!--EndFragment-->JSPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10630362779316980639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248219656555230240.post-2070264063607530922015-12-31T17:01:00.002-08:002015-12-31T17:01:54.905-08:00Power Sources: a New Year's Hi Def ResolutionAt this point in our modern society, I think we all know where we get our power. We get it from the sun, a farm of wind turbines, and the little switches on our walls that turn the lights on and off.<div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Dlcld1JGJu8vAk3ftu9vkL3QfCGTsgHn5wQjTVdaTWuciaXgVNyWyy9kLNDbGRM5JCMEnT1TQPLsXtYdCi3OOAezC7U76M-CGBFmmat85U-WRLPqDlqDwfsqi6xnn0fsRxD3B_tvowLC/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Dlcld1JGJu8vAk3ftu9vkL3QfCGTsgHn5wQjTVdaTWuciaXgVNyWyy9kLNDbGRM5JCMEnT1TQPLsXtYdCi3OOAezC7U76M-CGBFmmat85U-WRLPqDlqDwfsqi6xnn0fsRxD3B_tvowLC/s400/images.jpeg" /></a><br /><div>
Too bad everything in life isn't as simple as generating power for the very computer I sit behind. Ironic Note: generating power isn't simple, therefore everything <b>IS</b> that simple. #mindblown</div>
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The thing is, as we (and by we, I mean someone else) tries to figure out how to efficiently power our increasingly technological world, I believe we also need to monitor how we power ourselves. Same idea, different realm. Where do each of us get our personal power? From our faith? Maybe our loved ones. On a Friday night, maybe it's ice cream and a #7 from Mr. Chow's. </div>
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The answers really depend on a couple of factors: the person, the situation, and believe it or not, the trends. There are trends in personal power. It wasn't that long ago, for example, that Instagram followers didn't exist, let alone carry the weight of our self esteem. </div>
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Lately, however, the power trend that has most caught my attention is an unexpected one. "Persecution." Now you wouldn't think at first glance that "Persecution" would be a source of power. People are usually persecuted in order to feel the exact opposite of powerful. But that knowledge, and a more empathetic society, is bringing it into a new light.</div>
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Let me use myself as an example. I am a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. I have ancestors that literally walked and pushed handcarts across the United States to find a place where they could worship freely. I've spent every 24th of July since as a long as I can remember honoring those Utah pioneers that led to me being born where I was born and raised how I was raised.</div>
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As an adult, I keep the trials and persecutions of my ancestry like a badge of honor, and when I feel I need to take a stand, I take that badge out and pin it on my chest. I talk about how there was an extermination order against my people. Yes, that's "exterminate" like on a box of roach poison. In 1838, if you lived in Missouri, you were allowed to shoot a Mormon dead, and when the President of the United States was contacted about it, his official response was something like, "I feel bad, but it's an election year, and you guys are kinda weird."</div>
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Now if I'm being 100% honest with myself, the times I play this "persecution card," are usually when I'm trying to bring perspective to someone painting a stereotype that Mormons are squeaky clean, privileged white people that build sparkly temples and hate gays. Trust me; it's simply not true...except for the sparkly temple thing. #sequinsforever</div>
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Still, this is basically the current trend I'm talking about. People feel persecuted, which leads to outrage, which leads them to share their outrage, only then to be met by others that are so uncomfortable with it, they point out their persecution to level the playing field. It's a polarizing game of "My Life Sucks Just as Much as Yours."</div>
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So what if when met with the injustice of someone's experience, instead of leveling the playing field, I were to simply stop and look at them? After all, if I really have been persecuted, I would no doubt look at them and recognize myself. </div>
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That's why in 2016, I'm giving up "Persecution" as a power source. I will take lessons, not definitions, from my opposition in life. I will wear my ancestry with pride without viewing martyrdom as an achievement where both persecutor and believer are celebrated. </div>
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I will walk with a sense of unity, knowing "life's suckage" is something that makes us all the same, not what makes us competitive. When confronted by someone's injustice, I will give them empathy. When people find joy or outrage, I will not point to something else. And when I recognize my feelings begin to rise out of me, I will own them without making others do it for me.</div>
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This is what I'm calling my Hi-Def Resolution, a New Year's Resolution so crystal clear, it displays a picture of not only who I am but who I want to be. And that, my friends, is a little scary, but very powerful.</div>
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JSPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10630362779316980639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248219656555230240.post-9225924236521499232015-11-13T10:21:00.001-08:002015-11-13T10:23:11.592-08:00My Brake DownRecently I took a bus to the evil stepmother queen of all airports: LAX.<br />
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It seemed to me the responsible choice, what with morning traffic polluting the route and airport parking costing as much as bailing out your car when you park in a tow away zone. (Or so I've heard...)<br />
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Unfortunately, if LAX is an evil queen, then the bus turned out to be a poisoned apple.<br />
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It's not like the bus wasn't nice. It had tall, plush seats, high def TV monitors scattered throughout the interior, and best of all, a friendly driver at its helm WHO WANTED TO KILL ME.<br />
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Okay, I don't actually know if he wanted to kill me. And honestly, I can't even say whether or not he was an unsafe driver. All I know is on that warm California morning I may have been driven to LAX (and arrived late, by the way), but I was also driven to what I've named, "My Brake Down."<br />
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It all started because I'm pretty sure the bus had new brakes. Which, by the way, is fantastic! I'm thrilled safety would be a high priority for this company transporting my fragile body. But if that was the case, I would have appreciated a brief announcement of warning, like when tanning salons post a sign announcing their beds have brand new bulbs. (Or so I've heard...)<br />
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Unfortunately, what I experienced without any preparation was an hour and a half long drive so convulsive, I'm sure the other people on the freeway took us for a bunch of head-banging metal lovers on our way to Warped Tour. If only! How I cherish the thought of spending that early morning thrashing to some band called Chronic Doom.<br />
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Instead the driver attempted to ease our brain damage by popping in a DVD of <i>Il Divo In Concert. </i>Now, I hope you understand the gravity of what this means. By putting on the DVD, not only were we forced to listen to the concert; we were forced to <u>watch</u> the concert because of the very high def TV monitors I had just praised moments earlier. With my earphones stowed in luggage under the bus, and a phone low on batteries because of the Uber I took to the bus station, I'm afraid there was simply no way to escape "the divos."<br />
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It was at this point that the panic started setting in. I had traffic as far as the eye could see, a looming flight departure, and now a classical shouting match of ABBA's "The Winner Takes It All" <b style="text-decoration: underline;">IN LATIN</b>. I was on edge.<br />
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Then, as one of the tenors made, wait for it now, <b>ANOTHER KEY CHANGE!!</b> (this time while holding a single rose because that's just what you do), the driver pumped the breaks which once again slammed my forehead into the seat ahead of me, and... I lost it.<br />
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A loud, steady moan erupted from my soul. My face felt like it was on fire, and I was overcome by a fit of hysterical laughing in which tears secreted from both of my eye holes. I was broken. I had reached my limit. If I had any government secrets, I would have given them up right then and there for the serenity of one Colbie Callait song.<br />
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I did recover, albeit several hours later on the plane, probably a couple thousand feet above Kansas, but I was left with this awful guilt. I wasn't proud of my "brake down," but it seemed so involuntary at the time. I mean, what do you do when you reach your limit? Do you just feel bad? I wanted to because nobody else on that bus seemed to be suffering the same way I did. Who knows, maybe they like Il Divo...<br />
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Who am I kidding? That can't be possible. The real explanation must be we all have different "braking points." We all have our moments when, excuse my language, the crapper gets a little full, and you have to excuse yourself to take care of it.<br />
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When we're feeling volatile, hopefully we're mature enough to keep from hurting anyone that may wander into our line of fire. And hopefully, as we gain more experience with our limits, we can make a U turn when the brakes are a little sensitive or stuff toilet paper in our ears before it gets too late.<br />
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Most of all, I think when we have a "brake down," we need to give ourselves a break! Give it the ol' "this too shall pass," and own it. So I wasn't built for waterboarding? So what? So I get frustrated? So what?!<br />
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What I can't do is get frustrated and then hate myself for it because that's stupid, and I hate myself for that.<br />
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All in all, I'm grateful for "my brake down." It's a good story, and I love a good story. But beyond that, I'm grateful for having learned something new about myself. Good, bad, or ugly, these little pieces are what make me who I am. And who I am ain't so bad. (Or so I've heard...)<br />
<br />JSPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10630362779316980639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248219656555230240.post-70007575207362650402015-06-30T12:06:00.000-07:002015-06-30T12:08:27.019-07:00Life is a CabaretThere are many perks to doing Musical Theatre for a living: free cardio, for example.<br />
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"Fun" is what I hear most from people. "Oh, that sounds like fun," is a common response when I mention life behind the footlights. And to their credit, those people are right. Theatre is fun! What they don't know, however, is "fun" barely cracks the Top 5. </div>
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Much higher on my list of perks are the moments you see the story you're telling onstage relate to what's happening in the world offstage. It's sometimes scary, often inspiring, and always magical. It's what we call "life imitating art," and I'm experiencing a healthy dose of it right now.</div>
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I'm currently in a production of <i>Cabaret</i> at the Welk Resort Theatre San Diego. <i>Cabaret</i> is a brilliant piece of theatre because it's a musical about WWII and the Holocaust without literally telling the story of either of those things. Instead, we tell the story of how some people made those things happen while many others let them happen.</div>
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So how does something so dark bare a striking resemblance to 2015? Well, if you had asked me two weeks ago what this year would be remembered for, I would have said "racism and hate." This week, I'm happy to say those things might only come in second. </div>
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Now believe me, I would much rather give second place to something else like <i>Jurassic World</i>, or, I don't know, the return of culottes. Anything, really! But the acts of hatred that keep popping up across our country are impossible to ignore.</div>
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What's really disturbing is these events are being treated more like tropical storms than what they are. As it happens, one area is devastated; the tragedy grabs the nation's attention and sympathy, but then the storm somehow disappears, leaving that community to clean up the mess and allowing us to go back to our lives until the next one falls from the sky. I'm sick of the cycle. Are we too easily distracted? Or do we choose not to see the issues at hand?</div>
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In the case of <i>Cabaret</i>, it's both. To me, the show is about what can happen when we're asleep in our lives. These characters demonstrate how easy it is to convince ourselves something has nothing to do with us when it's not knocking down our doors. And heaven knows there are plenty of things to distract us: greed, addiction, and maybe most terrifying, the apathy of being too comfortable. </div>
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But the common denominator between these distractions is their ultimate conclusion: When you only do something if you have to, it will always be too late.</div>
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I wish I had a good solution for the problems that currently face our nation: Get angry? Write a Facebook post? Light a candle? They all seem futile at best.</div>
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Where I find gratitude, however, is right now I get to do something. I get to be onstage in <i>Cabaret</i> and tell this story to an audience who will hopefully carry it with them out of the theatre and do something as well. </div>
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So Wilkommen. Bienvenue. Welcome. For better or worse, we're all in the Cabaret, and the time for action is now.</div>
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<b>Cabaret @ Welk Resort San Diego</b></div>
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<b>May 1 - July 26</b></div>
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<b>1-888-802-7469</b></div>
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<b><a href="https://welkresorts.com/san-diego-theatre/show/?maxtix_id=58" target="_blank">https://welkresorts.com/san-diego-theatre</a></b><br />
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JSPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10630362779316980639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248219656555230240.post-33401288118371291422014-12-31T20:10:00.000-08:002014-12-31T20:10:06.213-08:00The Year I Was Grateful for the Homeless<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><u><b>The Blanket</b></u></span><br />
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The first interaction I ever had with someone living with homelessness happened when I was ten years old. My grandparents and I were walking through downtown Salt Lake City after seeing a touring production of <i>The Secret Garden</i>. (Musical Theatre Nerds, feel free to do the math...)<br />
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As we strolled back to the parking garage, I noticed a man in rags parked on the sidewalk looking around as if he were lost. To my young self, it was like seeing a tattered old blanket. Not your blanket, of course. Not the one from childhood that smells the way it did when it brought you unfathomable security. He was like someone else's blanket. One you don't have a connection to and wonder how on earth it got so dirty.<br />
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I had never seen anyone like this man before, so I stared, thinking perhaps the longer I looked the more I'd understand. Suddenly, the man jutted his arm toward me and mumbled something in an injured tone. I jumped! Did he know me? Was he trying to take me? Did he need help?<br />
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My grandparents stepped in and anonymously shook their heads at him. I was grateful. They could see I was afraid, and they took control of the situation. As we continued walking, my grandma leaned over and said in a gentle tone, "Just keep your head down. If you don't look at them, they won't talk to you."<br />
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That singular experience was essentially my philosophy on homelessness for almost 15 years. Don't get me wrong, I still volunteered at food banks; I organized food and clothing drives; I gave money to panhandlers. But even though I worked to treat my fellow beings with compassion, there was still a separation defined by the discomfort of that first encounter. "We're all human, but sometimes it's less scary to keep your head down."<br />
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<u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>The Bridge</b></span></u><br />
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I finally recognized that quietly hidden pathology the moment I left it behind. In my 20's, I was cast in a production of the musical <i>Rent</i>. Guess what I played? A homeless person.<br />
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As an actor, it's not effective to judge your character, so I didn't even think twice about playing the role. On the contrary, I was excited for the challenge. It never even occurred to me that doing so would have real life implications.<br />
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Then one day I was walking around Los Angeles and saw a woman on the streets. Immediately I thought "Oh, that's me." And that's when I realized my reaction hadn't been "Poor lady." Gone was the separation. As make believe as my acting in a musical was, it had built a bridge that connected me to this woman's experience. We were the same. From that day on, I started looking at everyone suffering from homelessness in the eye...and smiling.<br />
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<u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>9 out of 10</b></span></u><br />
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Fast forward to 2014, at which point I was preparing the next update for my charity website <a href="http://www.theroadbackhome.com/">www.theroadbackhome.com</a>. Some of you might know that besides bringing awareness to different causes and charitable organizations, we encourage the idea that everyone deserves to feel "at home" in their lives.<br />
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Well obviously with a mission statement like that, I knew at some point we'd have to tackle homelessness, but figuring out how to approach the issue on a public platform had always been intimidating.<br />
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Having no real answers as to how to proceed, this year I started talking to other people. As often as I could, I brought up homelessness in conversations to hear what others had to say. And in this very unscientific social experiment, I found that 9 out of 10 people I spoke with began their side of the conversation with doubt.<br />
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Despite my empathy toward the discomfort of this issue, I was still very surprised by these findings. 9 out of 10 means the public roughly perceives 90% of the homeless population to be either completely hopeless or simply outside their social responsibilities. 90%?! That's impossible, and quite frankly, a little bit silly.<br />
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This caused me to once again look at my own views on homelessness and wonder, "How did we become so skewed?<br />
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<u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>Un-Skew You</b></span></u><br />
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I'm going to be brutally honest here. In our philanthropic efforts, it's a lot easier to surround ourselves with causes that lend themselves to beauty: the smile of a sick child, the beautification of a city park, the education of our youth.<br />
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But there's very little beauty in homelessness. It's one of the few nightmares in life that actually looks as bad as it feels.<br />
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And that's when it hit me. We're not all skewed, horrible people. We just want to feel better about a very ugly problem! That's why many of us convince ourselves homeless people somehow deserve their circumstances. That's why many of us selflessly give money to people on the side of the freeway exit. Unfortunately, neither of these things do anything to solve the real problem.<br />
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That's why I started the <a href="http://www.theroadbackhome.com/whatishomecampaign.html" target="_blank">#whatishomecampaign</a>. It was time to take a different look at how we define "home," and subsequently "home<i>less"</i><br />
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If I could sum up the incredible experience I had during this year's <a href="http://www.theroadbackhome.com/whatishomecampaign.html" target="_blank">#whatishomecampaign</a>, I'd break it down into three main points:<br />
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<li><b>Homeless people are on Facebook. </b> Think you don't know somebody that's dealt with homelessness? Think again. How about somebody that's moved in with family members because it was their only choice? Transitional Homelessness makes up the biggest percentage of the homeless population, while "skid row" or Chronic Homelessness makes up the smallest.</li>
<li><b>We can end Homelessness. </b> There are fantastic organizations thinking outside the box to not only stop the growing Homeless crisis, but eradicate it altogether. Check out my favorite: <a href="http://www.theroadbackhome.com/community-solutions.html" target="_blank">Community Solutions</a></li>
<li><b>Homelessness is beautiful.</b> Sounds strange, I know, but we must find the beauty in things we truly want to change. Otherwise, the change we make is usually superficial, and only makes us feel better temporarily. The truth is Hope is found in Homelessness, therefore it's beautiful.</li>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><u><b>The New Year</b></u></span></div>
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This year I'm grateful for the homeless. It's a journey that started a long time ago, and I'm proud to say I'm leaving 2014 with more than just a new perspective. In many ways I feel free. I'm at peace with the discomfort I've perpetually tried to soothe since childhood. I welcome 2015 with a full tank of hope, compassion, and knowledge that with my help (and hopefully yours) things will change.</div>
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Check out the 2014 #whatishomecampaign on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and at <a href="http://www.theroadbackhome.com/">www.theroadbackhome.com</a></div>
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JSPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10630362779316980639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248219656555230240.post-87100410644744366182014-12-24T12:35:00.001-08:002014-12-24T12:35:42.495-08:00Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas Now!
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga1juWx7z50tdzKbdhNfYWE1NHxvWr2wo-m3ZzSwnaEbZacdwfb2pGIxGAfboCIH2qETAqWo0CE3GWrLQrPa2B04LagJ6ea5EibFKMN18kyerc-cHLNAS2Do4XutqcvPXFFhx6nrjD_rsU/s1600/31.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga1juWx7z50tdzKbdhNfYWE1NHxvWr2wo-m3ZzSwnaEbZacdwfb2pGIxGAfboCIH2qETAqWo0CE3GWrLQrPa2B04LagJ6ea5EibFKMN18kyerc-cHLNAS2Do4XutqcvPXFFhx6nrjD_rsU/s1600/31.jpg" height="200" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Corbel;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Lately I've been thinking a
lot about "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas." You may have heard of it; it's a song,
kinda popular this time of year…</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Anyway, I love it because it's a classic that's brave enough to be
sad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And by "sad" I mean
in an honest, subtle way, not a "manipulate you with a children's chorus
at the final key change type thing." Take a look for yourself:</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUHvqd5uTCk2o2d6eis1in1w-ns0M7vCuIuFadAXl0UVqe23zUgbEvkjnEwfAQbQqp_o1rBSnGCCHbNrmW9u0y8BwkbUGPxLG8aNY4m5XQmgClljRBVWVZ3cEJ0YiWHd6kiR3mSfdTDR4V/s1600/christmas-music-notes-border-singing_8355-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUHvqd5uTCk2o2d6eis1in1w-ns0M7vCuIuFadAXl0UVqe23zUgbEvkjnEwfAQbQqp_o1rBSnGCCHbNrmW9u0y8BwkbUGPxLG8aNY4m5XQmgClljRBVWVZ3cEJ0YiWHd6kiR3mSfdTDR4V/s1600/christmas-music-notes-border-singing_8355-1.jpg" height="90" width="200" /></span></a></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></i></div>
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Have yourself a merry little Christmas</span></i><br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Let your heart be light</span></i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Next year all our troubles will be out
of sight.</span></i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">This lyric, matched by that
gorgeous melody, implies that the person being sung to isn't quite
"there" yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ideal
Christmas merriment hasn't taken hold because their troubles are just too big
to ignore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And you know what?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It happens!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Especially when we all know what our "golden days of
yore" are "supposed" to look like…</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">That nostalgic view of the
past, however, presents a problem.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>If time marches on with us changing right alongside it, then sometimes
the expectation to recreate our Christmas joys can seem like "a
bough" much too high to reach.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">What's beautiful about
"Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," though, is that despite all
its troubles and "muddling through somehow," it still manages to
deliver a graceful message of hope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And it does so through one word, it's final lyric: "now."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The wonder of the Holiday
Season is we don't have to wait for things to get better to enjoy it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The hope and light it's founded on are
strong enough to help us see beyond what our eyes can behold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Peace on earth may seem like a far away
dream, but decorating that same earth with colored lights reminds us it's a
glorious possibility.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">So let those troubles
come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Life can be life, and
Christmas will still be Christmas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>All it takes is faith, hope, and maybe a ladder to reach that highest
bough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, my wonderful friends,
have yourself a merry little Christmas now.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">With Love to You and Your Faithful Friends<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">(both dear and near if the fates allow)</span></div>
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Jeffrey Scott Parsons</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Corbel;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->JSPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10630362779316980639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248219656555230240.post-38854022747581734342014-07-20T11:18:00.000-07:002014-07-20T11:32:20.054-07:00ROMANCE ROMANCE @ North Coast Repertory Theatre<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Have you ever bought JELL-O Cook & Serve Butterscotch Pudding at a local grocery store in Los Angeles?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXdNywxkSQABZeKg8qpqFAqPWniArWM3E2jzDH2uFzXYGXmk1pzYC-0uMoBSvLs3Zl2hMaWchYnrjlgOibs9cAwNDl_PfeX8I_f03NgGYB4wYdv9VlhLjhXTjgICFUfTg4iUBFYdMpPzGk/s1600/0004300020653_500X500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXdNywxkSQABZeKg8qpqFAqPWniArWM3E2jzDH2uFzXYGXmk1pzYC-0uMoBSvLs3Zl2hMaWchYnrjlgOibs9cAwNDl_PfeX8I_f03NgGYB4wYdv9VlhLjhXTjgICFUfTg4iUBFYdMpPzGk/s1600/0004300020653_500X500.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></div>
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The answer is, "No, you haven't." Because it's nowhere to be found!<br />
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I don't know what Angelenos have against my beloved childhood dessert, but for some reason, you have to drive all the way to Ventura County to get it. And don't tell me just to buy the instant kind. It's NOT the same. It's either Cook & Serve or forget it!</div>
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This kind of frustration is how I imagine theatre companies feel about getting people to come see their shows. Finding an audience is sometimes like looking for JELL-O Cook & Serve Butterscotch Pudding in the middle of LA. It's not easy.<br />
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Interestingly enough, the same can't be said for Cook & Serve Chocolate and Vanilla Puddings. They're all over the place! Of course I'm sure it's a simple supply and demand issue. It's the same reason larger theatres have to produce <i>Oklahoma</i>, <i>The Music Man</i>, and <i>Annie</i> every few years or so to bring in the crowds.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg14VYUeyYgoAB6yEISz4fBC55_rIZSWvfWnyUE9huB0e__7yMVnaG1_GF34XmINdRPry0UxY_jJuz5zksgkGNc8YYO5TDFJCUyg3VAdDs_wC-Q1MvJWvg1Z_n3rzw2CEnFt5UQKjSuYEG9/s1600/ImageProxy.mvc.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg14VYUeyYgoAB6yEISz4fBC55_rIZSWvfWnyUE9huB0e__7yMVnaG1_GF34XmINdRPry0UxY_jJuz5zksgkGNc8YYO5TDFJCUyg3VAdDs_wC-Q1MvJWvg1Z_n3rzw2CEnFt5UQKjSuYEG9/s1600/ImageProxy.mvc.jpeg" height="200" width="174" /></a></div>
That's why when I heard North Coast Repertory Theatre was doing a very "Butterscotch" production of the little known and even less seen musical <i>Romance Romance</i>, I was immediately interested.<br />
<br />
There is something so satisfying to me about presenting a piece of musical theatre that audiences don't already know forwards and backwards.<br />
<br />
In fact, it's a real test for modern day audiences to hear a musical for the first time in the theatre-- to truly listen to the melodies and lyrics, and allow themselves to go on a journey with the characters without the benefits of nostalgia and prior exposure. It's a test, I'm afraid to say, not all audiences are willing to take.<br />
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I don't mean to sound ungrateful. I admire and respect everyone that supports local theatre. They are the benefactors and cultivators of their own culture.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv36aFivnvVPhvG1mtowphcx0DPKvlqJTarIc2kFEy9mb3jkl7EpTtO0YwIs35b7oGOdNGC13uOavsPUyD_4ZYw-t51iZV-4aqRE_MZJdGUHwmtmFu0H_iHAxz2o_u8hNUHn4RcPi3qpYk/s1600/10527412_10152580153219470_1704433287144693443_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv36aFivnvVPhvG1mtowphcx0DPKvlqJTarIc2kFEy9mb3jkl7EpTtO0YwIs35b7oGOdNGC13uOavsPUyD_4ZYw-t51iZV-4aqRE_MZJdGUHwmtmFu0H_iHAxz2o_u8hNUHn4RcPi3qpYk/s1600/10527412_10152580153219470_1704433287144693443_n.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Romance Romance starring (l to r)<br />
Melissa WolfKlain, Lance Arthur Smith,<br />
Jill Townsend, and Jeffrey Scott Parsons</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
But while it may be risky for a theatre to produce a show that's not well known, it has grown ever apparent to me that it's even riskier for audiences to watch it. After all, isn't it a safer bet to go see a musical you've already seen or heard? Well that's why I want you to come see our little show.<br />
<br />
The truth is <i>Romance Romance</i> might not be your favorite thing you've ever seen. But the greater truth is every show doesn't have to be "your favorite thing you've ever seen." Setting that kind of expectation prohibits us from taking art in for what it is, and instead, encourages us to only see what it's not. I can already tell you <i>Romance Romance</i> isn't going to be <i>The Music Man</i> simply because it's not <i>The Music Man</i>! What it is, however, is a show that might make you 'hum,' a show that might make you smile, and a show that might make you think. It's a proposition that forces you into new, unknown territory, and I'm really proud to be a part of it with three other actors I love dearly.<br />
<br />
So regardless of whether or not you prefer Chocolate to Butterscotch, wouldn't you still rather have the choice? :)<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Come see the frothy and fun</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> <i>Romance Romance</i> at North Coast Rep</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://northcoastrep.org/" target="_blank">http://northcoastrep.org/</a></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVOuWfaxe1TltAHGWGqOAvyyuKzzJNtCj2rAVHgZ20fWqMZk_o8CZQTGi2ljAPwfM6O-vhqI7qQH51Br-Rqy4ccUMa7p84OcaaCY4_BRrbXIBGSsPzeCSCmB-0KEQYL22mSor2YZtEG1ZA/s1600/Romance_Romance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVOuWfaxe1TltAHGWGqOAvyyuKzzJNtCj2rAVHgZ20fWqMZk_o8CZQTGi2ljAPwfM6O-vhqI7qQH51Br-Rqy4ccUMa7p84OcaaCY4_BRrbXIBGSsPzeCSCmB-0KEQYL22mSor2YZtEG1ZA/s1600/Romance_Romance.jpg" height="192" width="400" /></a></div>
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JSPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10630362779316980639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248219656555230240.post-48123383075007268602014-05-26T19:53:00.001-07:002014-05-26T19:53:44.667-07:00Leave Your MarkA week or so ago, I packed up a rental car with some clothes, a fully loaded iPod, and a box of Claritin, and I drove to my motherland... also known as my mother's house in Utah.<br />
<br />
It had been a few years since I'd visited the old Beehive State. It'd been even longer since I'd been there without snow- which is why I brought the Claritin. For the first time in at least five years, I toured our old farm property, side stepping cow pies and trying to remember how the irrigation system worked.<br />
<br />
But while walking past one of my grandpa's old sheds, I suddenly got memory smacked. I knelt down and cleared away the dirt to see if my memory was accurate, and sure enough...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuMOjbyjLxqweNOIfFLZZVEarmjxo_bkz0PzzhHBBIRRpvCanYz5F9idWywS8E31o2OOFfdO2w_lnlLGap3yixPsIjiqbSoxhLta0H4SQHdj-oGrLh0ZSdIvYg8B7CFpkOlHfu4XmB3cfV/s1600/Willard+Shed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuMOjbyjLxqweNOIfFLZZVEarmjxo_bkz0PzzhHBBIRRpvCanYz5F9idWywS8E31o2OOFfdO2w_lnlLGap3yixPsIjiqbSoxhLta0H4SQHdj-oGrLh0ZSdIvYg8B7CFpkOlHfu4XmB3cfV/s1600/Willard+Shed.jpg" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
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When I was little, my grandpa, cousin, brother, and I poured this cement that helped, among other things, to keep rodents from tunneling into the shed. As partial payment, and in keeping with tradition, Grandpa wrote our names in the cement before it dried. I always felt like such a celebrity when he did that. Seeing my name immortalized in a batch of quick dry satisfied some deep desire I had to be like the stars that kinda did the same thing in Hollywood.</div>
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It's funny, though, seeing the memories of your past through the eyes of an adult. Looking down at my name in that cement, I wasn't seeing a childhood thrill anymore. Instead, I was seeing an extension of everything around me. </div>
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That farm! Its fences and sheds, the gate systems, everything down to its very foundation was planted by the hands of those that came before me. People who, alive and not, are still around when I see their handiwork. What surprised me, though, was when I saw my own name in the cement, I realized I'm still around there too.</div>
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Even though my grandpa is gone, he is still all over that farm. And as an adult now striving in my own way to leave something of worth to this world, I feel like we met that day. I finally realized what he was teaching me. With the precious time we have on Earth, together we can leave our mark. Surely every life is important enough to leave this place a little better than we found it.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8ICcGEvhJ6WwCiBh4Vt9VZRB2FqjUpILaGVZFCs5JjLAUsm4KrtQnvBPs4fkB9c-yhfTwh37H2OjfPmuk5YEVCPNgoJ3vC39U1mhXj6AEhHpoXLihxgRkHglHT_EJcYRQbaQXdGma0B6S/s1600/Hay+Barn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8ICcGEvhJ6WwCiBh4Vt9VZRB2FqjUpILaGVZFCs5JjLAUsm4KrtQnvBPs4fkB9c-yhfTwh37H2OjfPmuk5YEVCPNgoJ3vC39U1mhXj6AEhHpoXLihxgRkHglHT_EJcYRQbaQXdGma0B6S/s1600/Hay+Barn.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a>As it turns out, I don't need to write my name in the cement at Grauman's Chinese Theatre. I'm a farm boy, so that's already been taken care of.</div>
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Thanks Gramps.JSPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10630362779316980639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248219656555230240.post-13979402436789184252014-03-22T15:51:00.000-07:002014-03-24T12:20:25.164-07:00CATS at San Diego Musical Theatre<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFZy52v4047RmUSkb8D_hCli4mAECs5Zi7LMfSzjtfIfSLRG3CJe9D-Ke3qFktjXCbnu_YfQTnkA9iJRevQcEy1Z3702_p7uxjuN6h6-WlK0VQ7SWP1L3OV2ROrazQeIQZZdP-f1twoAx5/s1600/cats_eyes.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFZy52v4047RmUSkb8D_hCli4mAECs5Zi7LMfSzjtfIfSLRG3CJe9D-Ke3qFktjXCbnu_YfQTnkA9iJRevQcEy1Z3702_p7uxjuN6h6-WlK0VQ7SWP1L3OV2ROrazQeIQZZdP-f1twoAx5/s1600/cats_eyes.JPG" height="146" width="400" /></a></div>
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If you had asked me three months ago to vote for the musical most unlikely to appear on my resume, I would have said <i>Cats. </i>It's true. I would have pictured myself playing Effie White in <i>Dreamgirls</i> before wearing a kitty unitard.<br />
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It's not because I don't like <i>Cats</i>. I remember seeing it with my family when I was in the 5th grade. I don't recall a lot of details from that production, partially because I had failed to bring my new prescription eyewear, and I spent most of the evening stealing my Mom's off her head. I apparently enjoyed myself, though, because I convinced my dad to buy me a <i>Cats</i> t-shirt as well as the double cassette cast album.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh159kqAkTCwlvTAxTfXQAw79IKPuQQvy8IQYCYQPfmtDvuOhtU1JviBex5OMmobipJmX49z6jZtjfawR70VC_tTS3Q4z2OX10juS6W6fbiP6h3CkDKv7ynRssntUU1LkE0-64md8qwTM-_/s1600/images-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh159kqAkTCwlvTAxTfXQAw79IKPuQQvy8IQYCYQPfmtDvuOhtU1JviBex5OMmobipJmX49z6jZtjfawR70VC_tTS3Q4z2OX10juS6W6fbiP6h3CkDKv7ynRssntUU1LkE0-64md8qwTM-_/s1600/images-1.jpeg" /></a>I listened to those cassettes a lot in my basement, re-imagining the cat choreography. I learned very quickly, though, that a lot of theatre people didn't like the show. I didn't understand why. It was just about cats. Many criticized it for the lack of plot, but I always figured that had more to do with their expectations of what they thought the show should be, rather than what it was.<br />
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Ten years later, however, I too began rolling my eyes when <i>Cats</i> was <u>still</u> on Broadway, and some of my favorite shows couldn't stay open long enough for me to see them. Those eye rolls continued a few years later when I managed to see three different productions of <i>Cats</i> in the space of six months. (Thank you working theatre friends.) By that point, I had decided I probably would never do the show.<br />
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Was I developing a <i>Cats</i> allergy? No. Simply put, I had weighed the pros and cons, and the whole thing looked like too much work! The makeup, the wigs, the movement that makes your joints quiver with fear... It just didn't seem worth it!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMlTeFF3f0bAyWThyAWfHTPiR8fhlUG-UWRUhPoit1xC1VvyH6FtNGtqMsdn4VBM05OyvcyObbYuKvABIN5EQqlpXNLdeKP7R4VXu6iwKB0FVQOBJpWwZp_pAaUjFB4jmjsoA-GUfqNwAL/s1600/1978624_10152331997981882_1861388708_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMlTeFF3f0bAyWThyAWfHTPiR8fhlUG-UWRUhPoit1xC1VvyH6FtNGtqMsdn4VBM05OyvcyObbYuKvABIN5EQqlpXNLdeKP7R4VXu6iwKB0FVQOBJpWwZp_pAaUjFB4jmjsoA-GUfqNwAL/s1600/1978624_10152331997981882_1861388708_n.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a>So spoiler alert, I'm doing a production of <i>Cats.</i> How? Well, I went to an audition, and much to my surprise, I had a lot of fun.<br />
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There is a specificity to this show that is very addicting. At first it's daunting to look at yourself in a mirror and think, "So... I'm a cat? I guess I'm a cat." But then the music, the choreography, the ensemble nature of the show really begins to "cat-ivate" you, and before you know it, you're immersed. Believe me, no one is more surprised than this guy.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_c1DNzQOAuuvEorfB33nxlQFKeVdTX-_MAWn8sAK2fh_KKM6kzf9LTQJNXKXG3NFCjIz2qFpeD7JikGQLFddygpTGo5GMatCoi9LOqk-ELuVEK0BhPky9EytkxNHHEwAXYczfVLJY7Ev6/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_c1DNzQOAuuvEorfB33nxlQFKeVdTX-_MAWn8sAK2fh_KKM6kzf9LTQJNXKXG3NFCjIz2qFpeD7JikGQLFddygpTGo5GMatCoi9LOqk-ELuVEK0BhPky9EytkxNHHEwAXYczfVLJY7Ev6/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a>But that's not all. To me, <i>Cats</i> isn't just about cats anymore. And of course it's not! T.S. Eliot was a pretty intelligent man. When we look closely, his poems that make up the material for the musical carry a lot of themes.<br />
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In "The Naming of Cats," we learn that a cat must have three different names: one that the family uses, one that the cats call each other, and a third that nobody knows except for the cat that bears it.<br />
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<i>"If you notice a cat in profound meditation, the answer I tell you is always the same. Their mind is caught up in the rapt contemplation of the thought of the thought of the thought of his name."</i><br />
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What better way to teach the sacred nature of honoring who you truly are than through this creature that is infamously both lovable and fiercely independent? Cats aren't needy because they don't like you, Eliot teaches us, rather they don't need your validation to know who they are.<br />
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I think it's this moment in the show that we can start learning from <i>Cats.</i> And if we can learn from the kitties, then we can start to see ourselves in them, too.<br />
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So come out and see <i>Cats</i> at San Diego Musical Theatre! Here's hoping it will be a "Memory" that will have at least nine lives...<br />
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CATS at San Diego Musical Theatre</div>
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March 22nd - April 6th</div>
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<a href="http://www.sdmt.org/" target="_blank">www.sdmt.org</a></div>
JSPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10630362779316980639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248219656555230240.post-11976172598148406662014-02-16T15:07:00.000-08:002014-02-16T15:08:34.798-08:00Building Zion & Singing SondheimThere are a few things I accomplished during my college years that to this day I'm really proud of: #1- graduating. #2- performing Eugene O'Neil. #3- not killing anyone. Another of those choice accomplishments was a paper I wrote for my Musical Theatre History class.<br />
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This required paper was to be turned in at the end of the semester. I was to pick a relevant musical theatre topic and write about it for as long as I could. In other words, it was a dream come true!<br />
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As a student at BYU, I decided to write academically about something that wouldn't and couldn't be written on any other campus in America. I titled my paper, "You Can Build Zion and Still Sing Sondheim: 3 Musicals That Would Never Be Performed at BYU But Still Teach Gospel Principles."<br />
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Reading back through this paper, I think I was a little harsh on my alma mater. Nevertheless, it was true to how I was feeling at the time.<br />
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I was upset because I felt that, as a student at a religious university like BYU, I was constantly compelled to apologize for everything I did, beginning with wanting a career as a performer in the first place. I sensed a degree of illegitimacy towards our field of study, as if musical theatre didn't deserve to be part of the academic institution. And if that wasn't enough, the opportunities to prove otherwise, through performing the more complex literature of the art form, were often impossible due to codes and standards of the school and church.<br />
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Looking back now, I see that when I wrote my paper, I wasn't upset at BYU as much as I was just passionate about art, or more specifically, what I had learned about it. I'd realized that when art is a reflection of reality, truth will always be found in the details, regardless of whether or not those reflections follow the commandments of God. This principle is why I'm still proud of my paper from all those years ago.<br />
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It's a principle that I think we as members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter day Saints are reminded time and time again even if we choose not to notice. Take <u>The Book of Mormon</u>, for example. (The actual book, not the musical.) The Fourth Book of Nephi, found in <u>The Book of Mormon</u>, is comprised of only one chapter. That chapter is broken down into 49 verses, and of those verses, the first 22 account the formation of a pure society of Zion in the ancient Americas following the Savior's visitation around 34 A.D. The final 28 record the destruction of that same society due to the choices of the people.<br />
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So, for those keeping track, that's 22 verses about everything being perfect, and 28 about it not, proving that perhaps we can find just as much truth and light in the representation of imperfect realities as we can in the more unrelatable ideals. Maybe even a little more...<br />
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<u>The Dark and Hungry God</u><br />
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Take <i>Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street</i> as an example. With a score and lyrics by Stephen Sondheim, it's quite possibly the darkest story to ever be musicalized. That is, of course, unless you can think of a story more upsetting than a vengeful barber slitting throats to avenge his past, and then grinding them up for meat pies.<br />
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Sondheim has always had a knack for stretching the musical theatre art form to new territory, but what sets him apart is that his musicals are often so experimental AND masterful. It's no small feat. It's also no stretch of the imagination to foresee the kind of reluctance a more conservative audience would have to warmly welcome this bloody masterpiece. Why would anyone striving to live the Christ-like attributes of love and forgiveness subject themselves to witness the horror of <i>Sweeney Todd</i>? The same could be asked of a more familiar character.<br />
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In the Old Testament of the Bible, we meet David, from "David and Goliath" fame. This meek and faithful shepherd boy found himself admired by an entire nation, and soon, became ruler over it. A life of such potential, however, was never fulfilled. Before he knew it, King David fell "from his exaltation," loving power more than life, and committing both adultery and murder. When we read how easily a man, like David, in all his righteousness was still capable of such acts, we, ourselves, become more wary of our own pitfalls.<br />
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Such is the case with <i>Sweeney Todd</i>. The true terror of this musical does not lie in its gratuitous bloodshed, but in the question that if we were faced with Sweeney's unjust circumstances, would we lose ourselves in a similar demise?<br />
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This musical asks its audience, just like the scriptures of old, "What god are you serving?" In Sweeney's case, Sondheim tells us it was "a dark and a vengeful god." Likewise, if our answer is revenge or greed, then we, like Mr Todd, will find that it only grows more powerful through our own emulation. "The more he bleeds, the more he lives. He never forgets and he never forgives." <br />
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What Sweeney learned too late was the power he wanted to heal his wounds wasn't found in creating more of them.<br />
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<u>Get a Gimmick, Not a Child</u><br />
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In 1995, LDS General Authorities released a single-paged proclamation that has since become a staple of Mormon doctrine. Among other things, it declares the importance "to maintain and strengthen the family as the fundamental unit of society."<br />
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So why this "Proclamation to the World?" I'll answer that in two words: Mama Rose.<br />
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<i>Gypsy</i> is a musical with lyrics by Stephen Sondheim that tells the story of Gypsy Rose Lee, a famous burlesque stripper from the 1920s and 30s. While she is the show's namesake, it is her infamous stage mother, Rose, that has become one of the most formidable characters to ever grace the stage.<br />
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"I had a dream," Rose sings early in the show. Right away, Sondheim lets us know that the dream to get her children into show business is <u>her</u> dream, and possibly, one that was born out of being abandoned by her mother as a child and left to an emotionally unattached father.<br />
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As the musical continues, Rose is abandoned yet again, this time by her own child, June, and Mama Rose rebounds by pushing the shy Louise into the spotlight. Louise struggles to find her place in the loud, confrontational world of entertainment until one night, out of desperation, Rose forces the now older Louise into stripping at a dumpy burlesque house. Louise becomes Gypsy Rose Lee, the "classy" stripper, and with new found confidence stands up to her overbearing mother once and for all.<br />
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I still remember my own mother's look of disappointment upon realizing the show that gave birth to "Everything's Comin' Up Roses" was about a mother who forces her daughter to take off her clothes. I maintain, however, that <i>Gypsy</i> holds an essential message for all Latter day Saint families.<br />
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The ingenious title of this musical, "Gypsy," is not only Louise's future name-to-fame, but also makes an intriguing commentary on Rose's life. She, like a nomadic gypsy, has no home. Instead she weathers life's scars by relying on dreams to raise her children. She assumes that her own insecurities about life will be best conquered if she can give her children all <u>she</u> ever wanted. What she doesn't realize is her children don't want it.<br />
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Thus we see a vicious familial cycle in <i>Gypsy</i>. Rose was left with a void as a child. As an adult, she seeks to fill it with public attention, all the while withholding personal affection from her own daughters. They, in turn, run away to the public to make up for it. They're surprised to have followed their mother's and grandmother's footsteps, and Rose is surprised to end up alone.<br />
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In a culture that promotes family as the fundamental unit of society, <i>Gypsy</i> provides an important warning. Family is not a gimmick. Regardless of societal pressures, rearing a noble family should only proceed when the parents recognize the responsibility of creating new life. If children are only meant to complete a portrait, fill a void, or be in show business, the consequences echo for generations to come.<br />
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<u>Is This What You Call Love?</u><br />
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The house lights dim, the orchestra swells, and the curtain rises to reveal a bed filled by two lovers recovering from their latest round of love-making. One of them is married, but not to the other. The first five minutes of Stephen Sondheim's <i>Passion</i> are probably why I thought a BYU production was highly unlikely.<br />
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The script follows Georgio, a young, romantic soldier in love with the beautiful, but married, Clara. When Georgio is reassigned to a smaller post, he meets his Captain's cousin, Fosca, an ugly woman depressed by her constant state of illness and pain. Showing compassion, Georgio is kind to her, and Fosca is immediately smitten.<br />
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As Fosca's desire to gain Georgio's love turns to despair, Clara continues in her adulterous affair with him until she suddenly ends it. Georgio is devastated and recognizes how shallow Clara's love has been. He likewise recognizes the unbridled love that Fosca has, and it changes him forever. This show doesn't have a traditionally happy ending, but it deals with love in a way never before explored in a musical, and led me to one of the great spiritual awakenings I've ever had.<br />
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The ancient prophet Isaiah said of Jesus Christ's initial coming, "He hath no form nor comeliness; and when we shall see him, there is no beauty that we should desire him." In the same way, Fosca, has no great aesthetic to her form. Rather, her beauty lives in her vulnerability.<br />
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"Loving you is not a choice; it's who I am," she declares to Georgio. "It gives me purpose, gives me voice to say to the world: This is why I live. You are why I live." This woman's heart is wide open, and yet she confesses that standing in that terrifyingly exposed place is why she lives. She, who spends the entire show struggling to find the will to live beyond her illness finds the motivation to do so through love.<br />
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This is what lead me to my great epiphany: Love always leads to life!<br />
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The physical expression of making love, for example, creates life. Emotionally speaking, feeling loved can bring us back to life when all seems lost. Then think about the scripture, "for God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son..."<br />
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I've often struggled to comprehend how and why Jesus Christ could suffer so in the Garden of Gethsemane, and later, at Calvary, only to then resurrect three days later. In the past, I've simply regarded it as some godly power I couldn't understand. But if love really leads to life, then perfect love (like that of a deity) contains the power over life, that is, to lay it down and take it up again.<br />
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I believe the divine power held by Jesus Christ to conquer death stems directly from the perfect and infinite love he held for every living thing. No wonder his mission has often been called "the passion." Like Fosca's journey, it was selfless and, ultimately, transformative.<br />
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<u>Conclusion</u><br />
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To be fair, I do understand. From movies to music to musicals, our world seems to be full of "challenging material." But that's because the world we live in is one ruled by contrast. Our desire for peace is stronger during times of war. Our need for love is more fervent in times of sorrow. The lessons of humility are gained among consequences of selfishness. Does it have to be that way? No. But since repentance is a divine principle, it's definitely expected.<br />
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The three musicals above are additional testaments to that principle of contrast. In fact, they're a safer route to the same conclusion. There's nothing that says wisdom can't be earned by witnessing someone else's choices. So why not spend an evening with Sweeney Todd, or Momma Rose, or Georgio? They can provide us with a greater understanding of the the complexities of reality, which in turn, make the faithful stronger, but only if Christ <u>is</u> their reality.<br />
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Now I'm not saying that all artistic expressions are made with the singular goal of helping me think about Jesus. In fact, I'm sure Mr Sondheim might find it rather amusing that this is what I've taken from his works. But the point, my friends, brothers, and sisters, is while we often put a lot of energy on deciding what to support, we also need to be careful of what we avoid. If we don't take advantage of that which teaches, we are not using art as God intended. We'll just be reading the first 22 verses of The Fourth Book of Nephi.<br />
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And as far as the argument that "it's just a musical," I'll remind you that Jesus Christ himself taught through theatre. He told stories; he used props, and he had a lot of special effects.<br />
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So go ahead: sing Sondheim and build Zion! And when that finally leads to the first stake production of <i>A</i> <i>Little Night Music</i>, be sure to invite me to audition. I'd love to play Henrik.<br />
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"For Goooooooooooosh Sake."JSPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10630362779316980639noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248219656555230240.post-71281132758010422872014-01-29T12:32:00.000-08:002014-01-29T12:34:07.515-08:00FOREVER PLAID at Cabrillo Music Theatre<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8O19glMfZs1Tsg_iP8la_LNnaDal-k-4ihPyY-VO1KoD1TRofMhsOAboATMBS5i-rPw6rC2Lkoz8TuhPPF7gfquGw4wQVHThhdQ5xp38cMlke6QTNlYo2qqw8doTMBRzvHM1jfXQzAmr5/s1600/1528673_10203067473705731_659101871_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8O19glMfZs1Tsg_iP8la_LNnaDal-k-4ihPyY-VO1KoD1TRofMhsOAboATMBS5i-rPw6rC2Lkoz8TuhPPF7gfquGw4wQVHThhdQ5xp38cMlke6QTNlYo2qqw8doTMBRzvHM1jfXQzAmr5/s1600/1528673_10203067473705731_659101871_n.jpg" height="285" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Roger Befeler, Kurtis Simmons, Me, and Scott Dreier in Forever Plaid at Cabrillo Music Theatre.</td></tr>
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It was towards the end of 2010 when I received my first phone call from Kevin Traxler.<br />
<br />
I was already scheduled to spend the holidays that year performing in <i>The 2010 Cabrillo Holiday Spectactular</i> starring Shirley Jones, and who wouldn't be perfectly content spending their Christmas with Momma Partridge and Marian the Librarian?! Cue Kevin's phone call...<br />
<br />
He told me he was putting together a mini tour of <i>Plaid Tidings</i>, the holiday version of the now classic <i>Forever Plaid</i>. I had previously learned two of the four roles in that show, and he asked if I'd be willing to learn the role of Sparky this time around.<br />
<br />
Since it's almost impossible for me to say "no" to work, I took the offer very seriously. I sat down with my calendar to see if I could somehow pull off <i>Plaid</i> AND <i>The Holiday Spectacular</i> at the same time. As it turned out, the few <i>Plaid</i> rehearsals would be done before the other show even started, and the mini tour dates were on Fridays, which just so happened to be my days off during <i>The Holiday Spectacular</i> rehearsals. It would be hectic, but it was absolutely possible.<br />
<br />
I started learning as much of "Sparky" as I could by myself since the other three Plaids had all done their roles in previous productions of <i>Plaid Tidings</i>. I eventually felt prepared enough to show up to our first rehearsal at the director's house right before Thanksgiving. I knocked on the door and was immediately greeted by Kevin, who answered wearing an apron. The house smelled wonderful, filled with a sweet and spicy aroma of slow cooked meat. Kevin asked if I would like some wine. I politely declined. Then we started rehearsal.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">David Humphrey, David Engle, Me, and Stan Chandler<br />
in Plaid Tidings, with Kevin Traxler behind the scenes,<br />
as always, taking the picture.</td></tr>
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The three Plaids and I stood around the piano and sang through the score. Every once in a while I'd ask if we could do something again, and everyone would graciously oblige.<br />
<br />
Every know and then we'd hear Kevin holler from the kitchen, "Sounds great!"<br />
<br />
After about two hours of rehearsing, Kevin suddenly came into the living room and announced it was time to eat. We all went outside into a beautiful Southern California evening and took our seats at a table lit with candles and filled with gourmet worthy entrees. Along with Kevin and his wife, we ate and laughed hysterically at each others' stories from previous Plaid-encounters. I truly felt part of the family.<br />
<br />
That night was pretty much the only rehearsal I ever got for <i>Plaid Tidings</i>. The day before our first performance, we reviewed, this time in front of a mirror, and though I felt safe, I was terrified I'd mess things up. Kevin wasn't.<br />
<br />
The subsequent mini tour of <i>Plaid Tidings</i> turned out a lot of memories: The show in Palm Desert where two old ladies said we talk too much, despite the 20 something songs we had just sung. The time in New Mexico where our van got stopped at Immigration because our piano player had an English accent. The show in Arizona where the bass player and I had to drive to the airport in the middle of the night to get back to rehearse <i>The Holiday Spectacular</i>. I wouldn't have had it any other way.<br />
<br />
Last year, towards the end of 2013, I was happy enough to get another phone call from Kevin Traxler. This time it was to do Sparky in a production of <i>Forever Plaid</i> that he was producing, funny enough, at Cabrillo Music Theatre, where I had sashayed with Shirley Jones all those years before. The offer was a no brainer. I accepted immediately. I couldn't wait to have a family reunion.<br />
<br />
Then, about a month before we were to begin rehearsals, I learned that Kevin passed away. As Sparky says in <i>Forever Plaid</i>, "Funny thing...death."<br />
<br />
It's strange, preparing this delicious experience of a show without Kevin around to season it. It's even stranger to be doing a show about mortality while knowing the person who brought you there to do it isn't here anymore. But I love being a Plaid. And I'm proud to be a Plaid. And I know I wouldn't feel that way without having known and loved Kevin Traxler.<br />
<br />
So this one's for him, and I sincerely hope you will all come and enjoy our show. That is, after all, exactly what Kevin would've wanted.<br />
<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">Forever Plaid at Cabrillo Music Theatre Jan 31-Feb 9</span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #073763; font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.cabrillomusictheatre.com/">www.cabrillomusictheatre.com</a></span></b></div>
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<br />JSPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10630362779316980639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248219656555230240.post-78145069916876198252013-12-07T23:33:00.000-08:002014-02-14T10:19:03.192-08:00WHITE CHRISTMAS at San Diego Musical Theatre<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
This month I'm returning to the role of Phil Davis in the big, beautiful holiday musical <i>White Christmas</i>. I love this show. Every time I do it, I get to know it all over again, and that usually looks something like this:<br />
<br />
Right before the rehearsal process begins, I take a nice, deep breath and think, "This is going to be a cute show."<br />
<br />
Then I get into rehearsals, start stressing out about the six minute dance numbers and complain, "This is a big freakin' show!"<br />
<br />
Then we have opening night. I see the audience living in the nostalgia they have with this material and finally remember, "This is a really beautiful show."<br />
<br />
<i>White Christmas</i> has the right combination of cheese and heart to melt even the chilliest of Scrooges, so come and see us if you're in the San Diego area December 13-22.<br />
<br />
And Merry Christmas! May it be filled with family, laughter, and love.<br />
<br />
And while we're at it, may it be a white one, too. :)<br />
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<br />JSPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10630362779316980639noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248219656555230240.post-33265537628049483062013-09-10T00:07:00.000-07:002013-09-10T00:07:06.189-07:00Serena Williams Wins the US Open. Meanwhile, on my couch...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga7QcNE5-mQypby2NzPpHHU62Kcu0GvRrGsrFJqKWjLb5pPJCBg-KeVgF_AS7-3JCwzZ5W8RWMa_luwj7es8P9mNO2kePJqm8BBl_TNfNQprNJ5_zcjt1WWz0vgSPgmE0Xyvi-ccpLD5T_/s1600/Serena_033_US-Open-768x1024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga7QcNE5-mQypby2NzPpHHU62Kcu0GvRrGsrFJqKWjLb5pPJCBg-KeVgF_AS7-3JCwzZ5W8RWMa_luwj7es8P9mNO2kePJqm8BBl_TNfNQprNJ5_zcjt1WWz0vgSPgmE0Xyvi-ccpLD5T_/s320/Serena_033_US-Open-768x1024.jpg" width="240" /></a>I love watching really memorable performances... whether they're on a stage, television, or the silver screen. <br />
<br />
So it only makes sense that as I watched tennis star Serena Williams slam her way to a 5th US Open Championship yesterday, I was completely captivated by her performance as well. She is, after all, a fascinating character.<br />
<br />
Here is an athlete with the talent and the nerve to win. Otherwise, how could she hit a ball at 126 mph in a stadium filled with 22,000 people while press cameras click during every breath of silence, and television cameras broadcast every thought to households across America, all while a constant gust of wind threatens to blow the ball out of bounds at any given moment!? They don't call them "nerves of steel" for nothing.<br />
<br />
But what about the quieter moments? Sure Serena has the guts, the hot temper, the huge legs that could snap me like a twig, but what about the focus? Especially in tennis, where your only opponents are the person on the other side of the court and your own brain, it simply isn't enough to go out on the court and hit the ball really hard.<br />
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After getting visibly annoyed by weather conditions, late calls, and consistent winners from her opponent, there was a point at the end of the first set yesterday when Serena got downright angry. And then, as easily as the anger came, it went. She focused as tightly as a laser beam.<br />
<br />
What is it that allows a player like her to turn a match around, drive to the finish line, and suddenly not think about anything other than what she has to do to win?<br />
<br />
As I see it, passion is the fist pumping, the grunts, the sprints, the spotlight. It's what makes a fierce competitor. But focus is something else in spite of passion. It's the spirit of a champion. It's what leads a person to say not only, "This is what I want to do," but "This is what I'm going to do." It's the kind of spirit that I strive for.<br />
<br />
We can't all win the US Open. We don't all have the ability. But I do believe we can all be champions. We can find something we're passionate about, and focus so completely that not even Hurricane Serena can distract us.<br />
<br />
So while Wonder Woman Williams walked away yesterday with a shiny cup and a truck load of money, I at least sat on my couch with a new perspective. And for that, I thank you, Serena Williams. Thank you for being a champion, and for doing it with the kind of fire that allows us all to see it so brightly.<br />
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<br />JSPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10630362779316980639noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248219656555230240.post-84550477351491174602013-07-21T20:04:00.000-07:002013-07-21T20:04:30.677-07:00"Shut up. I'm not projecting."<br />
Everybody argues. <br />
<br />
Some do it out of love, others do it to be right. Me, I argue cuz I want to be a character on <i>Gilmore Girls</i>.<br />
<br />
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Don't judge.<br />
<br />
Fights on <i>Gilmore Girls</i> seem like they'd be so much fun with all those words, the quick banter, the obscure pop culture references... It turns talking to people into a sporting event, as if suddenly we're tennis balls at Wimbledon bouncing back and forth and back and forth until one references something from the beginning of the conversation that puts a nice little button on the scene right before we head into commercials. Is that too much to ask?!<br />
<br />
The problem with this dream of mine is so few people are willing to play the Amy Sherman Palladino rules of Gilmore conduct. And the latest, greatest offenders to that roster of poor sports come to us directly from the good people at Oprah Winfrey Network. That's right, I'm blaming OWN!<br />
<br />
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<br />
For the record, I'm not blaming OWN. I don't want to make enemies with her highness, and I absolutely watch <i>Iyanla Fix My Life</i> more than any white dude. Not to mention that one of the key factors to my belief that our society is on the brink of a spiritual awakening is the fact that cable television has OWN as a viewing possibility! It inspires people to turn inward and raise this world to a whole new plane of living, and in that lies the problem!<br />
<br />
You see, people are tuning into OWN, they're learning, they're practicing what they've learned, and then they're bringing it into my previously sportsmanlike conversations. Some of their more popular enlightened phrases include such nuggets "Just do you boo," "light and love," and my personal favorite, "You're projecting."<br />
<br />
So now instead of being able to utilize my Gilmore techniques of wit, sarcasm, and irony, I'm feeling pressure to actually say what I feel. And that's just not as fun.<br />
<br />
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Let's take an example. Say you're a young, handsome guy, currently making a living as a musical theatre performer, and you've just finished a long rehearsal. So now you've got your blinders on, driving home, thinking about your bed, when suddenly you realize you forgot to pay your credit card bill. And now you're on the freeway, stressing out over late fees, credit reports, and why there is still traffic in Los Angeles after 11 PM!</div>
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Cut to, you get home a complete frazzled mess, and the first thing you see as you walk through the door is someone on their hands and knees scrubbing a brand new stain out of your carpet.</div>
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Now, in my fantasy Gilmore world, I would walk into said situation and sneer something like, "Look, Mrs. Meers, I said no more soy sauce!" which, as <u>everyone</u> knows, is a tip of the hat to the<i> Thoroughly Modern Millie</i>.</div>
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But, of course, that isn't very enlightened. After armed with some terminology from Deepak Chopra, what I'm supposed to do is come through the door and say, "You know, I would really like to be angry right now, but I'm going to fight that urge, because I know it's just me projecting the frustration I have with myself, and instead I will recognize you in your desire to make this place a clean habitat for all who dwell here."</div>
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See, not fun.</div>
<br />
So here's my point, can we please have the spiritual enlightenment without having to audibly take people through it? Nothing shuts down a conversation faster than a diagnosis. I mean, what's the last great conversation you heard that began with, "You have cancer."<br />
<br />
Which reminds me, finding spiritual truths does not give you permission to use them as ammunition. Say I throw a little jab at you to get something going one afternoon, and all you give in return is, "You're projecting." <br />
<br />
Now how am I supposed to come up with a snarky response to that!? I can't! In fact, that phrase will probably <u>induce</u> big time, projectile projecting regardless of whether or not it was there to begin with!! Why would you do that!?!<br />
<br />
OK, now I'm projecting. I'm sorry; I'm not angry at you. I promise. <br />
<br />
I also promise that I am honest in my life. I share my feelings when appropriate, and maybe even a few times when it's not. So can I please just be a Gilmore Girl every now and then? Otherwise, I'll have to buy an iPhone and download this app that allows you reread random <i>Gilmore Girls</i> dialogue.<br />
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And that's just going too far.<br />
<br />JSPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10630362779316980639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248219656555230240.post-27567578019461703472013-06-18T11:08:00.000-07:002013-06-18T11:08:52.076-07:00Good Student, Bad Student<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtN_Z27EH6C0jq5NOtY18ayd2GS1B-LL-D43YDXNxaLSnmEkFiI6A6QQYq47GgV3QrFRs7tUTtnH9S37mWZspKqu_DkvG7qkgN7j_ETfsnrBuX9GcFG5lHRMnQIZCWOsGvLt5A3meXozNp/s1600/DownloadedFile.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="72" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtN_Z27EH6C0jq5NOtY18ayd2GS1B-LL-D43YDXNxaLSnmEkFiI6A6QQYq47GgV3QrFRs7tUTtnH9S37mWZspKqu_DkvG7qkgN7j_ETfsnrBuX9GcFG5lHRMnQIZCWOsGvLt5A3meXozNp/s400/DownloadedFile.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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I'm going to let you in on a little secret... most people who make their livings as performers weren't the best students growing up.</div>
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Now I'm going to let you in on an even "littler" secret... I was not one of those performers.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWvZWunDcKJ10CyiePQuyJgEngEW5JfKu564RdxRq21uv5v6HQyv3FKr_d2klFl51Jj5weBCXjkbUgwgfPDV8DEIZMTq9I6DrxCQixRYqmB_7-VgMInyJDzQKBt7aF_fTRiCWy5IxNS7so/s1600/3410d-632x395.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="125" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWvZWunDcKJ10CyiePQuyJgEngEW5JfKu564RdxRq21uv5v6HQyv3FKr_d2klFl51Jj5weBCXjkbUgwgfPDV8DEIZMTq9I6DrxCQixRYqmB_7-VgMInyJDzQKBt7aF_fTRiCWy5IxNS7so/s200/3410d-632x395.jpg" width="200" /></a>I've always been a very good student. ("littler" usage aside) Growing up, I wanted to learn; I wanted to make my parents proud, and I believe I finished my educational years accomplishing both.</div>
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That being said, there are a few other things I picked up along the good student path that haven't served me quite as well in show business. The most incriminating, I believe, is the "good student" label I worked so hard to get in the first place.<br />
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You see, in an educational system where "good students" get A's and "bad students" get F's, the one thing "bad students" have going for them is they aren't afraid of being called "bad" to begin with. I, on the other hand, considered "bad" a deadly virus and went to great lengths to make sure I never caught it.<br />
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This might sound foreign to a few of my fellow artistic types. Traditionally, we're known to complain about the existence of societal norms and labels. "Why worry about grades at all?" we wonder. "Soon enough we'll be wealthy actors, and when do actors ever need to know about quadratic equations?" (Answer: Laura Dern in October Sky.)</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEineTv8WXyHhDGvlnXONUcRgiIL460YyC7HVH7Djz09SIJgNcp98S4ziPE22OGramHeCppi0N0HY2RZfJT6lerIE_G0jFLBLxMsR6DR80x5scCrIRePGdZZ3bl68CFEAzpTPxB_5T8zuWxJ/s1600/images-2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEineTv8WXyHhDGvlnXONUcRgiIL460YyC7HVH7Djz09SIJgNcp98S4ziPE22OGramHeCppi0N0HY2RZfJT6lerIE_G0jFLBLxMsR6DR80x5scCrIRePGdZZ3bl68CFEAzpTPxB_5T8zuWxJ/s200/images-2.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div>
Still, I see our point. The problem in caring too much about how test scores, professors, or anyone for that matter shape the way we feel about ourselves, is that when it comes time to enter the real world, they're never enough. And believe me, they shouldn't be! There is no way to produce a subjective thing like art for a living and expect that everyone will always love it, so it only makes sense that success can't and shouldn't be defined by those terms. Simply put: you're not always going to get an "A," and that's ok.<br />
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So I guess a near perfect report card isn't as important as I had previously considered. If true power is derived from the way we feel about ourselves, and if the most successful artists answer to little other than their own dreams, then maybe the good student, bad student labels and subsequent behavior we've assigned to them aren't entirely accurate.<br />
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Unless...<br />
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Maybe what I'm actually talking about here is respect. There is no risk in disappointing someone you don't respect. I was teased plenty when I was a kid, but it didn't bother me. Why? Because I didn't respect the ones that were doing the teasing. On the other hand, there is a lot of risk in disappointing the people you respect the most: parents, teachers, a paying audience...yourself?<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWquh3dp0hr3TWxjx3s93GJvS6G3FRhCkA_5Ku2XVxRPjQqAjaU1xwYXOWoa6ke5mcUZYtJP81hhyphenhyphenxZdy8dEbrFSoVP_sRwaMX4PrN6Glm4x2siHVW84L7eUzbDAIacryGl8vleGvyVaHw/s1600/50276_104883882884026_2085433_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWquh3dp0hr3TWxjx3s93GJvS6G3FRhCkA_5Ku2XVxRPjQqAjaU1xwYXOWoa6ke5mcUZYtJP81hhyphenhyphenxZdy8dEbrFSoVP_sRwaMX4PrN6Glm4x2siHVW84L7eUzbDAIacryGl8vleGvyVaHw/s200/50276_104883882884026_2085433_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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As I see it, performers, and humans in general, require a special blend of respect for their audience, mixed with enough self confidence to keep them from crying themselves to sleep if their audience doesn't laugh or clap when they're supposed to.<br />
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So how on earth do we teach <b>respect worthy of disappointment AND self confidence worthy of success?</b><br />
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I don't know. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkJtiXDp7H-Zhu0_pDTQWy7lF9ylIKd7BSllrW-iGtV1xDeKrhmglIhAmg-T6QqRr44fA4sCj-OcYJ7XG0a9qrLsO1cc6fZIO8Fv-nUs2bCymn2fF9fRJRdxaqXc4ULU-Rk0snBh01gFCS/s1600/120808-reportcard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="145" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkJtiXDp7H-Zhu0_pDTQWy7lF9ylIKd7BSllrW-iGtV1xDeKrhmglIhAmg-T6QqRr44fA4sCj-OcYJ7XG0a9qrLsO1cc6fZIO8Fv-nUs2bCymn2fF9fRJRdxaqXc4ULU-Rk0snBh01gFCS/s200/120808-reportcard.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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But here's what I've learned: you need both! You can have one or the other and get a couple A's, but I promise the label won't last. The sooner you get both respect and confidence, the "gooder" off you'll be.<br />
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JSPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10630362779316980639noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248219656555230240.post-14868809175884534742013-06-09T21:17:00.000-07:002015-06-07T12:18:40.545-07:00Tony Night: the Holy of Holies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnRT6tfoQDTxzy3TWBvFyevU6T9dP3X9UF-2LNcGRLHlI3zecNhPaif3bbQH_xM9ml3SLskDe5YfUk8Xdc4fQMZ5bnL8bd6ASXV66KMRtGRcVXkjlTnOXUY2A7FwQrpobEBOsGp2IF55lV/s1600/tony-award-statue.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnRT6tfoQDTxzy3TWBvFyevU6T9dP3X9UF-2LNcGRLHlI3zecNhPaif3bbQH_xM9ml3SLskDe5YfUk8Xdc4fQMZ5bnL8bd6ASXV66KMRtGRcVXkjlTnOXUY2A7FwQrpobEBOsGp2IF55lV/s320/tony-award-statue.jpg" width="206" /></a></div>
Let me take you back to a time before WiFi, before Amazon, before YouTube, before pretty much every saving grace that currently satisfies the needs of theatre nerds everywhere... <br />
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It was 1994.<br />
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It was the year I discovered the conduit through which I could travel beyond my small town realities and bask in the light of my Broadway musical dreams... <br />
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It was the Tony Awards.</div>
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Now I had no idea what the Tony Awards were, but I casually found it, tuned in and ended up nearly wetting myself. There, on my downstairs television, was actual live footage of that year's Best Musical nominee <i>Beauty and the Beast</i>. I was floored. Up until that point, the Broadway production of <i>Beauty and the Beast</i> was something that only existed on the Original Cast Album that my parents bought for me at the Disney Store two hours away.</div>
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You can understand my frustration, then, when that evening the Best Musical award went to Stephen Sondheim's <i>Passion</i>, a show I was <u>highly</u> unimpressed with because of the two nudey-patooties they showed singing in a bed. As far as my pre pubescent self was concerned, they were using sex to buy a Tony Award, and I wasn't falling for it! (Cut to a decade later when I wrote an entire college paper at BYU dedicated to loving that show, but I digress...)</div>
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The only other things I remember from that first Tonys viewing were a redhead from the revival of <i>Damn Yankees</i> belting out "Shoeless Joe from Hannibal MO," and the look on my father's face when I correctly predicted that Diana Rigg would win for portraying the title role in <i>Medea</i>. Said the young JSP: "Come on Dad. I mean, it's <i>Medea</i>."</div>
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Thus began the creation of my most important Sunday of the year besides Easter. And even then, Tony Night is basically a religious experience, so I never felt bad. <br />
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Every year I instructed my family not to interrupt me during the Tonys because I had to record it on the VCR with controller in hand to avoid commercial breaks. This was essential to the Tony viewing process since I'd be re-watching the broadcast countless times before the following year.</div>
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This continued even when I was serving as an LDS missionary. My mom stepped in and vicariously watched the show for me in 2001 and 2002 since I was not able to watch them myself. She not only recorded them, but took copious notes on their proceedings and sent them to me in far away west Texas.</div>
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And now today I still watch the Tony Awards. I admit it's a little different, and that's ok. I have opinions now. I've worked with some of the people nominated or performing, and I get more excited for them than I do for myself. In general, I don't care nearly as much about awards anymore, but I do love celebrating Theatre. Tony Night continues to be one of the only opportunities America gets to view one of the great traditions that we have as a nation: Musical Theatre... also known as the best two words in the English language. (That's right Julian Marsh, I'm talking to you.)</div>
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So from a true theatre nerd to all those out there that might feel the same, Happy Tony Night! </div>
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May you forever keep it holy. :)</div>
JSPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10630362779316980639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248219656555230240.post-90373415066885388802013-03-30T20:11:00.000-07:002013-06-16T18:15:01.515-07:00"God Is Not a Hoarder" & other Sunday epiphanies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I have decided to begin this blog with a musical number.</div>
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<iframe frameborder="no" height="166" scrolling="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=http%3A%2F%2Fapi.soundcloud.com%2Ftracks%2F83713008&show_artwork=false" width="100%"></iframe><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoaoO1AQGZFr8axn6GZDeMONqYIqY5L_7sBs7Emn9CSSH4R1sF5LqlmslZeuMNaGzZi9dYguUsq5ZGzgIHWUVHVgeSZqDEuRxfF4VqRjVZGCYFaA_fkR9YXInGcoS67GpPPmNe_LoMlCDN/s1600/saturday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoaoO1AQGZFr8axn6GZDeMONqYIqY5L_7sBs7Emn9CSSH4R1sF5LqlmslZeuMNaGzZi9dYguUsq5ZGzgIHWUVHVgeSZqDEuRxfF4VqRjVZGCYFaA_fkR9YXInGcoS67GpPPmNe_LoMlCDN/s320/saturday.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Now I know what you're thinking. "Why isn't this song burning up the radio waves?" Well friends it's 2013, and no one really listens to the radio anymore.<br />
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But we did listen to it long ago when I first learned this nugget of a tune. It was an easy song to remember, especially since we lived it every week. While Saturday was always a special day, it couldn't hold a candle to Sunday.<br />
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For Latter day Saints, Sunday is the day to reflect and refuel. It's a day with some pretty strict guidelines, but somehow always ends up being one of the busiest. Perhaps that's because it bears the symbolism of Christ's resurrection, and in doing so, asks us to follow his example by not laying around a tomb all day.<br />
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Now that I'm older, I may be past the age of singing the "Saturday" ditty, but Sunday continues to be a big deal to me. In my most connected times, it's a weekly opportunity to bring balance to every part of my life. Lately I've noticed that when I take advantage of that opportunity, I end up having an influx of personal epiphanies.<br />
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These epiphanies come in all shapes and sizes and from all manner of sources. Just last week, for example, I was in Sunday School listening to a lesson about prayer when suddenly I saw written across the caverns of my mind,<br />
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"GOD IS NOT A HOARDER."<br />
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How wonderfully specific to receive spiritual lessons via the unfocused lens of basic cable programming! But though it may sound weird, or even sacrilegious to some, the fact is the clearest way for me in that moment to understand the true nature of God was to imagine him holding on to blessings like hoarders hold on to expired yogurts. I was grateful.<br />
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Another example of these epiphanies is what I've started to call "divine hello's." These are times when I'll be sitting in church on a Sunday and have the impulse to text somebody. So I do. Yes, I know, texting while churching is dangerous, but I only do it if I think it's Sunday worthy. After all, if God can inspire his children to communicate with each other through scripture, then dang it, he can do it through texting too!<br />
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Other recent Sunday epiphanies include realizing how much I love naps, or how girls should never wear "bump-its" when there might be someone in the pew directly behind them. Sunday was even the day this year I realized what my New Year's resolution was going to be.<br />
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The fact is I love Sunday, and I love what I learn while I'm loving it. It's why I look forward to it every week. It has nothing to do with champagne brunches or trips to the beach. I love Sunday because I need it to think about things in a much grander way than I might the rest of the week. It's a day that somehow forces me to think about myself and not think about myself all at the same time. Is that was even possible?<br />
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Regardless, I invite you all to try and make Sunday a little more sacred for yourselves. The good news is it's already a day of the week, so you don't need to actually go out and get anything. It's just about rearranging. Do like the song says! Clean the house and shop at the store on Saturday. That way you'll make sure to have time for the really important stuff on Sunday. <br />
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A word of caution, though. There's one lyric in the song that basically implies you shouldn't wash your hair on Sunday, and I totally think that's a judgement call. Personally, I have to shower in the morning. But I suppose you can have your own epiphany about that one...<br />
<br />JSPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10630362779316980639noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248219656555230240.post-46725949549527940152013-02-24T23:12:00.000-08:002013-06-16T18:56:20.341-07:00Getting CreativeFor the longest time I thought "creativity" was a word reserved for people who decoupage.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMOsAOn_QvSQN-zA4QqcULYwz0UWLms9tqAaIMhK5bTczvPZ9Qv3n7V89ACZRRsXtBmd4sdpHb9Uqxcby8QKnvPCy7wEY4BPMiHtNG8GYPqqQcmdaRbtPiZ-da8Q6NXy6FahyphenhypheneKS-X4QoX/s1600/cat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMOsAOn_QvSQN-zA4QqcULYwz0UWLms9tqAaIMhK5bTczvPZ9Qv3n7V89ACZRRsXtBmd4sdpHb9Uqxcby8QKnvPCy7wEY4BPMiHtNG8GYPqqQcmdaRbtPiZ-da8Q6NXy6FahyphenhypheneKS-X4QoX/s320/cat.jpg" width="274" /></a></div>
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Terrifying right? But disturbing as this paper mache pussycat might seem, I'm afraid the greater sin lies with the mind that considered it the creme de la creative in the first place. And if <b>I</b> thought that way, then who knows what the rest of America thinks.<br />
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Actually, we all know what America thinks. All around the country, arts programs are being dissolved from public education, and our most popular television shows do little more than exploit fame hungry zombies. It seems we're just not facilitating actual "creativity" like we could or should.<br />
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For that reason, I've decided to propose a new definition for this word. Pretty creative, right? Hardly. But here goes:<br />
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<b>Creativity</b> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">definition-</span> <i>the potential to see beyond what already is.</i><br />
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Isn't it fascinating that we put such emphasis on learning what already is or has been proven when our wants and needs are so often attached to what has yet to exist? I mean, even if we do already have the answers, there's a reason they haven't become realities in our world. It's because creative inspiration hasn't connected the dots.<br />
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One of the greatest gifts we can give to the world as well as our future generations isn't what we've already studied, but the example of a blissful relationship with what we can't. Embracing our imaginations and creativity cannot be more or less important than what we learn. Simply put, they are equal partners. As it was recently explained to me, you can't wait to see if a cake turns out before you add the eggs.<br />
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Creative inspiration is out there. Sometimes it's inside of us. Sometimes it's painted, or filmed, or written. But whatever it is, creative inspiration turns on a light that can shine on everything in our lives, from making dinner to presenting in the boardroom, and in doing so, allows us to see beyond what already is.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6_sc-7V_2rqpoVJIdUJwm5SHAXvSmY5fxdelREWkwlgLdvrRMvR5RzbgMdb4yBzmFG80UPVBzlGgiK3XjKf-aOY7-N6SoAl6dY8lHxF-lOSKkPscU5vpPDmNspL_JKSVwhiqMWVs-jUpg/s1600/whatever.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6_sc-7V_2rqpoVJIdUJwm5SHAXvSmY5fxdelREWkwlgLdvrRMvR5RzbgMdb4yBzmFG80UPVBzlGgiK3XjKf-aOY7-N6SoAl6dY8lHxF-lOSKkPscU5vpPDmNspL_JKSVwhiqMWVs-jUpg/s1600/whatever.jpeg" /></a></div>
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Don't shake your needle point in my face, America! I'm serious! It's time to get creative, and I think it's possible in more ways than we can count. As the old saying goes, "There's more than one way to decoupage a cat."<br />
<br />JSPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10630362779316980639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248219656555230240.post-85474921595216832012-12-31T18:55:00.000-08:002013-01-01T02:25:03.598-08:00Things I'm Gonna Do This Year<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXKEQhn674dDZakInvI0hd5QnFVHZpi-D6ERN_XqU7N_cbHnjcwxb33CD0X-5_2QFgtyyQKQrYYn7rnYbYllytUeeghFHCyNdPZ8XK7Kzy70GOnAR9M7qOoLLDxWXPl08BVRWvb7CJF_uN/s1600/31TH_CARTOON_COLOU_1315513f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXKEQhn674dDZakInvI0hd5QnFVHZpi-D6ERN_XqU7N_cbHnjcwxb33CD0X-5_2QFgtyyQKQrYYn7rnYbYllytUeeghFHCyNdPZ8XK7Kzy70GOnAR9M7qOoLLDxWXPl08BVRWvb7CJF_uN/s400/31TH_CARTOON_COLOU_1315513f.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Today, I was tempted to write about regrets. But I'm not going to.<br />
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Instead, here's a quote by C.S. Lewis:</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">"The most intense joy lies not in the having, but in the desiring."</span></div>
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There are many threads that weave us together as members of this great human family. One is our ability to dream. Like climbing a great mountain, we feel each dream waiting for us at the next summit. So we embark, all the while knowing that destination will only lead us to the beginning of another climb. But that is our divinity.</div>
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Lasting joy cannot live on a plateau. To desire that which is out of reach is our great hope for eternity.</div>
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And what of satisfaction? What about disappointment? They visit. And they go. But the thread remains strong, and along with it, our most intense joy.</div>
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So dream on. And bring on 2013.</div>
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JSPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10630362779316980639noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248219656555230240.post-11264631688343642392012-12-29T10:33:00.000-08:002012-12-29T10:36:27.927-08:00Sweet Potato Pie<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The following is an excerpt from a journal I kept while serving as an LDS missionary in Texas. It contains, among other things, my first encounter with Sweet Potato Pie. Please keep in mind this was written by a kid who was very young and very white... thank you.<br />
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<i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"While knocking doors and meeting folks on California St, we walked up a ramp to a dark screen door. We knocked and were greeted by a cheerful African-American woman who, to my surprise, seemed to recognize us. She invited us in the house, turned off the Price Is Right, and left us in the living room with her much older and very withered husband. I soon realized the man was blind.</span></b></i><br />
<i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></b></i>
<i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">He introduced himself as Reverend Smith, of Big Lake's Bethlehem Baptist Church. His tone was cautious, yet defiant. He challenged our motives as missionaries, and quizzed us about the gospel of Christ. I'll admit to feeling a little perplexed, having just been invited into the home and then interrogated all in the space of a few minutes, but after our sincere answers, he accepted us as servants of the Lord and ordered his wife to plate us up some leftover "soul food." We were even given our own piece of sweet potato pie. Completely awed by the kindness and generosity, my companion Elder Wilcox voiced a desire to help with the daily cleaning of their church.</span></b></i><br />
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<i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Can we do that?" I thought. "Wouldn't our time be better spent cleaning OUR church?" But trusting my new companion, I went with him, Reverend Smith, and the good Rev's wife to their chapel next door. We spent the next 30 minutes or so vacuuming up and down the pews. Kind words and thanks were exchanged, and I witnessed the first change of attitude in Big Lake. My own."</span></b></i><br />
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Reverend Smith passed away not long after that. I felt so grateful we had met him. Our meeting was brief, but I felt a true connection to him and his congregation. We cleaned their church, and he gave us his sweet potato pie.<br />
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In honor of building bridges and changing attitudes, here's a recipe for Sweet Potato Pie, dedicated to Revered Smith and that little town of Big Lake. This pie is sweeter than pumpkin, but also brighter in color. Give it a try, and give it away. You won't regret it.<br />
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<b>Sweet Potato Pie</b><br />
(Paula Deen)<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Ingredients</b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><b>2 cups peeled, cooked sweet potatoes</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><b>1 cup sugar</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><b>1/2 stick melted butter</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><b>2 eggs</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><b>1 tsp vanilla extract</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><b>1/4 tsp salt</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><b>1/4 tsp cinnamon</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><b>1/4 tsp ginger</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><b>1 cup milk</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><b>9 inch unbaked pie crust</b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.</b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Using an electric hand mixer, combine the potatoes, sugar, butter, eggs, vanilla, salt, and spices. Mix thoroughly. Add the milk and continue to mix. Pour the filling into the pie crust and bake for 35 to 45 minutes or until a knife inserted in the center comes out clean. (For me, an additional 20 minutes.) Place the pie on a rack and cool to serve.</b></span><br />
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<br />JSPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10630362779316980639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248219656555230240.post-83592464560376741662012-12-24T06:05:00.000-08:002012-12-25T17:03:34.577-08:00Presents: A Holiday Greeting<div style="text-align: center;">
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Presents: A Holiday Greeting</span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">by You-Know-Who</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>"Presents!!"</b></span></div>
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If I didn't shout it out loud then I certainly did on the inside.</div>
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How could I not when the presents bearing my name at our annual family Christmas Eve party were just sitting under the tree waiting to be opened? I tried desperately to distract myself, but the tree kept winking and blinking at me in mockery, as though it knew what was sitting beneath its branches. Thank goodness my choreographed holiday piece had been performed earlier in the evening, or all that waiting could have turned ugly.</div>
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It was only because opening presents made me feel special. In fact, my whole demeanor was surprisingly non materialistic. I didn't understand how much the presents cost, but I did know every one of them reminded me that I was remembered. And that, I suppose, is what always made the wait worthwhile.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>"Present!"</b></span></div>
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If I don't shout it out loud then I certainly do on the inside.</div>
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Whether I'm focusing on what I didn't do in an audition, or replaying what I just said to a Target cashier, somehow snapping myself back into the present always saves me from drowning in my own thoughts.</div>
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But why would I need to bring myself back to where I already am? Is it somehow more comfortable to dwell on the past than live in the present? Maybe so. The past has already happened, which can make it easier to focus on, less daunting even. But the gift of the present is that it IS a present, which means I'll never know what's in store until I open it.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>"Presence."</b></span></div>
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I rarely shout it out loud, but I certainly do on the inside.</div>
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When I long to connect with that which is greater than myself, I raise my eyes or bow my head and desire nothing more than Presence. A reminder of who I am and where I come from, it's a Presence whose love is infinite, gratitude eternal, and peace divine. It's why my family's tree was twinkiling in the first place, and how I can continually unwrap each new moment I'm given.</div>
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It's a Presence that's the best Present any Present can give.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Happy Holidays to you and yours!</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><i>Jeffrey Scott Parsons</i></span></div>
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JSPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10630362779316980639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248219656555230240.post-68016446357808146352012-11-30T15:06:00.000-08:002012-12-05T15:06:31.643-08:00What I Wanna Do For a LivingI remember being at the tender age of... nine? Let's say nine. The world was my proverbial oyster. It was so full of possibilities. Which is why I guess I spent so much time in front of the Nintendo.<br />
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You remember it: two toned gray box with the big game cartridges you'd slide in and press down. One problem: it didn't always work. Maybe it was worn out. Maybe our games were dusty. Either way, you'd press the power button and the TV screen would flash on and off, or freeze at a dull shade of gray.<br />
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Cue my childhood. I often took the opportunity to patiently sit in front of the Nintendo and blow on everything. Why? Because it worked. I had no actual proof as to how, but when I'd do it, the Nintendo would magically start working again. I can only now surmise that there was indeed some dust in the machine or game cartridges, and that my blowing into them somehow jostled everything into submission. <br />
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I remember one night I sat down to play the original Super Mario Bros. The game had previously been sentenced by our home's eldest Nintendo players as a hopeless case. Still, I spent at least 30 minutes using every trick I had to get that thing to work. I put the game under my shirt and blew air through the fabric; I blew into the game box first; I blew into game box last; I tried to sneak the game in without the Nintendo noticing. Finally, on one serendipitous attempt, I pressed the power button, and "<i>Voila</i>!" it worked!<br />
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With a celebratory scream I threw my arms into the air. I darted up the stairs from our basement, ran to my Mom in the living room and impulsively blurted out, "I WANT TO FIX THINGS FOR A LIVING!!"<br />
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I'm pretty sure my Mom had no idea what I was talking about. I had no idea what I was talking about! But I did know I had just experienced the kind of feeling I wanted to have every day for the rest of my life. Did I actually want to fix Nintendo games for a living? Yeah right- But I did want that feeling again. That rush of accomplishment. The payoff of not giving up. It was unlike anything I had ever felt. Which is why, as an adult, I try to remember that night as often as possible. <br />
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Do we continue make room for that kind of joy in our lives? Not just in finding the right tasks or careers to inspire it, but also in allowing ourselves to feel it regardless of the accomplishment. If joy can manifest itself to a child in something as silly as a Nintendo game, then certainly anything we set our minds to can have the same effect: taking the kids to soccer, washing the car, telling someone "I love you." Or are we simply too grown up to go there? I hope not. Our joy isn't in another castle. It's already here, just waiting to be played.<br />
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JSPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10630362779316980639noreply@blogger.com2