Quick catch up: belated Happy Birthdays to Darren and Denise, and best wishes for a speedy recovery to Michael Larsen.

I’m 30 years old today. Three decades. Three hundred and sixty months. (I’d go into weeks, days, and so forth, but I’m too lazy.) Everyone keeps asking me “How does it feel to be 30?”, as though I was supposed to wake up this morning and have some sort of grand revelation. Well, unless “Where are my glasses?” is a revelation of some sort, I’m sorry to disappoint. Maybe it’s too soon to say, but 30 feels about the same as 29, except that I can’t say I’m “twenty-something” anymore. I’ll have to get back to you on that one.

I’ve been taking it easy this…well, ‘weekend’ isn’t exactly right, but I haven’t been to work yet this week, so it FEELS like a weekend. Saw a movie, played some poker, ate out a bunch, put up some new blinds in my apartment…and generally just trying to follow the advise my boss, James, gave me about enjoying your time off. To wit, I’ve intentionally been keeping away from my computer, which is why I haven’t posted anything in while. In fact, I’ve found that the best relief for stress may be spending the afternoon with Darren’s daughter, Cindi (you know…the cutest baby ever?) – somehow, when you’re helping an 18-month old to learn the difference between ‘up’ and ‘down’, the rest of the world doesn’t seem so important.

The capper on the ‘weekend’ was dinner tonight with Stacey, Spike, Darren and what’s-her-face at Winberries, followed by ice cream at Halo Pub. Thanks, guys! (Special thanks to Stacey for taking charge of the thing and putting up with my chronic indecisiveness.)

Unfortunately, it’s back to reality tomorrow – no avoiding it, no matter how much vacation time I still have left. And as much faith as I have in my co-workers, I’m just hoping I don’t have too much mopping-up to do tomorrow.

(Rejected titles for this post: “XXX (the number, not the other kind)”, “Only 4 more years in the ‘choice’ demographic”)

To: The guy who designs the pictogram directions for IKEA.
From: M-D November
Re: Directions for “Olsvik” table.

OK, look. I’ve been an IKEA customer for longer than I care to admit. My parents redid my room entirely in IKEA furniture when I was 8 years old, away at camp for the first time. When I got my own apartment, and needed lots of furniture really quick (and really cheap), did I just buy some random particle board crap from Lowes? No. I bought your particle board crap. But you’ve always done OK by me – I’ve still got the set of shelves that my parents put in my bedroom over 20 years ago, and to the credit of the design masterminds at your company, they do their job today as well as they ever have. Ah, IKEA, you magnificant Swedish bastards, I read your catalog!

So, that said, I’m hardly a novice at assembling your stuff. I’ve been through beds, dressers, chairs, entertainment centers…no problem. Sure, the pictograph instructions are a little confusing at times, but I’ve always worked it out in the end.

But THIS? This is bullshit.

I’m sure you recognize your handiwork. Step number nine from the assembly instructions for the Olsvik table. In which you instruct the new owner of the table to defy the laws of gravity in order to secure the two lower tiers of the table.I took high school physics, like most educated people. And aside from learning that the solution to most life problems is ‘more torque’, I know that the law of gravity cannot be circumvented. If NASA hasn’t been able to figure it out, I’m sure as hell not going to be able to do it to put together a $40 endtable. I found myself staring at this diagram for a good 10 minutes trying to get a handle on what you were asking me to do, and how I was going to accomplish it – especially with the space shuttle fleet in its current state.

Listen, I understand that you’re under a lot of pressure to create instructions that can be understood (for the most part) in countries all over the world, but you could have at least showed Mr. IKEA Demonstration Man using a thick book, like a dictionary or one of the Harry Potter novels, to hold the table surfaces in place while he screws them down from the underside. Don’t assume that your end users have a Q-like knowledge of the space/time continuum, or that they’d squander that knowledge for the sake of affordable Swedish furniture.

Thanks.

(Oh, and if you could send some of those kick-ass cinnamon buns my way, that’d be great.)

Yours,
M-D

I’m not normally the jumpy type, and I haven’t been afraid of the dark since I was 4 or 5 years old. (When I was 9, a had to spend 45 minutes crammed under a stage so I could make an entrance through a trap door. After that, not a lot phases me.) But about 20 minutes ago, all of the power in my apartment suddenly went out, and for the first time in a while, I was genuinely a little freaked out. Have I really become that accustomed to the various LEDs around my apartment that a total blackout is reason enough to get the wiggins? (Well, alright, TOTAL blackout is overstating a bit – my laptop was running on battery, so the display was still throwing SOME light. But even still…)

I just booked my first official business trip…using credit cards that have my name on them, but do not actually belong to me.

I’m going to be 30 in a month. I’m not quite at the point where I’m apoplectic about that, but I’m getting there. And it’s safe to say that I’m not where I imagined I’d be when I got out of college. Don’t get me wrong – my life’s not so bad. I’ve got a nice place to live, a nice vehicle, several friends, and a job that doesn’t make me want to run out into traffic on I-95. But it’s not what I imagined for myself a decade ago.

Earlier in the year I had found out that there would be a huge gala celebration for Stagedoor Manor‘s 30th anniversary on Sunday, July 24. (As a refresher, I spent 8 summers at Stagedoor – 1984 through 1991 – where my passions for acting and stage management were allowed to spiral out of control.) For a brief moment, I considered not going. I wanted to go, but I was apprehensive about how I would be viewed, what with the not working in the ‘business’ any more. Well, if you read this space, you know how I overanalyze everything, so this should really be no great shock. After talking it out with my friend Lee, I came to the inevitable conclusion that I was going to go – I had kicked myself for missing the last big Stagedoor event, and, apprehensive or not, there was no way I was missing this.

Stagedoor, as it turns out, is the great equalizer. Naturally, I wasn’t the only person in the room to find his way into a different line of work. And yes, there were genuine bonafide celebrities present, of the “hey, you’re on that sitcom” or “I really loved your last movie” variety. But none of that mattered. Because for one day, the celebrities weren’t celebrities – they were just alumni, same as everyone else. No one cared if you weren’t still ‘in the biz’. And I wasn’t “M-D November, failed stage manager turned scholarship administrator”. I was “M-D November, everyone’s go-to guy” again. Some of those genuine celebrities were genuinely happy to see me, which felt really good (almost to the point of embarassing – but not quite). I saw people I haven’t seen in ages – in some cases, 20 years. I laughed at old stories and running gags, and reminisced about the highly age-inappropriate shows we did as kids – the good, the bad, and the disastrous. And there were tears, since this celebration was tempered by the fact that we lost Carl Samuelson, one of Stagedoor’s owners (and a fatherly figure if there ever was one) last year.

After the celebration at Kutshers (“come for the golf, stay for the bingo”), everyone went back to camp. We had the run of the place, since the current campers were…I dunno – let’s say they were at a movie. I finally had a chance to see the new theater, which replaced The Barn after it burned down in 1991. (It’s a beautiful facility – everything’s state of the art. Part of me wants to say that the kids today don’t know how good they have it…but part of me would rather have the old Barn back.) We ate in the dining hall, wandered through the theaters, and snuck into our old sleeping rooms, just to see what had changed – and what hadn’t. And then there was the singalong. I don’t know how many people were packed around the piano in the Playhouse that night, or how long it had been since we’d sung the lyrics and the harmonies that used to make up our everyday lives at Stagedoor. (14 years for me, but who’s counting?) And yet, we remembered every lyric (and who had what solo), and the harmonies were all there, and the choreography was still fresh in our minds, as though time had somehow folded in on itself.

And then, all too soon, the day was over, people were saying their goodbyes and getting in their cars, and we all had to return to ‘real life’. The lousy thing about huge gatherings like this one is that you only get a few moments each to see a huge number of people, and you wish time weren’t a factor so you could really talk to everyone. And I’m not going to lie, it was a tough day to get though – I’ve talked about Jack Romano in this space before, so I’m not going to rehash that now (mainly because I won’t make it to the end of the post without getting vechlempt)…but he was everywhere. Thank God I was around friends who feel the same way I do, that’s all I”m going to say.

It’s telling that the day ended in almost traditional “M-D at Stagedoor” fashion – two lovely young ladies, both of whom had attended Stagedoor after I had finished college, needed a ride back to the NYC area for reasons way too complex to go into here. And since I had to go back to the city to drop some people off, well, the more the merrier. We ended up sharing war stories about various productions, I told them a little more about Jack…it was an interesting ride back to the city, and it was gratifying to know that, even if it’s not exactly the same, the Stagedoor Experience goes on.

Pictures from the event – mine and others – have been posted to Flickr. I just want to take a moment to thank Debra & Cindy Samuelson, David Quinn, and Konnie Kittrell for putting the whole event together; Carl & Elsie Samuelson and Jack Romano for putting together something that endures; and Michael Larsen for…well, just for being Michael Larsen. And to everyone I talked to that Sunday afternoon…we cannot wait for the 40th anniversary to do this again.

So I don’t think I’m surprising anyone when I say that gas prices are high. (And when I say ‘high’, I mean “Holy living MOTHERF**KING F**K! $2.10 for REGULAR? You’ve got to be S**TTING ME!” high.) Of course, my current vehicle (a 1999 Ford Explorer) isn’t doing me any favors – filling my 22-gallon tank usually costs over $40, and my gas mileage…well, it’s a six year old SUV, so you do the math. (Suffice to say, it’s not great. It’s not single-digit bad, but it’s not great.)

I never thought I’d say this, but I actually miss my old ’92 Ford Escort GT – in part because of the insane fuel economy, and in part because when I HAD the Escort (which, I should add, my friend Kimet from college named “Speedy” – I never really thought the name fit), gas was 99 cents per gallon – for SUPER. I could keep my car running for a month for under $20. It was fantastic.

Now, of course, I’m on the wrong end of the equation. And more than once over the last year, I’ve thought to myself, “if I HAD to buy something new (or if I had the MONEY to buy something new, what would I buy?” The easy answer would be ‘another Explorer’, since the Explorer is my comfort zone. Problem there is that I’d still be on the wrong end of the equation – as I learned on my most recent trip to the huge state of Texas, the new Explorers only get about 18mpg – probably a little better than what I’ve got now, but nothing stellar. And while sedans (or, as Kristin calls them, ‘passenger cars’) are more fuel-efficient, I just don’t think I could go back…once you’ve driven an SUV or something similar, you get used to driving from a certain perspective. The few times I’ve needed to get a rental car, the feeling was akin to piloting a luge down a bobsleigh run. (I’ve gone into detail on this in the past.)

Leave it to those magnificent bastards at Toyota. The Highlander Hybrid is finally available, and frankly, I’m drooling. From the outside, you’d never be able to tell the difference between the normal, internal-combustion Highlander and the hybrid version. But inside it’s got all the same good stuff that makes the Prius do what it does, only with a huge honkin’ second battery sitting in the floor of the cargo area to ensure that the Highlander can hold its own with the V8s. (And it STILL gets 32mpg city!) The best part is that a ‘well-equipped’ (ie: fully pimped-out) Highlander Hybrid Limited 4×4, complete with navigation system, is roughly the same price as an Explorer Limited, which has no navigation option. (Sure, the Explorer DOES have leather seats, but…f**k that. I’ll take fuel economy and a spiffy touch-screen over leather seats any day.)

So there IS a vehicle out there that can satisfy my primal SUV-driving instincts, but won’t make me want to go into a blind rage and start stringing together new variations of profanity whenever I pass a gas station. Now there’s just the little issue of limited availability & an inevitable waiting-list, and the fact that I’d rather not have a car payment right now, but hey…I can drool, can’t I?