A Long, Last Look Down 42nd Street

Are you auditioning for 42nd STREET?

Audition? Seriously? Don't you know who I am?

 

 My friend encouraged me to take a shot. 

 

"I don't tap dance," I replied. 

 

"Abner doesn't dance," she answered, recognizing a lame excuse when she heard one. 

 

"They are auditioning Equity talent all over the country. They are not going to hire a local actor for a principle role. Besides, I'm tired. I need a break. No, I won't be auditioning for 42nd STREET."

Had I been honest, I would have admitted that I was intimidated as hell. On the community and semi-pro stages of Lexington, I was a big shot. Now there would be real pros in town: people who had paid their dues, not given up on their dreams like I had done. Auditioning for these companies would mean competing with artists who had been honing their craft for thirty or forty years. Bottom line? I was scared.

I told myself I was a serious actor, not some song and dance doofus who mugged and chirped for the crowd. I was King Lear. I was freaking Frankenstein's monster. So I stirred some arrogance into my cowardly stew and skipped the Lexington auditions.That decision, but for the grace of God and a couple of Guardian Angels, could have turned out to be my biggest mistake in a long, long time.

 

My Guardian Angels

Angels with a Dream

Jeromy and Lyndy Franklin Smith worked for years to bring  locally produced, professional musical theatre to Lexington. I met them ever so briefly last year when I was featured in the opening number of a musical review at the University of Kentucky called A Grand Night for Singing. They impressed me with their professional demeanor, their creative partnership, and their joyful spirit. Still, when Lyndy reached out to ask if I was interested in reading for the role of Abner, (yep, same role my friend had suggested) I was shocked. They had already been to audition sites all over the country. Now they wanted to see me, the clumsy actor who couldn't hold a candle to legitimate, trained singers, and couldn't even remember the dumbed down choreography they came up with for me. But for some reason, they believed in me. I auditioned. They hired me. And so began my post-graduate education in the art of professional show business.

The BEST People are the Best PEOPLE

Mr Big Shot

Two decades of considering myself as "The Pro From Dover" left me with some very bad habits and a shitty, shitty attitude. Many people here have always treated me like a Big Shot. The newspapers write about me. Younger actors tell me how honored they are to work with me. Directors put up with my wise cracks. I started thinking of myself as a star, and expected to be treated like one.

 

 

Karen Ziemba: A Leading Lady in every sense of the word

The pros showed me the best are also the best people. Nobody ever humiliated or ridiculed me when I screwed up. When I missed an entrance on opening night, the four-time Tony award nominee who I had left hanging on stage met me in the wings to laugh and tell me how much she was getting wrong that night, too. When I blew my last line and brought the show to what felt like a screeching halt just as we were racing toward the big finale, a 22 year old actress stood behind me before my curtain call and told me how well I had covered. When I would wise crack during rehearsals, begging for attention and approval from the people around me, people didn't judge or tell me to shut up, they just continued about their business, showing me in the kindest way possible that there were more important tasks at hand at the moment, and that we could be friendly and funny later. And, surprise! Even without my bag of tricks, I still received love and respect from everybody in the cast. 

The Iconic Opening Image

The Grandest of Finales

Something else about the pros: they work their asses off. I used to stand in the wings at the end of a 10 hour rehearsal and marvel at the energy and commitment the dancers threw into every turn and fah-lap ball-change. They never settled for good enough. Perfection was good enough, whether it was at 10:00 AM atwarmups, or 9:50 PM for the thousandth try at making a line laser straight or a fifty heel stomps sound like one. We started principle rehearsals 10 days before our first audience, and I probably saw someone carrying a book for lines about four times. College kids sat next to seasoned professionals pouring over their scripts, working every free moment to get the text down flawlessly, as if we were playing Shakespeare, and not musical comedy. And nobody complained. The crew busted their humps getting enormous set pieces on and off the stage. Lights and sound never seemed to stop fine tuning, right up to the moment the ushers let the first audience members into the auditorium. The dancers massaged their muscles, taped their ankles, iced their bruises, grabbed a snack, and jumped back on the stage for take after take. Two days (!) of ten hour (!) tech rehearsals were conducted with joyful patience. We all knew that something special was happening. And we trusted each other to be there when the time was ripe.

Back Dues to be Payed

 

They taught me a lot about myself. I need to be better prepared for the first day of rehearsals. We were two days into a five performance run before I felt really ready to open. I won't make that mistake again. I lost a lot of time feeling intimidated by people whose experience and training made them better at their jobs than I was. I have always coasted on my voice, but never really kept up my training as a singer. It's time to change that, too. And finally, I have gotten used to people making accommodations for me. If I don't have my blocking quite right or if I learn my lines wrong, I let others work around me. The Diva act stops here. Too much depends on precision and coordinated effort for me to play fast and loose with other people's work.

 

I don't want to come away from this experience with a bunch of empty resolutions that disappear as soon as the next Shiny Object catches my attention. I just spent two years becoming the best water fitness instructor I could be. I can put that same level of intention toward my acting. I've already started. I'm working with our musical director to find a voice coach who can help me sing at a more professional level. A generous photographer has offered to make me real head shots: the first I've had in about 30 years. I've started re-working my resume to make it a document I can be proud to send to any casting director anywhere. And I am assembling the repertoire of audition pieces that every true pro has at their fingertips. Just in case I meet Steven Spielberg at the Y some afternoon and he wants to see two minutes of comic Shakespeare. I don't have any intention of leaving Lexington to go off in search of my fortune on one of the coasts.  But it's time I started treating my art with the respect it deserves. Maybe then, I won't feel like I need to work so hard to pry attention and approval out of the people around me.

Glorified

Come On Along and Listen

Along with my determination to improve, I felt a sense of glorious triumph. My Lord, that curtain call! It wasn't because people were clapping for me. Hardly. But, every night I stood on the apron of my hometown's beautiful Opera House stage, and saw hundreds of people smiling and applauding and celebrating something that ALL of us had accomplished together. The kids from local universities, the troupers from all over the country, the experienced pros, and one very grateful Big Fish from a Little Pond in the Bluegrass had joined with an audience that nobody was sure would show up and made an amazing evening of theatre happen. Proud of myself? Sure, a little. But I was so damn proud of Lexington as we stood together and grinned and waved and hooted at one another. I believe that my theatre family's world changed forever during those five performances. I know that mine did.

And it all happened because a friend, two angels, and a company of artists believed in me more than I believed in myself. I will never forget it.

Side by side, They're glorified, 

Where the underworld can meet the elite

Naughty,

Bawdy,

Gaudy,

Sporty,

FORTY-SECOND STREET!

#462: Is There Another Story Worth Telling?

Who is the man behind those dark glasses?

I have had a couple of conversations this week about my story... well not the story so much, as about my telling of it. I believe that it  inspires people. That's why I tell it every chance I get. I want them to know that they can come back from a terrible place and be even stronger than before.

But this week, I have had a couple of people challenge me to think about helping people on their own journey without telling them about mine.

It's a hard thing for me to grasp. When practiced competently and respectfully, personal training is a healing profession. A good trainer has personal boundaries and limits just like any other professional. We handle confidential information. We meet people when they are vulnerable. We build relationships based on trust - trust in our ability to help our clients to meet their goals.

But, I have always used my story to help build trust between myself and trainees. Now I am being called to ask just how important that story is to my success as a trainer... and to whom is it more important: to my clients, or to me?

"You use it to build credibility," said one adviser, "but they don't come here for you to understand them. They come so you can help them to get back to life." Another put it this way. "Your professional competence has nothing to do with the fact that you've had cancer. If you're a good trainer, you'll earn their trust."

And so I wonder. Am I exploiting my story for my own sake, rather than for the sake of the people who are so "inspired" when they hear it? When I think of how my coaches earned my trust, it was through the compassionate, joyful practice of their profession, not because of their compelling life stories. Have I been making a big mistake, insisting on being "one of the family?" Or as another counselor put it, "You're making it about you, but it's supposed to be about them."

Am I holding on to the blessings of the past and missing out on the possibilities of the present? Two scary questions come to my mind. Am I a good enough trainer to succeed on my skill and knowledge alone, without the boost I get from being Cancer Boy? And even scarier, if I stop being The Boy Who Didn't Die, will I go back to being the miserable, Fat Man Running that I was before I got sick? Cancer gave me so much. It gave me someone to be. The Survivor. But have I let it become a crutch? Could I be a better trainer, even a more inspiring one, if I left the Fat Man at home?

I guess I've never believed I could be very interesting without a character to play. The actor. The manager. The survivor. Can I find the courage to stop play-acting and just be Bob? Do I even know how to start?

They've got me on a very tight leash at work. They don't want me to get sick again, and they want to be sure I'm well before I assume any real responsibilities. It frustrates me that I've fallen from being the lead trainer to a glorified towel boy. But the truth is, I'm lucky to still have a job at all. There are very few organizations that would have tolerated my illness the way the Y has. I want to be sure I'm well, too. But, how to tell when that time comes?

Maybe it will be the day that I don't need to tell anyone about my cancer - the day that I let my heart and my mind and body speak for themselves, without a superhero persona to hide behind.

It has been a brutal season of letting go, but the hardest could be yet to come. It may soon be time for me to put the dynamic duo, Fat Man and Cancer Boy away for good. Then maybe I'll see who this "Bob" guy is that everybody keeps talking about. They tell me he's worth knowing.

I wonder if they could be right.

Peace,
Bob

#447: Game Face

Gazing into my own reflected eyes
While Ivanica shears me like a Spartan,
I see something new;

72 hours to go
A hundred hearts
A million tears
A woman in the dark
Mother without breasts
Praying that the surgeon found it all

There in the mirror,
Got my game face on.





Ran.
For fun
Love
Joy
But never before,
To Win.

To crush the Damned Thing
Choke the life out of it
Drag it in a sack to the river
Pound it under my shoes

Angry at the cells
Tumors
Scars
Burns
The fingers that can't feel
The eyes that can't see and the tongues that can't taste.

Murderer.

Wish I could make it chase me over the hills until its evil heart bursts with the effort.
Run right into the grave and pull them all back to life again.
Throw a rope around its neck and drag the Damned Thing through the streets until there's nothing left but an empty, bloody loop.

But I can't do any of those things.
All my hate and anger can't make a dent.

Only love
Laughter.
The unspeakable joy of the pain that burns
The muscles that seize,
The cramps that threaten to tear you down to the ground...
The will to run on.

To the edge of the darkness,
And through into the light on the other side.

Alive

Running hard and strong until I can't run anymore,
Carrying them all with me.

Grampa
Uncle Bud
Alan
Catherine
Doug
Elvin
Jan
Doug
Andrea
Angela
Barbara
Jaspal
Carmen
Cherie
Jennifer
Darlene
Darrell
Denise
Derrick
Alice
Art
Ersula
Francis
Frank
Gwen
Helen
Bobbie
Jeannie
Debbie
Renee
Raylee
Brenda
Ginny
John
Emma
Joyce
Judy
Katy
LaDonna
Terri
Pam
Dee Dee
Ruthie
Shelia
Lynne
Leslie
Mina
Mary
Becky
Peggy
Robin
Jillian
Shevawn
Marian
Byron
Gary
Grace
Dave

Climb aboard, you warriors You champions;
Ever victors, Never victims;
Come with me,
Get on my shoulders,
Come into to my heart.

Wrap your strength around my legs.
Fill my lungs with your courage.
Raise your arms in victory with mine.

Climb aboard, my friends.
My darling ones.

Be my eyes as we run along the river.
Be my ears as they cheer from the side of the streets.

You are my strength.
You are my inspiration.
You taught me to fight.
You taught me to run.
To live.

My brothers and sisters.
My comrades.
My heroes.
My beloved.
I'm taking you for a ride.
We're going to run a By-God-Marathon together.

This time,
Life wins.

Peace,
Pennsy

#398: A Hero on the Road

I met a hero today. He noticed the shirts we were wearing for our Keeping the Dream Alive fundraiser, and stopped to talk. He told us his name was Chester, and that he had done a lot of work at Actors' Guild. He had an easy smile and a contagious laugh as he tried to remember what his last show had been. My teammates and I didn't recognize him, but we nodded politely. Turns out he was one of the "old timers:" the people who had helped to build the company years ago. I pricked up my ears. I enjoy the stories of restaurant basements and old gymnasiums that fill the company's early history. I thought he might have some great dish on one of the people I have met over the years. He had a much better story than that.

"They'd never tried anything this radical, but
they figured, why not? I was dead anyway."

Do you know what you are looking at here? This is a man's left knee and lower leg. You know how that happens? An unlicensed, uninsured, drunk driver plows through a red light and over your motorcycle as you are legally driving through a busy downtown intersection. He runs you down, trapping you and your bike under his pickup truck. He panics, and tries to run. Can't move. So he backs up, trying to dislodge whatever is hanging to his vehicle. Tries to pull away again. No dice. Tries a third time. Eventually, the driver stops trying to escape, and pieces of you are left under a truck and a motorcycle to wait for the coroner to arrive. 


"When they found me, my brains were on North Broadway, my guts were on North Broadway, and my leg was mostly torn off." Did it hurt? Nah. He was in a coma for the next four weeks. He says he died. They gave his mom 600 reasons why he should be dead. When he came to, after a month of morphine, they told him he should expect some mental retardation. Mom asked, "How would you know the difference?" Every survivor needs a wise-ass who loves him. Chester has a good one.


They had to tuck his brains back in to his head and stuff his guts back into his belly. They rebuilt his leg from scratch, drilling steel inside the soft tissue that remained. He told me he works out every day. The docs said his physical fitness was the only thing that saved him. "When I run, I look like Joe Cocker, drunk!" he jokes, but he by-God runs. He finished this morning's race just 5 minutes after I did. Just about the same time I ran the race a year ago. And I had both my own legs.

On his Facebook page, he says he harbors no negativity toward the man who almost killed him 600 ways. "All it does is eat you up and does nothing positive at all, as fear or worry, or jealousy; they are all negative emotions with no discernible value except to take you down, and not forward." Chester is a man who is moving forward.

I don't know this guy. But I really want to know him better. We "friended" today on Facebook. He is a genuine hero to me and an inspiration. It's going to be really hard to give up on my next long run when I remember a man who is training for a 10K after having himself spilled out all over a city street.


Running brings out some amazing things in people. And sometimes, amazing people come out to run. If you're lucky, you get to meet one. 


I was lucky today.


Peace,
Pennsy

Finding the Inspiration to Keep Going

Unlike men of better character, I have always found it easy to quit. On projects. On relationships, On jobs. On myself. Yesterday morning around 5:36, I came very close to quitting on the whole stupid idea that I might ever be fit.

I had taken a week off of any workout at all. My legs hurt. I was tired and depressed and I really wanted to take one last shot at running in the 5K this weekend. Since the race is Saturday night, Wednesday morning was really my last chance to try if I was going to get two runs in before the event. Tuesday night I laid out my running clothes before bed. Wednesday the alarm went off at 5:00. I spent about 15 minutes waking up, then about 15 minutes getting ready.

Outside in the dark morning it was comfortable. There was cool in the air from the evening's rain and the streets were quiet. I walked for about five minutes. So far so good. I tried a little jog for a block.

The pain shot through my right calf and I pulled up. "That's it," I thought. "I'm done. I can't run on it if it's hurt. Hell, I probably can't run at all." I turned around and started limping back home in my clean dry shirt.

Then two of the people I had spent my weekend with caught me up short.

During her visit last week, Mom gave me a book, Keep it Simple by Terry Bradshaw. It isn't a very good book. Brad's shtick is that he's just a big dumb hick who says funny stuff. Well he is big, but he's not dumb. He probably stopped being a hick several million dollars ago, and the stuff he says is sometimes funny but sometimes it's just goofy. So no, I didn't care for his book. But by the time I was finished, I really did like him. His writing is so odd and quirky and genuine that his character delighted me much more than his style annoyed. And here's what I took away from his delightful, annoying book...

• Life can be hard
• Love can seem impossible
• Keep living
• Keep loving
• Never give up

He talks about his divorces. There are lots of references to his transition from the Boy Wonder of little Louisiana Tech to the benched former starting quarterback of the never-won-a-thing Pittsburgh Steelers. He has been dumped by wives, booed by strangers, bullied by bosses, betrayed by teammates, and he has never given up. Instead of limping home in his clean dry shirt, he got back up and got back to work.

During the weekend's depression over not being able to run, I went looking for inspiration online and started watching YouTube videos of Lance Armstrong. Just about everyone knows his story by now. A hard charging up-and-comer, America's next great cyclist washes out at the Atlanta Olympics and learns he has cancer. A lot of cancer. 40% chance of survival type of cancer. He goes after cancer like he goes after a mountain on his bike. It tries to kick his ass. He could have limped home in his clean dry shirt. He kicked cancer's ass instead. And he's been kicking ever since.



I thought about those two brave men. They weren't better than me. They had stronger, younger muscles sure, but it wasn't muscles that got them back on their feet. It wasn't their principles or their up bringing. I was raised by good, hardworking people who taught me right and wrong. Where did their strength of character come from?

Practice.

Muscles get stronger when you use them. So does courage. They chose to act courageously. They practiced persevering, staying hopeful, setting their jaws and moving their feet. And never going home until their shirt was soaked.

So that's what I did. I turned my self around and I limped till I could walk. I walked till I could jog. I jogged till I could run. And by the time I got home, my stinky soggy shirt told the story. Three miles before breakfast. Then a long cold soak in a tub of ice water. Ahhhh...

I have decided to take the advice of two guys I got to hang out with this weekend.

Keep it Simple
Live Strong

Peace,
Pennsy

Power Cage

What a great name for an apparatus. This one is built by Body-Solid. They call it a power rack, but I like "cage". The language is more muscular somehow.

The power cage is the world's greatest spotter. It doesn't help when you don't need it, and it never fails when you do. You can use it to hold up heavy weights or to keep them from crushing you if something goes wrong. You can pull a bench inside or use the top for a pullup bar. It's not just a great tool, it's a place to be.

For me, the power cage is a symbol of my most ambitious strength goals. It's where I do my heaviest lifting. If I ever build a home gym, a bench and a cage will be my first apparatus purchases.

The cage is also where I load the bar for deadlifts. It inspires me somehow. Yesterday, I started there, and after running out of gas after one set the day before, I lifted a new personal best. It was a great start to a great workout that focused on my chest and upper back.

One thing though -- proper form is crucial when you do this lift, and proper form requires you to keep the bar movement as vertical as possible, right up against your shins and thighs. I made the mistake of wearing shorts and no leg wraps and really barked up my shins on the knurled part of the bar. I'll remember to cover them next time.



One of the guys I really admire approached me during my workout yesterday. He complimented me on my progress, then asked what I was eating to lose weight. He's frustrated that he can't drop pounds. This is a guy who lifts close to his body weight on the bench. I've seen him on the stair climber for close to an hour at a time. He is tremendously fit and he's asking ME how I'm losing weight. I told him about smoothies, salads, fish, and an occasional cheese burger. I also said that when I get stuck, I make a change to my workout, never repeating the same routine twice. I didn't want to say too much because A) he doesn't really need my advice and B) I don't really know what I'm talking about anyway. It made me realize that even athletes can be distracted by an idealized body image.

On the other hand, there's a woman at the gym who has always struck me as a natural. She is lean and muscular and works out like a fiend. I have always admired her, not so much as a sexy woman - which she is - but as a role model for the kind of work ethic I want to bring to the gym. The other day, while talking with one of the handsome young men, she mentioned that she weighed over two-hundred pounds when she started at the gym! This woman is built like an olympian!

There's just no way to tell how your body is going to wind up. You can work your butt off, eat clean, and do everything else right, but ultimately your genes set the limits. One of these people looks like a gymnast, the other like a shot putter. Both inspire me and both work as hard as a person can work. They just have different programming. It's a little daunting to know that no matter how hard I go at it in the gym, my genetics and my age are only going to let me go so far. On the other hand, i really want to find out how far that is. Not so I can look like a body builder or a marathoner - but so I can look and feel like the best Pennsy possible.

Peace,
Pennsy

An Inspiring Fat Man

I saw this video on Runner's World. It really touched me.

It's great to know you aren't alone. I love the part where he says he's 258, but would like to be around 200, tomorrow if possible.

Like the guy with the hair says -- the key is consistency/not immediate results.

I did a hard half hour on the elliptical today - kept my heart rate in the 160's (my max HR is 172) - then showered and joined Mrs P and our family for some Thai cooking. Garlic asparagus with tofu. Awesome. It tasted like spring.

Tomorrow, back to the weights. The short workout was easier on my knee, even if it was more intense. It felt good to soak in honest sweat again.

Peace,
Pennsy

Pennsy Meets a Great Big Man

I have always been a big man. When I meet a man bigger than me, it freaks me out a little. I learned a lesson about that today.

I was still bummed about the weight. Four miles on the treadmill did not change it. Once again, a stranger came to my rescue. This time it was one of the giants from the land of free-weights. If someone told me he was an NFL lineman, I would not be surprised. I’m not sure, but I saw him on the bench press lifting something close to my weight last week. I give these guys a respectfully wide berth. They are serious about their work at the gym.

In the locker room I was changing pretty quickly, partly because Mrs P was waiting, and partly because I was soaked and it was really cold in the locker room. (It’s a pretty cold day in the Bluegrass but no snow in sight - rain in the forecast for Tuesday.)

So my giant neighbor came in and said “Tough to get warm today.” I agreed. Four miles on the treadmill, and my arms were still chilly.

“How long have you been coming?” he asked.

“I’m one of the New Year’s resolution crowd. I started on the 19th.”

“How much weight have you lost?”

I told him my ridiculous story. 13 lbs, then 3, then none. I said I was a little discouraged.

He told me not to be. The big early loss is mostly water, he said. After that, you start building muscle, which burns fat. As you become stronger, you will replace one with the other, and the weight will start to come down.

“You aren’t losing weight, but you are losing inches. Your clothes fit differently, right? A lot of people get discouraged and quit right now. You’re doing great.”

“OK, I’ll stick with it, I joked, but If I haven’t seen any change in two years, I’m out of here.”

“Two years?” he laughed. “You should take a picture of yourself now. If you work the way you are for two years, you won’t even look like the same person.”

We finished dressing and I shouldered up my bag to go.

“Thanks, man. I appreciate the encouragement.”

“Enjoy your time off. You’ll be back at it tomorow.”

It takes so little to build a person up. I’m really grateful for this man and his kindness to me. I may never have his biceps, but I hope someday I can have something like his sincere, generous heart.

Four miles today. Average speed, 4 mph, average incline, .5.

Peace,
Pennsy

The Steel Curtain photo is from the web site of a child of the Three Rivers who sells real estate in Las Vegas. I don't know anything else about her, but were I shopping for property in CSI territory, that picture would make me call her.