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Goofs

The Source

My fearless little band of Lincoln Land theatre loonies will be doing a play next spring based on what it’s like growing up. Every week I ask them a question on our Internet blog site . . . What were your parents’ reactions when you were born? How did you feel about your first week of school? When was the first time you fell in love? This week’s blog asked them to talk about their most embarrassing moments. The hilarious results are still coming in, but their responses keep kicking off memories of my own. I don’t plan to share my own mortifications with the young actors, but I’ve felt the same humiliations return as I thought back to . . . The time I’d been hired to speak to the Brown County Republicans on one cold Mt. Sterling evening and then address the AARP chapter in Springfield on the next. I’d been asked to entertain the Republicans with political stories and encourage the senior citizens on the joys of growing older. I’d never made this mistake before and haven’t since, but when I stood before the packed crowd of GOP’s at the KC Hall in Mt. Sterling I reached in my pocket and pulled out my notes labeled, “Your Last Days Can Be Your Best.” I’d brought the wrong speech. This gave me about five seconds to decide what the heck to do. The speech I’d intended to give was full of specific names and references. . . not something I could make up on the spot. So, I talked to the Republicans about their last days. They seemed to be delighted and I’m sure that all my deceased Democratic ancestors were smiling down upon me. More goofs came to mind. I was directing a production of the musical Li’l Abner at Triopia many years ago and we wanted to do it up right so we’d collected a small menagerie of farm animals to bring onto the stage of Dogpatch, USA. This was back in the days when perhaps 80 of the school’s 120 students would be involved in the production and this cast was a handful. My greatest task every night had little to do with theatre; I simply tried to maintain order. Most of the football team was in the play and sometimes the boys forgot that they were on stage and not the football field. When the script called for them to wrestle onstage we had no need for fake blood. I’d spend most evenings shouting for “Quiet!” at the top of my lungs and on one spring evening I’d had enough with the noise coming from backstage. I ran behind the scenery and started shouting very un-Presbyterian-like things to whoever was making all the racket. When I turned the corner I found myself talking to a pig. A pig. The little porker was apparently anxious to go onstage for his “Jubilation T. Cornpone” scene so he had began grunting loudly. By the time I’d finished my tirade the pig had quieted down and I turned around, red-faced, to see a cast of 80 staring at a director who’d seemingly lost his mind and had turned to a crazed Dr. Doolittle talking to the animals. I shouldn’t have started this business of recalling my humiliations because they suddenly started screaming back into my memory. Like the day at Jack’s before it became Shopko. I was wandering through the medical aisle when a lady tapped me on the shoulder. She said, “Do you know where they keep the breath pumps?” Breath pumps? I didn’t work there and I’d never heard of a breath pump, but I showed her the display of inhalers. She said, “No! No! Breath pump!” Oh! She must want antiseptic throat spray. “Here’s some Chloraseptic,” I said. “No! No! Breath pump!” then she pointed to her chest. I don’t know much about speech impediments, but it was now obvious that this lady had a severe lisp and apparently a baby waiting in the car. I found a clerk immediately, having no idea where Jack’s kept their breast pumps. This recalling was becoming agonizing. The list went painfully onward. . . realizing that I’d spent thirty minutes talking to a fellow, all the time calling him by his deceased brother’s name . . . trying to get into my car in the County Market parking lot only to realize that someone else had the nerve to park their small red car right beside my small red car. . . having too many “Marcy’s” in my email address book and sending a news item intended for The Source to Burrus Seed Farms. . . ordering 2000 advertising cards for a Jacksonville Theatre Guild play only to realize that I’d listed the wrong year of the production. But one of my biggest embarrassments wasn’t exactly my fault. The year was 1969 and the little town of Ripley, Illinois, hired my teenage rock back to play for their outdoor festival. It turned out to be a Baptist revival and our opening number was “Louie, Louie!” Oh baby…we gotta go…..