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We were thrilled to be in the audience for the final performance of “Othello” last night at Griffith Park and had so been looking forward to the show, but unfortunately once it started we found that our position centered some 50 yards away from the stage was fatally detrimental to our enjoyment and comprehension given the number of the performers who were unable to project their voices such an apparent herculean distance. Seriously: there was a gentleman behind me gamely whispering a play-by-play to his companion who was literally drowning out some of the actors on stage.

The young lady’s expression inadvertently captured in the foreground was probably unrelated to the company’s lack of projection to this distance, but it certainly mirrors the frustrations I had with such inexplicably weak voices used in an outdoor venue.

For the price of admission I suppose I shouldn’t complain, but I will: it’s patently unforgivable — especially at the final performance. I suppose fault could be placed in our laps for so naively arriving at 6 p.m. instead of, say, 6 a.m. when we could have secured and defended a space much closer to the stage and well within the range of such a rampant use of camera-ready voices. But since we weren’t alone at arriving at so far more civilized an hour I’m wondering (hoping and praying, actually) if consideration is being given either to having the director rigorously explain the art and science behind voice projection, or perhaps installing even the most rudimentary of electronic amplification systems — or even better: both!

To be sure, even from so far away I could recognize the energy and enthusiasm and talent present in the production, but if no one at the Independent Shakespeare Company either on the stage or behind it recognizes that the importance of being heard at such a venue is far more than the importance of being earnest, I’m afraid the flood of patrons fleeing from the rear at future intermissions will continue with many never to be seen again.

My wife and I among them.

Sincerely,
Will Campbell

How now? Good sir David Melville, the managing director of the company saw fit to take good and surly issue in a reply to my email (to which I parry with my reply afterward).

He writes:

My goodness what an insulting email.

Why on earth didn’t you move closer if you were having difficulty hearing? If you arrived at 6pm then you certainly could have found a better seat. There were plenty of good spots closer to the stage last night even with over 600 people in the audience. I stood at the back last night behind everyone and had a brief conversation with a patron who was amazed at the good acoustics and the skill of our actors. I’m sorry this was not your experience.

I take great exception to your comments about our actors. This is most decidedly not the prevailing attitude to our work.
Thank you

David

And my reply to his reply:

Hi David,

My goodness what a speedy and ultra-dismissive and defensive reply in so excellent an attempt to be as insulting as you deem me to be. Had I any idea I was contacting such an easily offended and myopically over-protective representative of the company I would have dispelled with anything resembling constructive cordiality and just gone straight to the expletives.

But I’ll hold off on those pending the tone of any follow-up reply you might feel is required.

As to your ridiculously inconsiderate suggestion that we relocate further up, rest assured, had there been the opportunity to do so once the show started we certainly could have been even bigger asses than you presume us to be and packed up our low-backed lawn chairs, food, drinks and other materials and gone “excuse me, pardon me” trudging through the densely packed patrons in front of us to clatteringly unpack and resettle and better disturb their enjoyment — something you no doubt wouldn’t hesitate to do.

But shame on us for being respectful of our fellow attendees and for not being entirely accepting of those weak-voiced members of your apparently unimpeachable cast. For what it’s worth I didn’t hold every single player accountable. For instance, the fine actor portraying Cassio was as wonderfully audible as he was talented.

Anyway, I’m thrilled for you finding a guest in the back who represented that “prevailing attitude” to your work by reinforcing how everything was just peachy. Conversely, I’m embarrassed for you that you so readily disregard this guest who had a far different experience — and the truth is you’re not sorry in the slightest about it.

If nothing else you’ve reminded me that making suggestions that could be beneficial in improving an experience for everyone sometimes falls on deaf ears — ha! But at least in doing so you’re patronizing reply has provided me ample reason never to waste even a moment considering patronizing any future productions the ISC might be involved in. For that, I thank you.

Sincerely,
Will

UPDATE (12:30 p.m.): In the meantime I hear back from the far more reasonable Melissa Chalsma, ISC artistic director:

Hi Will,

Thanks for your input. I would say that your experience, on the whole, isn’t the norm, though that certainly doesn’t invalidate it. Many of the actors you saw are among the best trained in the country, and none are camera actors, having performed on Broadway, Ashland, Utah Shakespearean, Festival, etc. So, for the most part, it is the acoustics of outdoor theater, not their ability, that is the challenge.

Acoustically, it’s difficult not to have a back wall behind the audience not to bounce sound off. Any theater with 600 people generally has something to bounce the sound off of, and perhaps we will be able to do so someday, though the finances of that are decidedly challenging. Overall, though, it’s good to be a victim of our success. I’d ask you to remember, we are doing this without significant city support, and will provide free, professional theater for nearly 15,000 this summer.

If you return, please ask one of our volunteer ushers help you secure a spot closer to the stage.

Thanks again,
Melissa

To which I return:

Dear Melissa,

I had braced myself for a reply whose tone mirrored Mr. Melville’s initial response, and it’s a relief to get one featuring far more consideration than he could manage. I can appreciate that my experience might be in the minority, and as I stated in my initial email even though I couldn’t hear much of it, I could readily see that there was talent and commitment all over that stage. That in part is what made last night so frustrating.

Melville blamed us for not packing up and muscling our way during the performance to a patch of grass closer to the stage. Sorry, but that’s not how I was brought up.

I do apologize for my sarcastic reference to “camera-ready actors,” which unfortunately theater in Los Angeles has occasion to suffer from because it’s the nature of a training that is focused for dialogue on soundstages rather than stages.

And while my first email [may] not seem like it, I do recognize the difficulties you face both financially and acoustically, and I do understand and applaud the great job the ISC is doing despite those hindrances to bring professional theater to the public. It’s an important reason why we came out there last night to support it.

In closing, my suggestions — any snark aside — were offered as a life-long fan of theater outdoors and in, because I always want to see it be the best that it can be.

Regards,
Will

But just as things seem to be mellowing out, Melville comes back with the coup de grace:

Well one less pompous arse in the audience is fine by [me]. Especially one that needs a hearing aid.

To which I briefly deliberate going a little wider and posting this entertaining grind on Blogging.la but I decide just to throw back to him:

Honest Mr. Melville,

In that case, I’ll see you at the next performance to make much ado about something. I’ll be easy to spot. Just look for the villain standing in one of the old bear cages with a rapier in one hand and a bullhorn in the other yelling “I CAN’T HEAR YOU!”

Best,
Will

What ho!? Nay! It lookst to me as if there might be a thaw in the ice to see. Melville writes:

That is actually quite funny. I’m beginning to like you.

Sensing an opportunity to end things on a better note, I offer my broader mind in response:

David,

I’m a sucker for a kind word. So nevermind. It’s all my deaf-assed fault.

Seriously: I can imagine how much hard work you’ve put into herding this endeavor — and probably for little reward more than the satisfaction of seeing angelenos flock to watch it happen. As vested as you are it’s understandable that you’d be so paternally protective of your productions and your actors. I hope it’s ultimately understandable that though I’m coming at it as an unvested audience member, I’m just as paternal about theater as a whole, and always want to see it be the best it can be.

As I wrote to Melissa, my suggestions ( I won’t call them simple because I’ll wager nothing is simple where these shows are concerned)  were sincerely offered because all sarcasm and disgruntlement aside, I’d be the first one to jump up on the battlements to cheer you on for what you’ve accomplished. You interpreted what I wrote as an attack and baseless, but I  submitted it not as a hater but as a diehard supporter who saw room for improvement.

Certainly you could argue “Well why didn’t you just say THAT instead of all that snarky malarky? And that’s a good note worth taking.

So howsabout a truce: You go put on a fresh coat of teflon and I’ll put the rapier and bullhorn back in storage and remain hopeful that you and the ISC will continue to look for ways to make a cherishable experience even better. Deal?

Best,
Will

In fact, all’s well that ends well. Melville writes:

I like you even better.

Next time you come please let us know and we’ll save you donor seats.

Sold… As long as there are no internal organs I’ll be required to part with for the privilege.

Wiping up the counter after doing the dishes yesterday morning, one could almost hear the cartoonish tire-screeching sound as I stopped the paper towel literal millimeters from this leggy leeeetle fella I saw parked there. In a world full of people who have 1,276 more important things to do than waste time over trespassing insects, I’m that guy: the one who goes to silly lengths to follow my motto of “if you’re not bothering me than I’m not bothering you,” and return such living things to the great outdoors.

Don’t tell anyone, but I’m even known around these here parts to unlatch window screens and give freedom back to flies.

So. Using a drinking glass and my coaxing skills I got this bug  safely outside and  installed on the jasmine vine near the backdoor before managing the above nice macro shot (click for the bigger picture).

Life is good.

UPDATE (10:15 a.m.): The ever-reliable bugguide.net informs me it’s a stilt bug.

It’s been an enjoyable couple weeks spying on the frontyard hummingbird nest through the porch spotting scope, watching as the chicks have grown exponentially thanks in full part to the momma bird’s tireless efforts.

Then came this morning when I looked through the eyepiece and found the nest, which as of yesterday could barely hold the two babies, seemingly empty. Immediately I looked directly below the nest to our front steps and found cat Pepper sniffing around the edge of the ivy, my worst fears as a hummingbird uncle realized.

Bolting down there I hoped I wasn’t too late and also wondered how in the hell would I be able to find such a tiny creature, especially if it had fallen from the nest into the deep ivy — a very real possibility.

A minor miracle: I quickly found the bird completely still in the narrow band of dirt between the rock walk wall and the ivy jungle. See it?

It’s basically right above that gap in the concrete in the center of the frame. And worst of all Pepper had been practically right on top of the helpless creature, saved from being a quick snack perhaps only by its instinctive ability to remain absolutely still.

Here it is a bit more close-up, after I put Pepper inside:

I’m not sure how long it had been there. I’m not sure if it fell trying to fly or might have been nudged out by its sibling, but none of that mattered. What did matter was that it seemed in good health, which was good news.

What’s also good news is that I’m an absolute genius. See, yesterday morning Susan and I made good on percolating plans to make a run to Lowe’s for a growing list of home improvement things we needed.

Not on that list was one of those high-fruit pickers — those contraptions that extend like 15-feet and at the business end of it have this wire basket used to snag and catch fruit from hard to reach boughs. But as we were making our way through the garden section of the store I saw the thing and realized it might come in handy to help get them back up into the tree should one of the chicks not be very successful in taking their first flight.

You should know I did not pat myself on the back at my foresight and confidently add the $40 item to our collection of purchases. In fact I probably changed my mind about buying it three or four times before sighing and dropping it onto our cart, with the rationalization that I could return it.

And when Susan saw it in the cart she just smiled that “I totally married a nutjob” smile when I told her its potential purpose — but she understood and didn’t object.

Needless to say as I palmed the chick and it responded by opening its beak for something to eat, I remembered the picker and felt totally and absolutely righteous and awesome.

Susan held the chick while I readied the apparatus and she remarked how she could feel the vibrations of its rapid heartbeat (about 250 times a minute) and was surprised at how much warmth it radiated. Momma hovered nearby wanting to know what we were doing with her baby!

Of course, I had it in my head that I’d put the chick in the cage, hoist it up into the laurel tree’s branches near the nest and it would hop out back home all safe and sound. Yeah, no. The baby bird obviously felt no urgency to leave this cushion-y comfy new place for the crowded conditions of its birthplace. So it stayed put. Which is why if you pass by our house you’ll see this long orange rod dangling from the tree down over the ivy (image after the jump) because I hooked one of the picker’s grabber claws over a smaller branch and so far things seem to be working out fine. Mom’s gotten used to the new digs and been by to feed the chick. And the chick itself is just kicking back.

We’re certainly not out of the woods yet. Not by a long shot. There’s all sorts of things that could go wrong. The chick could fall out again and this time into the ivy, and/or the other one still in the nest  above it could take a dive. The picker could slip from its perch and fall or even potentially be stolen by some unknowing jerk. Plus its new home could draw the attentions of squirrels or crows or possums or blue jays.

But like I said, so far so good. And whether for better or worse I’ve given the amazing awe-inspiring creature a chance it certainly wouldn’t have had on the ground.

Fingers crossed.

UPDATE (06.28): At 11 a.m., the wayward chick is still in its makeshift nest doing very well, having moved from the middle to perch on the perimeter of the picker basket. But its sibling, while partially visible in the actual nest higher up in the tree, has not moved all morning nor been visited by the mother hummingbird since yesterday, leading me to sadly consider that it may have died.

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On the first of this month I posted an itty bitty bit of video of the hummingbird and nest Susan found high up in the laurel tree overhanging our front yard. A couple days earlier I posted better ones over at LA Metblogs. In the days since we’ve been monitoring the mama and her eggs’ progress, and so far all has been good with no teeny tiny baby beaks have been seen poking out of the nest.

At the rear of the house in the tree central to our backyard — most recently made famous here in April for its busy bushtit nest (now empty that the chicks have fledged) — I’ve been close-range buzzed by another hummingbird several times, and when the last divebomb happened this morning I commented to Susan that there must be another nest nearby.

Well sure enough, I just happened to look in the right place today and voila there it was in a bough practically at eye-level from where I stood. Empty of mom at that moment, I ran in grabbed the cam to get shots of the eggs and nest, like so, using a pencil eraser to give a sense of scale (click to biggify):

Yeah, those two little eggs aren’t much bigger than the pencil’s eraser. Amazing!

This isn’t my first hummingbird nest. In June of 2007 I worried myself sick keeping eyes on a pair of hummingbird chicks safe from our cats after they ended up on the patio several times when they were trying get their wings working.

Here we go again!

UPDATED (1:58 p.m.): Mama came back and didn’t freak out with me about 6 feet away with the big camera (click to biggify). Wonderous. Joyous. Magnificence.

Not sure what at all’s going on with the sudden and surprise change from my blog’s long-standing theme to this default version that I discovered this morning when I opened up my browser.

It’s through nothing I did and other than contact my webhost I’m at a loss as to how to fix it.

So here’s hoping Dreamhost can figure it out before I go crazy from the bland derivativeness and do something to break it further.

UPDATE (2:32 p.m.): Well, my original theme is back. Yay. Somehow, unbeknownst to myself nor my webhosters it got deactivated so after much fretting, I clicked the “activate” link and everything seems back to how it once was. I hope.

I should have known right away that something was up when I came outside for lunch and first saw Ranger in the backyard standing still and looking down at the dirt. But it wasn’t until a couple minutes later and Ranger was still in the same spot still looking down that it dawned on me a critter might be the object of her attentions.

My first thought was that it was one of the bushtit chicks in our backyard nest who’d fledged and fallen, but when I arrived, I’d found a tightly curled alligator lizard. Dead? Seemed like it. Legs all akimbo, and there was a bit of blood on the scales under the tail when I lifted it up with a twig as Ranger stood guard close by. In addition, it had already regrown (or was regrowing) its tail, lost probably in a previous cat encounter.

Ranger stood beside me seeming far more like she was protectively watching over the reptile rather than toying with it, leading me to believe one of the cats had caught it and brought it out in the open.

When I picked it up though it moved slightly – yay! So I brought it in and set it on my desk while I sought a shoebox to put it, and sure enough when I returned it had disappeared — which was good to see, providing that I could reacquire it.

A short search later revealed its refuge behind one of the computer speakers and I was able to stow it in the shoebox to de-stress while I registered it with the LA County Museum of Natural History’s Lost Lizards of Los Angeles project.

Later on I transferred it to the tortoise pen (as pictured), where it’s been exploring and resting. Hopefully the wound under its tail is not indicative of any more severe internal injuries and it’ll recover enough to find its way out and be more successfully keeping away from the cats. Fingers crossed.

UPDATE (4:02 p.m.): Just went outside to check and the lizard either can make itself disappear, or was well enough to escape through a gap between the top of the pen and the wall. Good luck little fella!

After riding from Silver Lake to Seal Beach and back to downtown, before pedaling the last five miles home, I was able to catch the last remaining competitors in the Tour of California Time Trials taking place on a course stretching between Bunker Hill and the Memorial Coliseum.

I was entirely blown away by the amazing display of speed, including that of past champion Levi Leipheimer, who I was barely able to keep in frame as he whizzed past me into the turn from 1st Street north onto Main Street (click for the bigger picture):

UPDATED (5.24): For a sense of the speed involved, here’s a brief video clip of the cyclist who followed Levi. I changed street corners for more of a coming-at-ya vantage point:

Well, this just has to about beat all. On my bike, I’ve been left-hooked, right-hooked, cut-off, short-stopped, tailgated, shaved, flipped-off, shoaled, poached, thrown at, laughed at, yelled at, cussed out, threatened and derided by all manner of motorists.

Never before — nope: NEVER EVER — have I experienced direct derision and disdain from someone so much further down the ladder than me until this morning when the very embodiment of Some Homeless Guy (SHG), looking about as fresh as he probably smelled, saw me as I rolled to a stop at Wilshire Boulevard, while southbound on La Brea, and decided to let the world know he thought I was just about the stupidest thing on the street.

Watching the pedestrians cross in front of me I didn’t catch that the tirade was in anyway directed at me. All I saw and heard mixed in with the din of the rush-hour cross traffic was the shaggy and begraggled SHG on the corner to my right with multiple duffel bags looking my way and incomprehensibly yelling — the latter being something that street people are pretty commonly and loudly known to do.

This tirade went on for the better part of 10 seconds, and I was doing pretty well at respectfully ignoring the gibberish right up until he ended his rant with something along the lines of “…and here’s this idiot on the street riding a motherfucking bicycle!”

Above image of SHG culled and photoshopped from video of the encounter, viewable after the jump.

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Well after a quiet start to these first few weeks of 2010, I made up for lost flats last night. Got three — count ‘em: three! — on the ride home from work. Silly me: Earlier in the day I’d actually dared to consider that I might get through the first month of the new year without one. Jinx!

But before anyone gets all preachy about a flat’s occurrence being in direct proportion to the cheapness of the tire involved,  understand that I finally took that sage advice and instead of my usual $14.99 brand I have been rolling on a pair of $40-each Continental Gatorskins since the latter third of December.

I’m no stranger to flats. Over the course of the 6,741 miles I rode in 2009 I had to fix 31 of the suckers — and a lot of them had to do with the crappy tires I used.

But with last night’s first two flats even the touted Gatorskins were helpless to prevent them. Witness my assailant, newly developed on Centinela just west of Sepulveda thanks to last week’s rains (click for the bigger picture):

Sure, you’d think something this gargantuan as this freaking crater of doom could be avoided by a cyclist even half as alert as I usually am, but the problem began with a broken patch of roadway just out of frame to the left that I’d dodged to the right.  Coming past that hazard I came left to get out of the debris-filled gutter and with no room for oversteering I ended up zigging a little too far back into the lane and the next thing before me was this monstrous black hole looming. At about 15 mph all I could do was roll through it. And pray.

Dropping in the trench was no problem. But coming out the other end over what amounted to a sheer continental shelf? Problematic. It was like trying to climb over a sword’s edge. I felt and heard the clang as the  front tire compressed and the pothole’s edge came into contact with the wheel’s rim. Then came the inevitable POP!-sssshhhhhhhhhhh.

Little did I realize that when my rear tire followed the front over the sharp edge of asphalt it couldn’t help but do the same thing. And since it popped only a micro-second apart from the front I didn’t know I’d double-flatted until I came to rim-riding stop about 100 yards down the street.

Wow! My first-ever double flat. Never in my long history as bicycler had I experienced such a predicament. Had it happened in front of a bar I might’ve gone inside to celebrate the milestone, but instead in that desolate and dark no-man’s land I just grumbled, turned the bike wheels-up and got busy swapping out the popped tubes with the two spares I’m never without.

Thirty minutes later 8Ball was mobility-enabled again, and after returning to the scene of the crime to snap the above shot of the culprit, I got the hell on my way.

Not more than three miles later, on the Ballona Creek Bikeway approaching Overland Avenue, I feel my rear tire going flat, and as I slowed cursing, my first thought is that the existing patch on the replacement tube, which had been salvaged from a previous flat, had failed. So I pulled over, and called Susan to alert her as to why I would be home much later than I’d hoped.

She graciously asked if I wanted her to come pick me and the bike up, but I was game to do one more flat fix, and while on the phone with my hand spinning over the rear wheel, I chanced upon a protrusion from the allegedly bullet-proof tread of the Gatorskin. Telling her I’d take her up on her kind offer if I had a fourth flat, I soon extracted the organic little demon pictured below, partially pissed that the 1/8th-inch bastard had breached the tire’s touted defense system… and partially relieved  that it wasn’t the previous patch that had failed (click  for the bigger picture):

In short order I’d applied a glueless patch to the puncture, and after immortalizing the pointy thing that caused it got on with the rest of the ride home — flat free.

UPDATE (10:38 a.m.): As expected, I found the rear tire flat this morning. Glueless patches should never be considered anything more than a temporary fix. Even if the tire was still full this morning I would have deflated it and replaced it with a far more durable glued patch.

Haiti’s got me dwelling and waking up. The quake, it’s terrifying devastation and its chaotic aftermath have all served  to show me how ill-equipped our household is and will be when an epic disaster strikes Los Angeles.

When. Not if.

Sure, we’ve got emergency food/supply backpacks in each of our cars. Plus there’s an emergency container in the backyard. We’ve got sturdy shoes and flashlights and a transistor radio and spare batteries and about five gallons of drinking water. But we are so seriously lacking in other essential aspects and a comprehensive emergency plan that for the first time in my life as an L.A. native who’s been through every temblor since the 1971 Sylmar quake, I am just now finally recognizing how such an abject lack of planning and preparation can make a bad situation worse and a catastrophic situation potentially devastating.

So now it’s time to go full-stop and reverse that trend. It’s time to quit allowing all that negative potential the opportunity to be realized, and instead go about covering all the bases as best I can. Not so much for any peace of mind beforehand, but for the chance at a better ability to cope and survive in the inevitable nightmarish aftermath.

UPDATED (01.17): On this the 16th anniversary of the Northridge Earthquake, I secured our first bookcase — the one that stands inside the front entrance. My original intent was simply to dust it and its contents for the first time in waaaaay too long, but in the course of doing that I realized attaching it to the wall to be a simple matter of driving three long screws through a crosspiece supporting one of its shelves into the plaster behind it. Voila! One down, maaaaany more to go.