So, yesterday one of our best friends from college dropped into town on her way up to Boston.  Her name’s Katy, and she’s kinda awesome.  (And by kinda, I mean really.)

I don’t have a picture from our excurtions yesterday because I am that dope who carries around a camera but never remembers to use it, but here’s a picture of Katy and me at the wedding.

The best maid of honor ever and some other bitch.

It was amazing to see Katy again.  Kyle and I hadn’t gotten to see her since our motherfucking wedding almost three years ago, and I can say with confidence that three years is too fucking long to go without seeing a best friend.  It was wonderful to catch up, drink, laugh, and enjoy all the things that we love about her.

But there was something else wonderful about seeing Katy that had less to do with the badassery that is Katy, and more to do with spending time with an old friend.

Over the years, as we move throughout the world, we are molded and altered by our circumstances and experiences.  So it’s inevitable that I’ve changed in the three years since we graduated.  But I like to think that the essence of me, the part of me that people (seem to) enjoy being around, is essentially the same.  Or at least similar.  Enough so that hanging out with Katy felt comfortable and fun, like it used to.  (At any rate at no point did she jump up and scream, “WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!”  But maybe she was just being polite.)  So I can comfortably say that the me that Katy enjoys being around is more or less the same me that my Saratoga friends enjoys being around.

But what is entirely different is the lens through which each of these groups of friends sees me.  Katy knows me in the context of our college world in that period of our lives.  She knows me in a world of classes, dive bars, dark theatres and apartment living rooms with plastic red cups.  It’s in that setting and that circumstance that we met and became friends.  There’s an entire cast of characters and an endless web of relationships that weave within and around our relationship.  When I look at her, I not only see Katy, I see the history of our friendship and the world in which it was built.  I can only imagine she sees the same when she looks at me.

Our Saratoga friends, however, see something different when they look at me.  Our Saratoga friends know us in a setting of Irish pubs, dusty race tracks and barbecues in the backyard.  The world in which we met is a completely different one, the people we know are different, and the periods in our lives are different.  The Stephanie and Kyle that these people know are the same as the ones that Katy knows, but the background we appear in front of is different because the history behind us is different.  And sometimes, it’s fun to play in front of that old background and assume that old history for a while.

Katy shoved off for Boston a few hours ago, and in a couple more we’ll be meeting some Saratoga friends for happy hour.  I feel certifiably insanely lucky to have so many friends with so many different histories.  They adds complexity and richness to my life that no accomplishment in my career or travel or fantastic shoes can, and I wouldn’t trade a single one of them for anything.

(I mean, unless they were really fantastic shoes.)

EPILOGUE: Remember how I said I was going to happy hour?  Well, we got all gussied up and went downtown and got to the bar and discovered that we were the first ones there, which was weird considering we were 10 minutes late.  So we sit there for about another 15 minutes and all of a sudden Kyle goes, “OOOOh, I know why no one’s here.  It’s because happy hour is tomorrow.”  Turns out he misread the e-mail.  Fail.  So we went and got ice cream instead.  Which, I guess, makes it a win-win in the end.

The audience.  You guys are the lifeblood of the theatre.  Without the audience, there would be no reason for me to go to work, my paychecks wouldn’t come, and I would be stuck sitting at home watching Real Housewives marathons and trying to paint the cats’ claws.  95% of the time, you guys are awesome, and I love you.  (Please keep buying tickets!)

But then there’s that small group of dicks that mess it up.  You know who I’m talking about.  They’re the kind of people who take loud phone calls in quiet restaurants.  They’re the kind of people who let their dog shit on your lawn and quietly scurry away without picking up the doo.  They’re the kind of people that sneezes into their hand and then reaches into the bowl of jelly beans.  We all know them, and we hate them.  And those people?  They go to the theatre.  They go see shows.  And their asshole behavior doesn’t stop just because they’re at the theatre.

Now, I know you don’t want to be that person.  No one wants to be that person.  We hate that person.  Luckily, I’m here to help.  I’ve sat through a lot of shows.  And I’ve seen a lot of those people.  Here’s how to not be one of them.

*When you scream for the show to start, that won’t make it start any faster.

I know you’re excited.  I know you’re eager.  I know that you’re practically pissing yourself to see your favorite musician perform.  But seriously guys, show some dignity.  Screaming and hollering will not make the show start any faster.  If it’s not time for the show to start yet then it’s not time for the show to start yet, so buy a damn watch.  And if we’re starting late, there’s a reason we’re starting late.  There are so many components that go into getting a show off the ground, and any one of them can hold things up.  Maybe the guitar tech is finishing up.  Maybe the A2 is having trouble with the monitors.  Or maybe the lighting designer is still desperately programming the light board because she just realized that she has no house lights in the board.  Who knows?  There is exactly one person who can make the show start faster, and that’s the promoter, so unless you’re him, keep your panties on.

*Don’t show up absurdly late.

Okay guys, let’s be real here.  I get that you’re here to see the headliner, and the thought of sitting through an opener or three may not sound particularly appealing to you.  Especially if one of the openers is, say, the headliner’s guitar tech who’s been drinking and toking since 10am.  So showing up 20 minutes late to a concert may not be the worst offense a person can make.  But showing up 45 minutes late to the ballet?  It’s rude, guys, it’s rude.  Just having to be seated by the usher with their fucking little flashlights is distracting enough.  And god forbid your seats are in the center of a section.  I guarantee that each and every single person that has to stand up in the middle of the show so you can scoot past to your seat is thinking of an individual horrific method of ending your life.

I know life can be chaotic, guys.  Sometimes I get in the car and have to do a conscious check to make sure I’m wearing all my undergarments because I’m not totally sure.  But showing up stupid late to a show is super rude.  Make the effort, make it happen.  Your fellow audience members will thank you.

*Kids don’t belong at most shows, but if you do insist on taking a kid to a show and they start crying, for fuck’s sake, take them outside when they start crying, not 20 minutes later.

There are plenty of shows for small children.  My space actually does a whole series of shows especially for kids.  Show after show of bright colors, funny hats, puppets, and songs about the importance of brushing your teeth.  I will want to throw myself in traffic, but I promise your little tots will fucking love it.  There are also plenty of shows that are NOT for small children.  Classical violinist.  Folk guitar trio.  Modern dance group.  The ballet.  Shit, I know some grown adults (hi, Kyle) who can’t sit quietly through a full length ballet.  But maybe there’s a reason you decided to bring Jr along.  Maybe the babysitter canceled last minute.  Maybe you can’t bare the thought of leaving the little one.  Or maybe you truly believe that your child is different and they will enjoy the performance.  (My mom took me to a ballet at 5 and I adored it, so I know there have to be a few budding freakazoids out there.)  Whatever the reason, the kid is here.  But for fuck’s sake, when they start crying, take them the fuck outside.  Theatre tickets are expensive.  Some people only get to go a few times.  So imagine how pissed they must be when, after shelling out $30 for a ticket, they have to listen to your little angel scream his head off.  You know your kid, and you know the warning signs.  No excuses.

*Don’t ask us to turn the volume down, we won’t listen to you.

Look, I know that the customer is always right.  But we’ve also done a lot of these shows.  A lot.  In my almost two years in this gig, I’ve done around 450 shows.  Our audio guy has been here for 8 years.  You do the math.  So we’ve got a pretty good idea of what most people like in a show.  We’re out to create an enjoyable experience for our audience, so we’re going to execute our portion of the show in a way that we feel most of the audience will find pleasing.

So when you come up to us and ask us to turn the volume down, we’re not going to do it.  For one, I’m lights, not audio, so you’re barking up the wrong tree to start with.  But ask our audio guy, and he still won’t do it.  Why would he do something that he feels will ruin everyone else’s experience just because you think it’s too loud?

There are numerous people who can change the volume of the show: our boss, our boss’s boss, the road’s production manager, the promoter, to name a few.  You do not make that list.  If we’re feeling nice, we’ll feed you a line with an apologetic smile about how the volume level is set by the promoter and we don’t have the power to change it.  If we’re not feeling nice, we’ll lower an empty submaster on our boards and pretend we’re changing the volume.  And if it’s been a shitty day and we’re feeling abused, we’ll likely just glower at your and go back to whatever we’re doing.

*If in a drunken state you manage to accidentally stumble your way into the production area I am in no way required to be nice to you.

I have to put up with a lot of stupid at work.  Most of it is stupid that I have to put up with because it’s part of the gig.  But your drunk ass is a form of stupid that I am by no means required to deal with.  Nowhere in my theoretical contract does it say that I have to be nice to drunk people who wonder their way into the booth.  I don’t care if you’re lost.  I don’t care if you think this is the bathroom.  And I really don’t care how cute you think you are.  If you drunkenly stumble into my portion of the production area, you will hear one thing from me: “What the hell are you doing in here?  Get the fuck out of my booth!”

*Don’t take flash pictures.

Don’t even bother.  Not only because it’s super distracting to both the performers and those sitting around you, but because your pictures will. not. come. out.  They won’t.  You will get a lovely picture of backs of heads belonging to those sitting directly in front of you, but you will not get good pictures of the stage.  You want good pictures of the stage? Turn off your flash, set your shutter speed as slow as it will go and turn your aperture as wide as it will go.  Or better yet, don’t take any pictures and just enjoy the show.  We promise we’ll all believe you were at the show without photographic evidence.

*Don’t puke.

Seriously, guys.  Not cool.  When you puke it hurts so many, many more people than just the people on either side of you.  When you blow your cookies on the floor, it will inevitably get stepped in a half-dozen times as people exit the theatre.  So now there’s trails of puke in addition to your lovely puddle.  And some poor asshole is going to have to clean it up.  Do you know what else our cleaners have to clean up in that space?  (And that’s assuming the cleaners won’t put their feet down and refuse to clean up the puke, forcing our buildings manager to do it.)  Abandoned programs.  Candy wrappers carelessly thrown on the floor.  Spilled beer.  The gum some jackass keeps insisting on sticking to the bottom of the seats, even though that is by far the most disgusting and inconsiderate thing a person can do.  They once even found a tooth on the floor under some seats.  What I’m trying to say is that these guys already have a shit job.  And when you make it even shittier by being unable to hold your shit together, you might as well be lining them up and puking on their faces.

*Don’t step over rope and stanchion.

The rope and stanchion traditionally means that you’re not to cross or enter the designated area.  That means everyone.  Not everyone but you.  Not everyone but you’re just going to hop across real quick.  Not everyone but just in this special once.  It means don’t fucking cross.  Look, we’re not trying to be assholes.  We don’t hate you.  But there’s a lot of very expensive equipment with potential hazards if you don’t know where you’re stepping.  So don’t fucking cross.

*When the show’s over don’t demand that I give you set lists.

I work for the house, which means that set lists, (which are property of the road show,) are not mine to give away.  It’s not uncommon for road crews to hang on to set lists because they include notes, changes, or adaptations for the band members.  But even if they were mine to give away, I wouldn’t give them to you when you throw yourself at the front of the stage and start screeching, “HEY!  HEY, YOU!  THROW ME THAT SET LIST!”  It’s kind-of like me hurling myself at the boards at a hockey game and yelling, “THROW ME THAT MOUTH GUARD!” or the stage after a ballet and screaming, “THROW ME THOSE POINTE SHOES!”  There is nothing in the audience/performer engagement that endows you do anything other than a performance.  If someone tosses you a set list or guitar picks or drum sticks, then Merry fucking Christmas to you, but it’s a gift, not a right.

Moral of the story, guys?  Don’t be a dick.  Be thoughtful and considerate to your fellow theatre-goers, enjoy the show in a way that doesn’t endanger your health or your dignity, and we will be a-okay.

And if you think of it?  Next time you go to see a show, look at the back wall or the front to the stage and see if you see someone wearing all black that looks tired and scruffy and a little abused.  Give ’em a little wave and a “Great show, guys!”  That moment of kindness will mean more to them than you can ever imagine.

And then get the fuck out, ’cause we want to go home.

Gather ’round, children, and let me tell you the story of the magical Shuffle Fairy.

Once upon a time, two  or so months ago a long time ago, there was a runner named Stephanie.  She spent way more time than was healthy on the road, torturing her body in the name of fitness and bragging rights.  In a vain attempt to keep from throwing herself into traffic, Stephanie bought herself an iPod Shuffle, and filled it with hours and hours of music, an eclectic mix that includes Dropkick Murphys, Lady Gaga, Rammstein, and the South Park: Bigger, Longer & Uncut soundtrack.  And she loved her Shuffle.  Even  when it was 3 degrees outside and she was knee-deep in snow and slush, she found that she was able to smile as long as there was a little “Uncle F**ka” in her ears.

But then, on one day of no particular importance, something terrible happened.  It was a little warmer than usual, and unlike most days, when she clipped her Shuffle off to the bottom of her fleece, Stephanie had put her little Shuffle in the pocket of her zip-up.  And unlike most days, when she walked in the door after her run and immediately plugged her Shuffle into the charger in the kitchen, she completely forgot about her little Shuffle.  And unlike most days, when her Shuffle sat happily on the charger and waited for her next run, her motherfucking little Shuffle stayed in the motherfucking pocket of her motherfucking zip-up until it went into the motherfucking washer, followed by the motherfucking dryer.

Motherfucker.

Of course, this was not discovered until the next day, when she went looking for her Shuffle.  As soon as she saw that it wasn’t on the charger, she knew in her heart of hearts where it was, and her oatmeal immediately returned to the back of her throat.  She dug through the basket of clean laundry until she found her zip-up.  There it was, with a single drop of water leaking out from the headphone jack.

Fuuuuuuck.

The Shuffle was left to rest for a few days, partially to let it dry out and partially out of a desire to postpone what she was sure was its inevitable death.  Then it went on the charger, because…well, it seemed like as good an idea as any.  Finally, breath held and fingers crossed, she plugged her headphones into the little Shuffle and pushed play.

And it played.

“Basket Case” came blasting out of the buds at volumes she hadn’t heard since front row of that Flogging Molly concert.  (Apparently somewhere between the washer and the dryer the volume got turned up.  I don’t know, either.)  Stephanie was ecstatic.  She pushed another button, and another.  One after another, they all performed just like they were supposed to.

Except for the NEXT button.  That one didn’t work.  Which is really fucking unfortunate, since that’s the button that Stephanie used the most.  Running is really emotional for her, and if the song doesn’t match the mood she’s in (even if it’s a really great song) she skips to the next song.  So even though the Shuffle still worked, it didn’t work in the capacity she needed it to.

But she wasn’t willing to pronounce it dead.  Not out of bravery or a strong belief in technology or even stubbornness.  No, it was out of fear.  She was afraid that her Shuffle was dead and she didn’t want it to be dead, so she was willing to suspend disbelief and pretend that putting it back on the charger and ignoring it would somehow fix it.  Problem solved.

Now this, children, is where the magic came to play.  You see, somewhere during the two months that the little Shuffle sat, ignored, on its charger, it was visited by a magical creature called The Shuffle Fairy.

The Shuffle Fairy goes around to the houses of good little boys and girls who have put their iPod Shuffles through the wash.  She flies into their kitchens and with her magical fairy kisses she fixes the NEXT buttons on their Shuffles.  (Kyle says she also drank all our beer and ripped that nasty one in the bedroom but I’m suspicious.)

One day, Stephanie was in the kitchen, working on dinner, and she saw her Shuffle, sitting forlornly on the charger, and she picked up her  iPod, plugged in a pair of headphones, and hit play.  Throwing shit to the wind, she hit NEXT, just to see what would happen.

And what happened what fucking magic.  It worked!  It was like nothing had ever happened and her little iPod was back to normal.  She and her Shuffle, happily united again, hit the road once more.  (And just in time, too, because if Pandora tried to sneak one more fucking Glee song into my running mix it was going to find itself smashed against the sidewalk.)

And so, dear children, we learn that the best way to deal problems is to ignore them for as long as possible and fairies will totally come and fix them for you.