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Hey everybody.  Here’s a bit on what I’m up to over the next couple of months.  If you can get yourself down to Sturbridge and the Stageloft theater, you’ll get to see me in the next three shows, starting this Friday!

I'm gonna look JUST LIKE THIS

First up, I’m pulling double duty as Bob Cratchit and Fezziwig in A Christmas Carol.  This show is becoming a bit of a Stageloft tradition, and I’m really happy to be a part of it.  You know the story of Scrooge, but I really like this production.  Great cast, sweet costumes, and lots of neat technical wizardry courtesy of super-talented director Jeremy Woloski.  We’re starting up this weekend and we’ll run for three weeks.  Check out the website for all of the performances (we’re cramming in about fifteen!) and reserve your tickets.  A great way to unwind amidst all of the Christmas hustle and bustle.

George W. Bush listening to a shoe

When Christmas Carol wraps, I’ll already be hard at work on my next role: Agent 86 of CONTROL, Maxwell Smart.  Get Smart is going to be just the kind of comedy to beat the winter blahs, and I’m really excited to get started on it.  The laughs are rapid fire in this one, and I’ll finally get to work with our fearless leader, Ed Cornely.   Would you believe it’s got all the charm and fun of the original series?  Would you believe we open on January 20th?  Would you believe I’m so dedicated to the role that I’m going to shave my beard?   (I’m gonna try to lose a little weight while I’m at it, but don’t hold me to that.)  Please, don’t miss this one, guys, it’s a three-week run and I hope you’ll be there.

Also not to miss – Woody Allen’s madcap Don’t Drink the Water, which follows Get Smart on February 24th.  Chuck Grigaitis started begging me to come audition once we started on Laughter on the 23rd Floor.  Here we are now, and I’m lining up to play Father Drobney, a priest seeking asylum in an unnamed Communist country in 1960′s Europe.  He also does magic tricks in his spare time.  That’s only a fraction of the insanity that this script has to offer, so I’m going to leave it to you to come join us during that three-week run.

That will wrap it up for me for the time being.  Three shows back-to-back-to-back is something I’ve never attempted, and I’ve got a feeling I’ll need a rest.  Sorry I can’t make it for The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee, but you know I’ll be there to see it.

I’ve been a busy blogger as of late.  Actually, let me start over again.  I’m not writing enough to be considered a busy blogger, per se.  If I’m not actually blogging, the adjective “busy” doesn’t serve to properly modify the noun.

I’ve been a busy fella as of late.  That’s better.  I recently wrapped up a four week run with the gang at Stageloft, putting on Neil Simon’s Laughter on the 23rd Floor.  It’s a comedy that takes place in the writers’ room of a fictitious variety TV show in the Fifties.  The show they work on is in fact primarily based on Your Show of Shows, which featured the great Sid Caesar, where Simon got his start.  This premise seemed a good fit for me, as the film My Favorite Year (a very simliar premise) is quoted daily by my family.  This vicarious familiarity made it an intriguing show for me to go try out for, especially seeing as how I’d been seeing a lot of shows at Stageloft lately.  And if that wasn’t enough, I was handed sides to read at auditions for a character named Ira Stone, a hypochondiracal shlimil who was essentially  a cross between Woody Allen and George Costanza.  (Based on Mel Brooks, as it turns out.)

"Who knows if we'll have this much fun again in our entire lives?"

Doing this show was a blast.  Everyone involved was a true professional.  Working with an ensemble of talented people like you see up there is a very rewarding experience.  Along the way, I feel like I made a bunch of new friends.  And on top of it all, we received a FOUR STAR REVIEW in the Worcester Telegram and Gazette.  Huh… a thing like that.  I hate to toot my own horn, but I feel that I have to make light of this quote from Paul Kolas:

“Steve Caputo is wonderfully antic as Ira Stone, a hypochondriac who defends his imagined ailments with an especially sharp tongue. He challenges Bryan Swanda’s smoothly sarcastic Brian Doyle, the only gentile in the bunch, to a verbal contest over who can come up with the funniest names.
Watching Caputo and Swanda duke it out is one of the show’s high points.”

#humblebrag

Now it’s hard for me to look at the calendar and realize that the show’s run is over and it’s back to normal… or maybe it’s just time to do another show?  I’m getting auditions lined up for Christmas.

It’s 6:43 pm, in Atlanta.  Do you know where your bus pass back to Framingham is?

This is the realization I had a week ago that brought me back to reality, although I was still a few hours from home.  But as good a time as any, I guess.  I had just spent the previous couple of days visiting Florida for the first time, seeing my good friend Dean get married to his longtime girlfriend, Rachel.  The timing of the trip couldn’t have been better, either.  I had just gone through a pretty scary event the day before (legally, I probably shouldn’t write about it right now), so getting on a plane to escape seemed like a good idea.

Friday morning, I left the house around 5:30 in the kind of rain that won’t make up its mind.  The plan was to get to the Logan Express station in Framingham, where I’d catch a shuttle bus out to the airport and get on my 8:30 flight.  Easy enough; jump on the Pike, get off at the exit, and find the shopping plaza it’s located in.  Little did I know that this was an enormous plaza that seemed to go on for miles.  It was still pitch black out, so it took me several minutes to find the station.  But having done so, it was pretty straightforward and the ride was quick enough, so if you ever need to fly out of Logan and don’t have a ride, don’t bother driving the whole way into the city, just stop at one of these stations.

Now, I hadn’t flown in about ten years, and even then these were flights from Providence to Long Island.  These are not long flights.  Therefore, I was going to have to learn the post-9/11 boarding process.  I have to say, I was like a pro right off the bat.  I grabbed my little bucket thing, kicked my sneakers off, filled it up, and went through the metal detector.  I guess that at Logan they only want you going through the new body scanner if you’re good-looking.

I didn’t have to wait too long to take my flight.  I got on board, took my window seat, and watched as we took off in the rain, passed through the clouds… and emerged in the sunshine.  I had forgotten how truly high up you go in an airplane.  I felt like we could go to outer space if we wanted to.  Maybe that’s why I muttered “Engage” to myself as we lifted off the ground.  I broke out my new copy of Chuck Klosterman IV and tried not to chuckle too much.  I also tried to figure out where we were when I’d look out the window every half hour or so.  I’d look out and see an obviously urban landscape, or a beautiful mountain range, and try to guess  where along the eastern seaboard we might be.  No luck, though.  After about three hours or so I landed in Atlanta.  I thought Logan was big, but Hartsfield is WAY bigger.  Good thing, because I had plenty of time to kill between landing and boarding for Florida.  So here’s what I did while I was there:

Next stop: Melbourne, FL.  I could see Kennedy Space Center while landing there, which I got a kick out of, as well as Patrick Air Force Base.  I would rent a Ford Focus, and it would serve me well.  I also saw palm trees for the first time in my life, which was a bit of a shock.  I don’t know what they’re made of, and they sort of freak me out.

I got to the hotel and got myself set up before getting a text from Dean inviting me out to dinner.  I donned a brand new t-shirt (seeing as how it was now T-Shirt Time) and returned to the Focusmobile, only to pass by old friend Caity and her sister, Jennie.  Hugs all around!  They were easy to find, but as it turned out, dinner was much harder.  The address I looked up on Google sent me to a house in a residential area 20 minutes away.  I can only assume that this was the owner’s home, and I was tempted to knock on the door anyway.  ”Excuse me, I’m here for the Bowers/Demetropoulos rehearsal dinner.  Well, this is the address Google gave me, so it has to be true.  No, you get out of my house.”  Turns out the place was so close to the hotel I probably could have walked, and although I was late, things were still in full swing.  I got caught up with Dean, his brothers Erik and Chris, best man Mike, Caity, Jennie, and finally got to meet Rachel.  I found myself thousands of miles from home, but surrounded by friends.  And when I got back to the room, the Celtics were on.  It was as if I hadn’t left.

The next day, I grabbed some breakfast and headed to Satellite Beach.  It was a gorgeous day.  I made a couple of phone calls on the shore before I got ready for the big event.  By now I was getting used to driving in the area, which reminded me a lot of Long Island.  This makes sense, as about half the population used to live there, so they might as well feel comfortable on the roadways.

You crazy kids.

The ceremony was held at the historic Rossetter House, which is in Melbourne.  Actually, it seems to me that Melbourne takes up about half of Florida.  Everywhere I went seemed to be in this town, and I did plenty of driving.  The ceremony was short and sweet, emphasis on the sweet part.  The weather was perfect, the moment was perfect, all that jazz.  They couldn’t have had it any better.  The reception wasn’t too far away, and a very good time.  Caity and Jennie, who do this sort of thing for a living, kept noticing all of the details of the setup.  Mike was pretty nervous about delivering his speech, but he did a great job with it thanks the to his sense of humor.  I didn’t expect any less, anyway.  Then it was off to dance like crazy, share a shot of uzo, and send off the newlyweds in style (read: Dean’s car wrapped in toilet paper).  That was courtesy of Erik and Chris, who I always love seeing because of their brotherly dynamic with Dean.  Could you call that philadelphian?  I think I will.  It sounds great.  You see, they are just like my own brothers; Erik is the oldest and has a military background like my brother George, which has helped him become a model citizen and all-around great man.  Not to mention police chief in Barre.  Erik, not George.  As for Chris, he and Jimmy are practically interchangeable; middle children who happen to have a sizable gap between himself and the younger brother.  They even work with computers, have a razor wit, and are more than a good time to be around.  Dean and I are typical little brothers in that respect, I guess, in that we look up to them a whole lot.

After doing the uzo, Mike told me he needed a room to crash in for the night, and I was more than willing to accomodate, as well as give him a ride back to the airport the next day.

"Dean's sarcastic because he wants to be funny, and he wants to be funny because he wants to make you laugh, and he wants to make you laugh because he wants to make you happy. That's why he's such a good friend."

The afterparty, funny enough, was in James’ room, directly above mine.  Anybody who mattered was up there.  More booze.  We talked about a range of topics including old friends, Hulk Hogan, and superconductors.  Okay, the third one didn’t happen.  I don’t really remember all of the conversations at this point, but it was all a great time.  Once the party wound down, Mike and I headed down to my room and quickly passed out.  The next morning, the newlyweds dropped by before going home (the honeymoon didn’t start till this week in Greece).

Over breakfast/lunch at Denny’s, Mike and I talked about the whole weekend before I mentioned how funny it was going from Logan to Hartsfield, having the same exact setup of the Delta terminals, and then landing at MLB and stepping back in time into 1972 or something.

“Melbourne, huh?”  Mike says.  ”Yeah,” I reply.

“Huh.”  He pauses.  ”I’m going out of Orlando.”  Another pause.  ”I’ll be right back.”

We laughed for a minute, and Mike called Chris to tag back to Orlando, although I was ready to drive him down there and back.  I had enough time.  But that taught us not to make travel plans while drunk ever again.  Besides, this gave me a chance to head back to the beach for an hour or so.  I made a new friend there:

Persistent little guy.  The sea was angry that day; I think a hurricane was off the shore.  I wasn’t sure, I didn’t really care.  I didn’t care about anything on that beach other than the fact that I was there, I had just seen good friends, two of them are newly married, and I got to see it.  Soon enough I would have to go flying through the air again, but for now, I was watching birds, waves, and hesitant surfers.  I also nabbed some nice shells.

MLB airport is small, and also laid back.  I decided to head up to my terminal early so I could read and check up on Facebook.  I was essentially the only person in the airport, so I got to see what TSA agents are like when they’re not stressed or rushed with travelers.  Much different, and willing to chat a little.  When I got back to Atlanta, I rode their tram across the airport to my flight back home.  It was now that I realized that my car was still sitting in a lot in Framingham, and that I had a ticket to get back on that bus to it.  But like the rest of this trip, I neglected to panic.  I checked my wallet, and sure enough, there it was.

I got another Sam Adams before I boarded.  I sat at the bar, watching an exciting ending to the Eagles/Colts game.  With only 30 seconds left and a crucial punt return by Indianapolis, I suddenly realized that I had to get up right then.  Sure enough, I ran down to my gate, and the announcement for my zone came on.  ”I am a traveler today,” I thought.  I smiled as I wearily made my way to my seat and read the whole way back.  I landed at Logan around 11 that night in the rain.  I stepped outside and I started to laugh.  It was cold, it was damp, it was loud.  Boston.  I’m happy to be back here.  In Framingham, my car was covered in a thin layer of slush.  The rain was changing.  It would change many more times as I plodded back along the Pike.  I guess it never really did make its mind up while I was gone.  Strange enough, when I got off in Sturbridge, there had been no precipitation at all.

I would return home at about 1:30 am.  My mind was saying, “You should unpack,” but the rest of me just wanted to get into bed.  I did pull out my seashells, though, and I laid them out.  I grabbed four.  It just seemed like the right number at the time.  I smiled and turned out the light, putting a great weekend to bed.

I like that place.  I’m going to have to go back some day.

I’ve got more pictures up at the highly neglected NP1 Flickr page.  Go check ‘em out.

(If you laughed at that title, you went to high school with me.)

Last weekend, I had the privilege of spending time with this handsome devil:

The camera loves him!

That’s Jake, and he’s a true gentleman.  I stayed at his wonderful home and took care of him while his family was out of town.  We hung out, shared sandwiches, went on long walks, and had introspective conversations about weather, women, and wine.  I guess you can say that he helped me become a dog person in a short amount of time, and sealed the deal by saying goodbye to me when I checked up on him for the last time.

Here’s a chat log with friend and newly-minted blogger Caitlin.  I have sunk to a new low by copy/pasting from instant messaging, but it’s good material.  Don’t judge me.

Me: i’m jake’s best friend now, as it seems
i stopped by the house to check up on him one more time, but his family had gotten back already… he came and said goodbye when i left
Caitlin: no.
he is yours.
as dogs are.
Me: i stand corrected
Caitlin: you could lock him in a closet for a week and he’d be happy to see you when you let him out.
just like me.
Me: true
i’ve never had a dog before. i think i could warm up to ‘em.
he was like a canine representative
Caitlin: Really? you haven’t lived.
you haven’t ever loved or been loved in return until you belong to a fog.
dog*
(that would have been much more epic had I been paying attention while typing)

I have no intention of belonging to Mel Tormé, especially seeing as how he’s dead, so I’m glad we cleared that typo up quickly.

The Worcester Art Museum is currently showing a spectacular photography exhibit called Who Shot Rock and Roll: A Photographic History, 1955 to the Present.  It’s gotten the attention of folks all over town, and I got my chance to see it the other day.

The WAM (as I like to call it) is kind of a hidden gem for the city, the kind of place that you always seem to forget about when you try to come up with cool things to do.  Thankfully, they will bring in this type of show and people flock from far and wide.  I was excited about it because it was combining two of my favorite things in the world: music and photography.  When you think about rock and roll, the first thing that comes to mind after the music is the imagery.  This exhibit focuses on the way photography can help to transform an artist into an icon.

For one, WSR&R is like a quick history lesson in rock.  You start with Chuck Berry and Buddy Holly, work your way up to Elvis and the Beatles, then the Stones, Zeppelin, and so on.  Along the way, you see how photographers develop a love for their subjects over the years, the way portraits grow into serious studies on the character of the pop idol.  I spent so much time with a big smile on my face, thinking, “This makes these people legitimate.  This makes them immortal.”  It’s not just the music, if MTV ever taught us anything, right?  Okay, so it’s art for the masses… but there’s a ton of good stuff.

My favorite finds: a larger and more detailed print of Anton Corbijn’s portrait of U2 that served as the cover for The Joshua Tree, a huge six-panel holographic Andy Warhol study of Jimi Hendrix, and learning that the most famous headshot of The Police featured Sting’s calculator wristwatch.  I might have been most moved, though, by the juxtaposition of these images:

"Lose some sleep and say you tried..."

There’s Ian Curtis of Joy Division, the incredibly influential post-punk/pre-New Wave band of the late 70′s.  Curtis committed suicide at the age of 23, driven there by depression and a terrible case of epilepsy.  His lyrics were haunting and the music was moody and danceable.  I’ve always been struck by this photo of him, his sad eyes wandering off in the distance.  Also, his right hand looks freaking huge.  But having read and watched plenty of material on his short life and the band’s endurance as New Order, Curtis is my own personal Jim Morrison.  I got sucked into seeing this picture in person and I would have probably been brought down by it had this not been the one placed right beneath it:

"Head on down to Walter's for some barbecue!"

This is probably my favorite picture of my favorite band.  Here’s R.E.M. in the mid 80′s, sitting at the counter of Walter’s BBQ, a popular joint in their hometown of Athens, GA.  They loved the place so much, they wrote a theme song for it.  Michael Stipe’s silly mug is such a contrast to Curtis’s melancholy stare; never mind the fact that I love both these bands’ work, it was just great planning by the exhibitors.

Other great selections included a nice big portrait of Jack and Meg White, a very cool morphed image of Mick Jagger and a leopard, and a neat panoramic collage of Oasis in the studio with Johnny Marr.  Could have seen more of The Who and maybe some representation of the colorful Flaming Lips, but you can’t have everything.  Still, this is a thorough study of rock.  The show is still at the WAM until May, so go and see it while you can.