A Role To Dye For

(From the Janesville Messenger, 4-19-2015) 

Being involved in community theater makes you do funny things.

That doesn't always mean presenting comedic lines. Sometimes, what you have to do to prepare for a stage role is the bigger, and stranger, challenge.

For instance, learning how to juggle beer cans. Or how to imitate Julia Child. Or how to talk like a donkey. Or how to waltz - while wearing a bulky clock costume - with someone dressed as a wardrobe. That particular dance ended up being cut from the show, a decision that may have saved lives.

Away from rehearsals, however, my only obvious concession to being cast in a play has been the addition of facial hair. Whenever whiskers sprout, friends and relatives automatically assume there's a play in my future. They are often right. For “Camelot,” it meant growing a full beard that came in so white, it added years to my appearance. As soon as the final audience was gone, so was the beard. To play Cogsworth in “Disney's Beauty and the Beast,” my facial enhancement was a snazzy Frank Zappa moustache and soul patch combo that I was quite fond of.

But for a recent role as a priest in the drama “Doubt,” the director requested two beautification events that are generally avoided by males of the species.

My character was at least a decade younger than my real age and the director thought my graying temples were not right for the role. A request was made to have my hair dyed back to its darker original color.

Chemicals in my hair is not a foreign concept for me. In my late teens, my sister gave me home perms to give me a hip afro, like a Caucasian Billy Preston or a “Hotel California”-era Don Henley. Many years later, I made an ill-fated attempt at dying the aforementioned white beard at home, which ended in a stained-face disaster reminiscent of an Emmett Kelly poster.

The risk of looking like I was fighting middle age was one thing. Growing my fingernails long was nearly a deal-breaker.

My character's long fingernails are mentioned several times in the play's dialogue. There is even a point where he shows off his nails to the audience. Reluctant to use fake nails for fear of them falling off during a performance, the director asked me to grow mine out.

The biggest concern was that, being in sales, long nails would look unprofessional and require explanation. But I dutifully followed instructions and allowed them to progress uncut.

Oh. My.

They were barely half the length they needed to be, and I was already going crazy. Longer nails just felt wrong. There were weird clicking sounds when I typed. Scratching an itch drew blood.

It was time to revisit the fake nail scenario. A nice, if amused, young woman at a beauty supply store helped me pick out some press-on nails. Trying them on for a rehearsal, it became apparent that losing one during a show was not a concern; those suckers weren't going anywhere. The director approved. My real nails could be cut. Oh, joy. Rapture!

Thankfully, one of the females in the cast asked how I was planning on removing the nails. Unbeknownst to me, normal nail polish remover wasn't going to work. She said it would require pure acetone. It might have made for an interesting evening at home if she hadn't mentioned that.

Wearing my winter gloves to disguise my benailed fingers, I made a second trip to the beauty supply store. To my surprise, when you buy pure acetone, you have to show your ID. Apparently, not only does acetone do a great job removing fake nails, but also your faculties; it can be used to produce meth. You can't say this wasn't a learning experience.

As it turned out, a cast illness resulted in the show's cancellation, so having my hair dyed turned out to be in vain. Or at least, that's what some people assume.

Anyone need a bottle of pure acetone? 

The Fall Guy

(From the Janesville Messenger, 12-7-2014)

I'm not what you would call graceful.

My history includes many episodes that range from awkward to downright clumsy. A classmate once described me as being “as coordinated as a cow on stilts.” But the defining moment of my school career occurred during a junior high basketball game when, after attempting a layup, a laughing teammate declared that I looked like a flying camel.

And lo, unto me a nickname was born. To this day, former school friends – as well as their parents – still refer to me as Camel.

On one recent morning, it was hard to tell whether I resembled a camel, cow, Bambi, or some other odd animal as I lay sprawled upon my icy driveway, howling in pain. Venturing out in a bathrobe and flip-flops to get the morning newspaper, the freezing rain claimed another victim, a cruel reminder that Mother Nature takes no prisoners during Wisconsin winters.

In pursuit of the day's headlines, I instead acquired a headline of my own, a Harry Potter-like laceration above my right eyebrow. When I went down, my forehead struck the corner of a stone wall, almost immediately inflating a bulge that looked and felt like a baseball growing out of my face.

After the ice melted on the roads - and in the pack on my forehead - we made the obligatory trip down to urgent care, where x-rays of my head showed nothing (apologies to Yogi Berra). The medical staff were all very nice and sympathetic, never once blurting out “You idiot! What were you doing out on the ice?”

Of course, when you visit the doctor, you get asked to rate your pain on the 0 to 10 scale, with 0 being no pain and 10 being worst possible. There is a chart on the wall to assist you in your pain estimate, with helpful facial expressions next to each number. For example, 0 is a big smile and 10 is a huge frown with tears. With each number up the scale, the center of the eyebrows moves upward, the smile straightens and then turns downward, the eyes look sadder and finally cry. Even with that as a guide, I never know what to say. It would be easier to self-assess with real world examples; say, a paper cut is a 2 and having your leg gnawed off by a tiger is a 10.

I was also brutally honest with the doctor examining me. When she asked how I was feeling, I simply replied, “stupid.” No other answer (“OK,” “Fine,” “Not so good,” etc.) seemed appropriate.

Fortunately, no stitches were required on the cut; instead, it was held together with a big glob of glue. It was like being in second grade art class all over again.

A knock to the noggin is the gift that keeps on giving. Three days later, swollen purple sacks formed in the corners of both eyes. Within a day or so, I sported two shiners straight out of a Rocky Balboa film.

Trying to hide facial injuries is an art. The head wound was camouflaged by parting my hair to the other side. With the black eyes, contact lenses were eschewed in favor of dark-rimmed glasses. The restyled coiffure just felt weird, though, so it didn't last long. There are worse things in the world than displaying a big purple splotch on one's forehead. Heck, it didn't stop Mikhail Gorbachev.

It is also an art to avoid staring at someone's injury. The wound on my head is just so darned interesting to folks. It is hard to avoid laughing when seeing people's eyes dart from my forehead to my eyes and back. At least they can look straight into my eyes to appreciate the shiners.

I guess I should have listened to the advice I dispensed from the theatrical stage two years ago, as I sang the line, “When on thin ice, please watch your step.” The musical? Of course....“Guys On Ice.”

The Legend of Great Uncle Charlie

(From the Janesville Messenger, 10-5-2014)

            In downtown Janesville, at a place they called the Corn Exchange, sits a monument dedicated to the local men that served in the First World War. A soldier at the top wears a bowl-like doughboy helmet and stands among twisted barbed wire, rifle in one hand, grenade in the other. All four sides of the monument's base list the names of the fighting men whose lives were changed forever by America's entry into the great conflict. On the north side, you'll find the name of Charles A. Lyke, my grandfather's brother. An asterisk next to his name indicates that he was a “casualty,” killed in service to his country.

            And that is where The Legend of Great Uncle Charlie begins.

            People liked Charlie. His obituary states that he was “well known in this city,” “naturally of a jolly disposition” and “made many friends wherever he went.” It's clear from their mail correspondence that my grandfather and Charlie were fond of each other. “Charles” was chosen as my father's middle name when he was born five years after Charlie's death.

            Charlie died four days shy of his 24^th birthday, and two weeks past his first wedding anniversary. Six months after his marriage, he arrived in France. It was the tail end of the war, but the fighting was still intense. According to newspaper reports, “he saw action in several of the biggest battles,” including Chateau Thierry, St. Mihiel and Soissons. “He went through the hardest fighting of the war,” the article claims, “without receiving a scratch.”

            The armistice was signed in November, and Charlie's regiment became a unit of the Army of Occupation. Apparently, post-war France wasn't a bad gig. In a postcard to my grandfather, he described it as a great time and characterized the French women as “friendly.” Charlie also said that he believed he would be coming home soon.

            By the time that postcard reached my grandfather, Charlie was dead. He died in Germany, and was indeed traveling via rail for his return trip to the United States. The articles and obituaries all state that he was killed instantly in a train accident. “No details of the accident were received,” said one news story. “No information relative to the nature of the accident was given,” reported another.

            My grandfather claimed to know the details, and told them to my father.

            The story, as I remember it being told, was that Charlie was drunk and passed out on the tracks when he was hit by the train. We don't know how my grandfather came by this information.     

So that interesting bit of family lore is being passed on to my kids. And that is how family legends survive and evolve. Another generation or two down the line, the story might get more interesting.

            In a strange coda to this story, Charlie's widow also suffered a violent death 20 years later when her house on Cherry Street exploded. Authorities found that the house was “full of gas” and that the stove was turned on full blast at the time of the explosion. Though the news article refused to call the death a suicide, the reporting certainly inferred that. A close friend was quoted as saying she seemed “depressed,” and a gas man stated that he had inspected the gas lines and found nothing wrong. “Whether she was asphyxiated by illuminating gas or by the force of the explosion could not be definitely determined,” according to the coroner.

            Viewing the war monument downtown, I used to ponder whether Charlie deserved the special designation next to his name that implies he died in battle. I'm convinced now that he did. He served his country half a world away and lived through things you and I will hopefully never see. His inglorious end doesn't change that.

            As Victor Hugo once said, “History has its truth, and so has legend.” Rest well, Great Uncle Charlie.