Hello, there. I'm Scott Charles Adams. Some of you may remember me from such travel logs as Scooter Thomas Makes It to Altoona and Into the Looking Glass--My Experiments with Hallucinagens.

Okay--I didn't really write that last one. But in case you didn't read the first one, I'm the Assistant Director, and I was nominated to write this because I'm a fast typist.

Onward and upward.

Day One
Wednesday

I wasn't there, so don't ask me what happened. Some of the others made it there for Wednesday--among them, my lovely wife the director--but I sat at home alone Wednesday night and played Masters of Orion II (despite my wife's request to vacuum and clean house) (hey, if I did everything she told me, she wouldn't appreciate me when I obeyed).

Day Two
Thursday

I woke up. Got out of bed. Ran a comb across my head. And, I went to work, unlike some of the people who were able to head to the festival during the day on Thursday.

Got home. Packed. Left. Nothing interesting happened until the ride there--and even that wasn't all that interesting.

Out in the Big Nowhere between Philadelphia and Harrisburg, the fireflies were everywhere. Bouncing off the hood. Smashing into the wipers to spray across the windshield. I was in the Little White Neon of Death that night, my friends. No glowing insect was safe.

When the carnage was over and I was safe in Harrisburg, I found the hotel bar that was to be our meeting place, and I sat. Fifteen minutes turned into an hour rather quickly as I drank and smoked and scribbled into my notebook. The bartender began to pity me. I could see it in his eyes. Unfortunately, I couldn't see it in what he was charging for the drinks. But I didn't worry. Nope, not me. My lovely wife had been without me for an entire night for the first time since our marriage, and surely she would be ecstatic to see me. She would come running through that door and smother me with smooches and all the loneliness would go away.

And then Dan Boris came in, and told me that my wife was waiting for me at the theater. She was busy at the reception, so she had sent for me.

My hopes for a joyous reunion smashed like a lightning bug on a Neon, I waved to the sympathetic bartender and moped my way to the reception.

There was drinking. There was also smoking, but one had to go outside for that. But at least there was drinking. And, it was free. Suddenly, the reasons why Nikki had sent for me were clear. If I was standing in a room of free alcohol, I'd be sending a non-drinker for her ass, too.

Fugedaboudit.

Everyone was talking about W:t, the show they'd just seen. Apparently it was extremely impressive, but I'd missed it. More on that later.

Eventually, we retired to the hotel room. Nikki suggested that everyone get some sleep--the following day was to be our performance. But Kevin reminded us that the night before our performance in Altoona, we'd stayed up late drinking. Not wanting to displease the cast, we sat up drinking until two in the morning.

After all, a happy cast is a well-performing cast.

Day Three
Performance Day
Very, Very, Very early.

Our tech meeting the following morning was scheduled for 7:30 am, which meant we needed to meet at 7:10 in the lobby of the hotel. Which meant we needed to be up at 6:30.

I hate 6:30.

First, the alarm went off. I hit the snooze button, and laid my head back down on the pillow, 'just for a second.'

Then, the wake-up call rang. I lifted the phone from the receiver and put it to my ear, wondering if a message there would magically make me awake and alert. Finding nothing but silence, I returned the receiver to the cradle, and laid my head back down on the pillow, 'just for a second.'

Then, there was a knock at the door. Nikki had had the foresight to pre-order our coffee, and Thank God she did. There's no way I would have gotten out of bed at the right time if not for the knock on our door.

I answered the door, and let the nice man with coffee bring it in. I did the tip math, and signed the check. I may have put pants on before I opened the door. I can't say for certain. I hope I did. If I did put pants on, they were back off by the time I stepped into the shower. The rest is a blur.

Bob--who told me later that he suffered a similar difficulty with Rising and subsequently Shining--went and got the truck for Load In. But 'went and got the truck' hardly seems to do the task justice. They made him park that sucker on an island out in the middle of the Susquehana River. I wish, for Bob's sake, I could say that was hyperbole. It was not.

Poor, poor Bob.

I considered going with him, but decided after a brief remembrance of Altoona that I could do the least damage in the loading dock of the theater.

We unloaded our stuff. We took the tour of the theater, and I forgot every twist and turn approximately eight seconds after it was shown to me. Fatigue and inebriation will do that, I hear.

Kevin and David showed up just in time for Tech Rehearsal. David had done exactly what I had done ninety minutes earlier. The alarm and wake-up call had gone off, but they hadn't ordered coffee the night before. Fortunately, we barely had time to realize they were missing before they were there, or a blood vessel in Nikki's stressed-head surely would have blown.

We ran sound checks. We played with the cyclorama (a large, white surface at the back of the stage, upon which light is cast for effect--generally referred to by theater people as a 'cyc') (and generally referred to by me as 'that big white thing at the back of the stage'). We threw some light at the big white thing. We oooed and we aaahhed, because it was damned cool.

Our show went up at one o'clock. We had to be backstage by about twelve-thirty. It was, by now, around eleven. That left just enough time for those of us who hadn't already done so to get cleaned-up.

Nikki elected to use that time to her best advantage. She had the opportunity for some good, old fashioned, Stress. She paced. She danced. She paced some more. She paced a nervous little two-step, her tiny face scrunched to keep from vomiting. Would they perform the show in less than an hour? If we went over sixty minutes, we would be disqualified--and since we'd started up rehearsals again three weeks ago, we'd only gotten it at less than sixty minutes one time.

Had we forgotten anything in Jersey? Would the sound be too loud, and drown out the actors? Would Kevin and David fold under the pressure? Would the theater's tech crew get everything right? If they didn't, would it throw off the actors?

Would the judges rip Nikki up and down, like they had at Nationals in Memphis two years ago?

It didn't matter now what we'd gotten wrong. It was completely out of our hands. Entirely. The ball was in the court of Kevin Paul and David Micun.

This time, I wasn't nervous at all. Honestly. Poor Nikki was a complete basket case, but I was cool as a cucumber. After all, we'd only wanted to get to Nationals, right? That had been our only goal, and here we were. Whatever happened from here was just gravy. At least, that's what Nikki had been telling us the entire time.

In an attempt to ease her nerves, I reminded her of this.

"What, are you crazy? I was lying! I'm here to win! Win! WIN!" she screamed, sounding like a Japanese parent before a spelling-bee.

I decided that her plan to keep her away from the cast--The Boys, as we called them--was a very very good plan.

It was showtime.

We wandered over to the theater piecemeal, dribbling into The Boys' dressing room one at a time. Kevin's sportscoat was wrinkled, and Nikki used up some nervous energy to run over to the hotel room and grab the Wrinkle Releaser. Eventually, the crew slipped out of the dressing room to give the cast a little bit of 'focusing time,' and we wandered around in the backstage area keeping quiet. It wasn't too long before the actors joined us back there. I suppose that because the show is basically about male-bonding, it did them good to male-bond right before the show.

Something happened, while we were waiting, before the show--something I'm not allowed to tell. Suffice it to say that would have turned into an extremely funny thread throughout this entire piece. Remember, "Old familiar steam" from Altoona? Our little inside-joke that had nothing to do with the show we competed against? Well, backstage before our performance was where our inside-joke for Harrisburg was born.

I'm not allowed to talk about it, so I won't.

But damn, was it funny.

We had ten minutes to set-up. It took us six--perhaps our slowest time ever. Our set was stored in an area at the back of the stage marked with white tape. When we were finished, we had to stand inside that white box before they would end the time (reminding Kevin of the sheepherding competition from Babe, and prompting the joke, "That'll do, Crew. That'll do").

Since we'd only taken six minutes of our set-up time, that left us four minutes to get back around to the theater and find seats--plenty of time, now that I was sober. Unfortunately, my wife had failed to save me a seat next to her. Nerves, I guess ... but I was beginning to notice a theme. Anyway, the chairs at the back of the theater were fine. Well ... they were good enough.

Once more, The Boys knocked my socks off.

The time between the ending of the show and the beginning of the ajudications was perhaps the worst time for Nikki. She didn't seem very nervous ... but it's like what Robin Williams' character says in Awakenings ... something about the final conclusion to a tremor being rigidity.

We broke down the set and walked off the stage--to chairs specially arranged at the front of the theater--like lambs to the slaughter. Well ... two of us were lambs. Nikki was a lamb. She was terrified. I think David was feeling a little sheepish too, but no one was nearly as bad a Nikki. The dial on her Stress-o-meter was pinned to the peg, up beyond the point were an accurate reading could be taken.

(At least, she better have been that stressed--because once again, I didn't get a seat anywhere near here.) (See what I was talking about? That 'theme' thing?)

Out came the first judge, who casually strolled to the podium. He stood there for a moment, his time ticking away, before beginning. I don't know what everyone was thinking during those moments, but I know what some of them were thinking.

My thoughts were, Okay, let's see how smart this guy is, because I'd seen the show and new there were only two alternatives--either he loved the show, or he was a moron. I hadn't seen any of the other shows or his judgement of them, so I had idea what this stranger might be about to say.

Nikki's thoughts were on leaping up and taking full blame for everything that went wrong with the production. I don't know how close she might have been to actually doing this. I'm betting she was pretty close.

David's ('Scooter') thoughts closely paralled Nikki's. He was fully prepared to be ripped up and down.

Kevin's ('Dennis') thoughts were similar to mine, except that he'd seen this judge do his thing already and knew he wasn't a moron or anything of the kind. For all I know, he might have been thinking, I'm ready. Shower me with love.

And shower him with love, he did.

"What you've just seen here, is a lesson in acting," the judge said.

That sounded too good, David and Nikki thought in unison. Here comes that other shoe.

But it never came. There was nothing but love. He'd hesitated before he'd spoken (at least, this is what we think in retrospect) because he'd been overwhelmed by emotion. He showed himself to be a man of great intelligence by adoring the show--as did the other two judges. I was surprised we got all the way through the ajudications without a wedding proposal, there was so much love there. There was love and love and love.

It was right around this time that David admitted he'd lost a contact lense, and had performed the show with sight in only one eye. Nikki learned of this shortly after I did ... and the expression on her face ... well, I'm not sure words can do it justice.

On the surface, there was the expected horror. Of course. David and Kevin had known there would be horror, or else they might have mentioned the missing lense before the show. Smart move. Very smart.

But, underneath the horror there was something else. The closest word I can think of would be 'disappointment.' She had the look of someone who had just sat through a slasher flick, and isn't told until she reaches the car after the movie that everyone was killed. In her eyes, you could see her yearning for the anxiety that could have been. But by then, it was too late.

The Boys had robbed her of a precious gift that day--the gift of Stress Beyond Imagining. I suspect that had she known, her tiny little heart might have stopped in her chest. But she would have passed from this earth feeling the most glorious terror known to Man, and I'm convinced she would have died happy.

The two shows that followed were the only two shows of the festival (aside from ours) that I saw. That's one of the nice things about just being an Assistant Director. No one was going to walk up to me and say, "I love what you did with Scooter--brilliant box-moving," and expect a like-response for the work they did. I found this to be a tremendous relief. I'm too theater-ignorant to be good at theater small-talk, which is one of the reason why I don't have anything to say about those two shows in this space. I liked 'em just fine.

We decided to dine in the Cafe. That same bartender from the night before was working, and I felt somewhat redeemed to prove to him that I actually did have friends in the theater, and that I wasn't some stood-up groupie the night before.

We'd just finished our appetizers when the fire alarm went off. An electric voice kindly asked us not to panic, and to please evacuate the building. I had a slight problem with this, as my iBook was up on the fourth floor--but I dutifully filed out of the building with everyone else.

Then the firetrucks came, and I began to seriously doubt the wisdom of my decision. However, brave-trooper that I am, I stood on the sidewalk in the heat and waited for it to be over with my fellow theater people and about a hundred hotel guests. I've been looking to replace this dumb-ole iBook anyway--with a newer model. If it burned up in some freakish conflagration, all the better. Maybe the hotel's insurance would compensate us, and I'd be able to get that new machine. Maybe they'd relace my camcorder, too ... maybe ...

Suddenly, we were all wandering back inside. The bartender told us that it was just a grease fire in a third-floor ventilation shaft. Nothing to worry about. No new iBook for me.

Kevin and David trailed behind, having met a new friend while we waited outside. More on him inna sec.

After dinner, we all headed upstairs to get changed for the boatride. I figured, Hey, we'll be on the water ... maybe it'll be cold out there, and I grabbed a shirt to wear over my t-shirt.

So I'm standing on the boat, sweating my butt off. We thought maybe we'd have another open bar on the boat, so I neglected to hit an ATM before we got out on the water and ... well ... let's just say there wasn't nearly as much drinking with the boat-ride as we might have anticipated.

And ... um ... considerably more sweating involved.

However, I did get to meet the new friend of Kevin and David's from outside the hotel--a really cool old guy named Charley.

Charley had had a nightclub act in Vegas for a while. I should have gotten his last name, because I might have been able to look him up somewhere. Me and Charley and his wife and a couple of others sat in the smoking section of the boat (which was rather a small section, considering the size of the boat) and we chewed the fat about a bunch of things. Or rather, Charley chewed the fat--because as you may know by now, anyone who gets into a conversation with me has got his work cut out for him. He'd better be one helluva talker.

Charley was perfect. What's more, he had good stories that he told well. With Charley around, that sweaty, sober boat ride went by too quickly.

Meanwhile, on other parts of the boat, Kevin talked to a girl--which we found extremely fun to watch despite our alleged maturity. We all whispered and pointed and giggled and leaned way out over the railing from the second story of this boat to watch Kevin's technique.

At this point, the boat's engine's stopped.

"He's letting her coast downstream," Bob explained to us. "He'll let the current take us past the docking point, and just before we smash into the bridge he'll gun the engines and bring us right in."

"Are you talking about the boat, or Kevin?" Dan and Patti asked together.

We elected to walk back to the hotel from the boat. Originally, the plan had been to throw a Yucca Party this evening, but we were all too tired from the day. Exhausted. Nearly dead. There would be no Yucca tonight.

Besides, Nikki had to be up early to attend a roundtable on music rights, and she wanted to be coherent for that. Of course, the few hours that were left between bed-time and wakey-wakey wouldn't allow for coherence, but she would at least be sober. So, we only sat up drinking in our room with the cast and crew for a little while before calling it an evening.

Er ... morning.

Saturday
Dinner & Awards
Not Nearly as Early

All but Nikki slept in the next morning. By the time I woke up, she was hallucinating from lack of sleep. It was funny 'cause--ya know--I was well-rested an' stuff.

Our Esteemed Director (and our Producer too, I think) attended every show and every adjudication, while the rest of us goofed off. Kevin, Joe, and I went and caught an iMax movie. David bowed out because he had a problem with motion sickness--which I decided had been an excellent move on David's part after having watched one.

In hindsight, I think it was better that Nikki watched theater. I think her lack of sleep would have caused her to imagine that the computer-animated spinning cones were sticking to her skin, and she would have run screaming from the movie-house.

But that might have been cool to watch, too.

It was Chow Time.

I put on the wool pants the wife always makes me wear to these events, and a tie, and everything. I was even going to wear my contact lenses so I'd really look good on her arm, but I ripped one as I was trying to install it.

Damned serendipity.

We mingled and we congratulated everyone on fine theater and we were chummy. Yeah ... the 'chummy' part gave that away, didn't it? Okay--everyone else did that while I snuck off at every single opportunity to have a cigarette in the lobby and drank as many Gin & Tonics as my wallet could bear.

Then I noticed great throngs of people emerging from the dining area. Someone must have announced that it was nearly time--either that, or someone with a working watch was paying attention to the schedule. Either way, we soon found ourselves gently floating downstream in a river of humans, like a girl being hit on by Kevin. Oh! Wait! I mean, like a big boat floating down a river, waiting for Kevin to gun the engines and bring her into the dock. Gah! That's not what I meant to ... rats. I'll come back and fix that later.

By now, you probably know how the awards went. Scooter took First Runner-up. Nikolette Adams took Outstanding Achievement in Directing, and Kevin Paul won an Excellence in Acting. We got second pick for an international festival. We choose Egypt, in August of 2002.

And here's a little story to tell you how cool our cast was.

Kevin wanted nothing more than an acting award for David. David prayed to every god he could think of that Kevin would win an award, already having won one at Regionals. And it worked out well that each of them got one at each of the festivals.

What a great couple of guys. I really will miss moving boxes for them.

I really will.

The awards were finished, and the reception nearly over. I hear that Dan danced like a maniac upstairs, but tragically I missed it.

There was only one thing left to do.

Can you say, 'Yucca,' boys and girls? I thought ya could.

Now, every single time my wife brings up the word Yucca, the room fills with blank expressions. I don't know if this is an obscure Midwestern tradition, or if Catina (Nikki's daughter and my step-daughter) made this up, but here's how it goes.

Finally--at last--The Secret of Yucca.

Unfortunately, the Secret of Yucca has been edited out of this article. If you missed it, too bad. There's apparently some rule about only introducing Yucca through the Yucca Ritual that I was unaware of, because my Yucca Mistress was remiss in her Yucca responsibilities. Her mistake has been corrected by her Yucca Mistress.

We now continue with the masked Secret of Yucca already in progress.

You start with an ordinary pickle jar. Add ingrediants have been edited out. Wrap the oops, this can't stay either. Pass it and neither can this.

It must be more edited secrets. A Yucca Virgin must edited. The jar must be circulated around the room boy-girl-boy-girl, and boys must shake it one way while girls shake it another way. If the room runs out of girls, then a boy must take the jar next and shake it in the girl fashion, and Kevin Paul is likely to point at you and laugh and call you a girl even if you're a great big circus freak and the husband of the director.

Then, you peel away the edited, edited, edited. It must not edited, and it must not edited. Everyone drinks it until it's gone, and then you're allowed to pull the lemons out and eat them--in some cases, rind and all.

We knew that with about ten people, the lightweights would get plenty toasted and Bob and I would sit around and make fun of the lightweights. But we had about twenty, coming and going. I think we maxed out at twenty-four. Plus, they were all theater-people. In retrospect, we should have had about two more Yuccas--but we did have to drive home the next day, after all.

It was about four-thirty before the room cleared. Fortunately, Allen--the lead tech guy from the host-theater--brought a case of beer.

And it was good.

Sunday
The Drive Home
Very Early, Very Hungry

Not much to tell about Sunday. We frantically searched for a place to eat breakfast, but in Harrisburg before noon on a Sunday your best bet is to suck in a lungfull of little green bugs and wash it down with the Susquehana.

We travelled to a little place called The Jigger Shop, where I finally learned what the hell a 'Jigger' is (some kind of ice-cream soda-thing with marshmallows on top) (or something). We ate like Amish kings and snickered at the funny accents and recovered for a little while before meeting at Nikki's and my apartment for some more recovering and debriefing. Then everyone departed to their respective homes for more recovering.

Nikki was, perhaps, the most tired of the lot. How tired was she, you ask? How about so tired she didn't even unpack for six days?

Now that's tired.

And now, if I could say a few words of thanks to those who helped us get here.

To our Patrons ...

Anne DeVaro
Hazel & Brian Edwards
Mr. & Mrs. Frank Gatti, Jr.
Donald & Pamela Grimmé
Elissa Hogan
Ethel Klingerman
Pat & Bill Muldowney
Marion Steininger
Mr. & Mrs. George W. Trebing
Bridge Players Theatre Company
Haddonfield Plays and Players
New Jersey Theatre League
Erin Cleaners
Barclay Cleaners

To our Sponsors ...

Fred & Rosemary Abbate
Vera Chirico
Sidney & Marlene Lavine
John & Anne Louse Taylor

Special Thanks to ...

Bruce Adams--thanks for helping with the boxes on a rainy day, Dad. I love you.

Robert Cambell--without lights, we're just doin' radio. (Heh ... Theater of the Mind, of the Theater.)

The Fozarelli Family for the service and the yummy goodies at our High Tea.

Lynn Johnson--for fighting the good fight, and fighting, and fighting. Carl must have the strength of ten.

Douglas Elliman, NYC--thanks for the cash, the support, and the understanding of what competing like this can do to one's work schedule.

Extra-Special Personal Thanks to the Crew ...

Skip Volkle & Jake Josephson, Sound
Dan Boris, Set & Very Cool Website
Bob Broadbent, Technical Consultant & Set
Joseph Scott, Stage Manager
Patti Keefer, Producer & Set
Nikolette Adams, Director

And Extra-Special Personal Thanks to the Cast ...

Kevin Paul, as Dennis
David Micun, as Scooter

To the Crew--who never gets thanked enough.

To the Cast--who made me cry repeatedly while watching this show. I'm supposed to be big and tough, Dammit!

To the Director--for painless rehearsals, and for showing two actors the genius that lived inside of them.

To Everyone, all over again--for giving me something to write instead of, 'All work no play makes Scott a dull boy,' over and over and over again.