Thursday, March 01, 2007

steal this internet

All I’m saying is, if people don’t put a password on their wireless internet, they’re basically asking for it to get stolen. Is all I’m saying.

The show went very well tonight, no thanks to me: I usually put the lights up for awhile before the show to warm up the theatre--I know, I know, it’s not the purpose God intended them for, but it’s either that or I come it at noon to run the heaters—and tonight I forgot to put them down before running the show. So, come the first blackout…no blackout. Thirty seconds of panic later and everything was okay, but…I think the actresses are getting a little exasperated with me. Last night the sound didn’t cut in the right place because I got the computer screwed up with the CD player and hit the wrong button, and tonight I just lost my focus. I blame the jerk in the pub. The theatre is above a pub, hence the name pub theatre, and since last summer it’s been reopened by a guy who looks sort of like a “Sopranos” extra—let’s call him Tony. Tony’s okay, but we in the theatre can’t figure out why he bought this pub, since there’s hardly anyone in it except for him and his gangster-wannabe friends who sit around in their leather coats and their gold chains watching racing. Some of us also suspect they use illegal substances. It is not the type of place I would frequent, let us say. (I prefer pubs with names like “The George” and “The Lord Nelson” that have dark woodwork, squishy stools and fireplaces.) Anyway, tonight when I went down to make the announcement the theatre was open, one of the pub’s “patrons” a tall, scrummy looking black guy was coming out of the toilets and he looked me up and down and goes “Helloo girl.” This happened before once—I came through the door and he looked up from the sofa and said “Helloo” in this disgusting scrummy voice. Tonight I was so incensed that he would A) call me a girl and B) have the audacity to assume that it was OKAY for a scrummy old man to hit on a perfectly normal woman who was doing nothing to invite it, that I just looked at him and said “No. NO.” Then he laughed and went “Aw, what do you mean, no? No?” And laughed some more.

This happened, oh, roughly four hours ago, and I’m still incensed about it. Down from “livid” but still pretty mad. One of the other women at the theatre mentioned that he’s done it to her as well, and also to some of the actresses that have been around. So now I’m triply mad that this person feels perfectly free to prey on theatre folk—God knows there aren’t any women in that pub for him to hit on. I’m quadruply mad that the only suggestions open to me are to ignore the guy, or to talk to Tony and ask him to tell his mate to knock that sh*t off. Yeah. Right. I can just see what would happen the next time I run into Scrummy Guy: “Hey, Tony said I shouldn’t talk to you anymore. What’s the matter, girl?” And then I would be forced to remove his eyeballs with my fingernails. I begin to see why women marched in the streets in the sixties. You Sir. You do NOT have permission to hit on me. GO AWAY. If I say nothing, he wins. If I make someone else go do the calls, he’ll just hit on them. If I tell Tony to talk to him, I’ll come across as a frigid cow. If I kick him where it counts, I’ll get arrested.
Although it would mean I’d get to stay in Britain for the trial…well, maybe when the show goes down.

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