Monthly Archives: August 2012

Honey Boo Boo don’t care

Alright.  So here’s the thing. I don’t watch reality TV shows.  There was this one time when I watched an entire season of “Hell’s Kitchen,” but the charm of Gordon Ramsey screaming at a bunch of poor idiots wore off.  When I think of reality TV, I think of the worst stereotypes of humankind starved for attention and thrown into a room with a camera.  I know there are the “Amazing Races” of the world, which are cool, but I’m not a “ZOMG IT’S BACHELORETTE NIGHT EEEEE” person.
(You’ve been waiting for it. . . here it is. . .)


Then came the show “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo.”

Now, now, now.

At first, I was horrified.  “Toddlers and Tiaras” is one step above evil in my book.  Don’t even make me get on my gender normativity soapbox, because I’ll do it, damn it.  A SPIN OFF of T&T sounds like it not only made the step up to insidious, but then pooped on it.

But here’s the thing.

Alana, age 6, Miss Boo Boo herself, is fricken incredible.  This.  Girl.  Is.  AWESOME.  She is Honey Badger Boo Boo.  She doesn’t give a shit.  She is so stoked to be Alana and, you know what, GOOD FOR HER.  Honestly, I wish *I* were that stoked to be me. ::sad violins::

Now, granted, most of its viewers are probably in it to make fun of them rednecks, hyuk.  And, granted, my middle class, full seta teeth, college-educated ass was intrigued by this cultural train wreck, thinking that perhaps I could feel assured that I am not a total disaster as I sometimes feel I am.  Hooray!  I watched the trailer and the clips of Alana being a sassy little tushie, rubbing her belly and shakin’ her thang without shame and without apology.  I was charmed.  And I was bored.  And a little frightened.  So I watched an episode, which streams free on TLC’s site.

It’s like reality TV got its Christmas present early, y’all.  Alana’s coupon-obsessed mother is over 300 pounds and farts maybe 3-4 times an episode, the father is constantly chewing cud and I’m pretty sure has maybe one chomper left in his head, her sisters are depicted as ignorant savages, the oldest of which is pregnant with nary a dad in sight, and they have a “teacup piggie” that lives in the house, squeals constantly and actually shit on the table.  Most of the show is in *subtitles* because their accents are so thick you can barely understand them (at first I thought this was just Alana being too little to enunciate. . . nope).

And you know what?  They’re comfortable and, dare I say, proud of who they are.  And they love each other.  I mean, really, actually love each other.  The daughters talk back to their parents, but their parents kinda give it back to them and it’s one of those “all’s equal in love and family” sort of vibes.  One of my favorite family moments is where one daughter says, “We’re not rednecks,” the father nods calmly and says, “Yes we are,” to which the daughter responds “We have all our teeth, don’t we?”  All in all, they seem to be damn decent people.   Not even the editing can hide that (although boy they do try).  I can forgive that one of the daughters bobs for raw pigs’ feet in the first episode.

So here is the jist, a practical list of why while I may not RUN to catch the next episode every week, I may keep tabs on Miss Boo.

1) The entire family’s irrepressible self-assurance, Alana’s especially, made me a champion for these people.  Obviously her parents are doing something right.  The women decide to do a weight loss competition and weigh themselves on TV.  I lie about my weight to pretty much anyone, myself included.  That takes some serious ovaries, my friends.  The mother is hilarious — I think that the editing is supposed to make her look stupid and slovenly, but honestly, you get the feeling that she is well aware of how this all looks.  And you know, so what?

2) Alana wanted Glitzy, her pet pig, to be a female pig, but, alas, he is not a female pig.  Regardless, she says she will dress him up like a girl pig and he can be a gay pig, an announcement met with derision by one of her older sisters.  Without skipping a beat, Alana snaps back, “It can [be gay] if it wants to, you can’t tell that pig what to do.”  Sing it, sister!

3) The coup de grace.  Following a pageant defeat, Alana is crushed (momentarily) and cries.  To make her feel better, not only does her daddy buy her a pig, but during one of his very very few confessionals, he says with the most earnest and heartfelt face a man can have, “I know that if she works very heard, she could be Miss America.”  He didn’t smile, he didn’t say it with hubris.  It was the quiet conviction of a father who loves his Honey Boo Boo.  And because I’m a notorious Daddy’s Girl, I wept.  Yes, dear readers, I actually whimpered, I was so moved by this father’s love for his youngest and his unshakable belief that this sassy little tushie could go all the way.

So go ahead and judge.  Honey badger don’t care.

Sidenote: And whiiiiile I’m on a rampage here — what is with the obsession of the mom’s sneezing?  Whenever the mother sneezes, the cameras are there.  Zoomed in. SOME OF US sneeze a lot.  Some of us have friends who count.  Some of us have an average.  (6.)  Some of us have friends cheer me on when I’m going to break my last record. (Which is 11.)  Ain’t nothin’ wrong wit sneezin’ a lot.


I’d like to thank all the little people

I knew someday the press would be after me to get the dirt.  I just didn’t think it would take me fleeing the state to make the media realize that I am a veritable treasure trove of tantalizing stories just waiting to break over Bay Area audiences.

I just got off the phone with a reporter from a small weekly paper from where I used to live.  Back in the day (aka two months ago), I routinely pitched this very same paper to cover a couple of my theatres.  I got quite a lot of coverage, God bless them, but mostly they would copy-and-paste a portion of my (extraordinarily well-written) release and reword a few sentences, although sometimes not even that.  They never sent a reviewer and they never wanted to do a feature or an interview.  It’s a very small paper with an even smaller staff, and with print coverage shrinking even with the major dailies, I was pretty stoked.

It’s sort of a less insidious drug deal.  I provide the (brilliant, engaging) goods, they deliver it to the masses.  Sure, I would have liked to set up an interview, but meh, I got ink, they got content, the theatres got coverage, the readers get told. Everyone walks away happy.

I hate to ruin the magic for y’all who still read newspapers (it’s where they print words on physical paper, like those packing slips you get in the mail when you order online instead of going into a store.  A “store” is . . . never mind), but, sometimes, you’re just reading my release.  A hard-nosed reporter didn’t go through eight pots of black coffee to write about a rollicking musical comedy or the hottest holiday ticket gleaned from embargoed information he dug up from an anonymous lead.  That was me.  You’re welcome.


It turns out this paper is doing a big schmeary features on weddings in the area.  So they searched for celebrities who recently celebrated their nuptials nearby and, finding none, they called me.  Yes, *I* was interviewed.  I talked about all the important things, like my awesome photographer, the good food, the sexy corsetry that made my dress, how I was too cheap to drop $5k on a DJ to play songs I’ve never heard of — you know, 20 minutes of breaking shit, let me tell you.  And after I hung up, I was giddy, oh how pleased I was that SOMEONE still cares how I got my hair did.  And then I felt stupid that I was still giddy over my wedding from a year and a half ago. . . not over marrying my husband, although I’m sure I mentioned him in the interview somewhere (love ya, M Fox!), but over the actual wedding.  Stupid society, stupid gender norms.  Best day of my life, BFFs 4EVA!!!!!!!!!

But mostly I felt stupid because of this.  After three years of blatantly stretching the truth about where Ensemble Member #8 was from (“He grew up here, or his grandma did, or his babysitter bought coffee here!  I SWEAR his dog pissed on that one bush downtown, I was there!”) or finding some obscure angle that could force the show to be more locally relevant so that the editors would grant me the boon of an actual story instead of just printing my (delicate, yet powerful) release, all I had to do was get married in the vicinity.

So, in my mind, the lesson is this.  California needs to get its ass in gear on gay marriage, because then my theatres will have no trouble getting coverage.

I’m the one in white

The art of being still

So here’s the thing about being ripped from your cozy berth, your burgeoning career, and pretty much everyone you know.

My life is really not as dramatic as all that, but I am.

When my favored husband told me that he had been offered a job at a Very Important Company and that accepting would mean moving to the Great Northwest, I had one of the most conflicting reactions of my life.  Pride and joy for his accomplishment.  Fear at telling my boss.  Dread at telling my friends.  Happiness that I would once again be living near B and K.  Liberation.  Then guilt.

I had no idea he was even in the running for a position at the VIC (also known as the Bowling Pin Factory), and he had decided to wait until he was in his third round of interviews before casually bringing it up one evening while I was oozing toothpaste froth from my mouth and picking lint from my toes.  I believe a spit take was involved.   In my adult life, I have never had to make a drastic change that had nothing to do with me.  I didn’t have a lot of time to consider it.  Two days later, he was offered the job.  We hadn’t been married a year yet and we were making a Big Family Decision.  Apparently they pay you good money to paint those red stripes on bowling pins, and if M Fox was reeeaaally good at painting those lines nice and smooth, then maybe he could run his own factory one day.  So it was decided, for the good of our Family, for the good of M’s career, we would drop everything we had built and head north.  In the agonizing days that followed, telling everyone who needed to be told, the big question for me was: What are you going to do?

I came up with something pithy and watery to say.  But the truth was that I didn’t know, I don’t know.  I have always been a creative person, I never expected to be sucked into a 9 to 5 office job.  But I had.  I would come home drained and satisfied, but there was always something missing.  After a bottle of wine and some chicken, I usually forgot about it.  And now was my chance to start over.  Life doesn’t usually give you chances like that.

The trouble is I have a hard time accepting my own privilege and allowing myself to be still.  To not be useful.  To just be.  I’m really bad at it.  Since moving here two months ago, I have unpacked the house (this is only one item, but if you’ve never single-handedly unpacked a house before. . . let me tell you, it’s hell); planted an herb garden; made 4 loaves of bread from scratch, two cinnamon raisin, one plain, one rosemary; printed photos; hung frames; decorated the deck; trained curtains; found, scheduled, and canceled a dermatologist (I’ll kill you, M Fox); found grocery stores, a mailbox, a hardware store, a small beach near my house, a Japanese tea garden, the cheap gas station, and a place to take banjo lessons; auditioned for a theatre company, which included finding a sheet music store and memorizing a monologue; started writing about local theatre; learned which buses take you downtown, cross town and uptown; been on five airplanes for a family reunion, a trip to Disneyland, and three final gigs with my band; built two end tables; and drove 30 miles to buy a used armchair for $80, stuff it in my Civic (somehow), drive back home, drag it up the stairs, and into the house.

And I have barely written a word.

I did the audition, admittedly.  That was creative.  If you call becoming a paranoid lunatic waiting to find out when the callbacks are creative.  The different reasons why I think they never want me on a stage again are pretty creative, I suppose.  But it is hard to be still.  It’s hard to give yourself permission to not do anything.  After chasing media and wrangling clients for three years (that doesn’t seem that long, but publicist years are like dog years; each one counts for seven), I’m strung out.  If my hands aren’t busy, then I feel useless.  At least when I was setting up our home, I was doing something.  Now I’m stoked when I have something to mail.

I have to fight the compulsion to fill my days with things.  I have to remember that this is an opportunity.  Write what you wanted to write.  Sing what you wanted to sing.  Paint what you wanted to paint before you had to be a grown up and quit LA and leave your dreams behind.  The dialogue doesn’t come to me when my mind is busy.  I just have to remember to keep it down in there.

A snippet

This is a bit from a larger piece I’m working on, but I really like it.  My tip of the hat to Terry Pratchett.

For all intents and purposes, Rudolph “Ruddy” Cobb, Angel Carrier sailor for three years, was a good man.  Sure he cursed and he drank and he sometimes even took a bite of his mate’s biscuit when he wasn’t looking, but Ruddy felt pretty confident that he deserved a good life, and a sailor’s life was a pretty good life.  Three hots and a cot, as they say, although it would definitely depend on a man’s definition of “hot.”  In Ruddy’s world, a closely related and practically identical word to “good” was “simple.”  Simple like when you put on an extra pair of socks, your feet stay dryer and warmer.  Like when you have too much beer, you belch.  Simple like how men, such as Ruddy and his mates, sometimes have to fight other men, like those scurvy, thieving raiders, to protect their stuff.  And sometimes their “stuff” included their women.  Women were sweet little things with lots of skirts on who wrung their hands and made sure that there were no raw bits in the middle of a cooked chicken or that your boots made it off before you hit the pillow after a long night at the pub.
Women were not–and Ruddy, while not an expert, could be very certain about this–arrow-shooting, battle-ready killers who sniped blood-thirsty raiders from hidden perches all around the deck.
Ruddy had just cleared his blade of an enemy who had the stones to swing onto the deck dressed like a vibrantly colored bird, when the first arrow found its mark in the chest of another air-born raider, who plummeted into the ocean below with a scream.

Marion: Origin Story

More nerdiness revealed.   The origin story of one of my characters from a D&D campaign.

When her brother Maddox left Brookshire as a journeyman, Marion turned to the castle guard to continue her sword training.  Learning from the guard captain wasn’t quite the same– Maddox was a patient teacher who believed in her natural ability, whereas the guard captain merely humored her until she left him alone.  Despite this, by the time she was thirteen, her skill with a blade earned her a reputation amongst the soldiers that actually garnered her father’s attention, though not in the way she hoped. Immediately Lord Barinor threatened less pay for anyone who continued to train his daughter with a weapon. “What man wants a wife who can defend herself?!” he bellowed. Undaunted, she went every day to bully someone, usually a wet-behind-the ears recruit, into giving her a lesson. Threats and withdrawn meals didn’t stop Marion from stealing a pair of breeches, tying her long red hair back, and heading for the garrison whenever she could.

The day she turned fourteen years old, a knight named Sir Garth, hailing from southern Brookshire, arrived at the manor. Marion was excited by the prospect of a real-live knight—they rarely came this far north and if they did, they never stayed long. Marcus, the oldest of the five Barinor children, made sure of it. He excelled at making people feel unwelcome, and ever since he was denied knighthood, he didn’t much like anyone who had won his shield. Fearing the knight’s visit would be short, Marion waited diligently by the stables, dressed in her brother Mathen’s clothes (Maxim, his twin, promised to beat her into rubble if she took his again), her fingers curled around the pommel of a guard’s sword.

“You’re pathetic.”

With a sigh, Marion turned around to face her brother.  “Marcus, do you spend your whole life waiting around a corner to say something smart?  Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“I could ask you the same question.” Marcus unfortunately took after their father, which meant that even if he did manage not to stoop like a hyena over prey, he could only charitably be described as five and a half feet tall. He wore a black cloak with large shoulder pads and a stiff collar, his hair, more orange than red, spiked and wild. “You know why he’s here, don’t you?”

“Because Father thinks his own sons aren’t worth shit?”

Marcus tried to grab her by the front of her jerkin and missed. Marion backed away and brought her sword up. The darkness passed from his face and he laughed. “Go ahead. I hear Sir Garth likes women with a little fight in them.  It’ll make it all the more fun for him.”

“What are you talking about?”

Marcus turned away with a dramatic twirl of his cloak (she hated when he did that) and walked briskly toward the manor, calling over his shoulder, “Oh nothing. How many days do you think Father will lock you up when I tell him where you are and what you’re wearing?”

“Marcus, you dripping pile, I’ll-”

“Mari, don’t.”  A strong pair of hands gripped her shoulders, keeping her from a charge. “Let him go.”

Marion grit her teeth, but obeyed, watching her brother jauntily head inside. “Pom, he’s going to tell on me!”

“Let ‘im,” spat the stableboy. “He’s a coward and yer father’ll prolly give him a smack for being a snitch.  He’s over twenty for Lord’s sakes.”

“I just wanted to spar that knight, just once, and he’ll probably leave tonight and I’ll never have the chance!”

Pom shifted uncomfortably.  At first glance, he seemed typical stableboy fare: tall, gangly, straw-haired.  But under the bad haircut, the maddening acne, and the faintest whiff of horse, he knew things. There was only one reason why a single knight with a lot of land came to a manor that happened to have one daughter just turned marriagable age.  He watched his dear, earnest Marion, taking practice swipes with the stolen blade.

“Why is Mucus such a bastard?” She ranted. “I can’t do a damn thing around here without him interfering in my business. He’s supposed to be the lordling, you’d think he’d have better things to do than prance around in that sissy cape.”

“Seems to me he’s doing exactly what a lordling should be doing.”


“Anyway if you ask me, I’d be less worried about Mucus and more worried bout what’ll happen to you when Maxim finds you’re wearin’ his breeches.”

“They’re Mathen’s. ‘Sides, I think I look better in ’em than he does.”

“I think you look prettier in a dress.”

Marion sheathed her blade with a smirk. “Oh what now? You gonna kiss me again?”

“Only if you deserve it,” he said, smiling back.

“Only if you can catch me!” Marion took off across the courtyard, tossing her hair, beckoning. He chased her, the girl with breeches and a sword on her hip.

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My nerdiness revealed.  Here is a little character sketch I wrote based on a D&D campaign.

The lady knight rubbed the balm on her cracked and weathered hands and thought of her mother. Her mother’s hands were calm, cool and soft, except for that sewing callous on her index finger. Once, Marion bought her four silver thimbles for the Harvest, one for each finger. She was six years old. She had had to win a lot of races against the boys to get the coin for those thimbles and when she gave them to her mother, wrapped in a colored scarf, her mother had laughed. That was before Martin.  All the silver thimbles in the world couldn’t cover what the knight had done to her own hands and she had a feeling that they wouldn’t have had much effect against who (and what) Marion had had to kill.

She could hear the rest of the band outside her tent, settling down after a day’s journey. Bahb was swigging beer, loudly clearing his throat and hoping to drown out Isis’s wretched fiddle-playing. Leah was gently, patiently trying to play along on her lute. Marion really didn’t understand elves’ tolerance. If she had tried to play that cursed instrument that way at home, her brothers would have put her face through it.  Zefania had started taking long walks since Horace joined the group.

Horace may be an extraordinary bastard, but the man knew battle tactics, weapon technique, military discipline. King Dominic’s gracious bestowal of knighthood was more than Marion could have ever dreamed for herself, but it wouldn’t replace the training in the palace that she missed as a wandering warrior, learning the sword from those she paid. It wasn’t that Marion had no compassion for Zefania—the thought of her own mother’s body, cold and bloodied, made her hands itch for her blade.  Martin had taught her a lot about men, more than she would ever learn as a woman, and Horace was a different breed, to be sure.  More disciplined, less rash.  But Marion knew arrogance when she saw it and his religious fervor made him self-righteous (second ear down from Bayon, donchaknow).  All the better.  Let him show her up, again and again.  Beat her with his practice weapons, cluck when she failed.  In between the humiliating illuminations of her lack of formal training, she was learning.  Oh, was he good.  She would get faster, stronger, better.  Sometimes the best way to beat your enemy is to become him.

Replacing the lid on her balm, Marion quickly rose and immediately regretted it.  Suppressing a yelp, she forced herself to stretch her protesting muscles.  She could almost feel the bruises on her arms, legs, and middle coloring deeper.  Horace had obliged her a sparring lesson during the midday break.  She perhaps should have paid attention to the rest of her companions’ warnings (blah blah blah treaty blah blah).  She also probably shouldn’t have called Horace a grub-eating priest-licker.  She was paying for it now–his teaching skills went into serious decline when he was angry.  And sitting on that damn horse across a rocky beach for the rest of the ever-loving day really didn’t help her soreness.  What a bastard.

The salty air soothed her sun-scorched face as she emerged from her tent and slipped her feet into her boots.  She squinted against the sharp wind and sun’s last rays glaring off the choppy ocean.  Leah was attempting to explain music theory to the wizard, which had convinced Horace to join Bahb in drinking.

Marion watched Leah, her slender hands caressing her instrument, her silvery hair cascading down her shoulders instead of tied up neatly as usual. The elf’s lips betrayed a smile at Isis’s humor, her eyes creasing in silent merriment.  The men eyed her, though they pretended they weren’t.  There was just something about a pretty female, Marion supposed, no matter what you did in this life, that’s what everyone noticed first.

Annoyed, Marion turned her gaze back down the beach to the small fishing village.  They had passed it earlier before deciding to camp upwind, a decision finalized after witnessing the fishwives gutting the day’s catch.  Rubbing her fingers into her rough palms, she headed toward the cluster of buildings.

“I’ll be back,” she called over her shoulder. She hoped that Horace hadn’t noticed her favoring her right leg.

A particular shop had caught Marion’s eye when they passed through earlier.  Women in dresses streamed inside, and out wafted the scent of cinnamon and secrets.  She knew it was the sort of shop that her mother would have visited to buy perfume, after expressly promising her father she wouldn’t.  Now Marion stared into the window, her hazel eyes filled with the beautiful things that lined the walls—hats, scarves, and shifts made of velvet, linen, cotton, dyed in all the colors. There were racks of feathered hairpieces and cloaks. There were mirrors and shells everywhere.  You won’t beat Horace wearing one of those dumb bonnets, thought Martin treacherously.  The shop was mostly empty except for three women, maybe sisters, who were laughing and chatting.  One was playing with another’s long black hair.  Marion watched them for what felt like a long while.

“I’m just going to look,” she said finally.  She secured her belt and sheath and straightened her green linen tunic.  Steeling herself, she opened the door, which jingled.  Marion inhaled the scents of perfumes, candles, and potions.

The three women turned and looked at her.  Three sets of eyebrows raised.  One of the women, who wore a magnificent purple robe, wrinkled her nose.

“Can I help you?” The woman with the long black hair sounded like chocolate.

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Very funny double bill at ACT

ACT –A Contemporary Theatre is in the thick of its Pinter Festival, celebrating the deliciously dark Nobel laureate’s work. While two of the featured works are full length plays set to open later this month, the double bill “The Dumb Waiter” and “Celebration” is open now and runs through August 12. Director John Langs harnessed a remarkably talented pool of actors who navigate Harold Pinter‘s trademark gallows humor with aplomb. If you want to see comedic timing pulled off with stunning expertise, get thee to ACT for this delightful double bill.

First, spoiler alert! “The Dumb Waiter” isn’t a comedy about the exploits of an oafish burger slinger at Johnny Rocket’s. Instead the play takes place in a barely livable underground bunker where two hit men kill time while waiting to start their next job. Darragh Kennan as “Gus,” the junior member of the team, is perfect — his perpetually perplexed face is in and of itself comedic gold. Gus incessantly asks questions, both inane and philosophical, which reminds one of the Death Star cafeteria worker in an Eddie Izzard sketch.

Charles Leggett as “Ben,” the seasoned veteran of the game, is the Abbott to Kennan’s Costello. Leggett’s waning patience is an art form in this show. While Ben bumbles blindly in the dark, Leggett’s “Gus” is measured and confident — at least until you tick him off. Both Kennan and Leggett expertly squeeze every comedic drop out of the silences that awkwardly stretch between them. Meanwhile, the titular inanimate character keeps dropping quizzical dinner orders, much to the heightened confusion and panic of the two men. The audience is transfixed, laughing while inching toward the edge of their seats waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And then it’s over and you’re not entirely sure what just played out. The intermission to follow is good for that “Wait. . . what?” discussion. Still, the acting, the banter, and the ambiance is so well done, it’s hard to be unsatisfied.

Next up is “Celebration.” Inspired by an actual table of raucous diners overheard by Pinter and his wife, “Celebration” is what would happen if every obnoxious person you have ever met decided to have dinner at the same fancy schmancy restaurant. And it’s hilarious. From the drunken lascivious hypocrite, the two-timing yuppie wannabe, and the nosy waiter, to the floozy your beau slept with before you, the embittered foul-mouthed wife, and her wildly inappropriate sister. They’re all there. And they’re ordering more wine. Bon appétit!

While there are excellent performances all around, Anne Allgood as “Prue” (the aforementioned sister) gives one of the greatest drunken monologues in theatrical history. It’s not just a series of filthy one-liners (though the show’s got those, too), it’s got a full-on story arc, impeccably done. How any actor on that stage managed to freeze her or his face is anyone’s guess. Kennan also has a wonderful bit part as a waiter with a most impressive grandfather (just. . . go see it). The audience giggled in anticipation whenever he entered the stage.

Lighting Designer Rick Paulsen did a marvelous job for both plays. The uncomfortable flickering and eerie florescent glow from the grated floor combined with Brendan Patrick Hogan’s screechy sound effects are perfect co-stars for “The Dumb Waiter.” The final smooth-glowing moments of “Celebration” are particularly impactful.

While “Celebration” is definitely the stronger of the two works, there is still something unfocused about its message. Is it meant as commentary on the boorishness of the nouveau riche? Or did Pinter just want to recreate an amusing and outlandish conversation he overheard with his wife? Similar to the many red herrings in “The Dumb Waiter,” the story lacks the crispness of the dialogue. Regardless, the artistic and creative teams behind these productions are top notch and it’s well worth the trip to enjoy some very intelligent, darn-right good theatre.


Tickets are $5 to $55. All events included in the ACTPass, ACT’s $25/month membership program (ACTPass holders can also get discounts on Henry Woolf’s master class). “Celebration” and “The Dumb Waiter” are included as a double-bill in a subscription package. For full schedule and more information on other special events, visit (206) 292-7676

Don’t forget to pick up a Pinter Punch Card! You earn points and rewards the more performances/events you attend. Some rewards include commemorative pins, drink and parking vouchers, and a signed poster by the full Pinter Festival cast. Pick up your Pocket Guide at ACT Theatre and then stop by the in the Union Lobby after attending a Festival event to get your Pocket Guide punched.


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