Here's something you might be interested in.
Ask a Hipster — Advice you didn't know you needed
Big Screen — Movie commentary
Blurt — Music's inside track
Booze News — San Diego spirits
Classical Music — Immortal beauty
Classifieds — Free and easy
Cover Stories — Front-page features
Drinks All Around — Bartenders' drink recipes
Excerpts — Literary and spiritual excerpts
Feast! — Food & drink reviews
Feature Stories — Local news & stories
Fishing Report — What’s getting hooked from ship and shore
From the Archives — Spotlight on the past
Golden Dreams — Talk of the town
The Gonzo Report — Making the musical scene, or at least reporting from it
Letters — Our inbox
Movies@Home — Local movie buffs share favorites
Movie Reviews — Our critics' picks and pans
Musician Interviews — Up close with local artists
Neighborhood News from Stringers — Hyperlocal news
News Ticker — News & politics
Obermeyer — San Diego politics illustrated
Outdoors — Weekly changes in flora and fauna
Overheard in San Diego — Eavesdropping illustrated
Poetry — The old and the new
Reader Travel — Travel section built by travelers
Reading — The hunt for intellectuals
Roam-O-Rama — SoCal's best hiking/biking trails
San Diego Beer — Inside San Diego suds
SD on the QT — Almost factual news
Sheep and Goats — Places of worship
Special Issues — The best of
Street Style — San Diego streets have style
Surf Diego — Real stories from those braving the waves
Theater — On stage in San Diego this week
Tin Fork — Silver spoon alternative
Under the Radar — Matt Potter's undercover work
Unforgettable — Long-ago San Diego
Unreal Estate — San Diego's priciest pads
Your Week — Daily event picks
Why I love community theater
His reactions to the jokes are pure delight, and make me wistful for innocence
Community theaters are a boon to local playwrights.
The theater is in a strip mall, up an ugly staircase. On the landing stands a sad, dusty, fake ficus. The door is unmarked and doesn’t look inviting, but it’s the only door, so I try it. It opens into a comfy room filled with mismatched furniture. A vintage-y bar lined with candy bars and soda holds honor-jars that say “$1 per item.” I ask a volunteer about bottled water, and she bustles off to the fridge to bring out a tray of tiny ones, remonstrating with herself the while: “I don’t know why I always forget the water!”
I choose an old love seat that looks comfortable. It isn’t. I ask for the restroom. It’s a large room doing double-duty. There are bookcases holding old books and a beautiful tea set, areas hidden by room dividers that no doubt hold old props, locked doors, and, thankfully, the required facilities. I am tempted to stay and snoop, but knowing that potty time is in high demand before curtain, I reluctantly hurry out.
It is opening night, and the lobby is full of nervous and excited faces, including those of the director and the playwright, who mingle easily with the crowd, on a first-name basis with nearly everyone. A corner of the lobby brags a nearly life-sized cow, a beanstalk, a gavel, golden eggs, and big, fluffy clouds. An older couple clambers behind the cow to get their photo taken, and onlookers are treated to “More cowbell!” as Bessie totters. I overhear a patron praising a volunteer for her work building the beanstalk, and she glows.
Other volunteers recruit audience members for the jury. There’s no lack of takers.
We go in to take our seats. The theater is tiny, smaller even than the lobby, only six rows. It is filled with parents, grandparents, siblings, friends, and opening-night congratulatory bouquets. I eavesdrop on it all while pretending to look at my phone.
In front of me sits a large multi-generational family, one of whom is a juror. They use her seat to pile coats, scarves, purses, and a large bouquet of yellow roses. The juror’s teen brother is autistic. His reactions to the jokes are pure delight, and make me wistful for innocence. A few times, the stimulation gets too much for him, but no one shushes, and his mama soothes him with kisses and hugs.
There are bottles of bubbly in the lobby afterward.
I love community theater.
People v. Beanstalk runs PowPAC (“Poway’s community theater) through February 10.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Why I love community theater
His reactions to the jokes are pure delight, and make me wistful for innocence
Why I love community theater
His reactions to the jokes are pure delight, and make me wistful for innocence
Community theaters are a boon to local playwrights.
The theater is in a strip mall, up an ugly staircase. On the landing stands a sad, dusty, fake ficus. The door is unmarked and doesn’t look inviting, but it’s the only door, so I try it. It opens into a comfy room filled with mismatched furniture. A vintage-y bar lined with candy bars and soda holds honor-jars that say “$1 per item.” I ask a volunteer about bottled water, and she bustles off to the fridge to bring out a tray of tiny ones, remonstrating with herself the while: “I don’t know why I always forget the water!”
I choose an old love seat that looks comfortable. It isn’t. I ask for the restroom. It’s a large room doing double-duty. There are bookcases holding old books and a beautiful tea set, areas hidden by room dividers that no doubt hold old props, locked doors, and, thankfully, the required facilities. I am tempted to stay and snoop, but knowing that potty time is in high demand before curtain, I reluctantly hurry out.
It is opening night, and the lobby is full of nervous and excited faces, including those of the director and the playwright, who mingle easily with the crowd, on a first-name basis with nearly everyone. A corner of the lobby brags a nearly life-sized cow, a beanstalk, a gavel, golden eggs, and big, fluffy clouds. An older couple clambers behind the cow to get their photo taken, and onlookers are treated to “More cowbell!” as Bessie totters. I overhear a patron praising a volunteer for her work building the beanstalk, and she glows.
Other volunteers recruit audience members for the jury. There’s no lack of takers.
We go in to take our seats. The theater is tiny, smaller even than the lobby, only six rows. It is filled with parents, grandparents, siblings, friends, and opening-night congratulatory bouquets. I eavesdrop on it all while pretending to look at my phone.
In front of me sits a large multi-generational family, one of whom is a juror. They use her seat to pile coats, scarves, purses, and a large bouquet of yellow roses. The juror’s teen brother is autistic. His reactions to the jokes are pure delight, and make me wistful for innocence. A few times, the stimulation gets too much for him, but no one shushes, and his mama soothes him with kisses and hugs.
There are bottles of bubbly in the lobby afterward.
I love community theater.
People v. Beanstalk runs PowPAC (“Poway’s community theater) through February 10.
Comments