This isn't a creepy blog post about Steve Martin (except it totally is)

When I was a super headstrong 8 or 9 year old, I remember spending the better part of a summer afternoon trying to reason with my dad. The battle this time? Could I please, PRETTY PLEASE be allowed to walk the three blocks up to the local playground without adult supervision? All of my friends were doing it and besides, I knew the last thing my dad wanted to do was stop cheering on the Indians to accompany me. He wasn't having it, though. In an attempt to distract me from my argument, he yelled "LOOK OUT! I'M GETTING... HAPPY FEET!!!" and proceeded to stomp around the kitchen like a lunatic. Unfortunately, his impression worked and I forgot that going to the playground alone was a pressing issue.

King Tut and Grandmother's Song were as much a part of the soundtrack of my childhood as any other "normal" music. Of course, I grew up listening to 50s standards and early Whitney Houston, so I'm not one to base normal off of, but go with me here. There was also a phase for about five or 15 years where my dad would not open a door without pretending to run into it, nose-first, the way Steve does in Roxanne.

My childhood Christmases were magical escapes from the rigid rules of my ordinary life. My half brothers would come roaring into town, bringing with each of them an unyielding love of comedy that was only rivaled by my father's. They would let me watch shows like The Simpsons with them and, if we were lucky enough that my mom worked, I'd be allowed to stay up for that week's Saturday Night Live cold open and monologue. I was too young to really understand the jokes, but I saw how captivated and happy my dad and brothers were, and it made me happy. The three of them took great joy in annoying my mom with impromptu (and constant) performances of classic routines like Who's On First? and What the Hell is That?

When I was an even more headstrong 15 year old, my parents left me alone for an entire weekend for the first time. It was tradition -- for their anniversary, they would go to Buffalo and Niagara Falls for a weekend every summer, but this was the first time I didn't have to stay over at my aunt and uncle's. That Sunday morning, I found Father of the Bride on TV. My dad called me from their hotel room to see how I was doing... and he quickly realized we were both watching Steve Martin have a breakdown over hot dog buns. We spent a half hour on the phone together, laughing and eventually crying over the movie.

It was around then that I started discovering comedy for myself. I wasn't terribly popular in high school, so my Saturday evenings were typically spent watching the two-hour block of British comedies that the local PBS affiliate aired, followed by, once again, sneaking around to stay up late enough for at least the SNL monologues (whoa, look out, we got a real wild child on our hands). I was also lucky enough to find a best friend who was as, if not more, into comedy as I was becoming. The geeks of Freaks and Geeks getting together to listen to worn comedy albums? Yeah, that sort of thing.

When I was 19, my dad turned my world upside down. I had been coasting along, as naive and happy as I could manage, and was enjoying college and the beginnings of adulthood. Then, I was forced to grow up, FAR faster than anyone had anticipated. A few days after everything happened with my dad, my best friend checked up on me. I'd seen a huge outpouring of love and support from all sorts of people in my life, which meant the world, but she was the only person to really understood what it would take to help me keep going. She didn't force me to dwell on the new issues that had become my norm and instead we laughed over some cheesy old jokes.

The past six years have not been easy on me. I've had to deal with family issues that I would not wish on my worst enemies and, while I've had some incredible experiences and finally feel comfortable with myself, I also hit some really terrible lows. Luckily, I've been able to get through this mess with one simple thing -- laughter. A lovely side-effect from that drastic change was bouts of insomnia which, at the very least, allowed me to regularly stay up to watch SNL. The first episode that was new after that awful night was Tina Fey's season 33 hosting gig, that included an infamous Steve Martin cameo.

That brief appearance sparked something in me. I had been a bit wary of how to proceed with my relationship with my dad around that time, but being able to laugh at someone he idolized was freeing -- plus, for the first time, I was old enough to really understand his humor.

I've spent the past four or so years becoming an absolute comedy sponge. My sense of humor has very closely followed my dad's -- if it involves a former or current SNL cast member, Monty Python or George Carlin, I'm in. Thanks to Netflix and Pandora, I've seen/heard everything ever done by those three; it took over eight months, but I've watched every episode of SNL.

Above and beyond all that (brilliant) comedy, Steve Martin has remained in a special category of his own. Somewhere along my course of buying every DVD I could get my hands on (did you know that Walmart has 5-movie collections for $5?!), I finally discovered for myself the beauty that is Steve Martin, the author and Steve Martin, the musician.

It was nearly exactly two years ago when the news broke that Steve Martin and the Steep Canyon Rangers would be doing a concert in Chautauqua. The night before I ordered my ticket, my dad called me -- at this point, I hadn't actually seen him in about three years at this time -- and told me that when he was younger, all he wanted to do was see Steve Martin play banjo because he had heard he was really good. That did me in.

I've rehashed the story of seeing Steve Martin, in person, numerous times, but as far as the condensed version goes... I spent the entire day creeping outside the amphitheater and honestly was happy enough  just eavesdropping on sound check (Steve yelled that us people watching should have paid big money for the candid show we got to see). A few (sunburnt) hours before the doors were set to open, a regular at Chautauqua approached me because he liked my shoes (???). After a quick conversation, he guided me to a handicapped entrance that he promised would not disappoint me. I protested at first -- like I said, just seeing soundcheck was more than enough for me and I would have been thrilled with any seat in the theater. After briefly telling the other people waiting at that entrance about my ~history~ with Steve, however, they all agreed to give me the front of the line. I didn't quite realize at the time that this meant I was literally the FIRST person to walk into the amphitheater... and my ticket wound up being for the front row. On July 1, 2011, I was front row, dead center, for Steve Martin and the Steep Canyon Rangers. The entire concert was incredible and hilarious, but there were a few moments that remain clear as day for me.

At one point, the Rangers left the stage, leaving Steve and his banjo. He took off his picks and explained how there are two styles of banjo-playing -- the happy twangy mess that most people associate with the instrument, and a more melancholy sound that he prefers. The song he played was instrumental and haunting... and I quietly cried through the entire thing. In those few moments, it felt like all the weight I had been carrying since everything happened with my dad was lifted up and away as the breeze moved through the amphitheater. I've never felt so free in my life.

I had heard that Steve and the Rangers had been performing King Tut as a second encore at about half of their concerts on that tour, and obviously was hoping like mad that they would choose to there. The second I heard that ridiculous Egyptian intro, I burst into really stupid, ugly tears. I noticed most of the guys onstage (including Steve, which is kind of embarrassing, but whatever) give me a Look... I guess that's not the typical reaction to a stupid song about Pharaoh? Seeing that song performed live -- stupid dance moves included -- made the night as close to perfect for me as it could have gotten. The only thing that would have possibly made it better would have been if my dad had been able to be there with me.

I realize that I have your cliche "daddy issues." It's a dumb phrase that I've hated my entire life and never realized I could apply to myself until quite recently. I also, thankfully, realize that all these ~feelings~ I'm attempting to unload aren't me trying to fill some void my father left with Steve Martin. That's crazy and stalker-ish and what 99% of the people I hate on Tumblr do with their various favorite people. What I will say, however, is that through his work, Steve Martin has given me so many ways to cope with the shit that life throws my way. Thanks to his crazy genius, I can escape in a movie, book or music, whenever I need to -- and I can know for sure that the quality of that work is going to be really, really good.

My dad wouldn't have raised me as a fan if that wasn't the case.

I poem-ed? Minimally?

The snowy sky
yellows
as the sun
fades,

as though to steal
the light
and selfishly
pour it into snow.

A yellow grin
full of sparkling
snow-white teeth -
the drifts
that dot the landscape.

I don't know if this is anything or not, but it just popped into my head as I sat here, looking outside, and I'm trying to embrace ANY sort of inspiration I find since I am attempting to knock out this writers' block that has stayed with me for over two years now. Thoughts?

Someday, I won't write "Someday, I'll write" posts here. This isn't that day.

I would very much like to get back to where I was, as a writer, three years ago. In 2010, I was writing for nearly all of my courses - creatively, academically and for the school paper. I miss that. I miss sitting down with the computer I had at the time (a hand-me-down Mac that had a hard drive smaller than my current phone's) and watching the ideas in my head become page after page in Word.

The past three years have seen so many changes in my life, and now that I'm in a much more comfortable place, I sincerely hope I will be able to break out of the severe writers' block that waltzed in pretty much the day I received my diploma.

This post is due very much to the fact that I just got rid of the computer that I had since 2001. It was the second computer I ever had (the first being an ancient Mac that had all these games that I don't think existed after 1992) and it served me well through high school and college... except for those times when it crashed and I had to re-install everything (30+ times, I've counted), or when the original monitor (that was about 15 inches deep) decided to invert every color, or when the mouse stopped working unless you slammed it on the desk, or...

Okay, okay, the computer sucked. Kelly and Teresa can attest to that - I apologize for all those slumber parties where they were forced to endure its testy ways just to IM people. Plus, the mess of wires that were required for the 12-year-old technology were caked in dust and resided just in front of the heater vent in this room. Let's be real here, I'm surprised that my room hasn't blown up because of that damn mass of electronics.

But that computer, heap of junk as it became, saw me through my most formative years. I wasn't the ~popular kid~ in 8th grade or high school, so I spent the majority of my free time parked in this very spot, screwing around on DiaryLand and LiveJournal and Moulin Rouge message boards (...was my lack of popularity my fault?!). I wrote all the angst-ridden emails I could from that bad boy, and when I finally came to my senses in college, I translated that angst into really awesome term papers, poems and news stories.

And then I graduated.

And everything came screeching to a halt.

I honestly can't tell you how many times I left the cursor blinking in Word for hours on end because for as much as I wanted to write another poem or blog, not one bit of inspiration struck. I think I've gotten out a grand total of two poems in three years, and there aren't even 20 posts on this blog yet. I know I know. Quality, not quantity in writing. But to not even get out shitty work? That makes me sad.

I'm getting a new computer this month - that's what prompted me to throw away the old desktop, once and for all. I'm finally back at my desk since my little laptop finally has a home there. I'm also busier than I have been in a long time, but that's where I thrive. Here's hoping the changes that life has thrown at me will lend themselves to a creative rebirth!

Warning on lights one... and... GO.

This production of Children of Eden marks show number 41 for me -- including both performing and stage crew-ing. In all of those shows, there's been one common thread.

After all the excitement and emotions of green room, there is one moment that keeps me coming back to theater. The 30 seconds or so where I am in my place for the beginning of act one, waiting for the cue from the light board or orchestra to begin, is simultaneously the most thrilling and terrifying moment of my life.

It's dark.

15 years of acting and 10 years of stage managing has, thankfully, blessed me with night vision that frightens my mother. I can navigate any stage you put me on, in pitch-black, pick up five of those godforsaken brown stools we've used every show for the past three years at once and get offstage in five seconds. No sweat.

The darkness before a show begins, though, holds weight that scares the productivity out of me.

Any kind of performance, but particularly full musicals, exist in my mind as nearly living beings. There's so much potential for human experience from the first chord and, as I've witnessed numerous times, a line that the cast may find to be a throw-away could truly touch an audience member.

In the moment before that all begins, though? When the audience is hushed by the house lights dimming, the tech director is holding on cue one and the rail guys are just about to open the curtain? There's such a tangible possibility for complete failure. That's likely an entirely irrational fear on my part -- especially in the past few years, I've worked with casts and crews that could be considered near-professional and we've gotten through some massive technical problems with hardly a pause. Regardless, my mind races. I somehow compact everything I'll be doing during the performance into those few seconds, forget every lyric or scene change I have, remember every lyric or scene change I have, run over the opening number and hug whoever is near me. It's a horrifying process and should probably be grounds to get my brain checked out... but I love it.

The thrill of looking all that fear in the face, knowing that I DO know all of my lines and movements, and knowing that the audience will be at least moderately captivated for the next two hours, is the most incredible feeling. I've had the lovely honor this time around of sharing that moment with a cast member who I've been very close with for several years. We don't actively talk about everything going on in our minds, but we hold on to each other's hands with all of our might and enter the stage together.

I can't think of a better way to begin a performance.

In which I ramble about children and being remembered, in a feverish ibuprofen haze.

I don't want this blog to become my place where I unload all of my "I'm not going to have children" rants but...

I'm not going to have children, and, once again, I need to rant about it.

When I was out on my birthday, an older friend and I delved into one of those ~conversations~ about my future. I try not to approach those with a begrudging sigh, but come on, guys. I know that I'm 25 and work at a zoo and am not using my degree to it's fullest potential so can we just drop it??? Alright, now that that's out of the way. I mentioned in passing that I know I won't be having children, and that put the emergency breaks on, FAST. I've grown very used to this happening (see: nearly all of my previous posts here), so I rattled off my usual thing about how I know only one thing for certain about my future, blah blah blah.

That explanation seemed to work for her, but she did have one more question that managed to stick with me until I was at the gas station this afternoon and this blog post managed to write itself in my head.

"Don't you realize that when you die, you're going to leave no part of you for people to remember you by?"

To quote the lovely John Mulaney, "First of all; no."

Does that mean that when people think of me, all they think of are my parents? I mean, sure, they raised me well and I'm happy to have them. But... my dad fucked up, big time, a few years ago. I don't like talking about it most of the time (most of the people who have entered my life more recently don't even know a thing about the situation) and I have to stifle a comical amount of anger whenever I'm greeted with a "Hey Meredith, how's your dad?" The concern is sweet and it is nice knowing that when I do need support, there are people out there. Whether the offender realizes it or not, though, they are pushing me more and more back under my parents' shadow, just when I've begun to make my stake in this bizarre world. I'm not saying I'm resentful toward my parents. In the future, when I think back on them, I'm going to remember them as their own people, with their own qualities and accomplishments, which is the least anyone can do for each other. I'm not a perfect person by ANY sense of the word, but the last thing I would want for any children I'd hypothetically have would be for them to be remembered simply as being my offspring.

Going beyond all my daddy issues (ugh, if there was ever a phrase I hate), her question set off the fledgling funny person that lives inside me. I know that for as long as I'm stuck in small-city Pennsylvania, I can't really make any huge strides toward a career in comedy. The instant I find myself in New York (or Chicago), with enough money to live and take improv classes, though? I'll finally be on the path to channeling the comedy I grew up with into something productive.

I'm not flying down some crazy delusional path. I know that the odds of my actually becoming a Weekend Update anchor are ridiculously slim and my 494 Twitter followers that I have now may very well be the closest thing I ever get to "fans." Whatever impact I make here... isn't it better to be remembered by the people who genuinely want to remember you? I'd like to think that if I've contributed something worth thinking about to the world, the people who want to talk about it down the road are going to do so, regardless of whether or not I gave birth to them.

...This was a weird post. I've had three protein shakes and four huge glasses of juice today (along with probably too much ibuprofen) because I have what feels like a sinus infection, minus the actual pressure in my sinuses, and I'm terribly paranoid that it's actually the beginning of this monster flu, and I do NOT have time to deal with that. Anyway. Thanks for reading this mess that is my brain.