Every Room Has A Flaw

I'll be an inmate in Cast Theatre's forthcoming production of Marat/Sade. I'm relieved I won't have to hold down a major singing part again, somewhat bummed that accepting this community theatre role means turning down some paying (but less interesting) opportunities.

In more long-term news, Laurie and I are getting closer to marriage; we haven't set a date yet, but we do have a deadline, sort of... we want to be married by the holidays of this year.

And I'm actually making some headway on a novel! Yeah, me and a billion other people. Mine's a juvenile fantasy, because that's all I read growing up, and they say you should write what you know. All I know is anthropomorphic critters and adolescent parapsychologists.

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Speaking of which, I never got into The Hardy Boys. I tried a few times, since every other boy in school read them, but I couldn't relate to the Boys; they were too Jack Armstrong, All-American for me to grok. Heaven forbid my young self read a novel if my young self couldn't relate to the protagonist. The Three Investigators were my guys; nerds one and all, highly skilled in some areas and worthless in all other areas. That I could grok, by cracky. And after they cracked the case they'd go have lunch with their buddy Alfred Hitchcock and tell him all about it, and say "But there's one detail that still puzzles me; how did the Gypsy snort the cobras out his nose?" and Hitchcock would figure it out.

This post's title is IIRC an actual line from one of those books. I found it an intriguing notion back when most of my reading material was certain to involve someone getting locked in a room at some point.