She was complaining about the management’s surveillance of the place. All the employees are under constant video surveillance by the owner, at his home. And as an employee myself at this institution, I can tell you that the employees are not informed about this surveillance. I’m not sure this is legal.

But anyway –

She said, “I’m happy to tell him anything he wants to know. You want to know something about me? Ask me.” And then proceeded to describe a scenario in which she told him at exactly what time she usually went #2 and that it is a floater.
She really will tell all. Even if you don’t ask her.
I generally will not tell all. I will tell more than many would expect, though.

Players can be incredible gossips. But probably anyone can be. They can also keep some serious secrets under wraps when they want to. The number of times I’ve found out that some relationship developed right under my nose is really quite extraordinary. When working on a show, the experience is so intimate, so full of intense togetherness, it can feel like there are no secrets, that everyone knows everything about one another. But – sometimes that is an illusion.

I thought of a theatre company, known for its group aesthetic, for being open and edgy and experimental and what not. In other words, they are a company that would seem not to keep secrets. But when one of their own proved to be a bully, proved to be the sort that would give his girlfriend and fellow cast member a black eye, the secrets started closing in around them. They keep this counsel. They keep it close.

The stage direction is: Enter the Fourth Player as Prologue.
Which along with this line, makes me wonder if there is some sort of accepted Prologue costume or prop.
Like, if a guy comes out in a tabard and a pointy hat, everyone knows he’s the Prologue.
Or he wears a little chalkboard around his neck that reads “Prologue.” Or maybe the prologue wears a wizard robe with plot points pinned to it so he doesn’t forget. It feels like there is some signal that this guy is going to give us a prologue speech. In much the same manner that if a guy in a top hat and tails emerges at a circus, we assume he will be the ringmaster. Or if a woman appears in a bikini at a boxing match, we assume she will be telling us what round we’re in.
What those signals are for this particular position, I don’t know – but it would seem there is SOMETHING.

I like a show that means mischief- a show that stirs up trouble. But trouble of a playful sort. A lot of shows mean to be edgy, to raise eyebrows and such – but with no laugh behind the eyes.

I want to see more mischievous shows. I want to see shows that, if they’re going to fuck with you, they’re going to fuck with you in a way that makes everyone smile. A show that plays with you like Robin Goodfellow – obnoxious, sure, but usually also adorable – and with no long term deleterious effects.

I’ve looked this up before. Multiple times. I can’t recall what I’ve learned before. I think if memory serves, which I’m not sure it does: the consensus is that it’s basically nonsense.

I mean, can we trust Hamlet’s translation that it means mischief? I think it’s more than that. What we can know for sure is that this is a hell of an alliterative sentence and that there’s bound to be some merriment in the making of all of those M sounds. It is Hamlet playing with sound, if nothing else. But it may well be something else. I just can’t remember what.

When someone’s forgetting is remembered, he is no longer forgotten – if only his forgetting is remembered, he is still remembered.
Hobby Horse, for instance, has an epitaph that reads he is forgotten. And everyone who reads it considers the poor forgotten hobby horse and perhaps mourns him in his forgotten-ness and is thus remembered.

The Great Man is one of the biggest myths we have. I read a novel called The Great Man about a successful artist in which the greatness of the Great Man became more ironic the closer one looked at his life.

The Great Man is often propped up by a community of people all laboring to create the image of this Great One. It’s like a cluster of people working the wheels and dials and switches for the Great and Powerful Wizard of Oz image machine.

The Great Man seems very much connected to the Default Man.That is, the prototypical human has defaulted to straight white man, this particular group of people can be known as Default Men. And the rest of us are meant to scurry around and prop the Default Men up to make them great.

Meanwhile, there’s no Great Woman Theory. No team of people hurry to get behind a remarkable woman, to bolster her to greatness.

A great man’s memory may outlive his life. But the likelihood of a great woman’s memory outliving hers is quite a bit less likely.

When I was little, some grown-up in my life was prone to saying “Heavens to Betsy!” as an exclamation. I was pretty small and quickly added it to my small repertoire. I’m told it was pretty cute having a little kid exclaim “Heavens to Betsy!” My guess is that I quit doing it as soon as I realized grown-ups thought it was funny. I really didn’t like being laughed at.

I wonder now where this “Heavens to Betsy!” exclamation came from. Who is Betsy? And why does she get the Heavens? It’s not a saying that stuck around. I haven’t heard it in ages.

I think it may be one of a series of phrases that people invented in order to avoid swearing. Most of us don’t work too terribly hard to avoid swearing anymore. Unless we’re in a school, where we try not to exclaim at all. And when we do, we tend to need phrases that begin like swearing so we can correct midstream. Like when we say, “Sh – – – Shells and Macaroni” or “Fu – – Funky Chicken.”
O heavens to Betsy!

Let the devil wear red, for I’ll have a suit of cardinals.
Let the devil wear blue, for I’ll have a suit of dolphins.
Let the devil wear green, for I’ll have a suit of alligators.
Let the devil wear brown, for I’ll have a suit of moose.
Let the devil wear yellow, for I’ll have a suit of buttercups.
Let the devil wear orange, for I’ll have a suit of goldfish.
Let the devil wear purple, for I’ll have a suit of crocuses.
Let the devil wear grey, for I’ll have a suit of mice.
Let the devil wear white, for I’ll have a suit of polar bears.