Ask The Murderer

Crow having fun by himself at a children’s playground

Hello my fellow Thespians,

I am currently nestled on the edge of house left, admiring the lovely draperies we have as rehearsal goeson, though for what production, I know not. It’s a little early to say, and no one has been kind– or rather, forgetful– enough to leave their script lying around for anyone to peruse. But this is not the topic at hand today!

We’re here to talk about drapes, and especially, a certain phrase that stems from those drapes.

You are probably familiar with the term, “break a leg,” yes? You know, that idiom that may be occasionally hold more malice than ironic well-wishing depending on the sender? Well, let me tell you, this phrase– as much as I enjoy violence– has naught to do with breaking your actual legs at all!

This reminds me of a time I was present for an audition where some of the Chorus Girls were discussing this very thing, and then the Director arrived stating the Songstress had actually broken her leg– but I digress.

If you look at the wings of our expansive stage, you’ll probably be familiar with the series of long and lean drapes we have battened on the flys (Oh my, there goes the Moon again. They look so small all the way up there). These long drapes are called, in our business, legs. If any of you remember a particularly well-received performance, you or the other pricipal actors may have needed to reenter the stage for another series of bows, cutting around and bumping into the legs and grand drapes to do so. This act itself, essentially, is ‘breaking’ the leg.

There you have it! A small little history lesson you likely niether needed nor wanted! I’m unsure why they are called legs in the first place, but I unfortunately don’t have much time to speculate. It seems some of the stagehands– and performers have found me, and I need to prepare a hasty retreat.

If you happen upon my next hiding spot, and I so happen to come across a script or request lyring about, I’ll take a look and offer my thoughts it. Just don’t tell anyone where I am. Thank you.

Kids tend to want to do literally anything aside from learning this skill my parent is forcing me to learn. 

Adults actually can sit down and practice things for hours on end. Adults WANT to practice to get their skills better. Adults deliberately set aside time every day to practice. Even if it’s just 20 minutes, it’s productive growth and not wiggling in your chair mournfully watching birds out the window. 

“Stop that,” you said. “I order you to stop stabbing at me.”

“That doesn’t count,” countered the robot. “Emotional harm is immeasurable and therefore irrelevant. I am only programmed against physical harm. I will now recite the many rude names I have prepared for you—“

“Are you sure about that?” you asked slyly. “Maybe my emotions cannot be measured, but psychological distress can have real physical consequences on the body. Have you considered the long-term deleterious effects of a human’s system flooded with stress hormones? You‘re certainly doing harm to me. You might even say you are inflicting violence… what do you think of that, robot?”

The robot considered that quietly for a long moment and then turned its blocky head to stare at you evenly. “Source?”

What she means: Cinderella’s given name is actually Ella. “Cinderella“ is the cruel nickname given to her by her stepsisters because she’s always covered in soot from the fireplace they make her sleep in.

Dumbo’s given name is Jumbo Jr. “Dumbo” is the cruel nickname given to him by the elephant women once they see his large ears. We never see a Jumbo Sr. so the implication is that his father is dead and those women are actually mocking a widow and her young child.

“Bran our Ravens idea of having fun this morning, he holds on just enough to keep hold without hurting me.”

I don’t trust myself anymore.

I don’t trust myself anymore.