An heroic retirement...

When I was fourteen I was cast in a neat little supporting role in the second-ever production of a then-new musical, Quilt. It tells the story, as a patchwork musical of scene and song vignettes, of just a handful of the many incredible stories in the AIDS Memorial Quilt. Our director was a man named Cary Libkin.

We'd just moved to State College the summer before, and while it has always been a magical place to me, I was fourteen and had just been made to move away from my girlfriend, who was, in my view, of course, incredibly awesome. I was adjusting from the capacious kind of openness one takes for granted in the country to the hustle and polish of life in a small but successful college town, a place brimming with energy and intelligence and draped in the joy (and angst) of youthful energy. My initial adjustment was something like stunned shock. I was enjoying the place, meeting incredible people briefly, then getting lost again in the swirl of newness and strangeness. One of the things my parents had said to me to sell me on the move was how I'd have more chances to be involved in theatre productions. We moved after the notices for apprentices and auditions had been posted from the local Barn-housed community theatre (don't knock it 'til you've tried it, and they are an incredible community theatre, I might add), so my summer was spent drawing all the time and wandering off to buy comics and CDs with my allowance money, earned mainly in yard work then. Had I known, I'd have summered with some of the greatest apprentices that Barn has ever seen (I'm biased, clearly), the pals I'd soon come to know and love in my high school theatre club. But alas, I spent the summer chumless and sad, a mopey teen. I made one friend that summer: Chris Sheridan. I met Chris at a comic book drawing camp I attended for about a week. Chris was friendly and an incredibly talented illustrator, something he now does professionally and for a cool company who makes a video game I love whose name rhymes with Splants Versus Mombies. But other than Chris, and my of course wonderful family, I was a bit lonely.

Some time shortly before summer ended and school was to begin, my mother brought to me an audition notice for Quilt, which was being produced by Penn State's URTC (University Resident Theatre Company), the producing arm of what was then PSU's Theatre Department (now School of Theatre). I auditioned and was cast. I felt lucky and delighted to be meeting and working with such a diverse, talented cast. Cary had found a gem of a group and made a patchwork wonder of it. He cast majors and non-majors alike from the student body, graduates and undergraduates, professors and retired community members, and me and a couple other scrappy local kids (well, I wasn't local, I was new, but you know) in the show, too. From rural, rural Pennsylvania I'm suddenly working with all ages, races, backgrounds, etc. on a play about a quilt to honor victims of AIDS. It was the experience of a lifetime, friends. I was continually blown away by the talent, friendliness, and joie d'vivre of my castmates, nearly all older, and all much more theatrically experienced than I. I loved the artistic parallels in the play about the beautiful nature of patchwork in art and craft and human relationships and communities, and I loved the way Cary cast the show to reflect that truth. Diversity is a crucible of sorts, but one that can lead to extraordinary greatness in those who embrace it. This cast did, in my opinion, and we had one of those show moments as a group that ends often in hugs and tears and life altering, soul building moments. You know, show biz.

Cary was our plucky and fearless leader, always energetic and cajoling. He had the biggest smile I had ever seen, and he wore it with joy, even in moments deeply challenging.

Soon after Quilt, I fell into a long and love-fueled working relationship with State High Thespians, my theatre home for the next four years, a place that has nurtured scores of theatre lifers before and since. Before I graduated, Cary was the director of a brand new program, Penn State's BFA in Music Theatre.

I auditioned for Cary's program because applying to Penn State wasn't really optional in my family. Penn State's also a terrific school in a terrific town with a strong theatre program. I wanted a BFA in Acting, but PSU didn't offer one (and they still don't, to my ever loving wistfulness). I could sing (I was an all state tenor, I'll have y'all know, and it am not ashamed to brag about it, because I loved that sangin' stuff, and I still do, and I worked real hard at it, pardners). I could not dance, really, no matter how many classes my wonderful friend Eamonn coerced me into taking. I also auditioned with a sinus infection the size of Atlanta. Through my haze of illness and cold medicine, I apologized ever so profusely to my auditors, who laughed at my candor and told me to not apologize in auditions, and that I'd done fine. They then offered me admission to the BA program, which I was hurt about, but unsurprised. For me, my college options were not a difficult choice: I could either go to a BFA program in Acting at a terrific school that cost a small fortune, or I could go get a BA in Theatre at Penn State for about one-twentieth of the cost, once my scholarships and such kicked in. I loved PSU's Theatre program. I'd been in it, briefly, as a young kid from the community. I'd watched their shows for years, and their devotion to hard-working professionalism and onstage excellence had more than won me over. It was a no brainer. "No debt," my dad mentioned more than once.  He was right, and I knew he was right.

I've never once regretted my choice. Penn State prepared me to work in the theatre, and I did and I have, in many different arenas and in many different roles, onstage, behind the scenes, and in the classroom. Additionally, I've seen more folks from the program go on to astonishing professional successes of their own than I can count. Penn State's Music Theatre program is rightly lauded as one of the best in the country. Cary, and a cohort of brilliant collaborators, built it, and chose kids they knew could go out and get it for themselves with talent, determination, professionalism, and drive. I flirted with musical theatre the whole time I was at Penn State. I've always preferred plays and films to musicals, but musical theatre is a grand American institution, and an astonishing and thrilling thing to be a part of, truly. The best musicals are as good as any fine art in the world. No one needs me to point out this fact, right? I bugged them to let me take dance classes, and you know what? They did, in spite of my eternal leftfootedness. Bless Spence and Kevin, my dance teachers, Lord, for I was slow of study to their art. It did not come to me naturally, let's just say. The BAs, MFAs, and BFA designers all have great successes of their own to which they may point. Our school as a whole is a success, and we are proud.

I am so proud to have known Cary as a young kid at a critical phase of my life. His mentorship and nurturing of my young theatrical aspirations was precisely the kind of professional, safe, heartfelt, and inspiring teaching Penn State is known for. Jerry Sandusky is not the Penn State story; he's one manipulator who managed to destroy children and betray a large community of good people. People like Cary Libkin are Penn State; that's what the "we are" means. We are united. We are all in this together. We are stronger as a team than as individuals. I saw Cary embody that in the way he directed and in the way he ran the PSU Music Theatre program. In spite of my lead-lined dancin'  shoes, Cary always gave me a shot at musical auditions, as did his colleagues, and I'm grateful, because I had some wonderful experiences, learned a ton, and worked with a bunch of Broadway-bound talent.

Now I teach theatre, and I hope I can see even a fraction of the success in my students as they move forward that Cary has seen his students achieve. He'd probably say he's proud, but he'd probably also say something pragmatically wise, too, like "I hope they're happy." He announced his retirement today, and a flood of memories came pouring back, which then became this post. I realize that I have been subconsciously trying to emulate him (and many others who've inspired me) in numerous ways as a teacher my whole teaching career. I dress like Cary sometimes. He always looked professorial, professional, and comfortable, dapper and precise. It suited him. Some of my best moments as a director have been Cary moments, moments when, even when it wasn't easy, I kept my cool and tried to keep the team together, and we all got a chance to come back together and show our audiences and each other what we could do as a team. I think he taught me that lesson quite admirably. Others have shown me that selfless path of leadership, but Cary, man, he mastered that, in my opinion, in a way few folks can.

I just had a crazy four day long stomach virus, so I can't (I literally physically cannot) raise a glass of anything alcoholic in his honor, but I lift my ginger ale in his honor anyway and toast a great man, a great teacher, and a great leader, and one of the folks who absolutely lit a fire under me for this great art I love. I will always cherish him for that. I'll also always cherish him for continuing to push me to excel, to believe in myself, and to go for a life in the arts. I remember having meetings in his office as an undergrad where he'd encourage me with pragmatic honesty, comradeship and camaraderie, and good cheer. I wasn't in his program, keep in mind. He did this anyway. That should say something about the man as a teacher. I have so much to thank the man for, I barely know where to begin.

I'm thrilled for him that he's getting to bring this chapter to a close and move on to new adventures. I think he nailed it, y'all. 

Teachers are something, aren't they? They absolutely mold us.

Santa Died.

My friend Jay Miffoluf died.

I started this as a Facebook post, but it got too long. It's a blog post, I guess. Too much to say... The man leaves too big a void.

Jay was the mayor of my theatre community. We all have big shoes to fill. I hope we can honor his legacy by drawing even closer together. I'm inspired by seeing things in the newspaper from artistic directors in Harrisburg talking about how when one of us succeeds, we all do. That good will truly does bond this community of artists together. Jay Miffoluf was an enormous part of that; the linchpin, really. We've lost not one (community theatre stalwart Mark Arner), not two (Jay), but three (I can't believe I had to go back and rewrite this sentence, but Jim Woland, one of our area's finest scenic designers, and a teacher, artist, advocate, and all around great man, is also gone today) of our most devoted, dedicated, passionate theatre people this week. I just want to get all the theatre folks in central PA together in one big room so we can just sort of be together and share hugs and stories. And tears.

I am so sad he is gone, but I am also filled with awe at the way he lived. He was one of a kind.

The first time I was in a show with Jay (OSH Christmas Carol '04) he drove me nuts all through rehearsal. He was sarcastic and griping. Those who knew him all knew that side, too. Once the show opened, this cantankerous guy suddenly mellowed and was constantly bringing us gifts, notes, cookies, kugel, food, pick-me-ups, aphorisms, silly songs, stories, a genuine ear, and an open heart. I thought maybe the sharper side of Jay was actually some kind of stage fright, or stage awe, perhaps. He always held the stage in high esteem, and he never, ever, in all the time I knew him, acted like acting was easy. Silly sometimes, it sure is, but never something to be taken for granted. For him it remained daunting, sacred. He respected the stage with total sincerity. I always admired that about him and aspire to be that devoted.

I've been teaching all day and should be grading finals now, but I can't. I think it's weird that I have this need to eulogize people when they pass on, but I think it's simply that I am my mother's son, and I process much of my feelings in writing. It's what she taught me to do. It's what she does, too. I share things like this because every one of the people in my Facebook "friends list" is a real person who's meant something real to me. My god, we are all going to be gone one day. It's a lot of grief. It always sucks.

Jay was one of those people who'd be the first to champion everyone else's success, and the last to ever really accept praise directed his own way. He marketed the shows he was in, too, but I would bet it came more from a desire to share the work of his castmates. I imagined him looking at all of us down here, all of us sad we couldn't say our goodbye, him mumbling something about how he wouldn't have wanted all that fuss and attention anyway. Shambling off. 

My mother in law said to me today that sudden death is easiest for the person who dies, but worse for all of us left here. I hope it was easy for my friend. He'd been through many struggles with his physical health. He was Philly tough about it, though, and just kept on working, kept on commuting hours a day just to do another show in another theatre or see someone he knew on a stage.

I tried to buck myself up all day for my students. Then they'd leave the room and I'd think about Jay and Lori and get choked up.

I kept having songs in my head all day, too. "Anatevka" from Fiddler on the Roof. That's the song when the ensemble of that show basically wanders away into the void. I know that show was a favorite of Jay's. "Oh, Death" by my friend Joe Gualtier as Lost Companion, which has become a loop in my mind every time someone I know dies. Also, weirdly, Steve Martin's banjo riff about how no one on the banjo ever sings, "Oh death, and grief, and sorrow, and murder." That one felt morbid to me, and may just be some inner emotional backlash against too many folks dear to those of us who make theatre in this little part of the world passing on lately, but... I felt a little better realizing that Jay might have loved that routine, even if a "young whippersnapper" like Steve Martin made it up. It has a vaudevillian's zest about it, and so did Jay. Jay was fond of the "old man" quips. He was in his fifties going on his nineties sometimes, and he liked it that way. He was somehow out of his era and somehow also ahead of us all.

Some close friends came over tonight basically so we could talk about Jay and be together. We all agreed that a favorite memory was his wholly rescripted (he had directorial permission to do so), wildly invented classic radio DJ character "The Big Whopper" for our Classic Rock Cabaret. He went to Theatre Harrisburg and got a crazy costume (colorful jacket, wild bow tie, the works) just for the show, if I remember correctly. He was a hoot and a half in the show, and he had just as much fun bopping around quietly backstage thinking up new material.

He was my neighbor.

He was my daughter's first Santa.

He was a curmudgeonly teddy bear. He even played one of those, too, in a Popcorn Hat show, I kid you not.

He could be huge. He could be quiet. He was Whitmanesque.

He was a guy who'd call you up if he thought some offhand comment he'd made had hurt your feelings. He'd take you out to lunch and he'd just talk to you about life and stuff. There was no agenda other than enjoying being human.

I had to keep Hamlet (albeit an edited Hamlet) in my wheelhouse for two years straight. Having that unfortunate young man romping around in my heart and head for that long involved spending far too much time staring the silent, sad monster we call death square in the face. Part of Hamlet's madness (feigned or no) stems from being too close to death. When people close to me die, I feel like death has come back for more, more loss, more gut punches. At those moments, I feel a kinship with Troy in Fences, ready to fight the monster if need be, looking for my baseball bat. I thought of my friend Ian today, too. Jay played King Hamlet to his Prince Hamlet in a full length production a few years back. Both were astonishing, as was the whole show. So many lines from that seem appropriate. Ian nailed it on his Facebook. "He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again." Accompanying the quote was a picture of the two of them, the young prince haunted, scared, and in awe of his father's noble ghost. Perfect. And again, for the umpteenth time today, the tears welled and choked me.

Jay leaves behind him a wife who he adored with every fiber of his being. Lori is one of my favorite people in the world. I just want to give this dear person, someone I admire and am proud to call a friend, a hug.

Hmm. Sometimes the words still aren't adequate. I'll just have to keep grieving. At least I won't be alone. Jay leaves behind him a village he helped build, brick by brick. We will miss him more dearly than words can say.