This will not be artistic. This will not be elegant. This is the simple act of venting.
I love being a performer and a storyteller. The adrenaline rush, the connection with people, the improvising of details so they may be tailor-fitted to a specific crowd; I love it all. But no job is perfect. With all pleasure comes vicious and intense pain. There are blase' crowds, poor tippers and uncomfortable work conditions. Those are all irritating but familiar. It's only every once in a while that a performer gets to have in their crowd a troller, a heckler, a much dreaded and much heard of bona fide douchebag.
Ah, the douchebag! These are people who have difficulty behaving like adults when the focus isn't on them because they don't know how to use their big-boy manners. Douchebags are under the impression that they are funny. Douchebags try to make make their lives seem less sad, empty and loveless by bringing down the person who is trying to perform for a living.
To all the douchebags out there: You are NOT entertaining, cute or clever. If people laugh at your jokes, it's only because you have succeeded in making the atmosphere so thick with tension that they have to titter nervously to break out of the thick vat of awkward you have created.
I try to be gracious when I am bestowed with such a douchebag. I usually disarm them by acting like I don't hear them or their little comments. And I do not EVER under any circumstances get angry- this gives the douchebag all of the power and focus which is what he wants to begin with. They are after all, just children masquerading as men. I look directly into their vain, shallow eyes and smile.
Unless they call me sweetheart.
To all douchebags out there: I am not your sweetheart.
Go ahead, ignore me and text on your phone, loudly talk to your friends, roll your eyes, make faces at the crowd, mimic me and show the world what a childish, arrogant clown you are. Although you are vehemently loathed, you are also pitied.
It comforts me to know that while I am warm and comfortable in my lovely home, the douchebag I encountered tonight is alone with only his overcompensating ego to hold him and keep him warm all through the long and cold night.
In all honesty, I look forward to the day that our paths may cross once again. I will smile, shake his hand and tell him there are no hard feelings, sweetheart.
Until next time,
~Story Siren
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Sunday, October 16, 2011
The Rude, The Lewd and The Crude
One of the many things I love about my job is that you never know what type of people you may encounter while on the tour. I've had a homeless man sing opera in Italian, German and French to me, I've had people who were not even on the tour ask to have their picture taken with me, people have brought me hot chocolate during the chilly months and iced tea during the hot months. And I've had countless people shout from from across the street that they approve of my fabulous hat. Good times overall.
Then there are the few individuals that make my tours unpleasantly memorable. The ones who walk across the street to get away from me (I do sometimes look pretty ghastly!), the ones who make fun of my fabulous hat, and my favorite, the ones who try to follow along with my group halfway into the tour and try to hear the stories for free. This has been attempted several times and no one has been successful because I have this thing called vision, and I can do this weird thing called counting. I know who starts the tour with me- I make eye contact, I learn their names and I shake their hands. I'll let the intruders linger for a few minutes, then stop the story and very nicely inform them that if they go online to -insert website- they can have their own tour set up. At this point the intruder has one of several reactions:
1- "Pshhhh, whatever." And walks away.
2- "Why can't I just stay and watch yours?"
3- "Your story was lame anyway."
4- "#@$%&*!"
None of these people bother me and they serve as extra entertainment for my brave thrill-seekers.
Tonight, however, I had a whole new experience of weird that bears telling. The evening started with a rather ghoulish make-up design and my fabulous hat. (see below)
I call this look "Blood is Yummy".
I had fun with it and was excited to troll the streets with my new design. The night was great and my guests were a delight. Then we get to the haunted book store, one of my favorite stops. I have my back to the store so that my guests can look at me and see the store while I tell the creepy story. I'm just getting to one of the juicy moments when two drunk guys walk around the corner in our direction. As they pass us, one of them turns, sees me, and when he's no less than ten feet away he hollers to his friend,
"Oh my GOD! Did you see that f*$#@*g bitch's face?! She is UGLY!"
After saying this loud enough for everyone on the street to hear, they both turn to look at me. My group is collectively holding their breath, waiting to see what would happen next. I very lovingly blow a kiss to both men and wave good-bye. I then confide to my group that men are often frightened when they are inexplicably attracted to something, such as me. My group was awesome! One guy said to me and the others that both of those guys have very bad karma coming their way. One of the girls said, "They're just jealous."
Even negative things often have a way of blossoming into something positive.
In the end, it's all in good fun and it makes for a very interesting night.
Until next time,
~Story Siren
Then there are the few individuals that make my tours unpleasantly memorable. The ones who walk across the street to get away from me (I do sometimes look pretty ghastly!), the ones who make fun of my fabulous hat, and my favorite, the ones who try to follow along with my group halfway into the tour and try to hear the stories for free. This has been attempted several times and no one has been successful because I have this thing called vision, and I can do this weird thing called counting. I know who starts the tour with me- I make eye contact, I learn their names and I shake their hands. I'll let the intruders linger for a few minutes, then stop the story and very nicely inform them that if they go online to -insert website- they can have their own tour set up. At this point the intruder has one of several reactions:
1- "Pshhhh, whatever." And walks away.
2- "Why can't I just stay and watch yours?"
3- "Your story was lame anyway."
4- "#@$%&*!"
None of these people bother me and they serve as extra entertainment for my brave thrill-seekers.
Tonight, however, I had a whole new experience of weird that bears telling. The evening started with a rather ghoulish make-up design and my fabulous hat. (see below)
I call this look "Blood is Yummy".
I had fun with it and was excited to troll the streets with my new design. The night was great and my guests were a delight. Then we get to the haunted book store, one of my favorite stops. I have my back to the store so that my guests can look at me and see the store while I tell the creepy story. I'm just getting to one of the juicy moments when two drunk guys walk around the corner in our direction. As they pass us, one of them turns, sees me, and when he's no less than ten feet away he hollers to his friend,
"Oh my GOD! Did you see that f*$#@*g bitch's face?! She is UGLY!"
After saying this loud enough for everyone on the street to hear, they both turn to look at me. My group is collectively holding their breath, waiting to see what would happen next. I very lovingly blow a kiss to both men and wave good-bye. I then confide to my group that men are often frightened when they are inexplicably attracted to something, such as me. My group was awesome! One guy said to me and the others that both of those guys have very bad karma coming their way. One of the girls said, "They're just jealous."
Even negative things often have a way of blossoming into something positive.
In the end, it's all in good fun and it makes for a very interesting night.
Until next time,
~Story Siren
Friday, October 14, 2011
Call of the Ginger Siren!
In Florida, we rarely have cold fronts, especially during the fall. We have cool fronts. This is a special and magical time when the fairies dance, the children sing, the dog licks the mailman and going outside becomes an absolute joy. I've seen it happen; there is a spring in the step of passersby and people are more friendly and less likely to complain if they have to wait in line. People are also more likely to tip....
My painful stint of penniless thrill-seekers took the night off! I had a group of 17 and they were so fun, laid-back and quick to ask really insightful questions. Perhaps they vibed well with the sassy, ginger vixen that was their tour guide. (see below)
The tour was great, we found some energy readings with my handy EMF detector and I got to tell all the stories plus a few extra. I love getting to tell the extra, unscheduled stories! It helps me to connect more with my groups. Through haunted theatres, burial grounds and long-forgotten graveyards we marched. I came home feeling quite invigorated and playful. (see ginger siren below)
My painful stint of penniless thrill-seekers took the night off! I had a group of 17 and they were so fun, laid-back and quick to ask really insightful questions. Perhaps they vibed well with the sassy, ginger vixen that was their tour guide. (see below)
How could you not love a face like that? No, seriously, how? I'm still trying to find new ideas to improve my make-up skills.
It's nights such as these that make me happy to be a Floridian, a story teller, a tour guide, a girlfriend, a writer, a pet owner and an artist. As many people can tell you, being any of those things isn't easy all the time. It's moments and days such as these that make me revel in being who I am.
Best to you all!
Until next time,
~Story Siren
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Only Their Eyes Moved
Several weeks ago, I had a dream that stood out upon waking. After several days of sharing it with friends and family, it abruptly vanished from my thoughts. Until last night. While laying in bed trying to hunt down this much heard of thing called "sleep", I experienced a vivid flashback of the entire dream. It fits the criteria of the stories I love to tell, so at this time, I will share it with you. Enjoy....
I was walking through a suburban neighborhood. The paint on the houses was perfect and color-coordinated, the lawns impeccably manicured, the sky a flawless robin's egg blue and not a cloud in the sky. Perfect....eerily perfect. My feet take me over to a new subdivision called Haunted Debutante. I'm intrigued.
The second I step onto the property, the sky rolls with thunderheads that writhe, but remain silent. Everything is silent, not even a sprinkler or a bird chirping. Some of the houses look like they were from the turn of the 20th century, some even older. Plantation style houses, one after the other. On each lawn there was some variety of an "open house" sign. There were beautiful magnolia trees growing in every front lawn with graceful, marble benches that rested beneath them.
I approached the first house that had a mailbox at the front. The mailbox had "Annabelle's Ache" painted on it. The front porch is wide and deep with a swing that swung gently, back and forth. The front door is open and I walk inside to find a stunning foyer. I'm surprised to see a cluster of three women in antebellum dress sitting in the front parlor. They did not show any sign of seeing me. I go into the parlor, fascinated. They are all sitting in polished wooden chairs with cushions. None of them moved. All three hold their fans to cover their mouths. At once, all three pairs of eyes turn their focus to me. Not a murmur, twitch, breath or blink. They regarded me with their eyes for a few moments, then changed their gaze to the foyer. I'm horrified, but unable to stop searching. I move on to the next house.
On the lawn of the house next door there is a painted sign which reads "Quiet Shame". Underneath an apple tree, next to the sign, there are two girls holding dolls. Neither child moves, but I feel their eyes on me. The front porch has a old rocking chair that moves gently back and forth. The door to the foyer is open, but the foyer and front parlor are empty. I moved further into the house. I find a grand banquet hall and a dining table filled with people, every one wearing turn of the century southern dress. The host of the banquet is standing frozen with his glass raised, about to make a toast. The rest of the guests have their glasses raised. All eyes turn to me. Not a single bodily movement. This time their eyes stay on me and I feel that I have intruded.
Every house is like this. Women in a kitchen, a young girl sitting at a vanity holding a mirror, men playing cards, a dance hall filled with couples waltzing. No movement in any place. Only their eyes moved, watching me enter their silent, still world and watching me leave.
Every one of them has skin the color of ashes.
I don't understand how these people could be alive and dead at the same time. Alive, but not breathing or even blinking. The only movement is in the staring eyes. Their stares were so heavy and accusing. I remember running away, certain that at any moment, these wraiths of silence would spring to life and drag me into one of their homes, turning my skin to ash and forever making me a Haunted Debutante. Just before an icy, gray hand can grab my shoulder, I wake up.
I am quite certain that I will not be forgetting this dream again.
Sweet dreams.
Until next time,
~Story Siren
***************
I was walking through a suburban neighborhood. The paint on the houses was perfect and color-coordinated, the lawns impeccably manicured, the sky a flawless robin's egg blue and not a cloud in the sky. Perfect....eerily perfect. My feet take me over to a new subdivision called Haunted Debutante. I'm intrigued.
The second I step onto the property, the sky rolls with thunderheads that writhe, but remain silent. Everything is silent, not even a sprinkler or a bird chirping. Some of the houses look like they were from the turn of the 20th century, some even older. Plantation style houses, one after the other. On each lawn there was some variety of an "open house" sign. There were beautiful magnolia trees growing in every front lawn with graceful, marble benches that rested beneath them.
I approached the first house that had a mailbox at the front. The mailbox had "Annabelle's Ache" painted on it. The front porch is wide and deep with a swing that swung gently, back and forth. The front door is open and I walk inside to find a stunning foyer. I'm surprised to see a cluster of three women in antebellum dress sitting in the front parlor. They did not show any sign of seeing me. I go into the parlor, fascinated. They are all sitting in polished wooden chairs with cushions. None of them moved. All three hold their fans to cover their mouths. At once, all three pairs of eyes turn their focus to me. Not a murmur, twitch, breath or blink. They regarded me with their eyes for a few moments, then changed their gaze to the foyer. I'm horrified, but unable to stop searching. I move on to the next house.
On the lawn of the house next door there is a painted sign which reads "Quiet Shame". Underneath an apple tree, next to the sign, there are two girls holding dolls. Neither child moves, but I feel their eyes on me. The front porch has a old rocking chair that moves gently back and forth. The door to the foyer is open, but the foyer and front parlor are empty. I moved further into the house. I find a grand banquet hall and a dining table filled with people, every one wearing turn of the century southern dress. The host of the banquet is standing frozen with his glass raised, about to make a toast. The rest of the guests have their glasses raised. All eyes turn to me. Not a single bodily movement. This time their eyes stay on me and I feel that I have intruded.
Every house is like this. Women in a kitchen, a young girl sitting at a vanity holding a mirror, men playing cards, a dance hall filled with couples waltzing. No movement in any place. Only their eyes moved, watching me enter their silent, still world and watching me leave.
Every one of them has skin the color of ashes.
I don't understand how these people could be alive and dead at the same time. Alive, but not breathing or even blinking. The only movement is in the staring eyes. Their stares were so heavy and accusing. I remember running away, certain that at any moment, these wraiths of silence would spring to life and drag me into one of their homes, turning my skin to ash and forever making me a Haunted Debutante. Just before an icy, gray hand can grab my shoulder, I wake up.
I am quite certain that I will not be forgetting this dream again.
Sweet dreams.
Until next time,
~Story Siren
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Blood on the Lace
This is a little something I put together in the spirit of my favorite holiday. Enjoy......if you dare!
Blood on the Lace-
Through the window she peers,
sweet smile so very meek.
Tugging on the white lace curtain,
this girl that never speaks.
She stands and watches every day,
the children across the street.
She wishes that they'd come to play,
these children she longs to meet.
One day a little boy of five
approaches the old brick house.
Our sweet girl is overjoyed,
she's never one to grouse.
She primps her hair, she opens the door
and greets her lovely friend.
She invites him in, she closes the door
and the boy is never seen again.
Just a hint of blood on the white lace curtain
and drops of blood upon her cheek.
The girl still waits behind the lace,
this girl that smiles but never speaks.
Happy haunting.....
~Story Siren
Tipping- Not Just For Cows
I fear that my fair city has been overcome by a plague of cheap and clueless thrill-seekers. My heart hangs heavy at the end of every tour when my brave guests thank me for the excellent time, bid me good night and offer NO TIP. I've said it before and I'll say it again- tipping is never required but always appreciated, just like it's appreciated when you tip your server who has given you an evening of excellent service.
My evening started out great. I created a new look for my outing which I call "The Hot Mess". (see below)
So, Hot Mess was ready to hit the streets with a stitched face and hair teased within an inch of its life. This is all done for pure fun. The tour went great, my group was engaged in the stories and laughed at my silly, impromptu jokes. We had fun together! I especially love it when my guests confide in me that "this is the best tour they've ever been on", or, "I went on this other tour in -insert name of town- and compared to you, she sucked!". I'll be honest, the childish side of me revels in hearing stuff like that!
The tour ends and my guests thank me for a wonderful evening. Then they disappear into the darkness, leaving me speechless and empty-handed.
Here's what really adds a nasty and vicious sting to this ordeal- not only did the see my pin which is very visible and clearly states, "Tips Make Tour Guides Happy", they commented on how clever it was. They saw my pin, made mention of it and didn't show enough class to offer me at least a dollar. I sing for my supper; a dollar is not an insult because that means I have one dollar more than before. Basically, not tipping your tour guide, server or hair dresser who has given you excellent service is a flip off. It's rude, it's tacky and it leaves a person feeling unappreciated for their hard work.
To sum up, the evening has left me sad, deflated and just plain crazy. (see below)
As you can clearly see, this is not a pretty sight to behold. Maybe if someone gives me a dollar my eyes will uncross.
Pissing and moaning aside, I love what I do. I love having fun with make-up, meeting new people and sharing weird and wonderful stories with them. It's just nice to be appreciated for what I do.
Until next time,
~Story Siren
My evening started out great. I created a new look for my outing which I call "The Hot Mess". (see below)
The tour ends and my guests thank me for a wonderful evening. Then they disappear into the darkness, leaving me speechless and empty-handed.
Here's what really adds a nasty and vicious sting to this ordeal- not only did the see my pin which is very visible and clearly states, "Tips Make Tour Guides Happy", they commented on how clever it was. They saw my pin, made mention of it and didn't show enough class to offer me at least a dollar. I sing for my supper; a dollar is not an insult because that means I have one dollar more than before. Basically, not tipping your tour guide, server or hair dresser who has given you excellent service is a flip off. It's rude, it's tacky and it leaves a person feeling unappreciated for their hard work.
To sum up, the evening has left me sad, deflated and just plain crazy. (see below)
Pissing and moaning aside, I love what I do. I love having fun with make-up, meeting new people and sharing weird and wonderful stories with them. It's just nice to be appreciated for what I do.
Until next time,
~Story Siren
Friday, October 7, 2011
Tough Audience
Being an outdoor tour guide isn't easy. You endure all types of weather, you sweat, you thirst, your freeze, you combat spontaneous bursts of rain, you navigate through traffic, you get weird looks from passerby (I swear they are jealous of my fabulous hat!) who have no idea why you are leading a group of people through the streets with a dimly lit lamp. Most of the time it's worth the effort. I get to meet some amazing people, I get to scare and entertain them with wonderful stories and its a great way to connect with people while getting fresh air. Usually the positive outweighs the negative by far. Usually.
Then there are nights like tonight. They don't occur often; I might get a sour group once every few months. It keeps me humble and after tonight, I think I might be set for at least the next six months. I started off doing great; I had fun putting on my goth-chic make-up and I was pleased with the result. (See below.)
There are five characters in this story- myself, a young lady who we shall call Girlfriend, her boyfriend who we shall call Rude Boyfriend, a young woman we shall call Daughter and her mother who we shall call Fussy Mom.
Fussy Mom and Daughter show up first. Normally before a tour I like to chat my group up and prep them for what's ahead on the tour. I like to ask questions to get to know them a little bit, ie, "Are you from Florida?", "Is this your first ghost tour?", "Are you a believer in the paranormal?", "Do you scare easily?", etc, just for fun. Daughter was very easy to talk with and she asked some great questions about what the tour entailed. Fussy Mom on the other hand was a fan of the one-word-answers. "Yes." "No." "Thanks." I couldn't really get her to open up.
Then Girlfriend and Rude Boyfriend arrive. It was obvious that Girlfriend had talked Rude Boyfriend into going on a ghost tour with her and he didn't hide the fact the he did not want to be there. He looked bored and annoyed before we even got the tour started. From my opening welcome speech all the way to the very end of the final story, Rude Boyfriend spent the whole tour doing one of two things: not looking at or listening to me, or staring at me with a disgusted look while periodically rolling his eyes. He was pretty bad, but I've dealt with worse.
Fussy Mom was a different kind of difficult. She was a complainer. Here are some highlights from Fussy Mom's incessant barrage of bitching:
"Why are we walking? Where is the bus?"
- I had to gently remind her that she and her daughter had signed up for a walking tour.
"Why can't we go inside the places you're talking about? The tour would be so much more interesting if we could go inside."
- The tour is at night, when the businesses, shops and cemeteries are closed. I had to very nicely point this out.
"Why is it raining? Does it always rain on these tours?"
- Naturally, since I control the weather it was very stupid of me to cause it to rain during my tour.
"How much longer is this going to be?"
- About 30 more minutes, which meant that she had another half hour to come up with more creative and insightful questions for me to answer.
"I'm so hungry."
- This last was repeated several times. Perhaps she assumed that if she complained long enough I would pull a sandwich out of my purse.
And my favorite...
During one of my stories I had to reach into my purse for a tissue. Fussy Mom thought I was going to bring out a neat trinket or prop related to the story. When it turned out to only be a tissue, she let out an irritated sigh. I laughed it off by saying, "Sorry, no props for this story." To which she replied, "I just thought something interesting was going to happen."
People like Fussy Mom and Rude Boyfriend help keep me on my toes.
At the end of every tour, I always conclude it by thanking my group for coming on the adventure with me. This is usually followed by my group generously offering me a few bucks as a tip. I even wear a cute button which reads, "Tips Make Tour Guides Happy". For anyone who sings for their supper, they know that tips are not required but they are always appreciated. Offering a tip is gracious and polite thing to do.
I guess my group tonight missed the memo.
Fussy Mom and Daughter hurried off to a nearby pub. Rude Boyfriend wanted to know what one of the buildings looked like from the other side. Both couples ran off in separate directions. At least Girlfriend has the decency to call out "Good night!" as Rude Boyfriend dragged her away. No tip from anyone. Again, tips are not required, but they are always appreciated. Many people don't realize it but not tipping your tour guide is just as rude as not tipping your server. No tip, despite the fact that I worked very hard to make sure that those people had a great time. Sometimes people just don't gel. Fussy Mom was dissatisfied and Rude Boyfriend didn't even want to be there. Sometimes an unlucky tour guide just gets a sour bunch.
In all honesty, I can't really complain. Out of every five months of tours I might get one sour bunch. Most of the time my groups have been wonderful, interested and eager to listen. The good really does outweigh the bad. Which means that when the bad does happen, it is often funny and always memorable. It takes the sour groups to make me appreciate my fabulous groups even more.
Until next time,
~Story Siren
Then there are nights like tonight. They don't occur often; I might get a sour group once every few months. It keeps me humble and after tonight, I think I might be set for at least the next six months. I started off doing great; I had fun putting on my goth-chic make-up and I was pleased with the result. (See below.)
I arrived on the scene and I was very excited to get the tour started. The weather was nice (until it rained) and I had a spring in my step. Then the real story begins.
There are five characters in this story- myself, a young lady who we shall call Girlfriend, her boyfriend who we shall call Rude Boyfriend, a young woman we shall call Daughter and her mother who we shall call Fussy Mom.
Fussy Mom and Daughter show up first. Normally before a tour I like to chat my group up and prep them for what's ahead on the tour. I like to ask questions to get to know them a little bit, ie, "Are you from Florida?", "Is this your first ghost tour?", "Are you a believer in the paranormal?", "Do you scare easily?", etc, just for fun. Daughter was very easy to talk with and she asked some great questions about what the tour entailed. Fussy Mom on the other hand was a fan of the one-word-answers. "Yes." "No." "Thanks." I couldn't really get her to open up.
Then Girlfriend and Rude Boyfriend arrive. It was obvious that Girlfriend had talked Rude Boyfriend into going on a ghost tour with her and he didn't hide the fact the he did not want to be there. He looked bored and annoyed before we even got the tour started. From my opening welcome speech all the way to the very end of the final story, Rude Boyfriend spent the whole tour doing one of two things: not looking at or listening to me, or staring at me with a disgusted look while periodically rolling his eyes. He was pretty bad, but I've dealt with worse.
Fussy Mom was a different kind of difficult. She was a complainer. Here are some highlights from Fussy Mom's incessant barrage of bitching:
"Why are we walking? Where is the bus?"
- I had to gently remind her that she and her daughter had signed up for a walking tour.
"Why can't we go inside the places you're talking about? The tour would be so much more interesting if we could go inside."
- The tour is at night, when the businesses, shops and cemeteries are closed. I had to very nicely point this out.
"Why is it raining? Does it always rain on these tours?"
- Naturally, since I control the weather it was very stupid of me to cause it to rain during my tour.
"How much longer is this going to be?"
- About 30 more minutes, which meant that she had another half hour to come up with more creative and insightful questions for me to answer.
"I'm so hungry."
- This last was repeated several times. Perhaps she assumed that if she complained long enough I would pull a sandwich out of my purse.
And my favorite...
During one of my stories I had to reach into my purse for a tissue. Fussy Mom thought I was going to bring out a neat trinket or prop related to the story. When it turned out to only be a tissue, she let out an irritated sigh. I laughed it off by saying, "Sorry, no props for this story." To which she replied, "I just thought something interesting was going to happen."
People like Fussy Mom and Rude Boyfriend help keep me on my toes.
At the end of every tour, I always conclude it by thanking my group for coming on the adventure with me. This is usually followed by my group generously offering me a few bucks as a tip. I even wear a cute button which reads, "Tips Make Tour Guides Happy". For anyone who sings for their supper, they know that tips are not required but they are always appreciated. Offering a tip is gracious and polite thing to do.
I guess my group tonight missed the memo.
Fussy Mom and Daughter hurried off to a nearby pub. Rude Boyfriend wanted to know what one of the buildings looked like from the other side. Both couples ran off in separate directions. At least Girlfriend has the decency to call out "Good night!" as Rude Boyfriend dragged her away. No tip from anyone. Again, tips are not required, but they are always appreciated. Many people don't realize it but not tipping your tour guide is just as rude as not tipping your server. No tip, despite the fact that I worked very hard to make sure that those people had a great time. Sometimes people just don't gel. Fussy Mom was dissatisfied and Rude Boyfriend didn't even want to be there. Sometimes an unlucky tour guide just gets a sour bunch.
In all honesty, I can't really complain. Out of every five months of tours I might get one sour bunch. Most of the time my groups have been wonderful, interested and eager to listen. The good really does outweigh the bad. Which means that when the bad does happen, it is often funny and always memorable. It takes the sour groups to make me appreciate my fabulous groups even more.
Until next time,
~Story Siren
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Banshees and Devils
Are you one of those brave souls that go to sleep with wet hair? Ever wonder why your hair is a mess of snarls when you wake up the following morning? I can tell you why.
For those of us that are brave or foolish enough to go to the land of Nod with a wet head, we are visited by banshees. Banshees are notorious for loving to play tricks on us humans and anyone asleep with dampened locks is a sitting duck for their trademark trickery. They creep over to our bed and stare at us, silent and vulnerable. Then they very gently take strands of our wet hair and wrap it around their gnarled fingers, twisting it until it becomes a tiny rats nest. They do this to any hair that lies exposed and we sleep through the whole thing. When our hair is tangled to the banshee's liking, they slink away into the darkness, a huge grin on their wicked faces.
Think about that the next time you go to bed with wet hair....
On another topic, many native Floridians are familiar with a treat of nature that is known as a Sun Shower. The sun shines but the rain falls. It's like gold raining upon the streets. Quite beautiful but to many it is seen as a contradiction of nature. To the other southern states above Florida, a Sun Shower is described as something entirely different. Some see it as a freak of nature and upon seeing it are known to quip, "Looks like the Devil's beatin' his wife."
You read that correctly- the Devil is beating his wife.
This seemed so bizarre to me that I had to give it some thought in an attempt to make sense of it. I have drawn up a scenario of what I imagine would happen if this saying were in fact true:
The scene is a warm and cozy kitchen. Wife is at the stove wearing an apron that says "Mrs. Devil". She is stirring something in a dark cauldron. There is green smoke coming from inside the cauldron. Enter the Devil.
Devil: Honey, I'm home.
Wife: Hello, dear. How was your day?
Devil: You know, the usual. Corrupting souls, getting people to succumb to temptation. What's for dinner?
Wife: Wraith Stew.
Devil (looks uncomfortable) : Um, honey.....
Wife: Yes, dear?
Devil: ....it's raining outside....
Wife: That's nice.
Devil: ...and well, the sun is shining....
Wife: Ah. I see. (she puts her spoon down and turns to Devil) What do you want to do about this?
Devil: Well, you know how the saying goes.
Wife: I certainly do. (she walk over to Devil and punches him in the stomach, the Devil doubles over gasping for air)
Devil: What the hell was that?! I'm supposed to hit you!
Wife: I know, dear, maybe next time. (she resumes stirring the stew)
Devil: Well, okay, but if anybody asks, I hit you.
Wife: Whatever you say, dear.
For those of us that are brave or foolish enough to go to the land of Nod with a wet head, we are visited by banshees. Banshees are notorious for loving to play tricks on us humans and anyone asleep with dampened locks is a sitting duck for their trademark trickery. They creep over to our bed and stare at us, silent and vulnerable. Then they very gently take strands of our wet hair and wrap it around their gnarled fingers, twisting it until it becomes a tiny rats nest. They do this to any hair that lies exposed and we sleep through the whole thing. When our hair is tangled to the banshee's liking, they slink away into the darkness, a huge grin on their wicked faces.
Think about that the next time you go to bed with wet hair....
On another topic, many native Floridians are familiar with a treat of nature that is known as a Sun Shower. The sun shines but the rain falls. It's like gold raining upon the streets. Quite beautiful but to many it is seen as a contradiction of nature. To the other southern states above Florida, a Sun Shower is described as something entirely different. Some see it as a freak of nature and upon seeing it are known to quip, "Looks like the Devil's beatin' his wife."
You read that correctly- the Devil is beating his wife.
This seemed so bizarre to me that I had to give it some thought in an attempt to make sense of it. I have drawn up a scenario of what I imagine would happen if this saying were in fact true:
The scene is a warm and cozy kitchen. Wife is at the stove wearing an apron that says "Mrs. Devil". She is stirring something in a dark cauldron. There is green smoke coming from inside the cauldron. Enter the Devil.
Devil: Honey, I'm home.
Wife: Hello, dear. How was your day?
Devil: You know, the usual. Corrupting souls, getting people to succumb to temptation. What's for dinner?
Wife: Wraith Stew.
Devil (looks uncomfortable) : Um, honey.....
Wife: Yes, dear?
Devil: ....it's raining outside....
Wife: That's nice.
Devil: ...and well, the sun is shining....
Wife: Ah. I see. (she puts her spoon down and turns to Devil) What do you want to do about this?
Devil: Well, you know how the saying goes.
Wife: I certainly do. (she walk over to Devil and punches him in the stomach, the Devil doubles over gasping for air)
Devil: What the hell was that?! I'm supposed to hit you!
Wife: I know, dear, maybe next time. (she resumes stirring the stew)
Devil: Well, okay, but if anybody asks, I hit you.
Wife: Whatever you say, dear.
Fin!
This scene was just a little musing of mine. Naturally, if I hear an expression that involves the Devil himself beating his wife, I'm going to have to make fun of it! I'm always on the lookout for legends, folklore and expressions both old and new. Everything has a story in it, you just have to look closely.
Until next time,
~Story Siren
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Beauty is Pain
Tonight I took some young students from USF on a tour of the haunted Downtown Tampa. The weather was gorgeous! There were points in the tour when my guests were shivering both from the wind and the creepy tales I shared.
With my favorite time of the year in play, I was feeling rather spritely and decided to mix things up a little. In place of my fabulous steampunk hat, I chose to adorn myself with a sassy black wig and vamp up my face.
(See below)
The process of getting ready was very tedious but I feel the end justified the means. I lost count of the number of bobby pins it took to ensnare my hair under that wig. Those pins are not forgiving and I succumbed to many scalp stabbings trying to get each twisted bunch of hair in place. You wouldn't know to look at it but the wig lining is smeared with my blood. The process of vamping continues:
Pins- check.
Pin curls- check.
Cursing at the pins for making my scalp bleed- check.
Tetanus shot- check
Wig cap made out of old panty hose stockings- check.
And finally, wig- check!
Once the wig was in place I could move on to the easy stuff- make-up! Character and fantasy make-up is a great passion of mine and I love face painting. The tour was great, the weather was perfect and my wig was a big hit. Then the adrenaline wore off and the pain set in. My scalp was throbbing and I could feel every single pin pulling at my hair and tearing at my tender scalp.
If putting pins in hurts, pulling them out of twisted, knotted hair is even more painful. Removing the pins was not a happy event. (See below)
So much for the vamp goddess. Any woman can testify that the things we do for beauty can cause great pain. Any artist can confirm that the things we do for art can cause us to suffer. Pain. Suffering. Tetanus. Such is the life of a girl who sings for her supper.
Until next time,
~Story Siren
With my favorite time of the year in play, I was feeling rather spritely and decided to mix things up a little. In place of my fabulous steampunk hat, I chose to adorn myself with a sassy black wig and vamp up my face.
(See below)
The process of getting ready was very tedious but I feel the end justified the means. I lost count of the number of bobby pins it took to ensnare my hair under that wig. Those pins are not forgiving and I succumbed to many scalp stabbings trying to get each twisted bunch of hair in place. You wouldn't know to look at it but the wig lining is smeared with my blood. The process of vamping continues:
Pins- check.
Pin curls- check.
Cursing at the pins for making my scalp bleed- check.
Tetanus shot- check
Wig cap made out of old panty hose stockings- check.
And finally, wig- check!
Once the wig was in place I could move on to the easy stuff- make-up! Character and fantasy make-up is a great passion of mine and I love face painting. The tour was great, the weather was perfect and my wig was a big hit. Then the adrenaline wore off and the pain set in. My scalp was throbbing and I could feel every single pin pulling at my hair and tearing at my tender scalp.
If putting pins in hurts, pulling them out of twisted, knotted hair is even more painful. Removing the pins was not a happy event. (See below)
So much for the vamp goddess. Any woman can testify that the things we do for beauty can cause great pain. Any artist can confirm that the things we do for art can cause us to suffer. Pain. Suffering. Tetanus. Such is the life of a girl who sings for her supper.
Until next time,
~Story Siren
Saturday, October 1, 2011
An Amazing Performance
I'll be honest. A common stereotype is that most high school performance groups are notoriously bad. The school offers no support to the programs, they have next-to-nothing funding and the shows are poorly attended, usually by parents and teachers who are obligated to sit and watch. It's bad for morale and the art suffers for it.
But today, I had the great joy of watching some very talented students. I went to see the annual University of South Florida Festival of Voices. There were students from my last tour performing in the show and I wished to support them. Both me and my fabulous hat. (See below)
It's always fun to watch a group of choral singers. There are usually two types: You have the ones who are aware of their stage presence, how to hold their posture, how to position their face when gracefully gliding from one note to the next. Such was the case with the amazing kids from my tour, high schoolers from Coral Springs Charter School. Their high school choral group is called Encore. What an amazing and talented group of kids!
Then there's there other type of choral performer; people in the same group who are not aware of their stage presence. People who slump, slouch, keep their heads buried in their music notes so we can't see their face, people who have no idea how ridiculous they look when they screw up the muscles in their face or crane their necks to hit a note. The vocal coach within me wanted to straighten their necks and hold a mirror up to their faces so they could see how goofy they looked. And the worst of them all, the people who have dead eyes, the creepy thousand yard stare. It gives me the chills.
Dead people, neck craners and face contortionists aside, the music was beautiful. And Encore stood out of a group of 400 singers, not including musicians. Many props to the director of Encore, Julie Webb. She has done right by all of those kids!
Seeing their bright faces took me back to my days in high school. This was of course a bad memory. I was a Drama student and the Drama Club received derision, not support. I remember performing my heart out in plays that were rehearsed for weeks, only to be attended by maybe 25 students per show who had to see the play for a required assignment in English class. Yep, those were the days.
I hope that Encore and thousands of other creative programs continue to get the support that they need and deserve. Whatever the football team gets, the arts should get too!
Okay, stepping off my soap box.
With or without support, performing shaped me into the (odd) person that I am today and I wouldn't change it for the world. I live and breathe art and I will continue to do so every day.
Until next time,
~Story Siren
But today, I had the great joy of watching some very talented students. I went to see the annual University of South Florida Festival of Voices. There were students from my last tour performing in the show and I wished to support them. Both me and my fabulous hat. (See below)
(These are the kids from my tour. Go Encore!)
It's always fun to watch a group of choral singers. There are usually two types: You have the ones who are aware of their stage presence, how to hold their posture, how to position their face when gracefully gliding from one note to the next. Such was the case with the amazing kids from my tour, high schoolers from Coral Springs Charter School. Their high school choral group is called Encore. What an amazing and talented group of kids!
Then there's there other type of choral performer; people in the same group who are not aware of their stage presence. People who slump, slouch, keep their heads buried in their music notes so we can't see their face, people who have no idea how ridiculous they look when they screw up the muscles in their face or crane their necks to hit a note. The vocal coach within me wanted to straighten their necks and hold a mirror up to their faces so they could see how goofy they looked. And the worst of them all, the people who have dead eyes, the creepy thousand yard stare. It gives me the chills.
Dead people, neck craners and face contortionists aside, the music was beautiful. And Encore stood out of a group of 400 singers, not including musicians. Many props to the director of Encore, Julie Webb. She has done right by all of those kids!
Seeing their bright faces took me back to my days in high school. This was of course a bad memory. I was a Drama student and the Drama Club received derision, not support. I remember performing my heart out in plays that were rehearsed for weeks, only to be attended by maybe 25 students per show who had to see the play for a required assignment in English class. Yep, those were the days.
I hope that Encore and thousands of other creative programs continue to get the support that they need and deserve. Whatever the football team gets, the arts should get too!
Okay, stepping off my soap box.
With or without support, performing shaped me into the (odd) person that I am today and I wouldn't change it for the world. I live and breathe art and I will continue to do so every day.
Until next time,
~Story Siren
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