Encounter with the Master


Saturday night, the Hubby took me out to a small live theater. This is one of his favorite things, with which I go along, since generally I prefer movies. But, there are LOTS of small live theaters in Los Angeles (surprised? Take that, you New York snobs...) For Saturday, the hubby had gotten tix for a production of three one-act plays by Ray Bradbury. We were expecting the usual enthusiastic low-budget production by aspiring actors honing their craft. We sat in the second row, behind the wheelchair cutout, waiting for the curtain, when we would be less than 10 feet from the action.

But wait, what's this? Every curriculum vitae on the program had tons of credits... in Ray Bradbury productions. The Master himself was listed as co-producer. And just before the curtain rose, a white-haired, elderly gentleman was wheeled into the cutout in front of us.

Yes, we spent the evening behind Ray Bradbury, listening to him discuss upcoming library visits and long-past play productions. And after the final curtain, Hubby bought a copy of one of Bradbury's books for me, so that I could get his autograph. By that time, I was such a puddle of hopeless fangirl goo that I was afraid to converse with the man, as my usual crisp General American speech had reverted to my girlhood South Texas ignorant redneck accent that is damn near incomprehensible north of San Antonio (think Boomhauer from"King of the Hill"). I walked away sobbing and clutching my signed collection of short stories.

He's about the last of the SF authors alive who influenced me when I was 10-14 years old, all those years ago in South Texas and later in Oklahoma. Mind you, he wasn't my absolute favorite, as his stuff was comparatively opaque, but he was in the pantheon.

Thanks, Universe. And Hubby. That was a nice one.


Posted: Mon - February 4, 2008 at 06:02 AM   | | | | |

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