My first question for Jennifer Luebke is no doubt an impertinent one: it’s about her job title.
My first question for Jennifer Luebke is no doubt an impertinent one: it’s about her job title.
While his job title would allow William Shubb to occasionally be, well, judgmental—after all, he’s a judge—what he seems to be most is contemplative, kind and pretty funny.
Margo Fowkes knows that neither death nor grief takes a holiday.
On September 9, I sent the following email to Phillip Zimmerman, manager of Sacramento’s Front Street Animal Shelter:
My city, like too many cities, has challenges with homelessness.
If Beverly Barad were a horse whisperer, this is probably what you’d hear her murmur to one: “Come with me.”
As a theatre staple, the one-person show dates back to even before there were staples. Permit me to digress.
Kristie Kemp is one of June Blackhurst’s 10 children but has the distinction of being the only one who’s in business with her mom.
Two weeks ago I attended two reunions with Cynthia Larsen (whom I’ve coyly referred to as my OSSO—oh-so-significant-other—for entirely too long): (a) an annual two-day event with my high school theatre buddies; and (b) her three-day, 50-year high school reunion.
My older brothers and I used to wonder what it would be like if our mom died before our dad. We agreed that unlike our resilient and social mom, (who would outlive him by about 30 years), our dad would be a little old man shuffling around a Sears store on a Saturday, wearing his tan London Fog windbreaker (with red plaid lining and cigarette holes), dark blue chinos and avocado green deck shoes.