The Mayor

Just call me Mayor. That's right. Mayor. Of Bedford Falls. Yes, that Bedford Falls. You see, I've been in the Aiken Community Playhouse performance of "It's a Wonderful Life: The Musical," for which we started rehearsing, by my recollection, some time around 1982.

The Mayor role is a small part, which is fine, since this is a musical, and those with big parts in musicals should be able to, oh, I don't know, maybe sing? My only singing role ever was in my senior class play, in which I was cast in the role of a camp counselor who could not sing on key. I apparently nailed the audition. There is also dancing in this play. Several years ago, my wife banned me from trying to do the electric slide at weddings. That's right - I cannot do a dance that the 90-year-old great-grandmother of the bride can do. I think we can go ahead and sit out the dance scenes, too.

As we head into our final week of performances, I thought I would share a few things I have discovered during the show's run:

* It's really cool to be in a play with both of your kids. You know why? Because they play two of the Bailey kids, so, as I tell them when we walk in the door, "Hey, don't come to me with your problems. Go find George Bailey. He's your dad now."

* Intermission. It's called intermission. People tend to look at you funny when you refer to the show's halftime. On a similar note - dressing room, not locker room.

* Some people think it takes courage to get on stage. You know what takes courage - to be one of the three or four folks - including my wife - in charge of wranglin' a children's cast of about 30 kids, sometimes until 11 at night. Medieval knights didn't have to exhibit that kind of bravery.

* It snows in this play. Every night. Now, if we can make it snow inside of a building, can it be that hard to make it snow every Christmas, at least in my yard?

* This play has done what I thought was the impossible: It has finally pushed several of the songs from "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat" from my head. Oh, wait. Shouldn't have done that. They're back. Dangit.

* It's nice that, when someone asks, I can tell them I have been doing this since the 1980s. So what if I fail to mention that little 20-year gap when I didn't get on stage. Our little secret.

* The Mayor of a New York town in the 1940s did not wear New Balance hiking boots. Fortunately, my wife was able to get home and get my other shoes before the curtain opening on that night.

* If an actor goes on stage with a cell phone in his pocket, and it goes off midscene and the ring tone is a chicken clucking, then know this: The time that ceases to be a source of jokes and ribbing is just after the Earth crashes into the sun.

* One of the best things about being in a play: Food. There is always food. Add bunches of kids and the Bag of Snacky Goodness, and lawdy it's good-eating time. Fast fact: The longest a pizza has survived a set-build: 11 seconds.

* Speaking of set-build, you will be pleased to know that, despite using several power tools over the course of the set construction, I still have 10 - count 'em , 10 - fingers. I would guess I have used up my power tool karma, and will now not pick up another one again until some time around 2018.

* The message of the show, I was gently reminded, is NOT: "If you have a forgetful relative, end it all."

* With a cast and crew of around 60 people, you never really know what you're getting into. While I wasn't expecting folks to split into rival gangs or anything, you never know the dynamics that will form when you get that many people together. The great part - it's a fantastic group of talented people who have fun, enjoy each others' company, pick each other up when they need it and are just a generally nice collection of folks.

I'm lucky to have spent this time with them. I just hope they re-elect me.