Alice hates ...

I'm at home.

It's 7:30 on a Thursday. I'm home, and I'm alone. Mom and Dad went shooting and out for pizza with the range crew. Rachel's out at dinner with her Vice President. Matt's in Vegas. Cassie could be anywhere, but I think it'd be a safe guess to say at work.

And I'm home alone.


It's nice, though. Dinah and Pepper seem happy to see me, so there's a plus.

I just got back from an assignment. Which is great, because I start to hate reporting when all I'm doing is rewriting press releases. When I get to actually go, talk to people, and have fun- then it's totally worthwhile.

I'm working on something about high school musicals. (Exciting, I know. STFU.) So I went to Deer Valley High, and hung out for an hour and a half before show time. I had a rediculously fun time, once I got out of the clutches of the "student director". Lovely girl, I'm sure, but her role basically equates to professional teacher's pet. I let her introduce me to the lead actors and actresses, then shooed her away.

I got my quotes and took mugs of the main kids. Took a few action shots with them playing on stage.


And there was a pit! Matt's mentioned the pit, from his band days. I didn't go down, even though I really wanted too.

Then I realized I had time to kill, so I went free-range. I skulked around the back, and stumbled upon a group of four cast members comparing their music libraries on ipods and a white MacBook. I strolled up to them, casually as I could.

"You there. Talk to me."

The sixteen-year-olds Jake, Josh, and Vincent looked up. (The fourth was entirely too into his tunes...) Basically, I chatted them up. They were hilarious. First lag in the conversation, I went for the throat.

"So, Jake. I see you've chosen to sport the Man-scara. That's a bold choice." He turned red under his cakey stage makeup, and the other two started in with the teasing. Choice stuff, there, and I'm sure I have it recorded. I'll have a lot of fun with these notes.

I whipped out my camera to take mugshots of the kids, which instantaneously blew Jake's mind.

"Wait! Wait. This is going to be in the paper?"
"Yes. I told you. (pointing to notebook.) Reporter."
"What paper?"
"The Arizona Republic."
"The big one," added Vincent.
"My picture's going to be in the paper?"
"Yeah. If I can use your quotes in a mugrail, then it'll go in with your picture. Let's just hope you said something interesting," I said.

I got shots of all of them. Group shots, action shots, silly shots (there's a money shot, too, but I'm not making that joke. I'm a professional.)So, it was fun. And I think it just made me realize that I like boys. I said it yesterday, after I had that great interview with the nine-year-old, but man. It's true. And I can compare this to the girls, because after I left my little friends, I went to hang out in the girls dressing room.

The scene: hairspray, dresses askance, purses and bags and heels and ribbons, everywhere. Six girls are huddled close to a full length mirror, carefully curling ringlets. There's a bag of honey combs at my feet.

"It's nice to see you girls snacking healthfully," I started. I didn't get a laugh, and the conversation didn't get much more inspiring. The two girls I talked two (and I'll give one credit, she was quite articulate.) were nice enough. Their story: I'm a dancer. I've been dancing since I was eight. I'm dancing in this musical because my dance teacher suggested I do it. My favorite part is (shock) the dancing.

I tried talking to three of the girls with no-name roles, with similar results. So I settled in to observe, hoping the scene might inspire some kind of artsy lede.

Then the room got quiet.

"Who are you?" demanded a blonde in a blue track suit.

"Reporter. Arizona Republic." I pointed to my badge.

"Oh." (As I had now been identified, and no longer posed a threat to this young Queen Bee, she lost interest in me. The silence hung, so I used it.)

"So, ladies. Tell me. What does that last minute before show time feel like?" I make a flippant gesture to my small audience. "Everyone. Answer. Ready, set, go."

It worked. All (must have been... eleven of them) Start shouting adjectives at me, telling me little pieces of their story. You can guess what they said; I've yet to have the vocabulary of a sixteen year old dancer inspire me. I hear, I scribble. Chaos, busy, hectic, the boys walk in, drama, cat fights, nervousness, excitement, lots of curling irons going, music, the boys dressing room is across the hall, we play, etc... I picked out a few girls to actually listen to, and let the gaggle slip back to their previously scheduled gossip machining.

I am the trained observer, I am the fly on the wall.

Our Blue Queen notices me again. "Hey. Reporter. How old are you?"

Apparently, not so much.

"20. Wait. 21."

"Oh. My. Gosh." (Seriously, you can hear the punctuation in her voice.) "That's in-credible!"

"... Thanks?"

"I thought you were our age. You look 16. I thought you were from the school paper."

Another girl joins in: "No, no, no. She looks 25. At least."

"No, you look young. I can't believe you're a reporter! You're so young." I didn't correct her on the not-technically-a-reporter-reporter thing. It would have added layers of confusion that might have put her off her dancing-game for the night's performance. "What do you write?"

"Education stories. Local stuff."

"Wow. Wow. I want to be a journalist, too, you know."

"Neat. Do you write for your school's paper?"

"No... I'm not that into writing, you know? I want to go broadcast. That's still journalism, you know."

"Yeah. I know." (Hiss. You will be a talking head that thinks no original thought. You will be the voice that tells me the current highs, lows, and accidents on our Valley's freeways. You will narrate images of squirrels on skis. Even then, that's only IF you apply yourself. I loathe you.

"Are you going into broadcast too?"

"No. I'm a print major. I want to cover Superior Court one day."

"Oh," the Blue Queen's eyes glaze a bit. Another girl joins in.

"I'm going to be a broadcast reporter, too. I'll cover fashion and the red carpet." The brunette's pink sports bottle is instantly transformed into microphone, now angled into Queenie's face. "Brad! Brad! Over here. Who are you wearing and where is Angelina this week?"

The girls giggle. I try join in.

"More importantly, whom will she be adopting this week?"

I think I got a pitty laugh.