My 'Odd' goodbye to working on the McCook stage

This week, instead of my usual fiddle-dee-dee, I've decided to cover some personal territory. If you indulge me by reading it, I'm thankful. Of course, you may feel free to ignore this one -- not that you need my permission to do that.

Sunday afternoon, I stepped onto (and then, about three hours later, off of) a McCook stage for the final time. And it was all I had hoped it would be.

I was delighted and honored to play one of the great characters in modern American theatre history, the one and only Felix Ungar of "The Odd Couple," and I hope that I did the legendary role some justice.

I've spent more than 20 years of my life, in one way or another, involved in theatre and stage productions. I adore it, and always will.

But -- and with me, there's always a big ... oh, never mind my puerile humor ... .

When it comes to working on the stage, I'm intensely critical of my own work, particularly during the rehearsal process. I can't allow myself to take a shortcut. I can't goof off -- at least until I'm confident in my physicality and my words. And I'm tougher on myself in that space than anyone else will ever be. I don't put forth 100 percent of my effort, or even 110. I give 120 percent -- which sounds impossible, and often feels that way, too. (This last show, I kinda felt like Scotty on "Star Trek" -- "I'm givin' 'er all she's got, Captain!")

And when you only have so much to give, when you tax and stress and sweat and bleed to make every piece snap together properly, when you steal time and attention from Peter to pay Paul, so to speak, other parts of your life suffer, because that's how that works, whether you like it or not.

At the age of 20, I was better able to afford that effort. It paid dividends, sorta, even though there were costs. When I was 30, the price went up, but giving more still had its benefits. And regardless of the toll, I had a grand time doing it.

Honestly, I still do. I can't -- and won't -- deny it. Playing Felix Ungar onstage here in McCook was wonderful fun. I had the opportunity to work with some terrific people in the show, particularly my partner-in-crime in "The Odd Couple," Connor DeWalt, a young talent that -- I hope -- will continue to grace the stages in this town for years to come.

And I'm immensely grateful to the people of the Southwest Community Theatre Association for all the opportunities I've been given over the past years. From "Paint Your Wagon" to "Harvey," "The Mikado" (Ho! Mikado!) to "Send Me No Flowers," I can't tell you how much fun I've had -- and how much I've learned about the craft. Between those shows and the Fox summer melodramas, I've been permitted to feel like the proverbial kid in a candy store, playing in some terrific spaces, in front of terrific audiences.

But like all kids, I have figured out that dining on unlimited candy does eventually catch up with you. I'm not 20 anymore. Or 30. That part of my life -- something that I admittedly still love, but does not put food on my table, clothes on my back or spending money in my pocket -- requires an amount of time and emotional energy that I simply don't have to give right now.

I'll never say never to returning to a stage. The amount of things I enjoy as much as performing I can count on one hand. But for now, I'll take my bow and exit, my head held high.

If you came out to a show I was in, I hope you you were entertained. I hope you left the theatre feeling better than you did when you walked into it. If I was even the tiniest bit responsible for making your day brighter, I'm glad.

So thank you. Thanks for coming out to the shows. Thanks for supporting local theatre with your money and your time and your applause.

And thanks for making a not-so-young whipper-snapper feel like a kid again, if only for a little while.