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Interesting roommates

Cheryl Barker | Thursday, April 15, 2004

The end of the semester is rapidly approaching and I know y’all are thinking this is going to be a sappy reflection back on the year. However, to the dedicated readers of the inside column, I have decided to share my experiences as the roommate of two scene-shop gnomes and a music major.

I believe that I shall start with my very own music major. I myself am not a music major – never have been, never will be. With this in mind, I find it hard to understand why any one in their right mind would ever want to be a music major. I’ve learned that if you walk up to any music major and say “music theory,” you get hit or pierced with killer eyes, or the music major faints at the thought.

Like all typical musiciany people – a word invented by us to describe the normal mental state of a musician – my roommate walks around in her own little world. She is always spouting words like “f” and “g.” And she is very good at composing music; the other day she wrote a little ditty about the wonders of gummy worms. My music major fills our room with music. The room just would not be the same without her.

Also here at Saint Mary’s, buried in the middle of Moreau between little theater and O’Laughlin, lies a little room. This room would be the envy of every normal male in the world. There are enough screws, hammers, nail guns and other manly toys to keep several men busy for the rest of their life. There are even some welding thingy-majiggers thrown in for good measure. But the amusing part of this is that the men who use these toys are actually talented, kick butt women who are the backbone of every production here at Saint Mary’s.

These girls can do things most men will only ever be able to dream about doing. They spend every afternoon climbing ladders, adjusting sound equipment, sawing lumber, building fake floors, ‘playing’ with nail guns and doing anything else set designers and production managers come up with. In the weeks before a production, they bury themselves in the shop until the wee hours of the morning, yelling at doors that don’t close right, lights that don’t shine right and sets that don’t look right. The night of the production, these women become little black gnomes that scurry back and forth moving heavy sets. The best part of the entire thing is when all the scene shop women gather in our room for an evening of retelling the disasters of the production (and there are always several) and eating leftover cake and cookies.

I encourage everyone to come witness the wonders of the music majors and scene shop gnomes, as they show off their talents in many upcoming productions. Here is a shout out to all of the sects of Moreau – you guys are awesome. Keep up the good work.