ANGELS IN THE AISLE

By Steve Cisneros, Pantages House Manager

I’ve been very proud to have spent the last 15 years of my career working for what I believe to be some of the finest theatres and venues in Southern California. I’ve had the opportunity to meet the biggest celebrities in the world, meet some of the most talented performers, and watch some of the best shows the theatre world has to offer.

However, until just last week with the opening of Dr. Seuss' "How The Grinch Stole Christmas! The Musical" (Shameless plug alert: now running at the Pantages until January 3, visit www.BroadwayLA.org for tickets), I had never had the opportunity to see this: children making snow angels in the middle of our aisle.

Keep in mind, we have a roof, there is no actual snow falling in our venue (this is Los Angeles after all), and it’s a pleasantly warm day outside of our theatre. However, this does not deter the dozens of children still smiling, screaming, and trotting about our theatre as if they stepped out into the snowy Colorado Mountains.

I don’t want to give a way the ending of the show, (though it’s doubtful many of us don’t already know the story), but suffice it to say, there is plenty of white stuff falling.

Despite The Grinch’s attempt to make the Christmas holiday less cheerful, the children that file into our theatre seem to be filled with the same holiday cheer the Whos have been trying to pass on to our green friend. And while The Grinch has long left the stage, the energy of the show continues in the hearts of our young theatregoers.

I mentioned in my last blog that many of our patrons, now in their 70s and 80s, have been visiting our theatre since they were children. I can’t help but remember these veteran theatregoers as I look at the young kids filling the lobby. I wonder if the House Manager 70 years from now will be speaking to these same patrons, that I see now as children making snow angels. I wonder if that House Manager will get to hear about the stories I am seeing first hand.

Come for The Grinch and laugh, come for the holiday and be merry, come for the live theatre and make it a night; but make sure you stay for the angels in the aisle, and make it a memory you will never forget.

I, PEDESTRIAN

by Bob Speck, Director of Sales

I live in Los Angeles, and I walk. I’ll give you time to process that…

I live in L.A., and I walk. As a very recent transplant, walking is not an alien concept to me. However, tell the average Angelino that you walk, and your admission will likely be met with a combination of disbelief and pity.

You walk?

They ask, their upper lips twitching ever so slightly.

You mean that you hike, like Runyon Canyon or Griffith Park?

They ask, some visibly choking back tears.

For you out-of-towners, Runyon Canyon is a barren crag in the Hollywood Hills, a climb up which is a level of physical activity usually reserved for prisoners of war on forced marches. This little fact aside, it is unfathomably popular with the L.A. fit set and their dogs. And you really haven’t lived until you’ve seen an impossibly thin would-be actress dragging her hyperventilating French bulldog up a narrow mountain pass. Griffith Park is a sprawling complex consisting of a zoo, an amphitheater, two museums, an observatory and acre after acre of relatively unspoiled wilderness that annually busts into flames threatening wildlife and the lives and homes of near by residents.

No, I walk. Like to work or the store or dinner.

Gape-mouthed stares usually follow. The kind of reaction one would expect after confessing to regularly appearing in pornography or having six toes on one foot.

I guess some background is in order. I have recently arrived in L.A. after living in New York City for the last 20 years and prior to that a brief stay abroad in Paris. My driver’s license having long ago expired, I haven’t been behind the wheel in any meaningful way in almost two decades. In the past, this has proved a minor inconvenience at worst, my previous philosophy being something along the lines of “If you can’t get there by subway it’s probably not worth the trip, thank you very much.” Now I’m some kind of mythological beast that people have always heard about but never seen, a pudgy unicorn ambling east on Santa Monica Blvd. near La Brea.

“So what does any of this have to do with theater?” I hear you ask. Well I work at the Pantages. The Pantages is in Hollywood. Hollywood is in L.A., and L.A. means fitness. And what does any of this have to do with fitness? The sad truth is not a whole lot. Because even though I don’t drive here in the place that gave the world the right turn on red, I walk less than I did in New York. This isn’t because I’ve become even more slothful than I was before (granted, being somewhere with my feet up eating cookies is my idea of a good time, but even I have my limits) but because some strange conspiracy of climate and landscape almost forces one to ride. Even if the vehicle of your transport is *gasp* a city bus. This is, after all, the town where the swanker gyms offer valet parking to spare their members the arduous sojourn from the parking lot to the front door. Of course, once inside these “fitness centers” the very people who couldn’t park their own cars push themselves to the very limits of human endurance in classes like Power Yoga, Power Pilates or Power Spinning. The very thought of which makes me want to take a Power Nap.

I know that for all my snarkiness, if I wish to reach a level of fitness that allows me to tie my shoes without getting winded, then I will have to sacrifice myself to one of these chrome-plated, neon lit temples of sweat. I just have to find the right one for me, one that best suites my personality. A gym with comfy chairs. And ... cookies?

SWITCH TWITTER

By Wayne McWorter, Vice President, Marketing

I’m on the downhill slope of 40 – well, actually I’m closer to the 5-0 mile marker, but nevertheless … I’ve always thought of myself as progressive. I’ve plugged in to the electronic culture as a means of accomplishing more and more, in less and less time. This isn’t necessarily a good thing, I know, but it’s the reality of a modern, multi-tasking life. I actually caught myself recently using my iPhone to check my bank balance because I was running too many programs simultaneously on my desktop computer. I’ve recently added a second monitor to allow me more space in which to multi-task.

My multi-tasking skills have recently been taken to task, however, with a commitment I made to my new mate. Companion, thy name is Twitter. As I wrote in our very first “Postcard From Pantages,” we’ve made a commitment to the distribution of information in forms that are relevant to different types of info-consumers. Personally, I can’t stand Facebook; sorry, I’ve tried, but the virtual community of that world, with all its intertwining tentacles, is more than my multi-tasking brain (and fingers) can manage.

So when I met my friend Twitter, I thought I had found my perfect match. I reasoned that it is basically the “status update” portion of Facebook, without all the other do-dads to update and maintain. Plus, you can’t use more than 140 characters, so that would keep me brief. (If anyone out there is reading this, I fear that you’re suffering the overflow not allowed me on Twitter…)

I was determined to make Twitter interesting for any poor soles that might decide to follow “Pantages.” Do our Twitter followers really care for me to tell them every time we have a performance? I doubt it. So I’ve tried to find a mix of things that are interesting to me: breaking Broadway news items, notification about special unadvertised price specials, info on touring shows making their way to L.A., etc. And then I discovered the art of Re-Tweeting. Using the abbreviation “RT” followed by the account name that originally sent the message, I enjoy sharing things that strike my fancy.

But actually doing all this has turned out to be much more difficult than I had originally imagined. In my attempt to stay current, I now have my TweetDeck interface running all day on my computer. Tweet-tweet comes in a new set of updates. I follow a little over 100 different accounts as “@Pantages,” and another 60 or so from my personal account. Most of these provide me with a steady stream of information about the world of the theatre or related entertainment. But in order to keep up with the bouncing ball, I find myself jumping back and forth more than ever before between Outlook, TweetDeck, Excel, Word, TweetDeck, Google, our website, TweetDeck… I’m afraid that I’m going to miss some cool piece of news, or some spark of an idea that will inspire my next Tweet.

Sure, it can be fun. At least, I reason, I’m not trying to come up with 140 characters to describe a relief for bunion pain. Wait – that’s my next Tweet!

IN THE SHADOW OF VAN JOHNSON

by Jeff Loeb, Associate General Manager

When I was 17 I was in a production of "Bye Bye Birdie" at the St. Louis MUNY that starred Tommy Tune, Ann Reinking and southern California favorite Susan Egan. I was in awe of the show and to be on the big stage. And when I say big, I mean big. The MUNY stage is 200 feet wide with two giant oak trees on either side of the stage. Oh, did I mention that the theatre is an outdoor amphitheatre? I was one of the local kids cast in the show and my high school theatre teacher was a stage manager. He quickly assigned me to be the “teen coordinator,” which meant I was the babysitter for a bunch of other 17 year olds. Little did I know that my assignment was to be a test for another job...

At the end of the show, I got a call from the show’s producer, Paul Blake, asking if I would like to come work for him on the next show, "No No Nannette." The specific job was to shadow the '50s heartthrob, Van Johnson. Van was a very social individual and would often be delayed getting to rehearsal because he would lose track of time. Thus the creation of my new position, to pick up the actor from the Ritz Carlton (yes, even St. Louis has a Ritz) and deliver him to the rehearsal stage promptly at 10am.

At 17 I was unaware of who Van Johnson was, but I quickly learned why so many people loved this man. Van was classic old school. He wore a sports jacket for rehearsals, spoke with a tonality and clarity that just drew your ear, and never had a bad word to say about anyone. To say he was charming doesn’t give him justice.

As I continued to learn about Van, I found out that his trademark was to wear red socks. So on opening night, I arrived at the Ritz wearing a tuxedo with a red cummerbund and bow tie. Mind you this with the late '80s, when colored cummerbunds were all the rage at high school dances. Cap this all off with a mouth full of braces. I was the poster child for Naive Midwest Boy. But man did Van smile in appreciation when I opened the door.

The show ran one week, and on closing night after the show, Van walked over to me to say thank you. And in his hands he held a brand new pair of red socks. He handed them to me and thanked me for helping him to have a great run. I still have those red socks tucked at the back of my dresser drawer. They remind me of a very simple time in my life when I was truly in awe of theatre and the people that made it happen.

Now, as I take my three kids to the theatre, I realize that I have the opportunity to inspire awe in my children. No, I’m not the one on stage, but my daily job is to make sure that the actors, stage managers and production crew have a well run theatre with an excited audience waiting for the curtain to rise. I never would have imagined at age 17 that I'd be doing what I am doing now, from fixing broken seats to clearing seeing eye dogs into the theatre.

I wonder what my kids are thinking about doing when they grow up.

NEDER-WHO?

by Lesli Bandy, Broadway/L.A. Season Services Manager

It is probably the most common question I’m asked when I tell people where I work.

You aren’t alone. You’re in the company of Hollywood royalty! Want a laugh? Here’s a clip of the great Elizabeth Taylor struggling over the name (and others!): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0iKqHRNiLbY

Nederlander (pronounced NEE-der-land-er) is one of the largest powerhouses in the Broadway industry, and a major force in the concert industry, as well.

The second biggest question I get: “So, you sell tickets?”

Sort of. My official title: Broadway/L.A. Season Services Manager.

David Francis’ recent blog post, The Wizard of Ozone, is probably the most creative way to explain a large part of the technical, boring side of my job. The other part is, what I like to call, servicing the customer. Yes, I service L.A. customers all the way down in San Diego. I swing in my porch hammock, feet in the sand, laptop on my lap, cell phone in hand, ready to solve any patron issues with a laid-back smile as I watch the waves roll in.

Almost.

In our San Diego office, we service Broadway/L.A., Broadway/San Diego, Broadway in Riverside, Broadway in Tucson, and Broadway/San Jose. This is Nederlander’s West Coast Regional Season Ticket Office. There is no sand at our feet and we can’t watch the waves roll in from our porch, but we still try to accommodate any request with a laid-back smile. This is, after all, San Diego.

With a staff of 7 for Broadway/L.A., we take on many duties.

We welcome new Season Ticket Holders after they purchase their first season seat package, explaining every detail about the shows and their seats, so they know what to expect.

We help Members change seats because one of their party had knee surgery and needs an aisle seat for a few shows, until she gets better and the can sit in their old seats again.

We re-issue Season Tickets that were destroyed in a fire, so these patrons would still have the joy of looking forward to the theatre.

We give a 93-year-old veteran aerial photographer in World War II access to matinee shows in the same great center section seats he’s had for years, since he is no longer able to drive at night.

We call 9-1-1 to help a Season Ticket Holder who passed out after having a seizure in the middle of a phone conversation, and we stay on the phone until the ambulance arrives.

We position a family of four in the first row of the balcony so their small children can see the season of shows without anyone blocking their view.

We comb the ticketing system to re-capture a patron’s old seats again, after he had to cancel; happily, he got his job back, and would no longer be forced to move.

It’s easy for us to get caught up in the “process” of it all sometimes; it’s easy for us to forget why we are doing this. But once in a while, when the phone stops ringing, we take a moment to sit in our hammocks, stick our feet in the sand, watch the waves roll in, and remember what it is we do – what it is we really do.

Very soon, another person will get the chance to sit in the glorious Pantages and be whisked away to another world for an entire season, and they will love their seats, because that is our job, and Mr. Nederlander has made it all possible.

*@^% YOU AND YOUR *&^% THEATRE TOO!

by Martin Wiviott, General Manager, Pantages Theatre

You’d be surprised at the letters I get that start out that way. I can always tell a complaint letter from the envelope. When I see the mail in the morning, I look at the letters, and sort of feel the contents… look at how it’s addressed (most often in capital letters) to “Manager”… and then look at the return address, which often contains any kind of title the writer might possess (Executive Assistant to…. Judge, Retired…. Attorney at Law). Most are handwritten, with the bold scratching literally trumpeting off the envelope in anger.

I usually save these fascinating missives to read later in the day. Obviously, when things go wrong at the theatre, such as a star missing some performances, I expect to get letters of complaint. Why not? I complained about it too! The interesting thing about those letters is that the patron is correct, and we will do whatever they request including refunding the tickets with no questions asked. But I have to decipher the message through all the anger they muster to tell me how disappointed they were.

Then there are the folks who have seen the entire performance, and weeks later, come up with a reason why they were not satisfied, claiming they’re owed a refund. I loved the lady who called me to tell me how terrible she thought a show was. She had her boyfriend on the phone, who attended with her. We chatted for a few minutes and then she said, “I was so bored I fell asleep.” I said, “Now let me get this straight. You said the show was terrible, but you didn’t see it because you fell asleep?” Even the boyfriend laughed! It was so funny that I invited the couple back to see another production.

Generally when people write to request a refund because they thought a show was terrible, I reply with a very congenial letter advising them that their opinion of a show doesn’t make it a fact. I sometimes include a review (a positive one) of the show by a critic, and I say that, just because a critic thinks a show is great, doesn’t make it a fact either. Both are just opinions. And refunds are not made because of opinions. The closing sentence of my letter usually states that “I hope you will take as much time to write us when there is something you do like.”

Some people, writing to complain about not liking a show, state that “I have been coming to your theatre for 20 years, and this is the worst thing I have ever seen.” My reply to that comment is, “Gosh, only one bad show in 20 years? What a great track record we have!”

Then there are the complaint letters from patrons who purchased seats toward the back of the theatre for reduced prices and later write to complain that there were empty seats in front of them, and the ushers wouldn’t let them move down to the more expensive locations. Just think! Of all the nerve! We actually made them sit in the seats they purchased!! What they don’t consider is, when they do move down to closer locations, I get more letters from the people who were sitting there and saw those who paid less moving into the areas in which they paid to sit.

Are there some productions that are not as entertaining as others? Of course. Are there some performers who are not as good as the Broadway originals? Of course. But for the most part, the productions that appear at the Pantages are entertaining, and in some cases even better than the New York versions. I have often heard patrons commenting in the lobby, “This is better than the version I saw on Broadway.”

All things considered, I usually adhere to the tried-and-true business slogan, “The customer is always right.” And in the end, after 30 minutes of letting someone vent on the phone, I’ll ask, “What would you like me to do?” After that, they generally become my lasting friend!

We have one patron who, years ago, wrote me claiming the performance she saw was worse than any high school production. (Secretly, I agreed. I couldn’t even sit through that show!) The lady and I talked for quite a while. We agreed that we both had the same taste in theatre. Since her Season Tickets were always toward the end of the run, I told her I would see the show on opening night, and if I didn’t like it, I’d know she wasn’t going to like it, and I would phone her and tell her not to come, allowing her to exchange for another production. She’s still a Season Ticket Holder to this day, and I’m her personal advance critic!

THE WIZARD OF OZONE

By David Francis, Archtics Ticketing Manager

In the world of theatre, those magical “front of house” feelings some of my colleagues speak fondly of which

carry our patrons down the yellow brick road not only of their own imaginations, but of the imaginations of the
actors, writers, musicians, designers and all the creative people responsible for some illusive
night of reprieve are not the whole story of the whole world of theatre. For that one
night of extraterrestrial wonder which can change moods, change
outlooks, shape and sometimes even save lives,
there must be someone behind the curtain. Behind even the curtain’s curtain. Pulling the levers. Someone

who pulls together the gases from the atmosphere, molds those gases into individual cells
and glues those cells together creating structural membranes with
an enlarging vision on a diminishing scale of how those complex membranes translate
into a little piece of paper
that has the power to transfer a living, breathing person from his own space and time, from his own

unrelenting daily life and through a
not completely understood myriad of mazes and wormholes, take him
to a specific time and place and set him down into a specific receptacle no bigger than a chair. But a chair in an
illusion of emotions ranging from
laughter to tears and back again all within the timeframe of a few hours.

It is what I do. As the ticketing manager of our ticketing system that Tickemaster calls Archtics, I give

relationships to that data, drawn from the
ether, and using an ever-changing recipe, and from scratch, I create
the digital events, the digital times and prices, put together the pre-arranged digital pieces and
in the virtual blink of an eye and from the pseudo-sweat of my brow, I deliver to you a
reality-based three dimensional object you can hold in your hand and, without which, you cannot
enter that wonder filled world of theatre: your ticket.