STRAND spotlight

By Liz McLeod

Your House Manager


“Come back here, you brat!” I growled, as Miss Carol T. Cat stormed from the kitchen, displaying as she did so the highest of all possible dudgeons.

“You will cease tormenting me, hew-mon,” Miss Carol hissed back, “or I shall certainly rend your garment, and you with it.”  As she issued this reply I heard the unmistakable sound of her claws snapping into position.

“You gotta take your medicine,” I pleaded.

“As do you,” came the response. “And you most certainly shall if you do not immediately dispose of that vile bolus. Your attempt to taint my food with it has failed. Your concealment of it in a gelatinous meat-flavored substance has come to naught. My position on the matter is final. TAKE IT AWAY.”

I groaned. I do a lot of groaning these days. Miss Carol’s thyroid checkup last month went surprisingly well, all things considered, with the vet advising me that her numbers had, with medication, dropped from extremely high to a bit low.  “I do nothing in half measure,” she declared when I read her the results, but she balked at taking the reduced-dosage tablets now prescribed. Maybe they taste worse than the other ones, maybe the Pepto-Bismol pink color of the pill is offensive to her restrained sense of esthetics, but either way it’s been a battle over the past two weeks to get them into her. I fear, from my own sluggish and fog-brained state, that I may be absorbing more of the drug than she is. Either that or I still haven’t recovered from CIFF weekend. Whatever. Either way, it’s a challenge.

“Maybe,” I shouted into the living room, where I knew Miss Carol now to be sequestered in her lair beneath the record-player table, “I oughta have one of the kids come in with a camera. Maybe I oughta make a movie of this. A REAL TWO-REEL COMEDY! You know, where the unbearably clever cat repeatedly outwits her LOWLY HEW-MON and leaves her humiliated in every scene! Maybe we oughta DO that – and submit it to the Strand’s Youth Film Festival! Because,” I continued, “the deadline for getting in entries is coming up fast – we’re accepting submissions right up thru October 31st! I BET A FILM CALLED ‘PILL THE CAT’ WOULD BE RIGHT UP THERE WHEN THE AWARDS ARE HANDED OUT! JUST THINK, A REAL TROPHY FOR YOU TO KNOCK ON THE FLOOR!”

“Preposterous!” growled back the reply. “You are INELIGIBLE for this competition, both as a Strand employee and as a hew-mon of ADVANCED AGE. The CREAKING OF YOUR KNEE JOINTS would no doubt DROWN OUT THE SOUNDTRACK of any motion picture!”

“Oh yeah?” I retorted. You can tell how fogged my brain is today from the lacerating, Wildean quality of my ripostes. “Well, YOU’RE  twelve years old! Ya gotta be 18 or under to enter, an’ it don’t say nothin’ about SPECIES! I could enter it under YOUR NAME, and you’d be a CELEBRITY.”

“A celebrity?” Her voice here took on a surprisingly mild tone, with just a hint of intrigue. “Indeed? I have, as you know, considered pursuing a career as an entertainer, as the Judi Dench of felinity. Perhaps I have been hasty in dismissing this opportunity.”

“Yeah,” I bounced back, sensing my chance. “But you know, you can’t be a star unless you rehearse. Lotta rehearsal in show business. You gotta do your scene over an’ over to get everything just right. Like, take this pill for instance – you might have to do the scene, oh, I don’t know, twice a day…”

“Indeed? Then we must begin at once.” She dashed back into the kitchen, her dudgeon slightly lower now, and made a straight line for her bowl, where the soggy, gravy-moistened Pill Pocket containing her medication awaited. With a lick and a gulp and a chew, it disappeared.

“Did you get that?” Miss Carol queried. “I considered my performance exceptional.”

“Sorry,” I said, holding out my empty hands. “No film in the camera, and no camera. Whattayasay we try it again? In, oh, twelve hours maybe?”

“Very well,” she agreed. “I shall, as we say in the profession, be ‘on my mark.’ See that you are on yours.”

“Absolutely,” I agreed. 

“In the meantime,” said Miss Carol grandly, “I shall wait in my trailer. See that craft services delivers a proper meal.”

By Liz McLeod

Your House Manager


“What do you mean,” demanded Miss Carol T. Cat, “that my routine is to change YET AGAIN?”

I mumbled incoherently. I do a lot of that these days. Miss Carol fixed me in an unrelenting icy state and repeated her challenge. “Are you not AWARE,” she thundered, “that my routines have been repeatedly thrown into utter disarray by the events of the past nineteen months, and that you have done little, if anything to mollify the disruptions. Your lack of decisive action in bringing an immediate end to the present unfortunate circumstances do not reflect well on your managerial skills.”

“What?” I erupted back. “Look, I don’t have any say over the world at large, OK? I can barely even control my own shaky little corner of it, so don’t blame me for any of this. I’m just a poor soul trying to get along same as anybody else. All I’m saying is my schedule is gonna change a bit – now that OPERA SEASON is about to begin! I’d think you’d be EXCITED about that, you being an apostle of high culture and all.”

“And here again,” Miss Carol snorted, “you inevitably disappoint me. Recall my request at the height of the pandemic when we spent much time in lonely sequestrance that we together learn to perform Rossini’s “Duetto Buffo di Du Gatti,” with my clarion-like soprano set in joyous counterpoint to your honking, nasal alto. And yet you declined my repeated requests to rehearse this selection.”

“You know I only sing show tunes,” I snapped back. “And even then just for comedy. I’m not gonna embarrass myself…”

Miss Carol’s bright green eyes opened wide as she emitted a hilarious snuffle. “Your wallowing in low culture demands elevation. It is my responsibility to educate you. Repeat after me: ‘MI-A-U – MI-A-U – MI-A-U….MI-AU  A-U A-U AU MI…”

“OH ME is right,” I retorted. “I ain’t gonna do it. I’m gonna leave opera to the professionals.”

And that’s exactly what we WILL do when the Metropolitan Opera in HD returns to the Strand on October 9th. The Met’s been a regular fall and winter feature at the Strand since 2007,  except for the unfortunate unpleasantness that terminated our 2019-20 season early and prevented the season from taking place at all in 2020-21.  But all the drama, excitement and color of grand opera at its best returns to our Big Screen this fall, and we’re really excited to welcome all our friends back for the new season. There will, however, just as Miss Carol notes, be some changes in the routine this year. As most of our opera enthusiasts have no doubt noted our usual reserved-seat program had to be suspended for this season due to pandemic seating restrictions, and we’re forced to limit attendance for each screening to 100 persons, with an empty buffer section required around each reserved seat or group of seats sold.  There have also been adjustments in our usual Encore screening policies, and in addition, scheduling conflicts we can’t avoid will force us to present two of this season’s operas on a delayed basis only. We want to stress that all these changes are temporary, and we hope we can return to our usual policies in subsequent seasons. But for now, we’re just happy to be able to present the Met at all – and we know you’ll be understanding of any difficulties that may come up along the way. As ever, our Box Office Manager Norrie Thompson is ready and available to help you at 594-0070 extension 3 – if you don’t catch her in the office, be sure to leave a clear and detailed message and she’ll get back to you as soon as possible.

“Are you finished?” interrupted Miss Carol. “We must resume our rehearsal. Please be seated at the piano.”

“We don’t have a piano,” I growled. “All we have is this wheezy pump organ, and it leaks air.”

“We shall perform acapella,” insisted Miss Carol. “You will find the challenge stimulating. Repeat after me… MI-A-U – MI-A-U – MI-A-U….MI-AU  A-U A-U AU MI…”



By Liz McLeod

“Another schedule change!” roared Miss Carol T. Cat. 

Actually, it wasn’t so much a roar as a loud yowl. Miss Carol finds roaring declasse, but she is capable, when roused, of generating a piercing mezzo-soprano. Suffice it to say that her statement was delivered with force and emphasis. Especially as she was perched on my desk staring straight into my baggy old eyes as she delivered it.

“Yeah,” I replied, with decided enthusiasm. “But you’ll LIKE it!”

“Your judgement concerning that which I might, in fact, ‘like’ has proven to be sadly deficient over these recent weeks,” she snapped back. “The matter of a certain brutal abduction comes to mind.”

“I took you to the vet,” I retorted, “and that trip likely saved your life. So stop beefin’.”

“I cannot tolerate beef,” she declared. “You should be aware, after a decade, of my meal preferences. Which do not, incidentally, include vile orange-colored tablets.”

“Yeah,” I eyerolled, “I’m sure glad we’re done with that.” She may or may not realize I’m still spiking her food with her prescribed medication, but she’s been, with the aid of dollops of rich poultry-based gravy, cooperating. So that’s something, anyway. “But this new schedule at the Strand is gonna be somethin’ you’re gonna like, honest. I’ll actually have a bit of time in the afternoon to spend with you, and you can sit in my lap and be all sweet and stuff. If you want, of course.”

Miss Carol scowled. She can, indeed, be all sweet and stuff when she chooses to do so, but she is self-conscious about admitting it. So I know better than to press the point. But nevertheless, the new Strand schedule will offer benefits both to her – and to you, our many friends and patrons. As of this Thursday, September 2nd, we’re returning to a full seven-day-a-week schedule at the theatre. There’ll be something doing every night of the week as we head into the fall, with a selection of fine motion pictures to entertain you as the autumnal shadows draw nigh.

It was Miss Carol’s turn to roll her eyes at that bit of cliché, but hey, clichés are the spice of life, or something. Whattaya want from me, I’m on a deadline.

In any event, this new seven-day-a-week schedule will also see the Strand returning to its traditional showtimes for both weekday and weekend screenings. Starting this week, our Friday and Saturday shows return to their former 5:30pm and 8pm time slots, the better to accommodate our patrons who like to grab a meal at one of our many fine local restaurants before their movie experience, and Sunday will feature our popular 3pm matinee and an early-evening show at 5:30 pm for those for whom Monday’s a workday. Monday thru Thursday evenings will feature 7pm screenings, with Monday remaining our bargain-night special, with all non-member tickets priced at $8. And our Tuesday matinee will return to its traditional 1 PM start time, which will be a big boost for our friends out on the islands who need to catch the afternoon boat home. As always you’ll want to keep an eye on the Strand website and social media for all the latest information on upcoming films and events, especially in these days where circumstances may require adjustments as we move ahead into the fall and winter.

“The crucial question however,” interrupted Miss Carol, “remains unaddressed. As you know, a felid with my diagnosis should be permitted all the sustenance she wishes to eat.  Of course you know I shan’t permit this new schedule to disrupt my necessary feeding routine. My health, after all, is at stake.”

“Nothing,” I insisted, “could possibly disrupt my performance of my duty to you. I will at all times remain aware of my obligations.”

“See that you do,” Miss Carol commanded. “Indeed, the hour has arrived for my noon meal. And do not conclude that I am unaware that you have for nearly two weeks been lacing that meal with a foul-tasting antibiotic. I require that you increase the quantity of gravy provided in each serving.”

“I will,” I sighed. Schedules may change, but my role in the universe does not.

By Liz McLeod
Again Your House Manager
“Certainly not!” demurred Miss Carol T. Cat. “Take that vile bolus away! I’ll not play willing subject to your bizarre experimentation!”
My eyes rolled until my optic nerves grew tight, like a rubber band, and spun them back around again. It’s a pretty weird effect, now that I think of it, but I’ll spare you the visuals. You see enough creepy stuff on the Internet not to have to deal with that. Suffice it then to say that my eyes did, in fact roll.
“Look,” I insisted. “You gotta take this pill. The vet said you’ve got the most extreme case of hyperthyroid she’s ever seen.”
“As in all things,” sniffed Miss Carol, “my accomplishments stand in stark superiority to those of lesser beings. Update my Wikipedia profile at once to reflect this new achievement.”
“It’s not funny,” I retorted. “It’s why you’ve been losing all this weight, and why no matter how much I feed you you’re still hungry. If you don’t take the medication, things will get even worse. Much, much worse. As it is, I can’t call you a ‘ridiculous fat barrel cat' anymore. You’re down to less than ten pounds!”
“My svelte new look is the envy of all,” Miss Carol responded with a deft toss of her head. “You would profit by my example.”
“Just take the pill,” I growled. “It’s yummy! Look! Methimazole! Mmmmmmm, good!”
“Nonsense,” Miss Carol snapped back. “It is not, in fact, ‘mmmmmmm good.’ I recommend you examine its pharmacological profile, and you will there learn it possesses a bitter, unpleasant flavor. Hence the dubious deception of coating it in a villainously-colored orange sugar shell. I, however, am not deceived. Take it away.”
I sighed. It’s been a hard week. You know how cats are. And if you don’t know how cats are, you’ll find out this weekend at the Strand – where we’re proud to present our annual screening of the Cat Video Film Festival! You’ve got two chances to enjoy the very best in zany feline antics compiled from the internet, Saturday and Sunday at 3PM. And the screenings will benefit the Pope Memorial Animal Shelter, which, a decade ago this month, matched me up with a skeptical young feral cat from Searsmont who had decided she preferred the indoor life to fending for herself in the woods. And we hope when you come see this show you’ll think of Miss Carol, and send good wishes her way as she deals as best she can with her present health problems.
“Hmph!” Miss Carol sneered as her way of coping. “The problem, here, is with your feeble attempts to force-feed me those repellent tablets. Of course you know I shan’t permit it.”
“Yeah, I’m an idiot,” I agreed, placing a bowl full of turkey in rich savory gravy on the floor. “I don’t know what came over me.”
Miss Carol, her appetite overstimulated by her medical condition, inhaled the meal with a sound not unlike that of your mother’s old Electrolux.  “A very satisfactory gustatory experience,” she proclaimed, licking her lips with ostentation. “My commendations on a well-prepared dish."
“It’s my secret ingredient,” I winked. And just like that, there was one less little orange pill in the bottle.
By Liz McLeod
Again Your House Manager
“Certainly not!” declared Miss Carol T. Cat. “The very idea is out of the question!”
“Look,” I replied, resigned to repeating the arguments I’d been making for the past hour. “You have to do this. You know you have to do this. And the sooner we get it done, the sooner it’s over!”
“What you request is outrageous!” she roared back. “Monstrous! I know my inviolable rights! You cannot, you will not enforce your will upon me. I am my OWN cat.”
I closed my eyes and shook my head. Or my head shook itself. I’m so tired right now every other part of my body is shaking, the head might just as well join in. “Look,” I sighed. “Look at the facts. Clearly there’s something going on. Since June, you’ve lost – well, a bunch of weight.  Look at yourself if you don’t believe me.”
“Nonsense,” Miss Carol snorted. “A mere redistribution of assets. And besides,” she further snorted, with a particular snort aimed straight at me, “you are jealous! A glance at the mirror will prove the truth of my statement!”
“But you shouldn’t be losin’ weight at all,” I snapped back, “with all the food you’re eating. Look at that pile of empty cans!”
“I have intended to call those cans to your attention. Remove them at once, I find them unsightly. And refill my bowl.”
“Four cans a day, and you’re losing weight? And you don’t see the problem?”
“I have also intended to call to your attention the shoddy nutritional quality of my meals. I advise that you review my feeding standards. As you know, a Canada Lynx requires over two and one-half pounds of food per day.”
“You’re not a Canada Lynx.”
“The question of my citizenship is irrelevant. I have relatives in Montreal. Away with you, and bring my meal at once.”
And so on it went, into the night. Miss Carol’s troubling weight loss is reason enough for her to require a visit to the vet. But like any self-respecting felid, she doesn’t want to go. And so it falls to me to see that she goes.
Sounds a lot like the world right now, doesn’t it? We’ve all got to do things we don’t necessarily want to do for the sake of what needs to be done – for our own health, and the health of others. Sometimes that means wearing a mask even when it makes us uncomfortable, sometimes it means getting a shot when we don’t like to get shots, and sometimes it means riding in a ventilated plastic box in a bumpy car to see the vet.
See, when you put it like that, what we humans have to do doesn’t sound that bad, does it?
Miss Carol will see the vet on Friday, and I’m sure she’ll want to tell you all about how it went. If you don’t hear from me, well, I may just be waiting for the swelling from the scratches to go down…

By Liz McLeod

Again Your House Manager


“AH-CHOOOOOO!” I ah-chooed as I lurched into the kitchen, tossing my jacket in the direction of nothing in particular. It was late, and who’s gonna know? The force of my sneeze stretched the elastics of my mask outward, and I winced as the recoil snapped it back against my face.

Miss Carol T. Cat reacted with dismay at my sudden forcible sternutation. “Cease that at once,” she commanded. “I am, as you know, vulnerable to airborne contaminants. You shall undergo full testing immediately to ensure that you have not brought contagion into our home.”

“Put a can on it,”  I growled. “You know I don’t have anything contagious. It’s allergy season, and the ragweed’s all in bloom. That vacant lot out behind the fence is a menace to respiration. Where’s my gas mask?”

“Nevertheless,” declared Miss Carol, “precautions are in order. Recall the recent news item concerning a snow leopard who became infected recently due to pathogens carried by those who came to pay him obeisance. Until a felid vaccine is fully available, I require you to maintain full sanitary protocols. Disinfect my food bowl at once, and bring my late-evening meal.”

I sighed. I thought we were thru all this, you know? I thought things were getting better. I thought the pandemic was pretty much over. And now, well, you know what’s going on. Miss Carol’s got the right idea though – better safe than sorry. That’s why we’re now requiring Strand patrons to keep their masks on for the duration of their visits, except when eating or drinking, to provide that extra layer of protection that will keep things from getting worse. Like Miss Carol, you know, not everyone who wants to be vaccinated can be, not yet. And we don’t even know everything there is to know yet about the new Delta variant. So doesn’t it make good sense to be extra careful? Miss Carol certainly thinks so, and we do too. We’re of course still keeping up with our enhanced cleaning and air-filtering protocols at the theatre, and are limiting attendance at each movie show to 100 persons, ensuring there’s plenty of room to maintain social distance, and with the amended masking requirements we’re taking the responsible steps we need to take to keep everyone safe. Nobody knows exactly how long the present situation will continue, but be assured that we’re monitoring the situation carefully to make sure we’re in line with what needs to be done. You should always keep an eye on our Strand website and social media for any updates, and the latest information will always be posted as well as in the theatre itself.

“Are you finished with your public service announcement?” interrupted Miss Carol. “I have grown twelve percent hungrier during the interval required for its delivery. Feeding will now commence.”

“AH-CHOOOOOOO!” I sneezed again, as a fresh dose of ragweed pollen found its target. This time the recoil of the mask elastic caused me to lose my grip on the can of Friskies Turkey Pate with Sauce I had just opened, and its contents landed, with a soft squish, on Miss Carol’s back. 

I mercifully draw the curtain over the rest of this scene. Her reaction was, as you can imagine, nothing to sneeze at.

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