INDULGENCES IN THE FLAGLER HAREM.

I had an interesting pseudo-chat-in-passing with Matt Faison. I sort of knew that it was bound to happen. It's difficult to avoid your director in the auditorium parking lot.
Awkward, and difficult.
I know I'm not the outward, vocal individual of the group. I understand that I'm the one that doesn't necessarily fit in. And I continually face that. And I knew that he was aware of that. I just didn't know that he seems to understand that, too.
I don't think I've ever worked with a director who felt the need to assist me in justifying my own value. I have genuinely, without deviation, felt absolutely useless among that group of people. As though everything I'm doing is wrong, every movement I make is too calculated, not calculated enough, lacking whatever it is I'm supposed to have. And it kills me.
When he walks over to me this evening, his movement as calculated as my initial avoidance from his rather compassionate air, he plants himself and questions me. Literally, boldly, honestly questions me. I, of course, have no course of action but to avoid his human emotion like the plague, mumbling something like "I'm still feeling my way around," or other such rational garbage.
He looks at me, says words that I vaguely recall (yet could recite verbatim), and puts his hand on my shoulder.
Simple.
Profound.
Meaningless? Astutely meaningful.
Still, undeniably awkward.
I hate it when people care.

[Editor's Note: "Three's Company" has to be the most senseless, crazy, time-consuming guilty pleasure. And, dammit, I miss the crap out of John Ritter.]