WHY IS A RAVEN LIKE A WRITING DESK?

So my latest opus is going to have a staged reading this November as part of Boomerang Theatre Company's First Flight series, and I thought I'd tell you a little about it.  It's called Riddle Lost.  The reading is going to be directed by Philip Emeott- who originated the role of Earth in Burning the Old Man.

About ten years ago, I read the book Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee by Dee Brown.  It's basically a history of what happened to all the native people here in North America after the Europeans arrived and said "Hey, this is our land, provided by God, and you all have to go away".  It's brilliant, depressing, and should be required reading for every citizen.  Let's face it, we stole this country from other people- and were pretty nasty about it.  I have always been fascinated, saddened and inspired by native American culture- not that I am by any stretch of the imagination a specialist on it.   I just think they were and are a group of people who got the short end of a very large, dangerous stick.  And that's putting it nicely.

Anyway, one of the chapters in Bury My Heart is about the Modoc War of 1872, which took place in Northern California.  The central figure in that war was a man called Captain Jack by the settlers, Kintpuash by his own people.  And the story is amazing- Shakespearean in scope, full of characters and situations that don't seem quite real but which, according to the history books, were.  Aside from being history, it's a story of one person sticking to what they believe to be right, when everyone around them, on all sides, do bad things.  Like really bad, killing babies, betraying your people, murder under a flag a truce bad.

I started researching online.  Found a book, The Indian History of the Modoc War, written by a guy who was half Modoc, half Honkey.  The author had lived through the war.  He was a Riddle, and not just in the figurative way.  I mean his name was Jefferson C. Davis Riddle, which seems perfect.   Actually, when he was a boy his name was Charka.  But his parents, a Modoc woman named Winema and a white settler named Frank Riddle,  changed it after the war.

I thought I'd write a sort of historical play, an American Henry V or something.  But that's not what came out.  Often, when I write, I set out to do one thing, and something entirely different comes out.  I've learned to just go with it, not try to force my original vision on what comes out when I'm at the keyboard.  I think my subconscious is a better writer.  Either that, or I'm hearing voices, spirit guides who tell me what to write and I don't really have a say in my work.  In any event, when I finally found that first scene which let me into the world of the play, it was nothing like the historical tale I originally envisioned.  No, it was a metaphysical hodge-podge set somewhere in Limbo, and populated with characters like the Hel, Norse Goddess of Death;  the trickster Raven; an animated cigar store Indian named Ziggy;  and the decapitated head of Mimir, another figure from Norse mythology.  Basically, the play is populated with historical and mythological figures from both Europe and North American, all hanging out in a side show tent run by Hel.  Into the tent walks Riddle, who has just died, and the story begins.  It's big and weird and totally different from anything I've done, and exactly like everything I've done.  I used the Goddess Hel once before- but that was when she went by the name Hela- in a one act called Hela and Troy, available from Playscripts, inc.  I liked her in that show, and I think she wanted to stick around for awhile.

If you are in the New York City area in November, I really hope you come to the reading- I promise it won't suck.   And not only will you hear a new play, you might just learn the answer to the age old riddle, why is a Raven like a writing desk.

BACKWARDS AND WRONG

Love is evil, spelled backwards and wrong.

So says Earth, neo-hippie and seeker of truth in my third play, BURNING THE OLD MAN.  It's a great line.  People quote it often, and I've seen it used by others on blogs, aritcles, etc.

I stole it.

There's a saying that I first heard from Richard Parks, one of my teachers at San Jose State University.  Richard was a mad man, a genius, and one of the most memorable people I ever met- one of those teachers who would say something in such a way as to make it funny, revelatory, and pertinent all at the same time.  He also had a wicked temper, which would show up now and then, usually during rehearsal for something he was directing and which wasn't going well.  One memorable night during dress rehearsal for Lysistrata he shouted out "Change your majors!" and marched out of the building.  At the time, it was both hilarious and embarrassing.  But he also was brilliant, and knew how to get the best out of us.    Once, I think it was during rehearsal for A Midsummer Night's Dream,  somebody mentioned how Shakespeare had taken a lot of his plot lines from other sources, and somebody else opined that that meant Shakespeare was just a copy cat.  Doctor Parks raised he eyebrows dramatically, and pronounced to us all that "great artists don't copy, they steal", meaning that if you aren't that good at what you do, then you will often imitate other peoples work- but if you're a true artist, you can take that idea and make it your own- improved, or at least different, and unique.

And that's why I feel okay about stealing Earth's line, and indeed, the character of Earth himself.

Let me explain.  Long ago, and far away, my brother Jerry and I worked for a children's theatre company in Pleasanton, California.  The money was good, and that job was fun- but we had a lot of extra time on our hands, and needed an extra outlet for ourselves.  Somehow, we convinced the local cable company to give us a cable access show- and not only that, but to provide us with cameras and editing room time- all for free.   We named the show Pleasantonland, and basically just shot hours and hours of ourselves goofing around, drinking beer, and talking with other theatre people about life, art, and whatever else came to mind.   It was self-indulgent in the extreme- and we had a blast.  During one of our shoots, we decided that the show should have a guest poet- a sort of fake, over the top, new age gone bad kind of poet- and my buddy Brian Faraone volunteered for the job.  But he didn't want to be called Brian- he wanted to be called Earth.  We thought that sounded perfect- so, while filming, I looked at the camera "And now it's time for a poem from our guest today, Earth!"  Brian walked up, wearing a beret and lots of attitude, looked at the camera and said in perfect deadpan, "Love is evil, spelled backwards, and wrong", and walked off.  It was friggin' brilliant.  We laughed our asses off.

Cut to ten years later.  I'm writing a play for Boomerang Theatre Company about two brothers on their way to the Burning Man festival who get stuck in the desert and run into, among other things, a couple of neo-hippies.  Somewhere in my brain, I remember Brian as Earth, and write him into the show- and it's a perfect fit.  

And that's how I stole Earth from Brian for my show.  Not that I feel too bad- Brian had stolen the idea of Earth from an actual neo-hippie he met in Santa Cruz who would say ridiculous things like "I don't wear shoes- they're a rule of society I find silly".  So fair's fair.

To Be Continued...

Burning the Old Man is available in print in the anthology Plays and Playwrights 2006 and will soon be featured on Indie Theater Now.
http://www.nytesmallpress.com/pp06.php
www.indietheaternow.com

WHY NOT MAKE HIS HEAD EXPLODE?

SOME UNFORTUNATE HOUR, now available at INDIE THEATER NOW, and how it came to be.

I was stuck.  I had a big chunk of a new play written, and had hit a brick wall.  The opening was great, characters all clear in my mind, dialogue crisp and clean and all that jazz- but there was something wrong.  I couldn't quite find out what it was, or why whenever I sat down to write nothing really happened- I mean nothing.   I'd sit and stare at the screen and it all seemed weary, stale, flat and unprofitable.  Up to this point, my plays had come fast and furious, born fully formed like Venus on the shell- but not this one.

The play itself was a simple premise- one scene, written in the style known as "realism", following a guy named Tom's slow realization that he's an asshole.  It began as a whim, but now had a life of its' own- and there was no way in Hell I wasn't going to finish it.   So I did what any brave person would do.  

I ran away.

I was living in New York City, but my mom still lived in the house I grew up in out in San Jose, California.  I hadn't been home to visit for awhile, and so off I went, into the wild blue yonder.   I visited old friends, went to say hello to the Pacific, and hoped my subconscious would work things out as far as the play was concerned.  And then I got a phone call from a friend.  Thank God,

The friend was Harry Newman.  He's a fellow playwright, and was running The Pool at the time, and was one of those people whose opinion I trusted- and still trust to this day.  He had read the play, and had a  simple question- why does it have to stay in the land of realism?  Why not have his head explode, so to speak?

And like that, it all fell into place.  Yeah, why not have his head explode?  Why not have him slip back and forth between reality and his imagination?  I mean, Old Tom is drunk and getting drunker, and his mental state is not what you'd call stable- why not have his world be askew, ruled by unseen spirits, and all that good stuff?  

For me, there are times when I'm writing when all of a sudden, I see the piece as a whole- the world it inhabits, the characters, the color and sound and even the smell of it.  The Eureka moment, if you will.  I don't know why, but I do.  And usually, it happens after working on it for awhile.  I'll be plodding along from point A to point B to point C, with a rough idea of what's supposed to happen and who the hero is and all that, and then someone says something, or I hear a song on the radio, or I see a sunset, or a couple fighting in a store- and BLAMMO, the play is there, and from that point on I usually can't type fast enough.  

I dig that part of the process the most.  

So I dive back into the play.  Tom is still in the bar, but now and then, the lights change, a spotlight shines on him, and he goes into these strange soliloquies about She Who Shall Remain Nameless, or what the settlers meant when they said they "saw the Elephant", or how he's like a baseball that's been hit by Bugs Bunny and has traveled all over the world.  It fit- all of it.  Time to enter the show in the New York International Fringe Festival and hope it gets in.  And if it doesn't, put it up somewhere anyway.

Then I had one more idea.  What if I had a score written for the show, like how Simon and Garfunkel did the music for The Graduate?   I mean, Aristotle did list music as one of the basic elements of theatre, didn't he?  On top of that, I had a friend, Robbie Gil, who knew my work, liked this particular play, and writes really groovy music- in fact, if you don't know his stuff, you need to go to his web site, download some tunes, and get with the program.  I ask Robbie is he'd be OK with that, he says yes, and we are off to the races.  

I name the play "SOME UNFORTUNATE HOUR", which in my mind is a variation on the old Rogers and Hammerstein song "Some Enchanted Evening", but no one ever picks up on that but me.  It gets accepted into the Fringe.  I finish the play- which includes a really great monologue by Janus about unrequited love that, if you are an actress looking for a good audition piece, I highly recommend.  I get Tim Errickson, Artistic Director of the Boomerang Theatre Company, to direct- cast Dan O'Neill as Tom, Jodi Dick as Janus, and Ashley Wren Collins as Charity, and off we go.  The show is received well- go here for a review- and then gets a run in Denver - go here for really nice review from Variety.  And now, as part of the Fringe Collection offered on Indie Theatre Now, it's available online for less than $2.  Life is sweet.

Anyhow, that's the very basic story of Some Unfortunate Hour.  Stay tuned for more on me and my shows- up next, my biggest hit yet, BURNING THE OLD MAN.

AT SOME UNFORTUNATE HOUR...

Continuing my series about where my plays come from- here's the story of SOME UNFORTUNATE HOUR, a happy little piece about a guy losing his mind.

I had just gotten through the premiere performance of Burning the Old Man, which was produced by Boomerang Theatre Co., directed by Tim Errickson.  It was a big hit, won the first ever NYIT Award for Outstanding Full Length Script, and got published- first in full by NYTE as part of their Plays and Playwrights Series.  Then it went on to be featured in scene books and anthologies from Applause Books and Smith and Kraus.  And then, to make me feel like Superman, the show gets a 3 year run in Prague at the fabled Divaldlo na Zabradli.  In the Fall of 2004, I didn't know all that was going to happen- just that I had a really good play on my hands, and it was going places.  What to do now?

I thought it would be cool to write as long a scene as possible that would hold people's interest and be viable as a piece of theatre.  It was one of those "this would be a fun experiment" type of notions.  Now all I needed was something to write about- and fate, as usual, provided material.  First, I got a call from an old friend telling me he was getting divorced.  We had many conversations in the following months about divorce, love, life- you know, all the things friends talk about when going through some serious issues.  Second, shortly after hearing about my buddy's divorce, I was at a party, eavesdropping- a habit lots of writers do without even realizing they're doing it.  I was listening to these two young ladies sizing up the party, and in particular the young men at the party.  One girl said "that guy thinks he's gonna end up with you tonight".  The other girl rolled her eyes, and in a very direct tone said "well, at some unfortunate hour, he's gonna realize that he's an asshole".  The girls laughed and changed the subject, but I was struck by the idea that a person would have this hour in their life where they suddenly realize some ugly truths about themselves.  

And the wheels in the playwright section of my brain started to turn.

How about a play set in a bar where a guy who has just gotten divorced has his unfortunate hour, the one where he realizes that maybe he's kind of responsible for what's been happening to him?  Yeah, and the dude is kind of crazy and charming and drunk.   Drunk and/or stoned characters are great to write in that they allow for lots of danger, emotion, and language that is all over the map.  So I start to write.  I test out some of it at The Pool, a writers group in NYC.  People respond positively.  I read some of it over to the phone to my recently divorced friend.  He digs it, a lot.  Things start to fall in place.  I name the guy in the bar Tom, after Poor Mad Tom O'Bedlam- a figure from old English literature who is referenced in King Lear.  At first, I have Tom just ranting to no one in particular- but as I go along, I decide to have him talking to a bar tender.  And then, I think to myself- what if the bar tender is a woman who has always carried a torch for old Tom?   Kind of adds dramatic tension.  I like this idea, and Janus, the smart ass and long suffering bar tender, is born.  I name her Janus after the Old Roman God of doorways and beginnings- because I'm nerdy like that.  

So things are cooking along with the show.  I got an opening monologue that I am pretty happy with- and everyone I read or recite it to by memory really seems to respond.   In that opening monologue, Tom goes on about how all he wants from a wife is some faith, hope, and charity- a reference to First Corinthians 13:13, which you've probably heard at numerous weddings, (and which I recall from my youth, when I wanted to become a minister- but that's a story for another day).  I figure, why not have a lady walk in who Tom instantly falls for- and tries to hook up with?  And, just for shits and giggles, why not have her name be Charity?  

Here's the opening monologue:

TOM

It comes down to two choices, when you get down to it.  You can either be Asshole Happy Clown, or Idiot Sad Clown.  Asshole Happy Clown is happy because he thinks people suck-that we're just a bunch of assholes.  And he is constantly proved right.  So he smiles, not so much because he's glad the world sucks, but because, asshole that he is, nothing makes him happier than being right.  Even if it's about something terrible.   Idiot Sad Clown is the optimist of the pair.  He thinks-no, believes-in the inherent goodness of people.  He holds out great hope for us all.   And he is continually heartbroken.   People do the stupidest shit imaginable, on a constant basis-both to themselves and to each other.  They lie to each other.  They take advantage of each other.  They don't tell you what's really going on inside, even if you ask them again and again.  “What's going on?” “Nothing, everything's fine.”  They leave you.  With little to no explanation.  They say things like, “This package was broke when you bought it,” whatever the fuck that is supposed to mean.   Who says shit like that?  Broke when you bought it?  Not only is that fucked up in its own right, it implies a belief that most of us packages aren't broken.  That most of us are just fine.  Which is crazy.   I promise you, there are no unbroken packages.  None of us are without a dent or two or twelve.   Broke when you bought it?  Jesus fucking Christ!  When I got married, what I had hoped for-what I prayed for, in my lapsed Irish Catholic way (takes a shot of whiskey from the bar, steps downstage and looks up.  He crosses himself with the shot)-the three things I was looking for in my wife were, in no particular order: Faith, Hope, and/ or Charity. (downs the shot)  What did I get?  The complaint department at Sears!  I got the fucking Maytag Repairman!  Looking for a wife, I got some old turd telling me that he has the loneliest job on the face of the Earth.  Which is bullshit.  The loneliest job on the face of the Earth was, until this afternoon, according to a certain paper I signed down at the courthouse, held by me.  Oh  my dear God.  I'm the Maytag Repairman!  Ah, Jesus, I don't want to fix washing machines.  I want-No,  I hope-to one day be called upon to repair some lost soul.  Of course, I don't know how to do that, so part of me is happy that the phone never rings down in the soul department at Sears-(Tom's cell phone rings.  He takes it out, looks at the number, pushes cancel, puts phone back in his pocket)-but still, I'd like to give it a try.  Just once.  And for real, not for make-up.  Did you know that most of life is a game of make-up?  It is.  We make up these characters, these people who we'd like to be-and we spend our lives playing our ideas of ourselves.  And that seems crazy to me.  Faith, Hope, and Charity.  The three Weird Sisters.  The Three Amigos.  That's all.

Not terrible, right?  I have a new, three character play in the form of one scene that's almost half an hour long, and full of what I think is brilliance.  And then I get stuck.   Like nothing is coming, the play will never be done, and I hate it all kind of stuck.  

Sometimes, writing is sublime.  Sometimes, not so much.  I've got to figure out a way to get back on course.  The magic, along with Elvis, has left the building, and suddenly I am wandering in the desert.  I take a trip home to California to visit Mom, and hope something will come- some new door will open that will let me finish this play.

To Be Continued...

Links:

To see how to get a digital version of SOME UNFORTUNATE HOUR, go here:

http://www.indietheaternow.com/Play/PlayDetail/30

To see how to order a copy of Plays and Playwrights 2006, featuring Burning the Old Man, 

go here:  http://www.nytesmallpress.com/pp06.php

For info on INDIE THEATER NOW, the new digital theatre library, go here:

http://www.indietheaternow.com/

For info on Boomerang Theatre Company, go here:

http://boomerangtheatre.org/boom/index2.php

BARE BOSOMS AND THUNDER-STONES

So on the Facebook the other day, American Theatre magazine asked people to post about their favorite theatrical moment ever.  I assume they mean on stage, as opposed to things in life that are theatrical that happened to us.  I mean, we've all had things happen to us that are amazing and weird and when they happen we think "Holy crap!  That should be in a movie!"   Like the time I saw a guy poop his pants on the subway. That was very theatrical.  But I don't think that's what they were going for.   The question immediately made me think of several moments I have either seen or was a part of on stage- and I thought I'd share them with you.

First moment- the day Thunder and Lightning joined the cast of Julius Caesar.   The production was part of the 1998 season of Shakespeare in the Park(ing) Lot.  I was playing Cassius.  We had been getting a lot of attention- including a cover story in the week-end section of the New York Times, with a gigantic picture from the show featuring me,  up front and center.  It was my first photo in a major newspaper, and I was over the moon.  For those unfamiliar with the Parking Lot Shakespeare- it's an annual summer series, presented in the Lower East Side of Manhattan, free to the public- dirty, loud, and quite an experience.  So the show is going along in front of a big crowd.   The sky had been threatening rain all evening.  As the play went along, clouds gathered, turned blue, black, purple. The electricity in the air was making the hair on my arms stand straight up.  The show itself is going like gangbusters.  People are leaning into it- audience and cast alike.  The clouds are getting thicker, which adds to the sense of excitement.  It gets to the scene where my character, Cassius, is convincing Casca to kill Ceasar.  In the script, it's supposed to be storming.  Casca comes upon Cassius walking the streets with his shirt open, challenging the heaven's.  Casca says "Who ever knew the heavens menace so?"  At that point, I would laugh kind of crazily, rip open my shirt, and exclaim, "For my part, I have walk'd about the streets, submitting me unto the perilous night, and, thus unbraced, Casca, as you see, have bared my bosom to the thunder-stone!"  On this night of nights, right after that line, there was a huge CRACK of thunder over head.  I mean shake your bones and make you instinctively cover your head kind of crack.  The audience oohed and awed.   The artistic director, who during performances always stood behind the audience, ready to come out and either postpone or cancel the show in just such a case, edged halfway through the audience.  I looked at Casca hoping he would see in my eyes that we were going to go on with the show,  and continued with the scene, saying "And when the cross blue lightning seem'd to open the breast of heaven, I did present myself even in the aim and very flash of it."  At which point, there was huge FLASH of lightening, followed almost instantly with another huge roll of thunder.   Everyone froze- actors on stage and off, audience members, and artistic director- still in the middle of the audience.  Then the rain starts.  Not slowly, but all at once.  A deluge.  The artistic director starts to walk onto the stage.  I keep eye contact with Casca, but raise my hand towards our artistic director, hoping she gets the idea that the show must go on and indeed is going on, and that she needs to get off of the stage.   And the scene continues.  And the rain comes down.  And one by one, audience members pull out their umbrellas, and lean further into the show, and start to applaud- and we kick that scene, and the rest of the performance, in the ass.  There are times in life, few and far between, when you feel like a god, unstoppable and magic and like you are doing exactly the right thing.

More 'best moments ever' to come...

ONE MORE THING...YOU HAVE TO GET NAKED

It's funny how memories unlock each other.  After writing a little bit about how Last Call came about as part of small way of promoting my plays on Indie Theater Now, all these moments from that show came flooding back- rehearsals, performances, feedback, etc.   Memory is it's own Pandora's box, I suppose- once open, it's own set of devils and angels fly out.  One of the devil/angels that's been flying around in my head these past few weeks is nudity- full frontal male nudity, to be exact.  How I came to have it in the show, how actors re-acted to it, and how the public responded to said nakedness.

You see, in Last Call, the character David has come home to Salinas, California after having an existential crisis in NYC, prompted in part by 9/11, and also by witnessing a man kill himself by throwing himself in front of a subway train.  David freaks out, quits his high paying job, and goes home in search of truth and understanding.  When he arrives home, all his old friends are stuck in ruts of their own, and not interested in what he has to say.  In an effort to shake things up, and in a nod to their younger days when skinny-dipping was part of their lives, David takes all his clothes off in the middle of the bar, and invites his pals to go streaking with him.  They decline.  All except the character Jack.  He likes the idea, and strips down to the essentials.  Hilarity ensues.

I should probably mention that there was a time in my life when I got naked in public.  A lot.  Not for any sexual fetish, or to be an exhibitionist.  I just think we, as a culture, are sort of uptight, and need to be nudged towards a more loose way of being.  And I thought that getting naked and running around laughing was a good way to do that.  So it's not that surprising that I write a scene where a guy gets naked.  Write what you know.

Originally, this was not part of the play.  When the show was accepted into the Fringe, it was still not part of the play.  When I asked Jack Halpin to play the part of Jack, (and more importantly, when he accepted the role) it was not part of the play.   But then I wrote the nude scene, it felt right and more than right, and that was that.  So I called Jack, who was on tour with another show at the time, and told him he was going to be sharing a lot of himself with the world come August.  At first, I think he thought I was joking.  I assured him I wasn't.  He paused, said something about doing more sit ups and taking up jogging, and that was that.  Cool.  One naked guy in the show down, one to go.

Now, at this point, we hadn't held auditions for the show.  Most of the parts were still up for grabs, including the character David.  So, when it was time for try outs, we put an addendum on the audition notice that the role of David would have to get naked.  No ifs, ands, or buts.   So we have auditions, and this one actor, Brett Christensen, shows up and reads for the part of Vince.  At this point, the part of Vince is pretty much locked up by Vinnie Penna, and that's all there is to that.  But Brett does a great job reading for the part.  And I think he'd be a great David.  So I ask him if he'd read for it.  He asks me if that's the part that gets naked.  I say yeah.  Brett thinks for a moment, shrugs, and gives a fantastic audition.  The part is his.  He too says he is going to take up jogging.  And I have my two nudists.

Now it's close to performance time, and we need to send out a press release.  We put all the usual stuff in, and add a disclaimer how there will be full frontal nudity.

FULL FRONTAL NUDITY

It's amazing how one little sentence can get so many responses.  People call from all over, from places I've never heard of, asking me about the naked people.   When I tell them that it's two men who get naked, some get disappointed.   Some get excited.  What's funny is, nobody asks why the characters get naked as it pertains to the story- just how many naked people, what sex they are, and for how long.

As for the show itself, the nudity works perfectly.  It's just part of the story, and we kind of forget about it as being anything but another scene in the show. (except for the day R. Paul Hamilton's daughter, who is about 13, comes to the show and sits in the front row)  Also, I think it's unfair that more women always seem to have to get naked in films and on tv and stage, but hardly ever men.  Why  should women have to be naked so much more than men?  In a way, I'm doing my part for equality among the sexes.   Of course, there are a few guys who show up for the show, and afterwards come out saying things like "nice show, but you should have told us it was only male nudity".  Oh well.

I don't regret for one minute putting that scene in the show- in fact, I'm proud of it.  No doubt, there will be fewer high school and college productions of it due to the nudity- but so what?  It's my play, and I know it was the right thing to do.  The scene is beautiful, and the play would be less without it.

Now go here, buy your own downloadable file of it for about a buck fifty, and see it you agree.

MUSE OF FIRE ASCENDS

So the letter of from the Fringe comes, and I take a deep breath, then open it.  It starts with "Congratulations".  I'm in.  Muse of Fire has been accepted into the 2003 New York International Fringe Festival.  Holy Shit.

I am one of those people who doesn't really know how to take success, on any level.  It never seems quite real, or what I thought it would feel like.  Never.  In my mind, there should be music playing, fist pumping, slow motion leaps in the air, and a sudden, clear understanding of the Universe, and my place in it.  But still, it does feel pretty damn good.  What am I saying?  It feels friggin' fabulous!  Time to call friends, family, acquaintances, and tell them that I have been chosen from over one thousand entrants to be in this summer's festival.

Now I really have to get to work on the script.  The story is going nicely- I have my two muses, Dion and Polly, going down to Earth, to the Theatre Dept. at San Jose State University, and they come upon the girl they need to turn into a great writer.  Everyone ends up in a production of "As You Like It", and valuable lessons area learned by one and all.  I've changed the girl's name to Emily (middle name of my college sweetheart), and the boy she's supposed to fall in love with to Mick (one of many nicknames I had in college).  I realize, as I plot along, that the world of the play is the world of live theatre, and all the insane, funny, noble, and magic things that come with it.  Things start coming fast and furious- characters materialize, full blown, with specific voices- references to pop culture, mythology, and the Dumbarton Bridge all seem to flow and make sense.  Script feeling strong, it's time to get the production itself going.  I have several things I know I want, certain actors for certain parts- but there are other parts I haven't a clue about- and on top of that, it is always a good thing to have an open audition- you never know who you might meet, and what might come from that meeting.   So we have auditions.  Lots of folks show up. I have it all clear in my head, except for the part of Emily.  It gets down to two actresses, both really awesome in different ways.  So I have them read with Brett Christensen, who is cast as Mick.  And Jackie Kamm kicks the part of Emily in the ass, lights up the stage, and I think makes Brett's brain explode.  It is one of the great, rare joys of theatre, to witness an audition that catches fire, that makes it clear to everyone in the room that these people, and no others, must play these parts.   The entire cast is as follows- Dion: Jack Halpin, Polly: Sara Thigpen, Carlos/Hal: R. Paul Hamilton, Emily: Jackie Kamm, Cassandra: Heather McAllister, Phil:  Jerry McAllister, Mick: Brett Christensen, Lenny: Vinnie Penna, Jessie:  Christine Goodman, and the show is stage managed by Matthew Rankin.  They are all super geniuses, and amazing artists, and if you even come across them in this life, hang on to them and figure out a way to work with them.

So the show is cast, and we start rehearsing.  My company, hope theatre inc., is producing the show.  We'd formed a few years before, to present the American premiere of Shakespeare's Edward III, once part of the apocrypha but now recognized by some in that strange realm known as Academia as at least partially written by old Will.  We stayed together to produced Last Call, and now here we are, with show number three.  I am directing my own play.  I think this will be fun- and it is, but also a great pain in the ass.   I keep adding stuff to the show- interpretive dances at a cast party, love affairs, and a new way to end the show.  Instead of having Emily just fall in love with Mick, she has to lose him- and I don't mean they break up.  I mean Mick has to die- that his death is what is supposed to spark Emily's greatness as an artist.  And when Dion and Polly learn this, they have to figure out what to do- make a great artist, or save a young man's life.  I add a scene where Mick and Dion drive to the beach.  Dion knows Mick is supposed to die, but can't say anything.  They talk about Billy the Kid and the song "Dead or Alive" by Bon Jovi.  It's one of my favorite scenes in the play.

Anyway.  The cast is good, the script is good, and then we find out we are going to be presenting our show at the Cherry Lane Theatre.  If you've never seen this place, let me tell you- it's beautiful, historic, and exactly what you think a theatre in Greenwich Village should look like, right down to the cobble-stone street in front.   This is a theatre that had O'Neill, Albee, and Shephard in it.  I mean the playwrights themselves.  This place is a dream come true.  And I get to premiere my play in it.  This is a dream come true.  This is one of the great moments of my life.

Opening night arrives.  It's a full house.  The play begins.  As usual, I feel like throwing up for most of the performance.  But people are laughing in the audience.  A lot.  And then they're crying.  And at the end of the show, there's a lot of applause.  I have to stay after the show, to clear all our stuff out so that the next  play from the Fringe can load in for their opening, which happens one hour later.  Jack Halpin, who plays Dion, and I haul ass, get everything put in its proper place, and walk outside.  The street seems to be completely full of people- and they all cheer for us.  I come up to an actress I know, Aida Lembo, and she's crying and laughing, and she she's me and says "you're beautiful".

The show sells out its run, even with the great blackout of 2003 happening in the middle of the festival.   Nytheatre.com gives is a rave review- God bless them. On the last night, my mom flies out from California to see the show, and ends up sitting next to a critic from The New Yorker magazine, who is there not to right a review, but to check up on a new writer.  Somehow, I am on their radar.  Not sure how I got there, but I like it.  And now, the script is available online as part of Indie Theater Now, the new digital library of plays that is like the iTunes for plays.

So, like I said, I don't take success well.  But I think I can get used to it.

Lovers Leapt

So it was ten years ago that we all went crazy.  As Mr. Nelson said, ain't it funny how time slips away?  I remember a lot from that day, and the many days afterwards, being in New York, going to Union Square and seeing all the candles and flowers and people, and how people kept painting the boots on the statue of George Washington pink- which seemed very appropriate at the time.  It was a strange time to be alive.  Like most times.  Last night, I was at the Broncos game, and there were all these ceremonies going on about 9/11, and I heard a boy ask his father if we were celebrating 9/11.  It was a strange choice of words, but taking a step back, not too strange.  The ceremony had the air of celebration and spectacle, with just a pinch of gravitas strategically thrown in.  And of course, there were thousands and thousands of people chanting "USA!  USA!  USA!" over and over- which gave the whole thing a sort of pep rally feel.  It was kind of creepy.  Happily, the day before, I went to something far more interesting, and to my thinking, appropriate in regards to 9/11.

Sunday, on the tenth anniversary of the attacks, we went down to Colorado Springs to see a production of Leslie Bramm's Lovers Leapt, directed by the intrepid Scott RC Levy for for the Fine Art Center's Theatre Company, as part of a special event to commemorate 9/11.   The play is a one act, written shortly after the attacks, that brings to the stage what goes through the minds of two people as they jump out of one of the burning towers.  It's tough, and sad, and beautiful.  It's starts with their initial leap, and ends abruptly in the only way it can.  In the time between, we journey with the actors to ideas of what might have been and will never be.  If you would like to read a section of the play, or purchase it outright for less than $2, it is part of the 9/11 collection of plays offered at Indie Theatre Now.  Just go here.  The play was presented in front of a display of 9/11 art by Joellyn Duesberry, with no set to speak of, no lights or sounds- just actors, words, and heart.  I found the spartan staging to fit perfectly with the material, letting the audience imagine all the flames and smoke and horribleness from the plethora of images we seem to be inundated with every year around this time.  The performances by Steve Emily and Kara Whitney were superb- I completely believed I was watching two people falling through space, toward certain doom- which is kind of amazing when you think about it.  If this production is any indication of what Mr. Levy is going to doing with the company, I expect to be making the drive to Colorado Springs a lot.  After the show, there was a talk back, led by Mr. Levy, along with Sam Gappmayer, CEO/President of the center, and Blake Milteer, Director of the Taylor Museum.  One of the main points of the talk back, aside from comments on the show itself, was how the one question we all seem to ask each other when discussing that horrible day is "where were you", and why is it that we ask that question.  I thought about that a lot, and I think that maybe the reason we ask that question is that it is one of those moments in our lives that sticks out as a time when all facade slipped away and we faced the unknown.  I think beyond that, we have taken many different views about the attacks and what they meant- but the unifying moment, I believe, was not a wake up call to terrorism, or a justification for war, or a justification for peace- it was just a time when we all had to face death and mortality.  And it seems that most of us connect to that moment instantly when we think of it, and lose all our inhibitions and pre-supposed ideas of self, and are able to connect with one another.

Joellyn Duesberry, Memory Time Lapse

For information on more plays about 9/11 that I recommend, please go to Indie Theatre Now's 9/11collection.  And please, leave a comment about where you were, and what you thought on that day.

MUSE OF FIRE

So it's almost Valentine's, 2003, and I need to submit something to the Fringe.  The deadline is the 14th.   I had a pretty good go at the New York International Fringe Festival last summer with Last Call (added performance, Excellence in Playwriting Award, Publication in Plays and Playwrights 2003, etc.), and lots of people think I should do another one.  I  agree with them.  I really like being called a playwright, and having people read my stuff, and think I've found my life's calling.  I take Errant Muses, my unfinished play from a play writing class I took at SJSU, and dust it off.  Could I make a new play out of this old thing?  Should I?


A lot of it is pretty bad- lots of obvious exposition, two dimensional characters, and cliches.  But there is the germ of a good idea in it, so I start to tinker with it a bit.  I take the idea of two muses who are stuck working with each other but have diametrically opposed ideas of what art is about and keep the first scene, scrap most of the rest.  I make one of the muses female, and change their names from Tom and Dave to Dion (after Dionysos) and Polly (after Apollo).  And the reason I do that is because of the song Hemispheres by Rush, which I listened to a lot when I was about 13.  No lie.  In that song, Dionysos is the God of Chaos, and Apollo is the God of Order.  In the play, Dion is chaotic and loves how art makes him feel alive, while Polly is angry, and wants art to have meaning and purpose and be used to make the world a better place.

I also decide to change the title.  Errant muses just sounded clunky to me.  At the top of the show, Dion is alone in the muses apartment, reciting the prologue from Shakespeare's Henry V, the one that starts with "O, for a muse of fire...".    It hits me clear as a bell- name the play "Muse of Fire".  And so I do.

One of the great satisfactions for me is taking a play and twisting it and turning it and trying to find the magic inside- the stuff that seems to have been written by someone else, or better yet, seems to have not been written at all, but dictated by...what ever it is out there in the void, the infinite waters of mysticism.

The plot of Errant Muses was as follows- the muses are given a job, namely to help a young girl named Anne become a great writer.  She is a drama major at San Jose State University.  The muses have lost the report given to them by their superiors, which has all the details, including exactly what it is they are supposed to do- but fearing retribution, they don't tell anyone they've lost the report, head down to earth, meet the girl, figure out that she needs to fall in love with Will, another drama major.  Hilarity follows, and of course it all ends happily (and yes, I named them Anne and Will after Anne Hathaway and William Shakespeare).

Also, I had just read The Hero with a Thousand Faces, by Joseph Campbell.  Very cool book, and one I had wanted to read ever since I was a kid and heard that it had influenced George Lucas when he made Star Wars (or as the Philistines call it, Episode 4: A New Hope).  In the book, Cambell outlines the basic hero story found in all cultures.  First, there is the young hero.  He or she gets a call to action, sometimes from a frog who comes out of the infinite waters, then there is a series of trials, then the final battle, where the hero has to sacrifice herself/himself in order to further the greater good.

I decide to incorporate the mono-myth into Muse of Fire.  The hero will have two faces, Dion's and Polly's.  The frog becomes Carlos, a god like being who calls himself the Toad of Infinite Waters.   And I start to get into it.   Writing is funny- you write and write and write some more, and it feels like drudgery, like punishment for wanting to be creative or something.  And then, all of a sudden, and usually un-noticed, you slip into the world of the story, and lose all sense of time and place and just go to that other place- then you look up sometime later, and there's page after page of story, and it's later, and you have no idea what happened and no memory of actually typing anything.

So I'm cruising along with the play, finding new characters and situations almost daily.  My mind is in the world of the play pretty much every waking moment.  I'd be a working a lunch shift at Bryant Park Grill, and in my mind I'm thinking "yes, the director will be named Cassandra- but in reverse, because she's crazy and spouts lunacy but everyone believes her!"  I ride the subway home and watch young lovers, eavesdropping and fishing for dialogue.  I read somewhere that there were nine muses in Greek mythology- so I decide there will be nine actors in the show.   I pretty much throw anything and everything I am experiencing and have experienced into the script.   I get as much done as I can, and send off the application to the Fringe.

And wait for May and notification.

To be continued...

ERRANT MUSES

So I'm posting about all my shows that are on Indie Theater Now- how they came about, their first production, and all that jazz.  My last two blogs were about Last Call, which is part of the 9/11 collection, and was my first full length play.  On the docket, Muse of Fire, which had a long, winding road from initial concept to first production spanning over ten years.  Here goes.

Muse of Fire came about because of a touchy feely exercise I did as part of a play writing class at San Jose State University long ago and far away in the Kingdom of My Youth. For those who weren't theatre majors, let me explain.  In the world of drama, there are many, many exercises you are forced to participate in as part of a class, or play you are cast in- usually it involves laying down, closing your eyes, and listening to some teacher, director, or actor lead you through a sort of meditation, picturing your favorite place, a lover's embrace, butterflies- something like that.  These experiments can take ten, twenty, even thirty minutes.  They are all about getting in touch with the inner-self.  Yummy.   So in this class I was taking, which was taught by the great David Kahn, we had a guest artist for a few weeks, the playwright Sheldon Rosen.  Sheldon is a really cool guy, but he did have a penchant for taking us through some routines that could be described as "new age", "spiritual", or "weird".  Being twenty something at the time, I of course thought of them as weird.   I did them anyway.  Why not?  Maybe, just maybe, something would come of it.  So there I was in class, relaxing, listening to my inner voice, when all of a sudden, I saw as clear as day, two guys having a conversation.  One guy was really angry, they other guy was really kind.  The kind one was talking about how he met Van Gogh one day.  How he had been looking at a self portrait that old Vincent had done, and the painting started talking to him.  The mean one said that was a bunch of crap.

I thought that was kind of cool, so I took the initial scenario found in my head, and started making a scene out of it.  Quickly, the scene became about two muses, arguing about the meaning and purpose of art.  I read it out loud in class, and the response was immediate and quite positive, so I kept on trucking.  One of our final assignments for the class was to write at least one act of a play- so I gave the scene the title "Errant Muses", and tried to make up a full length play.  It took a lot of work, and I wrote a good chunk of that first act the night before it was due.   In hindsight, I was an idiot for most of my college career.  But such is life.  At least I got it done.  Also, at the end of the semester, the play writing class teamed up with a directing class and an acting class, and did presentations of new scenes written, directed, and performed by students.  Two different groups wanted to present my scene with the muses.  I said sure.  Why the Hell not?  On the day of the presentation, something extraordinary happened.  People laughed.  A lot.  They really liked the scene.  It felt pretty friggin' sweet, believe me.

Then I graduated, moved to New York City, and had many adventures being an idiot.  It was something I did quite well. (note photo:  I'm the one with the funky glasses)   At the end of my first foray to the big city, I was broke, lonely, and hadn't gotten one paying acting job- so I came home to California to regroup and try and figure out what to do with my life.

A few years later, I was working at the Western Stage in Salinas, CA, when I got a message from the girl who had directed one of the scenes from my play for the final presentation.   Her husband, an actor, was graduating from CalArts, and wanted to do some scenes from Errant Muses for their showcase.    A showcase is a review of scenes, usually put on by a graduating class for people in the theatre/film industry (agents, casting directors, etc.), done with the hopes that said industry people will like what they see and offer everyone big contracts to come to Hollywood or Broadway or wherever.  Ed Harris was going to emcee the show, and the whole thing sounded pretty cool to me, so of course I said yes.  I tinkered with the scenes a bit, went down to help out during rehearsal, and felt pretty good about where everything was.

Then, I left town before the actual show.   Remember, at this point in my life I was still busy being an idiot.  I mean, why stay and be present at a show where tons of people who could help me find work in my chosen field were going to see something I had written?  That made too much sense.  So I headed back to Salinas.  I put Errant Muses into a binder, and didn't really think about it for almost ten years.

Then, as noted in the previous two posts, I got my act together, wrote Last Call, and realized that what made me more happy than anything else was writing plays.  It was the fall of 2002.  Last Call was being published by NYTE, and then featured in a Best Stage Scenes of 2002, published by Smith & Kraus, and being shopped around to some theatres in Germany by a someone who saw the play and really liked it.  On top of that, I had just been named Graduate of the Last Decade for the School of Humanities by San Jose State University.  I'm fairly certain the success of Last Call had a lot to do with that.

I decided to write a new play, and enter it for FringeNYC 2003.  And the source material would be Errant Muses.

To be continued...