It's snowing today in Denver. The high temperature will be in the twenties. The wind is blowing hard, and it cuts through your clothes and shakes your bones- as I just discovered while walking my dog Padfoot. Most of the state has either a winter storm warning, or a blizzard warning. By most standards, it's pretty miserable outside. And yet, I love it. Hamlet may have found providence in the fall of a sparrow, but I find it in a snow flake. Whenever the gods send the white stuff, as it starts to slowly drop down, I take it as a supernatural sign, a medicine for melancholy sent by Raven and Loki and all who have gone before me. I am not alone in this belief. Countless movies use snow as the signal that all is right in the world; as do songs. Look at the end of "It's a Wonderful Life". George Bailey is on the bridge where earlier that very night he was contemplating suicide. Now, he desperately wants to live, regardless of what happens. He pleads, "Please God, I want to live again...I want to live again." And what happens, to let us know all is well? It starts to snow.
It only snowed once in San Jose when I was a kid. For one day in February, the gods smiled and sent a message that all would be well. The day had not started out very promising. I awoke to my sister Heather screaming, and my first thought was that my step-dad Vern had done something horrible. I had just gotten the worst hair cut ever at his drunken hands (see previous blog). But after a moment, it was clear that her cries were joyous ones, and that she was screaming "It's snowing! It's snowing! Oh my God! It's really snowing!" I looked down to see is my brother Jerry's bunk to see what he thought- but he wasn't there. Something strange was happening. Something alien and fantastical. I leapt out of bed, and ran to my window. There in my backyard was magic, White Magic from on high. The impossible, always hoped for yet never expected, had arrived. On my street! Snow. It couldn't be real...yet there it was. I dressed in about two seconds, pulled on a never used beanie over my head, and ran outside. It was everywhere. My entire street was carpeted. In all my nine years, I had tried to imagine what it would feel like to see snow on my street, but none of those attempts at visualization did justice to what lay before me. Up and down the street, kids were running around, screaming and yelling and laughing and throwing real snowballs. Real snowballs! Rarer than any gem. I looked upwards- and the sky was full of snow flakes. I caught some on my tongue. I made a snowball and threw it at nothing in particular. I jumped up and down. The whole world was a giant toy shop, and all the toys were free. And I was part of it! I ran up and down the street. Some kids were trying to make a snow man. Other kids just throwing snow up into the air. I saw Jerry and Heather up the street, and ran up to join them. And then I said words I never thought I would be able to say.
"It's snowing!"
We all ran around, insane with joy. A snowball fight broke out, and we all joined in. And then a snowball knocked my beanie off. I didn't really care, but I noticed some of the kids staring at me. Andy, one of the older kids on my street, who had a penchant for being a sarcastic jerk, pointed at my head, and asked, "What the hell happened to you?".
In all the excitement, I had forgotten about my hair.
Andy started laughing. "Jesus, McAllister, you look like Frankenstein." I tried to think of something to say, but there were no words. Besides, Andy was right. I looked like a freak, a mutant of some of some sort. Other kids started to gather around me and Andy to see what was going on. "Who cut your hair like that?", Andy asked. I couldn't tell him my step-dad cut it in a drunken rage last night- our insane home life was a humiliation we kept to ourselves, a secret shame that we were all certain would ostracize us forever from the other kids if it ever came out. So I said nothing. "Who cut your hair?", Andy asked again. "The Shopwell Barber", I lied. Andy started to laugh. "Frankenstein! McAllister looks like Frankenstein". The other kids started to laugh, and I started to cry.
Then Jerry stepped forward.
"Andy",he said, "you're right. He does look like Frankenstein. But you're an asshole. And in a few months, his hair will grow up, and you'll still be an asshole." I didn't know at the time that Jerry was paraphrasing Winston Churchill- I only knew I was saved. The kids all laughed at Andy- who wandered off to pick on someone else.
Soon, it was time to go to school. We begged and pleaded with mom to stay home, but it was no use. We trudged off to Strawberry Park Elementary, past other kids with parents wise enough to let them stay home. At school, all the kids were running around the big field, screaming and yelling and doing whatever we could with the snow. I threw a snowball at a girl named Amy I thought was cute, and got sent to our principal Mr. Van Workem's office. As I sat in the office, the sun came out, and I watched the snow melt away. I didn't mind all that much. For one brief moment, when I needed it the most, snow had come to my world. And when the snow failed, my brother stepped in.
By the end of that day, my new nick-name at school was Frankenstein. I never did tell any of the other kids who really cut my hair.
Now that world is gone- mom and Vern and Melvin the Great have all left this world, and Jerry and Heather and I all have our own lives and homes. But in spite of all that, or maybe because of it, I still often find myself drifting off to sleep, hoping against hope that I will wake up in the house on Belvedere in the land of Strawberry Park, and that when I do I'll hear my sister running up and down the hallway, her little girl's voice repeating the magic word:
"Snow...Snow...Snow!"
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Thursday, December 13, 2012
MEMORY GAPS, THE S.O.K.F., AND A STORY
I have a few gaps in my memory- moments that have been sucked into the great Black Hole of the Universe, never to be seen again by waking eyes. One of those gaps is when I got a concussion in the third grade. Or was it the second grade? It was the result of a pretty bad bike accident. Or so I'm told. I don't remember any of it. I remember clearly right before it happened. My brother and I were riding our bikes around the block as part of the initiation for our club, the S.O.K.F., which stood for Save Our Kids Future. To get in the club, we had made up a bunch of things you had to do- initiations, if you will. The initiations all had something to do with dealing with adults, dealing with their quirks and strangeness and what seemed to be a mass case of crazy. To be in the S.O.K.F., you had to walk through a room full of adults unseen; go to the store, shoplift a candy bar, bring it home and show everyone, then go back to the store and put it back; climb on to the roof of Strawberry Park Elementary School. One of the initiations, or dares, was to ride your bike around the block after dark. I was the youngest of our group, and so they let me do it a little before it got dark, and with my brother Jerry riding with me. I remember heading up our street, Belvedere Drive, then turning right on Saratoga Avenue, then turning right again onto Manzanita Drive- then it fades to black, like in the movies. The next thing I remember, I was walking out the front door of my house, several days later. I'm told that after the accident, in which I flew over my handle bars and hit the crown of my head on a brick embankment, I had amnesia, and didn't know who I was, where I was, or anything. But for me, I was simply on my bike one moment, walking out the front door of my house the next. But that's not the moment I want to talk about right now.
The other moment I can't remember at all happened one February night when I was nine. I had not gotten my haircut, even though my mom sent me to the barber, and I was in trouble. My step-father Vern came home late that night, full of alcohol and had called me into the kitchen to set me straight. And then Vern pulled out a giant butcher knife and informed me he was going to cut my hair. I'm told I screamed and hid under the table, and that my mother ran in and told Vern he couldn't do that. I don't remember any of that. There's just this black hole where all that happened. At some point, it was decided that Vern would not cut my hair with a knife. He would use a pair of shears, and I was dragged into the garage, sat in a chair, and told to sit still while he cut my hair. This is where my memories fade back in. I remember sitting on one of the chairs from the kitchen, that apparently had been dragged into the garage with me. I remember the harsh flourescent lights. I remember Vern was wearing a white T-shirt. And I remember those steel sheers. Somehow, my hair had gotten wet. I remember Vern pulling some hair forward, snipping, letting it go. I sat very still. As he cut, from time to time I could feel the cold metal of the shears on my cheek or forehead. I could hear each cut distinctly-it sounded like when a stack of papers got sliced in the paper cutter at school. Now and then, Vern would stop and tell me it was my own fault, that I had to learn to listen to my elders, that I had to learn respect God damn it- respect! I kept thinking he was going to plunge the shears into my eyes. I didn't move a muscle. I didn't look up or down or away. I was a statue. At one point, he accidently cut my ear. I didn't make a sound. It took a very long time for him to finish. It might have been five minutes, it might have been an hour. I really don't know how long it took- only that it felt like forever, like the rest of the world was gone, had never really been there in the first place. There was just Vern, the shears, the flourescent lights, and me. Then, I noticed Vern had stopped cutting. He was just standing in front of me, smoking one of his Camel cigarettes. He stared at me for a long time, right in the eye. Vern had strange eyes. Sometimes, they were kind and laughing. Other times, they were frustrated, angry, or sad. And then there were the moments when all vestiges of humanity left them, and all that was left was pure rage. And these strange eyes could vacillate from one to the other in an instant.
So there we were in that cold garage, the young statue and the man with a thousand faces- looking into each others eyes. I don't know what he was waiting for- he just stood there, looking at me. I could hear the hum of the lights. Finally, he looked down, grunted "get your ass to bed", and that was that. He pointed to the door back to the kitchen, which was between him and me. I had to walk past him to go to bed. I didn't want to run, or get too close to him- but I couldn't make it obvious that I was trying not to get near him. I stiffly walked past Vern and into the kitchen. On my way to the bedroom I shared with my brother, I stopped to look in the mirror in the hallway to see what my hair looked like.
Where just that morning there had been a mane like a lions, all that was left were patches of hair of varying length. At some points, it had been cut almost all the way to my scalp, at others, it was an inch or two long. There was some blood on my ear, and bits of hair on my shoulders. It was one of the ugliest things I had ever seen. I started to cry. Not loud, of course. That would bring another lecture on why I shouldn't be a cry baby. I made my way into the bedroom, and climbed up to the top bunk. I lay in the dark, quietly crying. My brother called up from the bottom bunk.
"Do you want to hear a story?", he asked. I gathered myself as best I could and said "Yes." Then Jerry asked, as always, "Do you want a scary one or a nice one?" Most every night, I begged for a scary story. But not that night. "Could you tell a nice one tonight?"
There was a brief pause, then Jerry said "Sure", and told me this story:
"Once, there was a boy named Bobby who had long hair. One day, he got sent to a new school, and when he got there, he noticed that everyone else at the school had short hair. And they all noticed how long Bobby's hair was, and made fun of him. Now, this happened right near the end of the school year, so when school got out, Bobby decided he'd show them. That summer, he got a his hair cut really short. He figured he'd surprise everyone the first day of school with his short hair, and then they'd all like him. But when he got to school, everyone now had long hair. When they saw Bobby, they made fun of him for having short hair. Bobby couldn't believe it- he was miserable. So he ran away, and let his hair grow long again. He lived in the mountains, hunting for food and sleeping in a cave. Finally, when his hair was long again, he came back to the school- but now, everyone had this crazy new hair cut that was half long and half short. And they all made fun of Bobby again. But this time, Bobby didn't care, because he finally figure out that it didn't really matter what people thought about his hair. He was him, and that was good enough. And after that, he lived happily ever after."
We lay in our bunk beds. Usually after a story from Jerry, I'd ask questions about the monster or the ghost or whatever the main event was- and I felt like I should ask something. But nothing came to mind. So I just sat there. Finally, sleep came for me, and I drifted off to sleep.
In the morning, I woke up to the sounds of my sister Heather screaming. There was confusion, then the thought that Vern had done something. But then, I heard a word. A word that couldn't be. How could she be screaming that word?
"Snowing!"
I looked down from my top bunk to Jerry's- but he wasn't there. Then I heard my sister again.
"It's snowing! Oh My God! Snow!"
The other moment I can't remember at all happened one February night when I was nine. I had not gotten my haircut, even though my mom sent me to the barber, and I was in trouble. My step-father Vern came home late that night, full of alcohol and had called me into the kitchen to set me straight. And then Vern pulled out a giant butcher knife and informed me he was going to cut my hair. I'm told I screamed and hid under the table, and that my mother ran in and told Vern he couldn't do that. I don't remember any of that. There's just this black hole where all that happened. At some point, it was decided that Vern would not cut my hair with a knife. He would use a pair of shears, and I was dragged into the garage, sat in a chair, and told to sit still while he cut my hair. This is where my memories fade back in. I remember sitting on one of the chairs from the kitchen, that apparently had been dragged into the garage with me. I remember the harsh flourescent lights. I remember Vern was wearing a white T-shirt. And I remember those steel sheers. Somehow, my hair had gotten wet. I remember Vern pulling some hair forward, snipping, letting it go. I sat very still. As he cut, from time to time I could feel the cold metal of the shears on my cheek or forehead. I could hear each cut distinctly-it sounded like when a stack of papers got sliced in the paper cutter at school. Now and then, Vern would stop and tell me it was my own fault, that I had to learn to listen to my elders, that I had to learn respect God damn it- respect! I kept thinking he was going to plunge the shears into my eyes. I didn't move a muscle. I didn't look up or down or away. I was a statue. At one point, he accidently cut my ear. I didn't make a sound. It took a very long time for him to finish. It might have been five minutes, it might have been an hour. I really don't know how long it took- only that it felt like forever, like the rest of the world was gone, had never really been there in the first place. There was just Vern, the shears, the flourescent lights, and me. Then, I noticed Vern had stopped cutting. He was just standing in front of me, smoking one of his Camel cigarettes. He stared at me for a long time, right in the eye. Vern had strange eyes. Sometimes, they were kind and laughing. Other times, they were frustrated, angry, or sad. And then there were the moments when all vestiges of humanity left them, and all that was left was pure rage. And these strange eyes could vacillate from one to the other in an instant.
So there we were in that cold garage, the young statue and the man with a thousand faces- looking into each others eyes. I don't know what he was waiting for- he just stood there, looking at me. I could hear the hum of the lights. Finally, he looked down, grunted "get your ass to bed", and that was that. He pointed to the door back to the kitchen, which was between him and me. I had to walk past him to go to bed. I didn't want to run, or get too close to him- but I couldn't make it obvious that I was trying not to get near him. I stiffly walked past Vern and into the kitchen. On my way to the bedroom I shared with my brother, I stopped to look in the mirror in the hallway to see what my hair looked like.
Where just that morning there had been a mane like a lions, all that was left were patches of hair of varying length. At some points, it had been cut almost all the way to my scalp, at others, it was an inch or two long. There was some blood on my ear, and bits of hair on my shoulders. It was one of the ugliest things I had ever seen. I started to cry. Not loud, of course. That would bring another lecture on why I shouldn't be a cry baby. I made my way into the bedroom, and climbed up to the top bunk. I lay in the dark, quietly crying. My brother called up from the bottom bunk.
"Do you want to hear a story?", he asked. I gathered myself as best I could and said "Yes." Then Jerry asked, as always, "Do you want a scary one or a nice one?" Most every night, I begged for a scary story. But not that night. "Could you tell a nice one tonight?"
There was a brief pause, then Jerry said "Sure", and told me this story:
"Once, there was a boy named Bobby who had long hair. One day, he got sent to a new school, and when he got there, he noticed that everyone else at the school had short hair. And they all noticed how long Bobby's hair was, and made fun of him. Now, this happened right near the end of the school year, so when school got out, Bobby decided he'd show them. That summer, he got a his hair cut really short. He figured he'd surprise everyone the first day of school with his short hair, and then they'd all like him. But when he got to school, everyone now had long hair. When they saw Bobby, they made fun of him for having short hair. Bobby couldn't believe it- he was miserable. So he ran away, and let his hair grow long again. He lived in the mountains, hunting for food and sleeping in a cave. Finally, when his hair was long again, he came back to the school- but now, everyone had this crazy new hair cut that was half long and half short. And they all made fun of Bobby again. But this time, Bobby didn't care, because he finally figure out that it didn't really matter what people thought about his hair. He was him, and that was good enough. And after that, he lived happily ever after."
We lay in our bunk beds. Usually after a story from Jerry, I'd ask questions about the monster or the ghost or whatever the main event was- and I felt like I should ask something. But nothing came to mind. So I just sat there. Finally, sleep came for me, and I drifted off to sleep.
In the morning, I woke up to the sounds of my sister Heather screaming. There was confusion, then the thought that Vern had done something. But then, I heard a word. A word that couldn't be. How could she be screaming that word?
"Snowing!"
I looked down from my top bunk to Jerry's- but he wasn't there. Then I heard my sister again.
"It's snowing! Oh My God! Snow!"
Monday, December 3, 2012
THE DEMON BARBER OF STRAWBERRY PARK
I had long hair when I was a kid. This was the 1970s, and long hair was cool. Hippies, the Grateful Dead, the musical Hair- these had all paved the way for young men to have long hair. And I lived in San Jose, California- part of the liberal, cutting edge, new age love fest that is known as the Bay Area. Not that I was in the middle of Haight-Ashbury, walking around quoting Timothy Leary to my fellow fourth graders. Life was fairly subdued in my neighborhood of Strawberry Park. Still, I loved my long hair. It was brown, and turned sort of blonde in the sun, and groovy. Often, I'd run as fast as I could down our suburban streets just to feel my hair fly behind me. My hair was my joy, and belonged solely to me. My enemy was the barber, and I visited him as little as possible.
One Sunday morning in February, 1976, my mother announced it was time for us to get hair-cuts, handed my older brother Jerry some cash, and sent us off to the dreaded Strawberry Park Barbershop. If barbers were my enemy, the Strawberry Park Barber was their king- known the world over for hair-cuts that made you look stupid, lame, and infinitely uncool. There were other barbers in the area- more expensive hair salons, places that weren't quite so awful. But the Strawberry Park Barber was cheap. Thus, our patronage. I begged and pleaded to be spared from this cruel and unusual punishment. I promised to do my chores, to clean the whole house- anything! But to no avail- Mom was adamant, and so we quietly got out our bikes, and pedaled to the House of Horror. We rode in silence, each contemplating how bad our hair would be in a short time. When we got there, the barber's chair was empty. My brother and I looked at each other, two condemned souls. Jerry bravely said he'd go first. I sat down on a chair, dejected, and tried to read one of the boring grown-up magazines they laid out for customers. You'd have thought they'd at least put out a few comic books to ease the pain, but no. So I picked up a copy of Time, and flipped through it, page after page- trying hard not to notice what was happening to my brother mere feet from where I sat. I didn't want to look up and have to see what they were doing to him. It was too much to bear. But Time magazine just couldn't hold my attention for so long. I looked up, to see how Jerry was doing.
It was awful. Jerry's hair was popping up in strange places, and combed back in what was called the "wet-head" look. He looked like Dagwood Bumstead- and I am not exaggerating. I don't know how they'd done it, but they had. Jerry smiled at me, hoping no doubt to get some encouragement. I probably should have smiled back, told him it didn't look so bad, that come to think of it, his hair looked pretty good. Jerry kept smiling. I kept staring. Jerry asked me, "Well, how does it look?" I froze. what could I tell him? I didn't want to lie, but the truth was too horrible. I don't know how long I stood there, staring at him, mouth agape. He asked again, "How does it look?" I blurted out "You look like Dagwood!", and ran out the shop, jumped on my bike, and pedaled away as fast as I could. I often wonder what Jerry must have thought, sitting in that terrible chair as he watched me make my escape. But at the time, I just rode as fast as I could, as far from that damned barber as my bike would carry me.
I rode without thinking. I ended up at Murdock's Creek, a natural creek that had been altered by the city with a couple of little dams that made perfect pools for swimming. You had to climb a fence and over a trail to get there, which gave it a sense of isolation. There were lots of trees, and frogs, and I loved it. It was the unofficial spa for all the boys of Strawberry Park. When I rode up that day, my buddy Noel, and a couple of other guys, were goofing around, throwing rocks, climbing trees- doing all the things that could make a normal day fantastic. As I rode up, everyone was daring everyone else to climb one of the trees that surrounded the pond and jump. "I dare you to climb up ten feet and jump". "I dare you to climb fifteen feet and jump." They were somewhere near twenty feet when I arrived. Noel turned to me. "I dare you to climb to the branch with the rope swing on it and jump!" I looked up. That particular branch was pretty high up. At the time, I had a sleight fear of heights. "Scared?", Noel asked. "No", I lied, and began to climb. It didn't seem so bad up there. I got the branch and looked down at everyone. Some of the guys looked impressed, which felt great. Then Noel called up, "I dare you to go higher." All the other kids started to chant "Higher! Higher! Higher!". So up I went. After about five more feet, I looked down. "Higher! Higher! Higher!" I climbed, higher than I had ever climbed before. I could see over the tops of the other trees to the rows and rows of houses in the distance, and beyond them, the Santa Cruz mountains, covered with clouds. I could feel the tree sway beneath my weight. I edged my way out on the last branch that I thought could hold me up, far enough out so I could drop into the water. I looked down. All the guys were silent, awestruck, even a little afraid. Perfect. "How's this?" I yelled down. "Awesome", Noel yelled back up. I looked down. The water seemed far away. A cold wind was blowing. What in the hell was I thinking? I didn't want to do this. But I couldn't go down now. I'd never hear the end of it. I'd be a loser, a wimp, a nothing. And I did not want that. I took a lot of dares back then that I ended up regretting- did things that were stupid and dangerous but that seemed to impress other people. If you wanted someone to jump off a roof, make a prank phone call, or ride their bike over a ramp- I was the go-to guy. And here I was, out on a limb way up in the air on a cool February day.
I jumped. The water was freezing, but I didn't care. I was alive, and all the guys were yelling their admiration. Life was good. We spent the rest of the day running around, discussing the latest issue of Spiderman, and told whatever dirty jokes we knew. I was shivering most of the time, but didn't care in the least. Life, for that moment, was perfect. At the end of the day, we rode off into the sunset, young heroes who could do no wrong. The incident at the barbershop was a distant memory.
Sadly, my mother did not find the days events amusing. She said she had told my step-father Vern what had happened, and that he would talk to me when he got home. Sometimes, on Sundays, my step-dad had to go into work for a few hours. Usually, he was home by four. But it was past four already, and he wasn't home yet. This was not good. The later he got home, the more likely he'd been drinking. At seven, he still wasn't home. A dread silence pervaded the house. Nobody said anything- by this time, we didn't have to- a storm was coming, and there wasn't anything we could do about it. Around eight or so, we got sent to bed. Still no Vern. Then, sometime past nine, I heard his car pull up, the front door open, the tell-tale uneven footsteps from door to kitchen. Not good. I could hear Mom talking with him, and then I heard him call.
"Kelly! Get your little ass in hear. Now!"
I was scared. Dad, as we called Vern by then, had never beaten us or anything like that. At least not yet. But I was certain it was only a matter of time before he lost it and killed one of us. He'd gotten pretty angry before, and broken some plates and stuff, and it didn't seem like that much of a stretch for him to just go completely psycho. Sometimes late at night, as I lay in bed, I would hear him in the kitchen, opening drawers. We had this one butcher knife that was ridiculously huge, and I had this idea that he was looking for it, and that once he found it he would walk down the hall, open my door, slowly walk up to the bed, and cut my throat. Whenever I could, I pushed that particular knife far back into the drawer.
"Kelly, God Damn it!"
I climbed out of the top bunk, looked at Jerry, who tried to smile for me. I slowly walked to the kitchen. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, I hoped. Maybe I'd only get grounded, or spanked or something. Maybe they'd take away my bike. That wouldn't be so bad.
I stepped into the kitchen. He looked extremely pissed. Sometimes, it seemed like actual waves of anger would come off of Vern. I stopped dead in my tracks.
"Come here", he said.
I didn't want to do that. He knew it. I knew it. He pointed to the floor, right in front of him. "Come...", he said, and pointed again for emphasis, "...here". This was something he'd do, pointing to the floor in front of him, commanding you to "come here". His entire body was tense, and I remember thinking he kind of looked like a snake about to strike. I still didn't move. He frowned, and his eyes somehow got meaner.
"NOW!"
I inched my way towards him, step by step. I've taken many walks in my life, even some pretty long hikes- miles in the mountains and through Europe and once almost all the way around Manhattan in the middle of the night, but I have never taken a longer journey in my life than those few steps I took that night in the kitchen of the old house in Strawberry Park.
Vern crouched down so that we were face to face- our noses almost touching. I could smell wine on his breath- sour and mixed with cigarettes. "I understand you had a little trouble at the barbershop", he said. slurring his words just a bit. I looked down and mumbled, "Yeah". He cocked his head, as if he was looking at some strange, slightly disgusting animal. "Yeah. From now on, you do what you're told. Period." He liked to use the word "period" for emphasis a lot. I always thought it sounded stupid, but didn't think this the right time to tell him. "Is that understood?", he asked. "Yes", I said, trying to sound as contrite and pathetic as I could. But something about my answer was wrong. His nostrils flared, and he snorted out his breath like a bull. "Yes, what?", he demanded. I had no idea what he was talking about. Yes was a pretty direct answer, I thought. Yes. Positive. Affirmative. What had I said wrong? Should I have said "Yes, Dad" or "Yes, wise and powerful one" or "Yes you crazy son of a bitch?". He kept looking at me, expecting something. Then it hit me. Of course! "Yes, sir". He held his glare for a moment, then sighed. "Alright".
And that was that. I couldn't believe it. Was that all? Fantastic. I turned, and headed back to my room- but he stopped me before I got out of the kitchen. "Where the hell do you think you're going? Your mother wants you to get a hair cut, and you're going to get a God damned hair cut".
And then he turned, opened a drawer, and pulled out the butcher knife.
"Come...here".
I rode without thinking. I ended up at Murdock's Creek, a natural creek that had been altered by the city with a couple of little dams that made perfect pools for swimming. You had to climb a fence and over a trail to get there, which gave it a sense of isolation. There were lots of trees, and frogs, and I loved it. It was the unofficial spa for all the boys of Strawberry Park. When I rode up that day, my buddy Noel, and a couple of other guys, were goofing around, throwing rocks, climbing trees- doing all the things that could make a normal day fantastic. As I rode up, everyone was daring everyone else to climb one of the trees that surrounded the pond and jump. "I dare you to climb up ten feet and jump". "I dare you to climb fifteen feet and jump." They were somewhere near twenty feet when I arrived. Noel turned to me. "I dare you to climb to the branch with the rope swing on it and jump!" I looked up. That particular branch was pretty high up. At the time, I had a sleight fear of heights. "Scared?", Noel asked. "No", I lied, and began to climb. It didn't seem so bad up there. I got the branch and looked down at everyone. Some of the guys looked impressed, which felt great. Then Noel called up, "I dare you to go higher." All the other kids started to chant "Higher! Higher! Higher!". So up I went. After about five more feet, I looked down. "Higher! Higher! Higher!" I climbed, higher than I had ever climbed before. I could see over the tops of the other trees to the rows and rows of houses in the distance, and beyond them, the Santa Cruz mountains, covered with clouds. I could feel the tree sway beneath my weight. I edged my way out on the last branch that I thought could hold me up, far enough out so I could drop into the water. I looked down. All the guys were silent, awestruck, even a little afraid. Perfect. "How's this?" I yelled down. "Awesome", Noel yelled back up. I looked down. The water seemed far away. A cold wind was blowing. What in the hell was I thinking? I didn't want to do this. But I couldn't go down now. I'd never hear the end of it. I'd be a loser, a wimp, a nothing. And I did not want that. I took a lot of dares back then that I ended up regretting- did things that were stupid and dangerous but that seemed to impress other people. If you wanted someone to jump off a roof, make a prank phone call, or ride their bike over a ramp- I was the go-to guy. And here I was, out on a limb way up in the air on a cool February day.
I jumped. The water was freezing, but I didn't care. I was alive, and all the guys were yelling their admiration. Life was good. We spent the rest of the day running around, discussing the latest issue of Spiderman, and told whatever dirty jokes we knew. I was shivering most of the time, but didn't care in the least. Life, for that moment, was perfect. At the end of the day, we rode off into the sunset, young heroes who could do no wrong. The incident at the barbershop was a distant memory.
Sadly, my mother did not find the days events amusing. She said she had told my step-father Vern what had happened, and that he would talk to me when he got home. Sometimes, on Sundays, my step-dad had to go into work for a few hours. Usually, he was home by four. But it was past four already, and he wasn't home yet. This was not good. The later he got home, the more likely he'd been drinking. At seven, he still wasn't home. A dread silence pervaded the house. Nobody said anything- by this time, we didn't have to- a storm was coming, and there wasn't anything we could do about it. Around eight or so, we got sent to bed. Still no Vern. Then, sometime past nine, I heard his car pull up, the front door open, the tell-tale uneven footsteps from door to kitchen. Not good. I could hear Mom talking with him, and then I heard him call.
"Kelly! Get your little ass in hear. Now!"
I was scared. Dad, as we called Vern by then, had never beaten us or anything like that. At least not yet. But I was certain it was only a matter of time before he lost it and killed one of us. He'd gotten pretty angry before, and broken some plates and stuff, and it didn't seem like that much of a stretch for him to just go completely psycho. Sometimes late at night, as I lay in bed, I would hear him in the kitchen, opening drawers. We had this one butcher knife that was ridiculously huge, and I had this idea that he was looking for it, and that once he found it he would walk down the hall, open my door, slowly walk up to the bed, and cut my throat. Whenever I could, I pushed that particular knife far back into the drawer.
"Kelly, God Damn it!"
I climbed out of the top bunk, looked at Jerry, who tried to smile for me. I slowly walked to the kitchen. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, I hoped. Maybe I'd only get grounded, or spanked or something. Maybe they'd take away my bike. That wouldn't be so bad.
I stepped into the kitchen. He looked extremely pissed. Sometimes, it seemed like actual waves of anger would come off of Vern. I stopped dead in my tracks.
"Come here", he said.
I didn't want to do that. He knew it. I knew it. He pointed to the floor, right in front of him. "Come...", he said, and pointed again for emphasis, "...here". This was something he'd do, pointing to the floor in front of him, commanding you to "come here". His entire body was tense, and I remember thinking he kind of looked like a snake about to strike. I still didn't move. He frowned, and his eyes somehow got meaner.
"NOW!"
I inched my way towards him, step by step. I've taken many walks in my life, even some pretty long hikes- miles in the mountains and through Europe and once almost all the way around Manhattan in the middle of the night, but I have never taken a longer journey in my life than those few steps I took that night in the kitchen of the old house in Strawberry Park.
Vern crouched down so that we were face to face- our noses almost touching. I could smell wine on his breath- sour and mixed with cigarettes. "I understand you had a little trouble at the barbershop", he said. slurring his words just a bit. I looked down and mumbled, "Yeah". He cocked his head, as if he was looking at some strange, slightly disgusting animal. "Yeah. From now on, you do what you're told. Period." He liked to use the word "period" for emphasis a lot. I always thought it sounded stupid, but didn't think this the right time to tell him. "Is that understood?", he asked. "Yes", I said, trying to sound as contrite and pathetic as I could. But something about my answer was wrong. His nostrils flared, and he snorted out his breath like a bull. "Yes, what?", he demanded. I had no idea what he was talking about. Yes was a pretty direct answer, I thought. Yes. Positive. Affirmative. What had I said wrong? Should I have said "Yes, Dad" or "Yes, wise and powerful one" or "Yes you crazy son of a bitch?". He kept looking at me, expecting something. Then it hit me. Of course! "Yes, sir". He held his glare for a moment, then sighed. "Alright".
And that was that. I couldn't believe it. Was that all? Fantastic. I turned, and headed back to my room- but he stopped me before I got out of the kitchen. "Where the hell do you think you're going? Your mother wants you to get a hair cut, and you're going to get a God damned hair cut".
And then he turned, opened a drawer, and pulled out the butcher knife.
"Come...here".
Thursday, November 29, 2012
AFTER THE WOMBATS
Things were pretty rough after Daddy Jay headed north to Alaska pursued by Wombats. Money was tight. Mom had been an elementary school teacher before she had us, and hadn't worked in years. Now, she had three kids, a mortgage, and an ex-husband who wasn't paying alimony or child support. At this time, there was a glut of teachers in Strawberry Park, meaning no work in that field other than some substitute teaching- which doesn't exactly pay the bills for a family of four. We didn't know any of this. My brother, sister and I were busy being kids, and things seemed pretty much like before. Maybe we all got hand-me-downs more often when it came to clothes, and maybe we didn't go out to eat pretty much ever, but life didn't seem too weird. Yet.
Then, things started to disappear. That was a little strange. First, it was all the old stuff in the garage. Mom had all this old furniture in the garage- things she had inherited after her mother died, a beautiful set of mirrors, chests, things like that. To me, they were just unused stuff, but Mom was hoping to one day live in a big house where we could use all those beautiful antiques. One by one, they vanished. And then Juliet disappeared. Juliet was Mom's '57 Chevy. It was sky blue and white and very cool, and she loved it. Mom talked about Juliet like it was a person, an old friend who she had had many adventures with. Then one day, she was gone. Within a few years, Mom re-married, and so began life with Vern.
My step-father Vern was a complicated man. One of my first memories of Vern is from when I was five or six years old. I was hanging upside down from a branch on our magnolia tree in the front yard and saw him walking up to our house. I shouted out "Daddy". He smiled and said "not yet". He came across as really nice. He laughed a lot, told jokes, and let us watch Get Smart when we visited him at his apartment. He even got us a dog shortly after he and Mom got married. We had only had one dog before, a little white dog named Spot that Daddy Jay had given us. Spot ran away around the same time my father left. We named the new dog Gigi, and I loved her very much. Life was pretty sweet. For a bit.
Something was shifting in house. At first, it was hard to pin down, just a tension that seemed to fill the air. Mom would get a little jumpy when we got loud or left our toys out. And in the mornings, especially on the week-ends, we were told to stay quiet until Vern got up. And he would sleep in pretty late. Sometimes, Vern would swear. It was exciting to hear these forbidden words, but also kind of creepy. Adults weren't supposed to talk like that. And sometimes, Vern would yell at us. Now, being a kid, I was used to grown-ups yelling now and then. But there was something different about Vern yelling. More intense. More scary. Mom said Vern had had a hard life, and so he drank too much sometimes, and we needed to be understanding, that he just got into bad moods from time to time. Well, it was true about the bad moods, and we learned quickly that if Vern was in one of his funks, it was a really good idea to be on our best behavior. Life became something like dancing with a polar bear. Still fun and exciting, but now much more dangerous, and if you weren't careful, you would most likely get an eternal lecture on how stupid you were and how meaningless life was and told that you should never have to be asked to clean your room, you should just do it. Shouting and crying and fear were regular dinner guests. And somehow, I became Vern's favorite. He'd tell me jokes at dinner. I'd pour his wine- red with ice cubes. I'd ask him to tell me about his life, and he'd tell stories about being in the army and sitting through a hurricane on a base in Florida, or when he ran a television repair store near Sacramento, or about the Porsche he used to drive. And this seemed to calm the savage beast, to make him happy. And when he was happy, he was nicer, less prone to yelling, or throwing things, or getting into big blow out yell fests with Mom after we went to bed. So making him happy was job number one. I learned how to make him laugh, mostly through trial and error. If I said certain things a certain way, Vern would laugh. You could tell when a laugh was needed, when things were heading south, as they say. Usually, there would be the inciting incident- Vern would ask if we had done all our chores, or been good at school- some quotidian thing like that. And he would only ask if he knew that we hadn't. So he'd ask the question, there would be a moment of silence, and if you didn't manage to make him laugh, the interrogation would begin, dinner would be effectively over, and who knew what would happen next? Usually it would be yelling, but there was the occasional glass thrown, and on one infamous night, he back-handed my sister in the face. Vern was a big, scary man- and we were little kids, scared out of our minds. So whenever possible, when the moment came, if at all possible, I'd make him laugh, the moment would pass, and we'd all breathe a little easier.
But comedy would only work up to a certain point, for so many glasses of wine. After that, all bets were off, and the thing to do was shut up and look for the closest escape route. It is a very curious thing to watch someone change right in front of you, to morph themselves in a sort of slow motion imitation of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde; to see the eyes blur and grow mean, smell the breath become danker and danker, physically feel tension and anger fill a room, like an acrid fog. Curious and terrifying. And heartbreaking.
By fourth grade, I had abandoned all hope of Daddy Jay ever coming back. Life was harsh, and nothing could change that. There was only one thing I secretly hoped would happen, one thing that might bring a little bit of magic back to the world.
Snow.
I realize that might sound like a fairly dull dream to a lot of people. But you have to understand, it never snowed in San Jose. Ever. Not once in my life. The only snow I ever saw was on tv and in the movies. Snow was glamorous, even mystical. You could go sledding, have snow fights, eat snow pies, make snowmen. I had a few vague memories of going up to the mountains, way back when Daddy Jay was still around- and I remember it being fun and that I loved it. And I wasn't alone in my hope for snow. Every kid at Strawberry Park Elementary wanted snow. If it got below fifty degrees, we'd look to the sky, and dream. So snow was it. I became an avid fan of the weather reports- but the news was never very promising. Still, many nights I'd go to sleep wishing fervently for snow, praying to a god I wasn't so sure was up there anymore to make it snow. Snow would make it all okay. Santa would return, with Melvin the Great sitting in his sled. Vern- or Dad, as we called him by then- would stop drinking. Everything would be all right again, all thanks to the Messiah called Snow. It was the last bastion my soul had against an encroaching reality.
My step-father Vern was a complicated man. One of my first memories of Vern is from when I was five or six years old. I was hanging upside down from a branch on our magnolia tree in the front yard and saw him walking up to our house. I shouted out "Daddy". He smiled and said "not yet". He came across as really nice. He laughed a lot, told jokes, and let us watch Get Smart when we visited him at his apartment. He even got us a dog shortly after he and Mom got married. We had only had one dog before, a little white dog named Spot that Daddy Jay had given us. Spot ran away around the same time my father left. We named the new dog Gigi, and I loved her very much. Life was pretty sweet. For a bit.
Something was shifting in house. At first, it was hard to pin down, just a tension that seemed to fill the air. Mom would get a little jumpy when we got loud or left our toys out. And in the mornings, especially on the week-ends, we were told to stay quiet until Vern got up. And he would sleep in pretty late. Sometimes, Vern would swear. It was exciting to hear these forbidden words, but also kind of creepy. Adults weren't supposed to talk like that. And sometimes, Vern would yell at us. Now, being a kid, I was used to grown-ups yelling now and then. But there was something different about Vern yelling. More intense. More scary. Mom said Vern had had a hard life, and so he drank too much sometimes, and we needed to be understanding, that he just got into bad moods from time to time. Well, it was true about the bad moods, and we learned quickly that if Vern was in one of his funks, it was a really good idea to be on our best behavior. Life became something like dancing with a polar bear. Still fun and exciting, but now much more dangerous, and if you weren't careful, you would most likely get an eternal lecture on how stupid you were and how meaningless life was and told that you should never have to be asked to clean your room, you should just do it. Shouting and crying and fear were regular dinner guests. And somehow, I became Vern's favorite. He'd tell me jokes at dinner. I'd pour his wine- red with ice cubes. I'd ask him to tell me about his life, and he'd tell stories about being in the army and sitting through a hurricane on a base in Florida, or when he ran a television repair store near Sacramento, or about the Porsche he used to drive. And this seemed to calm the savage beast, to make him happy. And when he was happy, he was nicer, less prone to yelling, or throwing things, or getting into big blow out yell fests with Mom after we went to bed. So making him happy was job number one. I learned how to make him laugh, mostly through trial and error. If I said certain things a certain way, Vern would laugh. You could tell when a laugh was needed, when things were heading south, as they say. Usually, there would be the inciting incident- Vern would ask if we had done all our chores, or been good at school- some quotidian thing like that. And he would only ask if he knew that we hadn't. So he'd ask the question, there would be a moment of silence, and if you didn't manage to make him laugh, the interrogation would begin, dinner would be effectively over, and who knew what would happen next? Usually it would be yelling, but there was the occasional glass thrown, and on one infamous night, he back-handed my sister in the face. Vern was a big, scary man- and we were little kids, scared out of our minds. So whenever possible, when the moment came, if at all possible, I'd make him laugh, the moment would pass, and we'd all breathe a little easier.
But comedy would only work up to a certain point, for so many glasses of wine. After that, all bets were off, and the thing to do was shut up and look for the closest escape route. It is a very curious thing to watch someone change right in front of you, to morph themselves in a sort of slow motion imitation of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde; to see the eyes blur and grow mean, smell the breath become danker and danker, physically feel tension and anger fill a room, like an acrid fog. Curious and terrifying. And heartbreaking.
By fourth grade, I had abandoned all hope of Daddy Jay ever coming back. Life was harsh, and nothing could change that. There was only one thing I secretly hoped would happen, one thing that might bring a little bit of magic back to the world.
Snow.
I realize that might sound like a fairly dull dream to a lot of people. But you have to understand, it never snowed in San Jose. Ever. Not once in my life. The only snow I ever saw was on tv and in the movies. Snow was glamorous, even mystical. You could go sledding, have snow fights, eat snow pies, make snowmen. I had a few vague memories of going up to the mountains, way back when Daddy Jay was still around- and I remember it being fun and that I loved it. And I wasn't alone in my hope for snow. Every kid at Strawberry Park Elementary wanted snow. If it got below fifty degrees, we'd look to the sky, and dream. So snow was it. I became an avid fan of the weather reports- but the news was never very promising. Still, many nights I'd go to sleep wishing fervently for snow, praying to a god I wasn't so sure was up there anymore to make it snow. Snow would make it all okay. Santa would return, with Melvin the Great sitting in his sled. Vern- or Dad, as we called him by then- would stop drinking. Everything would be all right again, all thanks to the Messiah called Snow. It was the last bastion my soul had against an encroaching reality.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
A WOMBAT ATE MY FATHER
Our home was your typical ranch style suburban home that most people my age seem to have grown up in- three bedrooms, one and a half bathrooms, a dining room, a living room, and kitchen connected to a garage. Our particular neighborhood was Strawberry Park. I went to Strawberry Park Elementary, bought my comic books at Strawberry Park Drug Store, walked down Strawberry Park Drive to get to school. The weird thing was, there weren't a lot of strawberries. Just houses, vacant lots, the occasional church, and what was left of the orchards. To the west were the Santa Cruz mountains, dark blue and full of secrets. to the east was Mount Hamilton- gold and dry and covered with patches of Oak, giving the the appearance of a great chocolate chip cookie. Beyond the valley was the real world, which as far as I could tell from tv was full of hippies and bell bottom jeans and Felix and Oscar and Hawkeye, and the Zodiac killer, and Viet Nam, and some place called OPEC, and Jacques Costeau. I'd made a few forays into the real world- once to Alaska on a cruise with my mother and father shortly before they divorced, once to Disneyland with my father just after the divorce, and several times to Pacific Grove where my Aunt Alice lived. But for the most part, life was Strawberry Park.
I shared a room with my older brother Jerry, and Mom let us decorate it as we saw fit, in order to help stimulate our creativity. We had a dark green ceiling, wood paneling on the walls, and a multi-colored striped shag carpet that sort of looked like some ogre had eaten a couple of boxes of crayons and then thrown up. On the wall was a muskrat skin we had gotten in Alaska, an up-turned horseshoe over our door for good luck, a poster of a tiger, and also a poster of King Kong. We had bunk beds, and I got to sleep on the top bunk. I don't know if this is because I whined about it, or if Jerry just wanted to bottom bunk. As the youngest, I often got things by using my pest skills, which were advanced for my age.
Every night, after the lights had been turned off and Mom said good night, Jerry would ask me if I wanted to hear a story. We all loved stories in our family. Mom was a former school teacher, our father a frustrated writer- and they were both full of stories and nursery rhymes. Whenever we drove anywhere, we'd read out loud. I remember very clearly hearing my sister Heather read The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe one summer over the course of several drives back and forth to Aunt Alice's. So, every night, lights out, house quiet, Jerry would call up: "Want to hear a story?" He didn't really have to ask, because the answer was always yes. It was just the ritual, and that was that. He would ask, I would say yes, then he would ask what kind of story, and I would always request a scary one. He would say no, I'd get to scared and cry to Mom, I'd swear I wouldn't- and after going back and forth, he'd tell me a scary story. And what stories he'd tell- always original, always somehow incorporating our lives. Blue zombies who lived in our closet, rattle snakes at the foot of the bed- there was even one that had the Creature from the Black Lagoon coming out of our fish tank. Usually, I would get scared, and then he'd switch a story about nothing all that exciting, like a boy floating down a river in a raft or walking to school or something, and I'd drift off to sleep.
My life seemed full of dreams and magic, but by the summer after third grade, things started to change. Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, and the Easter Bunny had all gone the way of the dodo for the reasons they always do. But there were starker changes in our suburban home in Strawberry Park. New monsters, not quite so fantastic but much more real, had begun to arrive.
My father left my mother, and my brother and sister and I, when I was four. He had always been obsessed with Alaska- and had decided to go live there. My siblings and I always hoped he'd come back someday to see us- but any hope of that ever happening diminished in direct proportion to the number of letters he sent us. When he first left, there were letters practically every week, full of stories about Melvin the Great, his made up version of himself who went on madcap adventures with his much smarter side-kicks Hairy, Feather, and Belly. Melvin traveled around in a throne that sat on top of a Volkswagen Bug. He always wore a crown, had a bottle of magic pep potion in his glove box that gave him super powers, and was constantly fighting the evil Wombats. Each letter with a Melvin the Great story was illustrated by my father, and I treasured them. I'd read them over and over, never tiring of the stories. We all checked the mail-box a lot in those days. But as time wore on, the letters came less frequently, from weekly to monthly to not at all. Mom explained to us that Daddy Jay, which is what we called him, had stopped paying something called Alimonyandchildsupport, and we probably wouldn't see him much anymore. By fourth grade, all letters from my father had joined Santa in oblivion. We assumed the Melvin had been eaten by a Wombat.To be continued...
Friday, November 16, 2012
I HAVE MANY GODS, AND THEY'RE ALL A LITTLE CRAZY
I'm a quasi-pagan, magical thinking believer in Bigfoot, UFOs, and the Loch Ness Monster. Whenever I do a show, on opening night I go backstage, find a quiet corner, and say a prayer to Thespis. I've seen ghosts. At times, like Ghandi, I am a Muslim, and Christian, and a Jew. And a Hindu, and an atheist, and an agnostic. My pantheon includes Superman, Batman, and the Avengers- along with Loki, Raven, and Cassiopeia, Queen of Elsewhere. And I don't see this as in any way illogical.
I am pondering my own gods because I came upon a book the other day that I hadn't read since I was in fourth grade and took part in M.G.M. at Strawberry Park Elementary. M.G.M. stood for Mentally Gifted Minors, although most of the kids at school said it stood for Mentally Goofed-up Morons. There were students from several different schools in M.G.M., broken into several groups of about 20 each. Each group would have class once a week for a whole day. My group met on Wednesdays. In M.G.M., we read books, went of field trips to museums and the beach on a minus tide, did scientific observations of all these animals we had in class, like our boa constrictor Harvey. We discussed Picasso and Edgar Allen Poe. To me, it seemed like a full day of free time- and I couldn't quite believe the powers that be knew what we really did, because how could school be so fun? We didn't even have desks. We had bean bag chairs, and a couple of sofas, and even an old row boat with cushions in it, perfect for reading. The classroom was full of prints of art work, games to play designed to flex your brain muscles, and stacks upon stacks of books. In one of those stacks, I came across a book on Norse mythology that looked pretty cool. I don't think I even noticed the title ( D'Aulaires' Norse Gods and Giants). I just found the cover illustration to be really interesting. I knew of Thor, the Norse thunder god, thanks to Marvel Comics, and decided to give the book a look. I sat down in the row boat, and was pretty much instantly transported to another world, full of gods and trolls and magic. I could not put that book down. The stories were funny and exciting and a little scary. Thor was not blonde like he was in the comic book, but red-haired, and a little cranky. He was also not quite so smart. Whenever he needed someone with brains, he went to Loki- who was at times funny, always crafty, and ultimately deadly. Loki and all the other fantastic characters in this amazing book were believable to me- powerful but flawed. And they stuck with me. I remember reading about Odin, the one-eyed ruler of the Norse Gods, or Aesir. He had an eight-legged horse named Sleipner, a spear that never missed its' target, and two ravens named Thought and Memory who flew out into the world every day and came back at night to tell him what was going on down on Earth, or Mid-gard. Every time I saw a pair of Ravens in a tree or in a field, I'd think "there goes Thought and Memory". Sometimes I'd wave to them, hoping they'd give my regards to Odin.
Now, most of the characters in these stories were a little on the crazy side of things. Which was perfect, to me- as I had already begun to suspect that most of the world was inhabited by crazy folks. This was 1976- and the world was a strange place. America was Watergate, Richard Nixon, and Viet Nam. The Beatles had broken up, disco reigned supreme, and worse still, the Brady Bunch had been cancelled. The 1960's were a golden age that had passed away with Janis and Jimi and Jim, and according to Pete we were all wasted with Baba O'Reilly. It seemed like every movie had a sad ending, or one where the good guys turned out to be kind of bad, or the bad guys turned out to be not so evil. On top of that, at home my brother, sister, and I were beginning to understand what it meant to live in a house with an alcoholic thanks to our step-father. Our real dad had left years earlier- and we never really heard from him at all. No phone calls, letters, post-cards, birthday cards, Christmas presents. Nothing. Daddy Jay, as we called our biological father, was a lost hero banished from our lives. I didn't bear any malice towards him- but I did think it a drag that he was gone, and secretly hoped that he'd return one day and take us somewhere that was safe, and where you didn't have to worry about getting yelled at over seemingly small things like not making your bed. And when I say yelled at, I mean long, scary interrogations by someone who could sometimes be funny and nice, and sometimes frightening and violent. Everyone was a little crazy. And here were all these stories of gods and trolls and heroes and monsters, trying to survive the long cold night, and somehow smiling bravely in the face of impending doom. In the Norse tales, the gods were all fated to die in a great battle called Ragnarok, which was sort of like Armageddon except that all the good guys get killed. They were mortal, and nothing they could do would change their fate- but still they carried on. Which was cool. It was as if they had heard someone sing "carry on, my wayward son, there'll be peace when you are done", and said in reply, "verily".
So I read that book over and over.
Then Junior High came along, and puberty, and girls, and life went on. But something about those stories stayed with me- I mean, if you look at my plays, they all have these powerful, lost, cursed people who try to carry on in the face on certain doom. I even put some of the Norse gods in my plays- most notably Hel, daughter of Loki and goddess of death. But others work their way in. I often use Raven, who is the Pacific northwest equivalent to Loki- chaotic, funny, and dangerous.
The other night, I was at Barnes & Noble, and came across a new edition of that book- it's been re-titled "D'Aulaires' Norse Mythology, and has a fantastic intro by Michael Chabon- but it's the same book, with the same wonderful illustrations. It was like running into an old friend I hadn't seen in a long time. I read a couple of stories, and to my delight found that they still ring true.
And that we are all still a little bit crazy.
So I read that book over and over.
Then Junior High came along, and puberty, and girls, and life went on. But something about those stories stayed with me- I mean, if you look at my plays, they all have these powerful, lost, cursed people who try to carry on in the face on certain doom. I even put some of the Norse gods in my plays- most notably Hel, daughter of Loki and goddess of death. But others work their way in. I often use Raven, who is the Pacific northwest equivalent to Loki- chaotic, funny, and dangerous.
The other night, I was at Barnes & Noble, and came across a new edition of that book- it's been re-titled "D'Aulaires' Norse Mythology, and has a fantastic intro by Michael Chabon- but it's the same book, with the same wonderful illustrations. It was like running into an old friend I hadn't seen in a long time. I read a couple of stories, and to my delight found that they still ring true.
And that we are all still a little bit crazy.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
MAKE YOUR BOTTOM MORE APPEALING
That's not advice from the latest exercise guru, it's a line from my play LOVERS, LUNATICS, AND POETS, which just got published by PLAYSCRIPTS, INC. The play is the direct result of a writing contest; and also of my long-standing love affair with the theatre. The contest put on by Playscripts, inc. and called Pitch-n-Play, and was in two parts. In part one, people were asked to tweet a pitch, or idea, for a new play that was somehow connected to the line "the course of true love never did run smooth" from Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream. My winning pitch was "real life Puck messes with teens in high school prod of Misdummer Night's Dream". That pitch, along with two others, won the first part of the contest. In the second part, people wrote short plays based on any of the three winning pitches. I decided to write a play on my own pitch. And while it didn't win the grand prize, the very wise folks at Playscripts decided it was so good that they would publish it anyway. And as of last week, it is available to the general public to read, perform, quote from at parties, etc. It's perfect for high schools, actually. It's set entirely on the stage of a high school theatre, has a cast of 16-20 with 11-15 female roles and 5-9 males. And of course, it's hilarious.
I wrote the play quickly, drawing on my own experience in high school theatre, a production of A Midsummer Night's Dream that my brother and sister were in when I was in 8th grade, and from a production I was in when I went to San Jose State University. Wow- I just realized that I saw my first production of that play over 30 years ago. How the hell can that be? I can see it so clearly in my head. There's my brother in a bad toga playing Aegeus with intensity and style. To me, it was like magic how he transformed himself from high school senior into cranky old man. And there's my sister Heather stealing the show as Tom Snout- a role she was bummed about when she got cast, but one that she embraced and triumphed in- which was infinitely cool to watch happen. Snout is one of the rude mechanicals who plays the wall in Pyramus and Thisbe, the play-within-the-play that some people think is the most actor-proof scene ever written- meaning that no matter how bad your actors are, that scene always works. Which is kind of true. But I've seen some folks try their best.
I'm realizing more and more, as I write this, how vital that show is to my life in the theatre. I remember going to rehearsals of the production my siblings were in at Blackford High School as the tag-along younger brother, and watching all those cool older kids on stage, and being completely taken in by how fun it all looked. And every now and then, a little spark of magic would happen, and I'd catch my breath and wish I was up there, leaping about and speaking in verse. By the time that show opened, I was hooked. I wasn't any good yet, but I wanted to get up there and do some things, speak some lines, touch a little of the rough magic that seemed to course between and through all those actors on stage in the auditorium/lunch room that served as the theatre in our high school.
Years later, I was a junior in college at San Jose State University. Undeclared, not sure of what to do with myself- or rather, not clear with myself, not honest. But that year, things changed. I had done a few shows my first two years, gotten some small parts in some, worked backstage in others. But then, the mafia was formed. The mafia- that's was the nickname given to a bunch of us at SJSU that year. I'm not sure how, but what happened was several of the drama majors- including my brother and sister- decided to do some of their own work at SJSU. One acts, student productions in the studio, that kind of thing. And I went along for the ride. I think it really kicked into gear during a production of Tennessee Williams Night of the Iguana, and was solidified when we did a production of A Marowitz Hamlet at City Lights, the experimental theatre in San Jose. It was directed by Jon Selover, and had a cast that included my brother Jerry as Clown/Polonius, my sister Heather as one of three Ophelias, Donna Federico as Gertrude, Rob Langeder as Rosencrantz or Guildenstern, and somehow I got the role of Laertes. It was weird and wonderful and profound.
And instrumental in my learning about theatre and all it's possibilities. By the end of that show, I considered myself an actor. A member of the tribe. A lunatic. By the end of that one school year, I worked on eleven full productions.
There are, I think, certain times in your life where you are happy and growing and full of that wonderful, fleeting feeling that for just a flicker, you're where you're supposed to be in the world, doing what you're supposed to be doing. This was one of those times. At the end of that year, I got cast as Snug the Joiner in the school's main stage production of A Midsummer Night's Dream. It wasn't a huge role, but it was juicy. And I milked it for all it was worth. Snug, as written, is not the brightest of folks. I took his non-smarts and ran with it. I made Snug wide-eyed, innocent, and fun- a sort of big baby without a trace of irony in his bones. And people loved it. My fellow actors would laugh during rehearsals. Something was starting to happen when I got on stage. I didn't understand it exactly, but I dug it immensely. My brother Jerry played Quince in that production, and we had a lot of fun together. My sister Heather was Titania, and my brother's wife at the time, Jenny, was one of the faeries- so there were four McAllisters in the show, which we thought was very cool.
Anyhow, the reason I bring up that production is that there was this one rehearsal that was so gloriously strange, it cemented forever my deep and abiding love for theatre. The show was directed by the great Richard Parks- one of the funniest, most talented, and terrifying people I have ever met. He was incredibly smart, knew the show inside and out, and could coax performances of beauty from a stone. But he also had a temper. One night, we were rehearsing the scene where Puck comes in and does some magic. There was going to be a sound effect of chimes or something for when the magic happened, but we didn't have that yet- so Richard recorded his own voice, rising from low pitch to high while saying "doodle doodle doodle doodle doodle". His plan was to use this as a substitute sound effect so we could get used to hearing something. Sadly, he didn't tell anyone in the cast about this ahead of time. Rehearsals were going along fine, and we got to the scene where the sound effect was supposed to happen, and suddenly, out of the speakers, came our fearless leaders voice. "Doodle doodle doodle doodle." There was a pause, a momentary confusion and people looking around as if to ask "did I really just hear that?", and then we all burst into laughter. There were at least ten of us on stage, and more backstage or in the audience waiting for their next scene. And all of us were laughing. All, that is, except Richard. He was fuming. He screamed out "What's so funny? What's so god damned funny? We needed a sound effect, so I made this to use until a better one comes along." We all got our selves under control, and went back to running the scene. "Doodle doodle doodle doodle." More laughter. Richard again up, this time running from the audience up onto the stage. "Stop laughing! Stop laughing right now!" Slowly, we got it together. We all said sorry, asked if we could please go back to rehearsing the scene, and looked as full of remorse as we could. Richard said fine, strode back into the audience, and we started the scene from the top. "Doodle doodle doodle doodle". As I remember it, we tried not to laugh. Faces contorted. Some people seemed to be giving birth. Then a strange, high pitched squeal broke out of one of us, and that was it. An explosion of laughter erupted from the entire cast en masse. Richard turned a bright red, and screamed up to the stage manager, who ran the sound, to "play it again! Play it over and over! Play it ten fucking times if you have to, so they can laugh their little asses off and we can get back to work!" I'm not sure he meant for the stage manager to actually play it ten times in a row or not- but that's just what happened.
I have never seen so many people laugh so hard for so long. We were keeled over, rolling on the ground, screaming. Somewhere around the seventh "doodle doodle doodle doodle doodle" Richard shouted something and exited the theatre.
It was a glorious night. And now that I think of it, also instrumental in my becoming a writer, because a few days later, I wrote a short story about the rehearsal, in which Richard ran back in with a machine gun and shot us all in iambic pentameter. I remember reading it to the cast, and everyone laughed. A lot. And something about making people laugh from something I wrote was as satisfying as making people laugh by what I did on stage. Wheels were set in motion.
And so, here I am, years later, with a one act about actors and theatre and A Midsummer Night's Dream. Life is good sometimes.
I wrote the play quickly, drawing on my own experience in high school theatre, a production of A Midsummer Night's Dream that my brother and sister were in when I was in 8th grade, and from a production I was in when I went to San Jose State University. Wow- I just realized that I saw my first production of that play over 30 years ago. How the hell can that be? I can see it so clearly in my head. There's my brother in a bad toga playing Aegeus with intensity and style. To me, it was like magic how he transformed himself from high school senior into cranky old man. And there's my sister Heather stealing the show as Tom Snout- a role she was bummed about when she got cast, but one that she embraced and triumphed in- which was infinitely cool to watch happen. Snout is one of the rude mechanicals who plays the wall in Pyramus and Thisbe, the play-within-the-play that some people think is the most actor-proof scene ever written- meaning that no matter how bad your actors are, that scene always works. Which is kind of true. But I've seen some folks try their best.
I'm realizing more and more, as I write this, how vital that show is to my life in the theatre. I remember going to rehearsals of the production my siblings were in at Blackford High School as the tag-along younger brother, and watching all those cool older kids on stage, and being completely taken in by how fun it all looked. And every now and then, a little spark of magic would happen, and I'd catch my breath and wish I was up there, leaping about and speaking in verse. By the time that show opened, I was hooked. I wasn't any good yet, but I wanted to get up there and do some things, speak some lines, touch a little of the rough magic that seemed to course between and through all those actors on stage in the auditorium/lunch room that served as the theatre in our high school.
Years later, I was a junior in college at San Jose State University. Undeclared, not sure of what to do with myself- or rather, not clear with myself, not honest. But that year, things changed. I had done a few shows my first two years, gotten some small parts in some, worked backstage in others. But then, the mafia was formed. The mafia- that's was the nickname given to a bunch of us at SJSU that year. I'm not sure how, but what happened was several of the drama majors- including my brother and sister- decided to do some of their own work at SJSU. One acts, student productions in the studio, that kind of thing. And I went along for the ride. I think it really kicked into gear during a production of Tennessee Williams Night of the Iguana, and was solidified when we did a production of A Marowitz Hamlet at City Lights, the experimental theatre in San Jose. It was directed by Jon Selover, and had a cast that included my brother Jerry as Clown/Polonius, my sister Heather as one of three Ophelias, Donna Federico as Gertrude, Rob Langeder as Rosencrantz or Guildenstern, and somehow I got the role of Laertes. It was weird and wonderful and profound.
And instrumental in my learning about theatre and all it's possibilities. By the end of that show, I considered myself an actor. A member of the tribe. A lunatic. By the end of that one school year, I worked on eleven full productions.
There are, I think, certain times in your life where you are happy and growing and full of that wonderful, fleeting feeling that for just a flicker, you're where you're supposed to be in the world, doing what you're supposed to be doing. This was one of those times. At the end of that year, I got cast as Snug the Joiner in the school's main stage production of A Midsummer Night's Dream. It wasn't a huge role, but it was juicy. And I milked it for all it was worth. Snug, as written, is not the brightest of folks. I took his non-smarts and ran with it. I made Snug wide-eyed, innocent, and fun- a sort of big baby without a trace of irony in his bones. And people loved it. My fellow actors would laugh during rehearsals. Something was starting to happen when I got on stage. I didn't understand it exactly, but I dug it immensely. My brother Jerry played Quince in that production, and we had a lot of fun together. My sister Heather was Titania, and my brother's wife at the time, Jenny, was one of the faeries- so there were four McAllisters in the show, which we thought was very cool.
Anyhow, the reason I bring up that production is that there was this one rehearsal that was so gloriously strange, it cemented forever my deep and abiding love for theatre. The show was directed by the great Richard Parks- one of the funniest, most talented, and terrifying people I have ever met. He was incredibly smart, knew the show inside and out, and could coax performances of beauty from a stone. But he also had a temper. One night, we were rehearsing the scene where Puck comes in and does some magic. There was going to be a sound effect of chimes or something for when the magic happened, but we didn't have that yet- so Richard recorded his own voice, rising from low pitch to high while saying "doodle doodle doodle doodle doodle". His plan was to use this as a substitute sound effect so we could get used to hearing something. Sadly, he didn't tell anyone in the cast about this ahead of time. Rehearsals were going along fine, and we got to the scene where the sound effect was supposed to happen, and suddenly, out of the speakers, came our fearless leaders voice. "Doodle doodle doodle doodle." There was a pause, a momentary confusion and people looking around as if to ask "did I really just hear that?", and then we all burst into laughter. There were at least ten of us on stage, and more backstage or in the audience waiting for their next scene. And all of us were laughing. All, that is, except Richard. He was fuming. He screamed out "What's so funny? What's so god damned funny? We needed a sound effect, so I made this to use until a better one comes along." We all got our selves under control, and went back to running the scene. "Doodle doodle doodle doodle." More laughter. Richard again up, this time running from the audience up onto the stage. "Stop laughing! Stop laughing right now!" Slowly, we got it together. We all said sorry, asked if we could please go back to rehearsing the scene, and looked as full of remorse as we could. Richard said fine, strode back into the audience, and we started the scene from the top. "Doodle doodle doodle doodle". As I remember it, we tried not to laugh. Faces contorted. Some people seemed to be giving birth. Then a strange, high pitched squeal broke out of one of us, and that was it. An explosion of laughter erupted from the entire cast en masse. Richard turned a bright red, and screamed up to the stage manager, who ran the sound, to "play it again! Play it over and over! Play it ten fucking times if you have to, so they can laugh their little asses off and we can get back to work!" I'm not sure he meant for the stage manager to actually play it ten times in a row or not- but that's just what happened.
I have never seen so many people laugh so hard for so long. We were keeled over, rolling on the ground, screaming. Somewhere around the seventh "doodle doodle doodle doodle doodle" Richard shouted something and exited the theatre.
It was a glorious night. And now that I think of it, also instrumental in my becoming a writer, because a few days later, I wrote a short story about the rehearsal, in which Richard ran back in with a machine gun and shot us all in iambic pentameter. I remember reading it to the cast, and everyone laughed. A lot. And something about making people laugh from something I wrote was as satisfying as making people laugh by what I did on stage. Wheels were set in motion.
And so, here I am, years later, with a one act about actors and theatre and A Midsummer Night's Dream. Life is good sometimes.
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
A FIGURE OF SPEECH
So we decide on some knights for comic relief in ROSE RED. We being Kari Kraakevik and myself, Rose Red being the new musical we are creating based on the fairy tale Rose Red and Snow White. Kari and I have sat down, and I've come up with a basic plot- which will no doubt change during the creative process (and already has). In the plot, there's a lost prince who has been turned into a wolf by Endorra Belle, a powerful enchantress who has turned bad ever since her ruby heart was broken into pieces. In the notes, I have "a trio of knights enter, looking for the prince, sing funny song".
Okay. Now I'm writing the script based on my notes. Funny knights. Hmmm. When I think funny knights, I think of Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Silly, absurd, over the top. And maybe they can use language in a way that's amusing. Maybe they can have goofy names. Somehow, I decide to name them Sir Lost, Sir And, & Sir Found. This makes me laugh. So I keep it. And I figure, every now and then, someone can say "and?", which is a fairly common way of saying "what else?" in the modern parlance- and Sir And can always assume they're talking to him. Like the knights meet Rose and Snow, tell them they're looking for the Prince, Rose says "And?", and then Sir And says "are you speaking to me?" Ah, cheap laughs. I love it. And now, there's a feel to the knights. A way of speaking. Malaprops, mistaken word play- like Abbot and Costello's famous "Who's On First?" routine. For whatever reason, this opens these three characters up to me, and they are now living, breathing people. Silly knights who get lost in their own language. And use words like Gadzooks. Why not?
It happens like that for me a lot. I'll have a character or characters in mind for a story who have to do a specific thing. I kick around some ideas. Then something happens that clicks, and I can see them, hear them, know what they will do. I sometimes think I don't make up stories as tap into an alternate reality where these people really exist.
Must mean I'm crazy.
Anyway, when I tell other folks about my idea, they like it. We decide they need a song in Act Two, something to relieve the tension, keep the audience satisfied, and all that. And I figure, why not sing about language? I'll call it "Figure of Speech". Kari likes it. Words get written, music gets written, and voila- a song is born. Below are the lyrics.
One more thing- we just got word that the libretto for ROSE RED is going to be e-published by Indie Theater Now, and that is very good news indeed!
“FIGURE OF SPEECH”
IT’S A FIGURE OF SPEECH
LIKE ONCE MORE INTO THE BREACH?
OR DON’T BRING SAND TO THE BEACH?
AND THOSE WHO CAN, DO
THOSE WHO CAN’T, TEACH
MEASURE TWICE, CUT ONCE
A CONFEDERACY OF DUNCES
SAY ONCE BITTEN, TWICE SHY
LOOK ME DEAD IN THE EYE
RED SKY AT MORNING
SAILOR TAKE WARNING
RED SKY AT NIGHT
SAILOR’S DELIGHT
OH FIGURES, ANALOGIES, SIMILIES!
GOOD THINGS ALWAYS COME IN THREES!
TOO BIG FOR HIS BRITCHES
OR LIKE WHEN THE WITCHES
SAY SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES
HIS STOMACH’S GOT BUTTERFLIES
SHE’S LOOKING RATHER STARRY EYED
AND AS FOR ME I’M SIMPLY ALL THUMBS
SIMILIES, FIGURES, ANALOGIES!
GOOD THINGS ALWAYS COME IN THREES
WASTE NOT, WANT NOT
PEASE PORRIDGE, COLD OR HOT
LOST IN THE STAR LIGHT STAR BRIGHT
WISH I MAY I WISH I MIGHT
I’VE A FROG IN MY THROAT
THAT’S REALLY GOT MY GOAT
DUMB AS A POST, STRONG AS AN OX
SWEET AS A PIE, SLY AS A FOX
OH SIMILIES! ANALOGIES! FIGURES!
WAIT! WHAT WORD CAN WE RHYME WITH FIGURES?
IT MATTERS NOT, THE SONG IS DONE
THERE’S NOTHING NEW UNDER THE SUN
DON’T PUT THE CART BEFORE THE HORSE
THERE’S ONE MORE THING TO SAY, OF COURSE
DON’T LOSE HOPE, SWEET LITTLE DOVE
FOR ALL YOU REALLY NEED IS LOVE.
Okay. Now I'm writing the script based on my notes. Funny knights. Hmmm. When I think funny knights, I think of Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Silly, absurd, over the top. And maybe they can use language in a way that's amusing. Maybe they can have goofy names. Somehow, I decide to name them Sir Lost, Sir And, & Sir Found. This makes me laugh. So I keep it. And I figure, every now and then, someone can say "and?", which is a fairly common way of saying "what else?" in the modern parlance- and Sir And can always assume they're talking to him. Like the knights meet Rose and Snow, tell them they're looking for the Prince, Rose says "And?", and then Sir And says "are you speaking to me?" Ah, cheap laughs. I love it. And now, there's a feel to the knights. A way of speaking. Malaprops, mistaken word play- like Abbot and Costello's famous "Who's On First?" routine. For whatever reason, this opens these three characters up to me, and they are now living, breathing people. Silly knights who get lost in their own language. And use words like Gadzooks. Why not?It happens like that for me a lot. I'll have a character or characters in mind for a story who have to do a specific thing. I kick around some ideas. Then something happens that clicks, and I can see them, hear them, know what they will do. I sometimes think I don't make up stories as tap into an alternate reality where these people really exist.
Must mean I'm crazy.
Anyway, when I tell other folks about my idea, they like it. We decide they need a song in Act Two, something to relieve the tension, keep the audience satisfied, and all that. And I figure, why not sing about language? I'll call it "Figure of Speech". Kari likes it. Words get written, music gets written, and voila- a song is born. Below are the lyrics.
One more thing- we just got word that the libretto for ROSE RED is going to be e-published by Indie Theater Now, and that is very good news indeed!
“FIGURE OF SPEECH”
IT’S A FIGURE OF SPEECH
LIKE ONCE MORE INTO THE BREACH?
OR DON’T BRING SAND TO THE BEACH?AND THOSE WHO CAN, DO
THOSE WHO CAN’T, TEACH
MEASURE TWICE, CUT ONCE
A CONFEDERACY OF DUNCES
SAY ONCE BITTEN, TWICE SHY
LOOK ME DEAD IN THE EYE
RED SKY AT MORNING
SAILOR TAKE WARNING
RED SKY AT NIGHT
SAILOR’S DELIGHT
OH FIGURES, ANALOGIES, SIMILIES!
GOOD THINGS ALWAYS COME IN THREES!
TOO BIG FOR HIS BRITCHES
OR LIKE WHEN THE WITCHES
SAY SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES
HIS STOMACH’S GOT BUTTERFLIES
SHE’S LOOKING RATHER STARRY EYED
AND AS FOR ME I’M SIMPLY ALL THUMBS
SIMILIES, FIGURES, ANALOGIES!
GOOD THINGS ALWAYS COME IN THREES
WASTE NOT, WANT NOT
PEASE PORRIDGE, COLD OR HOT
LOST IN THE STAR LIGHT STAR BRIGHT
WISH I MAY I WISH I MIGHT
I’VE A FROG IN MY THROAT
THAT’S REALLY GOT MY GOAT
DUMB AS A POST, STRONG AS AN OX
SWEET AS A PIE, SLY AS A FOX
OH SIMILIES! ANALOGIES! FIGURES!
WAIT! WHAT WORD CAN WE RHYME WITH FIGURES?
IT MATTERS NOT, THE SONG IS DONE
THERE’S NOTHING NEW UNDER THE SUN
DON’T PUT THE CART BEFORE THE HORSE
THERE’S ONE MORE THING TO SAY, OF COURSE
DON’T LOSE HOPE, SWEET LITTLE DOVE
FOR ALL YOU REALLY NEED IS LOVE.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
THE LEAR OF MUSICAL THEATRE
I have seen the best stage version of the musical Gypsy ever done. I saw it Saturday. It was directed by Scott RC Levy. It was at the Colorado Springs Fine Arts Center. It was epic. It was funny. It was full of spectacle, but also intensely intimate. I don't say this lightly. I don't say this off the cuff. This show was fantastic, and this company is consistently putting up the kind of theatre that reminds you why you go to theatre in the first place: in the hopes that you will be transported to another level of being, where strangers who are hauntingly familiar alternately titillate, endear, enrage, confuse, and ultimately enlighten you a tiny bit on the huge mystery of what it is to be a human being. Again, the company who is doing all this is the theatre at Colorado Springs Fine Arts Center, where Mr. Levy is the artistic director.
While Gypsy ostensibly about the early days of the girl who would grow up to become the famous stripper Gypsy Rose Lee, it's really all about Mama Rose, the mother of favorite daughter Baby June and overlooked wallflower Louise- who of course turns out to be the one who grows up and achieves stardom. Mama Rose is a huge role. Mr. Levy calls it the Lear of musical theatre- and with good cause. Mama Rose has to be larger than life, brash, at times fragile, at other times immovable. A good Mama Rose has to be able to get you rooting for her, loving her- and then get you to find her a bit insane and mad at yourself for wanting her to succeed, and then get you to feel guilty about being mad at her. A.J. Mooney plays Mama Rose better than any I've ever seen- and I've seen a lot, including Bernadette Peters on Broadway. The moment she literally climbs on stage in the first scene, you can't help but be mesmerized. Mooney oozes presence, sex appeal, and just the right amount of madness to make her impossible not to gaze at in wonder every second she's on stage. She can sing to shake the rafters, moves like a natural born dancer, and has the kind of acting chops you just don't see all that often. Put simply, she rocks. Levy has surrounded her with a fantastic company, a brilliant set, outstanding costumes, and a rocking orchestra led by Roberta Jacyshyn. Standouts in the cast include Lacey Connell, who plays Louise. Connell gives us a Louise who is intensely lonely, a girl with an incredibly complicated relationship with her mother and also with her sister June, Mama Rose's clear favorite. Connell's Louise struck me as a little bit nutty herself, and her transformation into a rather rough Gypsy Rose Lee at the end of the play made complete sense to me- it was like seeing her in a certain way take on some of the not so nice aspects of her mother. Creepy, sad, and really great theatre. Equally excellent is Nicole Dawson as June- who clearly wants to get the hell away from her overbearing mother, and eventually does when she elopes with a boy from their vaudeville act named Tulsa- played by Ryan Miller who does a great job with the number "All I need is the girl". Dawson and Connell's duet about wishing their mother would settle down and get married is sweet, and just a little bit sad. I loved it. Stephen Day as the long suffering/smitten Herbie, who carries a torch for Mama Rose and puts up with a lot is so good I was rooting for him to make everything come out alright, even though I knew the story and how it would end. Also, Sally Lewis Hybl, Anita Lane, and Becca Vourvoulos as the three strippers who give Louise advice in Act Two are priceless.
What I really love about this production was the way Levy moved it along- making us laugh at the absurdity and wonder of a life seeking stardom, disarming us with the charm of theatrical dreams about the roar of the crowd and all that- and then ripping open our hearts and letting out a lot of dark, strange demons in the huge final number that Mama Rose sings.
Okay. Suffice to say, the show rocked, and you all need to go see any and all shows done at FAC.
And in December, don't forget to come to Boulder to see my new musical, ROSE RED.
"
While Gypsy ostensibly about the early days of the girl who would grow up to become the famous stripper Gypsy Rose Lee, it's really all about Mama Rose, the mother of favorite daughter Baby June and overlooked wallflower Louise- who of course turns out to be the one who grows up and achieves stardom. Mama Rose is a huge role. Mr. Levy calls it the Lear of musical theatre- and with good cause. Mama Rose has to be larger than life, brash, at times fragile, at other times immovable. A good Mama Rose has to be able to get you rooting for her, loving her- and then get you to find her a bit insane and mad at yourself for wanting her to succeed, and then get you to feel guilty about being mad at her. A.J. Mooney plays Mama Rose better than any I've ever seen- and I've seen a lot, including Bernadette Peters on Broadway. The moment she literally climbs on stage in the first scene, you can't help but be mesmerized. Mooney oozes presence, sex appeal, and just the right amount of madness to make her impossible not to gaze at in wonder every second she's on stage. She can sing to shake the rafters, moves like a natural born dancer, and has the kind of acting chops you just don't see all that often. Put simply, she rocks. Levy has surrounded her with a fantastic company, a brilliant set, outstanding costumes, and a rocking orchestra led by Roberta Jacyshyn. Standouts in the cast include Lacey Connell, who plays Louise. Connell gives us a Louise who is intensely lonely, a girl with an incredibly complicated relationship with her mother and also with her sister June, Mama Rose's clear favorite. Connell's Louise struck me as a little bit nutty herself, and her transformation into a rather rough Gypsy Rose Lee at the end of the play made complete sense to me- it was like seeing her in a certain way take on some of the not so nice aspects of her mother. Creepy, sad, and really great theatre. Equally excellent is Nicole Dawson as June- who clearly wants to get the hell away from her overbearing mother, and eventually does when she elopes with a boy from their vaudeville act named Tulsa- played by Ryan Miller who does a great job with the number "All I need is the girl". Dawson and Connell's duet about wishing their mother would settle down and get married is sweet, and just a little bit sad. I loved it. Stephen Day as the long suffering/smitten Herbie, who carries a torch for Mama Rose and puts up with a lot is so good I was rooting for him to make everything come out alright, even though I knew the story and how it would end. Also, Sally Lewis Hybl, Anita Lane, and Becca Vourvoulos as the three strippers who give Louise advice in Act Two are priceless.
What I really love about this production was the way Levy moved it along- making us laugh at the absurdity and wonder of a life seeking stardom, disarming us with the charm of theatrical dreams about the roar of the crowd and all that- and then ripping open our hearts and letting out a lot of dark, strange demons in the huge final number that Mama Rose sings.
Okay. Suffice to say, the show rocked, and you all need to go see any and all shows done at FAC.
And in December, don't forget to come to Boulder to see my new musical, ROSE RED.
"
Thursday, October 18, 2012
MORE COWBELLS, WITCHES, AND KNIGHTS
So I was set to meet with Kari Kraakevik- composer, genius, and friend who I have agreed to write a musical with. The meeting is at Starbucks, and we're going to sit down and I'm going to tell her my basic ideas for the plot. The show is based on Rose Red and Snow White, an old Norske legend immortalized by the Brothers Grimm. We've talked a bit about the basics- two main characters are sisters who are very different. There's a cranky Imp, and a bear who comes in from the cold. We want to make it all about Rose and being different, being something other than what your parents want you to be- in her case, being wild and needing to go out into the world and find whatever she finds. We've talked about making the bear a wolf- a Wolf Prince, and giving him an older brother- a Wolf King. Now we need a basic structure, with places for songs and over 20 characters.
And go!
Okay- let's start by giving the Imp a back story. Why is he so mean? How about: once, the Imp was your run of the mill human, but got turned into the Imp by an evil wizard? Yeah, and not just any normal human, but the father of Rose and Snow. Now that sounds good. Explains the absent father, creates all sorts of possibilities down the road. So, what happened? Long ago, while looking for food, he followed a deer deep into the mountains. Now in those very same mountains lived a very powerful wizard- no, a witch- no, an enchantress who used her power for good. Yeah, I like that. And this enchantress' heart was a huge ruby which she kept safe in those mountains. And the man- let's call him the Hunter, comes upon the ruby, and not knowing any better, breaks it into little pieces in the hopes of selling them. Which is a bad idea, as the enchantress is now upset about her heart being broken, and is now without a heart, and therefore incapable of mercy. She zaps the hunter, turns him into the Imp, and is now all messed up, evil, bad- now she's a bad witch. And she needs a name. I take Endorra for the Witch of Endor from the Bible, and Belle from the Bell Witch legend, and now she has a name: Endorra Belle.
So that will all be in a prelude, sort of like in Disney's Beauty and the Beast- a quick set up leading us to Rose Red and Snow White living with their mom. The village has been living in fear ever since Endorra went bad. And we'll have a song introducing most of the characters. In the first draft of the plot, this takes place in the forest, and I make a note to create some forest creatures as characters. The song will have to be about the differences between Rose and Snow- wild vs. domestic, yin and yang and all that. And we'll call it "Red and White".
Okay, next we can have Rose and Snow go into the woods picking berries- always trouble. They meet the Imp like in the fairy tale, help him out of a jam, and he's a jerk. After he leaves, the sisters can sing a duet about domesticity vs. freedom. Excellent. Next, back home, they can meet the Wolf Prince. And to fill out the cast, let's give the Wolf Prince a side-kick. A black sheep called Night, who can turn out to be a bad guy/spy. Later on, after the first read through, I will change the Wolf Prince's name to the Timberwolf because it's a little confusing having a Wolf Prince and a Wolf King. On top of that, there was a DC superhero named Timberwolf who was a member of the Legion of Superheroes.
I like to put weird, obscure references in my work. Sometimes they're cultural, sometimes they're historical, sometimes they're personal. I figure, if it doesn't hamper the story, makes sense on its own, and will make those who get it feel extra smart, why not? If nothing else, it keeps me amused, and invested in the story- and often, what starts as a goofy allusion to some book I read leads to a great moment.
So Timberwolf shows up, and turns out to be a lost prince, trapped in another form. This is good- see, everyone wants Rose to be something she's not. And in the story, there are other characters who have been forced to be things they are not. And none of them are better for it. That's a theme, or something.
And if there's a missing prince, then there have to be people looking for him. Knights. And I sense a chance for some comic relief. What is the knights are sort of goofy? Yes. It's all coming together. And here's the weird thing. There's this point for me when I'm making up a story where it all clicks, and I can't really explain it, but somehow, I no longer really have to think all that much about what should happen. I just sort of see it in my mind. The characters, the scenery, the whole thing- and it's like I'm just writing down what I see in my head. There might be a little snag here and there, a moment I need to tweak- but that's all mechanics. Sometimes, scenes I see end up getting cut from the show. Doesn't mean they aren't part of the whole story, they're just a part we don't need to see on stage. Once I hit that point, writing the play becomes nothing more or less than the story showing itself to me.
At least, that's how it feels. More on all that next time. By the way, the amazing costume sketches you see are the work of Sherry McClure, who is designing sets and costumes for our production at Actors Academy of the Performing Arts. Tickets are now on sale for our December 14, 15, and 16 performances in Boulder. Go here to buy some.
Also, my short play Lovers, Lunatics, and Poets will be available very soon from Playscripts, inc. Go here for more info.
And last but not least, two things on Burning the Old Man. If you are in the city of Pardubice in the Czech Republic, go see it performed in Czech under the title Putovani S Urnou at Divadlo Exil. And, I just got the Portuguese translation, As Cinzas do Velho, for a production going up in Sao Paolo in March. If you are in that part of the world, I hope you can see it. Of course, if you'd like to read an English version of the play, you can always buy your very own copy at the fantastic web site Indie Theater Now. Go here for more info.
That's all for today- now go out there and get your theatre on!
And go!
Okay- let's start by giving the Imp a back story. Why is he so mean? How about: once, the Imp was your run of the mill human, but got turned into the Imp by an evil wizard? Yeah, and not just any normal human, but the father of Rose and Snow. Now that sounds good. Explains the absent father, creates all sorts of possibilities down the road. So, what happened? Long ago, while looking for food, he followed a deer deep into the mountains. Now in those very same mountains lived a very powerful wizard- no, a witch- no, an enchantress who used her power for good. Yeah, I like that. And this enchantress' heart was a huge ruby which she kept safe in those mountains. And the man- let's call him the Hunter, comes upon the ruby, and not knowing any better, breaks it into little pieces in the hopes of selling them. Which is a bad idea, as the enchantress is now upset about her heart being broken, and is now without a heart, and therefore incapable of mercy. She zaps the hunter, turns him into the Imp, and is now all messed up, evil, bad- now she's a bad witch. And she needs a name. I take Endorra for the Witch of Endor from the Bible, and Belle from the Bell Witch legend, and now she has a name: Endorra Belle.
So that will all be in a prelude, sort of like in Disney's Beauty and the Beast- a quick set up leading us to Rose Red and Snow White living with their mom. The village has been living in fear ever since Endorra went bad. And we'll have a song introducing most of the characters. In the first draft of the plot, this takes place in the forest, and I make a note to create some forest creatures as characters. The song will have to be about the differences between Rose and Snow- wild vs. domestic, yin and yang and all that. And we'll call it "Red and White".
Okay, next we can have Rose and Snow go into the woods picking berries- always trouble. They meet the Imp like in the fairy tale, help him out of a jam, and he's a jerk. After he leaves, the sisters can sing a duet about domesticity vs. freedom. Excellent. Next, back home, they can meet the Wolf Prince. And to fill out the cast, let's give the Wolf Prince a side-kick. A black sheep called Night, who can turn out to be a bad guy/spy. Later on, after the first read through, I will change the Wolf Prince's name to the Timberwolf because it's a little confusing having a Wolf Prince and a Wolf King. On top of that, there was a DC superhero named Timberwolf who was a member of the Legion of Superheroes.
I like to put weird, obscure references in my work. Sometimes they're cultural, sometimes they're historical, sometimes they're personal. I figure, if it doesn't hamper the story, makes sense on its own, and will make those who get it feel extra smart, why not? If nothing else, it keeps me amused, and invested in the story- and often, what starts as a goofy allusion to some book I read leads to a great moment.
So Timberwolf shows up, and turns out to be a lost prince, trapped in another form. This is good- see, everyone wants Rose to be something she's not. And in the story, there are other characters who have been forced to be things they are not. And none of them are better for it. That's a theme, or something.And if there's a missing prince, then there have to be people looking for him. Knights. And I sense a chance for some comic relief. What is the knights are sort of goofy? Yes. It's all coming together. And here's the weird thing. There's this point for me when I'm making up a story where it all clicks, and I can't really explain it, but somehow, I no longer really have to think all that much about what should happen. I just sort of see it in my mind. The characters, the scenery, the whole thing- and it's like I'm just writing down what I see in my head. There might be a little snag here and there, a moment I need to tweak- but that's all mechanics. Sometimes, scenes I see end up getting cut from the show. Doesn't mean they aren't part of the whole story, they're just a part we don't need to see on stage. Once I hit that point, writing the play becomes nothing more or less than the story showing itself to me.
At least, that's how it feels. More on all that next time. By the way, the amazing costume sketches you see are the work of Sherry McClure, who is designing sets and costumes for our production at Actors Academy of the Performing Arts. Tickets are now on sale for our December 14, 15, and 16 performances in Boulder. Go here to buy some.
Also, my short play Lovers, Lunatics, and Poets will be available very soon from Playscripts, inc. Go here for more info.
And last but not least, two things on Burning the Old Man. If you are in the city of Pardubice in the Czech Republic, go see it performed in Czech under the title Putovani S Urnou at Divadlo Exil. And, I just got the Portuguese translation, As Cinzas do Velho, for a production going up in Sao Paolo in March. If you are in that part of the world, I hope you can see it. Of course, if you'd like to read an English version of the play, you can always buy your very own copy at the fantastic web site Indie Theater Now. Go here for more info.
That's all for today- now go out there and get your theatre on!
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
RAISED BY WOLVES
So as most of you know, I am writing the book and lyrics for a new musical called ROSE RED. It's based on an old Norske legend made famous by the Brothers Grimm. We had a story book of it when I was a kid, and I can still see the illustration of the ungrateful dwarf in the story, struggling to get his beard free from a tree stump in which it had been inexplicably stuck. I never could figure out how his beard got in there. It just didn't make sense. But I digress.
So, it was April, and I had agreed to write a musical with Kari Kraakevik based on Rose Red and Snow White. In short order, I needed to take a short fairy tale with five characters and expand it into a full length play, with at least 20 characters. The original story is pretty short: two sisters, Rose Red, who is sort of wild, and Snow White, who is very domestic, live with their mother in the woods. One day, they meet a dwarf who is always getting into trouble- like having his beard stuck in a tree trunk- and they always help him out. He never thanks them for their help. In fact, he's mean to them after they help- calling them dullards and slugs and other nasty things like that. The girls also meet a bear who asks if he can come in from the cold and sleep in their house. They say okay, and become friends. One day, the girls find the dwarf being threatened by their bear friend. They decide not to help the dwarf anymore because he's been so mean. The bear kills the dwarf, and turns out to be a prince whom the dwarf had enchanted into being a bear. The prince marries Snow White, and from out of nowhere, the prince's brother appears and marries Rose Red. End of story. I never liked that ending.
I decide we need to change the bear to a wolf. I have always loved wolves. I'm not sure why. I just do. In fact, back when my main focus was being an actor, whenever I had to put a bio in a program, I'd say I was raised by wolves in Northern California. This came about because of a joke my sister Heather played once. She was directing me in a production of A Christmas Carol at Expanded Arts on the Lower East Side of NYC, and bios were due for the program. I hadn't written one, so she took it on herself to write mine, and she included the line "raised by wolves in Northern California." I liked it, and the line became part of my standard bio.
So the bear became a wolf. I call him the Wolf Prince. And why stop at one wolf? I figured, if he has a brother, shouldn't he be a wolf, too? And not just a wolf, but a more forbidding, semi-evil one. Now, when I was in fourth grade or so, I read a book called "The Wolf King" by Ann Turnbull. It was all about this boy in a village long ago who goes off to fight the evil Wolf King, who in the end turns out to be his brother. At least, that's how I remember the plot through the foggy ruins of time. So I create a Wolf King for our story- a dark character who rides in the night and is not to be trifled with.
So that's 6 characters down. Next, time to blow the plot up, see what happens.
More on that next time.
Performances of ROSE RED are set for December 14th at 7pm, December 15 at 2pm and 7pm, and December 16 at 2pm. All performances are at Actors Academy for the Performing Arts 5311 Western Ave. Boulder, CO 80301. For more information and/or tix, call 303-245-8150 or email info@theaterforkids.net. We also have a facebook page for the show:
www.facebook.com/RoseRedMusical
Please visit and "like". And if you'd like to see more of my work, please visit the wonderful site Indie Theatre Now:
www.indietheaternow.com
So, it was April, and I had agreed to write a musical with Kari Kraakevik based on Rose Red and Snow White. In short order, I needed to take a short fairy tale with five characters and expand it into a full length play, with at least 20 characters. The original story is pretty short: two sisters, Rose Red, who is sort of wild, and Snow White, who is very domestic, live with their mother in the woods. One day, they meet a dwarf who is always getting into trouble- like having his beard stuck in a tree trunk- and they always help him out. He never thanks them for their help. In fact, he's mean to them after they help- calling them dullards and slugs and other nasty things like that. The girls also meet a bear who asks if he can come in from the cold and sleep in their house. They say okay, and become friends. One day, the girls find the dwarf being threatened by their bear friend. They decide not to help the dwarf anymore because he's been so mean. The bear kills the dwarf, and turns out to be a prince whom the dwarf had enchanted into being a bear. The prince marries Snow White, and from out of nowhere, the prince's brother appears and marries Rose Red. End of story. I never liked that ending.
I decide we need to change the bear to a wolf. I have always loved wolves. I'm not sure why. I just do. In fact, back when my main focus was being an actor, whenever I had to put a bio in a program, I'd say I was raised by wolves in Northern California. This came about because of a joke my sister Heather played once. She was directing me in a production of A Christmas Carol at Expanded Arts on the Lower East Side of NYC, and bios were due for the program. I hadn't written one, so she took it on herself to write mine, and she included the line "raised by wolves in Northern California." I liked it, and the line became part of my standard bio.So the bear became a wolf. I call him the Wolf Prince. And why stop at one wolf? I figured, if he has a brother, shouldn't he be a wolf, too? And not just a wolf, but a more forbidding, semi-evil one. Now, when I was in fourth grade or so, I read a book called "The Wolf King" by Ann Turnbull. It was all about this boy in a village long ago who goes off to fight the evil Wolf King, who in the end turns out to be his brother. At least, that's how I remember the plot through the foggy ruins of time. So I create a Wolf King for our story- a dark character who rides in the night and is not to be trifled with.
So that's 6 characters down. Next, time to blow the plot up, see what happens.
More on that next time.
Performances of ROSE RED are set for December 14th at 7pm, December 15 at 2pm and 7pm, and December 16 at 2pm. All performances are at Actors Academy for the Performing Arts 5311 Western Ave. Boulder, CO 80301. For more information and/or tix, call 303-245-8150 or email info@theaterforkids.net. We also have a facebook page for the show:
www.facebook.com/RoseRedMusical
Please visit and "like". And if you'd like to see more of my work, please visit the wonderful site Indie Theatre Now:
www.indietheaternow.com
Monday, October 1, 2012
ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF DANGER
Had our first read through of ROSE RED on Saturday, and it was pretty friggin' fantastic to be sitting in a room once again, hearing a new script being read out loud by the people who are going to be performing it. Lots of things to do- scenes to tighten, plots twists to introduce and/or rework, songs to reprise, and of course, things that I don't even realize yet are out there, waiting to help transform this rough gem into a brilliant ruby (I would have said diamond, but it's cliche, and ruby is more appropriate for this show- come see it in December at Actor's Academy for the Performing Arts in Boulder to find out how). I don't know if I can properly convey how exhilarating it is to hear a play you've written get a full read through. Exhilarating and terrifying and magic. The exhilarating part is when a line or scene comes across as you envisioned it when you wrote it. The terrifying part is when something you think is brilliant falls flat. The magic part is when an actor or actors find something in a scene you didn't realize was there- some depth or insight that might have been intentional but subconscious, or might just be happenstance, but for whatever reason is there and makes the play even better than you think.I got all three on Saturday.
Anyhow- I said I would use this blog to describe how this show came about, so on we go.
We had settled on Rose Red and Snow White as our source material, and it was time to come up with a plot that could fill out a full length musical with a casts of at least 20, and up to 40 or more- if we should get lucky enough to have a theatre company want to produce it that likes large casts for their musicals. That would mean either Broadway, or children's theatre. In the original story, there are five characters: Rose Red, Snow White, their mother, a cranky dwarf, and a bear. So first order of business, come up with fifteen more characters at the very least.Okay, the work begins. First off, I change the dwarf to "The Imp". It sounds better to me, and is a reference to "Game of Thrones". I'm a bit of a geek, and like to put references to things in my plays. Allusions, if you will. I figure if people get them, great. If not, no harm. And it keeps me amused and into the work. Next, I try to think of another villain- someone really powerful and strong and who can be played by a girl, because in young people's theatre, there are a lot more girls than boys. So I try to think up a witch/enchantress. I google famous witches, find some names, mix them together, and come up with the name "Endorra Belle". Sounds good to me. Now, why is she so nasty? I prefer stories where the bad guys have a reason for being the way they are. So, what if she used to be good, but went to the dark side after being wronged. Yeah, now it starts to gel in my head. Maybe the Imp used to be nice to, but did something foolish and/or cruel that turned Endorra Belle evil- and she punishes him by turning him into the Imp. Now that speaks to me, and the story starts to sort of fly out of my head at a pretty fast pace. I don't want to give it all away- sufficed to say the world of the play has a powerful villain in Endorra, and her agent the Imp.
Great, now I have six characters, only about twenty to go- plus a plot, theme, etc.
Next- sidekicks.
And don't forget, if you'd like to read one of my other plays, Like BURNING THE OLD MAN, or HELA AND TROY, or FENWAY: LAST OF THE BOHEMIANS, go to one of these wonderful websites:
http://www.playscripts.com/author.php3?authorid=1062
http://www.indietheaternow.com/Playwright/Playwright/KellyMcAllister
Friday, September 28, 2012
THE GIVER
So I went and saw a production of Lois Lowry's The Giver last night at the Denver Center Theatre Company, and I am so glad I did. This is a fantastic production, from top to bottom. Story, direction, acting, design- it's damn near flawless.
The story is your classic Sci-Fi, in the vein of such cautionary classics as Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury, Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card, and The Lathe of Heaven by Ursula K. Le Guinn. In the story, set in the distant future, the world has become very safe, very easy-going, and a little bit creepy. There are no colors in this world, no hard decisions to be made- nothing that could possibly cause strife. Not even music exists. Everything you do- including what family you live with and what career you follow- is pretty much chosen for you by a set of rules made long ago, and that's the way it is. What is supposed to be Utopian turns out, of course, to be Dystopian. The story follows a young boy named Jonas, who is chosen for a very rare, special job in this strange world. He is going to be a Receiver of Memory, which means he will be the receptacle for his world's memories. He learns this at the age of 12. He is to be trained by the current Receiver, and it is this training that drives the story. For more on the plot, go here.
The play, adapted from the novel by Eric Coble and expertly directed by Christy Montour-Larson, opens with style, and never lets up. It is both funny and sad, terrifying and uplifting- no mean feat. The world of the play is instantly set as this strange variation on The Stepford Wives. The first people we meet are Jonas' overly polite, creepy family. There's Father-played so sweetly by Timothy McCracken that when you find out the truth of what Father does for a job, it's very powerful and quite disturbing. Father is married to Mother, an ice-queen who exudes a kind of danger as played by Diana Dresser, and they have three children- Lily, played by Aliza Fassett with great aplomb the night I saw the production, a new baby assigned to them by the powers that be named Gabriel, and Jonas- the hero of the story, played with earnestness and strength by Jackson Garske (all the young people's roles are played by two rotating casts- if the night I saw the show is any indication of the level of talent, I am sure both groups of young actors are outstanding). One other stand out in a cast of stand outs is Philip Pleasants as the Giver- here is a great, performance by an actor who naturally carries gravitas and wit.
Technically, the show is a wonder, with sets and lights and sound that are truly amazing. There is one section that uses projection that really made me think I was looking at a ghost of a young girl.
I need to run, so let me just say this show is fantastic, and you should see it.
The story is your classic Sci-Fi, in the vein of such cautionary classics as Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury, Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card, and The Lathe of Heaven by Ursula K. Le Guinn. In the story, set in the distant future, the world has become very safe, very easy-going, and a little bit creepy. There are no colors in this world, no hard decisions to be made- nothing that could possibly cause strife. Not even music exists. Everything you do- including what family you live with and what career you follow- is pretty much chosen for you by a set of rules made long ago, and that's the way it is. What is supposed to be Utopian turns out, of course, to be Dystopian. The story follows a young boy named Jonas, who is chosen for a very rare, special job in this strange world. He is going to be a Receiver of Memory, which means he will be the receptacle for his world's memories. He learns this at the age of 12. He is to be trained by the current Receiver, and it is this training that drives the story. For more on the plot, go here.
Technically, the show is a wonder, with sets and lights and sound that are truly amazing. There is one section that uses projection that really made me think I was looking at a ghost of a young girl.
I need to run, so let me just say this show is fantastic, and you should see it.
Thursday, September 27, 2012
MAKING A MUSICAL, part 1
I think I'll use this blog to chronicle the birth of my new musical, ROSE RED. Seems that my writing about how I write might be of interest to some folks.
So, late last spring, Kari Kraakevik- who has been teaching with me at Actor's Academy for the Performing Arts up in Boulder for the past few years- told me that I should write a musical with her- a musical either for, or to be performed by, young people. Something that would appeal to the kind of audience who likes Wicked.
For those who know me only by my plays, this might sound a little strange. My plays, by and large, deal with lost, crazy, and/or angry people who drink to excess, get high, and swear with authority. My first play, LAST CALL, had two guys run around naked for about ten minutes of the show, and I used the F word so much that we seriously considered putting the catch phrase "a f#$@ a minute" on the posters. I don't set out to write plays with so much "adult" material- but that seems to be what usually happens.
But I also happen to work really well with young people. No doubt we're emotional equals or something- but regardless the reason, I seem to be able to relate to the young pretty well. Since moving to Colorado, I've directed a lot of shows with young casts, and taught a ton of classes. I am sure I've worked with over a thousand young actors in the past five years.
So writing a musical for young people didn't seem so crazy after all. next, we needed to choose what to write about. I suggested maybe using my play MUSE OF FIRE, which takes place on a college campus- and had lots of swearing, drinking, and people mentioning that fact that human beings have sex. So that was out.
Then I suggested Rose Red and Snow White. It was one of my favorites when I was a kid, and the minute I mentioned it, I got a good feeling. Part of that, no doubt, was nostalgia for days gone by, like the happy feeling I get every time I hear theme song for The Mary Tyler Moore Show. But there was something more- just a feeling in my gut that said "yeah, this could be the way to go."
In my life, I seem to only get gut feelings that work out when it comes to writing. I don't know if this is the Universe's way of telling me to be a writer, or to keep me in the poor house, but that's just the way it is. And when the voices in my head talk, I listen.
So Kari and I met at a Starbucks up in Boulder in May, and I sort of hashed out a basic plot for the musical- expanding the story, adding lots of characters and plot twists along the way. Kari wrote everything down, and emailed me the results.
Now it was up to me to write the thing.
I'll start to tell you about that next time. In the interim, please check out these sites where you can buy for a very low price some of my earlier plays:
http://www.indietheaternow.com/Playwright/Playwright/KellyMcAllister
http://www.playscripts.com/author.php3?authorid=1062
https://www.facebook.com/StrongTeaMovie
Up next, how I turned a bear into a wolf.
So, late last spring, Kari Kraakevik- who has been teaching with me at Actor's Academy for the Performing Arts up in Boulder for the past few years- told me that I should write a musical with her- a musical either for, or to be performed by, young people. Something that would appeal to the kind of audience who likes Wicked.
For those who know me only by my plays, this might sound a little strange. My plays, by and large, deal with lost, crazy, and/or angry people who drink to excess, get high, and swear with authority. My first play, LAST CALL, had two guys run around naked for about ten minutes of the show, and I used the F word so much that we seriously considered putting the catch phrase "a f#$@ a minute" on the posters. I don't set out to write plays with so much "adult" material- but that seems to be what usually happens.
But I also happen to work really well with young people. No doubt we're emotional equals or something- but regardless the reason, I seem to be able to relate to the young pretty well. Since moving to Colorado, I've directed a lot of shows with young casts, and taught a ton of classes. I am sure I've worked with over a thousand young actors in the past five years.
So writing a musical for young people didn't seem so crazy after all. next, we needed to choose what to write about. I suggested maybe using my play MUSE OF FIRE, which takes place on a college campus- and had lots of swearing, drinking, and people mentioning that fact that human beings have sex. So that was out.
Then I suggested Rose Red and Snow White. It was one of my favorites when I was a kid, and the minute I mentioned it, I got a good feeling. Part of that, no doubt, was nostalgia for days gone by, like the happy feeling I get every time I hear theme song for The Mary Tyler Moore Show. But there was something more- just a feeling in my gut that said "yeah, this could be the way to go."
In my life, I seem to only get gut feelings that work out when it comes to writing. I don't know if this is the Universe's way of telling me to be a writer, or to keep me in the poor house, but that's just the way it is. And when the voices in my head talk, I listen.
So Kari and I met at a Starbucks up in Boulder in May, and I sort of hashed out a basic plot for the musical- expanding the story, adding lots of characters and plot twists along the way. Kari wrote everything down, and emailed me the results.
Now it was up to me to write the thing.
I'll start to tell you about that next time. In the interim, please check out these sites where you can buy for a very low price some of my earlier plays:
http://www.indietheaternow.com/Playwright/Playwright/KellyMcAllister
http://www.playscripts.com/author.php3?authorid=1062
And then go to my short films Facebook page and give it a "like".
https://www.facebook.com/StrongTeaMovie
Up next, how I turned a bear into a wolf.
Monday, September 24, 2012
RED AND WHITE
So I'm working on a new musical based on the Grimm fairy tale Rose Red and Snow White. And no, it's not that Snow White. Same name, different girl. I'm doing book and lyrics, and Kari Kraakevik is doing the music.
It's sort of a full circle thing for me, to be writing the book and lyrics for a musical based on a classic of children's literature. The first thing I ever got paid to write was the book for a musical based on Hans Christian Anderson's The Snow Queen. This was long ago, before I considered myself a "real writer"- I've always written things, but only in the past ten years have answered the question "what do you do?" with "I'm a writer". The Snow Queen that I worked on was a musical, composed by John Jay Espino in the early 1990s for The Childrens Theatre Workhop in Pleasanton, CA. The music is awesome, it was a blast to work on- and I don't even have a copy of it. I suppose I should hunt it down.
Anyhow, the new show is called Rose Red, and is set to have it's first performances in December at Actors Academy for the Performing Arts in Boulder (formerly Rocky Mountain Theatre for Kids). The plan, at this juncture, is to eventually have two versions- one to be performed by young actors, one to be performed by a much wider age range. The production this December will be performed by young actors, and I am very excited about how it's shaping up. We just had auditions, and here's a brief clip of some of the cast singing the song Red and White:
It's sort of a full circle thing for me, to be writing the book and lyrics for a musical based on a classic of children's literature. The first thing I ever got paid to write was the book for a musical based on Hans Christian Anderson's The Snow Queen. This was long ago, before I considered myself a "real writer"- I've always written things, but only in the past ten years have answered the question "what do you do?" with "I'm a writer". The Snow Queen that I worked on was a musical, composed by John Jay Espino in the early 1990s for The Childrens Theatre Workhop in Pleasanton, CA. The music is awesome, it was a blast to work on- and I don't even have a copy of it. I suppose I should hunt it down.
Anyhow, the new show is called Rose Red, and is set to have it's first performances in December at Actors Academy for the Performing Arts in Boulder (formerly Rocky Mountain Theatre for Kids). The plan, at this juncture, is to eventually have two versions- one to be performed by young actors, one to be performed by a much wider age range. The production this December will be performed by young actors, and I am very excited about how it's shaping up. We just had auditions, and here's a brief clip of some of the cast singing the song Red and White:
There's a lot to do now. We've got a book, and all the songs- but having worked on new shows, I know there will be changes- things we find in rehearsal, those middle of the night inspirations, etc. On top of the creative side, there's also press releases, social networking, and all that. Work, work, work- thank God I love it.
So, what's so special about this show?
Tune in next time to find out-
I will say this- there is a character named Stinker who likes to quote Shakespeare, a Wolf King, and three gossips named Hedda, Rona, and Louella who are all new to the classic story, but turning out to be a hoot.
The show is cast- now on to rehearsal.
Please pass this along to anyone and everyone you know- I want the show to sell out. I want to add performances. I want a hit.
And I'm gonna get one.
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