i, McAllister

PUTOVANI S URNOU & JANUS

2012-01-26T12:41:00.000-08:00

Two things to tell you about today. First, a production of Burning the Old Man just opened in Pardubice, Czech Rebpublic, produced by Divadlo Exil. This is the second production I've had done in the Czech Republic- and I am thrilled. They have been fantastic, and by all accounts, the production is awesome. Just check out this trailer they've made:

Burning the Old Man is probably my most successful play to date. It won the 2005 NYIT Award for Outstanding Full Length Script, has been published by NYTE, Applause, and Smith & Kraus; and has been produced in Boomerang Theatre Company, Divadlo na Zabradli of Prague, and the aforementioned Divadlo Exil. This past fall, Harvardwood did a reading of a screenplay based on the script, and it looks like there will be another production sometime this year in Brazil.

I am of course very proud of that. I also encourage you to buy your own digital copy of it from Indie Theater Now, for about a buck fifty!

The second thing I want to tell you more about my play Some Unfortunate Hour- which is also available from Indie Theater Now for the same low price. The play is a funny, savage, and sad story about love and desire and being lost. There is a monologue at the end of the play that I think would be a great audition piece for an actress. In it, Janus- the smart ass bartender, finally comes clean with how she feels to Tom, the guy who comes to her bar every night to complain about pretty much everything. Janus has loved Tom for a long time, and they even made love one drunken evening. But she has never told him the depth of her feelings- hoping that he would figure things out and come to her. Here's the monologue, with a little bit of Tom. I hope you dig it:

JANUS

You are such a fucking stupid asshole! Just shut up and let it go. Come over tonight. Come home. You can just sleep. I don't care. I'll take care of you tonight. You owe me that much.

TOM

What do you mean, I owe you?

JANUS

I love you, you stupid son of a bitch! Okay? Get it? You're it. What did you just say about love? I care about you more than anything in the world, mother fucker. In the entire world. Me. Anything. Including- especially me! I worship you. I don't know why- you're an asshole. But I do. I fucking hate it, but I absolutely adore you. We're meant for each other, you stupid motherfucker. Open your eyes! Who listens to your crazy shit? Who takes care of you? Who was there when the shit hit the fan and your so called friends couldn't be bothered? Me, you colossal asshole! I'm good for you. God damn it, I'm fucking great for you, and you know it! You know I am. I'm hope. I'm your only fucking hope, you stupid asshole! Grow a pair, you fucking Mary! Oh my fucking God! God Damn you! You parade your stupid shit, your bullshit little boy bullshit, in front of my face like I'm not there. Do I like her line? Do I like her fucking line? Fuck you! Fuck you twice and stick it in your ass. You're hurting me. I fucking hurt. We were good that time. We were! How can we have had that and not be? You cried on my stomach! You cried on my stomach and I knew. I saw it clearly. I'm- I'm home. I'm your home. Let me be your home. I love you.

TOM

(pause) I know.

JANUS

Why can't I be your home? Why can't you come home? Tell me. Tell me right fucking now!

Well, that's all I have to say.

Now GET YOUR THEATRE ON

MADISON'S LAMENT

2012-01-24T10:27:00.000-08:00

My description of Fenway: Last of the Bohemains continues with the character of Madison. I named the character Madison after the VJ from MTV Kennedy, who was this right wing, hipster that was all the rage for a while back in the day. Get it? Madison and Kennedy are both former presidents. Oh, the cleverness of me! Anyway, Kennedy always seemed a little nutty to me- like she was trying to prove something, and was sort of pissed off at the left for some unknown, personal reason that had nothing to do with politics.

Madison is the beautiful trophy wife of a right wing pundit named Big Jon. Their marriage is not exactly the portrait of marital bliss She once was a headstrong young woman in love with her college professor, Moss- but that was seven years ago. She has since rejected the politics and idealism of the left for the supposedly more down to earth thinking of the right. Now, Moss has come into her life again. And to make matters worse, her step-daughter Sunny has just confessed to being in love with Moss. Here she is talking to herself.

MADISON

This is hopeless. Of course he wouldn't think of her like that, she’s just a kid...Why don't people ever end up with the ones who'd make them happy? Why am I talking to myself? It's this place. Drives everyone crazy. A crumbling commune full of faded hippies and forgotten dreams. Then along comes Moss- the passionate artiste who quotes Wordsworth by heart and actually lives in the real world...I bet he makes love with his entire being. Oh my God. What the Hell am I talking about? This is nuts - I'm crazy! What am I thinking. No! No! NO! (pause) He does something to me, though. Fenway's right. I should do something wild. Shake things up. Who am I kidding? That'll never happen. Will I tell my husband how I feel? Of course not. Do I go to Moss and confess that the last seven years of my life have been a complete and total disaster? Never. So what will I do? Fearless modern woman that I am, I stay in my little cage. Brilliant. Fear may be over-rated, but it scares the shit out of me. But then again, sometimes he looks at me, and...God Damn it! I wish I had never heard of Moss or this island or Big Jon Humphrey!

That's Carrie Brewer as Madison and Jack Halpin as Moss in the production of Fenway staged by Boomerang Theatre Company and Impetuous Theatre Group.

You can buy a digital copy of Fenway at Indie Theater Now for less than two bucks-

so what are you waiting for?

GET YOUR THEATRE ON

MADISON & BIG JON- THE HAPPY COUPLE

2012-01-23T10:36:00.000-08:00

As I've been saying, my play Fenway: Last of the Bohemians has just been published by Indie Theater Now. It's an American Vanya, set on a fading commune in the mid-1980's. Among the characters are Big Jon, a self proclaimed "born-again convservative". Big Jon used to be a minor figure in the counter-cultural movement of the 1960's. He got into the trouble with the law, and for years lived underground. Now, he's sold out, become a conservative pundit, and has a new trophy wife, Madison. Madison is coming to realize that life as a young Republican is not all it's cracked up to be. Here's a bit of a scene between the two of them late one rainy night:

BIG JON

Isn't it funny that everybody listens to Fenway and his fellow burn outs, but the moment I say a fucking word, everyone goes ballistic? Even if I am an asshole, even if I am a selfish jack-ass, haven't I the right to be one, at my age? Haven't I earned it? I'm seriously asking you, haven't I the right to be respected?

MADISON

(shudders) It's freezing, I'm shutting the window. (shuts it) Have I ever said you don't deserve respect?

BIG JON

I dedicated my whole fucking life to the pursuit of truth. (stands up and begins to pace the room, gesturing with his joint for emphasis) I was a freedom rider! I went to Woodstock, for fuck's sake. I got arrested with Abbie Hoffman. That's where I'm coming from- and, while I will never regret my decision to grow up and join the real world - I do find a lot of it tiresome. No matter what side of the fence you're on, people are still assholes. That's one of the great truths of life, baby. People suck. I want you to know that, because I love you. (takes another hit off his joint) I want it all, you know? The whole enchilada. I want my book to sell more copies so that we can live a better life! At least in the sixties I was a minor celebrity. Not that I miss that time- But, God damn, sitting around up here with nobody to talk to sucks ass. What I'm trying to say is, I'm miserable enough as it is- I don't need you to make me feel worse- you hate me because you think I'm old!

MADISON

Age has nothing to do with it. Besides, I'll be an old hag soon enough, and then we can bitch and moan together until we drop dead.

Don't they seem happy?

FENWAY & ZEHNER

2012-01-20T09:29:00.000-08:00

I have decided to give a bit about each character in my play Fenway: Last of the Bohemians, which has just been published online at Indie Theater Now. Last time, we met Moss, the local doctor and environmentalist. Now let's meet Fenway, the angst ridden survivor of the 1960's, and Zehner, local hippie who is not the brightest bulb in the show, as they chat with Moss.

MOSS

Fen, what’s is going on here?

FENWAY

What?

MOSS

Everyone's acting weirder than usual.

FENWAY

What are you talking about? I am totally fine. No- that's not true! Jesus, I feel old- what the fuck happened to me?

MOSS

Time, life, reality- the usual suspects. So, that's Big Jon?

FENWAY

Yeah, that's the Benedict Arnold of the Age of Aquarius. "Finding Me- Confessions of a Former Radical; A How-to Guide for Born-Again Conservatives". That's the eternal title of his latest, crapulous book. He should’ve called it "Asshole- a true story".

MOSS

Well, he-

FENWAY

You know why he became a born-again conservative? It made him famous again, for all of fifteen minutes.

MOSS

Why do you-

FENWAY

Of course, he's already spent every last dime he made off that piece of crap, and now he's back, living in his dead wife's house. The fucking ghoul! My sister built this commune from nothing! With money she sweated and slaved like a dog for because she believed! And Big Jon- that fake! He's never put a God damned penny into this place. All he's ever done is take, take, take! Starting with my sister Grace- all those years when he was in trouble with the law and underground - Christ, what kind of life was that for her? Away from her child, her family- everything that meant anything to her. Who do you think supported them, who took care of things? We did, idiots that we were. And Grace? She went and got cancer. And that was that. We didn't even get to go to the funeral- it was secret because he was in hiding. My own sister's funeral! The son of a bitch- can you believe that I used to admire him? We all did.

MOSS

Come on, Fen, you can’t-

FENWAY

We believed in him! We thought he stood for something, you know? Something profound, something sacred. We were gonna change the world, and take everyone to the promised land. Unfortunately, he was a false prophet. And still is. (pause) Benedict Fucking Arnold!

MOSS

Why do you think she married him?

FENWAY

Who? Grace?

MOSS

No, Madison.

FENWAY

Oh, who the fuck knows? Maybe he hypnotized her. He's a regular Svengali when it comes to women- but it's all smoke and mirrors. The Great man- ha! I'll tell you what he is- the Emperor. The Emperor's new clothes! Ha! My sister Grace- Sunny's mom- she was beautiful, gentle - every guy I knew had a crush on her. Seriously. Who does she fall in love with? Captain Shit-for-Brains. I don't understand women! (pause) And Madison- sexy, young, vibrant- she married that dried up old turd. Can you explain that to me?

MOSS

Is it a happy marriage?

FENWAY

Fuckity fuck no.

MOSS

Fuckity fuck?

FENWAY

What's so great about wasting the best years of your all too short life being true to Captain Fuckwad?

MOSS

I thought it was Captain Shit-for-Brains.

FENWAY

Whatever.

ZEHNER

What do you know about marriage, Fenway? Were you ever married? No, you weren't. But I was, man, and I know what it's all about. Sure, it was only for three days- and yeah, she left me for some guy she met at a Dead concert- but that's not the point.

FENWAY

What is the point?

ZEHNER

The sanctity of marriage, man. So what if she left me? I never left her. Never. That's love, dude. That's commitment! Sure, I'm a moron, but at least I'm a moron who can look at himself in the mirror each day and say, "Carry on, my wayward son, there'll be peace when you are done". And here's the p.s. - she got old and ugly, the dude she left me for turned around and left her, and now she works at Denny's. So like the man said, all's well that ends well.

Now get out there and download your copy for about a buck fifty.

GET YOUR THEATRE ON!

FENWAY- AN AMERICAN VANYA

2012-01-19T14:24:00.000-08:00

My play Fenway: Last of the Bohemians, just got published online by Indie Theatre Now. This is the fifth play I've had published on that most indispensable site, and I couldn't be happier. Of course, the voices told me to cut an entire scene last night. Woke me up, in fact.

What voices? The ones that tell me what to do from time to time. I know, that makes me insane. I'm cool with that. It's not like they're telling me to go on a shooting spree or anything like that. No, they just wake me up from time to time and tell me what to write.

What scene did they tell me to cut? The first scene of the play. The entire freakin' scene.

What's left? A leaner, faster show- the product of several readings in NYC, a reading by Seattle Playwrights Collective, a production by Boomerang Theatre Company & Impetuous Theatre Group, and a workshop reading by the Oregon Shakespeare Festival. As I wrote in my last entry, it's based on Uncle Vanya, by Anton Chekhov- but it's one hundred percent American- dealing with the rise of conservatism, and the struggle of the liberals to cling to their ideals in an increasingly hostile world. It's also kind of funny.

Here's an excerpt- Moss, the local environmentalist who also works as a doctor at the methodone clinic is talking with Rita, hippie chick with pot brownies, about how old he feels:

MOSS

I fight the good fight, try to stop them from destroying the planet- they lock me up. You know what I am? The Lorax. I speak for the trees- and it's made me little and ugly and alone.

RITA

Have a brownie.

MOSS

I don't want a fucking brownie! (pause) I pulled a triple shift at the clinic last week. Junkies to the left of me, junkies to the right...this one- he was fourteen. Isn't that crazy? We live in a world that has fourteen year old junkies. He went into cardiac arrest. Fourteen years old, addicted to junk, and going into cardiac arrest. And I...I did everything right- everything! I shot him up with adrenaline- pounded his chest, blew air into him...I just wanted to force him to stay alive, to maybe somehow become a normal little boy...but he was more determined than I was. Fourteen years old. You should have seen his face- his sweet, sad, dead little innocent face. Like a fallen angel. (pause) I don't think I was ever fourteen.

RITA

Have a brownie.

Yes, I want you to buy a copy.

And yes, more excerpts will be coming soon.

LAST OF THE BOHEMIANS

2012-01-13T11:25:00.000-08:00

So Fenway: Last of the Bohemians, is set to be published online by Indie Theatre Now.

And I dig that. As soon as it's up, I'll put the link up here. Of course, you already can go there and buy Last Call, Muse of Fire, Burning the Old man, and Some Unfortunate Hour- all for less than a buck fifty.

Anyway, below are my author's notes for Fenway. No doubt, there are names missing that I will add as soon as I get them.

AUTHOR’S NOTES – Theinspiration to write Fenway came on the night that George W. Bush gotre-elected. I was at The Magician,a bar on the Lower East Side of NYC, watching the returns with some friends,and I wondered what happened to all those people from the 1960’s who weresupposed to change the world? Where were those lost idealists and protesters? It seemed like they hadall vanished, died, or sold out. Istarted to think about how liberalism had seemed to be on the decline inAmerica since about 1980, when Reagan got elected, and how hippies were nowpretty much a joke, a mostly forgotten stereotype. And somehow, I got to thinking about Uncle Vanya.

I have loved the play Uncle Vanya ever since I saw aproduction of it done at The Western Stage of Salinas directed by my friend JonSelover. It’s so funny and sad andpertinent. I remember watching Julian Lopez-Morillas as Astrov in Act Threegoing on about the shrinking forests and thinking maybe the speech was aninsert, penned by a modern writer. But no, turns out old Anton was an environmentalist. This particular production wasbrilliant- fast and furious and thought provoking- not unusual for that theatrecompany. If there was one part ofthe play that I didn’t completely relate to, it was how Vanya was so mad atSerebryakov. I got that Vanya wasin love with the professor’s wife- but there was a deeper sense of betrayal atthe professor. I don’t know if itwas that version of the script (Mamet’s), or where I was in my life at thetime, but it just didn’t quite click for me. But then, watching George W. Bush on the screen, itclicked. Serebryakov was asell-out, the equivalent of all those people from the 1960’s who had once stoodfor peace, love and understanding but had decided to instead become staunchdefenders of the status quo. And Icould see in my mind’s eye Uncle Vanya set in the 1980’s, during the ReaganRevolution, on an old hippie commune. Astrov could be a Greenpeace type who works at a methadone clinic, Vanyaa burnt out ex-hippie, and Serebyrakov a former radical turnedconservative. Often, when I get anidea for a play, it’s like that. Isee the whole world, and several of it’s characters. I don’t sleep much, and become sort of annoying to people,as all I can talk about for weeks is the story. I wrote the first draft quickly. I would have friends over to read scenes as they were beingwritten- including Jack Halpin, Christine Goodman, Heather McAllister, and TimMcCracken. I told Tim Erricksonabout the idea. He had directed aproduction of Vanya at Expanded Arts in which I played Astrov, and I knew hewould dig it. He did, and soonthere was a reading as part of Boomerang Theatre’s First Flight, and it feltpretty groovy. Re-writes weredone, and another reading/lab was done up at Lincoln Center, using the talentsmany fine actors, including Julie Congress and Dan O’Neill. The next draft was given areading by BeaconNY Productions, and used such talented wonders as ChristopherGrabowski, Tara Falk, and Diane Buglewics Foote. One of the great joys of writing plays is all thetalented artists you get to work with- each with a unique perspective that addsto the soul of the show. I wroteand re-wrote, and the wrote some more. Many rewrites- with so much help from Lisa that she became co-author-and it was ready for a full production, which happened in the fall of 2006 as aco-production between the Boomerang Theatre Company and Impetuous Theatre Group, with Jack Halpin, Carrie Brewer, Reyna de Courcy, MargaretA. Flanagan,James David Jackson, Tom Knutson, Paul Navarra and was directed byTim Errickson.

In 2009, there was a workshop reading of the play at theOregon Shakespeare Festival, in their Black Swan Lab run by Lue Morgan Douthit with a cast that included Gregory Lingington, Richard Howard, JeffreyKing, Derrick Lee Weeden, Terri McMahon, Vilma Silva, Catherine E. Coulson,Miriam A. Laube, Ryan Anderson and Tyrone Wilson. In early 2010, a reading was given bythe Seattle Playwrights Collective directed by Dan Tarker with Alysha Curry, Gene Thorkidsen, Sherry Narens, Gary Estrada, Griffith Kadiner, Dolores Rodgers, and Richard Hawkin. Several re-writes came about fromthose two readings, and the version you have is the latest draft, based on allthree productions/workshops.

I would encourage people doing this play to seek the comedyas much as possible. And look upall the songs they mention in the script. In this day of the interne, Youtube and Google, it is inexcusable to notresearch all references in a play.

Enjoy!

RESOLVED

2012-01-11T10:19:00.000-08:00

So it's over a week into the new year, and I still haven't really made any resolutions. As Rick Perry would say, oops. It's not that I don't like resolutions or anything. I usually make tons of them- this year, I'm going to write 5 new plays; this year, I'm going to exercise every morning; this year, I'm going to write in my journal for half an hour a day; I'm going to read a book a month; I'm going to be nicer to strangers; I'm going to finally remember how to fly like I can in that recurring dream.

There's no end to things I've made resolutions about. But so far, mark me down for zippo this year. Maybe it's the whole Mayan calendar end of the world thing. Maybe it's the onset of a gigantic mid-life crisis, coupled with existential blues and compounded by a dulling of my brain by the constant news reports on the GOP primary. I don't really know why I haven't made any promises to myself about what I want to do in 2012. I just haven't.

Well, screw that.

I'm going see more theatre this year, and when I see a show, write about it on this blog promptly. I saw a fantastic production of A Year with Frog and Toad in December at the Fine Arts Center in Colorado Springs, and didn't write about it. The cast was uniformly superb, the direction by Scott RC Levy brilliant, and the production values outstanding. This is the kind of theatre we desperately need more of, and I need to do what ever I can, in my small way, to help promote it. The next production at the FAC, Sarah Ruhl's In the Next Room, opens February 2. I can't wait to see it, and to write about it here.

I'm going to finish my first film, Strong Tea. That's actually a pretty easy resolution to keep, as it is staffed, cast, and funded. We shoot at the end of the month, and hope to start making the festival rounds in early February. Should be quite the adventure, and I am sure I'll be writing about that whole experience here as well.

I also resolve to finish my latest movie script, and start on at least one new play. Why not?

And I resolve to listen to more music, take more walks, and not beat myself up when I forget to do all these wonderful things. Life is way too short, and if this is indeed the last year of civilization, who has time to recriminate oneself? Not me.

So, resolutions done. Now on to work, play, and no dull boy.

Also, if you happen to be in the town of Pardubice in the Czech Republic this week-end, you should go see Putovani S Urnou at Divadlo Exil. It's a translation of my play Burning the Old Man. Opening night is sold out, but I think you can get tickets for the second performance.

So, 2012, let's do this thing.

IT'S COLD, IT'S DARK, IT'S AWESOME

2011-12-01T08:30:00.001-08:00

December 1st, and here in Denver, the high temperature- according to the weather folk- has already occurred sometime in the early morning, a whopping 27 degrees Fahrenheit. Yummy. Add to that, it is staying dark later, and getting dark earlier, and it can only mean one thing. The Holidays are here! I know, for lots of you the holidays are a pain in the ass- longer lines at the stores, sappy music on the radio, cheesy commercials exploiting tradition and sentiment, trying to get you to buy crap you don't need with money you don't have. Endless showings of It's a Wonderful Life and A Christmas Story. I get that. I really do.

But I still love this time of year. I love Christmas trees in people's windows, lights on houses and storefronts, giant menorahs, huge snowmen, and sweater after horrible sweater depicting strange, semi-fantastical scenes. What's not to love? This is the time, since way before Santa and Silent Night and Scrooge, when people get together in the cold and dark and say "we're gonna make it, after all- the days will soon grow longer, the spring will come, and by the way, I love you all very much". It's a seasonal thing, that crosses cultural and religious lines. Sure, some folks add their beliefs about God or whomever to the mix- but we all feel the cold, we all experience the darkness, and we all need to remind ourselves of the better part of being a human being, the better part of each other.

Not that there aren't some parts of the holidays that are a drag. More than once, I've woken up in a panic, thinking to myself "Holy shit! I forgot to get Mom a present". And this panic usually lasts several minutes. Then I remember she's gone, and the night seems colder still, the world a little more lonely. But then I think of her talking to me about Santa after I had figured what was what, as far as Mr. Kringle goes. I remember she looked a little sad, and I think in retrospect it was that weird happy sadness you feel when you see kids growing up- happy that they've taken that next step, sad at the passing of another phase of life. When I asked her, point blank, if there was a Santa, she said yes, in a way, there was. She told me how what was really important wasn't some old guy handing out presents, but the spirit of love and hope, of wanting to make other people happy.

As Mr. Dickens says, "I have always thought of Christmas time, when it has come round - apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that - as a good time: a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time: the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys."

Yeah, dude.

So yeah, I dig the holidays. I'll still watch A Christmas Story and It's a Wonderful Life, and most likely will cry pretty much the whole way through.

PS- My first film- the short Strong Tea, has been fully funded through Kickstarter- and I feel like George Bailey at the end of the movie. We shoot in the next month. If you'd like to kick in, there are still a few days left, and every dollar helps. God Bless us, everyone.
http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/169962067/strong-tea

DO YOU HEAR THE PEOPLE SING?

2011-11-18T08:29:00.001-08:00

I do. I hear them all the freaking time. Of course, most of it is in my head, a sort of movie soundtrack/music video to go along with all the images passing before me at the speed of life, but what can I say? I've always been a sort of geek, musical theatre speaking- and there are often moments when I will see something, experience a feeling or observe people, and some song from one play or another pops into my head, and boom, the soundtrack/playlist continues. When I was first seeing my wife, we would often take walks in the park early in the morning, and it felt to me like there was a bright, golden haze on the meadow, and the sounds of the world were like music, so I'd sing, loudly and probably not so much on key, Oh What a Beautiful Morning. How could I not. It's a great song. Just ask Wolverine.

It made total sense to me. And Lisa, my wife, smiled.

But I don't just hear and/or sing happy songs. This very morning, I got news that the mother of an old friend passed away, and in my mind I Kristin Chenoweth singing to a green Idina Menzel:

"I've heard it said
That people come into our lives for a reason
Bringing something we must learn
And we are led
To those who help us most to grow
If we let them
And we help them in return
Well, I don't know if I believe that's true
But I know I'm who I am today
Because I knew you."

Geeky and lame, I know, but what can I say? That's how it goes with me.

And of late, the musical that keeps playing in my mind the most is Les Miserables, the mega hit show from the '80's that has been parodied, reviled, and beloved by people since it first opened. What makes me think of Les Mis? Occupy Wall Street.

In Les Mis, the world is unfair, and the powerful don't really take care of the less fortunate- the ones who work in their factories and fields. The rich keep getting richer, and the poor keep getting poorer. The lower ranks, the 99% of pre-revolutionary France, sing "at the end of the day your another day older, and that's all you can say for the life of the poor... and the righteous hurry past, they don't hear the little ones crying". Eventually, a large group of mostly students get pissed off and start camping out in the biggest city in the land, demanding equality and justice and a new way of doing things. The voice of the law, a dude named Javert, thinks the lord is on his side, and that somehow Jesus wants the wealthy to stay wealthy and the poor to stay poor. Can you imagine that? Anyway, the students build a bunch of barricades, and sing "do you hear the people sing, singing the song of angry men? It is the music of a people who will not be slavess again. When the beating of your heart, echoes the beating of the drums, their is a life about to start when tomorrow comes".

Why don't the rich and powerful ever pay attention to history and/or musical theatre? Don't they get it? People are angry, and if they don't change their nasty, greedy way, things are going to get ugly and uglier.

Here's a suggestion for you, wherever you are. Get a copy of Les Mis, listen to it, and then go to your local Occupy movement (seems there's one in every town now) and see if it doesn't provide the perfect soundtrack for what's going on.

That's about all I have today- please remember, if you're in NYC, I have a reading of my latest play RIDDLE LOST Saturday Nov. 19 at 5pm at ART/NY. For more info, go here:

http://boomerangtheatre.wordpress.com/2011/11/14/three-questions-for-kelly-mcallister/

Also, we're about 75% of the way to our goal for the short film STRONG TEA. For more info on that, go here:

http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/169962067/strong-teahttp://www.kickstarter.com/projects/169962067/strong-tea

I AM THE MOST OFFENDING SOUL ALIVE

2011-11-15T10:18:00.001-08:00

So, as most of you know, I've been working on several projects of late. A short film , a screenplay reading, and a new play called Riddle Lost. As such, I've been busting my ass promoting, begging, borrowing, and stealing. And there have been times when I've just felt tired and alone and confused. I think most of us have moments like that in life- you know, those times when you think your only true supporter is your dog, and you're starting to suspect that his so-called unconditional love has more to do with you feeding him every day than with your inherent worth as a living being in this universe. Those days when you keep checking your inbox- hoping that at least a couple of folks from the dozens you have emailed about whatever it is you're doing will write back telling you to be strong, fight the good fight, and to believe in yourself because they always have and always will. It's pathetic, really. I am one of the luckiest people I know. To have something to strive towards, to have several projects ongoing in which I get to create theatre and film- my God, it's what I've always wanted. Still, despair tries to get a toe hold.

Too bad for despair. My dog does indeed love me- I mean, look at him.

On top of my dog Padfoot, I have an amazing group of friends and family who have supported me time and time again. I mean, I always cry at the end of "It's a Wonderful Life", when all the people of Bedford Falls come to George's aid in his hour of need, because I can relate- I know what it is to have friends and family like that- and it's beautiful.

The three projects I'm working on now are huge- daunting, really. Let's face it, success in the arts, at least on the superficial but important level of finance, is tough. And I have run into the occasional old friend or colleague who has doubted my chances. Which can be a drag.

But then, I think of what good old Will Shakespeare said in Henry V, and I feel better. In particular, I think of the St. Crispians Day speech, which in part goes like this:

If we are mark'd to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires:
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.

I get that. Who cares about money? I want glory- to kick it in the ass and know I did something special and unique and real. And if you don't want to get on board with me, then I proclaim:

That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made
And crowns for convoy put into his purse:
We would not die in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.

I had the great fortune of playing Henry a while back in the fabled early days of Shakespeare in the Park(ing) Lot. It was glorious and fun and one of the experiences that has served me well these many years. We were a rag tag group of lunatics and artists, with little to no resources. And we shook the Lower East Side of New York.

What I'm saying is this- to all who doubt- God bless you, and good luck.

To those who believe, and you know who you are:

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers (and sisters);
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

Last night, my screenplay Burning Man was presented in a reading put on by Harvardwood in NYC. It was well received, and we shall see what comes of it. This Saturday, Riddle Lost will be given a reading at ART/NY at 5pm. I just did a mini-interview about it that you can read here. Strong Tea, the short film I'm making, has a Kickstarter campaign that so far is doing great- to check that out, go click here.

I have gathered my forces, and the sun is rising on Agincourt.

MAKING MOVIES, ON LOCATION, DON'T KNOW WHAT IT MEANS

2011-11-08T11:57:00.000-08:00

Of late, I'm working on movies. Two to be exact: Strong Tea and Burning Man.

Strong Tea is a short about Thanksgiving, family, and murder. And what is really weird is that when I tell people the basic plot, they all say "oh, that sounds like my family on Turkey Day!" Weird in that, in the movie, people get killed so that other people in the family can move from the kids table to the adults table. Apparently, most families have the dreaded two table system at Thanksgiving- the nice table for the adults, and the not so nice table for the kids. In my family, the kids table was usually a card table, or on one infamous night, a ping-pong table in the garage. It's one of those things that we laugh about now, but at the time was a source of tension.

And fodder for drama.

About a year ago, I needed to write a new one act for the Humana Festival. My play Hela and Troy was just a finalist for the Heideman award there, and I wanted to enter something new. It was around November, and the kids table came to mind, and in about a day, I wrote the play version of Strong Tea. People liked it, one thing lead to another, and I decided to make a short film of it. And it's been really fun, so far. We shoot in about a month.

Burning Man is the screen adaptation of my most successful play to date, Burning the Old Man. This too is one of my stories that people say they can relate to- and that's weird, because this one is about some really messed up brothers stuck in the middle of the Nevada desert shortly after their father commits suicide. The brothers fight, hate and love each other in equal measure, and can't seem to get where they want to go. First produced by Boomerang Theatre Comapany, it won the 2005 NYIT award for Outstanding Full Length Script, went on to a production in Prague at Divadlo na Zabradi, and has been published in Plays and Playwrights 2006, several scene and monologue books, and is now available online via Indie Theater Now.

And on top of that, this Monday, Nov. 14 at 6pm at Solas, Harvardwood is presenting a reading of it. If you're in NYC, I hope you come see it.

I don't know what any of this means, other than than when I write about sad, strange, lost people- the public seems to respond. And that I think the movie gods are trying to tell me something about where I am going and what I should be doing.

BURNING MAN AT SOLAS

2011-11-04T12:13:00.000-07:00

The Harvardwood Actors' Program, in association with the American Repertory Theatre / Moscow Art Theatre Institute for Advanced Theatre Training at Harvard University Alumni Association will present a reading of Kelly McAllister's screenplay Burning Man.

Photograph ©GretjenHelene.com

Burning Man photography provided by Gretjen Helene <www.gretjenhelene.com/burningman>

Photograph ©GretjenHelene.com

Burning Man photography provided by Gretjen Helene <www.gretjenhelene.com/burningman>

Monday November 14th
6:00 PM (reading will start promptly at 6:00 - please arrive a little early to grab a drink and find a seat)

Solas Bar
2nd floor seating area - no elevator access
232 E 9th St

Free admission
No reservations needed, seating is first come first serve on the upper level.Trying to fulfill their father’s dying wish of having his ashes scattered at the Burning Man festival, two brothers who can’t stand each other find themselves stranded in the middle of the Nevada Desert. They have no money, no car, and only 24 hours before the festival ends. An epic story about two not-so-epic lives

*Christian Grunnah - MARTY
*Paul Murillo - BOBBY
*Rebecca West - JO
*Anna Rahn - CANDY
*Jason Beaubien - EARTH
*Tim Eliot - EDDY / THE OLD MAN
*Doug Chapman - LIQUOR STORE CLERK, GAS STATION ATTENDANT & BIKER DUDE
*Chudney Sykes - LADY BARFLY, Stage DirectionsAll actors are alumni from the American Repertory Theatre / Moscow Art Theatre Institute at Harvard MFA program.

Kelly McAllister- Plays include: Burning the Old Man, which won the 2005 NYIT award for Outstanding Full Length Script and is featured in One on One- Best Men’s
Monologues for the 21st Century and Duo! The Best Scenes for Two for the 21st Century (Applause Books), Best Men’s Monologue’s 2005 (Smith & Kraus), and Plays and Playwrights 2006 (NYTE); Hela and Troy, finalist 2011 Humana Festival at the Actor’s Theatre of Louisville, published by Playscripts, inc.; Last Call, 2002 FringeNYC Excellence in Playwriting award, featured in Best Stage Scenes 2002 (Smith & Kraus) and the anthology Plays and Playwrights 2003 (NYTE); Muse of Fire; The Morons, winner 2005 Ten by Ten one act contest at Triangle Theatre Company, NC; Some Unfortunate Hour; The Rembrandt section of The Heist Project, in collaboration with Art House Productions; and Fenway: Last of the Bohemians. He had his first international production in May 2009, when Divadlo na Zabradli of Prague opened Cesta Horiciho Muze, the Czech translation of Burning the Old Man- where it is still performing to sold out houses. He is currently working on his first film, a short called Strong Tea. His plays have been produced and/or workshopped by many fine theatres, including Boomerang Theatre Company, Oregon Shakespeare Festival, hope theatre, inc., Impetuous Theatre Group, Gravity and Glass Productions, the Playwrights Collective of Seattle, Children’s Theatre Workshop, and The Other Theatre of Denver. In 2003, San Jose State University named him Graduate of the Last Decade for the School of Humanities. He was also a senior reviewer for nytheatre.com for 2003-2005. You can read his blog at rkmcallister.blogspot.com. He is represented by Scott Edwards of Harden-Curtis NYC, 212-977-8502.

PAST projects of the Harvardwood group include The Pilot Season Survival Guide, a reading of Marc Sulley's Last of the Navesink River Divers, Beth McGee's The Possessions of Mary Todd Lincoln, Kate Mulley's screenplay Zandy, and Elana Zucker's screenplay The Weathergirl.

For more information email Adam Kern at hapnyc@gmail.com

BOO

2011-10-31T08:05:00.000-07:00

Twenty-one years ago today, I went to New York City for the first time in my life. I had just finished a cross country trip with a friend I had made that summer doing summer stock at the Barn Theatre in Michigan. He was from a little town in Jersey called Peapack. We spent about a week traversing the country, and had gone to places like Ashland, Oregon to see the Shakespeare festival, and Twin Falls, Idaho to see where Evel Kneivel tried to jump the Snake River with his rocket/motorcycle thing. I even saw my first moose when we drove through Yellowstone days before it closed for the winter. Somewhere, there is an old box full of old photos of that trip- I don't know where, exactly, and hope to come across it before I kick- but until then, I have to rely on my mind's eye. Anyway, we ended up in Peapack on October 30, and on the next day we took the train into NYC, crossing under the Hudson River and emerging from Penn station like ants crawling out of their colony. I remember thinking of the Hopi, and their belief that when they were created, they came into this world from an older one via a hole in the ground. Here I was, a neo-Hopi, coming out of a hole in the ground from my old world and into a new one. It was exciting, strange, and a little scary. We walked all over town, first going up to Hell's Kitchen, then down to the Village, ending up near Union Square where a my buddies girl friend from the summer- a drama major at NYU- lived. We watched the Halloween parade, which to me looked like a cross between Mardi-gras and a zombie apocalypse. It was glorious. From there, we proceeded to Rock Around the Clock, and bistro near St. Mark's Place, and drank a lot of raspberry kamikazes. A lot. At one point in the evening, after things had become fuzzy, my buddy's girl made a pass at me- which was shocking and flattering and uncomfortable. The three of us staggered back to her place, and crashed. Well, I crashed- they got into an argument. I was awoken at dawn by my friend, who informed me that he and his lady friend were breaking up, and it was time to go. I was exhausted, somewhere between hung over and still drunk, and not in the mood to go anywhere. But he was insistent. So off we trudged, through now mostly empty streets, which were full of the remnants of the nights revelries.

That's NYC to me- dramatic, strange, and intriguing. She's been very good to me over the years. I've had the great fortune of having most of my plays produced there, and for several years wrote reviews for nytheatre.com - one of the best sites for theatre in the country. I can't think of another city in the world where you can go to a show every day of the year, and never repeat yourself.

And this November, Gotham is treating me kindly again, with two readings. First, on November 14, Harvardwood NYC is presenting a reading of Burning Man, a screenplay based on my play Burning the Old Man, at 6pm at Solas 232 E. 9th St. And then on November 19, Boomerang Theatre Co. is presenting a reading of my latest play, Riddle Lost, at 5pm at ART/NY 520 8th Ave. 3rd floor. If you are around NYC, I really hope you can make it. I don't know if it'll be as amazing for you as that first day in Manhattan was for me, but it just might be.

NIGHT OF THE IGUANA

2011-10-22T14:03:00.000-07:00

It was opening night. I was all of twenty years old, and just getting seriously involved in theatre. I was an undeclared major at San Jose State University, and working on tons of shows- student productions, main stage productions for the theatre department, even some shows outside of school (most notably, a very "experimental" show called A Marowitz Hamlet at City Lights). I was having the time of my life.

The show that was opening was Tennessee William's Night of the Iguana. I had a small role as one of the German tourists. My older brother Jerry was playing the bus driver. I had dyed my hair platinum blond to look more Teutonic. The play itself was beautiful, this really sad tale of a defrocked, drunken priest named Shannon trying to come to terms with reality while leading tours for little old ladies and their daughters and grand-daughters around Central America. The action of the play takes place while Shannon and his latest group of touristas are staying at a cheap little hotel in Mexico run by a randy woman named Maxine. At the start of the play, Shannon has just been accused of sleeping with one of the tourists, a 16 year old named Charlotte. This makes the rest of the group rather angry. Also staying at the hotel is a spinster named Hannah and her poet father, Nonno- who is very old and clearly about to shuffle off this mortal coil but hoping to finish one last poem before he goes. It's a really beautiful play, and the production was fantastic. I was very proud to be a part of it, albeit in a very small part.

Anyway, on opening night, I was extremely excited- running around backstage, watching as much of the show from the wings as I could, savoring every reaction from the audience. Jerry was strangely quiet. I found him in the wings, watching the show quietly, with this funny look on his face. I told him I thought the show was going great. He noticed me, put on this big smile, and said "Yeah, it is! You're doing great." Then he turned back to watch the action. There is something really magic about watching a show from the wings of a theatre- something sacred and rare that makes you feel like a god, or someone possessed of magic. At the end of the play, Nonno finally finishes his poem, and recites it. Jerry and I watched the scene from back stage right, if I remember right. Here's the poem.

How calmly does the orange branch

observe the sky begin to blanch

Without a cry, without a prayer,

with no expression of despair!

Sometime while night obscures the tree

the zenith of her life will be

Gone past forever, and from thence

a second history will commence,

A chronicle no longer gold,

a bargaining with mist and mold,

And finally the broken stem,

the plummeting to earth, and then

An intercourse not well-designed

for creatures of the golden kind

Whose native green mists arch above

the earth’s obscure, corrupting love

And still the lemon on the branch

observes the sky begin to blanch

Without a cry, without a prayer,

with no expression of despair.

O courage will you not as well

select a second place to dwell,

Not only in the orange tree

but in the frightened heart of me?

Nonno finishes the poem, and dies on stage.

After the show and the curtain call and the running around hugging everyone, I ran to Jerry's dressing room. He was sitting in front of his mirror. I started babbling about the show, the audience, the impending cast party which was going to be amazing. Jerry said he wasn't going to the party. I asked him why. He said "Brock went to sleep today". Brock was his room mate, a really cool guy who went to high school with Jerry and my sister Heather. He was Heather's first boyfriend, actually- and always very tolerant of me, the annoying younger brother who always begged to be taken to whatever thing he and Heather were doing- movies, the beach, whatever. He had joined the army after high school- but after carrying some hazardous waste for the good old USA, he developed cancer in his hip. He came home, went through a lot of treatment, and lived with my brother. He never complained about it. Ever. He would come to parties, tell stories, and be the cool guy he always was. I remember one party where he introduced me to the music of Tom Waits. He played me and some of my buddies the song "Tom Traubert's Blues", and I thought it was the coolest song in the history of the world.

"Brock went to sleep, and he didn't wake up." Jerry said this, and I had no idea what he was talking about. Brock took a nap? Great, he's so tired these days.

Jerry looked at me funny. And I got it. Oh. That sleep. The one you don't wake up from. I walked out of the dressing room, and got about fifty feet down the hall before I started to cry. I don't remember how, but I did end up getting to the opening night party at Dr. Todd's place. Hal J. Todd directed the show, and had this amazing house up in the foothills of the Santa Cruz mountains. Jon Selover, who played Shannon, talked with me for a long time- letting me cry and rage and freak out. I remember screaming "It's not fair." Jon looked me in the eyes, and said "No, it's not." Harsh, but true. There are moments in time when someone becomes a friend for life.

For the rest of the run, I'd watch the poem scene from backstage.

And for years, at parties or out with friends, if I had enough drinks in me, I'd put Tom Waits on the juke box or stereo, and weep.

So.

THE RUG THEY CAN'T PULL OUT

2011-10-14T14:02:00.000-07:00

Long ago, the late great Tom Humphrey, (long time Artistic Director of The Western Stage and known lunatic) said something really smart. He was doing a seminar for the American College Theatre Festival about starting you own company, producing your own show- taking control of your career. What he said was that, if you make your own rug, nobody can pull it out from under you. Why let other people determine your success or failure? Why empower a bunch of people you've never met, who may or may not be even qualified for the position of power they have? It made sense to me then, and it makes sense to me now. Of course, like most great advice, I have forgotten it and remembered it many times over in my life- and no doubt will do so many more times before I kick that final kick.

One of the first times I took that advice to heart was a few years later, when I was working as an actor at Western Stage- yes, the very same theatre company run by Tom Humphrey. I was feeling a little pent up, creatively, and wanted to do something to express myself. This was before I went full bore for the whole writing thing, and as such, I had a lot of thoughts in my head looking for a home. So I decided to write a series of anonymous memos, called "Memos from the Underground", using the pen name Tip the Pooka, a nod to characters from both Harvey and The Land of Oz and Dostoevsky. Yes, even then I made allusion after allusion, hoping someone would get the reference. Lame, but it's what I do. Anyway, it turned out the advice about the rug was true. I felt great- empowered- brilliant. And no one could take it away from me.

Years later, I took that advice to heart again when forming hope theatre, inc. with my sister Heather and brother Jerry. We had all three been in NYC for years, living the life of the starving artist- waiting hours for an audition so that some casting director's assistant could watch a one minute monologue, doing free theatre in store front theatres run by people who might have been crazy- it was fun, exciting, and romantic. But time to do something for ourselves, with us in the driver's seat. We decided, based on an idea of Heather's, to form our own group, and call it hope theatre. Again, it was empowering, and better yet, successful. For out first show, we produced the American premiere of Shakespeare's Edward III, once part of the Apocrypha and still debated by scholars, but generally thought to be at least partially written by the Bard. I came across it while browsing a bookstore in Greenwich Village one day. Somehow, no one had ever done it in the USA. I thought that might be a good show to get a lot of free publicity. And I was right. We got the NY Times, the New Yorker, and tons of other folks to come to the show. And it was our own gig. And it was groovy.

And now, I'm making a movie. That's right, me, goon among goons. On the sage advice of old friend and rising film producer Siobhan Mahoney, I've taken my short play Strong Tea and adapted it for the screen. And I feel freakin' awesome. All the pieces are falling into place perfectly. I have a crew, most of the cast, and am ironing out some last minute stuff. It's happening, and feels like this is what I a m supposed to be doing with my life. Suddenly, there seems to be even less time in the day, because I am answering this call, taking care of that problem, yadda yadda yadda. And I dig it, baby.

What I'm basically saying is this- too often, we put too much power in the hands of others. Screw that. As Obama says, we are the people we've been waiting for.

PS- Coming to NYC in November, readings of my screenplay Burning Man by Harvardwood NYC and my play Riddle Lost by Boomerang Theatre. Stay tuned for more info!~

ANOTHER NATIONAL ANTHEM, AND IT ROCKS

2011-10-10T20:43:00.000-07:00

No, I'm not talking about Thunder Road by The Boss- although I'd love to hear that sung before baseball games and all that. I'm referring to one of the many thrilling, catchy, funny, smart songs featured in Stephen Sondheim & John Weidman's Assassins- currently having a stellar production at the Fine Arts Center in Colorado Springs.

I have wanted to see this show since it's first inception at Playwrights Horizons many moons ago. I was living in NYC back then, and tried several times to get in, but it was always sold out. I remember one night standing outside in the snow, watching the people in the lobby getting ready to go in. One of those memories that sticks for some reason. That was over twenty years ago. Both the show and I have grown older and changed- and both, I think, for the better.

The show is a sort of Twilight Zone/Pirandello like piece about a group of Americans from different parts of history who are either outcast, delusional, or just plain crazy. (for more info and a plot summary, go here) Some are known to all of us, like Lee Harvey Oswald or John Wilkes Boothe. Others are minor foot notes of history, like Charles Guiteau or Giuseppe Zangara. As portrayed in this production, they are all human beings worth observing. Their story is at times amusing, at times tragic, and throughout the show, thanks to the direction of Scott Levy and a uniformly talented cast, spell-binding.

The American Dream, it turns out, doesn't really work for everyone. These days, it seems like 99% of us are either working at jobs we don't like all that much for people we either don't know or don't like, or aren't working at all. The land with streets of gold where anyone with enough pluck can pull themselves up by their bootstraps seems to have gone the way of the Dodo. What to do? Well, some unfortunates, the Willy Loman's of the world, famously took matters into their own hands. And thereby hangs a tale.

I don't really want to say more about what happens in the show, because I want you to go see it. That's right- you. If you are anywhere near Colorado- get off of your couch, get in your car, and head to the Springs. You won't be sorry. It's a beautiful drive. The theatre is gorgeous, and has it's own restaurant that's swanky and Art Deco and cool. And the show is a thought provoking, funny, toe tapping phantasmagoria guaranteed to cure what ails you. The cast includes Tom Auclair as Samuel Byck, and he is at once hilarious and pathetic as a guy who makes tapes recordings for various famous people while plotting to kill Dick Nixon. Miriam Roth Ballard as Sara Jane Moore and Cailin Doran as Squeaky Fromme show us two sides of the feminine mystique that are sweetly insane and frighteningly familiar. Ken Robinson, as Giuseppe Zangara, has a voice that's unreal it's so pretty. And there's an image of him strapped in the electric chair that will stay with you long after the final bow. Jordan Leigh, as Charles Guiteau, is a freak of nature- hilarious, scary, bursting with energy. He takes the part and runs with it. "The Ballad of Guiteau", his big number in act two, is easily the best piece of musical theatre I have seen in years. As directed by Levy and perfectly executed by Leigh and Marco Robinson, who plays the Balladeer/Lee Harvey Oswald, it freaked me out. In the good way. Like I forgot where I was and who I was and just floated along with what was happening on stage. Ben Bashinski makes a sort of working class hero out of Czolgosz, and Brantely Scott Haines really comes across like a whacko as John Hinkley. Jason Lythgoe is excellent as the ridiculously egotistical John Wilkes Boothe, and the afore mentioned Marco Robinson rocks the house whenever he's on stage. The ensemble- Jonathan Eberhardt, Vania Falen, Max Ferguson, Matthew Newton, and Halee Towne, are uniformly excellent, and their number "Something Just Broke", which was added to the play after it's initial run in NYC, is one of the highlights of the show. The orchestra, led by Roberta Jacyshyn, is freakin' amazing, and the design team of Christopher L. Sheley doing the scenery, Janson Fangio doing the costumes, and Jonathan Spencer, is superb.

Did I mention I really liked the show? A lot? Good. Now go see the show. It's important theatre about big ideas, and might make you think twice next time you pass a member of the Tea Party dressed up like Paul Revere or someone from the Occupy Wall Street movement playing hackey sack, about the American Dream, where it's gone, and how people react when they think something ain't right.

For info on tickets, how to get there, and all that, go here.

HAPPY ACCIDENTS

2011-10-07T14:04:00.000-07:00

I think the Occupy Wall Street movement is amazing, and exciting, and historical. And on top of that, it has a shining example of how Necessity is the Mother of Invention- something which I hope every theatre artists recognizes as fact.

I'm talking about the whole method of the group acting as a chorus, repeating what each speaker says, as a way to work around not being allowed to use bullhorns or amplification by the NYPD. As I understand it, they have what is being called a General Assembly everyday, where people are given two minutes to speak. Whomever is speaking will say a sentence or two, then the crowd nearest the speaker repeats what was said in unison- sort of like a Greek chorus or something. I've seen several snippets of them doing this on different news shows, and it's fascinating. And by the look on the people's faces, it seems to be unifying them in their cause- which is probably not what the NYPD had in mind when they said no to any sort of electrical amplification. It also makes what is being said more important than any individual speaker.

I have seen, in my experience in the theatre, so many examples of brilliance coming out of necessity- times when "happy accidents" occur which necessitate some quick thinking resulting in better work.

I once worked on a screenplay for Zeuss' Thigh Films written by a group of writers called "Places". It was a sort of Rashomon like story about the final week of rehearsal of an indie theatre production in New York City, told from various viewpoints (Mick the actor, Kate the actress, Jason the writer, Whitey the director, and Damiana the director). Each writer was in charge of one of the viewpoints, and as such had final say in what their character did in all sections. I had the section dealing with Mick, and in my first draft, I had Mick get yelled at by Damiana during rehearsals. And Damiana, in that first draft, swore. A lot. Now, this bad case of potty mouth did not fit with Katharine Clark Gray's vision of Damiana, and as that was her main character, I was told I'd have to change it as per the rules of this writing experiment. What to do? At first, as sort of a joke, I went through my draft and replaced all Damiana's bad words with the word "golly". And it seemed kind of funny. What if a person in this day and age, and in the vulgar land of indie theatre, used words like golly as opposed to words like fuck? I kept the golly, and it was funny, and cool, and one hundred percent the product of dealing with an obstacle.

Here's some of the script:

Damiana goes through her notes, while the cast listens, jotting notes down in their script, nodding in agreement, looking at each other. She looks at her notes, which are a jumble of hieroglyphic sketches. Her eyes comes to a large skull, with the words “ WE’RE DOOMED!” written underneath.

DAMIANA
Ah, yes. Listen up, people.

Damiana looks out at the cast. Mick, late twenties, looks up from his notebook.

DAMIANA (CONT’D)
I think we have something pretty special here. Know that this is going to be a great show. Own it.

Mick writes in his notebook “worst show ever”. He looks over to Kate, mid-twenties, and when he catches her eyes, makes a face, which makes her laugh.

DAMIANA (CONT’D)
Feel free to listen up, people. Mick, what happened in the skeleton monologue?

There is a sudden hush in the room. Everyone looks at Mick. He feels the pressure.

MICK
Uh, I’m not sure. I just wasn’t feeling it.

Damiana stares at Mick for a moment as if he were an idiot.

DAMIANA
Golly! That makes me angry! Golly, Golly, Golly! Feel it! Feel it, for Pete’s sake! How can you say you didn’t feel it?

The cast and crew laugh. Kate draws a picture of a witch in her notebook screaming “FEEL IT, MUTHA FUCKAH!”.

DAMIANA (CONT’D)
This isn’t a joke, people. It’s serious business. Mick- no more excuses. Find you’re feelings.

By the way, the other writer's on Places were Mike Folie, Steven Gridley, and Francis Kuzler. These are all outstanding writers, and I encourage you to look up their stuff, see it on stage or screen whenever possible, and write them long, full of compliments, fan letters. Yeah, and hand write them, so that the Post Office can get some work.

Also, looks like the date for the reading of Riddle Lost in NYC by Boomerang Theatre Company is going to be Saturday November 19. I'll post more info when I have it. I have to keep this short, as I am heading down to the Denver capital to witness Occupy Denver firsthand.

EAT A BAG OF WHAT?

2011-10-03T10:57:00.000-07:00

So I had just finished directing Muse of Fire, my second full length play, for hope theatre, inc. as part of the 2003 New York International Fringe Festival, and feeling really good about all things theatre. The play had gotten a rave review from Martin Denton, sold out most its performances, and everyone involved in the show had kicked ass. On top of that, I had just gotten cast as Boxer the Horse in a puppet version of Animal Farm being produced by Synapse Productions and directed by David Travis- and it was a really shaping up to be a cool, cutting edge, brilliant show. And on top of that awesomeness, Tim Errickson, old friend and the Artistic Director of Boomerang Theatre Company, asked me if I wanted to write a play for the Boomerangs.

I said yes before he had finished his sentence.

So, now I had to find a play. At this point in my writing, I wanted to set all my plays in California. I'm not sure if it was a sense of loyalty of where I came from, a severe belief in the dictum "write what you know", or just something that struck my fancy. In any event, the new play would be set in California. So I started thinking about the Golden State, and what would make a good play. And I came across an article in the SF Gate, the online version of the old newspaper The Chronicle, about Burning Man. It was a brief history of the festival- how it had started on a Baker Beach in San Francisco one summer solstice night in 1986, and had grown into this huge festival held every summer in the desert outside of Reno, Nevada that culminated with a bonfire where a huge figure would be burnt in effigy. According to the article, people are supposed to bring things to the festival that want to be rid of- bad feelings, old wounds, etc.- and symbolically toss them in the fire and move on with their lives.

This sounded like a good thing to have in a play. And Reno is very close to the California border- in fact, I spent a fair amount of time near there when I was a kid, as my Uncle Donald had a ranch near there. So cool, Burning Man would be part of the story. And I thought, what is someone was trying to get to Burning Man to toss some past wound into the fire, but got stuck on the way? That would be a good obstacle for someone to try and overcome. And while trying to get there, lots of juicy stuff could come out.

Now, my father had recently died- and it really sucked ass. And I had been thinking a lot about how when people die, you are left with a lot of unresolved issues- unspoken grievances, unanswered questions, un-cried tears. So I would have someone trying to get over a death. No- why not have two people? Brothers, who are opposite in almost every way, bound together by blood, constantly at each other's throats? Yeah, that sounded good to me. I often have two opposites stuck together in my plays- yins and yangs, order and chaos...and Bobby and Marty. That would be their names- and they would sort of represent two aspects of me. The slacker and the worrier. Of course, once I started writing, they took a life of their own, and did what they wanted. Which is how it usually goes with me- I'll come up with some idea for a story, and start writing, and all of a sudden the characters take on a life of their own, and do and say what they want, and I just write down whatever it is I see and hear then doing. Which might make me a little crazy, but I think it was Zorba who said a man needs a little craziness in his life.

Now, I would be lying to say that there is not a lot of me in this show, a lot of my issues with death, and my father, as well as my mom and my step-dad. I grew up in a rather dramatic household- a world of fathers who had left long ago, alcoholism, and denial. And a lot of that is in Burning the Old Man. But I'd also be lying if I said this is an autobiographical play. It is a story, told by me, about people who are sort of crazy.

Anyhow. I let all these ideas run around in my head for a day or two, and then sat down, and started writing...and it came out in a torrent. I mean the whole thing. I couldn't type fast enough. I'd write until two or three in the morning, fall asleep, then wake up an hour later with a new bit of dialogue that demanded attention. It was pretty freaky, and liberating, and exciting.

The play starts with Marty and Bobby on their way to Burning Man. They are taking their late father's ashes, with the intent of throwing them on the fire at the end of the festival. This is per their late father's dying wishes. To up the stakes, I make it the day before the bonfire. They're running late. And then, their car explodes. Well, first it catches fire, they pull into a run down motel in the middle of nowhere, and then it blows up. And there's no cell phone reception. And the explosion has taken down the phone line. And the only person at the motel is Jo, a sort of Stepford Wife wannabe who has no car and whose husband works far away and won't be home until very late. And figuring all that out took about as long as it did to type this paragraph.

It just poured out, pre-formed and beautiful. I named the motel The Delphi, after the famous oracle of Greek mythology who people went to for wisdom and guidance. In the opening scene, Jo is at the counter in the lobby, singing show tunes to herself, when Bobby runs in, screaming at his brother "Eat a bag of dicks, fuckhole!", a phrase I had once heard Brett Christensen say. In my mind, Brett was Bobby, and indeed ended up playing him in the first production, so I figured what the hell?

I wrote the first draft in less than a month, and Boomerang did a reading of it as part of their First Flight series, directed by Tim Errickson. The cast included Tim McCracken as Marty, Brett Christensen as Bobby, Siobhan Mahoney as Candy, Philip Emeott as Earth, Mac Brydon as Eddy, and Sara Thigpen as Jo.

And with that reading, we were off to the races.

To Be Continued...

Burning the Old Man is currently available in the anthology "Plays and Playwrights 2006", available here:
http://www.nytesmallpress.com/pp06.php

It also won the 2005 NYIT Award for Outstanding Full Length Script. For more info, go here:
http://www.nyitawards.com/

It also went on to a long run at Divadlo na Zabradli of Prauge. For more info, go here:
http://www.nazabradli.cz/repertoar/repertoar/kelly-mcallister-cesta-horiciho-muze/

And next month, it opens at another there in the Czech Republic, Divadlo Exil. For more info, go here:
http://www.divadloexil.cz/?page_id=12

WHY IS A RAVEN LIKE A WRITING DESK?

2011-09-29T13:21:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

BACKWARDS AND WRONG

2011-09-27T11:08:00.000-07:00

Love is evil, spelled backwards and wrong.

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

I stole it.

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

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

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

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

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

To Be Continued...

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

WHY NOT MAKE HIS HEAD EXPLODE?

2011-09-22T12:29:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

I ran away.

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

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

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

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

I dig that part of the process the most.

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

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

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

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

AT SOME UNFORTUNATE HOUR...

2011-09-20T11:44:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here's the opening monologue:

TOM

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

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

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

To Be Continued...

Links:

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

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

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

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

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

http://www.indietheaternow.com/

For info on Boomerang Theatre Company, go here:

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

BARE BOSOMS AND THUNDER-STONES

2011-09-19T11:29:00.000-07:00

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

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

More 'best moments ever' to come...

ONE MORE THING...YOU HAVE TO GET NAKED

2011-09-16T12:47:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

FULL FRONTAL NUDITY

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

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

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

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

MUSE OF FIRE ASCENDS

2011-09-15T10:42:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lovers Leapt

2011-09-13T10:28:00.000-07:00

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

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

Joellyn Duesberry, Memory Time Lapse

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

MUSE OF FIRE

2011-09-12T10:14:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And wait for May and notification.

To be continued...

ERRANT MUSES

2011-09-06T10:46:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To be continued...

LAST CALL

2011-08-07T19:08:00.000-07:00

I was sitting in the Seattle-Tacoma airport, waiting for my flight to Fairbanks, Alaska, on my way to see my father, who was in a coma in the ICU room up there. I was told that I probably wouldn't get there in time. That the end was nigh. I was going anyway. There was a layover of several hours, and with me in the airport were dozens of laughing, singing, teen-age born-again Christians on their way to some outreach camp. They were doing cartwheels, singing folk songs like "If I Had a Hammer", and doing all those things one does when young and saved. Their enthusiasm was starting to get to me. I needed a distraction. I took out the notes on my play Last Call, which was opening at the New York International Fringe Festival in a couple of weeks. I went over the play, making cuts, fixing snippets here and there. In the back of my mind, I kept thinking "my dad is in a coma." I wrote a new scene that had two old friends playing hide and seek in a graveyard. They run into the ghost of another old friend, and talk about how everyone seems to go Elsewhere. My dad is in a coma, and everyone goes Elsewhere. The saved teens started singing Blowin' in the Wind.

I made it to Fairbanks, and somehow my dad woke up. I was standing next to him in the room. He looked around, confused at first. Then saw me. It was weird. It seemed like he was pissed to still be around or something. After lots of doctors coming in and out, checking on this level and that, Dad was able to talk. Barely. He said he was tired, that he didn't have anymore fight. That it was time to go. I made him a list of reasons to stay alive. And to cheer him up, and of course feed my ego, I read him some of my play. At the time it seemed like a good idea. I mean, what else would you want to do after coming out of a coma than listen to someone's new play? Also, I thought that may be he'd want to stick around and see the show. That is, if he ever got out of ICU. For the next week, my two sisters and I cleaned up his cabin, went through his things, and tried to figure out what to do if the big "if" happened. Alaska is a great place to go for contemplating eternity and oblivion. Wide and sparse and forlorn.

And then, Dad started getting a little better. Good enough to be moved down to California and live with my Aunt Bobbie and Uncle Mike. So we cleaned up his smoke infused cabin, and I got on a plane and headed back to New York and the Fringe and the show.

Long and the short of it: the show is in great shape- my brother Jerry, director of the show, has managed to put together an awesome production on a shoestring budget- less, on half a shoestring. And everyone seems to think something is happening. Something unique and not quite nameable. We get Theater for the New City for our space. We tech. We open on a matinee. And this guy named Martin Denton, who runs nytheatre.com, shows up for the first performance.

On that first performance, I learn that I feel like throwing up during my shows. Like throwing up and/or exploding. It's very strange, and I had hoped it was just for the opening, but I have since learned that is pretty much what happens everytime a play I've written gets performed. So there I am, pacing next to the risers, house left. There's about 90 people at the show. And it seems they dig it. A lot. I remember feeling really good. Triumphant, even. Then the review comes out. It's a rave, a pick of the Fringe. It is a surreal experience to get a good review, I think. You read it, read it again. Ask someone else to read it and tell you it's a good review. Read it again.

The show starts to sell out. We add a performance. This is hope theatre's second production ever, and our first in the Fringe. None of us are famous or anything close to it- even in the Indie Theatre world. And here we are, adding a show. Friggin' awesome. The rest of the Fringe run goes fantastic. I still feel like throwing up every performance, but I start to get used to it. The one thing I start to get hooked on is audience reaction- laughter, applause, and best of all, tears. One show, I saw a grown man cry like a baby. That was a good day.

Then, at the closing party for the Fringe, the play wins an Excellence in Playwriting award. And shortly after that, I get contacted by Martin Denton, asking if I'd like to have Last Call published in his anthology series, Plays and Playwrights.

And that's pretty much the story of Last Call.

As for my dad, he never got to see it on stage. I did get to tell him it was going to be published. It was close to Thanksgiving, and I was home in California. Dad was sitting in Aunt Bobbie's kitchen, and when I told him, he asked me how it felt to be a success. A nice thing to have your father ask you. He died shortly after New Year's.

INDIE THEATER NOW

2011-08-06T11:47:00.000-07:00

Wheels are turning, winds are changing, and something new is coming to a computer near you- Indie Theater Now. It's basically a digital library of plays, put together by the good folks at nytheatre.com, and it will launch with a collection of over a hundred plays from the past 15 years of the New York International Fringe Festival. And I have the great honor of being part of it.

That's right, you heard correctly.

Me, goon among goons and freak among freaks is going to be part of the latest, coolest, cutting edge thing in the world of theatrical publishing.

What plays of mine will be part of this, you ask?

Last Call, Muse of Fire, and Some Unfortunate Hour.

And I have decided to give a little background on each play. What the hell.

So, first off, let me tell you about Last Call, my first full length play and probably the reason I am still writing. Back in the late 1990's, as I wandered Manhattan, lost, young, brilliant, and stupid, I one day had this idea for a scene. It sort of just popped into my head. I was down at the old Expanded Arts theatre space on Ludlow, standing next to my old friend Joe Neisen, and suddenly I saw a bunch of old buddies sitting in a particular bar I used to frequent in Salinas, CA- and I had to write down what was going on, so I cancelled that nights plan of debauchery and headed home to write up whatever it was that I saw in my head.

It was weird, but I felt compelled. So, I wrote this scene where a bunch of dudes who are sort of stuck in a rut sit around in the bar they always go to, having the same conversations they have every night, when into the bar walks their old pal David, who long ago went off to New York. He has come home to wake everyone up after having an existential crisis and coming out of it with a new found sense of life.

I know, not very original, but hey, when the iron strikes, or whatever that metaphor is, etc.

So I had a scene, and I liked it. At this point, I hadn't really written a lot- I was an actor, and writing was cool, but not what I was trying to do with my life. Although whenever I had written things, people were always pretty responsive. In fact, a few years before writing that scene, Taft Miller, one of the coolest people I ever knew in my life, said to me as he lay dying in a hospital, "Keep writing". So, I had written something. Now what? I gave a copy of it to my friend Lisa Zambetti, who at the time was working with the Turnip Theatre group, and the next thing I knew, there was a staged reading of the scene- which had grown into a one act play. The reading was great, we all had a wonderful time, and as soon as it was over, I put the play into a drawer and got on with my pursuit of lunacy on the stages of New York.

Then life got complicated, and strange, and sad, and rough. I quit drinking. My girl friend got cancer. And then 9/11 happened. Things pretty much sucked. And to top it all off, we didn't have any insurance and suddenly had a lot of bills to pay. So I took a second job on top of waiting tables, answering phones on the trading floor of J.P. Morgan. I'd get up at 5 every morning, take the subway to work, and on the week-ends work dinners at Bryant Park Grill. The average work week was about sixty hours, and I remember I stopped dreaming for a while. I'd just lay down, go to sleep, wake up, go to work, and so on. It was, to borrow a phrase, the best of times, and the worst of times- I was tired and scared and going nuts, but also supported by friends and family so much that I felt like George Bailey at the end of "It's a Wonderful Life". Minus the angel.

So there I was, working hard, floating through it all, when my pal Jack Halpin tells me one day that I should take that play I was working on and submit it to the Fringe Festival. So I printed up the application at work, printed up what there was of the play, and sent it off. And forgot about it. This was in February, 2002. Then in April, I got a letter from the Fringe saying "good news, you're in!". Which was great, except for the fact that I had said on the application that the play was going to be two acts, and that in act two there was going to be a murder, and one of the characters would turn out to be gay. None of that was true, but I thought it sounded good for the application. Oops.

It was time to get busy, because it looked like I was going to have a play produced in New York. Now, one of the good things about my office job was that for the first hour, I would watch over the phone lines and sit in front of a computer, free to do whatever I wanted. So every morning for an hour, I wrote. And suddenly my little play with 5 characters, all male, became a play with 9 characters, and 3 of them were female. And I started to dream again. In fact, a lot of the play came out of dreams I had. First, I dreamt that one of the characters kept seeing the ghost of his old girl friend. And the guy who saw the ghost was kind of crazy, and slipping in and out of reality. And it all made sense.

Next, hope theatre, inc. - the theatre company formed by my brother and sister and me- held auditions, cast the show, and started rehearsing. And that's when it got really interesting, because I discovered that with some tweaks here and some edits there, plus a few new scenes the show was not terrible. In fact, it felt like something special was happening. It helped to have so many talented people working on it. My brother Jerry was directing, my sister producing, and the cast was: Jack Halpin, Christine Goodman, Vinnie Penna, Brett Christensen, R. Paul Hamilton, J.P. Nord, Matthew Rankin, Masha Sapron, and Sara Thigpen. It was the best feeling, working on that play. It felt like I could fly. We all did. I'd rewrite a scene, bring it in, and it would be better, and we'd all look at each other like we were all part of some wonderful, powerful secret.

Then one night, I arrived at rehearsal after working a dinner shift at the restaurant, and everyone was outside, and Jerry wasn't there. This was back before cell phones were everywhere, and news took a little bit of time to get to people, but it seemed that my father was in a coma, and not expected to live long, and Jerry cancelled rehearsal. So I got a ticket to Alaska, where my Dad was, and wondered what would happen next.

To be continued...

Mad World, Mad Kings, Mad Composition

2011-03-02T09:05:00.000-08:00

Let's face it- there's a lot of crazy out there today. Everywhere you look, somebody is yelling or screaming or going off on strange tangents. Fear and anger run rampant. It almost feels like the world is Pamplona, the bulls have just been set loose, and we're all running around, trying not to get killed.

Or, as Shakespeare put it in King John-

But as I travell'd hither through the land,
I find the people strangely fantasied;
Possess'd with rumours, full of idle dreams,
Not knowing what they fear, but full of fear.

A lot of the world seems to be strangely fantasied- at least to me. Three prime examples:

Charlie Tiger's Blood Sheen , Glenn Beck , and Moammar Gaddafi . This triumvirate of superwhack point out to me a lot of what can go wrong in the human spirit. Ego, fear, and selfishness in the extreme. And what's weird is the feeling of guilt I experience after I laugh at them. Because I do laugh- it's kind of hard not to when they say and do so many insane things. Bi-winning? Dressing up like a Nazi for your book cover? Ordering your people to dance in the middle of a bloody uprising? That's some funny shit. Sadly, these folks aren't characters on the latest sit-com. If they were, I'd be dvr-ing them and wasting a lot of time watching them over and over. But no, these are human beings, doing bad things, with tragic results. They have families and friends who worry about them. Children who are going to need a lot of help. And beyond their personal lives, there is the effect they have on the world. Who knows how many folks will "get their Sheen on" tonight and get incredibly high, to the point of doing harm to themselves and/or others? How many people will act against their own self interest and support their corporate overlords based on the insane- and untrue- rants of Mr. Beck? How many people will die today due to Gaddafi's mad egotism/despotism?

It makes me sad.

But I do find hope out there as well. I look at the people throughout Northern Africa and the Middle-East who are rising up, facing any and all kinds of danger, to say they want a better world. I look at the people of Wisconsin, who are sticking up for their rights and their dignity against a very well funded GOP set of goons. I remember that this is also the world that gave us The Beatles and Mozart and Free Will Astrology and, and words like groovy and fantasied.

However horrible things get, I still dig this world. I remember once, in college, I saw a holocaust survivor speak. The man was amazing. Here was someone who had seen the very worst of humanity, endured torture and cruelty that I can't even really imagine- and yet he found life worth living. He found hope, and love, and purpose. I spoke with him after his speech. I wanted to hear more of what he had to say. And also tell him how sad I always felt when considering the horrors of the world, how confused and guilty for having a much easier life than he did. And he said "If I met a woman who had been raped, I could not feel the pain she did, but I could hold her hand".

Amazing.

So, that's where I'm at today. People suck, and people rock- and life is beautiful, and worth it.

2012

2010-11-18T08:20:00.001-08:00

Is it the end of the world as we know it? And do I feel fine? Do you? Does anyone? I have been watching a lot of shows on the cable about the Mayan calendar, end of days, and all that- and I sometimes wonder: What if the world does end in 2012? What does that mean to me, right here and now?

Well, first off- I think that would suck, because even if I got a script sold and a movie was made from it and I won an Oscar- I'd only have a year or less to enjoy the good life- the money, the accolades, the travel. You know, all that stuff we all think about when we buy that lottery ticket. Wouldn't it suck to finally have that dream come true, just

in time to look up and see a massive tidal wave crashing over the Rockies? Or a fleet of invading ships from Planet X? I mean it- the end of the world would really be a drag for my personal goals.

So, I think, on top of writing every day, sending out query letters, entering contests for writers, and all that- I am going to try and do something for myself everyday. As if it's the last day of my life.

For instance- there's this crazy lady who wanders my neighborhood with her little dog. She's nice enough, I suppose, but doesn't seem to be able to stop talking, ever. I don't really know what she talks about, because the moment she begins to speak, my mind sort of numbs out, my eyes glaze over, and I just smile and try to appear like I'm actually listening to her. This can go on for five, ten minutes- maybe longer sometimes. (it's hard to tell, as time loses all meaning when stuck in conversation with her) Well, that's time wasted. Time that could, and should, and will be better spent. There's a worldwide apocalypse coming, for crying out loud. I can't listen to the latest adventures of Fluffy the dog who really needs a bath. So, next time she approaches me, I'm going to say "Shut up, crazy dog lady!" Hmmm. Okay, that's a little too harsh. I know, I'll say "If you don't have a point to speaking, I shan't listen." No, too snooty. Alright, I've got it. Next time our paths cross, I'll just turn around, and briskly trot off in the other direction. Subtle, yet clear. Perfect.

Also, and this is from something I saw on the tv show- I have decided that from now on, whenever I am flying anywhere, when it comes time for me to be patted down or x-rayed or whatever it is, I'm just going to go ahead and get naked. Why not? Along with making it easier for everyone involved, it's fun. There was a time in my life where I got naked in public quite a lot. I stopped when it went from being a spur of the moment type of thing into an institutionalized thing. Well, time for the skin to come back. Be ready, fellow travelers. In fact, I urge you all to do the same. I think, somehow, everyone getting naked more often will make the world a more harmonious, kinder place.

And while I'm on this whole make my life better before it's over kick, I think I shall be brutally honest with people. Like the next time I'm at some fast food joint, and I get that thousand miles away stare from the person behind the counter, I'll just tell them "you need to get out of this hell hole and do something else- anything else- with your life. Hell, rob banks if you have to- don't shoot anyone or anything like that, just take the money from those banker bastards and go to Rio or something. Alright, scratch the bank robbing thing- become a cat burglar. It's safer and sounds cooler. And speaking of banks, from now on, whenever I go to one, I shall inform the tellers that they work for devils, and if I see any real bankers there, I'll either flip them the bird or at least give them a very mean look.

And one more thing. I will no longer read the results of any polls. I mean, who cares what thousands of other people think? Do I know these people? How many of those thousands polled are either crazy dog ladies, or bankers, or non- streaking bankers? Throughout history, there are many, many, many instances of thousands of people getting behind some really stupid ideas. Case in point- is there anyone in the country who doesn't think at least one of the people who got elected in this last cycle is a total jerk off, and that the people who elected said jerk off are themselves massive jerk offs?

Already, I feel better about the approaching doom of civilization.

RIDDLE LOST

2010-11-12T10:59:00.001-08:00

Okay. So I've been busy, writing lots of stuff- new short play, new long play, new screenplay-

Busy Busy Busy.

Now it's time to hear feedback. I've decided to put part of new play on blog. See what people think. If they dig it, groovy.

The New play is titled "Riddle Lost". Here is first few pages.

AN OPEN SIDE-SHOW TENT IN THE MIDDLE OF A CARNIVAL MIDWAY. INSIDE, A TABLE WITH A CRYSTAL BALL; OTHER TABLES AND SHELVES ARE FULL OF: ICONS- MYSTICAL, RELIGIOUS, AND CULTURAL; RELICS OF THE OLD WEST; AND ARTIFACTS OF VARIOUS NATIVE AMERICAN CULTURES. A PHANTASMAGORIC WILD WEST SHOW ATMOSPHERE FILLS THE ROOM. AGAINST THE BACK WALL IS AN OLD STYLE CIGAR STORE INDIAN. HEL, NORSE GODDESS OF DEATH, SITS AT THE TABLE, HUNCHED OVER A DECK OF TAROT CARDS. A LONG BLACK VEIL COVERS HER FACE. SUDDENLY, SHE SITS UP. JEFFERSON RIDDLE ENTERS.

RIDDLE

Excuse me, miss?

Hel does not move. Riddle politely waits for her to answer.

RIDDLE (cont’d)

Hello?

He looks around the room, pokes his head out of the tent, then back inside.

RIDDLE (cont’d)

Could you tell me-

Hel raises her hand to silence him.

HEL

Who are you?

RIDDLE

I’m...I’m Riddle.

HEL

Riddle?

RIDDLE

My name-

HEL

Your name is a riddle?

RIDDLE

No- my name is Riddle.

HEL

Am I’m supposed to figure it out?

RIDDLE

Figure what out?

HEL

Your name.

RIDDLE

My name?

HEL

You’ve come here seeking answers, no?

RIDDLE

No. Yes. I’m not sure.

Hel places a Tarot card on the table.

HEL

You lie.

RIDDLE

No.

HEL

You say you’re a riddle.

RIDDLE

I come from a long line of Riddles.

HEL

Don’t we all?

RIDDLE

My father was a Riddle-

HEL

My father is the King of Riddles.

RIDDLE

Look, Miss...I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.

HEL

I didn’t throw it.

Hel stands, slowly walks to Riddle, until she is standing right before him. She sniffs the air.

RIDDLE

Miss?

HEL

Silence!

Hel takes Riddles hands, smells them, then drops them.

HEL (cont’d)

Hel.

RIDDLE

I apologize if I’ve upset you.

HEL

I am not upset. I am Hel, Queen of the Dead. And you are?

RIDDLE

I told you- I’m Riddle. Jeff C. Riddle. Perhaps you’ve heard of me? I wrote a book once.

Hel reaches out and begins to feel the top of Riddles head.

RIDDLE (cont’d)

What are you-

HEL

You hope I will show you clearly what has become clouded with time.

RIDDLE

No. Could you tell me where I am? Last thing I remember I was in my car-

HEL

You seek a boy and a man and a legend and a body.

RIDDLE

I do?

HEL

You don’t know what you want.

Hel slowly lifts her veil, looks directly into Riddles eyes.

HEL (cont’d)

You don’t even know you’re dead.

RIDDLE

I’m dead?

HEL

Tell me- in that last memory- the one of you in the car- do you remember anything else? Like a truck coming at you with great velocity?

RIDDLE

Truck?

HEL

Yes, truck. Riddle me this- when a truck hits a car head on, what usually happens to the man in the car?

RIDDLE

So you’re saying I’m dead?

HEL

Look into my eyes.

Riddle looks into her eyes, shivers, backs away.

RIDDLE

What’s...what’s happening?

Hel walks towards him, their eyes locked.

HEL

Don’t you know?

RIDDLE

Are you hypnotising me?

With effort, Riddle looks away. Hel reaches out, turns his face back to her.

HEL

I’m measuring the thread of your soul.

RIDDLE

If I’m dead, why don’t I feel any different than I did before?

HEL

How did you feel before?

RIDDLE

Hard to describe.

HEL

Try. Tell me what your life was like.

RIDDLE

Sometimes good. Sometimes...not.

Hel sees something in his eyes.

HEL

The Everytime...what’s that?

RIDDLE

How do you know about the Everytime?

HEL

Tell me.

RIDDLE

Oh, well- the Everytime is...was...it’s just a theory I had. Have. About life, memory, things like that. Every now and then, all my memories sort of just happen again. All at the same time. Like a tule fog made of memory and time.

HEL

The Everytime?

RIDDLE

Yes.

HEL

Tell me about the tule fog.

RIDDLE

It’s a really thick fog that hits from out of nowhere- we had it a lot where I grew up.

HEL

Where was that?

RIDDLE

Lost River.

HEL

A river was lost?

RIDDLE

No. Well...actually, I suppose you could say that. Yes.

HEL

More.

RIDDLE

Sometimes- often when whiskey is involved- I get sort of...I don’t know...like I become part of my memories, part of that fog. Lost in the Everytime. And it always feels like it’s supposed to mean something- but I can never figure...never quite stitch all the moments together. I thought that after I wrote my book I might have... but even that wasn’t- I don’t know. What was your question again?

HEL

What was your life like?

RIDDLE

Confusing.

HEL

It wasn’t always like that.

RIDDLE

No.

Hel turns and goes back to the table and sits.

HEL

Let us gaze into the past.

RIDDLE

Is this some kind of side show or something?

HEL

Sit.

Riddle goes to the table and sits. Hel looks at the crystal ball.

HEL (cont’d)

Now, why don’t you tell me what your name used to be.

So, is that goofy, or should I post more?

We can, and we will!

2010-09-28T08:31:00.000-07:00

Ah, election season. Time for commercial after commercial with really over dramatic music, slo mo shots of the opposition that fade to black and white while an ominous voice tells us the end is nigh, and the disclaimer about how so-and-so approves of this ad. Yippee.

And along with that, the time honored tradition of complaining about it. It's really kind of amazing, when you step back and look at the bigger picture. We live in the land of opportunity, we really do- but somehow, most of us think it an affront to our way of life to have to listen to ads for a political candidate or initiative. For some reason, ads for politics piss us off. We can take ads for beer, fast food, oil, you name it- but not politics. Oh, we hate those ads. Maybe it's me- but I've heard more people complain about political ads than about all those public relations ads BP has been running for ever, trying to convince us that they love the Gulf of Mexico and all it's inhabitants. Why? Is it just a way of venting that everyone accepts, so we pour our frustration at life in general into those specific commercials? Is it purely aesthetic? Is what angers us about them the poor production values and cheesy voice overs? Just wondering.

Another topic I've been pondering: it is considered rude to talk politics with anyone who has a different view than you do? I have often heard it said that one should never talk politics or religion. That to me is kind of crazy- why shouldn't we talk about what we believe in? Why is it that in a supposedly democratic society we are given, as common wisdom, the advice not to talk politics? I've been doing some work for a political organization out here in Colorado, talking to people door to door about the upcoming election- and it's been really amazing. I am finding that most people really don't mind talking politics, once the ice is broken. But that breaking of the ice is key. Usually, when someone opens the door, they assume I am some evil seller of some evil product. Then, when they find out I want to talk politics, they kind of roll their eyes. But after that, by and large, most folks are happy to tell me what they think, what they're worried about, what political decisions have affected their lives. It's nice to experience. Of course, there are some who can't be bothered to talk with anyone who has the audacity of coming to their door. And some folks are just plain crazy. But the majority of people I've met so far are just families and individuals, all trying to do what they think is best, and have a good life while doing it. I have also not experienced the so called "enthusiasm gap" that is supposedly infecting the democratic party. All the democrats I've spoken with- and I speak to Democrats, Republicans, and Independents of all stripes- seem quite energetic about the upcoming elections. That might be because the opposition in our state is a little bit this side of looney- and just a little bit. Anyway- my point is this- talk politics. Talk religion. Talk about anything you like- if you do it with respect, listen to the other person, and don't yell, you can really find out some interesting things, and make lots of new friends while doing it.

And please, register to vote, and then do so- if you can vote by mail, do it as soon as you get your ballot. Why take any chances. I do think the races are all tight, but I also know that there are more democrats and progressive minded folks out there than there are tea party members and conservatives. Have faith, my friends- we still can, and we will make the world a better place, bit by bit. (if you are reading this and are conservative and/or tea party- sorry, I'm a commie pinko lefty, and I want the Dems to win, and win big)

So, if some person comes knocking on your door and wants to talk with you about the upcoming election- why not take a few minutes and meet a fellow American? Look at it this way- you will probably get to miss a few of those horrible commericals on the tv.

Query

2010-07-18T11:09:00.000-07:00

So. I am at that point where I need to get some West Coast representation. Which means, I am at that point where I have to write query letters, seek out old connections, old friends, new friends, and so on.

Wahoo.

Something about trying to find someone to represent me just kind of sucks. I mean, don't we all just want to have people knock on our door, with a bag of money over their shoulders, and say "Hi, I'm here to announce that your ship has come in, you have finally been discovered, and all your troubles are over. Here is a large amount of cash to start you off. See you soon. Enjoy your new life of wonderment."

Is that so much to ask for?

It's not like I don't have some credentials. I have written several plays that have been produced, published, and all that. I've won awards for writing, and have been translated into Czech. I even had a guy who worked development out in Hollywood who somehow got a hold of one of my plays, read it, and called my agent saying "this guy should be writing for tv." So what do I have to do, and why can't someone do it for me?

I have several screenplays, but the one that seems to catch most people's attention is called Ghostlight- a thriller set around a high school drama club's production of Our Town.

Today, I did research on query letters- the letter you write to agents and/or producers introducing them to a specific script you want to sell. Most of the articles and blogs I found on the subject said the same thing: be concise, beware of typos, and let the story sell itself. Brilliant. I can do that. Here's what I'm thinking:

Dear So-and-So,

I am seeking representation for my horror/comedy screenplay Ghostlight. It's about a group of teen-agers involved in the high school production of Our Town who are killed off one by one every time a theatrical tradition- whistling backstage, quoting MacBeth, etc. - is broken. Please let me know if you are interested, and I will send you a copy.

Sincerely,

Dude who wants to quit his day job

Aside from the sign off, that is basically what I am going to be sending out.

Like I said. Wahoo.

On the more fun side of writing, I am working on a new play, working title Lost River, and that really has me excited. It takes place in a carnival sideshow tent, where Hel, Norse goddess of death, tells peoples fortunes. At the top of the play, Jefferson Riddle, real life survivor of the Modoc War of 1872-3, wanders in, unaware that he has just died. Hilarity ensues.

Every time I work on this play, I feel happy- like I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing.

I want to be able to do that all the time. Sadly, I need to make money as well- and theatre in general, and weird plays about the afterlife in specific, doesn't generate a lot of income. Hence the need to sell a screenplay. I have a friend who works in LA who once told me that all I have to do is sell on hit movie, and I can spend the rest of my life writing for non-profit theatre. I would like that.

So, if you have any friends who are agents, producers, or millionaires looking to finance the next great horror film, let me know.

Until then, Go Yankees, Go Giants, Go Life.

Go.

Facebook of the Dead

2010-04-12T07:30:00.000-07:00

I have dead people on my Facebook. It just sort of happened in the way things like this always happen, I suppose. People I know died. First one, then another...the slow parade of the lost. It's a strange feeling, looking at a page for someone who has shuffled off this mortal coil. There they are, smiling at the camera, alive and kicking, part of the ether, part of the web wide population, but at the same time gone past forever.

Sometimes, on the space where it suggests getting in contact with people I haven't talked to in awhile, Facebook tells me I should contact one of the dead- but there are no instructions on how to do that. Face the clouds and pray? Should I write of their wall? Maybe send an instant message saying " OMG, how r u & what's it like up there?" Is there a way to twitter a ghost?

Usually, when the "get in touch with them" directive pops up on my Facebook page, I chuckle, then grow sad. Because I would like to get in touch with them, tell them good bye, wish them well, thank them for being in my life. Like pretty much everyone I know, I want to speak with the dead. I want a ouija board that works. I want to hold a seance and really hear my fathers's voice. There is something about the impossibility of death, about the finality of it all, that I do not understand. How could something that existed ever not exist anymore? Isn't that against the law of physics?

I also have contact numbers in my cell phone that belong to the dead. I know I should delete them- but that feels like it would be a betrayal somehow. Like I would be saying "yes, that's alright, they're dead"- and I am not really a fan of death, and I do not approve of gently going into that night or whatever it was Dylan Thomas said. So, I have phone numbers and email addresses and Facebook pages for people who aren't around anymore.

Of course, some will take this new dilemma- that Facebook has pages of those that have passed- as a sign of how alienated we are in modern society, how out of touch technology has made us...but I don't really think we were all that in touch a hundred years ago or a thousand, for that matter. No doubt in ancient Egypt someone was walking around saying "we spend so much time absorbed in our papyrus scrolls that we've forgotten to look at each other! Oh, for the simpler times of yesteryear, when a Pyramid stood for something real!" It seems to me that things left by the dead, reminding us they're gone, have always been around, and always will be, and the sting of remembering that you can't call your mom ever again, or that your old pal Adam will never recite the opening lines of the Godfather to you again, is a sting that will seem new and horrible forever. That's part of the deal, I think, of life. We love and laugh, and miss our friends and family when they go away.

Or, as Carlos, the Toad of Infinite Waters says, "Forever and Never and Life and Death are just illusions we make up to help us understand things. We all fade into the ocean of the Universe, and we all remain true to our immortal essence."

Peanuts and Crackerjacks

2010-04-05T09:53:00.000-07:00

Baseball season has begun, and all is well in the land. I love baseball. I love everything about it. I love baseball movies, baseball jerseys, baseballs hats. I even play the soundtrack to The Natural when I do the dishes after dinner. It's magic. Don't ask me why, because I don't really know, but there is something about the game that is different- at least for me- than all the other sports we like to watch, play, and pay a small amount of people incredible amounts of money to play on the professional level.

I'm a Yankee fan, and a Giants fan. The Giants were my father's team, and his father's team. To the day he died, he could name the line up for the Giants for year I was born, the year my brother was born, and the year my sister was born. I wish he could have seen them win the World Series once before he died, but it was not in the cards. The Giants are a team of hope- of dreams not yet realized, and perhaps that's where their magic lies. I mean, look at the Red Sox. Something weird happened to them after they broke the curse of the Bambino. Some magic got stolen.

The Yankees were my mom's team. She loved them. One of my favorite baseball memories is calling my mom from Yankee Stadium, and just when she answered, Soriano hit a home run. Maybe it's magic thinking to believe that the Baseball Gods meant for me to call her just at that moment, so that for a brief second we could share the great excitement of thousands of people cheering one of their heros- but so what? I believe in magic and the Baseball Gods. It's like Zorba said, a man needs a little madness in his life.

Being a Yankee fan, I get a lot of ribbing from people who are not Yankee fans. Some of it is good natured fun, but some of it is kind of disturbing. Some people hate the Yankees in a way that just seems unhealthy for the soul. I mean like how the Tea party folks hate Obama. I mean, I hate the Dodgers because I'm a Giants fan- but that doesn't mean I curse them or wish them ill- I just want them to lose each and every game they have against the Black and Orange in the most humiliating fashion possible.

Maybe James Earl Jones character in Field of Dreams had it right when he said:

Ray, people will come, Ray. They'll come to Iowa for reasons they can't even fathom. They'll turn up your driveway, not knowing for sure why they're doing it. They'll arrive at your door as innocent as children, longing for the past. "Of course, we won't mind if you have a look around," you'll say. "It's only twenty dollars per person." They'll pass over the money without even thinking about it; for it is money they have and peace they lack.

And they'll walk out to the bleachers, and sit in shirt-sleeves on a perfect afternoon. They'll find they have reserved seats somewhere along one of the baselines, where they sat when they were children and cheered their heroes. And they'll watch the game, and it'll be as if they'd dipped themselves in magic waters. The memories will be so thick, they'll have to brush them away from their faces.

People will come, Ray.

The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It's been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt, and erased again. But baseball has marked the time. This field, this game, is a part of our past, Ray. It reminds us of all that once was good, and it could be again. Oh, people will come, Ray. People will most definitely come.

I have a time machine in my kitchen

2010-03-29T08:05:00.000-07:00

It's true. It's on right now, and the portals of time have opened wide. Time it was and what a time it was, it was, a time of innocence. A time of confidences. I am, right now, sitting in a van stuffed full of my fellow Blackford High Schoolers, and we are heading North to Canada to backpack for a week. The floor of the van is really warm, and Kim has just informed me that the only reason Tom and I love the song The Boxer is because it has the word "whores" in it.

And I blink my eyes, the machine does its thing and...

I am skipping down Fifth Ave. in NYC, and I am in love, and I am singing into my cell phone, and I don't care who hears me, and all is well.

And I go upstairs a few minutes ago which is also right now, because time has liquefied this morning, and I am watching some movie with Drew Barrymore and I am also in the airport in Fairbanks, Alaska meeting my father for the first time in my grown up life, and I am heading back to the airport three weeks later, and also, at the very same time, I am thirteen years old and it's the middle of the night, and some man I don't know is talking to me and I can't make out what he's saying, but my older brother is telling me it's my father.

My dog has just died and I am learning to drive and I am in college and I just got published and I just lost my mother and I am in the shopping mall and in trouble because my sister told me to take the coins out of the fountain and I did it and now mom is going to have to get me and on it goes...

Sometimes, like Billy Pilgrim, I think we all become unhinged in time- we go to what I used to think of as the Everytime- a place where all moments, past present and future, roll together in a torrent of emotion and old songs and movie quotes and photos, and while it is tempestuous and overwhelming there is a sort of order to it all- and just like any strong current, the only way to get through it is to work with the flow.

Hello darkness, my old friend. And Brian and Tom and Vinnie and Dan and Tim and Jay and Taft- hello old mentor wise man genius.

The halls of my memory are so crowded.

And it's now today and it's now yesterday and it's now forever.

I am I, and I am singing Man of La Mancha with Myles in the back station at Bryant Park, and I am holding my nephew up to the sky on the day he is born, and I am getting married in the town square in Prague, and I am going with the flow.

And it's yesterday now forever.

Again.

The Soul Is Like a Shark

2010-03-05T08:35:00.000-08:00

There's a great scene in Annie Hall where Woody Allen likens a relationship to a shark- if it doesn't keep moving, it dies. I think the same is true of our souls. We must keep moving, growing, trying new things- or we slump over and die, and join the living dead. Fortunately, this zombie-fication is not permanent, and there are many quasi- voo doo rituals that can restore us. A trip to India, planting flowers, learning a new language. The list is infinite and groovy and unique to each of us.

I ponder all this because of my buddy Jack, who is painting again, after many years. Hooray. He's even presenting some of his art to the public. Double Hooray. It's been something like fifteen years since he last delved into the waters, and I am vicariously thrilled.

Jack was my room mate many moons ago in the magic land of Salinas. Salinas? Si, Salinas. We lived the Bohemian life with our fellow room mate Greg- and we were always short on money but never short on inspiration. We would have parties- well, we kind approached life as a continual party. At any given time, you could find someone writing a poem, painting, making up an interpretive dance to Gershwin or Jane's Addiction.

On top of that, we were working on a three part, nine hour adaptation of Steinbeck's East of Eden at the Western Stage, which was one of the most amazing theatrical experiences of my life, so far. They were salad days in the salad bowl of the world, and we were all Caesars and Cleopatras. To put it simply, life was groovy.

So, life went on, we went on, and presto change-o, fifteen years go by and we're elsewhere, doing other things. And that's cool- but at the same time, it's become much easier to forget that life is for the living, that one must howl at the moon now and then, that the chimes of midnight demand to be heard. Somehow, we spend more time worrying and less time celebrating. And that's no good.

So Jack, who like all of us has had his share of ups and downs, of remembering and forgetting, has found his way back to creating something that expresses the mystery of existence.

And that gives me hope. It inspires me. It reminds me that we are all of us artists, that we all must keep our souls on the move, or close our eyes and stumble along towards oblivion.

Click on this: Jack : to see more on the show Jack is showing his stuff at.

And here is a poem I wrote in Bohemia:

EDEN (EAST)

Jim dropped the ball

on Greg

but then again

We all gathered in the dark

between the lights

My God

it was all so

huge

Every one of us

were in the Land of Nod

And in that filthy dirt

we reached

peace

communicated

For at least 9 hours

or maybe one act

Hard Times became

than just a song

and then

in the final approach

to what was death

We watched them all

stand

and cheer

as we

slowly

Walked into the grave

of a moment

that will never

never

come again

March Fourth, the only day that's also a sentence

2010-03-04T08:26:00.000-08:00

So. What's been happening since last I posted? There is this weird guilt thing that goes with having a blog- it goes something like this. "My goodness, I haven't posted in a while. I should do that. I feel bad." This is followed by many thoughts on what to blog about. "I know, I'll give them my take on healthcare!". The blog gets plotted out in my mind. Oh, the wit! The brilliance of it all. Then, somehow, an hour has passed and I have to go tend to other things like paying bills and walking the dog, and teaching my classes. A day or week goes by, and no blog. Then I think, "My goodness, I still haven't posted!", and the vicious cycle continues.

Well, Hell with that. I write when I write, and if there are months in between, so be it.

So, a quick update on all things me- and yes, I do think the world revolves around me, just like you think the world revolves around you. We are all our own little universes, aren't we?

There are two readings happening on either side of the country. On Sunday, the Seattle Playwrights Collective is doing a reading of "Sunny" as part of their First Look series. This play was originally called "Fenway: Last of the Bohemians", and is co-written with my wife, Lisa Holub. It's loosely based on Uncle Vanya by Anton Chekov. It is set on a faded hippie commune in the mid-1980's- you know, back when conservatives were running around talking about how liberals were ruining the country with all their social and environmental programs. Such a different time. Anyway, if you are in the Seattle area, you should check it out.

The other reading is a benefit performance of Burning the Old Man being put on by the Boomerang Theatre Company as part of it's Legacy Reading Series. So far, this play has been the most successful, and it got it's start with the Boomerangs, so please come out and support a great theatre group. There are lots of things going on with that show- lots of possible productions and such- so please, after reading this, face west, turns around three times, spit, curse, and think good thoughts. And if you are a producer looking for that next big thing, send me an email, and we'll talk.

So that's some of what's going on, theatre wise. As for politics, I still think the far right is out of it's mind. Seriously. The Tea Party people, and followers of Rush and Glenn- I think they are collectively insane. Something about the whole things makes me think of the Brown shirts and the SS in Nazi Germany. See, at first- and I could be remembering my history all wrong- the Nazi's were this group of unhappy, conservative nationalists who blamed the commies and lefties for their ills. Some said they were racist morons. As they grew in power, they were mostly Brown Shirts, or SA. These were the equivalent of moderate conservatives, and I bet some of them said "Well, I don't know about the whole Jew things, but I do think we need to take our country back." After awhile, a more hardline group formed. The SS. These were the super far right crazies, and they eventually took out the leadership of the SA. And by took out I mean killed. No doubt it's my overactive imagination.

Okay- now I have to walk the dog. So I might write more tomorrow, or in a month, or a year. In the mean time, I wish you all well.

We All Should Be as Happy as Kings

2009-10-21T08:35:00.001-07:00

And the leaves that are green turn to brown. Yes, they do- but on the way, they turn red and orange and yellow and all sorts of mystical Nameless (and thus more mysterious and powerful) colors.

It's a cold, drizzly sort of morning here in Colorado- one of those sloppy mixes of snow and rain that, upon first view from the bedroom window, made me think, "oh, don't tell me I have to go out in that". You know what I'm talking about- temperatures above freezing, but just a smidge, ground covered with wet leaves that will stick to your shoes and not come off until you're standing on the carpet you just vacuumed yesterday. The kind of day where a full winter coat is too much and the sweater you're wearing isn't quite enough to keep you from shivering.

And for a good twenty minutes I let myself succumb to the joys of boo-hoo-ing about it.

But I just can't do that for too long. I don't know why, exactly, but the world always seems to me to be this really beautiful place, full of color and sensation and magic. I look up and down my street and see Fall in all it's glory- crisp and real and alive. I go inside and have a cup of coffee and contemplate what to listen to on the stereo while I do my morning's writing. I go with Copeland's music for Our Town. Copeland rocks.

How could I complain about anything, really? Yes, I could use more money, warmer clothes, cleaner shoes- but holy shit am I lucky. Lucky to have been born where I was born, lucky to be in fairly good health, lucky to have married someone I love very much, lucky to have the friends I have. I mean, I must have somehow gotten that bowl of Lucky Charms that actually gives you good luck. Thanks, Leprechaun dude!

There's this really great DVD called 1Giant Leap, which was basically this project these two guys put together, wherein they wrote a bunch of songs about universal themes- love, death, time, sex, God- and then went all over the world recording interviews with different people from all walks of life talking about those themes. They also layed trackes with musicians from all over- so one song might have percussionists from Thailand playing, along with vocalists from South Africa- really groovy, world music kind of stuff that if you listen to on our ipod in the right frame of mind can make you feel like Mickey Mouse in Fantasia after he puts on the Sorcerers hat- powerful and overwhelmed. Anyway- in the segment on time, one of the many people they talked to was Dennis Hopper- and he goes on this tear about how we are all miracles, when you think about it. Here we are on this little planet, shooting through space at incredible speed as we orbit the sun- and somehow, there's life, and music, and people. It's a miracle. We're all miracles.

I feel like that today. Like a miracle.

Of course, my life is pretty good right now, so it's easy to feel like that. I mean, I have a play running in Prague that keeps selling out; I just found out my one act Hela and Troy is going to be published by Playscripts, inc.; I teach children theatre for a living. I don't want to say that life can't be hard- I know that there are days and weeks and months and years that suck ass. There is intolerance, and misery, and sorrow all over, non-stop. There are children starving right now- millions of them- and at the same time, Rush Limbaugh sits on his fat ass and gets paid enormous amounts of money for spouting hate and the soft bigotry of being an asshole.
But still, in spite of everything- I find this world beautiful.

Robert Louis Stevenson wrote, 'The world is so full of a number of things, That we all should be as happy as kings.' He had it pretty good, too- but I think he was right.

I guess the thing to do is revel in this world, and try and help as many people as we can.
And not complain about something as mundane as a change in the weather.

Shake It Up

2009-10-14T15:54:00.000-07:00

Seriously. Shake it up. Not to honor the old song by The Cars, though there's nothing wrong with that notion, but to get the proverbial juices flowing. Get out there and do something different for a moment, an hour, a day. Twist the scenery of your daily pageant and taste something new. Order a different drink at the bar, add cream to your black coffee or salt to your grapefruit.

That's right, salt your damn grapefruit. This has become a blog of daily confirmations, exhortations, and exhilaration. Why not? We let the world say the same old thing, day in and day out, every freaking day- and I have had enough.

More things that we all should do:

Buy the album Vinyl by D'Haene- up and coming band, will rock your soul.
Go to Prague and see my show, Cesta Horiciho Muze- because Prague rocks, and so does my show.
Talk to a total stranger. That's right- even if they have candy.

This isn't a new idea, I know- but it's one of those things we manage to learn and forget over and over, ad infinitum.

Example: this past week, my good friend Jack- resident genius of Jersey City's Art House Productions- came to visit. One of the many great things about company is that it forces us to change our routine, to vary the daily grind- you know, to shake things up.

So shake we did, along with some rattling and rolling, and good times were had by all. Amoung the many excellent things I/we experienced this past week was some great art at the Denver Art Museum. An entire room painted red, with grey foxes running wild. A strangely serene painting of a little girl that supposedly haunts the sixth floor of the North Building- at least that's what the security guards tell me. And this installation by Bjorn Melhus that was friggin' amazing. He basically took a bunch of sound bytes, mostly from Star Trek, and created this Beckett like series of vignettes, with three characters standing on a desolate planet pondering life, love, and our eventual deaths. Very funny, unique, and ultimately moving. And, we got to watch the whole thing while sitting on bean bag chairs.

It was one of those little moments in life that I knew, as it was happening, was for some unknown reason, important to my thread of being. I know that, years from now, I'll think of that artwork and smile, perhaps even be inspired in something I am working on, to new levels of brilliance.

All because of a slight variation in schedule.

Shake it up, baby, with all you've got.

And then see where the paint spatters have landed.

Surf's Up

2009-09-09T10:01:00.000-07:00

Okay- I think that I, along with many others, have sort of drifted along through this summer of our discontent; of bizarre town hall meetings packed with loud, rude whacko's getting all riled up about socialism and healthcare; of all sorts of things that fill the web pages and tv sets and then float off into the ether. I've been kind of drifting since the election, as far as politics go. I think we all- or a vast majority of us- just thought "well, we elected the good guys, now we can get on with our lives and all shall be well". It's like we all turned into Uatu, the Watcher. Uatu was this bald dude who lived on the Moon and watched the world spin along and do it's thing- but never got involved. He also would narrate the "What If?" comic book- with storylines like "What If Spiderman joined the Fantastic Four?", or "What if Captain America was the President of the United States"- kind of cool conjecture on reality and the butterfly effect and all that.
And that's me of late- a couch potato on the moon watching the world spin, speculating on questions like, "What if we had universal health care? What if I was a commie and didn't know it? What if all those phoney looking angry folks at the town hall meetings really were bunch of fakes, like those dudes in Florida who stormed the recount when Bush stole the election?"

Well, the time has come to shake off that alter-ego, and get busy.

I don't know why, exactly, but of late I am filled with this need to do something more than just sit on my ass. Maybe it's because I watched Obama's speech to school children yesterday- maybe it's a reaction to the insanity of all those on the right who scream so loudly about the End of Days coming in the form of socialized medicine- I don't know. All I know is that break time is over, and it's time for all of us to do more than just watch. It's time for us to re-engage on the level we did during the election- or even more. Time for us to call our senators and representatives and governors and friends and strangers- to stand up and be counted.

To become Norrin Radd, The Silver Surfer.

That's right. I said it. Time for us to wield the power cosmic and go up against impossibly huge foes like Galactus, devourer of worlds, Satan (i.e. the G.O.P.), and the Insurance Industry.

The Silver Surfer sacrificed everything he had to save his world- he gave up his home, his family, the love of his life-he even gave up his hair- all of it, and this was before it became cool for dudes to shave their heads.

Yes, at times it might be lonely, gliding through the galaxy on our cosmic surfboard- but it's the right thing to do.

I called both my senators the other day, and when I did, I felt the power cosmic coursing through my body. It was excellent- and so freakin' easy. I mean, what excuse do any of us have for not contacting our elected officials in this age of the internets?

So come on, my fellow heroes- time to gear up and kick some ass.

I challenge you all to watch the President's speech tonight, and then talk to at least five people about it afterwards- five people whom you haven't spoken to in at least one month.

Surf's up.

Right wing, you suck

2009-07-29T15:53:00.000-07:00

Okay- so I've kind of taken it easy on the old blog since the election- seemed liked things were good, we got a bunch of people in office, including the big one on Pennsylvania Ave.- what could possibly go wrong?

Ah, yes. I forgot. As Stephen King once wrote, there are a lot of assholes out there, and they travel in packs.

Let me put it another way:

The Right Wing sucks donkeys.

Seriously. The entire right wing sucks donkey dongs.

I don't know why this upsets me- it's been this way pretty much my entire life. But still, I get angry.

To speak to one facet of my dismay, let's talk about health care, or the lack thereof for most Americans. It's absurd. We have the most expensive health care system in the world, but not the most affective or available. Aren't we supposed to be The USA, the country that people are proud to be from? So, Obama et al try to get something going, get something passed that will help the average citizen- and the right wing goes whacko- I mean like Michael Jackson Whacko Jacko. There is a whole set out there trying to convince our seniors that the plan Obama is pushing will basically encourage euthanasia of the elderly. Isn't that nice? The politics of fear is alive and well and lives in the heart of all those cheating, lying, creepy old white men who are the GOP.

But then, this is not news, is it? We all know that the GOP, and to a lesser extent some in the Democratice party, suck at the teat of the great Corporate Cow who rules over us all, the Great Bovine of the Military Industrial Complex.

What to do?

I think, first off- I'm calling my senators and congress person and telling them to get with the program or I will do as much as I can to make sure they don't keep their office.
Next, I am going to pray to every God I can think of to either curse those bastards, or make the scales fall from their eyes.

Then I'm going to listen to some really good music- maybe Arcade Fire or the Shins or the D'Haene or Robbie Gil.

And then I'll watch the Daily Show and the Colbert Report to keep my sense of humor.

And God bless Conan for having Shatner do Palin. Whoopee.

Open Letter to the Management

2009-04-23T09:13:00.001-07:00

Dear Sir or Madam,

Would you read my book? Sorry, couldn't resist the Beatles reference. I don't really know quite how to address you- in my own little life, I've called you all sorts of things- God, the Great Master of All Scouts, the Cosmos, Loki, Odin, Zeus, the Goddess, Mother Earth, Crazy Bastard- let's face it, there are lots of names for you- but I think they all point to the same thing- you, the head honcho, Optimus Prime on a galactic scale. Anyway- here's the thing. I was driving along on my way to work this morning, listening to talk radio and drifting through my morning thoughts when I came upon a memory of this talk given at one of the many Young Life meetings I went to when I was in high school. It was an analogy about how you sacrificed your son to save the world. The analogy went something like this: a man was in charge of a draw bridge for trains. He had a son who was a little rambunctious. One day, a train was coming, and the bridge had just been raised to let a boat pass. The man got ready to lower the bridge. At the last moment, he saw that his son was goofing around under the bridge, and he realized that if he lowered the bridge, his son would die. He also knew that the train was too close to stop in time, and if he didn't lower that damn bridge, everyone on that train was going to die. The man had to decide what to do- and in heroic and tragic style, he decided to go for the greater good, lowered the bridge- and with tears in his eyes, waved at the people in the train as they passed. (that part of the story always struck me as a bit much- I mean, the dude just squished his son and now he's stoically waving as tears roll by? Give me a break) I thought the analogy off in that I am pretty sure that, if you exist and did indeed sacrifice your son so that people may life, you must have known about the whole resurrection thing- right? Yes, Jesus was not in the loop- but you are the Alpha and Omega, and nothing gets by you.

But I digress- I am writing you with a simple request- can you please lift the Curse of the Dumbino off of the NY Yankees? You know what I'm talking about- the curse that has been on them even since they let Pres. Dummy throw out a pitch in the 2001 World Series. Sure, they brought it on themselves by letting such a crass and obvious political ploy occur during the Fall Classic- but enough already. It's not like they traded a slugger/pitcher by the name of Ruth in order to finance a show. If you can't lift it outright, what do they have to do? Let Michael Moore throw out a pitch? Smear some lambs blood over the entrance to the stadium?

I am sure you are very busy, but if you could look into this matter, I'd greatly appreciate it.

Thanks in advance,

Kelly

GOP should take a vow of poverty

2009-03-11T08:04:00.000-07:00

Guess what? Hoovervilles are back! Thanks, Republicans!

Okay, I think it's pretty clear to most people that I think the GOP is a party full of assholes.

How could I not? Or to put it another way, why should I feel any different? What have they done for me, ever? And before anyone can say "What about Reagan?" let me say this: Old Ronnie sucked.

He came off as kind of a nice old fart, but really, his policies stank: he lied about Iran-Contra (you remember that, when we dealt with a terrorist nation and even sold them arms, all so that we could turn around and illicitly support a bunch of killers in Central America), he drove up the national debt in numbers that were until that time unthinkable; he invaded Grenada; in short, he was a dick. There, I said it.

But I digress. The question now is, how can the party of Drinky McDumbAss (also known as George Bush) make me like them?

Simple: take a vow of poverty.

Seriously, if Boner and all his pals in congress took a vow of poverty to show America how to cut spending in a meaningful way, I'd sit up and take notice. If they then cut all their staffs in half, took public transportation, and gave all their worldly goods to charity in this time of need, I'd think that maybe they weren't all bad. Most of the Republicans seem to court the vote of the religious right- which is to say Christian fundamentalists- and I am fairly certain Jesus would totally approve of this.

Now, I realize there could be some problems. If, for instance, Rush Limbaugh got in on this and decided to try and emulate St. Francis (who was pretty cool) by walking around naked, that would be a bad thing. (I do think that fat bastard should sell his gold microphone and give the proceeds to charity. Yes, he's entitled to it- but there's something sort of Marie Antoinette in it's lavishness that doesn't sit well in these times of need)

Just think of all the money the government would save. It could be millions. Hell, if they only took a cut in pay and benefits equal to what they think the auto union workers should take, that would go a long way in cutting the deficit. It could certainly help keep some of the 8,800 teachers from being fired in LA. Or maybe the saved money could go towards helping New Orleans get back on it's feet.

So how about it, party of old white dudes, with a few women and people of color? Why not have every local, state, and federal Repub. in office refuse to be paid, and have the money go back into the budgets from whence they came?

Stop following Anus, God of Speaking out of both sides of your Ass, and start following the example set by that carpenter dude.

Lead by example.

ENIK'S CIRCLE

2009-02-02T07:59:00.000-08:00

So Sunday, like a lot of people, I watched the Super Bowl and all of it's bonus features- the pre-show, the post-show, Bruce Springsteen- and the commercials. All of it was pretty cool- and I especially like seeing Obama having the guts to actually say he was for Pittsburgh- as opposed to some equivocating "may the best team win" baloney that you would expect from a politician- but what got me the most excited was the trailer for the new movie version of The Land of the Lost starring Will Ferrell. I used to watch that show when it first came out, and I really loved it.
And I have this weird memory of a certain episode that I wasn't sure I had really seen, or only imagined or dreamt I had seen- the storyline seems so strange, so over the top for Saturday morning early 1970's fare. As the years have passed, I've become less and less sure as to whether I ever really saw the episode in question or had made it up due to an overactive imagination coupled with a fascination and fear of death.

Here's what I remember from Land of the Lost in general, and of that existential episode in particular. Marshall, Will, and Holly, on a routine expedition, met the greatest earthquake ever known- and were sucked down this giant toilet bowl in granite of some sort to this place with several moons, lots of odd flora and fauna, and dinosaurs- not to mention monkey people and the dreaded Sleestack- or maybe it's Sleezstack- these bug-like lizard people who hiss a lot and don't take kindly to the Marshall clan. How the Marshall's survive in this strange world is basically the show. But that was just the beginning. Soon after their arrival, they meet Enik (whose name just happens to be the Greek word for cinema spelled backwards)- a tan looking sleeztack who can talk and is groovy and not quite so mean as his cousins- who turn out to be his descendants, as he comes from a distant past, and for some reason (like voting Republican too often) his people have become a bunch of cranky assholes. Among the cool things Enik can do is move these power crystals around in these funky little pyramids called Pylons that are all over the place. Ok- Marshalls, dinosaurs, multiple moons, monkey people, sleeztacks, and funky ass Enik. That's the general stuff about Land O' Lost.

Now the weird episode. Somehow, the Marshalls and Enik end up in this particularly powerful Pylon, and Enik is like "Hey, I have some serious shit to tell you about", and Mr. Marshall says "Oh?" and Enik is like "Yeah. It's pretty heavy. You better sit down." Picking up on the heaviness, Mr. Marshall tells Enik to give it to him straight, so Enik tells him "you don't belong here, amigo- something is all wrong with you being here". At this point, Marshall is getting pretty pissed off, and Enik can tell, so he shows him some stuff- telling him "this is not going to be so nice, but you asked for it, so here goes". Then Enik moves some crystals around, and on the screen in the Pylon they see the accident that brought them to the Land of the Lost in the first place- and Marshall gets all serious and says "there's no way we could have lived through that", and Enik goes "You didn't". Then they see the three dead Marshalls, and talk about some variation on Nietzsche and his theory of eternal recurrence. End of show.
Now that is a weird thing to have on a kiddie show- and you can see why I thought maybe I had dreamt it up.

But after seeing the trailer during the Super Bowl, I was reminded yet again of that strange episode- of how it dawned on me that the Land of the Lost was really the Land of the Dead- and I turned to Google.

Turns out it really was an episode, called Circle, written by Larry Niven and David Gerrold. It was the final episode of the first season, when they thought there wasn't going to be a season two. Oddly, the show got picked up and the whole they're all dead thing went away- but I never forgot that. I was eight when I saw Circle. Weird.

So what has that to do with things today?

Not much- except for this- I think we are kind of in a Land of the Lost right now, a crazy place where the past, the present, and the future are all happening at the same time- there are deadly dinosaurs running around in the form of greedy CEOs and senators against stimulating the economy, preserving the environment, letting gay people marry, etc.- there are Sleaze Stacks like Madoff and Cheney and Bush- who are like devolved, smelly versions of human beings-
and if we don't stop all the madness that has reigned over us for the past eight years, we'll be looking at ourselves sprawled on the side of a riverbank, realizing that we're the walking dead.

Fare Thee Well, George Francis

2008-12-29T09:04:00.000-08:00

George Francis died the other day. He was 112. He was the oldest man living in the U.S. at the time of his departure for points unknown, for that undiscovered country old Billy Bob you-know-who wrote about way back when. I think a lot about death and time and what happens when we shuffle off this mortal coil- even more so around the holidays when so many ghosts of Christmas past run amok- so I took particular interest in this story about Mr. Francis and his recent demise. Here was a guy who was born when years, as counted in the western world, began with 18- as in the Nineteenth Century. Too bad he didn't get to see tomorrow and all that it will bring. But then again, 112 years is a lot of living, and that guy got to see a lot of stuff none of us will ever, unless we somehow become friends with Marty McFly and his time traveling DeLorean. If I live to be 112, I wonder what things I will see- what new wonders, what epic tragedies? I guess (and by the way, I am dropping the use of the small "i" when I say I) I've seen a lot in my days- but there's a lot I'd like to see that hasn't happened yet- like people on Mars, contact with Aliens, a feature film of The Hobbit. Yeah, I dream big.

So.

This morning, I saw the stupidest segment on the Today show- wherein this super white bread reporter was pondering whether Barack Obama is as "gangsta" as Fifty-Cent. Nothing like a bunch of honkeys trying to act street to make one want to barf. It just blew my mind that, with all that is happening in the country, with all that is riding on the upcoming presidency- this is something they choose to take the time to make an entire segment out of- how cool is Obama? Seriously, that's just lame. It was sort of like when Doctor Evil told his son Scott "I'm hip, I'm with it" and then went into a bizarre version of the Macarana.

Speaking of the new Administration, I got an e-mail the other day urging the creation of a Secretary of the Arts- which I think is an awesome idea. Here is a link with more on the subject:
www.petitiononline.com/esnyc/petition.html. I hope you all sign it, and pass it along to everyone you know- we should be the world leader in the arts, not the world slacker.

What? We don't slack? There are great things going on right here, right now?
I know, but I still think our government needs to get a better grasp of the Arts and their place in society.

Okay, that's it- my first blog of 2009- sort of rambling, but I only had one cup of coffee so far, so what do you expect?

And lest I end without at least one plug, the web site is up for Gravity and Glass, which is producing my new play Hela and Troy- here's the link:
Gravity and Glass.

So. let's all live to 113 at least, and let's all be gangsta cool the whole ride.

Cesta hořícího muže

2008-12-08T09:34:00.000-08:00

Hi- the translated title of Burning the Old Man has changed, and I know you all would want to know that- so below is the blurb on the play. I think my new favorite word is neohipiku.

Kelly McAllister: Cesta hořícího muže

Překlad Víktor Janiš
Režie Maria Záchenská

Česká premiéra duben 2009

Dva rozhádaní bratři vyrážejí na přání nedávno zesnulého otce na cestu k místu, které si jejich příbuzný vyvolil jako místo posledního odpočinku. Uváznou těsně před cílem, v laciném hotýlku kdesi v poušti společně s barmankou, dvojicí neohipíků a rozzlobeným mužem středního věku. Putování s urnou je hořkosladká a velmi vtipná hra o smrti, nepříjemných rodinných pravdách i o plameni vášně, který dřímá v každém z nás a který může být tak snadno uhašen.

Feeling Groovy

2008-11-21T08:58:00.000-08:00

You ever notice how life is like a bowl of chocolates? Wait a minute- i've heard that somewhere, in some strange dream that mashed up Andy Rooney and Forrest Gump. Still, it is a pretty good thing, life. Of late, i've been thinking positively. Yes, i know- what a shock. Me, thinking things will turn out well. What can i say? We live on this beautiful planet, that has birds and music and the Beatles and Obama and my wife's celestial eyes- i have never, even at times of great despair- never found this world to be anything but a miracle. So, here we are at that time of year in America when we all are supposed to think about what we are thankful for- and i thought I'd share a couple things, and then ask you all to send in things you're thankful for as well, so that we can all groove in karmic goodness.
i am thankful for this moment i had during the opening night of the play i've been working on with Watershed High up in Boulder. It was an original piece put together by the students, and was one of those shows that came together and surpassed all expectations, and was a huge success. i was in the theatre, watching the kids perform- the house was full, the play was stunning, and all the kids had this look of wondrous magic on their faces. And i thought, wow, i had something to do with getting them to that place. Cool. Thanks Universe.
i'm also thankful for my wife's encouragement with my writing. She's the education director for Clementine Art School (see link to the right), and leaves for work about two hours before i do- and often i take that time to get some writing in- being the wife of a writer who is still waiting for that big break can be rough, but she's the best. So thanks, gorgeous.
And this morning i'm thankful to Gravity and Glass Productions, who have wisely decided to include my new one act Hela and Troy in their Valentines Week-end presentation of one-acts at CenterStage in NYC. So thanks!
Yes, life is being good to me right now. i think it always is- yes, there are things that suck, like death, the current administration, etc.- but all in all, i dig it.

Change feels good

2008-11-10T09:39:00.001-08:00

i woke up this morning feeling exceptionally wonderful- like i was about to go on a trip to Europe or had just won the Pulitzer Prize or something. i don't know why, exactly. i just feel great. Maybe i'm in the middle of a mood swing, and in reality i am in dire straits, psychologically speaking. But i don't think so. Part of it has to do with Barak Obama winning the election- no doubt. i didn't realize just how down these past eight years had gotten me until Tuesday night. It's like we all were stuck in a horrible situation and were pretending it wasn't so bad- like we were collectively the Black Knight from Monty Python and the Holy Grail or something. And i mean after Arthur chopped off all his limbs and he said "it's just a flesh wound." That was us every time we watched the news and some new terrible decision had been made by the Decider. "Just a flesh wound". But those days are gone. When it was announced that our long national nightmare was over, i sat there on the couch at our friends Tim and Steph's house, and had the most complete catharsis of my life- it was just insane. All these pent up feelings of joy and sorrow and hope and fear came flying out, like all those vices that flew out of Pandora's box back in the days of myth. In a nano-second, i cried, laughed, gasped, cheered, wished my mother and father could have lived to see this day, jumped up and down, and cried some more. All in a nano-second. My soul felt better- feels better- is better.
Whoopee.
i've always kind of felt like there is a specific path i am supposed to follow- like there are things i am meant to do. i know, it's magical thinking. Whatever. i still feel that way. There have been times when i've known i was in the wrong place- like when my boss at the restaurant where i worked as a singing waiter told me that if i had to shovel shit, i should be the best shit shoveler there was. No, i thought- if my job is shoveling shit, then it's time to seek other employment- which i did. Sitting there listening to that bizarre advice was a moment when i knew i had strayed from my path. Something was wrong- the world was not working the way it was supposed to. That's how i've felt ever since the nightmare in Florida that gave us the current Pretender-in-Chief. Like something was amiss. Now, there have also been times when i've known, with absolute certainty, that i was where i was supposed to be, like the day i got married. There we were in Prague, the City of Magic, saying our vows while the ancient clocked chimed and thousands of passersby cheered and took snapshots. i was where i was supposed to be, doing exactly what i was supposed to be doing, and all was well with the world.
When the election was called for Obama, i knew that the world was back on track- and that somehow, i too was on the right path.
And things are starting to click in my life. Final paperwork is being signed in Prague right now for a production of Burning the Old Man set to go up in April at Vaclav Havel's old theatre, Divaldlo na Zabradli. The latest book i'm featured in, One on One- The Best Men's Monologue's for the 21st Century, hit the bookshelves this week, and i am very proud of that- especially since it also features such stellar writers as August Wilson and Spaulding Gray. Work on the tv project about Edgar Cayce that i'm working on with my buddy Myles Reed is coming together- whole new stand alone episode set to be sent out, and i am confident some wise producer will read it and say, "yes, with the way those glorious winds of change are blowing, now is the time to green light this baby!". Oh yes, it will happen.

In short, things just rock right now.

i'm even excited to rake the leaves out back.

So thanks, Mr. Obama, for helping put the world back in order.

Going Obama in Denver

2008-10-27T19:37:00.001-07:00

I live in a battleground state - which makes it sound like I'm in No Man's Land, and that when I look out the window I should see nothing but trenches, barbed wire, and smoke rising from machine gun nests. "Well, Lieutenant McAllister, the GOP is 40 clicks past that blasted out farmhouse- your mission is to take five of your best men and retake the district. God be with you". Instead, I look up and down my street, and I see suburbia- quiet houses, leaves falling, people out walking their dogs- you know, the usual thing conjured in most of our minds when we hear of the ubiquitous "Main Street". It doesn't feel like a battleground- it feels like America.
On Sunday, Obama gave a speech downtown, and we decided to go. It was a great day. I got up a little before 8, made coffee for myself and Lisa, and then headed downtown. Lisa and some friends were meeting me later, so I had a nice half hour stroll on a gorgeous Autumn morning. As I neared the park where the speech was going to be, more and more people appeared, walking along, smiling, drinking coffee, wearing pins and stickers and tee shirts proclaiming their support for Obama-Biden. There was this electric excitement in the air- it reminded me of what it felt like in high school when you went to a concert- an electric sense of expectation and good fortune. Several helicopters hovered over downtown, buzzing in the distance. About ten blocks from the park, I began running into volunteers telling people where to go, how to get in, and so

on.

Some on them had info on state elections- amendments, state senators, etc. My anticipation was rising, and I just felt great- I felt magic, blessed- like the Blues Brothers, I was on a mission from God.

I was going to see the next President of the United States. Oh yes, I was.

There's an area in downtown Denver called the Golden Triangle, which includes the state Capital, the new Art Museum, the Main Library, and the Civic Park where the speech was going to take place. It's one of those great places full of parks, plaza's, and noteworthy architecture. I walked along past the giant Cow statues (yes, we have giant bovine statuary here in the Mile High City), through the plaza in front of the museum, and came upon the Great Line. It stretched out from the park, then turned, circled around the library, and headed back, like a great U of humanity. I began to realize that there were going to be a lot of people.
I walked past the crowd, to see where the line started and to take it all in. Near the gates stood a solitary figure, a McCain supporter with a big sign saying Obama was a socialist. I asked him if he believed that, and he told me that he was a veteran, that he was 60 years old, and that he had never been scared of any politician before- but that Obama frightened him. He pointed at my Obama shirt and said "that guy scares me. His domestic stuff is okay, but there's no way he can lead our troops over seas." He seemed nice enough- just of a vastly different opinion than mine. Next, I walked the line, around the library, along the edge of the park, and down Colfax- one of the main streets in that section of town.
I walked through the upper end of the park, through the throngs, and came across a group of protesters. Most of them wore togas, and one of them was dressed up like a big orange cat or bear or something. I asked of them what the togas were for, and was told it signified how "Obama thinks he's all like a Greek dude, standing in front of those columns!". I asked him if he meant the columns Obama stood in front of when he gave his acceptance speech during the DNC. "Yeah," he said, "he thinks he's like Jesus or something".

"Don't you think that's a stretch?" I asked. "Yeah, totally. He's not a messiah!". I began to suspect this guy and his pals were nuts.
I walked on, and literally ran into an old friend, which I took as a sign that I was where I was supposed to be. That's me and my old pal Dan in the photo with Obama waving- we're in the middle, about halfway up the crowd. It might be hard to make us out as there were over 100,000 people in the park that day. Lisa showed up, as did our friends the Andersons- and we basked in the glow of the event. The warm up acts were Governor Ritter, Senator Salazar, the Democratic nominee for Senator Udall- lots of really great people, and we listened to them happily- but everyone was waiting for the big event- Obama. And finally, he walked out. The crowd went nuts. It really is like a rock concert to see this guy speak. He walks on stage, and it's like when Bono walked out during the Unforgettable Fire tour, way back in the eighties. Somehow, Obama (and Bono) know how to connect to a crowd. It's that X factor that people either have, or don't. Clinton had it, too- that ability to communicate. I don't know why more people don't have- but they don't. I mean, look at President Dummy- every time old George speaks, I don't feel like I've been spoken to as much as I feel like I've been lied to yet again.

After the speech, we made our way towards home, stopping for a late breakfast and to talk about the speech. Lisa and I decided to vote early, which you can do here in Colorado- and yesterday, we did just that. The voting center was packed, but we only had to wait about half an hour. I brought my passport as my means of identification, because I didn't want to have any trouble voting, and a passport is the best means of I.D. Maybe I was being over cautious, but then again, maybe I wasn't. I worry because I think the GOP cheats, that they have for at least the past eight years and that they are going to cheat this time. I bet you dollars to doughnuts that the exit polls will show a much larger margin of victory for Obama than what the precincts counts will show- not due to the mythical "Bradley effect", but due to cheating on behalf of a washed up party that is more out of touch with the public than Richard III was in Act Five. I can see it now, some GOP operative somewhere on election night, or maybe many of them, writhing about in the agony of defeat, realising that this time they just couldn't cheat their way into the White House, screaming "Another ballot box, another ballot box, my kingdom for another ballot box."

Oogie Boogie Man

2008-10-20T19:15:00.000-07:00

We're watching the mini-series version of Stephen King's The Stand right now- the one from the early nineties, which seems like it wasn't that long ago but somehow is. How did that happen? i really don't get this whole concept of time and movement and life and death. i know that everything in the past, from the beginning of the scene i'm watching right now (Rob Lowe as Nick Andros just left the jail in Arkansas) to a million years ago are all the same distance from me- what is it that Tom says at the end of The Glass Menagerie? There is no greater distance between two places than time, or something like that. i know that to be true. However, there are these time worm-holes, powered by memory, that span that vast distance of experience in the blink of the eye. i think that as we go along in this world, we all become time travelers- occasionally popping through these portals and finding ourselves in a room that hasn't existed for fifteen years or more, talking with some people who no longer walk the same roads we who call ourselves alive do. And as we move along the highway, it happens more and more often- i'll be sitting at a wedding reception, and in the time it takes to pour some cream in my coffee, i'll go to several other wedding receptions from days that somehow have gone by, never to be seen again by waking eyes.

i just think that's weird.

i wonder what if John McCain ever time travels- if he's ever shot back to some other event in his life. i bet he does. i was watching some footage a little over a week ago- which might as well be a million years ago- and McCain was giving a speech, and some nut job in the audience yelled out "terrorist!", and McCain got this look on his face or regret, of sorrow, of "oh boy, i really did sell my soul, didn't i?"- and i think maybe he went on a little journey right then, to some other time- maybe to some moment where he learned about dignity and having a soul- like i said, it's pure conjecture. But i think it happened.

What is happening to us, as a nation? We're so full of anger and fear and sorrow, we don't know what to do. It's like the past eight years have been a variation on Captain Tripps, the man-made plague let loose on the world in The Stand, only instead of killing our bodies, this version has killed ninety-nine percent of our soul. And now, as we wander the wastelands, we have to decide whom to stand with- the Walking Dude, who caters to our more selfish, fearful half, or with Mother Abigail, who appeals to our better angels.

i have hope we will go with Mother Abigail, but it's going to require sacrifice.

And I quote...

2008-10-05T16:33:00.000-07:00

"The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in our selves, that we are underlings". That's from Julius Caesar, and it's one of my favorite lines from Shakespeare, and also from modern American history. See, Edward R. Murrow used most of that line while talking about McCarthyism. i remember being a young man of 14 or so and seeing some documentary about that, and i was so impressed with the whole thing- Murrow, his style, his gravitas, and his ability to quote Shakespeare like that. How cool that a quote hundreds of years old could be so pertinent to the here and now. For some reason, that moment resonated with me. i wanted to be able to quote things like Murrow did. It was the same admiration i felt for Bobby Kennedy the first time i heard a recording of the impromptu speech he gave the night Martin Luther King died and he quoted Aeschylus. There is something inherently comforting in the idea of human beings from long ago saying things that are still timely today- some sort of implied order to this chaotic world, and whenever i come across those moments of quotation, i feel like less of a quotidian. Sorry, i couldn't resist the alliteration. So, the other night, Stephen Colbert went on this riff about which Shakespearean characters the candidates resembled- and i was in heaven. First, he likened McCain to the Scottish Laird- a man of honor who loses all that is good about himself to achieve power. Then Colbert compared McCain to Prospero- a cranky old man living on an island with a creature that nobody liked (at the mention of the creature, a picture of Lieberman can on the screen). If you want to see the whole thing, go here.
What is most interesting to me, as a writer, is that i take more comfort in pertinent quotes in times of trouble than when things are going well. And right now, what with all that's going on economically, politically, and environmentally, you have to admit things are pretty scary. Yet, old quotes make me feel better. "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times". Ah, Yes! Thank you Mr. Dickens! "May you live in interesting times"- oh, damn you old curse. "These are the times that try [peoples] souls." Amen. We need to know that others have been through something similar to what we have gone through- it's comforting. It's human. In fact, it seems to me that what truly gives comfort to most of us in the hard times are the humanities- music, poetry, stories- and of course love. All those material things we have sort of lose their stature- I mean, when you read about the stock market crashing, do you go out and stare at your car and think "boy, it's all right- I've got a hybrid!"? No- it's when you remember something you heard once in a story, or said by someone you loved or looked up to, that you start to feel okay.
Okay, I feel a little rambly right now- what I mean to say is just this- money really can't buy you shit, in the long run. Money is a lie, a made up system for trading stuff that can vanish far quicker than a dream you have in those last minutes of sleep after you've already hit the snooze button. And unlike that dream, which may come back to you from time to time, when money goes- it's gone. Poof.
So, here's your assignment for today- think of some quote- it can be from a song, a movie, a poem- whatever- that somehow relates to you at this very moment in time. Say it out loud. Carry it with you for the day. Share it with someone. And wonder and how great and mysterious it is to be a human being.

Public Enemies

2008-09-29T12:11:00.000-07:00

About a month ago, my wife Lisa and I drove out to Wisconsin to visit family in the North Woods, which is what they call the northern section of the Badger State, an area full of lakes and trees and hundreds of charming little towns. Manitowish Waters is one such place, and we were told that a movie had just been shot up there starring Johnny Depp. The movie is called Public Enemies, and follows the exploits of several bank robbers from the early 1930's- you know, the Great Depression. Now not all of the movie was filmed up there, but one section, which revolved around a famous gunfight at the lodge Little Bohemia, does. The lodge is still there today, and the food is great. If you're ever anywhere near the area, go. But I'm not writing today on behalf of the Wisconsin Board of Tourism. No, I'm writing today because after we went up to Little Bohemia and heard all about the gangsters who hid out up north, my mother-in-law Red Miller gave me a copy of the book Public Enemies- which I am fairly certain is the main source for the movie. It's a great read, and follows the exploits of Dillinger, Pretty Boy Floyd, the Barker Gang, Machine Gun Kelly, and Bonnie and Clyde. (on a tangent, click here for a very funny short music video about B and C that features Bridgette Bardot) As I read of these famous outlaws, whom have all been lionised to one degree or other by our collective pop culture, I began to think about what it was that made them popular with so many people. Never before, for me at any rate, has the answer been so clear, and so resonant. In general, American banks and the folks who run Wall Street are perceived as institutions that screw the American people over and over, all in the name of greed- and when someone comes along and takes money away from those avaricious bastards, it feels good.
I wonder what would happen if someone starting looting Bank of America somehow, or Morgan Stanley, or whoever- what if there was a gang who kept taking money from these giant operations and somehow got away with it for a while? Would there be people who cheered them? What if some rogue found a way to rob some of those CEO's of their "golden parachutes"? Wouldn't he or she be an instant hero? I bet you, in the current atmosphere of fear and desperation pervading the American psyche, that if some nut job walked up to Treasury Secretary Hank Paulson and kicked him in the balls, said nut job would be an instant hit on YouTube, and on the cover of every major news magazine, web site, etc. within a day.
Isn't that amazing? We now live in a time where it's really easy to understand the mindset of the average American during the Great Depression.
Speaking of which, the Dow dropped over 700 points today after the House failed to pass the economic Bail Out plan. Just exactly who are the public enemies these days?

It's the End of the World as We Know It, and I Feel Fine

2008-09-26T08:13:00.000-07:00

I am surprised that there aren't more mentions of Ragnarok these days. Ragnarok, also known as the Twilight of the Gods, the End of All Things, and what's on the TV tonight. Maybe the similarity between current times and the Norse story of the end of the world is going to be the talking point for one of the political parties next week, after we are told yet again that the next Great Depression is almost here. While it is clear that times are a-changin', and that things aren't necessarily coming up roses at the moment, I find it hard to take all the gloom and doom from the current Masters of the Universe seriously. I've just heard it too much, too often, and from too many stuffed shirts whom I don't trust. (see Bush, George)

The right side of the political spectrum seems to be talking out of both sides of its mouth ad nauseum, like an uptight version of the Roman god Janus, if I may switch pantheons. And it's nothing new. Remember how after the attacks of 9/11, in between dire warnings of dirty bombs, anthrax, and Bin Laden, we were told to go shopping? Now we're being told about Washington Mutual crumbling, but not to worry, everything will work out if we can just get this bail out thing worked out.

Right.

I think I am doing Janus a dis-service by comparing those on the right to that venerable God of Doorways, beginnings, and endings. (and I'm not being soft on Janus just because I used him in my play Some Unfortunate Hour) No, let's lose the "J" and make a new god- Anus, American God of politics, known for talking out of both sides of his ass.

Okay, let's be fair. There are people on the left who do that as well. But it seems to me that the right has the lion's share of Anus-like folk. Just watch Fox News for a few minutes if you don't believe me.

All I'm saying, in a rambling, off kilter sort of way- is that I think the powers that be are full of crap, and I don't feel any comfort when I listen to them, with the exception of a few good folk, like Barney Frank and our next president, Barak Obama.

Okay. Rant over.

Just one more thing. My brilliant friend Jack Halpin texted me a great quote that I want to share with you all: Shooting wolves from a plane is to hunting what hiring a prostitute is to dating. Sadly true.

Now I am off to the races, to teach theatre to children, try to figure out how to sell my screenplay Elsewhere (an adaptation of my first play, Last Call), and then it's home to watch the debates, which for the moment are on again. But that's just what Anus is saying, so we'll see if it's comes to pass.

If you have any further insights to the American God Anus, please share them in the comment section of this blog.

God Bless America.

Friday wrap up

2008-09-19T18:28:00.000-07:00

So, here it is the end of the week, and my God did a lot of things happen. First off, i got this nasty cold that's been going around out here in Colorado- call it the purple state flu or something like that. i've felt out of it, underwater, and just plain off- maybe it's just the fact that the economy has tanked in ways that didn't seem possible to most of us. i have read plenty about the Great Depression- Hoovervilles, the crash, and all that- but i never thought i'd be able to relate to it as well as i think we all can now. It boggles the mind, and nobody seems to be able to explain what's happened completely. If you can tell me what the hell is going on- other than that a bunch of greedy bastards have somehow screwed the pooch to the tune of a trillion dollar bail out- let me know. Let us all know.

Anyway.

i also made the huge mistake of watching the re-make of The Wicker Man the other night. Re-makes almost always stink. It's some sort of rule. i had this thought while watching it that McCain is sort of a re-make of Bush. Seriously- same basic plot, same basic characters- just sexed up a little. No thanks.

i enjoyed watching the polls move in favor of Obama. Oh yes i did.

i also got my confirmation of being registered to vote here in Colorado. This will be the first presidential election i've voted in during which i don't live in either California or New York- so it's kind of cool to think my vote could help turn a traditionally red state blue.

Also found a cool article by playwright Eve Ensler about Governor Strangelove.

Speaking of playwrights, this Monday in NYC, a scene from Burning the Old Man will be presented at the NYIT Awards. The scene is being presented by Boomerang Theatre Co., who are being presented with the Caffe Cino Fellowship Award. The presentation will feature the talents of one of my best friends, Vinnie Penna, so i am very happy. On top of that, Martin and Rochelle Denton will be recognised with the Stewardship award for all the amazing work they do with both nytheatre.com and NYTE. They are the main reason i am a playwright, and their value to the theatre is incalculable.
So, if you are in NYC and can make it, go to the show- on top of the awards and scenes, there will be the likes of Edward Albee, Blue Man Group, and many other giants of theatre.
Also this week, the president spoke twice, for a couple of minutes, about how things stink and not to worry and we may as well try to flap our arms as if they're wings in the belief that it'll make us fly. Maybe it was part of the cold, but i just couldn't focus on him when he spoke.
Speaking of the Purple State Cold- yes, that's now it's official name- my head is feeling warm and it's time to rest.

It's the Economy, Again

2008-09-15T16:36:00.000-07:00

Well, no sooner had I posted my second blog about how it was all over for McCain & Co., than the stock market crashed and burned- big time, to borrow a phrase from Mr. Cheney. And with that crash comes the country-wide realization that yes, indeed, the issues matter. A lot.
Most of us have never lived in anything close to such trying times as these. The economy is being called the worst since the Great Depression. The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan are not really going so well. McCain can say "we're winning" as much as he wants- until I see our troops coming home in huge numbers- indeed, until the troop level in Iraq is at least a little lower than pre-surge- I don't think people are going to buy it. Not for any significant length of time. And then there's global climate change, which some people say is the reason we have so many monster storms demolishing Texas and Louisiana again and again. Let's face it, folks- things are rough, and as such, issues matter very much.
Campaigns can write as many speeches as they want, manufacturing righteous indignation about imagined slurs in between cute stories about hunting Moose on the tundra- that won't and can't stop the world from turning and bringing the unexpected. Stuff happens, to borrow a phrase from another pillar of society. And when said stuff happens, we inevitably take a longer look at who is applying for the job of running the joint once the current head honcho hits the bricks. McPalin looked fine when the issue was personality and moose hunting and lipstick applied to both pigs and pit bulls. But now that we've all been abruptly jerked back into reality by the worst day on Wall Street since re-0pening after 9/11, I don't think the GOP ticket looks so good to as many folks as it did just yesterday morning. Today- not last week or a month ago or a year ago or back when he was having trouble as one of the Keating Five- but today, the day being called Black Monday, today John McCain said the fundamentals of our economy are strong.
Huh?
Is he kidding? Nuts? High? I mean, it seems to me that the fundamentals of our economy have been upended by a bunch of de-regulation mad lobbyists- most of whom now seem to be working on the McCain campaign. Call me crazy, but I don't trust the Republicans anymore. I just don't. I never did all that much, but there used to seem to be at least some modicum of sanity and honor in the party, Nixon not-withstanding. Amazing as it may be, I find myself waxing rhapsodic about the good old days of Reagan and Bush 41. The party that can claim Lincoln has become so obviously out of touch with reality, so crassly bought and so callously run, that I have no respect for it what-so-ever. No doubt, soon there will be some spokes model or other from the right telling us all that what really caused the current financial mess wasn't lack of regulation, greed on a massive scale, lazy CEO's, or anything like that, but rather the Democrat Party and all their evil ways. They'll tell us that it was those darn corporate taxes that made it all happen. That and of course gay marriage.
And when they do, I'll just sort of quote Bush and say:
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

Governor Strangelove and How I Stopped Worrying

2008-09-14T10:23:00.000-07:00

For the past two weeks, the world has seemed to be slouching toward Armageddon yet again-to be not only flirting with disaster, but making sweet love to it- and the harbinger of this awful vision was a lipstick wearing Pit Bull named Sarah Palin. It's like everyone drank the Republican Kool Aid and believed that Senator Voldemort and Governor Dolores Umbridge(to nowhere) were bound to win and that was that. Game Over, my friends, and get ready for four more years of- well, you get the picture.

But then, when things looked just awful and all was lost, like Gandalf showing up at Helms Deep, that sweet feeling of hope returned to my heart, and it all got better. Quite quickly. Now, I'm not talking about that odd interview with Charlie up north- to me, that sense of dread passed a few days before we all learned that you can see Russia from parts of Alaska. That just confirmed what I sensed to be true- the jig is up, the genie is out of the bottle, and happy days are here again.

I believe that the McCain ticket has reached it's high water mark, and now has nowhere to go but down into obscurity, to lost honor and ignominy.

Don't believe me? Just look at what was on tv this past week. There was Old Johnny on the View getting beat up on-including accusations of approving of lies and distortions- and the reaction to said beating is McCain being booed by an audience comprised mainly of women who look like the people I am supposed to believe are now moving in droves to the GOP ticket. There was also that ridiculous ad accusing the other side of teaching little kids about sex when in reality they were teaching them how to avoid predators. Of course, there was Governor Strangelove freaking out on national tv, winking, fidgeting, and kind of rambling. I mean, it was weird- I don't care what the pundits from her party say, Palin seemed like someone who'd taken a lot of cocaine and was trying to maintain because their parents have dropped in unexpectantly.

And there was Obama on Letterman, smiling and speaking with confidence and ease in front of a cheering audience. There was Obama at a news conference talking about lipstick and pigs with power and dignity and grace- which is what he does well, and which is why he is the nominee.

Beyond all that, I have a gut feeling that it's over for the goon squad that is the McCain-Palin ticket. People always say to follow your instinct, because it's almost always right. I've found that to be true in all my personal experiences. This innate sense of hope is the same feeling I got during the Schiavo thing- that feeling that the free ride was over for the right wing, that the pendulum of politics had swung as far right as it was going to swing, that the worm had turned. Right now there are lots of people on the left who are in a panic- they have seen idiots elected before, they have seen nasty ads work, they've seen a vast majority of America appear to be blind, deaf, and dumb- and I understand that. I do. But it's over. Time to realize that McCain-Palin is the real bridge to nowhere, and that we are all going to rise and say, loud and clear, thanks but no thanks.

iMcAllister- Chapter One

2008-09-13T09:25:00.000-07:00

I McAllister. I write blog. Today first blog in life. I think I like. Don't really get why I is "i" these days, but what Hell? i go with flow. Talk like Sasquatch sometime. Great book, you should all read. Call something like "Bigfoot, i not dead".
Good news- i liberal commie and i think we win this November.
Why?
McCain-Palin are Bridge to Nowhere.
Serious.
Okay, now i will stop talking like that.
But this really is my first blog. Many more to come, i assure you.
i intend to write about whatever floats into my head each time i get in front of the computer. Sometimes, it'll be about politics and why i think the GOP is a cabal set on the destruction of civilization as we know it. Other times, it'll be about my life- like how my dog barks too much or how i always boil my coffee when i reheat it. Often, i'll be trying to use this blog to get word out about something going on that i want people to know about.
Like the fact the my play Burning the Old Man is going to be produced in Prague this April at the theatre Vaclav Havel did most of his plays at. It's already translated into Czech. Putovani S Urnou. That's the title in Czech. Prague is called the City of Magic, and is the capital of Bohemia, and is also where i got married. It's really beautiful, and i think you should go there. Say, April next year. And while there, go to the theatre. In fact, go to Divadlo na Zabradli.

So, I guess you can surmise I am a commie pinko leftist bleeding heart who is sort of ego-centric.
And yes, I do believe in Bigfoot, UFO's, and ghosts. Doesn't everybody?