THE MAGICIAN

First preview here in Edinburgh yesterday. A city full of magic of all sorts. Theatrical. Architectural. Historical. 

And the human variety. 

Human magic is the strangest of all the arcane arts, the most complex. At times, obvious as palming a coin behind your hand as you wow the locals with your prestidigitation. At others, murkier and more unpredictable than the weather in this ancient city that looks like it's the  bastard child of J.K. Rowling and William Shakespeare. I would say minus that sadder aspects of that comparison, the uglier sides of both of those writers world views. But I'd be lying. There is both wonder and sorrow here. Same as everywhere.

Yesterday, we were getting ready to debut at the Edinburgh Fringe. To say the cast and crew were exhilarated would be a great understatement. We started the day with a little press interview with Fringe Biscuit. Always exciting to discuss your show with the press. We went, pitched out show as charmingly as humanly possible, and ventured off. 

We had things to do. A run through of the play at one of our postage stamp sized flats. A mad search for some stools for the show. The usual madness that comes before a show opens, cramming a week into a day, a day into an hour, and hour into a moment.

And then it was time to get ready and head to the Royal Mile, where our theatre is.

Cooper, one of my dearest friends and also one of the leads in the show, and I decided to get some coffee, headed over, had some lattes made "take away", which is how they say to go here in Scotland. On the way back to our flats to meet the cast and walk, there was a commotion across the street. A couple of people were gathered around a woman sitting on the sidewalk, back against the ancient wall, not moving. Most of the people seemed either drunk or high or some combination. The emotions shot out from them in all directions like a volley of damaged arrows.

I wanted to walk on. I had a show to do. 

I couldn't.

I walk over to them, and one of the men tells me the woman is dead. The woman kneeling next to the body screams "she's breathing!" Another man asks me to help. Another man holds his dog back, who is barking to wake the devil. The devil may have woken, but the lady slept on. I ask the group what number to call for an ambulance, as I'm an American. Some of them throw up their arms in despair at this. An American? Now we are fucked for sure. But I get the number. 999. An upside Mark of the Beast. By now, another Fringe goer, a man named James, joins the fray. The 999 operator picks up, and I can barely hear her as things are spiraling quickly into a mad whirl. At every second, at least three people are yelling things at me about the state of the body. 

I should mention. The Lady of the Wall, the Sleeper Who Will Not Awake, She Who Had No Name, does indeed look dead to me. Her skin has turned grey. Her mouth hangs open. Her legs are stiff. 

I am frightened and falling through time and space but unable to be anywhere but right there. 

The operator somehow hears me. I give our location. She asks me if the Lady is dead. I say no. She asks me if I am sure. I am not, but I say yes, she's still alive because I think it will get the ambulance there quicker. 

James puts his hand over her jaw open mouth, says he can feel a breath. 

The operator asks me is the Lady is conscious. 

No.

She tells us to lay her out flat on the ground, head on the sidewalk, and for me to say "now" for every breath the Lady Takes, and I do.

Now. 

Now.

Now.

There are strange intervals of time between the breathes. The span between each breath a chasm of despair. The Lady's grey face seems a mystic death mask of a tragic queen. 

And the ambulance arrives, and people who know far better than I take over.

And in a miracle, The Lady Wakes.

One of the Howling Men turns to me, says thank you, tells me how most people don't stop. 

I know that. Like most of us, I have been The Person Who Doesn't Stop in other chapters of my life.

And then he says:

My names Michael, but they call me Magic. I'm a Magician, you see.

Then he leans in close, with the saddest face in the history of this moment, confesses to me:

I've been on smack for twenty years now.

I walk away, join Cooper, who has been there the whole time. Coop tells me he stayed to make sure I was okay, gives me a hug, and we journey on.

I suddenly feel like crying. I tell the cast to meet me at the theatre, head out.

And as I walk the lovely, lonely streets of this town, I think about what's important. What if anything has any meaning. Why do we do theatre, create stories and songs, dance with each other.

And the world opens up to me. Each step fills my soul with an intense love of this world. Each stranger seems a saint.

A kid handing out flyers for her show asks me if I want a strawberry. She says she's saving them for the cast, but that I can have one. 

I take it like communion, bless myself with a bit of kindness of strangers.

At the theatre, more madness. Running to and fro. No one sure what is going on.

And in the sweet darkness of the first blackout, we make our own magic.

IT'S A HAND ME DOWN, THE THOUGHTS ARE BROKEN

Monday. Remember when that was such a drag of a day? The start of the work week, back to the grindstone, the beginning of the routine of commute, work, commute, watch tv and eat, sleep, repeat? or some variation on that? Rituals can help you get through time, but they also can erase time, make you shut off the brain, the world, and kind of sleep walk your way to the finish line. And of course, avoid thinking about said finish line, the big exit, the good bye. Death. The great and only equalizer. The final destination, the big sleep, the grim reaper.

I personally don't believe in it or understand it, really. I can't fathom how someone can exist one moment, and not exist the next. I think there is only existence. Maybe we go Elsewhere. But not existing at all seems like a bunch of malarky, an idea made up by scared children who can't comprehend what lurks in the dark.

And what really sucks is there is only one way to find out about this. And I have no intention of doing that for a long time. Ever, really. I like life too much. I love it. I love writing this blog. I love music. I love seeing an old friend I haven't heard from in ages click "like" on a post about something. I love my wife. My dog. My home. My planet. I love it all. And as such, I ain't going anywhere.

Still, I find myself contemplating it all a bit more. I think we all have. And I think that's a big driver of whatever gigantic world wave of consciousness changing action is happening. We all kind of took a teeny tiny step towards, if not accepting death, considering it a possible thing that can happen. We all like to pretend we are immortal. Everything we do indicates this. And not only do we pretend we are immortal, we pretend everyone and everything else is, too. How else can you possibly explain how we treat ourselves, each other, and the planet? We think it is all some weird TV show, where each week, whatever happened before can be fixed, magically, no problemo.

So, now, no more false rituals of denial. No more wasting time to the extent we once did. No more ignoring the climate, police brutality, economic inequality- on and on. It's along list.

So now, for this precious moment, we are alive. Let's get busy. And Now, a song. A bittersweet love song to life and the universe, originally done by the Grateful Dead, covered by a ton of awesome artists. It's the song Ripple. Enjoy, life, get up, get out, and make a difference.

I WANT TO SEE MOUNTAINS AGAIN

Bilbo has gone over the sea, to be with the elves. I shall miss him. There is always a bit of sadness when someone who gave you joy, who made your journey a little more bearable, passes. And I feel that now. But with the sadness there is also wonder and gratitude. Ian Holm, the great British actor who played Bilbo in the Lord of the Ring movies, and Ash in Alien, and the coach in Chariots of Fire, and about a million other things, died last week. I shall miss him. I shall miss that feeling whenever he would show up in a film I was watching for the first time, and I'd think "this movie just got better!" I loved so many of the flicks he was in. Most, though, has to be LOTR. I have loved Middle Earth since first reading The Hobbit in fourth grade. I read the trilogy twice by the end of seventh grade. I even once sat down and read The Two Towers, cover to cover, in one outing when I was all of thirteen. I watched the TV version of The Hobbit every time it came on. And when the Ralph Bashki animated version of The Lord of the Rings came out, I saw it many times in the theatre, and many more on TV. The Bashki version was mainly the first two books, and I waited forever for the final installment. It never came, although there was a rather odd animated version of Return of the King made for TV. I recall it had singing orcs. It did not go over well with me at the time. For years after, pretty much my teens, twenties, and early thirties, I wished and hope for a good version of either The Hobbit of Lord of the Rings to come out. And then I read that Peter Jackson, a film maker from down under known mostly for quirky horror films, was making a trilogy based on LOTR. And I hoped. Finally, the first trailer came out. I was at the movies with my friends Myles and Chris. When the trailer finished, which was amazing and perfect and looked like what I always hoped a film about Middle Earth would look like, Chris turned to us and said "I wish I could hit myself in the head, go into a coma, and not wake up until this film is out". He didn't follow through with his plan, but the film did come out.

And it was all we had hoped and more.

And Ian Holm, as Bilbo, was perfect. He made me cry, right from the start. There is this moment, early on in Fellowship of the Ring, where Bilbo's old friend Gandlaf, with whom he had gone on the greatest adventure of his life, shows up at Bilbo's house after many years. Gandalf knocks on the door, Bilbo opens it, and is overcome with joy. The way Ian Holm played that moment made me cry. I had lived long enough by then to know what it meant to miss those you love. To have great people in your life, people you have shared time and tests with, who you grew up with, who helped you become you are; to have friends that own part of your soul who you don't see all that often. It is just part of the deal, I think. We make great friends, and then we have the audacity to have lives that separate us. So Bilbo opens the door, and his face is filled with both joy at seeing his old friend, and sorrow at the knowledge of time passed without him. The bittersweet feeling of love and friendship in the face of the insistent march of time.

I knew how that felt, but had not articulated it as such just yet. And that scene, that moment, that look on Holm's face, sealed it for me. I sat in the theatre, and for the briefest of moments, I was with Brian and Jay and Greg and Jack, with my friends at Strawberry Park Elementary, my cast mates from East of Eden, my Scout Troop, my family, my mom, my dad. And I was also in NYC, far from all of them, as far as can be, for there is no greater distance between to things than time.

And I am with them still, but the hall of memory grows daily. And now Myles, and Chris, Vinnie and Shannon, Dutch, my brother and sister, they all are there too, along with the good times and bad, the discoveries, the triumphs, the defeats, the brief moments when we realized we were alive together, and reveled in that miracle.

So thanks, Sir Ian. You helped me be me. You own part of my soul too. I hope you have a gentle crossing, that the elves sing songs that delight. And while I know it is the right and proper road we all must take, I can't help but feel a little sad.

Here's a song. It's The Shire, by Howard Shore, from the soundtrack to The Fellowship of the Ring.

MEMORIAL MEANS PARTY ON, RIGHT?

Memorial Day. I know it's supposed to be a day of remembering the fallen military, but I think for most of us it has been a day of BBQ, baseball, watermelon, the beach, and cutting loose. Which doesn't really sound a lot like remembering the dead. What it seems like is mostly a kick off of summer, of blockbuster movies, school getting out, endless days, endless nights, and outdoor music festivals. And it still seems to be so today. I see all these images of people in the Lake of the Ozarks, and I am fairly certain there's not a lot of rumination on dead soldiers. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe nothing says we remember you, dead warriors, by getting loaded, playing volleyball, and having a picnic. In a way, I do believe that. I think that the sacrifices for our freedom should be celebrated by exercising our freedom. I just think you need to have the honoring the dead be part of the equation, not an excuse to have a day off an party. Not that I don't love having a day off to party. I am all for that. I just think it odd that we tack it onto a day of remembrance. We seem, in general, to excel at the partying and lag on the remembering.

I get that. Death is a drag. No fun. Not conducive to a good party. "Hey, look at this photo of the dead bodies washing ashore at Normandy. Wow. How sad. Now, let's make some burgers!". Just seems a bit off. But I think, in the long run, if we spent a little more time thinking of the dead, of the fact that this life is limited, our time momentary, and our end a guarantee, we would probably have better parties, get more out of lost week ends, and live fuller lives. And I can't think of a time in my life when dealing with the fact that we all have a date with the Grim Reaper. I have heard the argument that if we spend too much time thinking about death, we won't get anything done. But that usually is a thinly veiled plea to not consider death at all, to pretend is doesn't exist. Well, screw that. Ignoring death is ignoring life. I am a big fan of life. I love it. I would love to live forever, or at least for a few millenia. But, as far as I can tell, that ain't in the cards. So I live now. Today. Or try to. I fail at that a lot, as we all do. But I think that accepting the fact that we all have to go one day helps me a bit in living a more fully realized life. And I dig that.

So, Happy Memorial Day. If it means you think of dead American soldiers, great. If it means time to party, fantastic. I hope you do it well, whatever the day means to you. I also hope you don't do something stupid that endangers you or others. By stupid, I mean drink and drive, start a fight with a gun toting nut, gather in large groups with no thought of social distancing during a global pandemic, leap into an active volcano, and so on. All those activities seem shockingly fucked up and stupid to me. I'm sorry if that hurts your feelings. But it is just how I feel. You do you and I'll do me is fine, until you doing you includes kicking me in the balls, somehow being involved in the original cancellation of Arrested Development, or inadvertently spreading the virus, thus causing a second wave which results in an even bigger shut down. That's frowned upon in polite society.

Okay. Now off to honor our fallen heroes with a socially distanced BBQ.

Here's a song. It's Ed Sheeran doing a cover of Dylan's Masters of War.

NIGHT OF THE IGUANA

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.

WHY IS A RAVEN LIKE A WRITING DESK?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lovers Leapt

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

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

Joellyn Duesberry, Memory Time Lapse

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

LAST CALL

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.

ENIK'S CIRCLE

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.