CLOSE TO SANITY

Back home. So strange how, after all these miles and experiences, you wake up and it all seems like a dream. It all seems strange, to be honest. Days, weeks, months and years. Best not to dwell to long on it, or I will get swept up in a river of thinking. pulled under by the currents of time, thrown to the surface by unforeseen circumstance, and pummeled by a storm of lament. 

Wow.

What a happy thought.

Sometimes, it just goes that way.

I'm sitting in my den, working on coffee number one, fretting about everything and nothing and all that's inbetween. The usual morning existential blues. I think it is good to ponder, as long as it doesn't take over my life. 

I am such a lucky soul. I have so much. A home. A family. Friends. Job. Writing. Theatre. Film. Travel. 

Even so, at times, I find myself waking up before the alarm clock and wondering about it all. What does any of this mean? Have I chosen the right path. Should I have done other things? 

All the great "What Ifs of Life" that people my mind.

And as usual, I come to the conclusion that regardless, Life is meant to be lived. Examining it from time to time is part of the deal, and necessary, but so is being in the moment. Appreciating how nice it feels to take a morning stroll and feel cool air on my skin. To find a new song by a band I never heard of. To share a look with a random dog I pass. To work on a new story. To watch a favorite film. To argue about stupid shit. To spill coffee on my shoes. To tell a joke that doesn't land. To tell a joke that does land. To clean up a mess. 

Really, this beats being a chair or a rock or an electron floating in the void.

I don't know if life is a simulation, part of a plan by celestial beings, or what- but I do know I am here. I think, as our old pal Des Cartes said, therefore I am. 

Okay. Had to get that out. I have lots that needs to get out. 

On a constant basis. I think that's why I write. It keeps me close to sanity.

I have a few things going on this fall. Top of the list, my short film Burning the Old Man, based on my play, which I co-directed with my dear friend Timothy McCracken, will have its world premiere at the SOHO International Film Festival on September 20 in NYC. I am going. This will be the first time I sit in a theatre and see my name on the credits. I am excited. I want it to go well. I want to make the full length. I want so much. The fact that it is happening, that I get to be there, in NYC, where my writing career began, is amazing. 

A shot in the arm. An ego boost. A party. 

And before, during, and after said party, I have new stories to write, classes to teach, plays to direct, movies to make, trips to take.

It takes a moment for me to breathe, to realize how much I have. I don't mean to negate my morning blues. I think they are important. I do not wish to ever pretend life is not hard, puzzling, and far too short. I also do not wish to disregard the magic, the joy of it all. It's both. Every day. 

Up and down. High and low. Happy and sad. 

Here's a song. I somehow missed it when it came out. But I do love it now. It's At the Bottom of Everything by Bright Eyes. 

SINK THAT FUCKING BOAT

I'm standing on the shore of Shaver Lake, California, high in the Sierra Nevada. It's the last full day of Camp Chawanakee. I'm 14 years old, surrounded by hundreds of fellow Boy Scouts, watching my troop lose, by a lot, in a row boat race. The boats are these metal row boats we all use to get our rowing merit badge, and can also check out during camp to head out to Thunderbird Island. There are about ten boats in the water. The race is to row out with a crew of four to a buoy in the lake, circle it, and come back. My buddy Jay is in the boat. He's two years younger than me, but my best friend. We met on a kayak trip, discovered a mutual love of the Stones, the Kinks, and other stalwarts of what is now called classic rock but was to us back then simply music we dug. Jay is the funniest kid I have ever met. And always does shit you would not expect. He looks like a miniature businessman to me most of the time. Short hair, horn-rimmed glasses, a resting face that looks like he is considering the stock market. But he is the antithesis of that. He is the kid who will convince you to sneak out at night and toilet paper someone's house. To sneak a beer out of the parent's fridge. And the entire time, you laugh your ass off as you do something that will for sure get you in trouble. For instance, once, while we were hanging out at his folks place, he thought it would be fun for us to take his dad's Cherokee Chief out for a spin. He was 12, so of course he drove. How we didn't get noticed and pulled over is still a mystery to me, but a lot of the grown-up world seemed crazy then, and still does to this day, so it wasn't all that nuts. When we finally returned to his house, his father was waiting for us in the garage. And we lived to tell the tale.

So there I am, on the shore, watching Troop 339, the pride of the Pioneer District, getting lapped by several other boats. 

And I see Jay look over at the boat in the lead.

And I know exactly what he is planning to do. 

Because when you're tight with someone, that's how it goes.

Jay puts down his oar, stands up, and leaps out of the boat, swims to the winning boat, grabs the side, and manages to flip it over. The scouts in the boat leap out, into the water, and the winning boat is now upside down. 

Everyone in the race is able to swim, and are all wearing life jackets, so we are fairly certain no one is going to die. 

There is a moment of silence, and then the entire crowd roars with laughter. It's just too funny not to. I don't know why. Maybe it's because something about the look on Jay's face makes it clear he isn't a sore loser, he is just not having it anymore. He sees the ridiculousness of his situation and has decided to change it. 

The kids from the now upside down boat swim over to Jay's boat and flip it over.

In an instant, everyone in the race is out of their boat, flipping other boats over and howling with joy.

I have this image burned in my brain of Jay standing on the back of the boat he flipped as it sinks into Shaver Lake's murky depths. His hands are raised over his head, and he is, for that moment, a God of Chaos here on Earth.

And we lived to tell that tale too. It probably helped that the lake wasn't too deep where the race took place, and all boats were retrieved. 

Some shit you just can't make up.

So now, it's here. Today. And Jay is fighting another ridiculous situation. One involving cancer. And I want him to leap out of his boat and swim and sink that fucking boat. 

If there is anyone in this universe who can do that, it's Jay. 

Here's a song. It's Jumping Jack Flash by The Stones.

THE OLD SANTA CRUZ HIGHWAY OF LIFE

Haven't written in a bit. Such is life. Things come and go. We wax and wane like the moon, and a lot of rock bands. Sometimes, we are super geniuses and everything we do is perfect and awesome. Other times, it's a struggle to put together a coherent sentence. 

Today I feel groovy, alive, happy to have baseball in season, flowers budding, sun shining, shows opening, possibilities presenting themselves like friendly cats on a neighborhood walk. 

It's a good day.

So, when last I wrote, I was in San Jose, the world I grew up in, the place where most of who I am was set into motion. I was there to retrieve some artifacts of my life, which had been sitting in storage since the sale of my mother's house. Records, photos, old journals, books, furniture, paintings. Some mine, some my mother's, divided up between me and my siblings. 

That was all good. Loaded up a U-Haul with my brother and my nephew, who is somehow now a young man but at the same time still carries the little boy I would baby sit when he was in diapers. 

One of the best parts of that trip was a car ride with my oldest friend in this universe. A simple jaunt over the hill to Santa Cruz, via the aptly named Old Santa Cruz Highway. Let's call that friend Brian, because that's his name. Met him when I was five. There is something to be said for knowing someone most of your life. Shared history, jokes, stories. Legends, really. But more than that, there are certain friends in this world who you keep close, no matter how far away you live, no matter how long it has been between visits or phone calls. Friends who, when you see them, you say "So anyhow..." and pick up right where you left off, as if not a day has gone by.

And on a cosmic scale, I suppose not a day has.

Of course, life has happened in great quantities to both of us. Triumphs and tragedies, unexpected events, strange adventures like getting a few grey hairs and then a few more. But even so, we are who we are, who we were, and who we shall be, and recognized that in each other, as usual. And so we drove, and chatted, and laughed, and caught up, and had the best damned time. 

It is a rare wonder to have such friends, and I am the luckiest person I know.

My mother would often say a quote I believe is attributed to Robert Louis Stevenson. We all should be as happy as kings. We didn't have the best of times, or the worst. But we had times. And mom would say that quote, often when things were rough. I always assumed whatever royalty she was talking about were truly happy, not like Princess Diana towards the end, or Richard III for most of his existence. 

Anyhow, that's where my mind is on this early Spring day. Grateful for old friends, for a life to live, for days and nights and music and trees and blue skies and clouds. 

Here's one of my favorite songs. It's San Francisco by The Mowglis. Enjoy. And call up some old friend and revel in the fact that there is someone in your life who gets you.

THE SCREENWRITING LIFE

Monday morning, voice a little scraggy, eyes a little bleary, heart full of joy, brain full of conversations, pockets & desktop & backpack full of business cards from fellow screenwriters. The panels here at the Austin Film Festival are for the most part over, and now it's all about going over notes, sending follow up emails, and seeing movies. I slept for over six hours last night, which feels like a week of slumber. 

Last panel I went to yesterday was called "What Next?". Good title, better question. I've spent the past four or five days (time is even loopier here than it has been the past two years) meeting so many people, making so many connections, having so many new ideas. The panel consisted of Matt Dy, who used to run the competition for AFF and is now an agent Lit; Ashely Miller, who is hilarious and wrote Thor, X-Men First Class, and tons more; and Chuck Hayward, who is the nicest, coolest guy and wrote on WandaVision,  Dear White People, and now Ted Lasso. The way panels work is the first section is a moderated conversation about a given subject, then about fifteen minutes of audience questions, then the braver or more pushy rush the stage and ask more questions on a one-on-one basis. 

I was one of the pushy ones, and managed to talk with all three. I asked Ashely Miller about animating sequences in a hybrid script, which was helpful not only in the info he provided, but in how he responded in general to my idea. I talked with Matt Dy about query letters and what to put in them, and that led to me for sure writing a few of those this morning; and then I talked with Chuck Hayward about life, movies, and all sorts of things. I had seen him in an earlier panel, and we hit it off afterwards. Sometimes, you strike up a conversation with someone and it just clicks and you think "I really like just shooting the breeze with this guy". Both times I spoke with Chuck it was like that. Easy and fun. 

Lessons from that: Don't be afraid to approach people you want to talk with; and when you get over your fear and do approach them, just be yourself and realize everyone is a fellow human, not some deity to be fawned over. It makes for better chats and a happier experience for all parties.

Another cool/crazy/exciting thing happened to me here the other day. I went to a panel called The Screenwriting Life, which featured Meg LeFauve and Lorien McKenna. The title of the panel is also the title of their podcast. As we stood in line, LeFauve came out and asked if anyone wanted to be featured in their presentation, and the whole panel was going to be recorded for their podcast. There were about two hundred people in line, but I figured what the hell, so I raised my hand along with most everyone else, we signed some release forms and in we went. The panel began, and it came time to draw names out of a hat. First person called up was this guy who had interesting idea he wanted to kick around. It was really cool to watch Meg and Lorien discuss his work, as they are both so smart and insightful and kind. Then they pulled the second name. Lorien pulled out a sheet, looked at it, couldn't read it because of the bad hand writing. And I knew it would be mine, as I have shockingly terrible hand-writing. "I think this says Robert... something... McAllister?". And up I went. 

It was sort of an out-of-body experience. First, they had me give the basic plot of my script, The Belvedere Jungle. Then we dug in. It felt amazing, their ideas and questions perfect, and the response from the crowd felt like this warm wave of love. To use one of my favorite words, it was Groovy. After me,  young writer named Peyton, who is amazing and I am sure will sign with some manager soon, went up. And then it was over. In typical AFF fashion, Peyton and I are now AFF friends. We traded cards, chatted after the panel and several more times throughout the festival. And I've made many friends here like that. 

I think that is the greatest aspect of this festival. The connections you make. Not just in the business sense, which is great, but in the human sense. In the "I am a writer and I love movies and you do too? Wow! What are you working on, how's it going, what have you seen, where is the nearest coffee shop" kind of way. Speaking of that, I'm sitting in The Hideout on Congress between 6th and 7th in Austin right now, and I must order a latte for Lisa, and run off, and listen to the podcast, which just dropped. 

More stories of the AFF to come.

Here's not a song, but the episode of The Screenwriting Life I am on. 

https://anchor.fm/thescreenwritinglife/episodes/64--LIVE-From-The-Austin-Film-Festival-Story-Workshop-e198gfc/a-a54lnfh

LORD HELP ME I CAN'T CHANGE

I am thinking of change this morning. Our resistance to it. Our need of it. And how Change could not give two shits about what we think, want, and/or need. Change comes at all times. Change is really synonymous with life. We are in a constant state of flux, whether we like it or not. A lot of it that flux is in the "or not" category. Physically, we are nothing more than a mass of atoms and molecules and so forth, all in constant movement. We grow, hit our peak early in life, then slowly hit our not peak. And that one sucks, but I think we age because the universe knows that if we didn't we would pretend that nothing ever happens, nothing changes, nothing evolves. And that, as Socrates once said, is bullshit.

And I don't always feel this way. But I do today. My outlook has changed. 

See what I did there?

I think about the bands I love the most. And the thing they have in common is that they change. They don't try to recreate their first album. They create the album or song or concert they are working on at that moment. They navigate the room they are in, and don't try to pretend it's a different room. Often, when a musician or band comes out with a new sound, feel, attitude, the fans freak out. At least at first. We want the music to make us feel like we did when we heard it the first time. I think what we really want is to be the people we were when we heard it the first time. But those people have gone Elsewhere and are playing hide and go seek in a graveyard in another dimension. 

Now, for me, if I am in a phase of my psychic moon that allows for change, embraces it, I listen to the new sounding album for a bit, and after awhile I fall in love with it and now want the band to make me feel like I do at that moment again and again. And the cosmic dance of funk continues.

I think about the planet, and how right now the world is seriously fucked because a lot of us are resistant to changing our lives or lifestyles, which have created an atmosphere that heats up and changes everything is really nasty ways, leading to oceans rising, forests burning, species dying off, and so on. By resisting change, we bring about greater change.

Put another way, we are stupid.

We really are. And one thing that doesn't seem to change is that we hate being told we are stupid, so very much. But sometimes, we need to be told we are being stupid. Foolish. Ill advised. 

The doesn't change either. The way, if something is said in a nicer sounding way, we more easily accept it. 

Ego. Fucking ego. Not only a poorly written bad guy in Guardians of the Galaxy vol. w, but a dangerous aspect of our humanity that, while essential to being a human being, can and often does get us into a lot of trouble.

We need change. We fear change. We love change. We hate change. 

I think we are all crazy. And I love us all. I do. I think that is about the only way to deal with things, before anything else. Accept and love and forgive and move on. I think the more crap you have thrown at you in your life, the more you need to do that. Not more, maybe, but the clearer the need for it. 

And that's difficult to do. 

But whenever I've managed to do that, I have been rewarded with peace and love and understanding.

So. Today, if possible, don't be like the dude in Freebird who sings about how he can't change, the Lord help him he can't change. Because he was lying. He was changing as he sang. He is changing still. And so are all of us. 

I feel like maybe that was all a bit preachy. But isn't all writing a bit preachy, on some level?

Okay. On to meetings, teaching. more meetings. And change. Evolution. Life.

Here's a song. It's Changes, by Bowie. 

A FINE MARCH HARE MADNESS

I was once the March Hare. I had tea parties with my brother, the Mad Hatter. This is my month. Truly the month for Madness. Just ask the NCAA. I get my second vaccine shot this month. I get to rehearse two shows and do some pre-production for a show that is coming back online after being banished by COVID. And I get to watch the finale of WandaVision. 

Life is good.

Yes, it is also all too short, at times confusing, full of sorrow and anger and dreams unfulfilled. But still, I find it amazing to be alive. I love it. I always have, and suppose I always will. 

Maybe I'm the village idiot, happily skipping along in blissful ignorance. But ignorant of what, I know not. I've had my share of death and fear and loathing. Of friends and family acting insane in the face of science and reason. I was in NYC for 9/11, the Bay Area for the big earthquake of 1989, lost people I love, been broke as can be, lost races, been rejected by what at times feels like every agency in both LA and NYC. 

In short, I've seen my share of shit. As have we all this past year.

And yet, I still love being alive. Last night I was doing the dishes after making a triumphant batch of Mac-n-Chees with chorizo and a mix of cheddar and gouda that will be spoken of long after I shuffle off this mortal coil (if I do ever do that. I often think I am immortal). As I washed, I turned on the Stone and dance about the kitchen. Just because. 

I am so lucky. I think a lot of us here in the USA are lucky. There are so many places that have a rougher quality of life. I mean, how many places can you live where not being able to get a hair cut is grounds for freaking out? I would have thought that this last year would give us all perspective, and appreciation for all the good things we have. And maybe it has. I hope to find out soon. 

I am sure the lessons of this disease will continue for many years. Some will be pleasant. Some not so much. 

Still awesome to be alive. 

So. I the midst of all this bliss, my dog Padfoot is getting old. Very. I hate it. He is having pains in his joints, and things like climbing the stairs have become next to impossible. Sometimes, out of the blue, he gives a little squeal of pain. When I say I hate this, I mean I fucking hate it with all my being. I love my dog so much. He is the weirdest, best dog in the world. I want him to be young and healthy forever. To eat more of my wife's shoes. To get out and make me spend hours looking for him. 

I want him to live forever. 

Is that too much to ask? I suppose so. I've had some of the best dogs ever. I think we all have, because each dog is the best dog ever. There is solace in knowing that he will one day get to meet my first dog, Gigi. And I am sure they will get along and tell each other stories about life with me. So that's cool.

But the house will be so quiet when he goes. So unbearably clean. 

But he ain't gone yet. There are still hugs to give, ears to scratch. Love to share.

And life is still beautiful, even with it's stupid brevity.

Here's a song. It's Marching On by The Alarm. Lots of big hair in this video. Enjoy.

https://youtu.be/vxkhr76SydA

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.

KEEP ON, KEEP ON, KEEP ON DANCING ON THROUGH THE NIGHT

That's a lyric from a song the Brady Kids sang. From the later years, when shit got weird and cousin Oliver showed up and for some reason all the men and boys in Brady Bunch Land got perms. You know, when they took trips to Hawaii and the Grand Canyon and Greg got his groovy pad in the attic. The world had grown wiser, hipper, and far more accepting of adventurous style. I don't know why that song popped into my head as I sat down to the computer, but it did. So there it is, and that's all there is to it. And folks, we do need very much, to keep on rocking on through the night. There is just way to much sorrow and anger and lost souls on the highway of life for us to wallow in self pity, despair, or grief.

Life is for living.

I was thinking today- I know, a rare activity, but there I was, thinking. And I realized that the seven so-called sins are really just a waste of time. Too much to do. Write poetry. Dance strangely in public. Go to the movies. Kiss and hug and make love. Listen to Rocky Horror Picture Show soundtrack.

Yes, I think our current President is nuts, and needs to go. But we have to keep living, to remember what it is that makes life worthwhile, worth struggling for, worth living.

If I thought it would help to freak out, I would. But so far, in my long strange trip, I have not found that to be the case. So I am doing my best to see the light, the dark, and everything in between. I invite you all to do the same.

WHY NOT MAKE HIS HEAD EXPLODE?

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

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

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

I ran away.

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

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

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

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

I dig that part of the process the most.  

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

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

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

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

AT SOME UNFORTUNATE HOUR...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here's the opening monologue:

TOM

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

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

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

To Be Continued...

Links:

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

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

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

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

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

http://www.indietheaternow.com/

For info on Boomerang Theatre Company, go here:

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

Lovers Leapt

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

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

Joellyn Duesberry, Memory Time Lapse

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

MUSE OF FIRE

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And wait for May and notification.

To be continued...

ERRANT MUSES

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To be continued...

INDIE THEATER NOW

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...

Query

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.

Shake It Up

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.