And another Sunday arrives, freezing cold. Like below zero cold. Like, what the fuck is happening with the weather cold? I am not sure how anyone can continue to pretend that the world's climate- our world, the place where we live and walk and go to the mountains and beaches and skip and have general fun when we can- is in crisis mode.
Is it denialism, fear, subservience to the powers that be, some odd form of Stockholm Syndrome?
I like this planet. I think it's rather beautiful. I like winter to be cold but not crazy. I like snow capped mountains, clear skies, animals running free. All that. I'm what you might call a nature boy.
I also like summer to not be one long session of sweating, watching the world wither. Smelling smoke in the air, sometimes from fires that are gigantic, so massive that even though they are thousands of miles away, the smoke makes its way to my neighborhood.
So why isn't Climate front and center in the upcoming election?
Whomever wins, this is important.
It is not a hoax. And saying it is doesn't make it so. I can go outside. I can see, hear, touch, taste, and smell. And every one of my five senses tells me, on a daily basis, something is wrong.
What is it going to take? An army of Lorax, leaping out of the all too many tree stumps out there, driven mad with frustration, running through the street, screaming "I am the Lorax, fuckers!" while gleefully decapitating everyone that come across?
I'm cranky today. I think I have a cold coming on.
Be that as it may, I want you all to consider our little planet. I want you to cherish it.
Because I'm selfish. I love my planet. I want to to be around for as long as possible. Yes, millions of years from now, it will be engulfed by the Sun. So what? Just because we are all set to expire one day doesn't mean we sit around smacking ourselves in the head with a hammer.
Okay. Rant over. For now. Watch some football. Grab a cup of coffee with someone you enjoy, or alone. Read a book, a graphic novel, the tea leaves. Do something for yourself.
And enjoy.
Here's a song. It's Jack White doing a cover of Mother Nature's Son by The Beatles.
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.
A New Year. Lots coming up. Shows. Short Film. An election that could lead to the end of America. All sorts of shit. I'm directing seven plays between now and June. Producing a large budget show that goes up end of June. Teaching playwriting at the Denver Center.
Life, as always, chugs along. Sometimes, of late, I wake with this feeling of existential dread. Like, what is the meaning of any of this? Which I know is not productive. As far as I can tell, my little brain is not equipped to process, figure out, or solve the Riddle of Being Alive. Still, now and then, I get the blues, the why-am-I-here blues. And I think. And play Greig or Simon and Garfunkel or Phoebe Bridgers, and go through it.
And what's really amazing, and to me miraculous, is that this simple act of allowing my self to wallow in self pity and dread for a bit sort of exorcises those demons. It douses the vampire with sunlight.
It gets me going again.
I do not know how long life is, for me or anyone else. I don't know why we are here, or where we will go, if anywhere, once it's time to do the Mortal Coil Shuffle. I just know I love it here. I love clouds and music and dogs and cats and coffee and friends and my wife and my home. I love writing stories, and showing kids how to pretend to be a goblin in the Battle of the Five Armies.
I love all of it.
I don't think this makes me heroic. I am fairly certain I was just born this way.
And I must be a bit of an egotist, because I write about all this in my blog sporadically, and in my journal every single day.
I wouldn't do it if it didn't make me feel good. But does doing something to feel good justify it? I suppose that has to be taken on a case by case basis.
So.
2024. Goals. Resolutions. Hopes and dreams. All that jazz.
I hope to read more books. I'm reading a new translation of Homer's The Odyssey by Emily Wilson that is just fantastic. I hope to use it to fuel one of my new projects, a pilot set in the world of another project, Lunatics and Assholes, that I really love.
I hope to finish the color and sound of my new short, Burning the Old Man, which is a proof of concept for a feature that I made with my dear friend Tim McCracken. We shot it in the fall, mostly down in Gunnison, and it was fucking awesome. Is fucking awesome. Once it's done, we plan to enter it into several film festivals, and also send it to some producers we know, with the goal of getting funding to make the feature. All we need is someone to put up 500K to 10 million. Which seems absurd, yet there it is.
How did I get to a place where that kind of money is in the mix? No idea. But I won't question it. I'll just move ahead, hope for the best, and keep writing, directing, producing, teaching. Being me.
I hope to travel more. Going to Edinburgh last summer reawakened my wanderlust. The world is not one oyster, but a constantly refilling, huge bowl full of them. And they come in all sizes, and flavors. And I am famished.
I hope to go to more theatre, see more movies, hear more music, hike more paths, dream more dreams.
And I hope to write on this blog at least once a week.
Okay. That's now a thing. I will write in this blog once a week.
I now go off to make breakfast, get ready for tech rehearsal, then work on script for new show about Shakespeare, then hopefully catch a few more episodes of The Offer, on Paramount, which is an amazing show and I encourage you all to watch it.
Here's a song. It's Northern Attitude by Noah Kahan & Hozier. I dig it.
So a while back, my good friend Tim, who I have known forever and who is one of the few people on this planet I trust completely without question, and someone whom I love completely, suggested we make some movies together. This sounded both crazy, daunting, and perfect. So I said yes.
Or, to be more exact, "Fuck Yeah!"
We had worked on many projects in the past, from a nine hour, three part theatre adaptation of East of Eden at the Western Stage in Salinas to a production of Richard II in NYC to my first, and up to that point only, short film, Strong Tea. He was also the lead in my most successful play to date, Burning the Old Man.
That's us in the photo above. Back in the day. Young and crazy. NYC. Cigarettes and beers after a long day slinging hash between acting gigs. Having the time of our lives.
So, there we were having coffee at one of our haunts here in Denver, talking about life and theatre and film. Tim had just made a movie, Publish or Perish, that is kicking ass in the festival circuit and is now available to stream on Amazon. I was in the middle of yet another script- a pilot I was finishing before the deadline for the Austin Film Festival. And that's when Tim popped the question, so to speak.
Yes, I used the phrase "popped the question", the classic phrase for proposing marriage. Let's face it. Making a movie is a commitment up there with marriage. You pledge your heart and soul. For it to work, you have to bare your soul. Be vulnerable. Improvise when problems arise. Be flexible.
So he asked, I said yes, and then it was time to think of a project.
We wanted to make something that could be both a short, and also a proof of concept for a full length movie. And we wanted to take advantage of where we live, with all this natural beauty surrounding us.
And Burning the Old Man popped up almost immediately. A story about two estrange brothers taking their father's ashes on a road trip to Burning Man, as per his dying request. Their relationship with their father was difficult, and their relationship with each other even more so. As such, their road trip is full of recrimination, anxiety, and tension, with a tragic sense of loss tuck under a veneer of comedy. Tim had played Marty, the older brother in the original play, and we both felt he should do so again.
So I wrote up a script, we kicked it around, adjusted the story as needed, gathered a crew of dedicated geniuses, and set some dates.
And the magic began. We kept having things happen that just seemed to be signs we were doing the right thing. A friend offered us a hotel up in the mountains to use as our base for the main stretch of shooting. Another friend just happened to live in that same area and offered to scout locations.
And what locations! Colorado is so pretty, so majestic and huge and full of wonder. And most of the time, I manage to not see it. But not on the shoot.
I really wanted to just talk about this one moment from the shoot today. It happened at there rocks in the high desert, during the climatic moment of the movie. These two brothers, who have been bickering like children for the past 24 hours, have ended up on this precipice, screaming at each other and having a tuh of war over the bag containing their father's ashes. As written, the bag rips open, the ashes fly, and the brother's dumbfounded at what their stupid fighting has wrought, stare at each other as their father's remains float away.
On the day of the shoot, we were all a bit tired. We'd shot for 14 hours the day before. Drew, the actor playing Bobby, the younger brother, was not feeling well. Even so, we were all amped. We were making something that felt good, felt right. Felt like what we had all chosen to do with our lives.
And we get to the scene. Now, to prefect, we had talked a lot about the brother's relationship the past few days. How underneath all the hurt and anger there was a deep love. A heartbroken love. A longing to connect like that had once been able to effortlessly but now seemed impossible.
So we get to the big moment. The point when the bag rips and the ashes fly.
The first take, a long shot, goes great. We get a safety shot, then move in for a closer shot.
And when the bag rips, Drew almost falls off the rocks. For a moment, I think "Shit! I just killed Drew!" Everyone freezes.
Except Tim.
He instinctively grabs Drew, pulls him up. And then, in character, Tim impulsively hugs Drew. Or rather, Marty impulsively hugs Bobby. We keep rolling. Nobody on set is making a sound. But we all feel connected to what is happening. Bobby tries to break free of the hug. Marty keeps hugging. It's really touching and sad and real. After a beat, Bobby hugs his brother back.
And we all start hotting and hollering. Something had happened. Something unexpected but totally real.
Then everyone looks at me. "Do we keep it?" they all ask, in various ways. It is quite different than the ending as written. Changes the trajectory a little. But it feels so right.
And I have to make a decision. It's my script. I'm co-director of this with Tim. Also co-producer. It's my call.
And I go with it. Tweak the script slightly.
We finish. And it is clear to me that the movie has now become more than it was.
And that I am learning more than I could have possibly hoped for when we started making this movie.
Now we are in post. Editing. Mixing. All that type of thing.
We hope to send it to festivals. To show it to some producers who will shower us with money so we can make the full length film.
But no matter what, I have gained from this experience.
Here's a song. It's one of my all time favorites. Pale Green Things by The Mountain Goats.
I decided I wanted to be a Jedi when I was 11 years old. It was 1977. It seemed like the only thing to do. The Force, the energy that binds the universe, spoke to me via Obi Wan Kenobi, and I was up for the task. I wasn't sure how to go about it, but that would become clear. All I knew was that at that point in my life, world was going so dark that it was like two suns were setting at the same time.
And then, in a darkened movie theatre full of kids my age, the immortal words "a long time ago in a galaxy far, far way..." came up on the screen at Century 22, and my life changed forever.
I went a saw Star Wars yesterday at the Colorado Symphony. I can't call it Episode 4: A New Hope. I saw the movie 21 times when it first came out, and it was simply called "Star Wars". No episode number. No nothing but those two words. Star. Wars. And it was glorious. The movie played in theatres for over a year. I remember a poster in the theatre lobbys of a birthday cake for it, marking it's first birthday, with all the old action figures on the cake. It was everywhere, and everyone was down with it. All of the summer after fifth grade. All of sixth grade. I saw it about twice a month. And never got tired of it. Ever. I'd jump on my bike, ride up Moorpark Ave, past the Winchester Mystery House to Century 22 Cinema, and lose myself in a world of light sabres, Jedi, and Jawas.
As I watched the movie yesterday, it hit me how much that film changed my life. How powerful a movie can be. The alchemy was perfect for most of the world, I guess, that year. It certainly was for me. I needed to believe in something, anything, that could possibly have a chance against the insistent forces of darkness out there. A system of some sort. A Force.
And lo and behold, there was Alec Guiness, kind and strong, cool as a cucumber, unafraid of death itself, telling Luke, and all of us, that the Force would be with us
Always.
Watching the movie now, I can see how simple the plot is. How basic the dialogue is, and all that.
And I could care less.
It moves me. Makes me believe in magic and hope and wonder.
At the point where Luke watches the duel sunset, I cried.
I know life is hard. That fact is abundantly clear, and asserts itself every day. There is sorrow and regret enough for everyone to have a full plate of woe and there's always refills. I knew it full well by the time I was 11. My father had split years before, never to return. My step-father was a deeply cynical alcoholic with an explosive temper. I had no illusions about anything, really. Nothing.
I think that's what makes stories like Star Wars essential. We need myths. We need hope. We need the Force.
I don't think we need more Star Wars films or series, per se. Not that I don't like them. Some of the current offerings are amazing. Particularly Andor.
But I think when a void presents itself, it gets filled. If the world needs a Star Wars, one will come around. I don't know what we need right now. But it will come around.
Or the Empire will rise again.
Onwards.
I will write more soon about my adventures in Scotland. Until then, here is my favorite bit from Star Wars.
Also, if you are in Denver, I am teaching a playwriting class. Join me and maybe you can make the next thing we all need. Click HERE for info.
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.
At the Newport Folk Fest, Jon Batiste said, many times, "this is not a concert, it's a spiritual practice." I think that applies to life. It is not a trial we endure, it's a journey we actively experience. These past few days, I've seen music, heard colors, felt smiles... I've leapt through the looking glass into the mad world of the now.
And it's glorious.
I am a very lucky person. I know this. I think I always have been. Not to say I haven't had my share of tough times, tragedy, and turmoil. Times so bad I use alliteration when describing them. Still, I find this world so amazing. So magical.
I am sitting in a coffee shop in Edinburgh, Scotland, at the beginning of my first Edinburgh Fringe. So of course I am feeling good. Great. Grand. So wonderful I have to use alliteration to describe it. It's been about 48 hours so far. I've met many people. Walked many streets. Absorbed a lot of good mojo.
And it feels right.
Do you ever get that feeling when you are somewhere, doing something, and you think "this is where Ia m supposed to be. Right now. Right here.
Right.
Or Left, for my fellow left handed geniuses.
So much worry in the world. So much sorrow. So much to do.
I think the sadness in the world necessitates the joy. We have to live well, to cherish this life, in order to defend it properly. We have to know love and wonder. We have to. We have to always remember how amazing it is to be alive. Particularly in tough times.
And these are tough times. The planet is clearly fucked, environmentally speaking. Fascism seems to be on the rise. War is raging in various countries. Constantly. There are shootings, almost daily, in America. And death waits for us all.
But that is why I find it so easy to celebrate life.
I'm quite the preacher today. I imagine my happiness in a world gone mad can be quite annoying to folks.
Consider it my illness, my coping mechanism.
I can't and won't change my love of life. Why should I? Every time I let myself be myself, life turns out fantastic. Every damn time.
So.
On with the journey. The spiritual practice. The show.
Here's a song. It's By and By by Caamp. And yes, I just wrote a sentence with three "by"s in it. Yahoo!
