LITTLE SHOP OF TIME, STONED AND FUNKY

Suddenly it's Summer. And 2021. What happened? Time is out of joint. No, Time smoked a joint and we are all experiencing a mass contact high, where time flows backwards and forwards, and all things past, present, and future exist at the same time. 

We are all Doctor Manhattan.

Speaking of science fiction, I am directing a production of Little Shop of Horrors that opens tomorrow.  This is with Sasquatch Productions, the company I have with August Stoten. I am am the Left Foot, and he is the Right Foot. I love it. The company, the show, the whole enchilada. There is nothing so satisfactory as going to rehearsals and thinking "this is my show, for my company, and we hired everyone and they are all rock stars". 

They are. Don't take my word for it. Here, watch the video below.

https://vimeo.com/565878982

This show is rock-n-roll meets Science Fiction meets a world where Time is High and we all feed the plants that we shouldn't feed. 

It's groovy.

Still don't believe me? Cool. Watch this one then:

https://vimeo.com/566315606 

I see shows differently since the shutdown.

I see the world differently.

It's weird but cool and disconcerting and feels right but also... sort of scary. Like death is that much more real, life that much shorter, everything a little more intense.

And I find I need live theatre more. And art. And music. 

And I also find I don't really give a shit about things that used to seem so important.

What? You want another video about the show?

Fine.

https://vimeo.com/566812074

I want you to come to this show. And then hang out after. Tell me about your experiences. How Time feels to you. What it all means. 

And yeah, I got one more video:

https://vimeo.com/567004957

THAT'S MISTER SQUEAKY TO YOU

I teach theatre to kids. Have for many years now. When I first got to Denver, I was a starving artist, a playwright and actor who had lived in many a small apartment in NYC. Suddenly, I was getting married, living in an actual house, and my responsibilities changed. I needed to get a job. In New York, I had waited tables and made enough money doing that to stay afloat and do my thing. But in Denver, the job market was a bit different. I did some temp work, catering, and so on. And somehow, I started teaching children's theatre. First at a little place up in Boulder. I had no real plan, so I just talked to the kids like they were people. And that seemed to work. We did shows like Aesop's Fables, and The Arabian Nights, mostly from smaller theatre publishers who specialized in young people's theatre. The scripts were for the most part awful. So we would do what we could to fix them. And they turned out pretty good. 

On my very first day, it was raining. We met in a school gym, and the floors were wood, which made my shoes squeak. One of the kids asked me if she could call me Mister Squeaky Shoes. I said sure. By the next week, the "shoes" part of the name had vanished, but I was Mr. Squeaky. And my career as a theatre teacher began in earnest. 

That was over ten years ago. I've worked at many a theatre, all over Denver. And I now even teach adults. They're are not quite as fun as kids, but I do enjoy it. One of my jobs is with StageDoor Theatre, up in Conifer, which is a little mountain town about an hour from where I live. I got hired to replace a beloved teacher who had left for greener pastures. Our first show was How to Succeed in Business without Really Trying. It was for their high school program. We had a limited budget, way more girls than boys for a show that had way more male roles than female, and at least half the cast was looking at me askance, wondering if I could possibly replace their former teacher. Somehow, we pulled it off, and so began my ongoing relationship with StageDoor. 

The theatre is small, but mighty. There is a love of theatre there that is genuine and intense. I love it. 

This past year, we were about to open Sweeney Todd when the shut down happened. Like, we were going into tech week, and suddenly, the show was gone. And it was going to be fantastic. The cast was into it. I was into it. Things were clicking, and everyone was reaching new heights. Losing that show hurt. And one day, I really hope we can do it. We shall see. The theatre had to close all its shows, for almost an entire year. Which hurt, both artistically and economically. 

Finally, we are back, and about to open a show I wrote called Gleeful. It's about a high school show choir, and may remind people of a certain tv show. To quote Mick Jagger, the show is a gas, gas, gas. 

Just being able to do theatre at all is a gift.

And we want to do more. But money is tight, so I suggested the theatre do a GoFundMe. They said fine, as long as you run it. 

So I did. My song for you all today is a video I made from footage of Monday's rehearsal. The song is Candles. The show is Gleeful. The theatre is StageDoor. Hope to see you there. And if you can, please kick in a few bucks, and then share the page. It's good karma.

Groovy vs. Cruel

And now it's April. How did that happen? Isn't it still 2019? And 1976? And 2001? I have come unhinged in time, and I kind of dig it. Whatever year it is, I do like the weather. Blue skies. Flowers in bloom. And everyone I see on the street seems happy. At ease. Not freaking out quite like before.

And when I say before, I think we all know instantly what I mean. Back in the panic zone. When we all felt like we were in a dream, knew it was a dream, but couldn't figure out how to wake ourselves up. The time of endless bad jokes about toilet paper hoarding. When everyone was watching The Tiger King. I wonder if that will hold up in future years? I read a lot. Listened to a lot of music. Tons, really. Took up cooking in an instant pot. (if you ever want some of the best Mac-n-Cheese made with chorizo and gouda, come on by)

But here we are in April, once described as the cruelest month. I think it's the grooviest month. I think I shall strive to do all those things I've been meaning to do since before. Write more. Hug more. Return calls more. Live more. And live well. I have a great capacity to procrastinate. And it's one of those things that, once started, is hard to stop. Like, if I have to make a call to the dentist, I either have to do it first thing in the morning, or it ain't happening. And then, weeks later, when my wife asks me if I called the dentist, I sigh, remember I should have done that, and the cycle then repeats. 

No doubt, I will do that some more. But hopefully not quite so much as before. 

And if I do, I am going to give myself a break.

I have discovered that's important too. Giving people a break. Last night, at one of the many rehearsals I have going on, the cast was acting kind of nuts. Attention span was zero. Talking out of turn at an all time high. And everyone seemed to have forgotten every bit of blocking, singing, and choreography. I felt like yelling. Almost did. Then something weird happened. I took a breath, reminded myself we have all been through a lot, and started asking nicely if everyone could get it together. I had to ask several times, but soon, the whole cast was on stage, getting things done, working hard, and even laughing. 

It was awesome. 

So that's April. No long cruel. Totally groovy.

Here's the song "It's Not My Fault I'm Happy" by Passion Pit. Enjoy. And be Groovy.

Everybody's a Time Lord

My habits have changed. My taste in movies. Music. TV shows. How I sleep. How I drive. How I function as a human being. How I consider humanity, my own and everyone else's. My perception of time has warped and woofed. I am my own TARDIS. I am a Time Lord. 

Last night, I got to the end of the first season of the current run of Doctor Who. The one that started in 2005. It is a rather awesome show, part action Sci-Fi, part comedy, part drama. Quirky. Strange. Thought provoking. The main character, the Doctor, has this thing that happens now and again. She, or He, regenerates their body. Completely. New body, new personality, new everything.

I can relate to that.

I think we all can. Doesn't it feel like a new world we are living in? Doesn't a year ago seem like some alternate reality that we were a part of but is now as hazy as a vivid dream- we remember most of it, and know we were there, but the person in that dream is not us. 

We have metamorphosed. Evolved. Taken on a new form.

This can be scary, or exciting. I opt for exciting. A new adventure for us to take. 

So, on that road we go. I am directing three shows right now. In order of performances, they are: Matilda; Gleeful, and Little Shop of Horrors. I think they will all be quite the experience. I think the first time we all get to be in a theatre, knowing that the virus is contained, that herd immunity is imminent, and that everyone has gotten vaccinated will be an insanely glorious, fantastic ride. I can't wait.

For those of you thinking of not getting the shot, I have one question.

Are you fucking crazy?

The world is round. The virus is real. And Doctor Who is an amazing show.

This are incontrovertible facts. So do the right thing and get your shot or shots.

And if you are near Colorado, come see my shows.

Beyond the shows, I'm writing, teaching, living. I have not idea what will happen in the coming year. But I'm ready for it. I'm ready for ups and downs and inbetweens. For unexpected phone calls. Alien contact. Break throughs of all sorts- political, scientific, artistic. 

One thing this past year confirmed to me. Life is quite unpredictable. Sometimes deliciously so. Sometimes sadly so. But it does keep moving. We are all so lucky to be alive.

Rejoice. Revel. Rebirth yourself into your new form. Take a walk. Sing a song. Dance a dance. Recite poetry to strangers. Cook something you've never heard of and eat it voraciously. Try to communicate through ESP with your pets. Donate to a worthy cause. Donate to an unworthy cause. Go out and blow some money on something ridiculous. Take up gardening. If you already garden, tear up some or all of your current garden and create something new. 

I am feeling groovy. Spread the love. 

Here's a song. It's Everybody's Everything by Santana. Blast it and dance in the kitchen please.

RUNNING WITH THE DEVIL

So right now I am rehearsing, in various capacities, a couple of shows. It is hard, with social distancing and masks and all that. But not impossible. Nothing much seems impossible, really. Immortality. Talking sense to Trump supporters. Incontrovertible proof of Bigfoot. But other than those, most things are in the realm of doable, with a little work. And I feel like these times make the need to do things that might seem difficult greater. Like somehow, by doing what is hard, we get a sense of light at the end of the tunnel and all that.

So here I am, directing an original musical with a bunch of high schoolers up in Conifer, at a theatre called StageDoor, a place I love and have been directing shows at for several years now. We were in the middle of one of my all time favs, Sweeney Todd, when the shut down hit. That was a drag, because it was going to be an amazing show. I still hope to one day get the band back together and do the damn thing, lock, stock, and barrel. But I digress. We were rehearsing last night, going over music and dances and scenes, like one does at rehearsals, and everyone seemed a little lackluster, a little not-into-it as much as they should be. So I got them all up and out and we ran around the building complex the theatre is in. This was at night up in the mountains, and it was cold. But it felt right. I ran with them, which also felt right. I didn't think it would tire me out as much as it did, but even so, it was awesome. Sometimes, you have to mix things up, take a step back and examine the world, and then run with a bunch of fellow human beings.

It reminded me that we are all here, now, and in need of being present. I know that I can sort of drift along sometimes, sort of here and sort of not. And I don't like that feeling. In fact, I think it sucks eggs. 

What was really cool about the run was how everyone seemed energized and awake and everyone was conversing and laughing and breathing hard. Friggin' awesome. I think if I hadn't run with them, it would have not been as fun, for them or me. For them, the joy of seeing me huff and puff was probably a good thing. And for me, seeing them all laughing and enjoying being in the moment was priceless.

So yay me. Sometimes, I don't suck.

I hope when we get to performances that we can have something like a real audience. And be able to stand more than six feet from one another. 

Wow. Just realized that the prescribed distance we are all asked to stay apart from each other is the same distance we usually bury our dead at. Kind of creepy.

Still, the show will be monumental, and I think we will all have more than a few good cries when we do it. Because it will be a huge affirmation of life going on, of not letting things get us down, of proving ourselves and each other that we could indeed make it through the duration, taking care of ourselves and our loved ones, and still make some art.

Yeah, it has been rough. Be we go on. We write shows and tell jokes and run through the night with glee.

Here's a song. It's Van Halen's Running with the Devil. Enjoy.

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

SNOW DAY, YEAR, AND LIFE

It's a snow day here in Colorado. Everything is shut down or slowed down and all of it is different. We can't navigate our lives as easily. Some of us are sleeping in. Some of us are up but don't know what to do with ourselves. Of course, there are always a few who pretend it's just another day, and trudge along through the drifts as if they don't exist. I watch them from my window and can't decide if they are crazy or stupid or from another planet. When I let my dog out back this morning, he made it all of three feet out before giving up.

It's a snow day. It's been a snow day for over a year, hasn't it?

And what made this one feel just like the past year is that somehow I didn't texted by my school to tell me it was closed today, so I got up at 6 am as usual, put on the coffee, put the dog out, listened to the morning flash briefing on my Alexa, and fully woke up. I think sometimes, when you wake up, you have this little window of time when you can decide to go back to sleep and you do, no harm no foul. But for me, once I've actually made a full French press of coffee, heard the weather report, and read at least part of an article on the NY Times app, there is no going back to sleep. So here I am. My wife and I work at the same school, and when I brought up the coffee, she was still sleeping. I nudged her awake, she told me to look at her phone. And there was the text she had gotten over an hour before, saying our school was closed today. Somehow, this miscommunication from a usually reliable source seems to fit in with the world we have been living in for over a year.

It's a snow year. But at least it does feel like the ice is melting, the Spring is coming, and things are getting better, albeit at a glacial pace. Gone is the sense of dread every time I see a headline that has the words "the White House" in them. It is of course still awful. Over 500,000 dead in America alone. Over 2.4 million worldwide. Or, to let the numbers look accurate, 2,400,000. I can't really wrap my head around numbers that large. I try to imagine how many people that is, how to make the number real. And I can't. It's like contemplating infinity. It just makes no sense to me. 

So I'm still in my PJs, drinking coffee, listening to a little classical mix in the den, shaking the cobwebs from my head as best I can, and wondering what comes next. I've got some writing to catch up on, a few screenplays and a new musical. I have a call I have to make about the sale of my mom's house out in California. And there are always plenty of projects to do around the house. But there are also tons of shows I've been wandering through on all those damn streaming services. Doom Patrol. WandaVision. Modern Family. Derry Girls. Not to mention my ever growing stack of books, some half read, some untouched. It's like the house is full of items and ideas in semi-suspended animation. 

Looks like we got over eight inches last night. I drove down from the mountains, where we were having a socially distanced rehearsal for a high school musical. The road was very twisty, covered in ice and snow, and it was coming down so hard and fast that it looked like when they go to hyper space in Star Wars. What usually takes half and hour took over an hour and a half. My car is a little Hyundai. No AWD or 4WD. The car slid more than once. And I passed several accidents. It was a little nerve wracking. But I made it. 

Maybe that's the metaphor I'm looking for this morning in regards to the snow and this past year. It's been terrifying, tedious, and frustrating, but for those of us still alive, we made it. We're tired, unsure of what today will bring, and in need of coffee. But we made it. 

Yay.

Here's a song. It's Snow Days, by Trip Shakespeare. Enjoy.