Blue Plate Special

Sayonara 2009!

2009-12-31T11:46:00.000-08:00

Here's the year in the review. Nah-nah-nah-naah, hey-hey-heey, good-bye, 'Aughts!

January, 2009: Sara moved in, La Jolla Playhouse moved me out. Then was winter of our discontent.

February, 2009: Girlfriend went to Africa, I went to the unemployment office, Katie came to visit SD, and "Love Is For Suckas" gave birth to So Say We All.

March, 2009: Lost myself in the desert, found my family at Passover, and continued to apply for Craigslist jobs, cross my fingers on the video game industry.

April, 2009: Bank account dwindled, MAP hired me, and Scott made me lick whip cream off of a male stripper's chest in Las Vegas.

May, 2009: DAHMER went to Omaha for the GPTC, Sony Online Entertainment called me up, and the census began. Hey, a year ago I was a fresh-faced college graduate, ready for the world to let me live my life.

June, 2009: Best weekend of the summer with Sam's birthday, began working on "Everquest", and tried to keep cool.

July, 2009: Job began to dull my senses, Justin and I celebrated one year of friendship (a milestone), and we left downtown for hire ground.

August, 2009: Moved into North Park house, pushed V.A.M.P. from our creative loins, Gina popped in for a visit, and Sony grew increasingly depressing.

September, 2009: New York, I came back to turn 24; New York, you called me back; New York, you broke my heart on my girlfriend's birthday.

October, 2009: SSWA produces Dahmer, the relationship goes south, New York says keep in touch, SSWA produces V.A.M.P., I leave SOE and go back to SEO for MAP, and Halloween was one to remember in a month to forget.

November, 2009: Thanksgiving at home, old friends, older friends, return to looking forward to work, SSWA produces one show a week and gets named one of the ten best cultural things to do in San Diego (pages 22 and 54).

December, 2009: Jewsgiving 2009 is success, SSWA "Home For The Holidays" is too, Dahmer gets the White Gorilla treatment, "Nick Garland's Last Night In Town" gets finished, and bullshit over friendship almost gets in the way.

Yo, 2010, what you doin' for the next 365 days?

Home For The Holidays

2009-12-27T12:13:00.000-08:00

Before we wrap up this crazy, absolutely insane year we call 2009, I can't help but reflect on the recent past much more fondly and clearly than this past year as a whole. So many weirdly delightful and strangely horrific things that have happened that it took me a while to even register that they were happening.

This can't be...can it? That these folks came back, this one left, and another from out of the blue? Can we really laugh this much at something which exists for two minutes and is not on YouTube? Does the Grinch really get to win at the end of it all? I'm still not sure I've taken in everything from the past six weeks, but this is what I do know.

Salt Lake City, Utah -- Thanksgiving

I hadn't been home for nearly a year and a half, but after the hellish month known as October, 2009 came to a close, I was ready for some familiar settings and territory, one where I knew the layout and could put my guard down for a while. San Diego was becoming a war zone and I needed the vanilla civilian lifestyle that was uncomplicated and easily ignored. So, I headed home to Salt Lake City for Turkey Day.

The place I always wanted to leave had, like most cliches about going home, won me over for a number of reasons. My brother Sam, now in high school, finally feels like a teenager and acts like one. Though rarely a night passed where I would go to bed with him playing on his PS2 only to wake up in the morning and find him busily working away at the X, triangle, square, and circle keys. But we talked, which was something that was always sort of lacking in our relationship. We talked about growing up, about school, and about how he wants to play football. I also got to spend some quality time with my mom (my dad, too, but he had to make an unforeseen trip to Virginia during Thanksgiving dinner), who I can tell really misses me and I miss her, but we both know that I'm not coming back home until it is absolutely necessary. St

ill, I got to spend time with them and take them to the movies, which is all any of us could ask for, so I feel great to have kept our traditions alive.

Perhaps the strangest connection was made yet again through my friend, Scott. Friday night was going to be our guys night -- hitting up a my friend's birthday party downtown before heading to The Avenues for a rowdier crowd of frat boys and gay men playing beer pong. During dinner, Scott kept telling me about his new best friend, Rachel Lazer. He had told her about me and she texted Scott back "Was his dad a sports caster?" Scott and I looked at one another -- another circle of people we thought didn't know each other was now complete. But who was Rachel Lazer from Park City? I couldn't place the name. Then it hit me: not Lazer, but Lasser. She had a twin brother named John and we'd grown up together, going on ski trips and spending afternoons at the swimming pool on the hill. I hadn't seen them in fifteen years, since their parents divorced. Since their dad moved to San Francisco and killed himself. Since their mom moved them to the secluded gated-communities of Park City and they'd all but disappeared from the map. I had always wandered what happened to them, thinking

I'd look up their mother, Jane, in the phone book and track them down. But I never did.

The birthday party went by like a flash in the pan and as we hopped into John's car on the way up to the Avenues, I still couldn't believe that I'd found them. Rachel looked very different than I remember her. If we passed on the street, I would not have recognized her. It was John who looked the same, minus the tallness and the beard. He'd been a drug addict for years, but got clean and was now helping others do the same. Rachel went to American University in D.C. and now worked with homeless youth. Playing round after round of beer pong brought back memory after memory that I'd dwelled over for nearly two decades, but each of them had repressed. "Remember digging up that dead cat and shooting it with the B.B. gun?" "NO!" "Or what about the grease fire at your house and your mom made us stay in the basement until the fire department was done?" "Holy shit!

I hadn't thought about that for years!" We eventually made it back to Scott's apartment complex for some hot tub dipping until the cops came to shut us down. Rachel and I crashed in Scott's living room, talking about all those days we remembered and all the ones we'd tried to forget but couldn't. She told me that she had pushed all of this stuff away because when her dad died, it was too much for her to comprehend, but she knew it was true because I was telling it to her.

And like the days after swimming, where we'd lie down on the porch of their house overlooking the valley storm's approaching, we passed out on colorful towel with candy glued to our faces.

San Diego, California -- Christmas

A.k.a, "Jewsgiving", a.k.a. "The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year", a.k.a. "It Was Just Another One Of Those Days"

I was on my way to the third mall in Mission Valley, but now I was headed to Fashion Valley and I still didn't know the difference. Missy called, but I was afraid to answer the phone behind the wheel. I had a 200 lbs. desk loosely tied in the back of my truck with the best of my dwindling Boy Scout abilities barely keeping it in as I parked the truck in the busy mall, afraid of a lawsuit at any minute, but squeezed in between two cars and ran up to the movie theater. I had gotten another call from Missy, which came just as I ran up the stairs, so I knew it was important. I opened my phone just in time to hear the message replay "...house broken into...laptop missing...Christmas presents gone..." The movie would have to wait. I drove up to Missy and Mindy's house to hear Missy telling her sister to take a shot, it would help. She had just taken one and it had helped her. I hugged them both and tried to offer what little comfort I could. Someone had made their way into the house while the sisters had gone Christmas shopping, taking off with Mindy's portable computer and all of the Christmas gifts set out that Missy had just completed wrapping. All that was left was the Fuck It Bucket, a gift Missy had made for her friend which was a container of candy that said "Fuck It" on the side, sitting where the mountain of presents once took up residence. It was the ultimate middle finger.

The cops came, took a report, and we all tried to suggest what the girls could do next. I had tried to give Mindy my old laptop a month ago, but the thing ran slower than molasses. Maybe I could fix it up, but I wasn't sure. Missy pretty much got over the fact that things had been stolen, but couldn't quite shake the feeling of a stranger coming in the house, violating space and privacy. How safe were they in that place, which, just a week before hand had been the venue to host their Tiny House Party. Now, the Grinch had come and been the worst than the party guest who shows up empty handed only to take a dump on your bed after a few too many Tecates.

Things did get better on Christmas. We all went over to Justin's house for "Jewsgiving", his name for Christmas Eve dinner, because he'd much rather spend the holiday with his mother, his dog, and all of his Jewish friends. We ate to our hearts content, only the best of potluck food, as well as drank. A lot. We recalled embarrassing tales, told the worst kinds of jokes, and had the type of bohemian meal that you are supposed to have when you are young and friends equal family no matter how often you see or do not see them. The next day, it was out to El Cajon for presents and the introduction to the Ugly Step Sister of America's Finest City. I think it was all summed up for me when passing by an old man, half-passed out in a Buick, smoking and listening to gospel R&B with the car door open. It was just another day in the Little Coffin.

We wrapped up the day with a movie, some Rock Band, and munching on candy, even though our stomachs could not fit another centimeter of food in them. And now, we go into one of my favorite weeks -- the one right before New Year.

I'm so excited, and while I could hide it, I'm going to forgo that part.

Letters From The Monkey House

2009-11-26T22:03:00.000-08:00

Y'know, there aren't many letters written these days, in the era of electronic mail, so I feel it is important to save messages you get and then share them with my friends. This is a message from my boss (the names and details have been kept out to save the innocent) to our web guy in Los Angeles, but please keep in mind while you read this: he actually talks and writes all his e-mails as such. This was not a special day, other than the fact that this one takes the cake.

I think my some micro, site views of the the main website and in vice versa. I think it would be helpful for me if you did two things. 1. If there's any articles written about how the to relate to one another and so I can if you could write something on doesn't have to be in perfect and leisure and take a lot of time doing it. Basically, what's the smart way for us to do this. Where is hey, i mean how how that you want to have a our. The married to one another. What sort of factors, Hi. My second way for us to do this meeting should. K and the boys there the going back to doing what they were doing what you have the micro sites up and they can review the blog and in to make them somehow, but I need to know and I think they need to know specifically how is it that the to the general into one another. I mean, it's not gonna be all that often that they're gonna go back and we can every single blanking blog, which is what they're doing now because the Law Center. If you could write something and then send something over at your first convenience that would be appreciated and copy K as well. Obviously that's gonna be the first of i would imagine. Other thoughts on that. I was Week get used to it. Main thing is I don't we connect the arms of the body and except for et cetera. Have a nice evening.

Takers for bets? What drugs was he on? What was going through his head at the moment? Do I work for someone who should be in the third grade?

The Fantastic Mr. Guy Foxx

2009-11-25T17:24:00.000-08:00

Remember, remember this is a great November.

You could say that for all the shit that went down in October, November is making up for.

You could say that once MY FRIEND DAHMER was staged, it laid out an artistic pathway for VAMP, a revised New Orleans play that is still missing a title, and the San Diego movie, NICK GARLAND'S LAST NIGHT IN TOWN, to define our lives (all ten of us).

You could say that it was scary for a moment, but Halloween and all it's ghosts packed up for Boca, to join the rest of the living dead.

You could say that blogging is just blogging, but blogging pays the bills, garnishes the thrills, and soothes the ills. You could also say this is the first time any one has ever paid you to take a break.

You could say that taking a break from writing and jumping head on into producing was a bit nerve racking, but the water felt just fine at the after party where you repeatedly got called "White Chocolate Nigga" and helped to compose a song called "Look At That Ass!"

You could say that you do have a lot of outstanding bills, though you are outstanding at staying on top of the middle portion of them.

You could say that it would be easier to stay in Diego, the land you only just really started to love about the time you were going to leave it, but that Salt Lake hasn't seen you in a year and a half, so she gets to spend Thanksgiving with you.

You could say that late night burritos, Tuesday karaoke, s'mores around a beach bond fire, and countless bottles of beers in your fridge are all bad for your health (note: you are wrong).

You could say that feelings still linger though friendship has never been stronger.

You could say anything you want about this month, but it unless you were here, there is no way you could remember how good it felt when it hit you.

Under The Snake

2009-11-17T14:53:00.000-08:00

Below is my project for the VAMP "Scared Shitless" show that went really well. You aren't going to see me soak my head in the bucket, something reserved solely for the live performance, but my parents' voices really make the piece what it is.

This is UNDER THE SNAKE:

I finished Nick Garland's Last Night In Town this week, sending it out to only three people, as it is still a rough draft. I feel like I should take a break for a little bit, what, with My Friend Dahmer just being about two weeks ago. But then I make little projects for VAMP or the story slam and it just means that I can't stop with all the projects. Now I've got to go full blast or I'll just drive myself crazy.

This is going to follow me all the way through next week, when I go home for Thanksgiving. I haven't been back to Salt Lake City in over a year (let alone seen the Greatest Snow on Earth in two years) and while I anticipate it being relaxing, I also can feel the itch to use most of that time for writing. I'll have to balance it somehow.

In other news, blogging is going well, despite the fact that last week a plastic surgeon who was written about when I had left for the summer is suing our offices. He won't win and we have nothing to worry about, but it is fun to be a part of something that is coming under fire. I mean, it is either that or spend the time talking about how many people in the office know the paralegal got a breast augmentation. Honestly, that only passes an hour or two.

Power Of The Dark Side

2009-11-06T14:22:00.000-08:00

From staged readings to original plays about Jeffrey Dahmer, three drama geeks are exposing the hidden underbelly of San Diego’s cultural scene
By Sarah Nardi

There’s a reason we picture artists in garrets, forlorn and smoking, staring out at the rain. In our collective imagination, misery and creation are inextricably linked. Art is something that comes from the depths—from the stormy, windswept corners of our soul. It comes from New York, London, Berlin—places where the physical environment matches the turmoil within.

It doesn’t come from San Diego.

“This city is good at promoting three things,” says Justin Hudnall. “Weather, fish and football. But if you want to be an artist, you almost have to go somewhere else.”

Entangled in the ideal of “America’s Finest City” is the notion that the angst and suffering upon which we believe all art must feed simply doesn’t exist here. Baudelaire wasn’t writing on a beach, after all.

“To that I would say that there is a dark side of paradise,” Hudnall says. “There’s an underbelly here—it’s just untapped. People in San Diego do have stories to tell. All they need is a stage.”

A stage is precisely what Hudnall, along with his partners Jake Arky and Jessica Gillette, are trying to provide. So Say We All, a kind of incubator for writers, musicians, artists and actors, was formed in February 2009, after NYU grads and self-described “drama fags” Hudnall and Arky had finally had enough.

The two met while working at the La Jolla Playhouse. Hudnall, a writer, was born and raised in San Diego and began to grow frustrated with the city’s attitude toward its artists as productions at the Playhouse were regularly manned with talent shipped in at exorbitant costs from New York, L.A.—anywhere but here.

“Meanwhile, all these local artists are screaming, ‘I’m here and I want to work!’” Hudnall explains.

“There’s this idea that art and artists couldn’t possibly come from San Diego,” Arky adds. “The city has a real inferiority complex, and that’s what we’re trying to overcome.”

Arky and Hudnall were convinced that San Diego was teetering on a cultural tipping point—all it needed was a push. So, together with Gillette, they conceived an idea for a story slam to showcase the talents of local writers. After the first event, for which six writers showed up, interest snowballed—so much so that So Say We All is in danger of becoming its founders’ full-time job.

The concept is disarmingly simple: Offer an underserved, underappreciated community of artists a stage, a microphone and an audience—and watch what they can do. Each event is organized around a theme, and participants submit their stories and materials to SSWA for feedback beforehand. Prior to being staged, each event is rehearsed. (“It’s important for people to understand that,” interjects Arky. “This is not an open-mic thing. Open-mic sucks.”) Past themes have included “Caught in the Act,” during which a performer described how coming out in southern Minnesota made him somewhat of a collector’s item, and “Scared Shitless,” when El Cajon native Missy Solis recounted a violent childhood tragedy that unfolded against the mock-horror of Halloween.

SSWA events have proved a haven for writers like Rob Williams, who moved with his husband from Brooklyn four years ago. “It was tough, at first, finding other creative types in San Diego,” he says. “Four years ago you really had to go searching for them. It’s not like New York City, where you bump into them with every step you take.”

The group is expanding on its original story slam concept to include a variety of different media. They staged “My Friend Dahmer,” a play adapted by Arky and produced by Hudnall on Halloween. SSWA has also introduced VAMP, events that include elements of visual art, music and performance. Musician Rob Deez, who describes his sound as an amalgam of acoustic, hip-hop and comedy that he has yet to christen with a clever name, remembers playing the show titled “When Poverty Strikes” at Cream coffeehouse back in August.

“When I got to the show, I was blown away by the turnout,” he recalls. “I asked Justin what his secret was because I’ve played many a show to an empty room.”

Deez went on to perform at the “Scared Shitless” event, where “Justin told me that there was a 55-year-old evangelical Christian mother in the audience and she said I was the funniest thing she’d seen in a long time. I think that’s awesome seeing how most of my songs are not very”—he pauses, searching for the right words—“55-year-old-evangelical-Christian-mother-friendly.”

The range of personalities participating in events is one thing Hudnall and Arky pride themselves on. “We had a senior citizen step up to the mic not long ago and totally school the hipster who came on before,” Hudnall laughs.

“It’s just amazing what people can do if you give them an audience and take them seriously.” SSWA also maintains a website (www.sosayweallonline.com), where past shows are archived and new material is regularly added.

The group is staging weekly events in November (“VAMP” on Nov. 9 at Whistle Stop Bar, “Living Room Heroes” on Nov. 21 at Cream and “Story Slam” on Nov. 28 at Lestat’s West) and hopes to become a consistent and influential presence in the local arts scene—a kind of This American Life for San Diego.

“Not that we’re trying to emulate something else,” Hudnall cautions. “But we were watching a VHS tape of Ira Glass and Dan Savage from the early ’90s, way before they became who they are now. It’s encouraging to know that something as pervasive as that started small. It gives us hope.”

Hudnall and Arky begin to jokingly argue over which of them is Savage and which is Glass.

“OK, Jake,” Hudnall finally laughs, “you can be Ira because you have glasses.

“And because you’re the Jew.”

Thanks to everyone at Citybeat for your love and support of So Say We All. The only editorial I have to add in is that while her new nickname is going to be "Mach 3", Jess' last name is spelled "Jollett".

Chumbawumba's Motto

2009-10-16T14:04:00.000-07:00

I got knocked down.
But I'll get up again.
You're never gonna keep me down.

That said, I'm sure I'll still be pissin' the night away sometime in the near future.

As it happens, life has taken a jackhammer to my plans and a lot of things are changing. It's funny, because fall is always a time of year that I feel things are pretty solid and unmoving. Now, the ground shakes like a fat man's burping belly, smelling equally as foul and pungent. Smell that? It's the smell of transitions.

The life jukebox spins another record I didn't see coming. What's up on the playlist?

New York: Thought I was moving back to New York. Thought I had a job in the city, doing theater professionally again. Thought too soon and now I have to wait. I'm told the job is still out there and that management is simply looking for a way I can fit in, financially and in what capacity my work will be focused on. But I'm not sitting around waiting; if it comes, great. If not, life to be lived.

Jobs: Don't think just because I didn't get the NY job doesn't mean that I'm staying with SOE (or as we've come to call it "It SO Easy!) for the hours and pay they are asking. I'm actually trading in SOE for SEO, heading back to the Law Offices of MAP. This makes me happy, truth be told. I'll be writing most of the day, hanging out with Kevin and crew, and getting paid more which always makes my life easier. Come Tuesday of next week, it is back to the bloggosphere of personal injury.

Girls, ETC: Sara and I are going are separate ways next week. When New York was put into the question -- and even after it never came to fruition -- she had made up her mind to move home. I can honestly say that, yes, I'm truly sad she is leaving. On the other hand, it feels nice to not be bitter at someone with whom you've shared a relationship with for two plus years. She's going to be with her family, happy, and kept in a realm of comfort I can only dream of. There's a life out there that she wants to live and I'll be damned if I stand in the way.

So Say We All: Aside from being broke, SSWA is going really well. Our last show, Scared Shitless, brought in a huge crowd and we delivered on the content side. It really came together and I've enjoyed doing the shows more lately. Especially looking forward to My Friend Dahmer getting the SSWA treatment. I'm playing Derf, Jen is directing, and Justin is taking producer/tech coordinator on this one. Lots of memorizing -- that's the only rub. Other than that, looking forward to soiling your pants come Halloween.

And that's the news. Oh, Danny boy!

Scare Them Kids

2009-10-13T20:56:00.000-07:00

I really believe this reporter nailed the idea that kids today are not being toughened up for a cruel and harsh world. I hate to say it, but it is true. Though I don't think Where The Wild Things Are is going to scare the crap outta any one (sorry, it already looks like it is going to be my favorite movie this year), I do think it is good to challenge kids. However, that being said, my parents had a taped operatic version of the book and played it for me once because I got so freaked out by it. Yet here I write before you today, a well-rounded, if not a little worse for ware, full functioning adult. And I plan on seeing the movie as many times as possible.

Parents, take heed:

While the chatter about this Friday’s release of Where the Wild Things Are hasn’t exactly reached wild rumpus-like proportions, the filmmakers did their best to spark a little brushfire of controversy in Newsweek today. Jonze, Eggers, and Sendak gathered in Sendak’s living room for what was supposed to be a free-flowing conversation about what it was like for three geniuses to harmonically converge on one project. But at eighty years old, Sendak had no interest in spoon-feeding platitudes to the press. Instead, he and Jonze and Eggers lamented how vanilla childhood in America has become. Worrywart parents aren’t doing their kids any favors by depriving them of their right to get scared out of their minds watching movies or reading books. Scarytales are character building and virtually guarantees a stormy artistic temperament if not a legit career as an artist. This rant made me stop and think about how I spent most of my childhood watching wildly inappropriate movies like the deeply-creepy futuristic cannibalism-tinged Soylent Green. I still can’t forget the image of the big bulldozers rolling through city streets and scooping up fleeing crowds of people to turn them into nutritious biscuits. Nothing that happened to me in real life came close to keeping me up at night the way that and other movies did. But now I wonder if my mom didn’t do me a favor by setting me up for that kind of terror. If these guys are to be believed, the only thing we have to fear for our children is the lack of fear itself. I gotta say, I kind of agree that we’re short changing kids by letting them fill their minds with Disney schmaltz instead of quality filmmaking.

-- Christine Spines

Missed Connections Never Looked So Sexy

2009-09-29T08:37:00.000-07:00

Sophie Blackall has done a truly inspired thing for her blog: having missed connections on Craiglist turned into works of art. Because, let's face it, writing a missed connection is an art form unto itself, requiring precision, tact, and a certain amount of guts. I've never heard of two people meeting again because the line towards each other was disconnected the first time, but I'm sure it happens.

Usually, it would be easy to make fun of all the people pining for someone they barely shared any time with, but I enjoy how sweet and upbeat Blackall's representation of never-was/could-be really is:

The closest thing in my life that has happened in the realm of W4M4M4W4W is that while I was in high school, working at the Orbit Cafe, a customer took out a missed connection column in the local weekly newspaper for our hostess and my friend, Dede. He had seen her on a Sunday -- my usual shift -- and asked me about it the next week when I was back to my regular schedule. I told him all he'd have to do was come in on a Saturday night or Thursday lunch hour and he'd see her. I missed where they connected or not (I have a feeling it didn't pan out happily).

Utah Hates Theater

2009-09-25T18:24:00.000-07:00

Congratulations, Utah, on a hitting a new low: banning classic works of the Greeks. Namely, one of the best plays from Euripides, from 405 B.C.E., The Bacchae (or in this case, The Bakkhai)

Basically, the University of Utah (for what it is worth, they do usually earn my praise) hosted a production of the play at Brigham Young University (for what it is worth, they usually never garnish my praise), only to have BYU officials call curtains on what they deemed “inappropriate for the BYU audience” because of the sex, alcohol, and violence that is portrayed in the play. Good thing there is nothing like that in the Bible…oh, wait…no, hold on a sec…

This particularly angers me because I was once put on the chopping block myself for performing theater that the majority of Utah audiences (read: strict Mormons) had a problem with. True it was in a public high school, but it was an extracurricular project. Anyone who wanted to come paid five dollars and the rest of the school just went on calling us “fags”. Plenty of people walked out, too, because of plays I had a hand in: 1) an original play by me called The Copyboys Revolt, which only made innuendo towards a certain part of the male anatomy and 2) Edward Albee’s The Zoo Story, where I played a character who had, at one point in his life, had a homosexual experience.

Anywhere else in the country, typical drama geeks trying to be crazy (and doing a damn good job of it, I might add). But in Utah: Shocking! Scandalous! Shut down! After the first night of the run, I was called in with the rest of the cast to the vice principle’s office where we were told that we might be suspended or the show was going to be shut down. I casually reminded him that my parents were connected to the press—the only time I’ve played that card—but it was that comment that probably made up the V.P.’s decision for us to go black for the rest of the run. Ironically, Copyboys was awarded Best New Play in 2003 by Utah Theater Association and we took Zoo Story to the regional and state drama competitions, taking both for first place, Olympus High’s first win ever for a theater festival. So, a show that the school itself shut down got it more press and accolades than any other sporting or academic event between 2003 and 2004.

Still, I don’t feel like I won. It is obviously still happening today in my home state, against a play that is over 2000 years old. Don’t force me to smear my mascara as I ball into a camera: “LEAVE THEATER ALONE!!!”

You Think Y'Know Wallace Shawn

2009-09-11T18:00:00.000-07:00

But you gots no idea. Here's the diary of a grumpy, but honest (and fantastic) playwright.

Gothamist seems to always like Shawn, particularly for the reason that he is a playwright with a recognizable face. Though, as the scribe himself goes on to mention, he has mixed feelings about that. I've only lifted the text that focuses on his dramatist skills, leaving out his feelings of Obama and The New York Times.

I know, I know: inconceivable!

It's been nine long years since Wallace Shawn's strange and haunting masterpiece, The Designated Mourner, was staged in a crumbling old gentleman's club on Wall Street—the perfect location for a play that so vividly illustrates how pampered complacency enables brutal tyranny. Now Shawn is finally back with another play—well, sort of. His Grasses of a Thousand Colours premiered at the Royal Court in London earlier this year, but a production in New York, his home town, is far from assured.

Still, Shawn's busy with other writing projects, while also acting in various mainstream Hollywood movies and television shows, as usual. And he's just released a thought-provoking collection of essays, titled simply Essays, which reveals much about his perspective on politics, creativity, and sex. During a long interview at a Chelsea diner last week, Shawn elaborated on his essays, his critics, and his president.

In the book you interviewed the poet Mark Strand and you asked him whether it bothers him that a million people don't revere him. Does it bother you that your plays are, perhaps, less known than your acting? Well, so what? I mean, it does bother me, but we can put that down as a trivial, sort of pitiful concern that people who know me or have to live with me hear me complaining about. I take myself seriously as a writer of plays, not necessarily because I should, but I took myself seriously when I was six years old, you know, that's just how I was raised and so I take my plays seriously and I don't like it if people aren't interested in them or have a patronizing attitude towards them. I get upset about it.

I've achieved a certain popular success as a comical actor and on a bad day, I suppose if someone comes up to me and says, "Hey, you're the inconceivable guy!"—because that was a word or catchphrase that my character used in the popular film that I was in. When that person defines me that way, and says you're the "inconceivable" guy, I may have a momentary twinge of thinking, "Wait a minute, I think I'm the guy who wrote that play, the one you've never heard of!" I don't deny that on a bad day, I might have that reaction. Although most of the time if someone comes up and says something like, "Oh, I really enjoyed you in that movie that you were in," or "I saw you on Gossip Girl and I really enjoyed it," that's just as pleasing to me. I'm not thinking about the fact, "Why aren't they complementing my plays!" I mean, why would they even know about them? I'm pleased if they saw me on Gossip Girl and enjoyed it. I'm delighted.

You also ask Strand if he felt different than when he was 30. You said you did. How so? Well at that time—and he described something similar very eloquently. A roller coaster works due to a mechanical device that pulls you up to the highest point, and then in terms of the number of feet that are covered, that's only a small proportion of the ride, but by the time you've been pulled up to the top of the highest point, then the machine lets you go over the first hill and then you go over all the smaller hills. But you need the machine to pull you up to the top to get the thing going. After that, there's no machine, you're just rolling.

And so to get yourself to be a writer, you have to have outrageous self confidence. You have to convince yourself that what you're doing is definitely great. So, that's what I felt when I was 30. I felt, "The plays that I'm writing, there's no doubt about it, they're definitely magnificent works and anybody who doesn't think so is wrong!" And I don't think I would have been able to really get myself to do those things if I hadn't felt that. But now, I am more prepared to believe it if someone were to say to me, "Well most writers think they're great, but most writing's not great, so you're probably one of the ones who's kidding himself and your work probably will be forgotten, most people's is, and your work probably is not that great." I wouldn't put up a tremendous fight about it. I would say, well, we'll see. I don't know. After my death, we will discuss it.

Speaking for myself, I can say that seeing The Designated Mourner on Wall Street was absolutely unforgettable and the best experience I've had—I can't say in a theater, because it wasn't in a theater. [Laughing] That's so great, you must have been about 11 years old at the time.

Hmm, no, I think I was 24 or something. But many years passed between that and Grasses of a Thousand Colours. Did that feel like a lot of time for you or did it feel like a natural period of time between finishing plays? My dear fellow, you'll be shocked to find how fast 10 years feels. You know between 55 and 65, it's just unbelievable. I mean it's unbelievable. It seems like 15 minutes. I mean it just goes by so fast. So no, it didn't seem like a long time. Most of the things I've written have been over a period of five years. This was over a period of 10 years, but it seemed like three years. So for me, subjectively it didn't seem longer than the others.

I read that it's going to be presented by the New Group. Is that actually happening? Well, I think that there are a lot of—there are 11 things that have to happen before a play can actually be put on. A lot of people have to agree on a lot of things and someone has to pay for it, so you know, we are still in the stage of... I want the play to be done in New York and so does Andre [Gregory, director] and I hope it'll be possible.

Were you pleased with the London premiere? What do you mean?

Were you satisfied with the production? Were you happy? It was our production, yes! I think it's an incredible production. Incredible! And you know, I was in the production, so you could say that I have not seen the production, but I've seen a lot of pictures of it and I've seen the other actors and if you like it, it's great. Some people are never going to like it, they're not going to like it at all, and some people are not going to get it, and they won't like it.

Did you read the reviews? Mmhmm.

Some of the reviews were very good, and then of course there are mixed opinions about things. The writer for the Telegraph wrote something about, how when he arrived home, he couldn't look his own cat in the eye without blushing. Which to me seems like a compliment because maybe it revealed something about himself that he'd been ignoring. Well, the play has to do with the relationship between human beings and the natural world. And maybe that writer for the Telegraph was—Freud said there's no jokes, or something to that effect, and maybe he [the writer] was shaken in his view of the relationship between man and nature, I don't know. Let's hope so.

Speaking of people reacting, I've always marveled at how your work just evokes such extreme reactions in people. Joe Papp called you one of the most important dramatists of our time, and then there's the critic John Simon, who seems to have such massive contempt for your plays. Why do you think that he in particular has responded so negatively and viciously? I don't know much about him. I've read all the horrible things he's said about me, and Andre and I even participated in a panel with him at the Telluride Film Festival. We were surprised to find that the organizers had put him on the panel along with us! And he said very hateful things. I don't know that much about him, and if I did, it would be rude to speculate. Obviously he would say, about me, "Well, I have contempt for him because he's phony!" He would say of me: "I would have contempt for him because he's a person with no talent who nonetheless has foisted himself on the public, and I'm exposing him as a fake."

So then I, if I knew a lot about John Simon, I suppose I would say, well the real reason that he doesn't like me is "blah blah." Which would be a pointless exercise. I don't know why he doesn't like me. I mean, it is beyond the normal bounds and it crosses over into a kind of personal hate. One of the critics in London expressed a kind of personal hate or contempt. Some people feel that it's been very easy for me, that I've had a very easy life, and haven't had to struggle as most people do. I think they feel that I had every advantage. From their point of view, I had connections, I knew people who knew people. And I was given every advantage, every privilege; you know, private schools. I mean, those things are all true; I have had it easy. But that doesn't bear really one way or another on my writing. But yes, some people may feel a particular sense of revulsion against me because they think I've had such an easy time in life and haven't really had to struggle as most people do.

Do you wonder if there's a political element to it, too? Because I remember in Harold Pinter's case, for instance—it seemed like there was a vindictiveness to the critics who were opposed to his work and I always wondered if there was a subtext of it really being about his politics? Well, politics has to do with how society is organized and who makes the decisions and who makes the power, and your feeling about all of that is going to come out in what you write, probably. A lot of Pinter's early plays were not in any way directly political, but his feelings about authority come out loud and clear. Yes, people who, for instance, have a high regard for the status quo, let's say, are just instinctively going to hate writing that seems to be sneering at the status quo or denouncing it even if it's very indirect. And every play fits somewhere on that spectrum. One can think of many Broadway plays that one has seen that accept certain assumptions and reject other certain assumptions. There are jokes that might be, from the point of view of the conscious mind of the writer, just silly jokes. They say, "Oh well, I just thought it was funny." But if you really analyze it, it's a joke that's at someone's expense, or it's a joke that assumes certain things about the way society should be. A critic picks up on that and likes it or doesn't like it.

In the book you talk about collaborating with this voice that "comes through the window," and from what I've read, it seems like that's also how Pinter and other writers work. My question is: How do you balance trusting the mysteriousness of that voice through the window with also deciding what to eliminate and edit? My writing usually does have two pretty distinct stages to it. It's oversimplifying it in a way, but there's a first stage where there's raw material being collected. That is like the timber that is brought into the factory and that's coming from the unconscious or from God knows where it comes from. I'm not making it up, it comes from somewhere. And it's being delivered to the factory and then there's the much more conscious process, I mean a completely conscious process where you make something of that. You turn the wood into a chair, and some of the wood is discarded as scrap and some is useful for the making of the chair.

Are you sometimes tempted to make chairs that would appeal to a greater mass of Americans, like the movies you appear in, that would be seen by more people? Um...yes! It's just, it's not that obvious which of the things that I normally do I would have to eliminate in order to do that. Yes, I've thought about it forever, and maybe someday I will. I don't know how long I'm going to be alive, but someday I will write something that more people could appreciate. I mean obviously there are limits to my ability to do that because, let's say, the most popular films are written in a kind of vernacular jargon that I don't use in my daily life and I wouldn't know how to imitate it. Most humor that is tremendously commercially successful I couldn't write, really. I wouldn't know how to. Because it is alien to me.

But I don't think it's ridiculous to think that I could write something that more people would like. It's never going to be as successful as the action movie that takes in $100 million dollars in a weekend. Because I don't know the line that the person says before he pulls the trigger of the gun and kills somebody, the comedic line, the insult or whatever, that makes the whole audience full of people laugh hysterically. I wouldn't know how to write that. Because it's just not funny to me. I mean I don't find those lines funny, but millions of people do. And one of them who does is the author of the line. I mean, you can't do that unless you're an enthusiast.

It's also interesting to see your plays be made into movies. And the DVD of Marie and Bruce finally came out. What was your impression of that? I loved the movie of Marie and Bruce. I think it's a fabulous movie. And I think that it's a tragedy that it was not theatrically released. It should have been. I mean, that's my belief about it.

Don't you think a live performance of a play loses something in translation when it goes to screen? Yeah, usually, but this was not a film of a play, it was a film based on a play. Just like a film is based on a novel or something. So, yes, if you just film a play, 99% of the time it is awful.

If you want to read more, go to Gothamist.

Ode To Jackson, A Tribute

2009-08-31T21:37:00.000-07:00

I raise a glass, to the best of friends
From the start his life, until mine ends
Two creatures of the land
Bound by what, no one knows
Part ways for a time
'Til we both make the grass grow.

"We're going to put him down, probably this week," my mom told me over the phone. I barely had time for pause before she abruptly cut in, "I shouldn't have told you that." That's my mother's worst attribute in a nutshell: saving me from real pain. Her love cannot be measured, both ways between us, but she has never been able to admit to me when bad things happen until it is too late. I turn twenty-four on Sunday.

Jackson, our white lab, golden retriever mix, splashed with just a little hint of Germain Shepard, was put to sleep on Friday. Nearing seventeen years of age (it's hard for me to do the math for dog years, but I know it is high) and spending fifteen and half years with us, it was hard for my mother, my father, and my brother to say good-bye. Rightly so.

In his youth, Jackson was the spriest of dogs -- running everywhere except up and downstairs, ready to play a game of chicken at the drop of a hat, and guarding his home turf for better or worse. Two times he actually bit the friendly Mormon folk who would wonder into our backyard ('cause that's what you do in Utah), one the home owners association president of block, the other, a cable guy. Mitchell Holladay was bitten on the hand by him and had it healed with a badged and cold can of beer pressed onto the wound. Sam, by younger brother, was bitten on the eye and nearly lost it because he pushed Jackson to the limits. And I know I'll sound foolish and ignorant for saying it, but he was one of the best dogs I've ever known.

See, what most people didn't understand about Jackson is that he was more honest in himself than most humans are. He had good days, but he also had bad days. Those good outweighed the bad by a long shot. Jackson was a trail blazer during the hikes up Millcreek canyon, sometimes venturing a quarter of a mile ahead of us to clear the path. He wasn't guarding his home so he was friendly to anyone he met on the trail, a real friend of nature. And when he'd gone too far, faster than any of us could manage, he'd run back to check on us, spotting my dad or myself, before taking off to scout the terrain he'd been over a million times.

Did he fart? Like no other creature I've ever been around. Did he get in trouble? That dog would eat Kleenex and Vaseline if you left it out. Did he drive me crazy? Sure. On one occasion, shortly after we'd gotten him, he'd grabbed one of my winter gloves as I was trying to get a key from my pocket. The problem was that the glove was still attached to my coat sleeve and didn't snap off, so I got dragged through the snow, simultaneously laughing and crying at the same time. And no matter what season, he'd climb up on the couch with you and let you scratch his inner thigh, slowly sending him off to sleep. He kept watch, especially in the later years, when there was no threat at all. Several times a night he'd wake us up, just to let us know he was still there. I think he was reassuring himself in his old age to make sure we hadn't left him.

I, myself, am dealing with the loss of my old friend in ups and downs. I know my parents made a hard choice, but it was the right choice. His heart and mind were strong, even if the senility had made him more skittish and his bladder was more gone than his mind. "You keep hoping they'll pass in the night and you'll find them in the morning," my dad told me last night on our weekly phone call. He sounded depressed, not just his normal down trodden tone, but real hurt. "They never do." Dad's put both of the dogs in his will, stating his wishes to have their ashes buried with him when the time comes. I guess since I've left home I've removed myself from all things there, for better or worse. I want to cry, but I can't because I wasn't there to help out and part of me knows I shouldn't: this is a time of change, every single year, and I'm aware of that now. The week before my birthday always seems to be the hardest as my skin sheds and a new one forms. It hurts a lot. I turn twenty-four on Sunday.

The one person I worry about the most, who probably his hurting the most and unable to speak up is Jackson's canine companion, our other dog, Taz. Though not blood brothers, they were inseparable. As youths, they fake wrestle. As they got older, they'd clean each other's ears and take care of the other one. I hope Taz isn't lost, but how I can I say that when I'm not there to carry some of the load. They say couples who really love each other do not spend much time apart when one dies. Losing two of my family members, because a dog is, no matter what any one says, would be too hard and I'm just using all my back logged wishes that I can feel Taz's lick me in October when I visit for Thanksgiving. I'm sure he misses his brother.

Well, that last bit finally got me and I'm sitting in a puddle of my own salt water running down my face. At this point, all I can do is toast my friend, my brother, and dog who helped raise me.

Jackson, you will be missed and loved

On The Radio Uh-Oh

2009-08-29T10:49:00.000-07:00

From the Press Files of So Say We All (and a little adjustment)

Why should you take the time to listen to SSWA’s air time on The Pregame show? Here’s why:

1) Justin and I are cute and witty.

2) If you missed VAMP this month, Rob Williams performs a pitch-perfect reading of his much-loved musing on San Diego late night Mexican Food culture,”Rolled Tacos: Musings from La Posta #8″ Look out, Ira Glass, we're gunnin' for the number one spot.

3) Sam “Car Wreck” Carr, in keeping with his crusade to bring Neo-Gonzo Beatism back to the forefront of our culture’s consciousness performs his piece about being nearly murdered by an ex-girlfriend to the backing of Fever Sleeves, and then drops the F-bomb and the “special S” all within fifteen minutes. Our little schmedrick is now having his head hunted by the FCC.

Wanna hear us? Click the link here

Enjoy!

Friday Bliss

2009-08-28T23:50:00.000-07:00

Friday, I love you. Let me count the ways.

To start off, at 8 a.m. on FM 949, there is the Friday Morning Blues Set. You'd think that this being the blues and all it should go on Monday, but the music is just too good to give up to the worst day of the week. This was today's set

August 28, 2009
Johnny Winter - "Mean Mistreater" (1969)
Taj Mahal - "She Caught the Katy" (1968)
Robert Johnson - "Hell Hound On My Trail" (1937)

Next, I walk into work, where there is an assortment of free donuts and bagels just waiting for me to eat. And you know, I'm a whore for a free meal.

Then I get to my desk, open up my computer, and log on to be reminded that, oh yeah, today was pay day. Now I have something in my account that I can watch leak out slowly until the next week.

By 1:30 p.m. I'm at the Renaissance Shopping Complex, in front of Rubios, eating sack lunch with my great friend, Jen Bantleman. We talk about being art thieves, how to test if women are pregnant with alcohol and cigarettes, and proper church etiquette.

The rest of the work day drags, as if it were any other day, but then I come home, cook a great dinner, and chill with my girlfriend in front of the television.

Now, if that damn heat would go away...

Summer Oh Shit! List

2009-08-22T12:17:00.000-07:00

5) The Black Eyed Peas song "I Gotta Feeling"

Dear BEPs, your record is called: The E.N.D. and that is something I'd like you to take into consideration with your careers. Sincerely, Every Morning Commuter Stuck Listening To Your Pop Trash Three Time Per Hour At 7:30 In The Morning.

4) Anything that has to do with Avatar

James Cameron. Air bending. All of it -- I don't care. Unless you're Felicia Day and offering me a date. Then I'm craving to emote with you.

3) Wolverine

I can this (__) close to falling asleep. I should have. I want my money and my life back.

2) The Real World Cancun

For someone who had not watched an entire season of RW in his life until his girlfriend made him, I have to say that I actually kind of liked the Brooklyn edition earlier this year. Granted it had all the "that's not really what life in New York is like" bullshit, but the Cancun people are just downright terrible. And now I go back to pretending that The Real World doesn't exist.

1) Justin Bieber

This music video...which plays forever...all the time...and just makes me want to never have kids.

Rat Eating Plant

2009-08-22T12:01:00.000-07:00

The most unique product this season to come out of the Philippines. And the creepiest part: silent, but deadly.

Can I have it for my birthday?

2009-08-08T11:17:00.000-07:00

As I run past first, round second, curve my way through third, and head on home in my current writing projects, I'm at my favorite crossroad of life. Namely, it involves the question of what do I write next. I used to write all the ideas down and then go back to them to figure out which ones I really take the time and effort to produce.

So far, here's what's waiting on deck to step up to the plate:

1) Nick Garlands Last Night In Town

This is a screenplay that I've already started, based upon (and hopefully starring) my friend, Nick Garland. Just to clarify: he's not leaving town, this is a fictional story, but it is hopefully going to be a showcase of San Diego talent and creative individuals who are associated with So Say We All. That's the underlying hope. But on a story level, it is about a guy who has lived in San Diego all his life and is following his long-time girlfriend out to Chicago, where he hopes to make it big on the comedy circuit. During his last night in town, he finds out his girlfriend actually left Chicago and came back to SD, leaving him with the major dramatic question of should he still leave? (Answer: hell yeah...)

2) SexBot 2400

As of last week, I've been a nerd gamer for sixty days. Rejoice! And while I've not fully acquired all the skills of Everquest to be a joystick fiend, I have learned a few things. This play would be about a quality assurance game tester who is given the task of testing a new, interactive game called SexBot 2400. It is a robotic woman who is incredibly lifelike and the objective is to find a way to have sex with her. With most of the gaming community not knowing quite how to interact on a social level, it is meant to boost their face-to-face skills and give a middle management megalomaniac the power she needs to take over the company. The only catch: it is impossible to have sex with the SexBot 2400.

3) The Draftsman

Came up with this last night while watching B.D. Wong in the good (if uneven) Herringbone. Is it a play or a movie? You tell me. A man checks into the South Point Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas. He applies for a job on a clean up crew and during his first week, finds a dead body of an independently wealthy man in one of the rooms and decides to use the man's identity to stay at the hotel indefinitely. He eats scraps from the buffet, works out in the hotel's pool, and never leaves the hotel. When he's not cleaning up other rooms, he's designing a building. One day, one of the front desk staff finds out that he is living off the dead man's credit cards and wants to know who he really is. He's a draftsman who lost his job, felt like he had disgraced his family, and decided to leave until he could come back with some sense of how to save them. Pretty twisted plan, no? The idea was to design a building that would get him rehired at his old firm, with an apartment on the top floor that would be his family's new home. Finally, the front desk person forces the draftsman to leave, after a year of solitude, to return to his family.

So, which pitch should I swing at?

Summer Oh Yeah! List

2009-07-29T00:18:00.000-07:00

My Summer 2009 Oh Yeah! List

10) 21st Century Breakdown -- Green Day

The album that grows on you like a bad mole. It is no Dookie or American Idiot and a far cry from Nimrod. However, once you listen to it again and again in a hot car, you finally get it -- we're all musically doomed, so party now.

9) Bruno

Wazzup? It's boner flopped at the box office, true, but it was also a step above Borat. That's because it is easy to get on board with a guy who could be a terrorist from another country, but it is hard and ballsy (sorry) to throw America's worst fear back in their face and make people laugh. Performance art hardly does it justice. This was a defying leap into comedic social commentary.

8) Rescue Me

Let's see: more details about 9/11, substantial character development Sean's battle with cancer, and the women taking control over Denis Leary's tortured and confused fireman? Oh, and everyone is drinking again, including the ghosts. Yeah, it is a kick ass season.

7) City Of Glass Graphic Novel -- By David Mazzucchelli and Paul Karasik, based on the novel by Paul Auster

Forget the original and go with the adaptation that's original, eye opening, and haunting in a way the source material was never able to quite cook up. Not only are the illustrations entrancing and hypnotic, they push the story to new depths. A great summer graphic novel.

6) The Hangover and Up

The best double-feature you can get for one ticket price. Sneak into it with someone you love and is willing to hold your hair back (extra bonus: stay for both movies' credits)

5) "Paranoid" music video by Kanye West

R&B rap meets werewolf Tarantino movie. It's B-horror style with imagination and energy that elevates a mediocre song to a new level of awesomeness. And I suppose Rhianna is pretty dashing as the possessed damsel going to the top of the mountain in her tricked out convertible. You worry about the wrong things...

4) Weeds

Still funny. Still creative. Mary-Louise Parker and Justin Kirk have the best chemistry on television. It wouldn't be summer without green growing in Mrs. Botwin's backyard. And speaking of chemistry...

3) Away We Go

Dear Dave Eggers, I apologize for calling you a hack writer who does not fully understand complex and intriguing human beings. Perhaps Maya Rudolph and John Kransinski just did everything perfectly, but you and Vendela Vida gave them the set up. Write more movies, less books.

2) "Like A Boss" music video by The Lonely Island

Stay off the boat and go to work where you can micromanage, hit on Debra, find a fish, fuck its brains out, and have an interview with Seth Rogen. I am a believer in the Lonely Island guys and think that once again, they are genius in what they make.

1) Cage The Elephant -- Cage The Elephant

Ain't no rest for the wicked. Same goes for this album on your radio. Make sure you go crazy.

Oh yeah...

Quick Sample

2009-07-14T14:18:00.000-07:00

Last night, in a hot, cramped, sweltering apartment in Ocean Beach, I finally got to do the reading of Salt Water Cajuns (formerly, Our Mother, Staten Island), with a group of fantastic actors.

I now have a new direction to go with it and TJ and the cast gave me some interesting ideas to chew on. At first it felt like another shot in the dark at making the story work, stretching for emotion, plot, and character all at once. But a lot of the actors really liked it, many saying that when it goes up they want to audition for it.

They have hope that it will go up -- better than I do at the moment.

Speaking of actors and this play, there was a man who went by the title of Bowser back in New York and who would occasionally read and act in pieces in the dramatic writing department. In fact, he was one of the first people to read the part of "Sean" in my play.

Where is he now? Wait until about 45 seconds into this clip to find out. I've never seen him do anything like this before.

If you want to see more -- and god knows, I wasn't expecting to -- the whole episode is on Hulu. At least one of us is making it big.

Revamp 2.5

2009-07-12T18:53:00.000-07:00

90210 has done it. Melrose Place is about to do it. And So Say We All has just completed it: a makeover and updating of an old show.

"Old," you say. "You've only been around since February! Of this year"

You are both right and wrong, sir and/or madam. We, So Say We All and the newly re-did SSWA website, have recently started to expand into the world of...wait for it...wait for it...art.

So Say We All is still storytelling and themes, but the different outlets and genres of creative expression will all have a chance to perform and get their voice heard. We are not a production company, we are just a producing entity.

Music videos are in the works, with a performance on every second Monday of the month at South Park's Whistle Stop bar. The story slams are getting bigger and better. Look out for this month's "When Poverty Strikes" show on July 31st, just in time for California to go broke during Fiscal Armageddon and August, when So Say We All changes venues, we are staying up to do our "3 A.M." show.

Plus, be on the look out Prop 8-er Haters, we are doing a main stage show with the LGBT community called: "That's So Gay." with a date that is TBA.

Basically, we are growing, we are moving, and we want you on board.

Shameless self-promotion done!

The Great iTunes Experiment

2009-06-21T11:38:00.000-07:00

Wanna waste some time, but in a good way?

I gave myself a challenge at the beginning of 2009, when I didn't have a job, a direction, or a sense of purpose, and that was to look at what I had instead of what I didn't have. People kept telling me to do so and I wasn't that enthused for taking them up on the offer. But I did have a computer and time to waste, so I had enough faith that I could come up with something close to self-reflection.

Then I started to go through my library of music and realized there was a lot of stuff I owned -- literally bought or took the time to copy from the Salt Lake City Public Library -- that I had never listened to. Ever. I most likely copied the CD for one song, thought I'd look lame if people saw I just wanted that one single, and wasn't a true fan of the artist unless I had their entire album.

As it stands, my iTunes library has 4,298 items, which is 16.21 MB of space and eleven and half days of music straight. It was only this past week that I finished the great experiment of listening to each song, in its entirety, alphabetically by artist's name. And guess what? I've got a lot of great music I had no idea was in my possession. So, here are the following albums which, if you own them, listen to them more often and if you do not own them, well, your loss.

This guy is a genius and you will feel so French.

By the time this album came out, I was kind of done with the Strokes. Now, I'm back.

Rubber Factory will remain my favorite, but goddamn if this album doesn't blow the doors off your house.

Thank you Jamie Wilcox. Another great band who I never heard of and now love.

Common's best work. Period.

It might not be the self-titled, but Mike Ness sure does know how to capture youth on vinyl and kiss your ears with it.

Also check out The Devil And Daniel Johnston.

Sam Cooke will be my favorite singer from the past century and this proves it.

Haunting. Dark. Beautiful. Listen to it at night on an urban highway.

It's the B-Sides to Hail To The Thief and, in my humble opinion, better than the A-Sides.

I still have a handful of his singles which I love to listen to, but for a full album of autumn infused bliss, this is the one.

All right, all right...it's a good album. You got me.

Afraid of Interpol? Now you don't have to be.

Don't believe the hype. Believe the music. And to quote Dave Schmidt, "that shits for real..."

You don't like country, but you will love this woman singing country.

Nas! Yes! Can all of your albums be like this and Illmatic?

There new stuff is...eh, okay. This album is where the treasure is buried.

Maybe not as good of an album as Lupe Fiasco's The Cool, but some of this songs are absolutely mind blowing. Please don't retire after your next album Lupe.

This is Modest Mouse.

What stuff do you have sitting around that deserves a second or even a first time listen?

June Gloom

2009-06-20T19:11:00.000-07:00

June used to be such a good month for me and now it reflects the only month of poor weather here in San Diego: gloomy. It's not like it is a bad time to be in Southern California, but it just isn't the same as the rest of year. March used to be like this and sometimes November, but June? It supposed to be cookouts and swimming pools and sunny days with energetic music and everyone coming out of there winter shell.

This June, kind of gloomy.

SEO for SOE

I'm happy to be employed at Sony Online Entertainment now. It was a rough start, I'll admit, because I just didn't know what I was getting into. First day of training, the man who was our teacher, for lack of a better title, told us: "if you are here to just play video games all day, then you should leave." Uh-oh, was my first thought and I almost did leave. Isn't that why I am here? To work a job as a game tester? And then any bugs that come back around, I'll let you know. "Ask questions," was the best advice we got and I'm asking myself, "what am I doing here if not just playing the game?" Well, the job is different from my first perceptions of it. There are a variety of tests and procedures to test the game, one which I am less than thrilled to be playing, but getting used to the world it creates and what you can do in it. After I past my new trainer test (only in five tries, I might add) I started to get more comfortable with what the job required of me. I started asking questions and not being embarrassed about not knowing anything. Now, I know what an NPC, a hot key, and a geo-test are. I'm still not perfect. I was better at SEO content writing for MAP and I miss that. As absolutely fucked up as the Law Offices of MAP were, they were a lot of fun. We joked around and had our weekends off and didn't take our work home. This job...I've got to come in on some Saturdays and Sundays, I've got play the game at home, and work in front of a computer in a dark room for eight hours a day. And I know -- I should stop complaining and be happy that I have a job with a stable company and room for growth in the industry I want to be in. So all those complaints and worries. They'll end. Right now.

It's All In The Family Drama

It was hard enough last month to deal with my aunt berating me for not taking the job at Sony because I had Omaha coming up. She basically called my playwriting ambitions pipe dreams and told me to lie to my parents about getting the Sony job before I actually had it. Then came the e-mail from her about a blog that contained my grandma, her mother. Now, my grandma was a huge figurehead in our family and always will be but she has no business randomly showing up in a blog. I skimmed it and thought, hm, that seems weird. Two days later, my aunt writes that it is actually her blog and she wrote it. I do a second read and yeah, that seems like her. But what is really killer is that my aunt has been saying some things involving my brother and cousin that I do not know how to react to. Whatever situation that took place between them was a year ago and only now are we hearing about it. My parents are cool as cucumbers when it comes to dealing with this type of stuff. Me? I'm a little stressed out by it all. I feel as though I don't know my brother well enough to defend him and saddened by the fact that my aunt, who I used to be so close with, now has a very crazy streak in her that she can't seem to shake. Who are these people? My family, yes. Familiar, hardly.

Never Mixing Friendships And Business

Where do you call on your friends to help you out with your business and where do you draw the line in calling it your business? Hard to say, as me and my friends -- no, business partners -- no, friends involved with an entrepreneurial enterprise had to come to a tough decision about taking our group in a new direction. This past week we have hired a lawyer to make us an official non-profit corporation with 501(c)3 status, gotten t-shirts and a radio interview, and are looking to expand to different mediums, a la This American Life. But the biggest thing? We are looking to expand the storytellers beyond our small group of friends from the writers circle. Some are happy, some are not. But this was the plan all along -- to have different people all the time. These people will always be the founders, the original company members, and if they have a story that cannot be passed up or they really, really want to take to the stage, hell, I'm not going to say no. But if there comes a time where we might have to ask them or even ourselves to step down, I hope we can all say yes.

It hasn't rained, it hasn't stormed, and it hasn't all come crashing down. Like every month -- hell, like every day -- I get a little bit wiser about what I am doing...with a business, with my art and craft (like I'm a first grader again), and with just this grown up version of who I am. It's still weird and takes some getting used to, but maybe I'll have a better handle on it come July.

O! What-A-City Maha

2009-05-25T07:27:00.000-07:00

Nebraska, man, where have you been all of my life?

Currently I'm in northern Omaha for the Great Plains Theater Conference, working as a panelist for new plays and getting set to workshop another draft of My Friend Dahmer. Thus far, it is great. Everyone here is incredibly nice, helpful, excited, and passionate about theatre, sometimes to an unbelievable degree.

They've put us up in these awesome 19th century colonial type buildings that look like you could either stage a creepy horror film in or that you would want filled with aristocrats and high society ladies, smoking cigars and laughing about business. A lot of people I've met have been older and, of course, more accomplished, but there is a small group of younger writers like me who are still trying to find our way.

One of the best guys I've met here (if I had to narrow it down) is this guy Mark, who lives on floor below me. He's just a low-key guy from Chicago who got into play writing late, but must be very talented since his second play is on the main stage this weekend. Another main stage writer and delightful human being is Jessica Jill, who has been my companion through Omaha's number one gay club, late night porch drinking, and a victim of Cuban Eddie's ego gun in the classroom. Networking -- who knew it could be this much fun?

Yesterday I sat on a panel for four plays, all of which were solid, and two I really enjoyed. Again, Nebraska, where have you been all my life. I was a little worried about my play, however, as the director has been quite busy and he's doing my show, plus another one at the same time. But all my fears subsided when I got an e-mail that I have rehearsal in...well, just a few hours to be exact. Dahmer rides again!

Can't say enough about a state primarily known for its corn and for its having nothing to do. In reality, it is a chill place with fantastic people, delicious food (The Upstream), and dedicated theatre freaks, just the way I like them.

Lie To Me (But Not My Folks)

2009-05-17T14:48:00.001-07:00

I did not think it would happen, but this truly is the year of the ox, according to my friend Ian’s mom. She said I would have a good year in 2009 and while it has been a rough start, the bull is finally coming home (not on Wall Street, on my street!).

Last week I got a call from Sony Online Entertainment—a call I had been waiting for a while. It was funny because Dave told me that he received a memo stating I was to be trained on May 26th. I was truly excited, if not a little conflicted, because even though I am not a fan of my current job, it is better than nothing. After consulting with my mom and dad, I decided to go for the gold and switch to Sony.

I called back and asked if they would be willing to push my training back to June 1st, when I return from Omaha. The answer was decidedly less than what I had hoped for. I guess they needed someone right away and if I could not train on that day, then they could not offer me the job.

Bummed is a light word for it. I felt really crappy that the timing was so bad, but the lady who hired me, Suzy, was really awesome and said she could call me next week or the one after that and something would come up. Sony still wanted me.

To make matters worse, my aunt practically tore me apart for not taking the job. I explained that I was not going to give up the Great Plains Theater Conference after they had been so awesome in getting me to Omaha and putting on “Dahmer.” From a woman I consider more a sister than an aunt, I was told to lie to my parents about getting the job. She called again and said the same thing the next day, Mother’s Day, before I had even had a chance to tell my mom that she is the mother of all mom’s.

“Don’t tell her—it will just depress her.”

When I finally did tell them, they were fine with the decision. My dad said, hey, it is my life now and I can do with it what I want. The next day I was sitting for three hours in M.A.P.’s office, starting to crack the 86 blogs that of mine that he had to review (we only got through about 10 of them in that span of time and right now I believe there are 126 ready for his approval), when I missed two calls. One was from Dave, saying they were fine with hiring me and starting on June 1st. The second was Suzy calling to confirm it, saying, “Boy, I just knew this was going to happen.”

Me too…I just did not think so soon.

So, this week I go into my last week of SEO blogging and personal injury insanity, but, to be honest, I’m going to miss it. It was really a crazy place to work and despite all the weird rules and one crazy person in charge of it all. As for my aunt and I, well, we are back to being cool with each other. The second time she called, I kind of got a little mad and said I was not going to lie to my parents about a job and that somewhere down the line it would work out. I am happy I was right, but I am also kind of upset that it had to come to strong words between the two of us.

However, it is the year of the ox and good stuff is currently happening all around—why dwell on the bad?

Sony, baby, Sony…

Hiatus Ends, Work Begins

2009-05-02T19:38:00.000-07:00

See, I don't really need this blog any more. Just sayin', yo, that I got a job about two weeks ago where I get paid to do this shit...except I don't get to write about my fun experiences (Scott's Vegas birthday will be coming soon) or write reviews about current pop culture (Green Day and Eminem, just release your records now)...no, instead, I get to blog about car accidents.

Let's back up to December, when I was fully employed.

I sort of knew my impending doom at the Playhouse was about to come crashing down on me, so I hunted for a job on a website that shall not be named. I saw an ad for SEO content writing for some lawyer's website. I sent in my stuff, they gave me a test, and I guess I didn't pass because I never heard back from the guy -- it was M.A.P. himself who gave me the test, but more on him later.

Then, the firing. You know how that went.

For the next few months, day after day, I'd hunt for a job and occasionally the ad I applied to for the SEO content writing -- the did not change it up -- would show up and I would respond to it with the same materials I always did, which were not changed up except for the date.

But around mid-April, Scottie Rockstar came to visit me and Sara before the big birthday bash in Vegas (sorry, I mean "Marriage to Mary-Kate Olsen") and I got a call from the Law Offices of M.A.P. saying they had reviewed my materials and wanted to give me a writing test again. This was the fifth time I had applied and the second time I was testing.

I went into the whole thing with a "fuck you" attitude, because I assumed I wouldn't get the job. Adding much humor and snarkiness to my copy, I sent it back and waited for my unemployment check. But lo and behold, they wanted me to come in for an interview.

Dressing up in a suit and tie is usually pleasurable, but not when you go in for an interview in a stuffy office with only three windows. I talked with the editor of the blog, Kevin, and the other blogger, Adio, and they were really cool guys. Then came time for Mister Personal Injury Lawyer Himself, M.A.P., to come strolling in an offer a slice of advice. Several, in fact:

"Dreams don't end just because you work here."

"I think that you are an accomplished young man -- in fact, I know it."

"You want this job, then it is yours. But sleep on it."

Sleep on it? Basically M.A.P. told me to contact Kevin tomorrow if I wanted the job, after I had taken some time to think about it. What the hell...? After M.A.P. left, Kevin and Adio took me out in the hall and also, very strongly, said that I should think about this job...and if I really...really...really want it.

Now I know they were kind of saying, "RUN!"

Because what I have learned in the past ten days of my employment at The Law Offices of M.A.P. is that M.A.P. is an S.O.B. who is C.R.A.Z.Y (no acronym, just for fun). The copy I write is boring and there are ten a day, but I can handle it. What I can't handle is a guy who contradicts himself every other minute, makes a series of inappropriate sexual remarks to his employees, wants results on tasks that he gives no explanation for, and get grump when he actually must do lawyer work. And this is key: on my third day he told me, in as many words, to shut up and do my work. I later learned that on Mondays, M.A.P. prefers to read the paper front to back with the door closed. But that day, he had to work a case. And the blog? Well, he's more obsessed with getting the number one spot on Google than helping people in car accidents.

And this is where I work. Sitting in a closet, next to three computer servers, and a smelly refrigerator. I must write my ten copies a day (and M.A.P. knows everything because he keeps constant surveillance over all computer activity, which he reviews at the end of the day), say "hi" and "bye" to him at the end of the day, and make sure that all the keywords are there.

Some Big Matzoh Balls

2009-04-09T14:59:00.000-07:00

Growing up, I both dreaded and couldn't wait for the holiday of Passover. Dreaded because it meant that there would be a lot of waiting to eat food in front of us and for the next eight days, bread and it's family were off limits. I couldn't wait, however, for the Seder meal full of spring time treats: Gefilte fish, chopped liver, spicy horseradish, matzoh ball soup, and brisket. Plus, if you happened to be at Beth and Alan's Seder, you were treated to my aunt Marilyn's homemade chocolate matzoh and trust me, forty years in the desert was worth it.

I'll admit, though, that the past few years hadn't quite reached there peak. In college I never went back home for Passover -- usually it was too expensive, bad timing with finals, and too far. Besides, there wasn't a Seder per se. We used to attend our family friends, the Kramers', Seder when I was a kid. This Seder would go on late into the night, usually with my mom ushering us out the door after the actual meal (aka, "the halfway mark") had been served. We'd find the afikomen and then split, so I never got to have the last two cups of wine or wrap up properly. And I kind of regret it now. These were some of the best Passovers I ever had: with each and every plague animated for the guests, delicious Jew food prepared to perfection, and all of my family and a lot of my friends gathered in one place to celebrate the upcoming spring, a time of change and renewal, to grow as a person as you eased your way into the beautiful summer months ahead. Once the Kramers moved to Los Angeles, that all stopped.

We tried having Seders at our house, with my dad leading the meal and the only Kosher catering service in Salt Lake preparing the food. It was nice the first time -- short, sweet, and to the food -- but it lost a little bit of the meaning. Over the next few years, the quality of the food steadily declined, so it was like we were slave in Egypt all over again (I exaggerate, but still...) And, the opposite was true for the Brooklyn dinners I had: delicious food, lots of family, but with young ones around the Seder was usually cut short in religious content and reduced to a dinner, which was fine by me, but every year I wanted more from the Haggadah and I was denied.

This year, Pescah got her groove back.

Sam Carr invited me and Sara over to his parents house for Seder, Sara's first, the Carr's thirtieth, and my first one in a long time that felt just right. Sam's parents were so hospitable and generous to give us a place, among 35 guests, at their Seder table. The food was delicious, the prayers and liberal-feminist interpretations a delight (takes me back to so many arguments I witnessed as a kid about the "right of women" at the Seder table), and for my first time in San Diego, I really felt all together. Passover always does that. I had been having a rough day before hand, moping around the apartment, doing jack shit with my time, and feeling crappy. I talked on the phone with Gina, swapping woes between each other about what we were going to do with our life. I was particularly grumpy because I had not heard back from Sony, got my call denied somewhere else...but just as we were about to leave for the Passover festivities, I got a call from a potential employer asking me for an interview on Friday. This may be the one that changes everything, this may amount to nothing, but I won't be swayed in the fact that Passover is the time of year to grow and change and get one step closer to the person you truly want to be.

Now, if I could just have a cookie...

Craig

2009-04-07T17:27:00.000-07:00

Excuse me, Mister Craig, but please don't dismiss
My comments about your site and your infamous list
I love the for sale, for rent, and just lookin' sections
And I would surely, truly miss the missed connections
But one column in particular
Is where I'm a stickler
Day after day I get my hours robbed
When I go on ya site lookin' for a job.

(the hook):
Wake up in the AM
For another day of mayhem
Everybody's hirin'
And it ain't my lack of tryin'
This ain't a hate rap
Perhaps it's a pissed song
I'm just sayin' fuck Craig
And the list he road in on

Nearly every type of position that's under the sun
And how many call you back? - Well, uh, none...
Got the denial to be a clerk who can file
Dial tones to answer company phones
Connection was chopped for the sandwich shop
Plus, they say I'm under-qualified for slinging a mop.
Isn't like they said "no"
But they sure didn't say "yes"
So I sit at my computer and I guess and I guess

(the hook)

Check the inbox again
Copy Paste and then send
Another resume
Try another day
This shit's just like crime
'Cause the bitch just don't pay
So, c'mon, Craig, what the hell's the deal?
I got a great resume
But can't eat paper for a meal
Every time I look for a job
Feel like I'm gettin' takin' by a swindler
Who made your list the shit?
Last time I checked you ain't Schindler.

(the hook)

Sorry for the ranting and raving
I'm just sick of slaving
Over my keys and my wires
For companies without hires
But don't worry, Craig
We comin' to break your legs
And I'm talkin' real life, man
Do you see a fuckin' stage?
Give away free jobs
To anyone who beats you with a mallet
Takes a dump on your face
Makes it look like Gene Shallot.
It's a life time opportunity
Now we open for business
Send your info to the fake address
'Cause you wouldn't wanna miss this.

Waitin'

2009-04-06T17:39:00.000-07:00

Right now, I’m playing the waiting game, a game I’ve been playing for some months now. Waiting for a job, waiting for life’s next chapter to unveil itself to me, waiting for Passover to start, waiting to go to Vegas for Scott’s birthday, waiting stop waiting.

And in this state of wait – ha? – that clearly resembles the place you should not go in Dr. Suess’s Oh The Places You’ll Go, I find myself somewhat lacking of information about what takes up my days. Basically, this is an apology to the blog and readers alike: I wish I had something new and exciting to report on each and every day. But after waking up, writing, exercising, and then coming home to read, watch something, or write some more, not a whole lot going on

But while I wait, let me put the most up-to-date accomplishments of a guy who sits around on his ass most of the day trying to find ways to fill it.

SO SAY WE ALL: Justin and I built two lighting boxes from some old drawers and about a hundred dollars worth of equipment from Home Depot. They are awesome. We are also in line for the use of free law services to turn the organization into a 501c3 and make sure that our little baby don’t get taxed too hard. Rehearsals for the “Mortal Enemies” show went well, though finding two more storytellers for the show is proving difficult, and we are getting set to drop bombs on April 25th. Speaking of bombs – like the logo?

That’s just a sneak peak at what is yet to come.

WRITINGS: Finished a new draft of the Staten Island installment of THE BOROUGH SERIES. It’s now called Our Lady of Staten Island and has been completely revamped from the thesis project it was exactly one year ago today *sniff*. I like it. I think it is a stronger piece than it was before and can really do some damage. As for The Rounds, my show I’m writing with Katie, I got through a new draft that was an improvement from the last one, but still not quite the level we want. It’s hard to get the humor across while still showing that a dramatic situation is taking place. Jaya passed on several competitions to send it off to, but I need a least a strong third draft or decently put-together fourth draft to even think about doing that.

JOBS: Heard an answer from Sony Online Entertainment of: “We’d love to hire you…not sure if we have the money…” which is great and simultaneously confusing news. The job is mine, the money we are still iffy on. But I hope I get it. I had a great interview and a solid resume and think that the place would be a great fit for me. However, working for free kind of defeats the purpose. Should Sony decide they are lacking funds (and I pray to God they aren’t), I heard back from a guy on Craigslist (first time! Ever!) about working for the Cross Fire Protection agency. Not ideal for a career path, but a good place to work and great hours. As of yet, though, it remains uncertain whether I have the position or the job. See the waiting…?

SPRING APPROACHES: This is my favorite time of year and it is a great time to be in San Diego. Warm, sunny, and buzzing with life. I always felt that around this time, with Passover, especially, I was able to shed some skin and mature a little bit in character. By the leaving part of the old me behind and opening myself up to further develop myself, I am always rewarded with a rejuvenating sense of self-worth. It doesn’t last long, but it is sweet when it comes. That I am very much looking forward to.

And now, please wait. The blog will re-start momentarily.

So We All Say Good-Bye

2009-03-22T21:33:00.000-07:00

All of this has happened before, but it is unlikely that it will ever happen again. Or at least, it won’t happen for a very long time.

Nerds of the universe and the legions of faithful television watchers gave their last salutes to one of the finest shows produced for the small screen ever: Battlestar Galactica, which ended its fourth and final season this past Friday.

It also marks the end of another important television program by carving another notch on to the belt of television’s “Golden Age, Part 2”, a time in entertainment that comes closer to an end with each and every series finale that occurs. This is both a good and a bad thing, depending how one wishes to view modern television programming or television in general. On one hand, the rise of reality-based series steadily inclines, giving way for critics to further scoff at the idea of paying mind to the boob-tube, especially since more shows such as BSG are hanging up their hats, and leaving a void to be filled. And on the other hand, shows like BSG are part of a legacy about how powerful television can be and, when done with foresight and sophistication, can ascend from a lowly form of entertainment into a fine medium for artistic expression.

Being a latecomer to BSG is something to admit with a tinge of regret. Like most people, hearing Battlestar Galactica brought up in conversation was the equivalent of shaking the hand of a guy you saw in the bathroom who didn’t wash his hands before he left—it was awkward and nobody really wanted to touch it. Even when catching up on old episodes on DVD I would often hide the fact from my girlfriend that I was indulging in a guilty, geeky pleasure and do anything to avoid the subject later. Because the perception of BSG, aside from it being a reinvention of Star Trek wannabe show from the late 1970’s, is that it dealt with yet another make believe world of science fiction lore which only the alumni of your high school AV club could decipher. Is this true? Yes, guilty as charged. I’m willing to admit that I have no idea what happened on Earth thousands of years ago, how it lead to the resurrection technology, or what Ellen Tigh’s background as a Cylon has anything to do with anything else. The series is guilty of creating hardcore sci-fi mythology and there is no denying it.

But that does not matter because it is also guilty of great acting, especially on the parts of Edward James Olmos, Mary McDonnell, James Callis, and Michael Hogan. Ronald D. Moore and the writers of BSG evolved storylines and character arches that are damn near perfect, from the opening mini-series down to the last detail of the Final Five Cylons. And most of all, as the finale proved once and for all, BSG has a well-crafted ability to combined a James Joyce-like saga with Shakespearian personas and have it all be about a war against rebellious robotic beings living in the dead of space. It is television at its best because it is science fiction at its best, but the two could never have existed had they not been embracing one another (I would not have read a novel Battlestar Galactica). The emotion and the heart of a hero’s journey exist in BSG, meaning that no matter what elaborate ancient history the series rides on to thrust the main action of the characters it will be outweighed by the genuine heartbreak felt when Admiral Adama and Colonel Tigh toast their glasses to the ship upon reaching the decision to abandon the Galactica.

So, like a crusty old sailor of the stars, I too raise my glass to bid a fond farewell to BSG for raising the bar of what’s on television, for proving that science fiction can play the role of art (and vice versa), and for giving me a feeling that I will carry with me as one era of terrific storytelling walks off into the sunset and we wait for the next one to come blazing in on a Viper plane. Battlestar Galactica has set a standard, one which has happened before, but is unlikely to be matched again for some time.

Rooms in the Desert

2009-03-16T23:09:00.000-07:00

Can you hear colors?
Yes, you can.

Is it possible to hear new parts in music that you’ve listened to thousands upon thousands of times before?
Most definitely.

Can you arrange a fight between a cactus and scrub brush to the White Stripes’ “The Hardest Button to Button”.
Of course, and with very pleasing results.

Go to the desert.

Find the keys to nature.

Unlock your head with some heat.

Play the piano you just drew in the ground.

Watch out for poisonous spiders.

Bring headphones (and cue “Next Episode” by Dr. Dre as your lead song)

Find that note and don’t play detective.

By the time it was all over everyone was feeling fun and fancy-free, sans one member of our group (but, in all fairness, took it in stride and was a good sport about it…). Watching the sky catch fire made stomachs rumble and the only cure was four chili dogs smothered in cheese, topped with blue corn tortilla chips. New Castle beer, along with roasted s’mores, washed down the day.

The theme: coming together. The clouds—they needed to come together. A green finger plant and a red finger plant intertwined—they came together. Melissa running down the mountain after Tone, didn’t quite come together the first time, but they did later on in the day. Sara’s message on the envelope—perfect for my note on paper.

And at the end of the day, we all came together. Success story!

Break Down In Los Angeles

2009-03-11T16:53:00.000-07:00

This might sound weird, but when I had my minor breakdown in Los Angeles last week, it was one of the best trips to the city I had ever taken. We stayed with Sara’s friend, Dhiya, over in Brentwood where we took in the sights of the Getty Museum and the Planetarium. The next morning I met up with Chris Littler and Liz Berger for brunch in West Hollywood and it all rounded out to be a good trip. But while stuck in traffic on the 101 I began to soak it all in: the people who’d had the guts to move from New York to Los Angeles and keep up with what they were doing. Isaac, another mutual friend of mine who lives with Chris and Liz, is working for a movie producers. All three of them are pitching a screenplay to him while working on a web series. I mean, they are productive and it made me feel lazy, along with missing them…wondering why we all left the East Coast…why I wasn’t creating cool shit like them and getting into the business of entertainment through hard work and stamina.

So now my mind is boiling over this in traffic, I’m late for a meeting with Justin to discuss a new venue that would be awesome, having just received an e-mail denying my application for the Hodder Fellowship, and I get a call from Sea World—finally—that I my “services will not be needed at this point in time”. The next hour came and went in near complete silence before I confessed to Sara about how angry I was about…well, everything. It was wearing me down as I’m sure it is wearing down everyone who hears me discuss it. In one swoop I was scared, shocked, piss off, sad, lost, and empty. Nice going, Los Angeles—and here I thought we were mending the days of yore which passed with such strife.

I stayed in bed for about fourteen hours, trying to push myself deeper into the self-pity abyss that I’d seen in many movies prior during my youth (to rub salt in my wounds, we had just watched “Swingers” the previous night and I’d laughed myself silly. Watching it now makes it all the more funny, but then I am reminded that they made a movie off that idea and are living the dream; I’m still the reality version of the Jon Favreau character). But in the end, I only lasted until about noon, got back on the horse, and tried my best to swallow my pride about why my life has gone in a completely different direction than the one I had originally laid out for it.

That week broke the mold in many ways. It was the worst week I’ve had since being unemployed in Southern California, but it also paved the way for things to get better. I have two interviews this week—one is tomorrow to be a video game tester (jealous?) and the other is on Monday to possibly work for the local JCC’s theatre company (Jewish?). Sara and I had bond fire on the beach last Sunday, something I’ve been meaning to do with her for a while. And I’m writing at a steady pace for now, while preparing the next storytellers event**. Guess what I mean to say is that it took a full-fledged, knock-down, drag-out self implosion for me to get my act together and make sure the show goes on.

Thanks, Los Angeles. I owe you one.

**Little side note: the storytelling gig is now called: SO SAY WE ALL and after much brainstorming on Monday night, we came up with a logo. What you ask? Ah, that remains yet to be seen, but I assure you, it is coming…

"Love Is For Suckers" Review: We Kicked Ass

2009-03-01T13:15:00.001-08:00

From our press release to The Reader (a San Diego Periodical):

The Extraordinarily Tortured Writers Guild of Literary Intent honors Valentine's Day. Six local writers take the "hot seat" and tell "true stories of why love is for suckers."

This ad got about ten to twenty more people into our house last night for the first night of storytelling (we still don’t have a name to call the event, so if you think of one, by all means tell me). Since it was released during the week it doesn’t say that we packed the house last night, saw some of the strongest performances out of our people (April came in at top form, Dave won!), and that people really connected with it. Twiggs Coffee House turned out to be a great venue for us to display our stories and engage with an audience. Amazing that this many people showed up on a Saturday night!

Kudos to everyone we knew who showed up! Kudos to everyone we didn’t know who showed up (we pulled in a little under $200)! God bless the people who helped us out! And fists in the air to my fellow guild members for putting on a fantastic show.

We are literary rock stars.

Next month’s theme: Mortal Enemies.

Brother's Birthday, Part Two: St. George

2009-02-28T16:44:00.000-08:00

Whenever I am asked if it was hell growing up in Utah I generally reply with: “not really”. Salt Lake might have been dullsville after I turned fourteen, but that doesn’t mean that Utah is not without its perks, namely in the Southern region. I prefer Cedar City to St. George, but it’s just as beautiful—with mason-smoothed painted red rock hills and small town charm, it’s hard not to fall in love with it. Also, it’s very religious. And full of drug users. But after Las Vegas it’s a tame animal to view at the zoo of the south-western United States.

Sara and I checked into our lovely Super 8 room and got set making my brother’s birthday (they day we arrived was his 14th, on the dot) a happy occasion after a two-hour car ride that was just enough before we all broke each other’s sense of humor and kindness. Sam wanted laser tag. He got laser tag. Sam wanted go-karts. He got go-karts. Sam wanted to sit in his room and play PS2 all night long. Instead, he got Outback Steakhouse (which is wonderful, don’t knock it) and then got grumpy. He wasn’t grumpy after Sara won the go-kart race, nor was he the least bit peeved when I won both games of laser tag, including the second one which only had me, Sam, and Sara playing and my two loved ones forming an alliance against me. No, Sam got worn down after having too much of a good time. He knew it was coming to an end and my brother has never been good at saying good-bye.

We got up the next morning, saw him and my mother off to Salt Lake, then headed out to Zion National Park. The whole time Sara was having a hard time compromising which natural wonder to gaze at: Zion, Bryce Canyon, or the big one, the one thing I had seen in the world and she had not, world traveler that she is, the Grand Canyon. I was able to talk her down to enjoying the sites of Zion only for the day because it has so much to see and you get pretty run-down. That happened early on, after hiking back to the river bend around the rock and then doing the four mile round trip hike up to see all 3 emerald pools. We were muddy, tired, and happy by the time we returned to our Super 8 base camp and had dinner with my father at Chili’s (it’s okay, but knock it if you must).

It was now time to plan our trip back. Sara stared up at me with puppy dog eyes, pleading with me to dip down into Arizona and do the Grand Canyon. I indulged her and we road tripped it out to the no country terrain of Arizona. It was great because it fulfilled a boyhood fantasy of mine to take a trip through the red rocks with a beautiful girl, hitting the open road and not stopping to look back. We made it. And it was a sight to see. The last time I was there was with my father ten years ago and now to be with Sara overlooking the gorge…was speech defying. I love the Grand Canyon.

We plowed our way home, making it back to San Diego at 2:00 in the morning, and zonked out for nearly ten hours. It was our first official vacation as a couple, our first real break in 2009, and by the end, I can say that we came, we saw, we conquered.

Brother’s Birthday, Part One: Sin City

2009-02-24T18:33:00.000-08:00

I went home. Not “home”, exactly, because that place doesn’t exist. And I don’t mean that in the sense that “this house was never a home”, but because we moved around so much growing up that a childhood home is simply a thing of fiction. No, I got in the car early Saturday morning with Sara and, like a good Southern California resident, or for that matter, a good Utahan, drove cross country to Las Vegas.

Normally, I’m not a Vegas guy. I lost five bucks at the slot machine, so I don’t have the magic touch, but I did find a dollar in the parking lot of our hotel/casino/mammoth-sized min-world, so perhaps I’m lucky.

The reason for going to Vegas on sort of a whim has to do with my brother lamenting to me over the phone a few weeks back about how he misses me never being at his birthday parties any more. I’m sucker for birthdays, even if he was turning 14 and should be out of doe-eyed guilt trips by now. Still, I agreed and am glad for it.

Sam is a different kind of kid. He will often be switched fully in the “on” position or completely in the “off”. I was worried to bring Sara into the mix, along with my parents and the road-trip stress, but things went fairly smoothly. Being that it was his birthday Sam only had one melt down and it was at his birthday dinner, but it was his party so…

All in all, we had some of the most eventful days in recent history: driving from San Diego to Las Vegas to stay at the South Pointe (which was a nice choice—off the strip), dipped in the pool, went to the arcade for the first time, ate at the Enough-to-Feed-a-Nation buffet, did the slots perfectly, went to see “Coraline” (best movie of 2009, thus far), went to see the lights on the strip, including the very provocative rooftop show on the old strip that was my parents idea to see (good one, guys) and then rode the New York, New York rollercoaster before taking Sam back to play the three new games Sara and I bought him for his Play Station 2.

Hard to think that I would undergo some process of enlightenment in the City of Sin, but I came to several conclusions over the two day trip. The first being that my brother, for all of his antics and headaches, is a fairly good kid to have as a sibling. Yes, he bends the truth far to often and yes, it is ironic that he still orders way to much food so that he can only take one or two bites of it (he comes from India, where there is no food and he’s starving, to America where there is plenty and chooses to be full after one fork of prime rib). But I love him nonetheless and hope we can come back to Vegas when he’s older to be…well, goddamnit, bro’s. Which leads me to my other revelation: I don’t know what I was so blah on Las Vegas for prior to the trip. Dirty, flashy, and unclassy—sure. And in a way, it’s heaven. People shoveling their plates with food and imbibing much alcohol while they play fun money games with flashing lights in a hotel that includes a bowling alley and movie theater. Plus, down the road is a roller coaster.

Up next: the party moves east to St. George, Utah.

Wasteland Valentine

2009-02-17T15:04:00.000-08:00

Most of the time I think that the Atlantic Ocean is the end of the world. Going out to Coney Island and Far Rockaway Beach in New York always felt as though I was looking for the cliff of the earth, that mythical point that has been embedded in my mind since first hearing about Columbus trying to prove we were on a sphere. I know that point does not exist, but I felt that each and every time I dipped my feet into the East Coast beaches. Now I have that on the West Coast.

I took my Valentine to Coronado Island to go biking (per special request), but instead of hanging around the hotel and main drag, we went south to Imperial Beach. Stripped of all its glory and prestige was the main tip of the island right off the coast of Northern Mexico. The main drag was lined with nearly empty shops, beach bums and local vagabonds puttering around, looking for nothing to do in the midst of more nothing. And at the very end, when we had rode our bikes all the way to where the sidewalk lived up to Shel Silverstein’s poem, we came to the sewage contaminated beach (of course, the sign read anything south, towards Mexico, was contaminated and don’t go in). We parked our bikes, dodged swarms of flies leeching off of dead kelp, and walked along the wasteland of a paradise.

Truly lovely.

In the wreckage of something nice and pristine and clean was a barren landscape where two people walked hand-in-hand. Having nothing and everything all at the same time. The night was fantastic as well, but it was nothing compared to the day. We had a fantastic dinner, went to meet up with some friends, smoked some hookah, drank some wine…but the day was ours for each other.

Extremely sappy, yes, but I know I’ll never have another Valentine’s Day like it.

Cigarette Stories

2009-02-11T14:57:00.000-08:00

The Extraordinarily Tortured Writers’ Guild of Literary Intent (aka, our writers’ group) are just about damn near solidifying the production of putting stories on stage from our raconteurs revolving around the theme of “Love Sucks”. Justin and I put the notion in each other’s heads over some beers at Hamilton’s by reminiscing about our long lost performance days (maybe not so lost after all, eh?) and before you know it we were getting down to business of making a night of live storytelling to an audience.

This past Sunday we had a great rehearsal from the five writers/storytellers that we have from the ETWGLI thus far: me, Justin, Sam, Melissa, and our newbie, April. Each had their unique voice, each had their own perspective, and each was a story that sounded like it would come from a professional, on stage with a mike and beer in hand to tell you about “that one time”.

While not the official name, I’d like to call this night “Cigarette Stories”--ones that can be told in the time it takes for any hipster to suck down a cancer stick. Really, that’s about as much time as you have for anyone these days. Don’t know quite how movies are getting away with being longer, as are a lot of popular books, but you don’t need me rehashing my thoughts about theatre on its deathbed. This is not theater, but it’s not that far off either.

Justin told me today that our second venue choice (okay, more like third) has been confirmed. Right location, right price for sure. What worries me is the venue itself has a kind of…oh, I don’t know…amateur aspect to it. And not in the filthy, grimy way that something like a CBGBs would have. More like a room with some half-assed efforts of art and little-to-no lighting. It resurrects worries about the days Scott and I housed 3.2 Improv shows at the local LGBT Center in Salt Lake where their “theater” was more like a “garage” that you could do “nothing” with all the time. We had a couple of good shows, but getting that thing prepped was a massive effort and rarely worth the manpower when our till would ring up empty by the nights end.

I really want this to work.

More so, I want it to work for our friends, family, and the guy on the street. I want this thing to be THE thing and not a one-night wonder for people to vaguely recall in drinking stories down the line…though there is a bit of irony to that. I think we can blow the roof off this thing and really make it succeed because it’s an honest to god good way to feel alive and vibrant…as an artist, as a writer, and as a performer.

More details to come.

Say, Here Are 25 Things. How Random!

2009-02-05T10:30:00.000-08:00

1. Every book I get from the library I never return. No one has ever noticed.

2. In junior high I got braces put on my teeth strictly to fit in with the rest of my friends at the time. They were always a cosmetic addition, not a necessity.

3. Once ate 22 sticks of string cheese in one day to get a shirt with a string cheese superhero on it.

4. I didn’t vote for President Obama; I simply jumped on the train of popularity to hide the fact that I’m a Green Party member

5. Every other a month I get published by Post Secret in an ongoing series to reach one specific person with a message. That person has yet to notice.

6. Spent a night in the San Diego County jail after punching a drunk co-worker in a fight. All charges were dropped.

7. Occasionally I pretend to lose something to gain attention to my problems. Other times I hide other people’s personal items to watch them cause a scene.

8. Don’t like rap or hip-hop, but I don’t know how to connect to black or Latino culture any other way.

9. Had an affair with an engaged woman in Israel. She still writes me letters to this day.

10. The concave shape in my chest could have been fixed before I turned 18, but I decided to keep it. Every doctor I’ve consulted with has said that it will reduce my life expectancy by at least 10 years.

11. Mr. Gregory Nobel: I’m sorry, but I’m the one who knocked down the fence that one night. I turned too late.

12. I have been in three Disney movies shot in Salt Lake City and was first offered a part as the main character in “Almost Famous”, but turned it down to focus on school.

13. The one and only man I ever kissed was named Tomas Ubrecht and it was on a lay over in Riga, Lativa.

14. The movie “Idle Hands” is based on an idea my best friend and I came up with when we were 11 years old. His brother took the idea and wrote a script for the movie. Since then I’ve wanted to write a better screenplay to get my revenge.

15. Since losing my job I’ve reduced my diet to a can of tuna, some baby carrots, and three Pabst Blue Ribbons a day.

16. Before entering into my current relationship, I placed three personal ads on Craigslist. The same person answered it each and every time.

17. For two years in New York City I was a drug-runner known as “El Gordo” because I could always carry my weight around with me and there was a lot of it.

18. Never have paid taxes. Don’t ever plan on doing so.

19. Two summers ago I walked from Battery Park to Yonkers in a day.

20. Freaks me out to have the colors green, brown, and white all together in one space. That’s why I hate it snow on Evergreen trees.

21. Was a member of AEPhi in college, but had to keep it a secret because otherwise I would not have been able to take the job of RA in my building.

22. Nights when I get lonely I run the bath tub water all night long to fall asleep. I hate to waste that much water, but it is the only thing that puts me to bed.

23. Smoke a pack of American Spirits a day and constantly feel like I’m going to be caught in the act, which stresses me out because I spend so much time covering up the fact that I smoke at all.

24. My bar mitzvah was drastically reduced in terms of the amount of work I had to complete due to one specific reason: Hebrew kicks my dyslexia in and I get very confused.

25. Nine toes.

The Beggar’s Choices

2009-02-04T12:29:00.000-08:00

On the job front, things are looking weird. Okay, they have been weird for some time now, but good things are in the works and disappointments are afoot, so it’s a coin toss at this point. Wait, no, I don’t have a coin to toss.

Sea World, Actor—a few weeks ago I participated in the mass cattle-call for Sea World performers, musicians, dancers, technical people, and costume characters. The auditions were from 10 AM to 4 PM. I arrived at quarter of 10 and saw a line over a mile long of people waiting to get in. Shaking my head, I took my place for what turned out to be a long day. I filled out the paper work. Then I filled out more paper work before completing yet even more paper work. They took my picture with a Polaroid camera, gave me a number (“XXX”, lucky me), and had us wait in the blistering hot sun. That wasn’t the bad part. The bad part was a girl named Sunshine—a morbidly obese teenaged theater geek with stringy blonde hair who wanted to be everyone’s friend and play Zip-Zap-Zup until the cow’s came home. Other typical auditioning types were around, but none was worse than Sunshine, who couldn’t get over the fact that her number was “KKK”. Scary, I know. Luckily, Sunshine wore herself out and exclaimed, exiting the audition room less than a minute after she entered it, “hey guys, I didn’t get it!” And the crowd of make-believe friends wrapped her up in hugs. I had a better audition than I expected, reading the script they gave me and then performing Dan’s monologue from Horror Festival two years ago. The producers were laughing and told me to move to round two…of dance auditions. Basically, I had to learn a little dance and they were fully aware that I was not looking for a dancer position. “Just make it sassy and full of character,” were the instructions given. Done and done. Three days later I sat down for an interview—more of a formal type of interview process—for what was a good meet-‘n-greet type of process. They said they would call me in two weeks. Two weeks was yesterday. I hate the waiting game.

Double Deuce, Mechanical Bull Operator—on one of my late night searches across the barren canvas of Craigslist I found “Mechanical Bull Operator Wanted at the Double Deuce”, a Texas themed bar only a few blocks away from my apartment. Having had a drink or four, I applied in the voice of a young buck-a-roo who liked to listen to the best music in all history (Styx) and make the girls dance. Yessir, I was their cowboy. Once they had reviewed my resume and photograph, I was invited to the establishment to check it out. Definitely crazy, definitely not my type of bar, but definitely a place I could work if need be. The search for the talent managers was a bust, but I dropped my name to the assistant manager who I found upstairs. Today, my inbox received a message saying that we were all a lot of fun, but there could only be one. And you know what? I’m okay with that. Not the job I was necessarily crossing my fingers for and they at least told me “no”, so I consider that a win.

7-Eleven, Sales Clerk—several times I have walked by my local Oh-Thank-Heaven chain and seen a sign for “Now Hiring: Apply Within” and thought it wouldn’t be such a bad job to be the Jewish version of Apu Nahasapeemapetilon Ph.D. But every time I finally got around to applying, the sign was taken down. Who knew that this time around it would be such a hassle to even apply for the job. I went in and asked for an application. There were none, I was told, so try another 7-Eleven and bring it back here. No, none of the other four I stopped by had any. Finally, a guy told me to apply online and that was the way to go. Let me say a word for all the downtrodden who have to apply to jobs online: it stinks. Setting up an account, navigating the site, and then not having any clue as to when you’ll be contacted. And guess what? I caught the manager today and he asked if I had a hardcopy of my resume. Apparently, the electronic application process is for…I don’t know, upper management…making me run home and grab a printed out version of my employment history. The manager told me to wait for the owner. By the time I had waited for 30 minutes, the manger said just to give him a call. Starting to think Keanu Reeve’s advice for all the kids in “Hardball”, y’know, about how showing up is half the battle, is a load of badnews bears.

American Theater, Playwright—at this point in time, this actually looks to be the most promising outlook. Sorta. I finally got in touch with Kevin’s old boss from Junior Theater and we’ve set up an interview time, so I’m incredibly stoked for that. Antonio Johnson, who I met at the Patte Awards two weeks ago wants to have coffee next week after he’s read THE BRONX and STATEN ISLAND. Coffee now, but that’s how things get started. And while it might not be a paying gig, MY FRIEND DAHMER has made it into the Great Plains Theater Conference in Nebraska. I’ve submitted two times before and this is the first time I’ve gotten my stuff in the door. Will have to notify Derf is I choose to attend (I would like to, but it is a little pricey for three days). Still, my play is getting read. Theresa Rebeck is there as a panelist and being given some award. It would be good to go, so hopefully my other playwriting opportunities can fund the trip.

Got Time?

2009-01-26T10:41:00.000-08:00

Loads of it, actually. You are welcome to borrow any of the time that I have to use because I really don’t know what to do with my overabundance of the so-called “fourth dimension” and it’s getting harder and harder to fill the ever growing void.

What makes it worse is that I’m waiting for answers at the same time that I try to fill my day with artistic and literary pursuits. The answers are coming from a higher authority. Not God, quite. Not our newly appointed President (though it was nice to have the time off to watch last week’s inauguration AND feel like you were one of the people he was directly talking to). They are coming from two places in particular about certain opportunities that I have been waiting for, one for almost a year’s time. But now I’m getting cold feet to fess up to what they are because I know the moment that I reveal what they are it will ultimately jinx their reality coming into fruition. So wait with me, won’t you? Together we can go over the to-list of time passers that I have recently taken up:

• Finished reading Dream Boogie: The Triumph of Sam Cooke and I don’t think I’m going to be reading a biography of that length again any time soon
• Completed the long-awaited pilot episode for “The Rounds”, a television series I created with Katie about our time as RAs at 80 Lafayette Street
• Sent out copies and greetings to all of the people who most the characters from “The Rounds” is based upon
• Speaking of Katie, she comes into San Diego on Friday…make a mental note to clean up the place and stock up on some mutually agreed upon snacks
• Watched Brotherhood, Season 2. Really good show, really well done, but still not The Sopranos.
• Finished reading The Pleasure of My Company by Steve Martin. Not great, not horrible, but just the right kind of book to read in a day
• Read two scripts for La Jolla and did the coverage on them. One was an adaptation of a Gogol short story and it was awesome. The other made me sick to my stomach.
• Wrote four people, including my grandmother, correspondence via what is now referred to as “snail-mail”
• Waiting around for a package from UPS which is never really that much fun because you literally have to wait for them or else they cannot get into the building to deliver your package
• Attended Melissa’s birthday party at Imperial House and felt great upon arriving because I walked there all the way from my apartment
• Drinking and writing with Justin because it makes me feel like I’m being productive during two activities that suck to do alone
• Long for New York City
• Long for Sara to come back
• Wait for the answers that I know if I’d just stop thinking about would be a pleasant surprise and reach beyond the realm of fantasy

I’m sure there is more. Just to make it clear I almost wrote “making an inane blog entry” as the final bulletin, stopping myself short of feeling profoundly Meta. Or perhaps not…

Clockwatching resumed.

TV Math +/-

2009-01-19T14:48:00.000-08:00

Things are brewing right now, but I don’t want to jump the gun on anything at the moment. When I have answers this blog will have a more day-in-life entry. For now, I’m a bum and you are too if you are reading this so pass the Cheetos and fluff the pillow on your favorite collapsing Ikea bed because it’s time for television math (quick disclaimer: there will be no actual math used, so don’t freak out there Mr. Pibb).

January is the new September in the television world. During the Golden Age of Television, which I’m told turned a rusted shade of bronze at the end of last year, television got smart and instead of rushing production on some shows during the May to September break, they took more time to develop the series seasons and then premiere them in January without taking a week off. These reviews will cover new shows, returning show premieres, and shows picking up from holiday hiatus.

(+) to Friday Night Lights (Season 3 Premiere) and Big Love (Season 3 Premiere): my god, I could barely contain my excitement when the opening for both of these shows started playing back to me on my television screen. FNL started some great story lines, continued with the fantastic characterizations of people who are more than the football games they revolve around, and still has a great sense of low-key humor. Right now, it’s top of my list. Then you have the show that keeps getting better and better with each episode. Last night’s Big Love premiere was so dark, riveting, and fascinating that it gave Sara a panic attack twenty minutes into the episode. Glad to see that the potential 4th wife is still in the mix, as is the Weber Gaming story arch (kudos to my mentor and friend, Melanie Marnich, who’s on the writing staff this season). Final tally = Utah and Texas are the two best fictionalized places to be watching at the moment.

(-) to The United States of Tara (Series Premiere): as the opening credits were rolling, Steven Spielberg’s name surprised me and Diablo Cody’s did not. I had forgotten that she’d pinched a deal with ShowTime after winning her Oscar for best screenplay (OHMYBLOG!!!)…uh…back in March of 2008. Less than a year after Juno’s devil baby dropped into our theaters our homes are invaded with something almost worse. Toni Collette is a top-notch actress and I think John Corbett is long overdue for being a leading man…but not for this. Tara is a suburban mom dealing with the issues of her family and life…by snapping into multiple personalities. Okay, as amateur multiple personality disorder is I’ll go with it; what I won’t go with is that her entire family accepts it! They talk to the personalities, ranking them according to favorites, and going about their lives like it ain’t no big thing. Stop right there—no, no, no, no, no. Her husband (“I’ve been living with this condition for 17 years”) would have flown the coop a long time ago. The kids should not be this well adjusted and the well-groomed son character should not be the most interesting person in the series. And the worst part? Next week’s previews show the family talking about how it’s healthy for Tara to go off her medication so that she can let these characters out in order for them to let loose, hoping they can get it out of there system. Final tally: If I can refrain from ripping my eyeballs out I’m giving this two more episodes before calling it quits and never going back.

(/) to 24 (Season 7 Premiere), The Office (middle of Season 5), and Flight of the Conchords (Season 2 Premiere): I’m really rallying for these shows to get good again, not the dripping comb-over that we’ve seen recently. 24, I only put you on this list because I’m conflicted: last season sucked for the final 8 hours, but the movie 24: Redemption was so kick ass, and now I’m on the fence. So far so good—especially the third episode, 10:00 A.M. to 11:00 A.M.—just no more Audrey with amnesia, please. As for The Office…I haven’t lost faith that you are one of the smartest shows on television. Let’s see it now. I think most of the episode this week was eh-inducing until the end sequence between Andy and Dwight. Will I ever stop watching you, Dunder Mifflin employees? Probably not, but don’t make my viewing in vein (because honestly I’m going to start telling people 30 Rock is the funniest thing on right now and I’ll be speaking the truth!). Speaking of funny and truth…well, Flight of the Conchords didn’t really soar last night on their return. Some funny moments, a little too much story…if that’s possible, and no good songs except for the toothpaste jingle that didn’t last long. I guess that’s what really irked me—the songs that did get played weren’t that creative and one of them was playing over the credits. Plus, the music videos look professional now instead of homemade. But y’know what? I’ll take some blame for this. By now it is no secret that I love this show, but I was late to the party and didn’t discover the most beautiful girl in the room until it came out to DVD. So when nobody was watching was when it was golden, but as Sara pointed out, “the second they get popular they get money and where’s the funny?” I’ll make you a deal, Bret and Jermaine, I’ll keep watching your show when it’s supposed to air, no DVR or internet downloads, to keep ratings high if you go back to making sure I’m making a lasagna for one forever. Final tally = Don’t die on me now! I’ve stuck with you this far! I don’t know what I’d do without you…so don’t…go…towards…that…white…light…DAMNIT!

KJOB 101 FM—Top 5 Songs To Listen To While Unemployed

2009-01-14T10:00:00.000-08:00

5) “The Way I Are” — Timberland Feat. Keri Hilson

Basically the song to dance to when you’ve just found out about your termination, your hopes are soaring with the mentality that “I can do sooooo much better than those lametards” and you just gotta go out to the club with your girl posse to shake off the blues. At the same time this is happening, heed the warning of Timberland’s vocals, because, you see, it’s also a cautionary tale.

Key lyrics:
I ain't got no money
I ain't got no car to take you on a date
I can't even buy you flowers…
…I ain't got no Visa
I ain't got no Red American Express
We can't go nowhere exotic

4) “Inner City Pressure” — Flight of the Conchords

Take it from the duo who knows it best: Jermaine doesn’t seem to care about finding a job, Bret only rises through the ranks of the sign-holding industry, and their band makes little to no money touring Queens. Do they give up? (Spoiler: no, they do not). For those of us who feel our life is a constant montage in a film or music video, KJOB dedicates this one to you.

Key lyrics:
You don't measure up to the expectation.
When you're unemployed, there's no vacation.
No one cares, no one sympathizes.
You just stay home and play synthesizers.

3) “Rock Bottom” — Eminem

The poor man’s poor man who once knew the life of a poor man (until he found his calling during something called “8 Mile”). Eminem has always had the ability to exacerbate a bad situation into a full blown worst case scenario…but in the best way possible. Listening to this song you might actually feel that your situation of being unemployed isn’t as bad as the one Slim Shady paints.

Key lyrics:
My life is full of empty promises
And broken dreams
I'm hoping things will look up
But there ain't no job openings
I feel discouraged hungry and malnourished
Living in this house with no furnace, unfurnished
And I'm sick of working dead end jobs with lame pay
And I'm tired of being hired and fired the same day
But fuck it, if you know the rules to the game play
Cause when we die we know we’re all going the same way

2) “Spaceship” — Kanye West Feat. GLC and Consequence

Back in the day, Kanye had no fly gear, no trend setting threads, and no career as a successful rap artist. Plus, none of his friends had any of that either. Though Kanye’s day has come to fly high above the rest of us sunk in debt we can honestly say he earned it. Even if he didn’t, he’d say he did, and that can just be about enough. So here’s song to all of us who should have dropped out of college and followed Kanye’s path.

Key lyrics:
I remember havin' to take the dollar cab
Comin' home real late at night
Standin' on my feet all damn day
Tryin' to make this thing right
And havin' one of my co-workers say "Yo you look just like
This kid I seen in the old Busta Rhymes video the other night"

1) “Career Opportunities” — The Clash

They grew up during the London trash strikes, surrounded by poverty, and living in bombed out tenements. Barely knowing how to play their instruments or what they were going to do with their lives, The Clash proudly raised one finger to the establishment and never looked back. Maybe not the absolute best song about not having a job, but an anthem for anyone who never wanted one in the first place.

Key lyrics:
The offered me the office, offered me the shop
They said I'd better take anything they'd got
Do you wanna make tea at the BBC?
Do you really wanna be a cop?

Career opportunities are the ones that never knock
Every job they offer you is to keep you out the dock
Career opportunity, the ones that never knock

Happy New Year...

2009-01-05T21:51:00.000-08:00

…you’re fired.

I come into the office on a Monday morning, having awoken next to my beautiful girlfriend in our new home (the “our” being new, not the “home), and am bracing myself for the hell day of arrivals with the new cast we have coming to the theater. Past hell days of arrival have included me being chewed out for following directions as I was told (strange, no?) so I was determined to make this day a good one. I have only three arrivals, two on the same flight, and about five hours of downtime in between them both. Going about with normal company management assistant stuff I am beckoned into the office across the hall by my supervisor. “Can I talk to you?” she questions, her voice sounding sweetly tart like candy but the words soaked in saltiness like sardines. This is the very same question that on two former occasions as led to serious talks about unserious matters. Only today, it’s very serious. I come into the room, take a seat at the table of dread, and am told that today is doom’s day: I’ve been terminated.

Jesus Christ…and things were going so well for so long. Literally, it’s all in the timing because Sara and I have just been able to establish residency in the same city for a week—all due to this amazing job I got way back when—so fate must reside with me getting the ugly side of Two Face’s coin. Virginal at best with the situation, I take it in stride, but my boss continues to hammer is home: “cut backs…luck to have theater still open…I don’t know if I’ll have my job…I’ll be working more for the same pay…” and on and on and on. This makes me want to scream, to tear my hair out at every strand, to completely lose it with a hoarse cry, “This isn’t about you! It’s about me! All right? Me! You still have a fucking job! What the hell am I supposed to do now?!?!” Not a word of this escapes my lips. They’ve given me a week (not two weeks or until the end of the month) to clear out my stuff and say good-bye.

The option was given to take a day’s pay and go home, but I ended up logging 13 hours so I’ll have some overtime coming to me for the day. On second thought, I kind of wish I had just gone home. It was very strange picking up actors and designers, doing the whole chit-chat deal, and realizing that it’s all obsolete because in a week it won’t matter. I’ll be that kid…oh, shoot, what was his name? Y’know—he picked me up from the airport, took me grocery shopping, got me a bike, a cutting board, and fixed my internet. Jay? Jay sounds right, doesn’t it? Yeah…Jay…that was it…

I’m just dreading tomorrow morning at the company breakfast when we do the oh-so-unpopular tradition of everyone going around saying “Hi, my name is _______ “ and “I work in __________ at the Playhouse.” What am I going to say? I’ll probably fake a smile and just give them my title. I really don’t want to put on the façade. I’m incredibly tired of sacrificing myself for little or no return, especially in the dignity department. But at the same time I don’t want to leave. I want to work at the Playhouse, I want to be a part of their team and do amazing works of theater. Guess the feeling is not mutual on their end.

I was angry, then I was disappointed, and now I’ve finally accepted the reality of my situation. Mark came up to me and without a hesitation on his breath said: “I just wanna let you know I think this is bullshit.” Mark and I have always been the guys around the office. But that was the first time I saw him stick up for me as a friend and I really appreciated it. Exit interview on Thursday, last day on Saturday, and…the hunt begins…

Blanket Top Ten List of 2008

2008-12-31T00:24:00.000-08:00

Top 10 Albums of 2008
1) "Jukebox" -- Cat Power
2) "The Cool" -- Lupe Fiasco (okay, it was a 2007 album, but, like 12/31/2007)
3) "Flight of the Conchords" -- Flight of the Conchords
4) "Renaissance" -- Q-Tip
5) "Vampire Weekend" -- Vampire Weekend
6) "Humanimals" -- Grand Ol' Party
7) "Paper Trail" -- T.I.
8) "Pressure" -- Blaze
9) "The Stand-Ins" -- Okkervil River
10)"Volume One" -- She and Him

Top 10 Movies of 2008
1) Wall-E
2) Sychedoche, NY
3) Slumdog Millionaire
4) Frozen River
5) Burn After Reading
6) The Dark Knight
7) The Visitor
8) The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
9) Wire Walker
10)Milk

Top 10 Television Shows of 2008
1) The Wire
2) Friday Night Lights
3) It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
4) The Shield
5) The Office
6) 30 Rock
7) Mad Men
8) The Riches
9) Dexter
10) South Park (fall season)

Top 5 Books of 2008 (or at least the ones I read)
1) Lush Life -- by Richard Price
2) American Pastoral -- by Philip Roth
3) Jimmy Corrigan: The Smartest Boy on Earth -- by Chris Ware
4) The Emperor's Children -- by Claire Messud
5) On The Road -- by Jack Kerouac as read by Matt Dillon

Top 5 Stage Plays of 2008
1) The American Dream and The Sandbox -- Edward Albee
2) Tobacco Road -- Novel by Erskine Caldwell, Adapted by Jack Kirkland
3) Remains -- Chiara Atik
4) Sundays in the Park with George -- Music and Lyrics by Stephen Sondheim, Book by James Lapine
5) U.S. Drag -- Gina Gionfriddo (at the Ion Theatre Co.)

Post-Holiday Stress Syndrome

2008-12-26T21:17:00.000-08:00

In one week we can finally say good-bye to 2008, a year which had some sour (i.e. The MEMPHIS opening-night party) and some sweet (i.e. graduation, job…for the moment) memories. Still, I’ll lean it to the side of sweet only for the fact that I feel like I did what I said I’d do after school: plant seeds for future growing. Now that the seeds are planted, I’ve done an entry level job for close to a year, and we have a President who isn’t a dingus, I look forward to the year of 2009, where I watch a garden bloom.

What always strikes me as being so weird is how stressful the time after the holidays are. I got most people LJP S.W.A.G. this year (because I just looked it up and I am officially living below the poverty level) and got it early, so not really stressed about that. I didn’t travel and working on Christmas wasn’t too bad. By too bad, I mean it was a lot of fun to serve the XANADU cast Christmas dinner and sit around playing Martin’s werewolf game while we all got drunk. But now comes the stressful points: XANADU closes, XANADU leaves, we have a new cast arriving within 3 days of the old one’s departure, Sara’s moving down, Sara’s moving in, SARA’S COMING TO SAN DIEGO (Hooray!), then there is New Year’s Eve, and the BRONX play reading, and then finding a steady support of income.

Charlie Brown, quit hogging all the goddamn paper bags for once and send it my way.

Pre-holidays are nothing; post-holidays are everything. Perhaps I put new much equity into the start of a new year. After all, it’s nothing but a new puppy calendar on my wall, a simple changing of numbers and days. But I do get hopeful…thinking about the possibilities…I always say my life is never truly boring and each year, looking back at the time spent during the last 365 days, that adage always proves true. And like I said, 2009…it’s gonna be fine. Mainly, because when the Chinese New Year starts it’s the year of the Ox. Guess who’s an Ox, bitches?

Right now, the only sad thing I can think of is this picture. After years of hearsay and slander, of papers chanting that “this is Coney Island’s last summer”, and of numerous deus ex machina like saves, Coney Island has closed.

So really, we can’t get worse than that.

(P.S. My Blanket Top 10 List is coming, but I still have to see Benjamin Button and all its glory)

U.S. Drag

2008-12-21T22:54:00.000-08:00

The more you know:

U.S. Drag – a term coined by author William S. Burroughs to describe America’s sense of depression and longing

It’s also the name of Gina Gionfriddo’s fantastic 2001 play that was one of the best evenings I’ve seen in theatre all year and perhaps my life. Glenn Paris, the producing artistic director of the Ion Theatre Company in San Diego, works at the Playhouse with me for his day job. He’d put a poster up in the break room for Ion’s production of U.S. Drag and it was the first time I’d realized it was his company he was promoting. Wanting to see if I could get something going with Ion I asked if he’d be willing to read Our Mother and Bronx Got Bombed—then just to throw in some good will I said I come to the show.

What could it hurt to support local arts, especially if you have hopes to work with them some day? I dragged Justin out of his house and together with his pseudo-girlfriend, Mai, we ventured down to Mission Valley. Underneath the trolley station and behind the Christian Fellowship building is a row of storage units, the last row housing the Ion Theatre Company in a small connection of three garage spaces to hold a small dance studio and black box theater. Justin, shaking his head, said to me “what have you gotten us into? We’re going to be killed back here!” I, on the other hand, was getting excited: “This is going to be great!” And I meant it. After all, who am I to judge if not the co-founder of the improv troupe who performed in the tool shed at the LGBT Center on Salt Lake’s west side—I started all my shit in places like these. I know they are dedicated and hard working artists and I was so pumped to see what they had.

Both of our expectations were exceeded. Not only were the production elements to the piece fantastic for being low-budget, but the space was clean and professional, not thinking for a moment that it wasn’t a legitimate performance space. Then the play itself: it was a biting script that I think Justin and I, New Yorkers at heart, were the only ones who could fully appreciate. It was so fucking funny, but even more fucking true. Put a group of talented actors on top of that, with a special consideration for Karson St. John’s magnificently humorous and human portrayal of Allison, and we were rolling on a great night of theater. About 2/3rds of the way into the play the lights started to get wonky…changing in the middle of scenes then going black all together (Justin thought it was an artistic choice about fading morality). The actors persevered until the stage manager apologized and called for an intermission (which was not scheduled for the 95 minute show). That didn’t stop the show: the cast came out, clapped for the audience and kept the spirits of the crowd up. When the stage manager, resigned to the fate of a malfunctioning light board, she asked if we wanted the play to continue using only two fluorescent bulbs as a source of light, Justin and I were not the only ones clapping for the show to go on. And it went just splendidly. The actors picked up right where they left off, not missing a beat, and even joking with the technical difficulties recently presented to them. While the last monologue by an author character and the stage-y curtain call were a little off putting at the end, U.S. Drag became one of the best nights of theater I’ve seen in my life because it proved that love for the theater can carry a show further than any critical or monetary success. Not only did the cast and crew maintain a “show-must-go-on” mentality, but the audience seemed to genuinely find themselves invested in the characters and wanting to know the outcome of the story. I was almost dumbfounded as to why Glenn’s partner and director of the show as offering refunds at the end of the show because I don’t think one person took him up on his offer.

And why the hell should they? Hands down one of my favorite plays of the year.

Dick Lit.

2008-12-18T19:42:00.000-08:00

There is good news and there is bad news and then there’s just OK news. My good news is that I was hired on as the literary associate at the La Jolla Playhouse, assisting the literary manager with all the incoming material we receive, reviewing it, and writing up a critique of the matter. The bad news is that for the time being they cannot pay me. They thought they could, but times are tough and getting tougher. I thought I could work part time in company management and in literary until this information came up. Then I thought I could take over Johanna’s position in education, but I got the same answer: they’d love to hire me for it…but…uh, they’ve eliminated the position because they have no money to pay for it. So the OK news comes down to this: Steve, the director of education, has told me he wants to have lunch next week to see if there’s any part time work in education I can do now with my hours being reduced in company management…and…I guess I’m first in line in the literary department for when a paying position comes back around.

Really, this is a winning situation with a losing feel. I still don’t know how I’m going to pay my bills. It’s worrying me and that makes me depressed which makes me feel helpless—to quote my SLC Punk brethren: “what do you do when your foundation falls apart? They don’t teach you that kind of thing in school…”—because I had a plan that didn’t come to fruition. Now I don’t even have that. Again, I’m being a mope about getting what I want: I should wait to until lunch with Steve is over, solidify a certain amount of hours with company management, and get crackin’ on the stuff from Gabe the literary director (honestly, it’s going to be a breeze because they want no more than one page of coverage…not the repetitive, 3 page crap I’ve been doing, thank god!).

Weather could also be blamed for the abysmal mood going on around Southern California lately. Three days of rain and I can’t even poo-poo Julia Roberts this time. But today was sunny and temperate as I swam extra laps in the pool to make up for days lost. And today was pay day. And I was able to buy groceries and pay a student loan bill so for the moment my head is above water. Oh, and we got another person on board for the BRONX play reading in a few weeks with our running total somewhere around 4.5 after that one Craigslist guy drop because it “just wasn’t for [him]” and replaced him with someone I’m told is a great, if not flighty, actor. Therefore, one and a half more roles to fill and we’ll be golden.

Prose before ho’s is normally my motto, however, Sara moves down a week from Monday so I guess my pen will just have to wait to make sweet, sweet love to it’s paper dearest.

Writings On The Wall

2008-12-14T20:00:00.000-08:00

So you’re sayin’ there’s a chance. – Dumb and Dumber

It became pretty apparent to me early this week that by the end of the fiscal year at work they will no longer need me. Sad fact, but surprisingly enough, I didn’t flinch. Okay, maybe a little. I called up Sara and proposed the idea of staying in Sacramento as opposed to her moving down to San Diego with me. Let’s just say that the idea was less than thrilling to her, sparking an outrage of emotion with a time span that only a woman can dwell on. But she was right in the end. And though doubting the truthfulness to this statement, the night she got mad at me I figured it all out. Maybe it’s not foolproof; maybe it’s not even feasible; but it’s definitely a shot. Basically it came down to them sort of “announcing” the next season. It’s got smaller casts to cut down on paying more people when unnecessary. Smaller casts means reduced people needed for transportation and less of a need for apartments (along with people to maintain those apartments). I saw it and knew I had to make a plan. Shirley still has my writing samples from about six weeks ago, to which she told me at the Christmas party on Monday that I’d have an answer before the holidays. I also came into a bit of information both sweet and sour: my friend Johanna in the education department is leaving for New York to be with her boyfriend and attend the New School. I drop a tear to see her leave yet leap for the opportunity to do her job of education manager. Her boss loves me. There’s more of an artistic component to it. And, despite no one getting raises next year, would be a promotion for me. We talk tomorrow.

Take a lot more than that to get rid of me/See I do what they can’t do/I just do me. – Eve, “Let Me Blow Ya Mind”

Everything I’ve ever wanted to do in my life I have done. That’s not to say I’ve done everything in the world I’ve ever wanted to do (being a gaucho in Argentina’s Las Pampas, you’ve been tapped). Check list, please: performing improv comedy professionally. Check. Living in New York for an extended amount of time (and throw NYU in there for good measure). Check. Working for the Cherry Lane Theater and the La Jolla Playhouse. Check and check. I don’t get everything I want, but once I set my mind to something it’s almost a surefire shot that I’ll get it, with questions ranging only from the when and now, never the if or why. We celebrated Martin’s birthday last week with a bonfire on the sea at night. It was one of my best nights in California thus far. Some of the actor’s came down and one of them, Vince, asked me if I was looking to be a company manager some day. I laughed out loud and replied, “Hell no!” then went on to describe my ambitions for playwriting, how hopefully next season I’d be in literary. I then spent the next 30 minutes helping him out with an idea he’d been tinkering with for a while. “All right…I’d hire you,” said Vince. If only he were in a position to do so. Even more than that I met a guy named Dewey who’d worked at the Playhouse off and on for more than ten years. “I just told them what I wanted to do and they let me do it, “ Dewey explained to me, “at first it was front of house, then box office, then props and shops, back to box office, and then to backstage. I was an actor for a while, but I like backstage the most…so…that’s where I ended up.” And he seemed so confident that whatever came his way he’d be able to do his work. “Plus, when they like someone they don’t lose them without a fight.” That’s how last week started and that’s how this one will have to as well. Comin’ out the doors swingin’…

I wasn’t meant to play the role of the son. – The Wire, “Transitions”

Back in the South Bronx, things have changed and they are looking to go for better days. I have rewritten almost the entire play. It’s still about gang bangers and the emotional ties between them, but now it’s a gay love story between a graffiti artist and a barrio boy who’s on the straight and narrow. I’m going to repost it where I posted the original first act in some of my older posts so look for it soon (sorry to everyone who read the original first act; this one is different, but better, trust me). Jen and I started casting and while last night’s no show effort proved worthless, we Craigslist-ed that bitch to get her fired up for tomorrow. Hopefully someone will bite. I can’t wait to hear it read aloud. I can’t wait to see if the humor and irony and drama all collide like I imagine when I’m writing it in my head. Callan told me to write the play I believed in so I did. Sara made me an awesome t-shirt saying And The Bronx Got Bombed on it so I needed to write an equally awesome play to match it. And Douglas Carter Beane said don’t stop writing so I won’t. Maybe even Chris Ashley will come see it, find it perfect for the last play needed for the season, and I’ll be in business for the rest of my life. Or…perhaps baby steps…baby steps…inch by inch…

Japanadu

2008-12-06T14:42:00.000-08:00

As the week comes to a close I realize that a hell of a lot has happened just in terms of personal growth. It is, after all, nearly the end of the year and I’m reflecting back on just everything that happened in 2008. From watching Sara go to Peru to working on My Friend Dahmer and Our Mother, Staten Island, getting in hot water with the Lafayette higher-ups right before graduation, moving out to San Diego and working on 5 shows in 7 months with all the craziness that surrounded them.

This past week was merely an interesting study about how one community’s pink-striped roller-disco musical is poorly received (sorry, La Jolla, it’s just not your type of show) while in another community it is strictly Japanese.

That’s right, XANADU, in case I haven’t already mentioned is going to Tokyo and I for one think its brilliant. The tour manager for XANADU hired me this week for a nice sum to drive around the Japanese production team and management and I learned a lot. I learned that you should aim for an audience and know where that audience lies otherwise you have a lot of explaining to do when returns are not met. Japan will soak up this show, as I saw from the two women and Mister Shima at the student matinee on Tuesday. That might have been the best audience that XANADU will ever have—the cheers and screams of young theater-geeks getting treated to all the glits and glamour of Broadway. And that probably was a big factor in the Japanese sealing the deal.

I also learned that when in Rome, be like the Romans. When with the Japanese, be attuned to their customs. And when in California, take them to an exotic, fancy restaurant of high cuisine known as P.F. Chang’s. Yes, that’s right. On orders, I took the Japanese for Chinese at P.F. Chang’s. Not only did they insist that I join them (“that way I’ll know where you are!” cooed the one woman who seemed to lead the group) but I force fed myself the leftovers that they had ordered, claiming that I was the growing young man. I felt so flattered and simultaneously awkward because they’d answer my questions in quick, short responses followed by a little laughter and then having two questions for my one thrown back at me. Not intrusive, not invasive, but I wanted to know about them. Not so much an open book.

Anyways, I felt big time, even as I dropped them off and escorted them into the theater for the show that night. I, the lowly little company management assistant had dined on inauthentic Chinese food with some bigwigs at the Tokyo Broadcasting Company. Look out world, here I come…some day…to Japan.

Words of a Mad Man

2008-12-04T18:50:00.000-08:00

I usually don’t have full scale mental-crisis about what I’m doing with my life, but several factors in the past week have led to me questioning “just what the hell am I doing with myself?” There was:

1. The rejection letter. “So many wonderful plays pass through our office that it is almost impossible to choose.”

2. The actress with a statement. “XANADU just isn’t artistically fulfilling.”

3. Justin’s keen observation. “Aren’t you laid off at the end of the year?”

4. Justin being in New York and working with agents and…hustling his shit.

5. A plain and simple over-all self doubt that comes with being in your early 20’s.

But might I suggest to you, if you find yourself in this position, with writing or whatever it is you do, have an excellent girlfriend who can talk some sense in you. Have a group of friends you trust give you honest feedback on your work. And read about how Matthew Weiner, the 43-year-old exec producer of Mad Men got smart in five easy steps:

1. He realized he wasn't smart — yet. ''I started looking at people whose careers I wanted — David Chase, Woody Allen — and saw that I was not on that path.''

2. He said no. ''I turned down a contract at [Ted Danson's sitcom]] Becker even though I had no other job. It proved that I was uncompromising. Or crazy.''

3. He made stuff. ''I wrote the Mad Men script to show what I could do.''

4. He never gave up. ''It takes hundreds of no's to get a yes. How many networks are there? That's how many no's I got.''

5. He played nice with everyone. ''My Mad Men script was given to AMC by my manager's former assistant. Taking your aggression out on anyone will always come back to bite you. Sometimes in the parking lot after the meeting.''

Gertrudestein-ing It

2008-12-01T18:48:00.000-08:00

I wasn’t planning for such an interesting Sunday and last night completed the yet-another-strange outting for my record books. It was nice to have the day off, y’know, like many other Americans during this weekend. I read for about three hours, created one of the best soup/grilled cheese combos I’ve ever made, and had an easy-going Domingo for the most part. But at night, it was time for the craziness. Jen had asked me a few days before if I wanted to join her at her brother’s concert with his band. I said “sure”, not expecting much, but would have been let down had I been given too much. So last night we pre-gamed at my apartment, drinking the most vaginal looking bottle of vodka ever (oh “Veev”!) before hitting the 8 East into San Diego’s ugly step-sister: East County. Now, this wouldn’t have been bad on a regular basis; unfortunately, last night it was incredibly foggy. Like, there wasn’t this much fog in the movie “The Fog” type of fog. It engulfed us in that yellow-tint glow from the street lights and it was like living in a smoke stack. Crazy, but cool, and would have been cooler had Jen and I not needed to pee like racehorses after chucking a gallon of water between us to counter-act the alcohol in our system so we could drive. Luckily, we found the place after only three bad turns and came upon the night’s domain: The Second Wind.

The Second Wind is a bar in one of the Meth Capitols of America (again, East County…however, I still think Ogden, UT holds the record for Crystal Meth users in the country) and sure enough, there were some tweekers outside. Now, to set the scene: we walk in through the exit to the bathrooms, into the extra classy strip-mall-outlet-turned-bar with a low stucco ceiling wearing a classy, blue tinsel hanging off of it, and an amoeba shaped bar leading to the panel wood dance floor in front of the half-foot high stage. It’s dark, except for the three televisions and the backlight glow against the liquor bottles making them up like Philip 20 Watts. Yep, this was definitely was a great joint. I actually really liked the band. Maybe it was because Jen’s brother, Matt, hugged me before dawning a Joker mask and taking the stage with his bass guitar. Maybe it was the crazy film playing against the band, going by the moniker of Gertrudestein (one word), and the only source of light on stage. Maybe it was because I never listen to Goth Metal, where you can’t hear a thing but noise and that’s a good thing. Maybe it just reminded me that fifteen wasn’t so long ago…and, while I’d not like to revert back to that age, realized how great it was.

This morning I awoke and felt young. I’m not kidding—the night had been a fountain of youth. Ponce de Leon must be spinning in his grave! I went to work, feeling great—after all, it was just another day at the office for me; for everyone else, it was “back from vacation”—and set out to greet the Japanese producers looking to take XANADU to Tokyo in May. They were great! Happy, if not exhausted, to be here and looking forward to seeing the shows tomorrow. It had been awhile since I’d seen someone so genuinely excited to see a theatrical piece—not phoning it in or being nice, but truly grateful to have the opportunity. I got them set up with food and in their lavish hotel (“No play, only business”, said one of the producers) and was tipped a handsome Lincoln.

Domo Arigato indeed!

Leftovers

2008-11-28T11:19:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving 2008 Best and Worst

The Best Things:
1. Bocce ball with a foul-mouth, elderly Scottish woman
2. Stuffed belly video chatting with my girlfriend
3. Tales involving “poop” at Tone and Melissa’s house
4. Season one finale of Battlestar Galatica (shit, another TV show I’m hooked on)
5. Free parking…EVERYWHERE
6. Libba’s homemade California style stuffing
7. Camp fire nightcap
8. The middle of Chip Kidd’s “The Learners”
9. Not freezing my balls off outside a Target store at five in the morning in North Tonawanda, NY (everything else about last Thanksgiving I miss)
10. Eating until I am satisfied, not until I’m bloated

The Worst Things:
1. Blues band downtown that started play music at 7:00 a.m. (!)
2. Meal starting a little bit after 1:00 p.m.
3. Being on-call for work
4. Going into work the very next day
5. Only one helping of leftover food from the day before
6. Missing family, friends, and other loved ones across the country
7. Regretting not taking advantage of Black Friday and getting a new digital camera—after all, it’s not that cold here (read: it’s warm)
8. Down to my last loaf of Great Harvest pumpkin chocolate chip bread
9. The Rosie O’Donnell variety show
10. It’s a whole ‘nother year until Thanksgiving comes back around
Most Egregious Number: The Wal-Mart employee who was trampled to death by the crowd when he opened the doors on Black Friday. Jesus Christ!

Bitch, I Dunno Yo' Life

2008-11-24T21:00:00.000-08:00

Come to think of it, or rather, when I come around to be able to think about it, I don’t remember much of my life either. Nope, strike that. I don’t remember much of last night and this morning. Through the thick haze of a brown Whiskey headache I see it…it’s all coming back to me…the glitter…the pinkness…the disco balls.

Martin and I are in back, the cast’s quarters for the XANADU opening night party, the place that I’m sure will be unused—it’s always an unnecessary hassle because most of the time the cast wants to be getting drunk with their admires—eating the remains of Yoshi’s salmon lettuce wraps. They are delicious, along with the orange chicken. I don’t know why, but for some reason tonight’s “Venice Beach” menu of hamburgers and corn dogs just don’t really sell my stomach. Eat up because we must venture to the liquor cabinet and pull a copious amount of alcohol, theatre’s only true form of payment.

All the rounds are made: my operation peeps, my box office peeps, and actual marshmallow peeps on the dessert table. Tonight, I’m not driving. I’ve done it at all the other parties so this is the one where I get to hand my keys off to someone else then hit the bar. Again…and again…and uhgen…’n ugg-in…from there, why the dance floor of course! I’m a crazy drunk club girl at this point, but it’s okay, namely because I haven’t been one for quite some time. Dancing with Jen, dancing with Ned, dancing with Martin and Desiree, and then dancing with Jonny C. who, as it appears, has traded in his suite pants for a pair of silver-glitter biker shorts (emphasis on the “short”) he stole off the merchandise manikin. When did this happen!?! He had a full dress suite on a few minutes ago! I turn my head and Jonny C’s getting’ his freak on every which way…

…Keep dancing, keep drinking…hey, there’s one of the girls from XANADU. Snap a picture, she snaps off her bra. Wait, what!?! So now I’m dancing around with a cute lesbian’s bra on head for about five minutes until the gay boys swipe it from me and it is lost to the throng of performers. I’m really sorry if that was a good bra but I highly doubt you’ll get it back (and even if you do, clean it thoroughly or better yet, just throw it out)…

…Okay, it’s all getting way too bizarre in here. I’m looking at the FLASHING…Flashing…flashing….LIGHTS…Lights…lights…and through them I see two people making out who, for the absolute life of me, should not be making out. Even I know that and I’m hammered as a nail. A string of reasons run through my head: because you are in the show together…because he’s very, very gay…and because his boyfriend is right there giving you two the look of death. Oh, you’ve noticed him too. The boys go off together, I imagine to work things out, laugh the whole thing off (probably not) and she goes off to dance with the three ten-year-old boys who are her biggest fans tonight…

…The November fog has settled over the hill and makes the street lamps look like motionless fireflies caught in plastic bags, glowing warm, unearthly yellow on the parking lot. I’m in my car, it’s 2:30 in the morning, and I’m just letting the cold air fill my lungs. That was another great perk of New York; just walk it off on your way back home. Now I got to sober up and I will, but oh god, it’s going to hurt in the morning…when, in six hours, I must return to clean the whole thing up.

AND THE BRONX GOT BOMBED, Act 1, Scenes 3-7

2008-11-19T13:05:00.000-08:00

Hugh Jackman was named 2008’s Sexiest Man Alive. Sara has a subconscious crush on him and if she’s into the Sexiest Man Alive that at least make’s me second sexiest…right…? Maybe…? Anyway, it’s official for all those keeping count of all the sexy people in the world.

I have to give a heartfelt congratulation to Chiara who, as I just heard through the grape vine, was nominated for the 2008 Goldberg Playwriting Award at our alum department of Dramatic Writing in TSOA at NYU (if I heard wrong and you actually won, Chiara, then even more kudos). She probably does not believe this, but I thought her thesis play was one of the best I had seen during my four years of college and now she’s getting recognition for her work—awesome!

I, on the other hand, am trying to keep my work in line and get it to the best that it can be. I received a letter today regarding Our Mother, Staten Island and it was quite a devastating blow. The person who reviewed it said that, in his opinion, “the dramatic arch of the play could not sustain an entire first act” and that if I “put it down and came back to clean up some of the dead spots [I] could have a pretty tight one act play.” This was the softest of the criticism. Like I’ve said before I’m good with rejection letters and even though this letter was not from a theater, it was the hardest blow I’ve received for this play and it hurt because I could tell that this man really did not like my work. But, if you believe the good reviews then you have to believe the bad ones too and since you should never fully invest yourself or ignore constructive feedback, I’m going to take his advice. Until 2009, I’m putting down Staten Island and focusing on Bronx.

By popular demand of Theresa and Kevin, here’s the rest of Act 1:

SCENE 3 - BRONX CORNER, MORNING

Gabe stands against a lamp, on guard from night watch. He yawns, stretches for a moment, and starts running in place to wake himself up. Gabe pulls out a lighter. He watches the flame and then closes the top. He does it again and several more times, each time entranced by the flames.

Tonio enters, dressed in nice clothes, carrying a plastic bag. He watches from a far, unbeknownst to Gabe.

GABE
(rapping to himself)
I punch in and I never punch out! I punch in and I never punch out! Y’all be hearin’ me, bitches? This man is killin’ all y’all jive turkeys with his one, two, three, four -- to the stomach, to the head, and he’s on the floor.
(beat, smirks)
Attention! Attention ladies and gentlemen: it’s five twenty-eight in the A.M. Do y’all know where ya children be at?
(“do you know where your children are?”)
Donde esta tus ninos? Well, if they in the barrio, they’s watchin’ the flash master of South Bronx pound pavement and if they’s his mama, then she’s so proud. So...so proud of her son: the champion! Fuck ya, Mama...she’s so proud. I am champion! Yes, me! Gabrielle Esteban Diaz -- I am the champion, cabron. Bronx stand up. This is ya man right here! Know what I’m sayin’? Champion, ladies and gentlemen...he don’t fall down...
(sniffs, wipes his nose)
...heh...yo, it’s Gabe...I keep runnin’...runnin’...never stop runnin’. Never stop fightin’. Pow, bam, boom! Whoo -- !
(stops, takes a breath)
Goddamnit, where the fuck is everybody? I need some the neighborhood to wake up. Where the fuck are my people -- ya scare ‘em off, street light? Huh? Ya tell ‘em all my shit ain’t cuttin’ muster no more? That be it? Ya spreadin’ lies, puta? I’m gonna have to fuck ya ugly ass face up for that.
(he throws a few shadow punches at the lamp post)
The hell are ya doin’ here anyway, stupid piece of shit? Street light, I always see ya dumb ass out on this here corner and ain’t doin’ jackshit. Why, huh? Leave! Go see a movie or eat somethin’, but do somethin’! A’ight? Tired of starin’ at ya dumb ass...

Tonio hesitates, not sure if he should disturb Gabe. He risks it.

TONIO
(“yo, what’s up with ?”)
Hey...que pasa contigo?

GABE
(embarrassed, “nothing”)
Nada.

The two guys bob their heads for a moment not knowing what to say.

TONIO
I brought my lucky piece of gear. ‘Cause...y’know...supposed to be bombin’ today. And Rico...he said dress nice...but still...brought the one piece I always use.

GABE
Rico likes ya shit.

TONIO
He does?

GABE
Yeah.

TONIO
‘Fore all this, I didn’t really think he’d heard of me at all.

GABE
He hadn’t.

TONIO
So who told him?

GABE
I did.

TONIO
You?

GABE
(My sister -- Gloria Diaz -- she’s in your art class at school. She liked your pictures, with all the different colors. So pretty, yeah?”)
Mi hermana -- Gloria Diaz -- esta en tu clase a la escuela. Le gusta tus pictura, con todos los colores diferente. Que linda, si?

TONIO
(“yeah. Thanks.”)
Si. Gracias.

GABE
Hey, didn’t say I liked them. Said Gloria thought they was great, but Gloria sells her pussy like it goin’ outta style what the fuck she know?

TONIO
Oh...

GABE
(beat)
Anyways, she told me ‘bout ya. I told it to Rico when he was lookin’ for someone to mark our turf.

TONIO
That’s tight, bro. Really ‘ppreciate that.

Tonio goes in to slap hands with Gabe, but Gabe just stares him down.

GABE
My sister...she like her mom’s...

TONIO
A’ight...at least tell ya sister thanks from me.

GABE
Fuckin’ tell her yourself if ya ever head back to that shit hole of a school. I ain’t spoken to that bitch since I smacked her up side the face and ripped out her nose ring...
(beat, laughs)
...nah, I’m just messin’ with ya, homes.

TONIO
Yeah...yeah...

GABE
Don’t worry. She’s fifteen now. She can take it.
(pause)
Ya got hermanos?

TONIO
Me? Nah, man...barely had my parents around. Both of them were Dominicano, but my mom’s...her daddy was Dominicano and her mother was Scottish...so...guess I gotta big extended family out there.

GABE
Good luck findin’ them.

Gabe spits on the ground.

TONIO
I did meet one of my aunts...or great aunt from over there. She gave my mom’s a bunch of ol’ shit she had since, like, World War Two. That’s where I got this.

Tonio pulls out a Mickey Mouse gas mask from the plastic bag.

GABE
Get the fuck out.

TONIO
(“It’s the truth.”)
Es la verdad.

GABE
Oh...SHIT!

TONIO
Guess they handed this out to the poor folks and they kids in case Hitler was bombin’ their ass with chemicals and shit. So I show it to my mom’s and y’know what she do? Puts the mask on. Now I’m lookin’ at my mom’s with a big ol’ Mickey Mouse grin plastered on her face and she says... “Look at me, Tonio. I’m ya evil step sister. I’ll kill ya in ya sleep.”

GABE
(cracks up with laughter)
I hate my mom’s...

TONIO
...she was so high when she said it that --

GABE
-- even if she is proud of me.

TONIO
Yeah...
(notices something on the ground)
...damn, yo. These things following me everywhere.

GABE
What?

Tonio bends down over the curb and picks up a large bobby pin.

TONIO
Bobby pins. My girlfriend had a bunch in her kitchen but she say she ain’t wear them.

GABE
Maybe she fuckin’ on the side.

TONIO
(“what you say, bastard?”)
Que hables, cabron?

GABE
(“With another chick!”)
Con una otra chica.

TONIO
Oh...that’d be sweet.

GABE
Shit. Here he comes. Look alive.

Rico enters with one of his right hand men carrying a large duffle bag.

RICO
Buenas dias.

GABE
Que pasa?

RICO
Nada mucho.
(“Today si the day we see if Tonio has the balls to work these streets.”)
Hoy es la dia cuando vemos si Tonio tiene cojones trabajar esas calles.

TONIO
What’s in the bag?

RICO
Y’know the Cuerpo territory?

TONIO
Yeah. Think so.

GABE
Down three blocks that way. Five blocks that way. Four blocks that way. And ‘nother five blocks down the way over there.

The Cuerpo drops the bag on the ground and opens it. Tonio leans over, pulling out numerous cans of spray paint and a small step ladder.

TONIO
Jesus, man...

RICO
‘bout two-hundred dollars worth of spray right here.

TONIO
I ain’t never worked with this much before.

RICO
That gonna be a problem?

TONIO
Nah, man. We just bombin’, right?

RICO
Actually, Tonio, I’m makin’ an investment. Buildin’ those walls that I told ya ‘bout. How two-hundred in ya pocket work for ya?

TONIO
(pause)
Wait...ya sayin’ ya want me to bomb the ‘hood? Our hood?

GABE
What would be the point of that?

TONIO
I dunno. Ya tell me to buy some new threads, drop some spray at my feet -- I dunno what the hell to think.

RICO
I don’t care what ya think. I wanna see if ya willin’ to get dirty. Everyone has to know when they cross into our turf. When they try to fuck us...that we gonna fuck them back...feel me? I want hombres who step across the street to shit themselves ‘cause there’s a Cuerpo sign on each corner.

TONIO
Of what?

RICO
Don’t matter, Tonio. Just as long as it makes outsiders think twice about puttin’ their noses where they don’t belong.

GABE
What ‘bout me?

RICO
What about ya, cabron?

GABE
Do a paintin’ of me. Then he can do a couple other of the crew. Save the last one for ya, Rico.

RICO
I like it.
(“You able to do that, Tonio?”)
Haces lo poder, Tonio?

TONIO
Most definitely.

RICO
A’ight then.
(beat)
What, ya ain’t happy ‘about the job I’ve given ya?

TONIO
Nah, it ain’t that. It’s just...this is only four corners. A week or two worth of work. After that, what happens?

RICO
Well, if ya do this shit we’ll talk ‘bout a promotion.

GABE
Everybody’s gotta earn they stripes.

RICO
Are ya not appreciative of what I’ve given ya? Gabe said ya was the next Picasso and shit.

GABE
Picasso...

RICO
So...are ya truth?

TONIO
Yeah...yeah, I be truth.

RICO
(“Good to hear.”)
Bien oir. So get to work. Word comin’ back to us all the time that a couple other crews are lookin’ to expand their franchises. We gotta make sure they don’t think our real estate is for sale.

TONIO
A’ight.

RICO
We outta here. Let the artist get to work.

Rico and the other Cuerpo exit. Gabe tries out a series of poses, trying to decide on one.

GABE
Ya better make me look gangsta.

TONIO
I will.

GABE
A’ight...how ‘bout this then?

Gabe leans against the light pole again and puts up one of his middle fingers.

TONIO
That’s good...but -- hey take out that lighter.

GABE
Ah yeah!

Gabe clicks on the lighter and reposes with it.

TONIO
That’s the shit right there.

GABE
Ya think?

TONIO
Most definitely. Chill for a sec, though.

Tonio reaches into duffle bag and pulls out a pair of gloves. As he’s putting them on, Tonio reaches in, only to retract his hand.

GABE
What’s the hold up!?

Slowly, Tonio extracts a bobby pin from the glove.

GABE (CONT’D)
Yeah...? So...?

Tonio shakes his head and throws the bobby pin over his shoulder. He opens the plastic bag to remove a Mickey Mouse gas mask.

GABE (CONT’D)
Oh SHIT! Here come the real deal...

TONIO
Yeah...the real deal...

Tonio pulls the mask over his face. He shakes up one of the cans of paint. Gabe strikes his pose and Tonio sprays the wall with color.

Lights fade.

SCENE 4 - DINER, LATE AT NIGHT

Lights up. A few weeks later. Tonio and Rico sit at a booth. Rico picks at his ham and eggs while Tonio shuffles a burger in his hands, trying to simultaneous show his drawings to Rico, pointing at them with a pencil in his hand.

TONIO
See, I’m gonna how it looks a little layered in back with the fire and shit all back there? This shit is gonna be all technique. Ya face is gonna look like el diablo --

RICO
(“I hate the food here. Why do we still come here?”)
-- odio la comida aqui. Por que venemos aqui entonces?

Tonio goes silent, looking at the picture in front of him. Rico stabs the piece of ham on his plate with a fork and holds it in front of Tonio’s face.

RICO
Look at this.

TONIO
Okay...

RICO
What’s wrong with it?

TONIO
Dunno...

RICO
It’s too fuckin’ pink. That’s what.

TONIO
It’s ham, dog. Ya gotta know ham is gonna be pink if ya order it.

RICO
Well it’s too fuckin’ pink for me.

Rico throws the ham on the floor. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes and lights one up. Cautiously, Tonio slides the picture to the tables edge and cross his hands in front of him.

RICO (CONT’D)
(“What are ya doin’?)
Que haces?

TONIO
("Talk to me.")
Digame.

RICO
Get the fuck outta here with that shit, man, ya ain’t no shrink and ya sure as hell ain’t my shrink.

TONIO
I just wanna talk. Help my fellow Cuerpo out. To show my support and loyalty...through whatever...

RICO
Ya don’t got no answers for the problems I got.

TONIO
Try me.

Rico ashes his cigarette into his eggs. He then puts the whole butt out on the eggs and pushes the plate across the table to Tonio.

RICO
Eat that and I’ll tell ya.

TONIO
Fuck that.

RICO
Then fuck you.
(beat)
Wanna show loyalty? Huh? Support? Comerlo.

Tonio shakes his head, begrudgingly picks up his fork, and scoops up a section of rubbery egg peppered with cigarette ash.

RICO (CONT’D)
Comelo ahora!

Tonio looks at the fork, then to Rico, and finally sticks it in his mouth. He chews as fast as he can.

RICO (CONT’D)
(“More eggs. Clean your plate.”)
Mas huevos. Lava tu plato.

Tonio furiously plows into his eggs, trying to swallow them as fast as he can. Rico watches, eyes ablaze. Tonio scrapes the fork and plucks the last morsel in his mouth.

TONIO
There...
(dry heaves, catches himself)
...there...

Rico smiles, lights another cigarette, and watches Tonio chug his soda.

RICO
Ya know the building that got burned down last night? The one over on one and forty-four?

TONIO
Yeah...what ‘bout it?

RICO
Manuel Perez lived there...his family...well, they ain’t got themselves a home no more. His two little sisters got stuck in their apartment and woosh...
(beat)
..ain’t like he lived there no more, but he put down for those girls. And his mom’s.

TONIO
That sucks, man. Los Manos stackin’ some to help him out?

RICO
Nah...they’s startin’ to pack some. On Manny’s orders.

TONIO
Why?

RICO
Cops told ‘em it looked like arson, but they weren’t sure. Later they found out it was made from a bottle rocket that went loco. Landed on the roof...whole thing went up in flames.

TONIO
Shit...

RICO
Know where they think it came from?
(Tonio shakes his head)
My block. The one where I live on...some neighborhood watch bitch said that someone was launchin’ ‘em from the roof a while ago...she didn’t say who, but I know who it was...

TONIO
Ya think it’s Gabe, don’t ya.

RICO
Yeah. I do.

TONIO
How do ya know though?

RICO
Same reason ya do, homes. He’s my boy, but the dude lost his mind while back.

TONIO
Don’t mean it was him.

RICO
Right...’cause Los Manos are takin’ that into consideration while they weighin’ all the possibilities. Nah, man. Manny and his crew gonna be all instinct on this. They gonna make it civil war, just watch. Watch it happen.

TONIO
They wouldn’t do that. They ain’t muscle --

RICO
-- don’t matter in situations like this --

TONIO
-- they dope slingers. We the ones who protect them --

RICO
-- which just means they shoot wrecklessly and hate chancin’ on any target. Ya ain’t blind. Ya seen this type of thing go down. Don’t sugar coat it.

Rico reaches into his pocket and pulls out a huge wad of bills. Tonio’s jaw drops.

RICO (CONT’D)
Don’t stare, cabron. It belongs to ya ass now. Take it and put it in ya pocket.
Tonio does as he’s told.

RICO (CONT’D)
I want ya to finish the murals tomorrow. So there ain’t gonna be confusion over real estate when shit drops.

TONIO
A’ight.

RICO
(re: the money)
Give it to ya girl. Make her proud.
(pause)
How she doin’ with teh baby anyways...?

TONIO
Dunno. I ain’t seen her in ‘bout two weeks.

RICO
And so it begins.
(beat)
Get it done by tomorrow night.

TONIO
Por supuesto.

Rico nods, taking another drag. Tonio reaches down for his burger, takes a bite, and chews until he suddenly stops. Digging through the sloppy food in his mouth, he removes a bobby pin.

TONIO (CONT’D)
No fuckin’ way.

RICO
Have ‘em take it back. That’s shitty service.
(hollers)
Waitress! Venga aqui!

TONIO
Don’t -- no, no, no...this is just fuckin’ trippy, that’s all. For weeks I been findin’ them shits all around. Like I’m cursed or somethin’. All these signs, man. These things, Gabe fuckin’ our shit up, who knows now --

RICO
-- the hell did ya say, Tonio -- ?

TONIO
-- first the bobby pins, then Gabe --

RICO
-- I heard what ya said and I --

TONIO
-- so now ya down my throat like some goddamn cop or --

RICO
-- don’t every say one goddamn word against Gabe again! Less ya want ya tongue cut out so I can have some assurance on that order.

Tonio puts his head in his hands and shakes his skull. He throws up his hands in defeat.

TONIO
Sorry...sorry, Rico...meant no disrespect.

RICO
It was disrespectful, a’ight? It was, but...
(long beat)
...shit, man. He’s my son. I gotta look out for him.

TONIO
(stunned)
WHAT?!?

RICO
Es la verdad.

TONIO
Get outta here.

RICO
Ain’t, like, sayin’ I concieved the motherfucker or nothin’...but...

TONIO
But what?

RICO
Shacked up with his mom’s.

TONIO
No way...no fuckin’ way...

RICO
Makin’ me dig up some ancient history, homes. Best not let it be slippin’ on the street...
(takes a drag)
...Gabe and I been homboys since sixth grade...and, well...shit. Our dicks were diamond hard twenty-four-seven. We’d fuck anythin’ with a hole.

TONIO
And what...? Ya couldn’t just whack it like the rest of us?

RICO
Big words for a man who impregnated a girl when he popped his cherry. Ya know it ain’t the same if ya gotta woman willin’ to give it to ya...Gabe’s mom...she took care of business, know what I’m sayin’?

TONIO
What did Gabe think ‘bout this? Y’all hookin’ up?

RICO
He didn’t know shit. Made sure ‘bout that. Nah, he didn’t know ‘til the day he got his ass kicked outta school. I’d gotten outta there week ‘fore that and Gabe was doin’ right by me. Poor bastard walked in on us fuckin’. I was sixteen then. Moved into their house ‘cause I didn’t have any other place to go. We was homeboys up ‘til that moment when he walked in. From then on...I was his pops -- the man of the house.

TONIO
Did he do anythin’ when he saw ya...y’know...

RICO
Fuckin’ his mom’s? Hell yeah! He turned the house upside down. Stormed out on to hundred forty-first street and started pounded his head ‘gainst the wall.

TONIO
Whoa...

RICO
The first hit was the worst. We all heard this crack, even from the other side of the block. Then he just kept slammin’ it into the wall over and over...I finally went out and pulled him off. Gabe got one good last face of brick ‘fore fallin’ back on the sidewalk. That stupid motherfucker laid up in the hospital for a week ‘til his mom’s couldn’t afford it no more.

TONIO
That...explains a lot.

RICO
All ‘cept why he’s in love with fire now. Sometimes I catch him just starin’ at a goddamn lighter for the longest time, y’know? I didn’t pay no mind to it ‘cept when Jose Garcia show him how to set off fireworks -- Jose’s the one Manny should be gunnin’ for. Weren’t for him we wouldn’t be here with our dicks up our asses.

TONIO
Least Gabe got you and his mom’s lookin’ out for him.

RICO
Nah, that bitch is on her own. I don’t hit her up ‘less I want some thunder thigh action, know what I’m sayin’?
(beat)
What? I gotta whole buffet of snatch -- I ain’t pussy whipped enough to settle for one. No offense to those who do stay with one.

TONIO
No...yeah...

RICO
Such is life, right?

Rico cannot keep it in any more. He starts laughing uncontrollably to himself.

TONIO
Yeah...guess so...

Rico gradually calms himself down, the laughter and joy weening from his voice.

RICO
Plus, I mean, once his mom’s had Luiz, I knew I had to bounce. I wasn’t takin’ care of no woman and her two boys, even if Luiz was mine.

TONIO
Ya see him a lot.

RICO
Depends on what ya call a lot.
(beat)
Such is life.

Rico finishes his cigarette and stubs it out on the table.

RICO
Pay the bill.

TONIO
Hey...Rico...

RICO
...yeah?

TONIO
Ya sure it was Gabe? I mean, how will ya know for sure?

RICO
I’ll ask him one time and if he lies to me...

He aims his fingers like a gun and makes a shooting noise.

TONIO
Get the fuck outta here with that. We good ‘cause I say we good.

Rico stares Tonio down and ends up with his hand on his shoulder. He pretends to shoot Tonio in the face.

RICO
Boom...

TONIO
A’ight.

RICO
Yeah. Pay for the shit.

Rico slides out of the booth. Tonio tosses some of the money on the table. Rico exits. Tonio grabs his sketch, looks it over, and makes a quick adjustment. He smiles, inspired.

Lights fade.

SCENE 5 - SANDRA’S APARTMENT, LATER THAT NIGHT

Lights up with a pounding on the door. Elika opens her door, rubbing her eyes and mumbles something Russian. Sandra quickly catches her. They argue in their native tongue before Sandra screams at her mother. Elika shows her daughter the back of her hand and exits back into her room.

The knocking continues. Sandra smooths out her hair, tightens her bathrobe, and opens the door for Tonio.

SANDRA
I should known it was you.

TONIO
Guess what...?

Tonio enters, pushing past Sandra, and into the living room.

SANDRA
Last time you here it was guessing game too. Now, you want replay...?

Tonio pulls out the roll of money and throws it on the coffee table.

TONIO
That’s what.

SANDRA
For decent job or bang-ganging...?

TONIO
...it’s gang-bangin’ --

SANDRA
-- yes, yes -- I know, I screw up second it come out my mouth. Not point.

TONIO
Ya lookin’ at the dopest graffiti artist in the Bronx, baby...I’ve already done four murals and Rico told me tonight that more green’ll start followin’ if I finish a fifth one by the tomorrow. And I just finished the sketch...

Tonio brings out the sketch and holds it up in Sandra’s face.

SANDRA
Tonio, I see nothing.

TONIO
Let me get the light then.

SANDRA
No, my eyes --

Tonio clicks on the lights. He can now see that his girlfriend is very pregnant, about to burst at the belly.

TONIO
Oh my god...

SANDRA
(looks down at herself)
What? I got fat since you last here?

TONIO
Yeah...sort’a...

SANDRA
Thank you, Tonio.

TONIO
Not fat. That ain’t what I meant. Y’know...

SANDRA
...my mother is trying to sleep! I try to sleep...

TONIO
...I just ain’t seen ya in a while. Forgot how good ya look. Now ya got an ass.
Tonio smiles and laughs at his own joke. He goes to hug Sandra only to have her push him away.

TONIO (CONT’D)
What? No love? No hug...or no besas? From Russia with love...?

SANDRA
Where have you been for three weeks?

TONIO
Out. Makin’ money. Lookin’ after ya best interests.

SANDRA
This is not my best interests.

TONIO
What...?

SANDRA
Your blood money! You knocking late on door wanting to give me more! You not being here for nearly one month!

TONIO
Hey, hey, hey...who’s idea was that now? Ya told me not to be comin’ round ‘less I had somethin’ to show for myself.

SANDRA
And I thought you understand that mean get job!

TONIO
I gotta job.

SANDRA
No! IT NO JOB! IT NO JOB! This...this Rico...he want a few murals...after that? Huh? What will there be? Take this gun, shoot this person, rob their pocket!

TONIO
Ya don’t know ‘bout nothin’...that ain’t...we ain’t roll like that...I ain’t roll like that...

SANDRA
You really think that I wanted you gone for that long? With baby due any day -- any second -- and you not here with me?

TONIO
I ain’t out yet.

SANDRA
It almost was. We had false alarm last week. You not here. We didn’t know where you were.
(beat)
I want you here when baby is born. But until that happen, do not come back here with your money.

Tonio goes over to the coffee table, picks up the roll of cash, and holds it out for Sandra to see.

TONIO
This right here...it ain’t just money...a’ight? This is a way out. I can get in with these people and we can be set for life.

SANDRA
Tonio, you don’t even listen to yourself. “I get in so I can have way out...” What kind of...I mean, you do not understand what --

TONIO
-- nah, I understand perfectly. Wish people would stop askin’ me if I understand. I get it, okay? I do. Month ago I would’ve lied, but now...I made it. And seein’ pay from it...nada es mas buena. I made it in and I’m not quittin’ just ‘cause ya think it’s somethin’ it ain’t.

SANDRA
I want you out of my house.

TONIO
Rico’s number two guy...this fucked up dude named Gabe...he was the one who burned down that building on one forty-four. He’s on his way out. Either he gonna have to run for the hills and stay with some cousins or the cops is gotta put him away. Rico gonna have to have another sidearm by him. That’s me.

SANDRA
Is this boy one who start fire tonight?

TONIO
What are ya talkin’ ‘bout?

SANDRA
Look outside! My mother and I watch all night as it get bigger and bigger...

Tonio goes over to the window. In the distance, a low-rise building is inflamed with thick smoke pillars drifting out of it.

TONIO
Shit...if it was him, then he definitely not rollin’ with Rico for much longer. Too much of a liability.

SANDRA
If you are friends with people who burn down buildings --

TONIO
-- don’t start with another lecture --

SANDRA
-- then you need to leave or I call police --

TONIO
-- Listen! Rico’s openin’ up to me! Okay? Listen to my point here, girl. He’s tellin’ me shit that I don’t think no one knows. Rico trusts me...I’m keeper of his secrets and all. I know who the dude really is...
(opens up his sketch even though Sandra does not look)
...I got his back. And he’s got mine -- our’s. Feel me? I’m by his side, ya by mine, and we gotta beautiful thing goin’ on.

SANDRA
(softly, sincerely)
I want you to read my lips with your ears: I call police if you are not out of my house in one minute...I don’t care what I said before...you are dangerous to have around me...

TONIO
Sandra...ya ain’t listenin’ to me...

SANDRA
...one minute, Tonio...it has already started...

TONIO
Fuck, man...

Tonio folds up the sketch and puts it back in his pocket. He gets up and walks towards the door. Tonio stops, turns around, tosses the roll of money to Sandra. Surprised, she catches it.

SANDRA
Thirty seconds...

TONIO
That ain’t for ya. That’s for my baby. Set up a savings account or somethin’ for college...I dunno. Maybe get a phone plugged in or a TV up in this joint with what’s left over. Ya gonna need shit like that now. But whatever ya do, ya make sure he gets most of it and ya make sure he knows that it was from his papi makin’ the neighborhood beautiful for him to grow up in.

SANDRA
(not flinching)
Ten seconds...

They stand in silence, looking at each other. Five...four...three...two...one.

SANDRA (CONT’D)
Time is out.

TONIO
(blows her a kiss)
Hasta then.

Tonio opens the door and exits. Sandra follows him and locks to door as he departs. She then takes the roll of cash, gazes at it in her palm, and finally takes it with her back to her room.

Lights fade.

SCENE 6 - BRONX CORNER, NEXT AFTERNOON

Lights up on Tonio, wearing his paint gear, putting the finishing touches on a beautiful mural of Rico. It’s black and white for the most part, with only hints of gray for shadowing. In the background, something like shots echo. Each time one of them rings out, Tonio checks his surroundings. Once the coast is clear he goes back to spraying the wall.

Gabe enters, looking strung out and tired, carrying a small box of firework snappers. He throws some on the ground and they rattle out into the street. Tonio jumps back and hits the ground. He freezes when he sees it’s Gabe.

TONIO
Fuckin’-A, Gabe!

Gabe grins and throws a few more on the ground. They all pop at once. He laughs. Tonio gets up and removes his mask.

TONIO (CONT’D)
Goddamn it, man, that scared the shit outta me.

GABE
I’m on watch, homes. Gotta keep Los Manos on they toes, y’know.

TONIO
Yeah...

GABE
Now he gots his face all around the barrio. Maybe he won’t need me to be on lookout all the time. His paintin’ can do it for him.

TONIO
Yo...Gabe, I don’t mean no offense of nothin’...but are ya straight, dog?

GABE
Yeah, I’m straight!

TONIO
Okay...

GABE
...what, ya think I like to suck dick or somethin’?

TONIO
What? Nah! Get outta here -- that ain’t what I meant --

GABE
-- ‘cause ain’t no dick sucker, Tonio --

TONIO
-- c’mon now, that ain’t what I meant and ya know it --

GABE
-- but I’ll suck ya’s if ya want me to.

Pause.

TONIO
Fuck off, man. Ya need to get some sleep and --

GABE
-- ‘cause it ain’t like I never sucked one ‘fore. Y’know? I like me some pussy, but Rico said in this life, ya more than likely to end up puttin’ time in at Rikers so ya best learn to blow a dude so ya don’t have to take it up the ass...

Another pause.

TONIO
Go home, Gabe.

Gabe removes a handful of poppers from the box and gently drops them on the concert so they don’t explode.

GABE
He’s real mad, Tonio. He’s like -- fuckin’ pissed outta his mind.

TONIO
Who? Rico?

GABE
Who’s Rico?

TONIO
Answer my question.

GABE
I ain’t recall the question, professora...

TONIO
...who’s fuckin’ pissed at you?

Gabe starts wildly jumping up and down on the poppers. They start ringing out.

GABE
(screaming, “God in the sky!”)
LOS DIOS EN LA CIELO! LOS DIOS EN LA CIELO! Shit -- shit, shit, shit, shit -- God, man...God’s so fuckin’ pissed at me. He’s fuckin’ pissed at me! Los Dios en la cielo! LOS! DIOS! EN! LA! CIELO!

TONIO
Gabe -- yo dog -- DOG! Why -- por que? Por que?

GABE
-- Los DIOS en la CIELO! Fuckin’ shit...he’s so mad at me --

TONIO
-- Escuchame: why is Rico so angry with ya?

GABE
(in tears now)
...’cause I started makin’ friends with the devil.

TONIO
Cut that shit, man.

GABE
Tonio...Tonio...I’m serious, man...he ain’t like it ‘cause I do things that the devil like to do. Yeah...

TONIO
Like what?

GABE
He do things the devil do too. He says he’s God, but means the devil. And he started to make me do the bad shit that I didn’t wanna do. But God said do it so I did. Now I don’t know if that was the devil or...or...fuck, man! He’s so pissed off. And it ain’t good. It ain’t good at all.

TONIO
Did ya start another fire, Gabe?

GABE
I’m no good at all, man, no good at all --

TONIO
-- does Rico think you burned down that building last night?

Gabe moans and throws a few poppers at the mural.

TONIO
Gabe, shut the fuck up for one second --

GABE
(to the mural of Rico)
-- Maybe it’s time ya sucked ya own dick, Papi!

Gabe starts digging around in Tonio’s bag and pulls out a bright red can of spray paint.

TONIO
Hey -- HEY! Gabe! Ya fuck with my shit and I’ll --
(Gabe starts spraying)
-- YO! SHIT! Put that shit down right now --

Tonio pulls Gabe away from the wall. Gabe punch him right in the face. Tonio falls to the ground with his nose bleeding. Rico enters. Gabe goes back to the mural and draws a crude, bright red penis going into Rico’s mouth.

GABE
(turns to Tonio, cackling)
Yeah -- oh, yeah, baby-boy --
(“Who is my good girl?”)
-- quien es mi chica buena? Huh? Ya like suckin’ my dick, Rico?! Yeah, suck it, homes.
(“Yeah, ya like it a lot.”)
Te gusta mucho, Papi. Yeah! How’s that? Huh? A face full’a my big ol’ cock in ya mouth -- let the whole neighborhood see that. Let them see what ya like to do -- ‘cause God ain’t here and devil ain’t here...no, nothin’ ‘cept Rico with a cock in his mouth!
(“Ah, yeah! Who is God now?”)
Ay, si! Quien es El Dio ahora? Quien es --

RICO
Hey, Tonio...

Gabe stops, turns to look at Rico, who ignores him in return.

TONIO
Rico...?

RICO
Los Manos declarin’ full out war...seems that somebody on they crew lost their cousin in a fire last night and...yeah...guns are drawn.

TONIO
Shit...

RICO
...gotta happen sooner or later. Business expenses. We get all the bad blood out and then go back to work. Unfortunately, means I’ve gotta jet outta here for a little bit --

TONIO
-- wait...what -- ?

RICO
-- to lay low while the shit blows over. Y’know...call teh shots from afar.

TONIO
I guess...so...

RICO
...ya don’t guess, ya do what I say.
(beat)
I’m gonna make ya lieutenant, but first I need that cash I gave ya at the diner.

TONIO
But...I thought that was mine.

RICO
No, it’s mine and I need it back. Travelin’ ain’t cheap, y’know...

TONIO
Rico...I gave it to my girl...there’s no way I could ask for it back.

RICO
Well then ya best replace it...

TONIO
Hold up a sec, man, I’m so lost here. Ya gettin’ outta town. War’s breakin’ out. And ya leavin’ me in charge of the whole operation? I mean -- thanks and all -- but what about Gabe here? Where the fuck does that leave him in all this?

RICO
(finally acknowledging Gabe)
Hey Gabe...

GABE
(turns around to face Rico)
Yeah...?

Rico holds up a gun he’s been hiding behind his leg. He shoots Gabe in the head. Gabe’s body falls to the ground.

TONIO
HOLY SHIT, RICO! The fuck did ya go and do that for!?!

RICO
I didn’t. Los Manos hit us first. Now we got grounds to strike back. Oh, and ya ass just became second in command.

TONIO
Fuck, man! Fuck!!!

Rico throws the gun at Tonio. It lands on the ground, next to Tonio.

RICO
I want that money in my hands tonight. Don’t matter how or where from...just get it. And fix that fuckin’ paintin’ ‘fore I get back into town.

Tonio, shaken, nods. Rico exits.

Tonio grabs the gun and shoves it in his pocket. He gets up and takes one last look at Gabes body.

TONIO
Shit...!

He exits. Lights fade.

SCENE 7 - SANDRA’S APARTMENT, NIGHT

Behind the door to Elika’s bedroom are the screams of two women arguing in Russian. The door flies open with Sandra charging the way and her mother hot on her heels. Elika brandishes the roll of Tonio’s money at Sandra.

ELIKA
“You think I am stupid? You think your mother is an imbecile just because I am old or...or leave the house...or something! You think that --”

SANDRA
“ -- No, of course not, and if you were listening to what I was saying before --”

ELIKA
“ -- listen to those lies! Oh, wait fabrications escape your mouth --”

SANDRA
“ -- I told you that that is money which is being saved --”

ELIKA
“ -- one right after another...and another...to...to your own mother --”

SANDRA
“ -- it is for your grandchild!”

ELIKA
(beat)
“I will provide for my grandchild if need be.”

SANDRA
“You?”

ELIKA
“Yes.”
(Sandra snickers at this)
“What? You think because I do screw job on you that I will mess up my grandchild? Now it as if you believe the very lies that spout from your lips.”

SANDRA
“Or maybe it’s you who’s the one lying to herself.”

ELIKA
“My grandson or granddaughter will be seen to. By ways of goodness...ways of honor and respect...not by some two-bit hoodlum running the streets with guns and drugs.”

SANDRA
“So...?”

ELIKA
“So? So what?”

SANDRA
“How do you plan to provide for my child...”

ELIKA
“...don’t start with me on that...”

SANDRA
“...it’s a valid question. I ask it sincerely, mother!”

ELIKA
“...to try and make me angry. I know you do that on purpose!”

SANDRA
Or maybe it’s you who bitch and I just had good teacher.

ELIKA
“What did you say to me?”

SANDRA
“I think you understood pretty well.”

ELIKA
“Say that one more time to me and make me understand. Sandra! Make me understand! Tell me what you said or I swear --”

SANDRA
“-- to hit me? To kick me out? How will you ever see the child then? Those are all idle threats, mother, all empty promises...I don’t know how you got to be so hollow...”

Elika raises the back of her hand to her daughters face, but resists the urge to strike her.

ELIKA
(beat)
“Were it not for that belly of your’s, I’d strike you through the wall.”

SANDRA
“But I do have that belly. And I do have that money. And Tonio is going to make a good --”

ELIKA
“You...you have this money?”

SANDRA
“Yes.”

ELIKA
“This money...right here...in my hands? Because I think at the moment, you do not have this money that you claim to.”

SANDRA
“Give it to me.”

ELIKA
“I think I should keep it safe.”

SANDRA
“No! Mother! I need that money!”

ELIKA
“Safe and sound and as far away from the child as possible.”

Elika goes over to the kitchen sink, turns on the garbage disposal, and puts one of the twenty-dollar bills down. Green shards of money fly out. Sandra’s mouth drops.
Elika drops another bill down the hole.

ELIKA (CONT’D)
For deposit! “That’s the right saying?” Deposit?

SANDRA
“Don’t you dare put another bill down the drain...!”

Sandra charges at her mother, but finally stops. She sways slightly and falls to her knees. Elika is about to put another bill down the drain, but realizes something is wrong with her daughter.

ELIKA
“What is wrong with you all of a sudden?”

SANDRA
“The baby...”

ELIKA
“...what? Oh my god! Is it now coming?!”

SANDRA
“No...something is wrong...yes, something hurts...”

ELIKA
“Did your water break?”

SANDRA
“I told you no! Something is --”

Sandra cannot finish her sentence before she breaks into a scream. Elika turns the disposal off and tries to pick her daughter up.

ELIKA
“Stand up...”

SANDRA
“No! No...it -- my god -- it hurts to stand up.”

ELIKA
“Then what should I do?”

SANDRA
“Go...”

ELIKA
“Go where?”

SANDRA
“Go. Get help. Please, hurray. Mother...something is...”

ELIKA
“Where will I get -- I don’t know where to --”

SANDRA
(points to the refrigerator)
“ -- call for a taxi. Hold up the money you have --”

ELIKA
“ -- okay...okay...yes --”

SANDRA
“ -- take the picture Tonio drew of me. Hold it out and say: ‘BABY’ Can you do that?”

ELIKA
Baby...

SANDRA
Baby...and...
(cries out in pain)
“Shit! Oh my god...it hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts...uhhhhhhh -- and -- say ‘BABY’ and ‘HOSPITAL’, all right? Try saying it.”

ELIKA
BABY. HOSPITAL.

SANDRA
“Okay. Now go. Go, go, go. You have to hurray!”

Elika runs to the fridge, snaps the picture from the magnet, and throws it in her purse.

ELIKA
“Are you sure you want me to leave you?”

SANDRA
“For Christsake, Mother, get out of here or I will die.”

ELIKA
BA...BABY. HOSPITAL. BABY. HOSPITAL.

SANDRA
“Please go right now! Go! Go! Go! Go! Please, right now!”

Elika grabs the rest of her things, opens the door, and looks back at Sandra writhing on the floor. She exits. Sandra lies stretches out on the floor, biting down hard to stop the pain.

Lights fade.

SCENE 8 - BRONX CORNER, NIGHT

In the darkness Elika screams out “BABY” and “HOSPITAL”. She enters and looks around for someone to assist her, but their is no one.

ELIKA
HOSPITAL...HOSPITAL...BABY! BABY! BABY!

From the other side, Tonio enters wearing the Mickey Mouse gas mask and holding the gun out.

TONIO
(through the gas mask)
Give all the fuckin’ cash ya got on ya and I won’t hurt ya.
(Elika screams)
Don’t -- don’t fuckin’ scream, just empty your pockets!

ELIKA
BABY! BABY!

TONIO
Yeah, I heard ya ‘bout the baby. Now give me the money.

ELIKA
BABY...! BABY...! BABY...!

TONIO
Goddamnit, lady, just give me your money!

Tonio pushes Elika up against the wall.

ELIKA
(top of her lungs)
BABY -- ! HOSPITAL -- ! BABY -- ! BABY -- !

Tonio clicks the trigger and points it right at Elika’s forehead.

TONIO
And I told ya ass to shut the fuck up about the baby!

ELIKA
BABY -- ! BABY -- !

TONIO
Fuckin’ shit...man...ain’t gonna tell ya again to shut up!

Tonio whips the butt of the gun across Elika’s face. She cries out and falls to the ground. Tonio kicks her over and tries to snatch the purse from around her arm. Elika fights back as best she can, scratching Tonio’s arms.

TONIO
Ow! That fuckin’ hurt.

He takes the gun and again, whips her with it. Elika’s nose and mouth begin to bleed -- she’s slowly fading.

ELIKA
(sobbing)
“Oh my god, why is this happening?” BABY -- ! “Why is this happening...”

TONIO
No more talk ‘bout the babies.

Tonio sifts through her purse and finds the a wad of cash. He pockets it and rifles through the rest of her purse until he discovers a folded piece of paper.

ELIKA
(trying to scream, but losing consciousness)
...BABY...HOSPITAL...BA...BABY SANDRA...BABY...

Tonio unfolds the piece of paper to see his sketch of Sandra. Instantly, he freezes.

TONIO
Oh shit...

ELIKA (CONT’D)
...SANDRA...BABY...BABY...SANDRA...HOSPITAL...BABY...

TONIO
Nah...nah...this can’t -- aw, SHIT! Fuck me...fuck me...fuck me...! NO -- ! NO -- !

In the distance, sirens blare. Red and blue lights flash against the wall. Tonio shoves the gun down a sewer well.

ELIKA (CONT’D)
...BABY...SANDRA...BABY...

Police cars pull up just as Tonio’s about to exit. A voice of the loud speaker orders Tonio to drop his weapon and get on the ground.

TONIO
...can’t believe...this...no, no, no, no, this can’t be happening!
Tonio obeys the orders, putting his hands behind his head. Elika’s eyes close as car doors open and shadows of NYPD officers approach Tonio.

Lights out.

End of Act 1.

The Dog and The Days and The Afternoons

2008-11-14T21:22:00.000-08:00

Dog Day 1, Wednesday—coming back from vacation is never an easy thing to do. Those lazy days can get you caught in a stupor of relaxation and before you know it, you’ve told the world to chill out. Bills will take care of themselves. Rent—what do you mean “rent”? It’s nice to come back and still have a day off to prepare for jumping back into the tank. Wednesday was my day to take it easy. I watched some television, read a lot, and went out on my bike for lunch and a trip to the park. I decided to go to up to the small park next to Interstate 5 exit and wedged in the top corner of San Diego’s Little Italy. I was listening to my reading of Philip Roth’s American Pastoral as recorded by the amazing actor Ron Silver when a woman caught my attention through the barred fence

Woman: Excuse me…? Excuse me!?
Me: Yes?
Woman: Did you lose a dog?
Me: No.
Woman: Have you seen a dog—specifically, an orange chow?
Me: Not in the last five minutes.
Woman: I think this woman lost it and now it’s out by the highway…
Me: The highway!
Woman: Yeah…she was running the opposite direction. I shouted, but…
Me: Jesus…I’m sorry…
Woman: Yeah…if you see her…tell her the dog is by the highway.

I snapped into Batman mode. No, I wasn’t going to let a dog be run over if I could help it. I sped over on my bike and saw the dog through the chain link, timid and testing the waters of black asphalt containing highly dangerous motorized fish. I whistled to it and it ran. Locking up my bike, I went past the “No Pedestrians Beyond This Point” warning, along the exit’s shoulder, and into some thorny scrub brush. The dog was nowhere. I ventured further passed what looked like a homeless person’s dwelling of rags and dirty blankets until I saw the orange puff with a long, neon-green leash hanging from its neck. I was able to get it to retreat back towards the exit, but not before darting in front of a car and quickly back stepping. Jesus, this dog was going to get itself killed. I barely could reach it, seeing the leash in sight, when it took off for the city. Hoped on my bike and picked my direction. From Date Street, I rode down to Beecher turned right, and spotted the dog immediately. I knew I could either try walking up to it or staying on my bike, both options being limited. If I got off the bike, I risked it getting away from me; if I stayed on, I’d be an intimidating figure chasing it. I chose the latter and the chase began—down Ketter, over to Front, heading South, the dog always in quick pursuit, but me hot on it’s heels. After shouting at various pedestrians “hey, could you step on that dog’s leash before—never mind…” and all of them looking dumbfounded even if I got their attention half a block up. Damn, this dog could run. Passed Broadway, down to G and back over to First Ave, it went all the way down to the light rail track, once again giving me a heart attack, but turning on the jogger path instead. I’ll follow him ‘til I’ve run him ragged I thought. Each time I got within inches, centimeters even, I couldn’t quite get him. Then we came to J Street and the chow, who’s plotting of course I was beginning to anticipate, took the wrong side of the street and trapped itself on the pavilion of a restaurant, surrounded by another barred fence. Two of the guys working there were caught by surprise yet didn’t hesitate to help me one bit. I got him. I can get him back to his owner. I did something good today. Not quite. Right before I got right up to the dog he turned, squeezing himself through the bars as if his torso was made of putty, and took off running up Sixth Avenue. “Damnit,” I yelled in my sweaty and worn down Jack Bauer voice. “I’ll watch your bike while you chase him,” said one of the dudes. “No, I can’t keep up with him on foot.” I picked up my bike and headed off in the direction I’d say him going, towards Petco Park. My pursuit was about to come to an end, however, as I’d lost the dog once again. Instincts didn’t hold up this time and while I spoke with a security guard who’d seen the dog run through the park and up towards the direction of my apartment, that was the last I’d see of the dog again.

I went home to rest, to regroup, to get some water, and take it all in. I’d been chasing the dog for two hours—TWO HOURS! How did that happen? Darting into oncoming traffic, burning my legs to the point where they could have been renewable energy, and wanting so badly to be a Boy Scout for the day…god, I completely lost track of the time. At 4:30, I went back out only to find the sun calling it quits. I ran into a lady walking a dog that had been burned in a fire and a Wisconsin girl for Green Peace, both interesting, both fun, and both unable to help me in my search. By 6:00 I shook my head as I pedaled home in defeat. I have no idea, but saving that dog meant everything to me. Crushed, I drowned my sorrows in beer and sushi. Sigh…

Dog Day 2, Thursday—my job, at times, can be frustrating, but I’ll never ever say that it’s boring or doesn’t leave the day unfilled with surprises. I had to go over to our apartments to oversee the exchanging of furniture. Long story short, the theater rents most of their furniture, they want to buy the furniture—new furniture, and replace the old stuff. Bit by bit, piece by piece. Yesterday was trading out dressers for a smaller set of drawers. The higher-ups insisted we be there to supervise in order to ensure our talents’ items are not messed with. All fine and dandy, now the curveball: the movers say they have nightstands and headboards the match the new drawers, should they put them in? One call to general management and we are green lit. All I have to do is remove the contents of the nightstand and holyshitwhatthefuckisallthispotdoinghere? Alongwiththosedimebagsofliquid? Andwhatthehellisthatbottlefullof—“LoveSpray”? Oh god, now the movers are looking at me. One of them asked if this was my apartment—no! No, it’s not. Normally, I have no problem with drugs. You wanna do them, be my guest. Want me to be your guest? Thank you, but god, not while I’m at work. And two strangers are watching me struggle to hide eight big ounces of sticky green under the sink. I call my boss. She calls her boss. We’re waiting. The movers have stopped and we are just waiting to proceed.

Finally, I get the call:
GM: We didn’t order nightstands so we have no business with them.
Me: Okay.
GM: We needed a heads-up on stuff like this and we didn’t get it.
Me: Right.
GM: We clear?
Me: Yes. Except…what about the contents of the nightstand?
GM: Put it back.
Me: Okay.
GM: I realize this puts you in a compromising position, but put it back before he gets home.
Me: I’ll try.
GM: Good. And we won’t bring it up again.

I told the movers about replacing the nightstand. They barely flinched as they started to undo the majority of the work they had just completed. Problem was that they took the original nightstands down to their truck so now they needed to bring them back up. Fine, let’s just do it so—“Hi! We got out of rehearsal early!” Oh shit. This guy is out early. He has a car. He’ll be here any minute! Nope, wait…he’s here right now. The man, let’s call him Res, walks in and I can barely make eye contact with him. Everyone back at the office said this was to be kept on the down low, very hush-hush. Is it a big deal? I don’t know! But now he knows as we walks into the bedroom! “I didn’t know they’d be changing…everything…” Res said. I reassured him that all of his items were under the sink, safe and sound. He smiled and gave a little embarrassed laugh. “Thanks…” he rolled his eyes, both of us afraid to acknowledge the other. Wait…so maybe it’s not a big deal…or is it…? I don’t know. But after dealing with this for two hours I’m surprised I didn’t smoke up the whole bag just to calm my nerves down.

Dog Day 3, Friday (today)—after all the excitement of Dog Day 2 I drove up to Los Angeles to meet my father for dinner and stay the night with him while he was on a business trip. When I moved to San Diego I drove through L.A. on the Sunday of Memorial Day Weekend, the day where no one was coming or going and ran into no traffic whatsoever. Now, I was going into one of my seven rings of hell (the other being long afternoons of department shopping). I met up with my dad after his game and we proceeded to have a lovely dinner at the Cheesecake Factory in Marina Del Rey. As always, I love seeing my dad, but encounters with him are accompanied by a fifty/fifty split of conversation: lots of laughing followed by very sobering and sometimes saddening discussions. Last night we talked about jobs, opportunities, stupid people, television and movies, and finally about what it’s like getting old. It’s disturbing as he told me that a family friend had been diagnosed with ALS and not given much of a chance. He wrote an article in Newsweek, the same one with our amazing President-elect on the cover, documenting his mental battle with the disease by going to a fantasy baseball camp. (read the article here: http://www.newsweek.com/id/166832)

It was hard as my father reminded me that the whole reason he knew Michael was because of me and because of the Jewish families in Utah. When my parents first moved to Salt Lake, my godparents, Ed and Gene Eisen, got four families together from the synagogue and they quickly became close friends: my family, the Waxes, the Goldsmiths, and the Lassers. The friendship, however beautiful and warming, however deep and unique, was short-lived. The Waxes moved to San Diego. The Goldsmiths divorced. Then the Lassers divorced. Michael started having brain aneurysms. Jeff Lasser killed himself. And just this year Mr. Wax fractured his skull and my father had a stint placed in his heart. Of all of the men from the four families, of four friends united by their families into one another, my father was actually doing the best. Now, Michael Goldsmith…diagnosed with Lou Gehrig’s disease…just isn’t right. We went to bed that night recalling our past trips, the four corners road-adventure of 1999 and other camping adventures. It made me so sad to recall them and at the same time so happy to have lived them and still have my father around to recall them with me.

But it’s hard to know that I’ll never get to have the same relationship with my dad as I did when I was a kid—carefree. Now we both have worries and we both commiserate. It’s still father and son talking, but now it’s man-to-man, not adult-to-child. And it will simply continue onward: like an affliction with no ailment; like a situation without solution, like a dog that cannot be caught.

AND THE BRONX GOT BOMBED, Act 1, Scenes 1-2

2008-11-12T12:16:00.000-08:00

I just spent a fantastic weekend in Sacramento’s little neighborhood of Granite Bay, with the lovely and awesome Sara. It was a great, if not short, weekend getaway that will suffice for my holiday time off since company management must work Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years, which isn’t something new for me (cough: past three years) but nonetheless, would like to celebrate not in a work environment sometime in the near future. That’s not my point, though. My point is that hanging out with your girlfriend, going on muddy hikes to a receding lake, catching a double feature of sex-romp comedies at a creepy drive-in, eating at California’s finest establishments (love you Tower Restaurant) even if it means you get eye-fucked by the waiter more than she does, and going wine tasting in the beautiful autumn landscape is the probably one of the best ways to spend four days off. Oh, and it so was.

One of the things I really truly love about Sara is that she has no problem telling me her opinion when it comes to my work. She’s unabashedly honest and candor in calling-out things that don’t make sense or parts that just didn’t grab her. That’s something I need with my work, especially from someone who does not consider herself a writer because most of my audience isn’t going to be a writer. After telling her my idea about a new, musically inspired play (yes, The Operator, Sara) I told her I was debating giving the writing group next week my Staten Island play or my newly finished Bronx play. These are the two I’ve written as part of my Borough Series: Five Plays, Five Neighborhoods anthology. I’ve sort of outlined a third one, but that needs a lot of work. As does the Bronx play. But I’ve been so tempted to go back and just make Staten Island the best it can. I even got a call, by mistake, I admit, from a director in New York who got the script by accident and told me she really liked it. Ultimately though, she didn’t have any means of getting it produced. Nice to have the feedback anyways. So that brings me back to the original question and I must agree with my better-half on this one: it’s going to be AND THE BRONX GOT BOMBED for writers’ group next week. But, for your viewing pleasure and honest critique, I give you the first two scenes from my new play:

ACT 1

SCENE 1 - BRONX CORNER, NIGHT - SUMMER, 1989

Lights up. Summer in the South Bronx. Los Cuerpos gang-bangers stand guard over their territory. Blunts and smack talk are exchanged.
They wear scars like tattoos and their tattoos like scars. This is their neighborhood.

Off to one side, RICO leans against a wall as GABE paces around TONIO seated on the curb.

GABE
Stand up, homes.

Tonio tries to get to his feet but Gabe pushes him back down to the sidewalk.

GABE (CONT’D)
(“Bastard! Listen to me and get up!”)
Cabron! Escuchame: levantate!

Again, Tonio attempts to stand only to have Gabe knock him back on his ass.

GABE (CONT’D)
(“You don’t want it”)
No se lo quiere.

TONIO
I do...

GABE
...say again, homes...

TONIO
Said “I do”.

GABE
Ya do? This ain’t no weddin’. I ain’t lookin’ to make ya an honest woman.
(“You are my bitch”)
Eres mi puta!

TONIO
(“Fuck it”)
Chingalo.

GABE
(“Are ya seein’ this?”)
A te ves eso? He comes on up like he’s gonna ask us out on a date or somethin’ and the little piece’a shit don’t want us no more, Rico.

TONIO
I do want ya -- mean, y’know -- I wanna be in y’all. I wanna be a Cuerpo.

GABE
The hell ya do.
(“Go home, bastard”)
Vaya a la casa, Cabron!

TONIO
I ain’t goin’ home, yo. I came to talk to Rico --

GABE
-- too bad, homes, ya got me --

TONIO
(to Rico)
HEY RICO! C’mon, man --
(“I need to talk to ya”)
-- necesito hablar contigo --

GABE
-- then stand up, bitch.

Tonio flies to his feet, this time anticipating the push from Gabe. When it comes, Tonio braces himself and shoves Gabe back. Gabe takes a moment, smiles, and turns to Rico.

GABE
(to Rico)
Ya wanna hear the man...?

RICO
Sure. Why not?

TONIO
What the fuck, man! All that -- what the hell was that all ‘bout?

RICO
(“Ya wanna be a Cuerpo, yeah?”)
Quieres ser El Cuerpo, no?

TONIO
Si.

RICO
(“Then I need to understand the world we live in”)
Entonces necesario para tu entiendes el mundo vivamos.

TONIO
Yo, no disrespect...or nothin’...but I ain’t got a fuckin’ clue ‘bout what y’all runnin’ ya mouth about.
(beat)
No disrespect or nothin’.

RICO
None taken.
(beat)
Y’know what I see when I look at Gabe? A boy -- Cuerpo, sure, but still a boy. Now look at me. I’m the world.

Rico nods; Gabe charges. As he approaches, Rico punches him in the face. Gabe falls back, shakes his head, and finally raises it proudly even as blood trickles down his nose.

TONIO
Jesus -- !

RICO
(“I am the world. Ya understand now?”)
Yo soy el mundo, Tonio. Entiendes ahora? I will fuck ya up and not even blink an eye. Us Cuerpos...we don’t think ‘bout nothin’ when it comes to takin’ on the world.

TONIO
(stunned)
So...ain’t he...he’s just gonna take it?

GABE
I’m just gonna take it.

TONIO
Why?

GABE
‘Cause he’s the world, homes. God is the world. Ya don’t go fist-a-cuffs with God.

RICO
Gabe, c’mere.

Gabe approaches Rico, who pulls him in close, whispers something in his ear, and puts money in his hand. Tonio watches all of it.

GABE
(softly)
Si, Papi...

RICO
Ya get somethin’ to eat, somethin’ to drink. That’s it. I don’t wanna have to put out no fires tonight...ya hear?

GABE
A’ight...

RICO
(“Gabe -- I’m serious”)
Gabrielle -- estoy serioso.

GABE
(“I know...I know...It’s all good. Don’t ya worry ‘bout it.”)
Yo se. Esta bien. No te preocupas.

RICO
No fires --

GABE
-- Said I got it, Rico!

Gabe exits.

RICO
(“Ya family? Where’re they from?”)
Tu familia? De donde van?

TONIO
Los Bronx.

RICO
(“No, originally”)
No, originale?

TONIO
(“Dominican Republic”)
Dominica Republica.

RICO
Ya sure ya gots the blood in ya?

TONIO
I gots in it me, man.

RICO
(pause)
Let me ask ya a question: why ya choosin’ to be a corner boy? Eh?

TONIO
This a job interview or some shit like that?

RICO
It’s important...now, answer the question.

TONIO
(pause)
My mom’s is gone.

RICO
Since when?

TONIO
Last week. Took up with some chupadura-maricon outta Bay Ridge. She started seein’ him last month. Subway ride so long she stopped huffin’ it back up here. Asshole...

RICO
Ya thinin’ she ain’t comin’ home?

TONIO
Ain’t no home to come back to.

RICO
Shit, man.
(“And your daddy?”)
Y tu papi?

TONIO
(“I don’t got one. My grandma lives in a city north of Boston, but...”)
No lo tengo...Mi abuelita viva en un ciudad norte Boston, pero...

RICO
(“Ain’t nothin’ up there for you.”)
Nada esta alla para tu. I hear ya, man. I got sent up to a boradin’ school ‘round there few years back.

TONIO
For reals...?

RICO
Ain’t frontin’. Shit’s borin’. Winters -- mad nothin’ to do. Solo chicos. Felt like my dick was gonna freeze and fall off, y’know what I’m sayin’...?

TONIO
(laughs)
Aw, man. That sucks.

RICO
Made us sleep in an old barn for a dormitory -- shit’s was crumblin’. Freeze ya ass off ‘cause the walls were only insulated with old newspapers.

TONIO
Ya makin’ shit up now.

RICO
Dog, do I look like I’m jerkin’ ya off here? Ya could reach into the wall and pull out the sports section from, like, I dunno -- 1977! But if ya did -- shit, man -- ya ass was in for one cold night.

TONIO
So ya dick definitely would freeze up and --

RICO
(cool, even keeled)
-- shut the fuck up, Tonio, I’m tryin’ to tell ya a story.

TONIO
Uh...sorry...sorry...

RICO
(beat)
We make walls here, Tonio...’cause I ain’t never goin’ cold again. Ya could make walls with us...roofs...shit, a whole house if ya feels like it. But we protect ourselves even when we without. Even when there ain’t no home, we push the world back. Hell, we fuck it up the ass is what we do.

TONIO
(finally)
Let me fuck shit up with ya...?

RICO
Ya askin’ me or tellin’ me?

TONIO
I’m tellin’ ya, Rico.

RICO
(pause, “Give me a hug.”)
Dame una brazo.

Tonio tries to hug Rico, but is stopped when Rico knocks him square in the jaw. Tonio stumbles back in shock. He starts to get angry, breathing through his teeth. Rico remains cool.

RICO (CONT’D)
Dame una brazo.

Hesitantly, Tonio tries again, but the same things happens. Rico stays collected. Tonio spits out blood.

TONIO
Ow, man! That knocked a goddamn tooth loose.

RICO
This...this never stops. Gabe did it. I’m doin’ it. The rest of the crew gonna be doin’ it for the rest of they lives. Normally, we’d have to jump ya ass to see if ya hard core, but I gots other plans for ya, hombre. Get some nice threads and show up here tomorrow ‘round six.

TONIO
In the morning?

RICO
Yeah. Problem with that?

TONIO
What if I ain’t got no nice threads?

RICO
Ain’t ya Mamasita hook ya up with some cash for new school shit and...
(beat)
...right. Never mind.

Rico pulls out a roll of bills and tosses a few twenties to Tonio on the ground. Tonio collects them slowly.

TONIO
Hey, uh, Rico...

RICO
Hm...?

TONIO
...well...uh...don’t know how to ask this, but...can I get a few more of those?

RICO
I ain’t the bank. That there be pocket money.

TONIO
I know, I know...but my girl...don’t know if ya know but...she pregnant and all...

RICO
That bitch ya popped ya cherry on? I heard. Don’t tell me ya stickin’ with her.
(no response)
What’s her name again?

TONIO
Don’t think ya know her. But she’s like, two weeks away or somethin’ from the baby comin’ out, and...to be honest with ya, I need to show her I can bring home some money, y’know, show her that I can take care of her. First I get with Los Cuerpos and next --

RICO
-- nobody sayin’ ya with Los Cuerpos --

TONIO
-- no, I know -- I know and all, but I mean, if --

RICO
-- and this ain’t earnin’ --

TONIO
-- right, but if I get to be a Cuerpo...y’know...
(“That’s money in my hand everyday.”)
...hay es dinero en mi mano cada dia.

Rico stares Tonio down. After a moment, he holds up two more twenties. Tonio takes them, nodding in thanks.

RICO
One time.

TONIO
Absolutely, man. One time.

RICO
Six. Tomorrow.

TONIO
I’ll be here.

RICO
A’ight.

Rico exits.

TONIO
Hey...Rico...thanks, man. Good lookin’ out!

Tonio recounts the money in his hand and exits in the opposite direction.

Lights fade.

SCENE 2 - SANDRA’S APARTMENT, LATER THAT NIGHT

Lights up. Tonio bounces off the walls with excitement. SANDRA, his girlfriend, sits at the kitchen table with a cup of tea.

TONIO
(getting louder and louder)
...and then he pushed me again so I was like, “homes, ya best stop gettin’ up in my face...” and that’s when Rico -- ya ‘member, Rico -- ?

SANDRA
-- calm down...my mother, Tonio...she hear you --

TONIO
-- Dude’s huge and don’t gotta get bent outta shape or nothin’ to get no respect --

SANDRA
-- she just go to bed now. How I explain if she find you here at this time of night -- ?

TONIO
-- and he said, “come see me tomorrow mornin’. Ya got cojones, hombre. I want ya to work for me.” Rico said that, baby.

SANDRA
I don’t remember no Rico. All your friends look same.

TONIO
Y’know what? I’m gonna let that slide tonight ‘cause girl...I gots somethin’ in the works and everythin’ gonna be a’ight.

SANDRA
“A’ight?” “A’ight?” What this “a’ight...a’ight” all the time?

TONIO
Are ya even listenin’ to me, Sandra?

Sandra gets up and puts a hand over Tonio’s mouth.

SANDRA
(softly)
Yes! I listen. Yes. You have job interview with local goons. Fantastic, Tonio. You live up to your potential.

TONIO
C’mon -- ain’t ya the least bit excited for me? Think they want me to paint somethin’ for them.

SANDRA
This is you put cart before horse.

TONIO
(under his breath)
Don’t see yo ass workin’ no job.

SANDRA
What you say?

He snatches a piece of paper from a pad on the table. Tonio then grabs a pencil, pulling over a cup filled with pens and pencils. They spill out with a bunch of bobby pins.

TONIO
Shit.

SANDRA
Tonio! Look what you do!

TONIO
Since when ya start wearin’ bobby pins...?

Sandra scoops the mess back into the cup.

SANDRA
I don’t! No, but -- you -- go back to what you say before. About me with no job?

TONIO
I ain’t said nothin’.

Tonio begins sketching on the piece of paper.

SANDRA
For your information, my ass huge from carryin’ baby of your’s. How I supposed to work?

TONIO
From Russia with love, D.R. with Hate. Or vice-versa...

SANDRA
Are you even listening to me now?

TONIO
Yeah...I am listenin’. And I can’t believe ya ain’t even a little bit excited ‘bout me steppin’ up and takin’ care of ya.

SANDRA
I will be once job -- real job -- come through. You forget, Tonio, I have five years on you. I work jobs before. This, you have not done yet. Jobs, uh...uh, they bleed out.

TONIO
Bleed out?

SANDRA
Yes, you know, they -- they have way of losing blood. Dying. Or changing. Job today, no tomorrow. Why? They never say. Sometimes. Right now...you have no job...just possibility. But here you promise Christmas ham and two story house.

TONIO
I swear to god, sometimes I don’t understand what ya sayin’.

SANDRA
Funny, because sometimes I feel same way with you. “A’ight”?

Tonio stop drawing. He reaches in his pocket and pulls out the money Rico gave him. He drops it on the table. Sandra takes a seat and shifts through the bills.

TONIO
Better than a’ight, huh?

SANDRA
What this?

TONIO
Money, mi bonita.

SANDRA
I not your “bonita”...
(throws the money on the table)
This money...no, I don’t want this.

TONIO
The hell ya don’t.

SANDRA
Exactly. To hell with it.

TONIO
Sandra...what the fuck ya tryin’ to pull here?

SANDRA
This Rico...you say he going to give you job...I remember him now. He the one that got out of jail last year. Out on the corner all night long. Sellin’ drugs...

TONIO
...they don’t sell drugs...

SANDRA
...shooting each other...

TONIO
...sometimes. Mean, they the muscle of the other corner boys. One hand washes the other...shit like that...

SANDRA
And this Rico...gave you this money, didn’t he? He wash our hands now?

TONIO
Maybe it’s an advance. For bein’ an artist...ever think ‘bout that?

SANDRA
Then what you call the blood spots on your shirt? This also an advance?

TONIO
And what if it is?

SANDRA
This no good, Tonio.

TONIO
It is so long as it keeps ya ass and my son’s ass comfortable.

SANDRA
First of all, who said it was a boy? And second, I think of many, many, many answers to that stupid question. You sell drugs, you beat up peoples, you get shot --

TONIO
-- no! I tag! I write! I get respect, start earnin’ some money --

SANDRA
-- you shoot someone else, you go to jail, you get killed --

TONIO
-- I ain’t goin’ to jail and I ain’t goin’ to be killed --

SANDRA
(yells)
-- and then there no chance of having family with you because you are dead!

A light from the back room clicks on. Sandra notices it and drops her head back in frustration. Tonio goes back to his drawing as Sandra tends to her mother.
Sandra opens the door, peaks her head inside, and argues with her mother, ELIKA, in Russian. When she’s done she slams the door on her mother.

TONIO
She up?

SANDRA
What you think, Tonio?

TONIO
I dunno.
(pause)
Can I finally meet her?

SANDRA
That joke?

TONIO
No.

SANDRA
Sounds like joke.

TONIO
Nah, yo. For reals. I wanna meet her.

SANDRA
She don’t want to meet . She think you are devil.

TONIO
Shit...

SANDRA
Yes, shit. Just imagine what she think of her own daughter.

TONIO
I just feel like I should say somethin’ seein’ as how I’m part of the reason she’s gonna have a grandson.

SANDRA
STOP SAYING THING YOU CAN’T -- what is word! She don’t come out of room for years. Protest against my father for bringing us out of Russia to here. Of the five she’s been locked in her room, my father has been gone three of.

TONIO
Where?

SANDRA
I don’t know. Maybe he also mobster and you two can have lunch on Wednesdays with one another.

TONIO
Sandra...girl, c’mon. I’m really tryin’ hard to make somethin’ of myself here and I need my girl with me on this.

SANDRA
Why?

TONIO
‘Cause I think I really like ya.

SANDRA
Uh-huh.

TONIO
‘Cause I love ya.

SANDRA
(beat)
Would be nice to believe that true. But this is no way to prove it.

TONIO
Look at this and tell me it ain’t proof.

Tonio holds up his sketch: a picture of Sandra. For how quickly he’s done it, it’s not bad.

SANDRA
This lovely. But no proof of love.

TONIO
Then how?

SANDRA
Get real job. Go back to school.

TONIO
Can’t do both at same time.

SANDRA
Fine. Go to school in day, work at night. That what I do when I your age.

TONIO
Thanks, Grandma, but I can’t make enough to get a place and food and keep --

SANDRA
-- stay here. I take care of other things. I get job too.

TONIO
No. No, that ain’t right. I’m supposed to take care of ya ass.

SANDRA
Tonio...how I supposed to believe that? How? You know...I have baby to care after...I can’t take care of two children at once...

TONIO
I am doin’ for reals now.

SANDRA
You are going to play in street. Like little boy.

TONIO
That ain’t -- I ain’t no little boy.

SANDRA
Come back with job -- real work -- tomorrow. Then we talk about if you no little boy.

TONIO
I’m tellin’ ya, I ain’t --

SANDRA
-- TOMORROW...Tonio...

Tonio glares at her. Sandra crosses her arms and locks eyes with him. Tonio grabs most of money off the table and pockets it.

TONIO
(re: the money)
This...this is for clothes...for my job...tomorrow...when I start. And when I come back here tomorrow night...they’ll be more.

Tonio exits in a huff. Sandra then looks at the drawing on the table. She smiles, but quickly wipes it off and hangs the picture on the fridge with a magnet. About to exit, Sandra pulls a bobby pin from her hair, looks at it with confusion, and tosses it in the cup with the rest of the pencils.

Lights fade.

Okay, my poor Spanish skills aside, what are your thoughts? Does it intrigue you to want to keep watching? Is it stereo-typical, in terms of character and plot, or does it feel like a new take on an old tale? Has the since of family come through at all, even thus far? Putting race aside, does it remind you more of The Wire or more of West Side Story or none of those? And most of all, what’s confusing?

History Made! Nice Going, Team America!

2008-11-04T21:55:00.000-08:00

Say it with me now: “AMERICA – FUCK YEAH!”

It was a little over a year ago that I stood in Washington Square Park with Dan, Luke, Brian, and Lara, after waiting three hours and busting down security lines, that Barack Obama took the stage to speak to the city of New York. He stepped on to the platform like a rock-star, Kanye West blasting on the loud speakers. This man, as we all know by now, was inspiring from the second he put his hand in the air for a welcome wave to the last moment his foot was on the stage. He was the embodiment of change, just like he said. A young guy from the Chicago Senate; a black-man who was like no other politician we’d ever seen before; and the most important part, the complete opposite of our 43rd President and America’s #1 Mistake, George W. Bush. I’d never been excited about politics before—sure, I’d voted for a candidate who was close to what I wanted, but never one I truly believed in—yet here was man, almost-too-good-to-be true, speaking to a crowd of smiling faces and had the ability to sound like he was talking one-on-one with all of us.

To be honest, Barack Obama was my candidate from November of 2005. On Thanksgiving I was introduced to “The Audacity of Hope” (I mean, the audacity…of his hope…GOD!) and read it front to back. Before this day, I’d never heard of the man. That’s what it’s like to be raised in a sheltered society of sheep who go wherever they are told. He instantly was all those things that they say a politician shouldn’t be and to be honest, I kind of liked that. In fact, I really liked it. So much so that I told my father my bold prediction, that this man would become President of the United States. My dad listed all the reasons, all tired repeats at this point, of why he couldn’t be and my dad just thought the cards were too stacked against him. I stood firm, using my sophomore college learning-skills to predict that a man from a minority background would inspire new enclaves of previously unregistered voters, namely in lower-class and people of color demographics, to put there vote in for him. For once, and probably the only time, I was right.

But down to brass tacks: he’s got a health plan that appears to be positively progressive, his foreign policy is focused and energized, and his economic diplomacy, if all goes planned, would get people back on track in fiscal sense. The guy is likeable. As Justin pointed out, he’s the first politician to be in on all the jokes. He likes Jay-Z and “The Wire”. He’s not just a guy I’d like to have a beer with, Obama’s a guy I want to go on a camping trip to South America with to save the rain forest and feed the starving children…all while drinking beers. So this morning I got up early, hoped on my bike, and rode in the rain to my polling station. Right away I was given my ballot and shown to my voting booth where I smiled with glee as I filled in the circle next to Obama and Biden for President. How can people not vote due to the fact that they feel it’s ineffective? I felt like I was God, choosing the fate of the world. Then I slipped my ballot in the box, got my “I Voted” sticker, and headed home. A few hours later the rain was clearing…corny, I know, but it’s true. I actually felt patriotic and that feeling has carried me all the way up to the point where John McCain conceded the race and Barack Obama was announced as the new President Elect. I got to be part of history and it’s absolutely incredible.

One more time, people: “AMERICA—FUCK YEAH!”

Ready to be Poor

2008-11-02T14:21:00.000-08:00

Open your books/let’s get down to the lesson
To read a story about/economic transgression
If you wonderin’ the era/no need to be guessin’
The time is the present/the what’s a recession

The why…we don’t really know the why, you see,
But we all about to wind-up in some poverty
Politicians say we’re fine/so why they gotta mask it?
They’ll be payin’ off the debt/in a foreclosed casket.

I ain’t really that worried about bein’ dirt poor
I’ll survive once again just like I did it before
Drop the pen ‘n pad/exit the stage door
Grab my fishnets/I’m back to bein’ Jarky the whore.

(the hook):
So put your hands up if you ain’t got dollars
Puttin’ in full days for blue and white collars
Shovel other people’s shit, wash their Impalas
If you’re an unemployed, underpaid
Fuckin’ Rhodes scholar
And put your hands up if you ready to be poor
Wave good-bye to the house and the grocery store
While your bank account starves into skin and bones
Bob your head up and down just like the Dow Jones

Free market now a free-range target
Powder keg with a short fuse and we sparked it
Stocks in the gutter/beggin’ on Wall Street
To invest in live cattle/when all they got is dead meat.

You’d think after Enron we’d learn
Lehman Brothers is shady
And don’t feed the Bear Sterns

This is for everybody who worked hard for that home
Got tricked by Gordon Gekko and his lies on the phone
And yes I’m upset about the sub-prime buyers
But more in a rage at all the sublime liars

You a lotta the reasons that I got holes in my clothes
Wear shoes on my feet that don’t cover my toes
I know just how cold these winters really feel
Stop steppin’ on my back/get hot off my heels
Sellin’ my wheels/for a weeks worth of meals
F the D’s and the R’s/where’s my new deal?

(the hook)

Truthfully I think the crash might give us a fresh start
To invest in the future—like food, schools, and the arts
I know this maybe hard for most of you kids to believe
Bail-outs the only aces Bush got up his sleeve

All of the other aces gone in unregulated poker
Turnin’ nice guys like me all into the Joker
So now I rob the pockets of every stock-broker
Pour gas on those stacks/light a match
And then smoke’er.

Start breathin’ in the fumes/’til I start feelin’ delirious
Laugh in Greenspan’s face and scream, “WHY SO SERIOUS?”
I’m like Mister Tyler Durden/the anti-hero’s hero
Fight you in the club/ ‘til we all back to zero
Crash credit cards/make Master Card wrecks
Shit, I’ll take another round of those stimulus checks

Creepers

2008-10-31T18:07:00.000-07:00

I got this in an e-mail from my girlfriend.

If this ain’t love, I don’t know what is.

Happy Halloween.

Fall 2008 Scrambled Reviews

2008-10-27T19:49:00.000-07:00

I've recently become addicted to the Scramble application that you can get on Facebook. Ever since junior year of college, when I started playing Boggle with my friends Dan, Luke, and Gina, I've been drawn to letter combination games (used to me more so Scrabble, but now it's definitely Scramble...ah, wordplay). My time has to be filled since this week has a lot of my hours cut back due to XANADU now being our only show to take care of. So, in between Scramble matches and conversations where my girlfriend tells me how much she hates Scramble matches, I saw some stuff and here are some brief reviews:

Deadwood, Third Season -- I should also mention that this was the final season of "Deadwood" and by far the best. Al Swearegen and Seth Bullock actually join forces to protect the camps future against a sadistically murderous and greedy entrepreneur, George Hurst. This season also saw the new addition of Brian Cox to the cast (awesome!), the departure of Jim Beaver's character (no! God no!), Joanie Stubbs and Calamity Jane starting an affair (I knew it), and the best fight scene of the whole series when Dan rips out the eye of one of Hurst's men in the finest episode of the series, "Rich Find".

Bottomline: write HBO and demand a movie version to wrap up all the storylines left hanging by the show's cancellation. You won't regret it.

Man Men, Second Season -- if you didn't see the season finale last night, I'll keep my mouth shut. What I will say, though, is that this show keeps getting better and better, but it hasn't reached, in my opinion, the level of great television. The writing is smooth and the acting is amazing, along with all the little scenic elements that bring the show to life. But for every "Three Sundays" episodes there is "The Jet Set" and like the main character, the show pulls us in better never delivers all the way. I guess there is charm to that. And if anything, credit goes to to "Mad Men" for making the last fifteen minutes of each show absolutely amazing.

Bottomline: who am I kidding? I'm hooked.

W. -- it's Oliver Stone. It's flawed. Get over it. Beneath the all to simplified historical recapping of the past eight years and the behind-closed-doors discussions based solely on assumption lives a unique character study of a man who's never beeen in control of anything (his country, his businesses, his demons) in his entire life. I was worried upon reading reviews that audiences would feel sympathetic towards the portrayal of George W. Bush, but it wasn't really sympathy that I garnished for the man; rather, and understand of what it's like to be used by those around you. It backed what I had long time suspected: that while he's an bumbling idiot, he's also a puppet used by a shadowy group of individuals to have their way in the world. Notice he's never alone in a scene, even in his dreams his father haunts him. If he's in the room with only one other character that person has control over his actions and ideas. By the end of the film, when everyone is sitting at the table, devouring their pecan desserts, W.'s the only one without "a piece of the pie" as it were.

Bottomline: the movie is okay, but Josh Brolin is amazing.

Nick and Nora's Infinite Playlist -- this was the only other movie playing at the theater with "W" that I had a remote interest in. And by the end, I had no interest whatsoever. Sara and I already grumbled over the fact that the movie makes New York City way too accessible to a bunch of high school kids (line cutting to clubs, parking spaces out front, bars where they don't I.D. you), but what really kills me is that here's a movie that could actually be funny and smart, but takes the dumb road. Not only is George Michael Cera playing a mopey hipster in tight jeans, he looks down right bored. Nora is semi-appealing until you realize that a girl this smart would have no business hanging out with her dropped-in-the-Port-Authority-poopy-toilet-gum chewing BFF so why should we? Also, it's another movie about music where certain band define people's lifestyles and instead of building their own road in life, they merely are seduced by lyrics that they feel will be relatable to them ten years after graduating high school.

Bottomline: unless you are sick-o who enjoys hearing a fifteen year old girl have her first orgasm, shuffle-play yourself to something else.

Crumb -- I rented this documentary about the famed underground comic book artist R. Crumb based on a recommendation from my friend Justin. I am severely brain damaged now, but probably in a good way (no, probably not). Terry Zwigoff showcases six years with Crumb, bring his work and twisted family history to light. It's particularly disturbing when Crumb and his brother Max are talking about Max's molestation of a young girl or when his other brother, Charles, talks of repressing desires to stab Crumb in the head with an axe. And they are all laughing about it! Mostly, it feeds into my paranoia that here's a successful artist who's life was fucked up so that means should I reach his level of exposure I will inevitably live a fucked-up life. Of course, this is not a certainty, but it's scary when you realize that for some people it is a reality.

Bottomline: don't make a date night out of it, but don't watch it alone either.

Aim fo' the Head

2008-10-22T20:59:00.000-07:00

In the office all day 'til five o'clock rolled near
Went home to a hot plate, television, and a beer
Drank up my first three, startin' number four
'Til I hear the knock of zombies at my door.

Was like, "shit, man, it's the un-fuckin' dead"
I just watched Colbert and was headin' off to bed
Now I gotta get preppin' and grab all my lead
Kick back the shotgun and aim straight for the head.

Killin' zombies ain't easy, but this life is hard
One week they in the basement, next the backyard.
Don't matter if it's day, night, dusk, or dawn,
I'm spray corpses' guts all over my lawn.

Evil dead, that's right; ain't none of them good
Bite the family down the block and there goes the neighborhood.
They get five feet up then I put 'em six feet under
Lightening in they eyes 'til they hear my thunder
Keep askin' for brains just to feed they're hunger,
"What're they doin' in America?" is what I wonder.

Lost my house last week, moved in to the shoppin' center.
Seein' Santa zombies and it's only the end of September.
But Christmas comes early this year I remember
Sendin' chainsaws through their chimneys all the way through December.

Then, like, twenty-eight weeks later
I'm waitin' at the elevator
Open the doors and this dude wants to eat my like a tater,
Click back my pump action 'bout to serve him like a waiter,
But the chamber was empty so I beat him up like a hater.

Recalled from karate the star-of-death-kiss
Used them to dance a number his dead body carcass
For a wicked attack that made his skull crack,
Saw him fall on his back and his eyes fade to black.

Think that shit's hot? Nah, it's we just gettin' colder
As I watched the zombie's arm separate from the shoulder.
Starts grabbin' at my hair like it wanna give me trim,
I'm gettin' my ass kicked by only one limb.
Finally got the upper hand so I started to chuckle,
Put it on the ground and smashed all of it's knuckles,
My day was now ruined and I didn't wanna linger
And as I walked away the hand gave me the finger.

No brains, but I keep thinkin' that they'll learn
After I drop they stock faster than Bear Stearns.
And single zombie exec who came from A.I.G.
Is now R.I.P. and it's thanks to me.

Years have passed and none of them ever really harm me
'Cept the ones last week who looked like the G.O.P. Party,
Tried to run for my life but my face hit the deck
Drafted by the dark army after I was bit in the neck.

I'm one of them now and I don't have a choice
Walk with a limp and I've lost my voice.
We all look the same, but I know it ain't equal.
Please blow my head off, I ain't ready for a sequel.

The Yin and The Yang

2008-10-19T23:10:00.000-07:00

"If it's not one thing, it's another." This is a famous quote of Carl's (aka, Papa Bear) and for all it's cynical worldliness, I have to agree with my father on this one. Feels like every time I pull myself out of one ditch I turn my head to the sky and don't see the next one I'm about to fall into. Slip. Fall. Oof!

Yin: My cell phone broke. How? I'm not really sure only that it kept trying to turn itself on. Suppose it didn't help that I said it was a cheap hooker all the time. That probably killed its self-esteem. So I took it back to the Verizon store, having only purchased it a short two months ago after my last phone had a screen full of white snow instead of a visual display. In the store, I was helped by Andrew Bernard's gay doppelganger, Drew (why did they stop calling him Drew on "The Office" -- that was funny). Drew told me that he could give me a new phone free of charge (go disposable society), but since the phone could not turn on all the way he could not retrieve my contacts. Worse has happened to better people in the world. Yet in this day, having to reload everyone you know into your phone...then their phone number...and other info if you got it can be a mind numbing task. That's why Liev Schreiber's people had me do it all those years ago and don't know anyone as famous as was in that phone. Therefore, I must rebuild. Make my contact list stronger than before, with even more people I don't know taking up space on the memory card.

Yang: It took two months but I finally have a new refridgerator in my apartment. It's beautiful. New and custom made especially for me, it's weird to have a lot of room in my already-very-small-kitchen. Seriously, I have a whole six square feet of space that I have absolutely no idea what to do with. The refridgerator was delievered by two guys from my apartment management agency who were very friendly, helpful, and even apologized for it taking so long for them to get the replacement in. Service with a smile and a functioning fridge to make my kitchen complete? Pinch me, I'm dreaming!

Yin: My bike's back tire is flat. Again. What the fuck, Bike Gods? Seriously, I just got the tube in it replaced back in August and have been loving my two-wheel life ever since. Now I gotta load up the bike in the back of my truck, take it all the way up to University City, and deal with the upper-crust elite of bike riders at the shop up there that put the tubes in wrong. I know that I'm going to get hell from this one neo-Nazi youth reject who thinks that if you don't know the size of your spokes off the top of your head you better not procreate. What was even worse was that I realized the tube was shot while on a ride downtown today. I got off and started to walk my bike home only to have probably twenty or so people pass me on bikes all the way home. San Diego is great because it is a bike town (plus we get the majority of our energy from solar panels!) but it sucks when you are reminded of that fact by fat guys on their low ride-high bar bikes flying past you as you push your injured oldy back to Market Street.

Yang: I know this sounds weird but it was great to walk a city again. As much as I missed the bike, I got to explore downtown San Diego on foot and made some great discoveries. We have a Chinatown! Okay, not really, but Third Avenue between Market and Island seems to be catering to the Chinese community. Much nicer than Canal Street. Sorry New York! Also, I found some great cafes and restaurants to try out. One of them I tested out tonight: MaryJane's Cafe. I found out later it is part of the Hardrock Hotel, but that's forgiveable because it was a really cool place. Reminded me of the Orbit Cafe from Salt Lake where I got my first job. It was retro-60's decor with flat screen televisions and funky, modern lights finding a nice harmony with each other. The menu was strictly out of "Mad Men", however, so I decided on their famous meatloaf entree and it was delicious, as was the ebony and ivory milkshake that chased it. Forget how much you miss when you are worried about weaving through pedistrians.

Yin: Hard to hear about the Dramatic Writers reunion this weekend in the city. I miss all those people so much it's not even funny. I've been fantisizing about moving back to New York if the Playhouse does not hire me back in any capacity, but I know that it really wouldn't happen or be feasible for at least three years. I moved out to California, I should give it a shot. My dad is encouraging me to visit Los Angeles. I would love to, but honestly, I don't have any thing in my bag of tricks that's L.A.-worthy. New York, New York...you keep calling me. You keep haunting my dreams. Has the wind picked up? Have the movies started to gear up for the Oscars? Are you still just the greatest city in the world? Yes. Yes. And, uh, yes.

Yang: Well, besides the weather only being slightly chilly at night, SoCal is nice and toasty. Justin invited me over for a dinner party last night at his house. Sam, Justin, and I, along with some other folks I'm becoming acquainted with, cooked up a great meal of homemade Mexican food. It was so lip smacking good that we got arrested for assault. So, okay: good food? Check. Good weather? Check. Now, after we ate a bunch of us kicked back with some beers and had a little to smoke, something I don't normally do because I don't like the smell or taste, plus I hate the fact that smoke is in my lungs. But last night was actually a good experience. We were sitting around, coming up with words like "Thundergina" and making up raps about Jenny Craig. Then this one guy Pat started talking about his new job that sounded incredibly boring even though he explained it like it was losing his virginity. By the time he told us that he monitors how many time the word "the" is entered in to search engines Sam, Justin, and I lost it. Sam and I had been making stoned faces at each other and not cracking up, but at that point it was priceless. We laughed for about five minutes straight. Yeah, I know it was one of those "you had to be there..." situations, but y'know what? I was there. And it was great. Cheers to last night.

Living in a Van Down by the River

2008-10-17T21:16:00.000-07:00

Not that I haven't been rejected in the past, but this one stung (oh, I'm not talking about rejection in personal relationships; I mean I got a letter of rejection for one of my plays. Personal rejection is a whole blog unto itself that will remain askewed). A theater that shall not be named because one day they might actually like my work and decide to produce it finally got back to me after about a year's wait time. I had high hopes because I had an "In" with their literary department and thought, well...it just might work. I kept waiting and waiting, inquiring to the point where they stopped returning my e-mails because I wanted an answer so bad. Used to be I was too shy to even ask if they had heard of me; now, I'm a something of a bother, which, honestly, is the better of two evils. Back on track: I got a rejection letter. One to add to the growing number I've kept since the age of seventeen when I started be rejected.

The letter reads:

Thank you for sending us OUR MOTHER, STATEN ISLAND and MY FRIEND DAHMER for consideration. We enjoyed the opportunity to get to know your work.

OUR MOTHER, STATEN ISLAND is a heartfelt and harrowing portrait of a family in crisis, bravely investigating the tensions that linger among the victims of Katrina. However, as much as we appreciated your tender character writing (YES!), we felt the plotting of the piece was a bit contrived (Damnit. They must have read an older draft.) As for MY FRIEND DAHMER, unfortunately...this piece just isn't for us.

There was other stuff like "thank you for writing to us" and "hope you find a home for these plays" but that's standard. It was nice to have honest feedback about my work even if it did end with the crushing blow of defeat. Y'know, maybe they're just not that into me. Womp-womp.

I suppose the reason it stung was that I've been trying to imagine where I will be next year. Hopefully at the Playhouse, hopefully in the Literary Department, and hopefully employed generally. With all my student loans coming in I keep biting my nails in hopes of that "big break" coming through so that I can be whisked away to dream land, where I am paid to write brilliant plays in one draft. Yes, dillusions of grandeur. But if I think about the other side to it, I drive myself into a worse spiral of fantasy-that's-too-close-to-reality. Basically, I become Doug.

Doug is not Doug from the show about Doug apty titled "Doug". Though that show is great, I'm talking instead about a real life man named, as you can guess, "Doug". Doug works in the shops at the Playhouse. He wears clothes that don't look like they've been washed in ages, tattered and dirty. Doug can often be seen talking to himself as he walks to his van in the parking lot where he lives. I'm not making this up: Doug sleeps in a van in our parking lot. He never leaves. Maybe to get food or something, but I've seen him in there, cooking away on a hot plate (worse than mine!) and listening to sports on his portable Walkman radio. And this is what I fear: my life turned into a Chris Farrelly sketch from the mid-1990's. If I don't make it in this world as a writer -- and honestly, it's too late to go back and try to start all over again on something like, oh, I dunno, cartography -- I'm almost certain that I will resemble Doug later in life.

Therefore, let's think of the upsides:

1) Don't have to pay rent or buy a new hot plate

2) Working in theater

3) Could finally own a sticker reading: "IF THIS VAN'S A-ROCKIN'..."

Portrait of the Artist as a Bitter Twenty-Something

2008-10-14T10:38:00.000-07:00

Dear Patrick Fugit,

How are you doing as of late? I recently watched your movie "Wristcutters: A Love Story" and I have to say, you've come quite a long way since the days of roaming the West Institute Building during our summers together at Youtheatre. While I wasn't a big fan of the movie (strange considering it had Tom Waits and Will Arnett, two performers who never seem to let me down) I think you did a fine job portraying the same teenage-blank stare character you seem have pulled off since "Almost Famous" (that one I'll forgive you for because it was your first time at the rodeo and actually served the character well). What makes you so special, huh? We both went to that theater school. We both came from under the Zion Curtain. Now that our hair is practically the same length, I can't quite place what put you on top and me at the bottom. Sounds like I'm angry, huh? I'm not. Just bitter at life's cruel twist of fate. Often times in the night I scream out, "LIFE! NO! TAKE ME, NOT PATRICK FUGIT! ME!" only to awake with a puddle of tears gluing my eyes to my pillowcase. Anyways, no hard feelings...really, I wish the best for you. You've worked hard and regardless of overall range in ability, there is something to be said for that. Just, can you, in your next movie, play a character who isn't so much...I don't know...like you? Just a suggestion."

Love Always,
--The Little Guy from TSFY

I don't really know why "Wristcutters" upset me. Guess it's been a combination of things that remind me I'm young, capable, and not anywhere near the level of success in my career that I wish to be. Guess that's a lot of 23 year olds. On the other hand, I feel like I've been working my ass off for a long time (this will be the third year I work through the Christmas and New Year holidays) and it still seems like a far climb to the top. I was driving on of the XANADU actors to the airport the other night. He's about 25, spent only the past two years in New York, and well...did I mention he's in the national tour of XANADU? Not bad. I was escorting him to the airport because he had a concert last night that was written by him and performed by him, along with a few friends. He was on the phone for most of the ride to the airport, talking with a friend, and saying over and over again, "It's it so crazy? Oh my god, it's just so fuckin' crazy! We were just sitting down and writing some dumb songs in our living room in February and now we have a sold out show with the lead singer of the Counting Crows showing up!!! It's so crazy!" Now, to clarify, I'm not jealous of this man (I don't write music and I don't like the Counting Crows). However, I'm jealous of his capabilities to be seen and heard and acknowledged critically and monetarily for what he is doing. And just since February! Of 2008! Shit...I've been writing dinky plays in my underwear and headphones with only a bag of chocolate covered raisins as a companion for god knows how many years now. When's it gonna be my time, God! Huh? When you gonna toss a little sugar to ol' me down here!?

Truth be told (and I mean it this time) I know that the road I chose is a long and tiring one. Most people barely scratch the surface before they are thirty and even then it's just a scratch. Plus, these guys above are phsyical performers who get in front of an audience to work their magic. I'm the guy in the backroom with a cigarette and a typewritter, clicking away in dreamland. Same medium, two different angels, and not really a fair comparison. I had another airport run last week that was truly encouraging though. It was 6:15 a.m. on Yom Kippur (before the secret telling and all...) and I was in a van outside a hotel waiting to take Douglas Carter Beane to the airport. I was told only that he's really tall and really nice. So around 6:25 a.m. a very tall man in an untucked button down and hoodie, with glasses and long hair, waves at me and I know it's him. He offers me breakfast but the fast keeps me away. Douglas gets in the car and immediately wants to know my story. I go through the whole list: college in New York, working out here, wanting to be a playwright. He listens intently and seems to identify greatly with my struggles. Then he says something that's been floating around in my head the last two weeks: "I write every day, even if it's not on paper." Yeah, this guy, the book writer of XANADU, sometimes writes a whole act, puts it down, and does not look at it for a year. He's got all these projects going on, but they take years and years to come to fruition. So far, he's been one of the kindest and understanding folks I've met since working here. I could just tell, he got it. He got what I was in and what I wanted to do. When he got out at the curb of the terminal he waved and said, "it's all gonna be fantastic." He should come back soon because I need more words of support. For now, it's all fantastic.
It's all fantastic.
It's all fantastic.
It's all fantastic...

Closers Get Desks

2008-10-11T18:17:00.000-07:00

Secret-secrets are no fun. Secret-secrets hurt someone. – The Office, “Ben Franklin”

“Actually, I’m pregnant,” she said. I had to do a double take. This woman from work, who I’ve had all of about twenty minutes conversation with during my five months here, was putting this news to me first. Of everyone. In our whole entire office. A few minutes before hand I was explaining to Steve about how fasting for Yom Kippur works. Then this woman walked into the kitchen and simply stated, “I’m not fasting this year.” Steve, being the in-the-know-person that he is remembered that she had gone to Scotland where a stomach virus had attached itself to her insides. Scotland? Stomach virus? It all seemed a little weird to me. Steve went about his merry way and not a second after the door had closed did she drop this small, almost meaningless spec of information on my ears. Why me? I’m not sure. I didn’t even know she had a husband or was Jewish up until this point. “I just don’t want to tell Steve because then, y’know, the whole place will know within a matter of minutes.” I nodded in agreement. She said there would be a big announcement this coming week, but it still does not answer the question of why she would inform something so private and personal to an almost complete stranger. But there you, now I’m in the know. That was enough to fill me up until breaking the fast later that night.

Hey, man, are those pennies from Heaven? – Passerby on the incident below

“Damn, man, that sucks,” Hipster Shoe Owner dully let hang from his lips with the same post-modern ennui gloss he has over his eyes whenever I see him. Yes, I live above a shoe store. Run by hipsters. Which never has any one in it except other hipsters who never seem to buy anything. Honestly, I have no idea how the place stays open. I wish I lived above the bakery, but that’s slightly adjacent to my building. The bakery is the reason I gathered the past four months coin collection. The coin collection is the reason I had to go outside yesterday. The old Fruity Pebbles cereal bag, which I put the coins in for transportation to CoinStar and ripped seconds later, is the reason Hipster Shoe Owner chimed in with his two cents (seriously, no pun intended). The economy is going down the tubes! So says every single news report in the country. I was the poster boy for the American Recession at that point—an unwashed 23 year old writer in his pajamas and on a bike picking up his seventeen dollars and eighty-two since in nickels and dimes to buy an overpriced sandwich (in all honesty, the bakery is local and grass roots, so I don’t mind forking over a little extra change for the quality…the sandwiches are amazing). But y’know what? I didn’t let the economic climate get me down. I got down on my hands and knees to pick up every last goddamn piece of currency…so, who’s broke now, suckas?

Strange times… — The Black Keys, “Strange Times.”

My mind has been a little bit of a buzz the past few days. I’m not high and I have had one beer and half a glass of wine in the past 72 hours. Very rarely do I feel like I’m on the right path—the right direction to getting to the right path I feel constantly—but this week I saw a glimmer of hope. A director at our theater, who is in charge of selecting plays and molding new ones for the seasons, had a talk with me about next season. Out of nowhere in this little chit-chat conversation I told her, “I want to be your assistant next season.” She looked a little bewildered and then got a smile on her face, “You do, do you?” I nodded. “Have any experience?” I listed my former jobs of coverage writing, which, I realized at that point, tallied at a grand total of three years. Jeez, I didn’t realize the time had added up. “Okay, send me your resume and a writing sample. I’ll see if it’s in the budget for next year. Maybe just part-time.” Hey, I’m getting no time now so part-time sounds like an oasis in the desert at this point. Since then (Tuesday) I’ve been in a state of thinking what to give her and how I should compile everything. Use Doug’s letter of recommendation? Perhaps, but that was specifically for Princeton. Melanie’s! Yes, she even told me to talk to this director! I’ll use Melanie’s and then my coverage on The Food Chain. Perfect! All of these ideas were swirling in my head today as I was driving our beat up POP Tour van out of the Whole Foods parking lot. Without warning, a black 1976 Mustang pulled out in front of me. I was confused because a big Latino guy rolled down his window, making erratic hand gestures. I motioned for them to move ahead, but that wasn’t what he was talking about. I rolled down my window…

Me: Uh…?
Mustang Guy: Homes, for reals, yo…
Me: For reals? What?
Mustang Guy: I own a body shop. I could do a custom job on your ride.
Me: OH!
Mustang Guy: Good work at a good price.
Me: Well, it’s my boss’ car. I’d have to ask.

At this point I shrugged and the guy pulled away. This is the second time I’ve been approached car-to-car, driver-to-driver by a salesman. Strange, yes, but also a good example about the mindset in SoCal. You have to sell yourself because no one is going to do it for you. So Monday, I’ve got to be prepared. I’ve got to walk into this director’s office ready to show her what I got. I’m the diamond in the rough who isn’t going to wait to be discovered. I’m going to dig myself out if that’s what it takes!

Xanadu In, Summer Out

2008-10-07T11:15:00.001-07:00

With the arrival of the XANADU cast yesterday it seems that summer has finally come to a close. I always knew it would happen, even if the climate change and weather patterns hardly reflected it, when our big holiday musical came to town. This meant a long day in the van with much frantic running around, but an overall smooth landing for nearly everyone involved. All that on the road time did get me thinking about the radio I've been subjected to since moving to California and driving in the vans all day long. Summer radio has to be the worst. It's unimaginative, overplayed drivel that makes some artist careers off dinky one-hit-wonders and makes most of us cringe to the point that we'll take the commercials where the two people are fighting over something any day.

Keeping that in mind, I present to the 5 Best and Worst Songs from the Summer of 2008:

The Best

1) "Look Out Young Son" -- by Grand Ol' Party. Probably not the most mainstream song across the country, but here in San Diego, where Grand Ol' Party is from, this song broke up the monotony of summer strumming tunes. It's got blue grass inflections over classic rock riffs and who wouldn't want to date the devil's daughter?

2) "Paper Planes" -- by M.I.A. Yes, yes, yes this isn't exactly a new song, but thanks to it's includement with the "Pineapple Express" movie trailer, a Sri Lankin terrorist's daughter became a household name. With good reason: it's so catchy it gives you heatstroke. Just try listening and not pumping your hand back with your trigger finger.

3) "Whatever You Like" -- by T.I. I'm usually not that big of a T.I. fan. Nothing against him, it's just until I heard this song I didn't really respond to what he was saying or how he was saying it. This song is pretty typical: girls, money, gangsta shit, etc. but T.I. is smarter to take the music to another level along with his lyrics and with a prison stint looking to come in his near future, this might be a farewell for now single that leaves us wanting more.

4) "Bottle It Up" -- by Sara Barellis. Look, "Love Song" was great until it wasn't (see more on that below) and this one could technically be called that love song she didn't want to right, but that's not digging deep enough. Barellis is smarter than all of us because she's still not giving us the typical romantic serenade about "girls across the nation who'll eat this up" and "you're shit out of your luck" but we all think she's talking about "love, love, love."

5) "A-Punk" -- by Vampire Weekend. Another hipster band that hipsters can be all hip about? Not so much. This song actually took a creative bend and combined mainstream rockband chords with hipster lyrics and mentality. It goes down delicious, even if the words to the song really don't make a hell of a lot sense (but then again, what song really makes sense?).

The Worst

1) "Dangerous" -- by Kardinall Offishall feat. Akon. How many times did it played? Way too many than it deserved. Probably the saddest thing about the last ten years of rap music is how overused some artists were for hooks (this being Akon, Lil' John, Lil' Wayne, and every other scratchy voiced singer who was featured on hip hop songs). The beat was uninspired, the lyrics and rhymes even more so. Example: "I can't help but notice you/noticin' me/noticin' you/noticin' me..." Now, just have that replay in your head for an entire four months and you'll know why this song is number one for the worst radio single this summer.

2) "A Milli" -- by Lil' Wayne. Speaking of Lil' Wayne...God, how could anyone have come up with this song? The track behind tha Carter's voice is some guy repeating "Amilliamilliamilli..." for a whole 3 minutes. Perhaps he's proving that he could say anything and the world would lap it up, but honestly, who doesn't know that audiences will eat what they are told. Perhaps Advil paid him a chunk of change to produce the song in order to boost sales of headache medication. That seems more likely.

3) "I Kissed A Girl" -- by Katy Perry...and I sorta liked this song when it came out. Yeah, it was raunchy, hardcore girl-on-girl action. That was June, this is October, when the song was milked for all it was worth and I was witness to numerous drunk girls pretending to lock tongues in clubs just to prove that they could kiss each other and pretend to like it. For a better version, check out SNL's version of "I Pet a Cat and I Liked It".

4) "Love Song" -- by Sara Barellis. We all know by now that she's not going to write us a love song. That it was based on the fact that record producers wanted her to write a love song. That this is what we got instead. Novelty officially worn off.

5) "Keep Bleeding" -- by Leona Lewis. It came close to calling "American Boy" by Estelle Feat. Kanye West the last on the list, but really, that song is just overplayed. This one is over produced, over the top melodramatic, and annoyingly clingy while putting the listener to sleep. Ever seen the music video? Leona Lewis looks bored during her own personal drama. Zzzzzz....

Seeing how this is the week of Yom Kippur, I apologize to all artists in advance for saying my harsh words. I have no problem with pop music. In fact, I love pop music. I have so much pop music you wouldn't believe. But there is a standard that radio music should live up to, if not for the intergrity of the artists or their work, then the Sarah Palin mentioned Joe Sixpacks such as me, who are stuck in the cars all day and looking for a little bit of entertainment. For the future, kissing a girl might feel like a milli, but it's very dangerous to write such a love song that will make our wrists keep bleeding.

Yes! (not the band)

2008-09-29T00:34:00.000-07:00

More people need to say yes. To the strange, to the unknown, to the scare, and the alien. Say yes to the radio, a different pizza at CPK, Natalie Dee (above, brilliant), and everything in between. Here's how I tried to be more yes oriented in the past week. It's not easy. Sometimes you just need things to start. Not endings from past projects; not momentum to keep new irons in the fire turning and burning the night through. Just the simple fate of someone giving you the “yes” to start the next step in your life…

…Sara needs to move down here. The Memphis cast members even thought she was stunning when the saw her yesterday. Yeah, I was flying high with a beautiful girl on my arm at the theater. Sara and I both have agreed that it is just too hard to do this routine of visiting for a few days, having a knock-down-drag-out blast of a good time, and then have to split ways in a mere seventy-two hours. This is no big news flash, but Sara knows the ball is in her court and that I’m game. She is, too, I think—now she’s just waiting for a “yes” from an employer and that’s a hard thing to sit still on. And yet, I’m finding it more and more difficult to sit on the fact that I have a truly wonderful person that I’m dedicated and committed to not by my side. Right now, I live in my apartment, but honestly, I wish it was ours already…

…Meghan leaves this week, which sucks big time. I didn’t really know what to think of Meghan when I first welcomed her to La Jolla a short four months ago. Now, she’s leaving for all the right reasons. No one gives her the time of day at the office for no good reason. People can’t remember her name or even realize that she works for the Playhouse. Her friend count is pretty low. The van she drove out here is now scrap metal and she was evicted from a dirty Pacific Beach apartment with a homeless guy living outside of her window. You’d head back to Georgia too. But through these tumultuous few months Meghan and I have shared the bond not of co-workers, but of people who share a private hell that no one else except the two of us understand. Drinking alone in the hot bar will not be as fun, I can assure you of that. But she just needed to say “yes” to herself. Yes to getting out of a bad job. Yes to wanting to live a life of happiness rather than trying to live up to the idea of a happy life. Yes to going home and embracing the people you love rather than try to make strangers love you. Meghan, I raise this one to you…

…Memphis closed tonight. I wasn’t working and I don’t know if that was intentional. Were these actors my best friends in the world? No, and I would not expect them to think the same of me—at best, we are colleagues of the same employer. This is not to say, however, that I will not miss a few of the folks. James, I was grateful that no matter what happened you kept your cool. Your smile and personal character has been an oasis during this entire run. Best of luck with the agent. Melvin, I love you and your girl, Nicky. You are a talented man with some skills. Keep up the good work because I think good things are just around the bend. And Montego—you are the most professional and courteous actor I’ve ever worked with. Oh, and did I mention you, along with these gentlemen, are master of your craft. You are destined for the sky and I look forward to seeing you perform again. Glad I said “yes” to this job and “yes” to leaving New York in this instance and “yes” to all the extra van runs with each and every one of you. Memphis in New York, just you watch…

…and moving a couch is sometimes the best way to kick start your engine. Or, should I say it’s the best way to re-kick start your engine. Justin called me up, asking if I could bring my truck out to East County with Sam and a few other people. Turns out he needed us to help him move a couch he recently bought into his mom’s second floor. We basically hoisted it on to the top of my truck, angled it vertical, and pushed it up on the balcony that Justin had removed one of the guard rails on. This was good for two reasons:

1. I got to act like a man with other men doing manly things

2. It took my mind off the girl I love leaving early in the evening

The rest of the time we just popped beers, wine bottles, and witty comments about the state of all things under the sun. Justin’s friend Annie took us over to her awesome bungalow in North Park/Hillcrest area. More wine, more beers, more talk. This is just another great argument for saying “yes” to more things. Moving cross country, dating roommates of people you know, and asking for a piece of apple pie from a tough guy in a kilt and skull-n-cross t-shit on Independence Day.

Fuck D.A.R.E. and just say “yes.”

Third Time's a Charm

2008-09-22T21:35:00.000-07:00

I have already mentioned how I gave a rousing approval of Charles Busch's new play, The Third Story, above. In the late hours of last evening (and the wee hours of this morning), we celebrated the opening of this new work with a big party bash, La Jolla style. It went off without a hook: the food was great, the scenery was awesome -- something I have to give my boss credit for; dry ice is always great decor -- and everyone left in high spirits high off of spirits. What was really cool was that it didn't end like our last opening night party ended.

Here's that tale now:

Memphis was the first really big musical I've worked on in my entire life. What I should have known from the start is that big productions require big extravaganzas to surround them. That's where we came in: company management plans the huge bash for the after party and the no one gets his or her rock 'n roll stolen until the next morning's hangover. Since it was our first party with catering from the newly opened restaurant, my colleagues and I got to enjoy ourselves at the party. Sure, we'd been setting up all day and it was going to be a hassle to clean it up once everyone left, but for the moment, raise a glass to your health.

Only a few people raised their glasses a little too high, a little too often. Our Boston Intern, one of the most dedicated, stoic, and honest-to-goodness guys to have on the team this summer, was chugging the Huckadoos (don't ask) one after the other. Girl Intern and Boston Intern engaged a little innocent flirting...they disappear for a while and Girl Intern comes back to help clean up. I walk into our offices to find Boston Intern boiling like a kettle filled with gasoline.

Me: Hey, man, are you okay?
Boston Intern (BI): Sit down.
Me: Okay.
BI: Do you...could you ever see me doing something bad to her?
Me: What?
BI: I spent this whole summer trying not to fall into a trap like her's and now...on my last night! My last fucking night she has to go and ruin everything!!!

I'm paraphrasing the dialogue, but this is pretty damn close to what was going down. It was his last night working for us and somehow he thought that Girl Intern had played him for a fool and the rest of us were in on the joke. No such thing, to my knowledge, was afoot. Anyways, Boston Intern starts punching a chair. Hard.

BI: Do you know what I did for her!?
Me: No...
BI: I seethed for her! I...lusted for her! I cut myself for her and I bleed for her! And when she asked me to go in there...that I would fuck her in a theater...that I could soil such a holy place in my heart. That I would fucking do that!!! (seriously)

At this point, I tried to calm the man down. He was not looking for the stove to be turned off. Instead of taking a breath, he grabbed me by the shoulders and I did the same, locking horns, so to speak. Boston Intern puffed like a bull about to charge and when he did, I almost couldn't believe it. I mean, he hit me! In the face! Who does that these days? It wasn't a slug, per se; more of an open fisted push that knocked me on my lower jaw. I countered with my green-belt-level-barely-remembered-karate skills to pin him back by taking hold of his lapel and with my other arm, leveraging my elbow against his chest to throw him outside. Now he's a bottle rocket let loose in an antique store. The tables are kicked over. The glasses are smashed to tiny diamond shards. And all the while screaming: "she's ruined it! She's ruined the last four fucking months! No pay and all my hard work down the fucking drain!" Finally he listened to me when I screamed back at him: "She didn't ruin a thing...but you are, right now! Right now, you are about to throw a whole summer's worth of work down the drain. You are about to throw a recommendation letter down the drain. You are about to lose a contact in a world you want so very much to be a part of." I ordered him down to the service yard to chill out.

He complied, but on the order that I find my boss and send her down to speak with him. At this point, everyone left at the theater heard the incident. One girl almost wanted to call the police, but Boston Intern was finally cooperating. I found my boss, who, at that point, was ready to be taken home by her husband. I walked her down to the service yard with her husband where Boston Intern was hitting himself on the head, crying and scrambling on the oily pavement, hollering at the moon. They had a brief, repetative chat -- y'know, the soulful ones you have when you are drunk for the first time in a college freshman dorm with a person you didn't really want to sleep with, but who will do for the time being -- that ended with me taking his keys and tossing him in our van. I had been designated driver earlier in the evening so it was no big deal to take him home. Between the cries...the laughs...and the screaming...he asked such questions as "have you ever tried black tar heroine?" and "do you think I can do better than a fat cunt?" We finally made it to his street. Boston Intern slummed out of the seat and, in a grand finale, tore up the going away card we had all signed for him, then proceeded to hit his head against the side of the van. Four...times. As the dawn was coming up as he rolled up his driveway to stay, tears streaming down his face as he waved me away from the scene of his overblown crime.

I made it back to the theater where my great co-workers had a drink waiting for me and a camp fire like circle ready to hear the story. It was a crazy night, especially since my old RA instincts kicked in, even though I never dealt with anything this insane my entire time at NYU. Meghan and I went to her house to walk her dogs while sipping cocktails from cheap mugs. We did this last night too, not so much to take the edge off the night, but just to shoot the shit. I will really miss those walks. Meghan has been one of my first friends down her in SoCal and she's leaving for personal reasons that I understand fully (but won't make me miss her any less). Currently, she was staying very close to our work, which was good, because while I was able to calm the storm, it didn't change the fact that an actress needed to get to the airport at 6 a.m. that same morning. Guess who'd volunteered the night before to take her? Yep.

Looking back, I think they were both great parties for entirely different reasons. It might not be what I want to do in life or even close to my goals in theater, but I can honestly say this: I'm not bored in the slightest with my job and that's something not many people can say, so I gotta take the good with the bad. And this isn't even the end of the saga. Oh, no. We're doing a whole other opening night party in two weeks. Stay tuned for the ensuing adventure.

Curtain Calls

2008-09-20T15:39:00.000-07:00

Ever since deciding to pursue my career as a writer I’ve been filled with a very cynical feeling. Sometimes that feeling is followed in tow by a wave of melancholy and depression—why be so depressed over things that do not really matter all that much? Now, don’t pull a David Foster Wallace exit and take this as seriously as I’m making it out to be. Really what it boils down to is this: me finding a problem in every thing I read, watch, or listen to. I think that my own take will somehow shape the whole into a better form than it already is. I heard that Kanye West—the megalomaniac, takes-no-shit genius MC—went back into the studio this week after fan feedback from his latest single was mainly negative. Put some new tracks on some new wax, ‘Ye. Still, got to show him props for taking constructive criticism in the best light an artist should.

So as I near (and by “near”, I mean a few weeks away) the end of my first draft of the new play, And the Bronx Got Bombed, I solicit to reviews of recently exposed material from the greater entertainment mediums:

The Third Story—a new play by Charles Busch playing at our theater is tonally off, about two scenes too long, but otherwise, ballsy, bold, and surprisingly heartwarming. It consists of three different stories all thematically interwoven with one another. The first is a fairy tale involving a sorcerer creating a double for a shy princess to woo her love. This tale is told by an aging female screenwriter, one of Hollywood’s golden girls in the 1930’s, to her failed screenwriter son, in an attempt to get him to collaborate on a script with her. The script (this being the third story, hence the name) involves a Mob Queen looking to clone herself with the help of a scientist and all the problems it creates. I liked it…some of the jokes fell flat, but those that succeeded, pull the slack up of the ones that didn’t (Best line came after Queenie beats her son’s teacher senseless: “Good thing I didn’t bring an apple; you wouldn’t have the teeth to eat it!”). And in the end, the connection between to two screenwriters that is honed in on, comes to a beautiful finale. All in all, thumbs up, C.B.

“Deadwood”, Season Two—a semi-cult series that was cancelled after three seasons was one of the most interesting things to come out of HBO. I say this a rabid fan of The Wire, Flight of the Conchords, The Sopranos, Big Love, and Extras. But Deadwood was something else: a down and dirty Western tale where it’s really, really hard to tell the good from the bad from the ugly. This season followed newly appointed Sheriff, Seth Bullock, as he sacrificed his affair with the widow, Alma Garrett, to honor the wife and son of his dead brother. Meanwhile, Al Sweargen is rallying his troops against the annexation of the camp with Yankton and the women of Deadwood start to find common ground in all their struggles. I'll admit that "Deadwood" didn't hook me right away because the episodes were so long (or at least felt like it) and the dialogue so dense (or maybe it was me...that can happen). However, with the fight between Bullock and Sweargen, Al's kidney stone arch, Mr. Walcott's lethal habit, Ellsworth's proposal, and Jonnie and Calamity Jane's friendship...well, I'm one gutted cocksucker for the show and can't wait to see the last season.

Burn After Reading--there was a point where I'd leap at the chance to see an Coen Brothers' movie out. Then came Intolerable Cruelty. And then Ladykillers. But this is an entry about looking up in life when it is so easy to look down and I have to say that's no hard thing with the latest from Joel and Ethan. There humor and off-beat style work wonders with the phenomenal cast, especially Brad Pitt. There are parts where it lulls, but by the end, when everything is a mess and the Coen Brothers fully admit it's a big mess, it's like a Jackson Pollack black comedy -- spattered together just right that it's mesmerizing. George Clooney lives up to his title of "last movie star alive", showing he can do just about anything. Brad Pitt shows us once again that he's a four-star comedy actor when given the right role. And John Malkovich, together with Frances McDormand, do what they do best in the quirkiest way possible: show us real human emotion under duress. So far, it's up there on my top ten list for 2008 movies.

I suppose the reasoning behind this entry is that as the week wraps up (and what a shitty week it's been. For further reading on the subject, look at my last post or open up the business section of the newspaper). Sara, Scott, and my mom have all called this week depressed with "after-bar-mitzvah-blues" among other things and I'd be a liar to say I haven't felt that way too. My homesickness for New York is at an all time high. One of my bosses at work yelled at me today for a mistake I made. Was the error mine? Yes, to the fullest extent. Was it that big of a deal? No. In fact, my boss' boss said it wasn't anything to break a sweat over. Could it be that every year we get older we start from scratch and I'm just in my guppy phase of twenty-three? Perhaps, but I'm not willing to let myself get off that easily. I thrive in situations where dumb people need my help. Now I'm the one who's head is not quite in the game.

However, there is light...

Coming home tonight on my bike, some drunk guy who I heard down the street walked up to me and said, "You're a faggot, faggot!" I haven't been called that in a long time. Brought back memories of woe from the pizza-face with extra anchovies years, when all was in the gutter and there was no end in sight. God bless you, you drunken frat boy! Your mother might not be proud of you; you obviously have some self issues that need resolving, yet bygod you've made a believer out of me!

Stoopidnuss Is Bad For Your Health

2008-09-18T14:30:00.000-07:00

Put me in the category of: DO NOT RESUSCITATE. Last night, after working hard and feeling much better from my quasi-flu induced symptoms brought on my allergies; I headed home with Biggie and Moby on the iPod. I pulled up in front of my apartment, ready to sit down to another delicious episode of Flight of the Conchords, which Sara purchased for me for my birthday. I get out of my truck, rummaging through my keys to find…wait, no keys. I’ve lost the keys to my apartment! “Goddamnit,” I scream into the Wednesday night only populated by snarky drunks. I hate it when I do stupid things. Even more so, I hate it when the stupid things are monumental. Now it’s too late to call my landlord and God knows that when I do, I’ll be out on my ass by about $100.00. Short-term solution is to retrace the steps from my day…

…I head back to La Jolla, back to University City, my mind racing through the day as to where these keys might have slipped out. I did drop my keys (all of them) while carrying three quiches and a box of cookies out from Trader Joes. That’s the first place I look. Surly the eco-friendly, organically snobbish customers would turn it in…or just leave it on the ground, perhaps. No luck on either front…I visited Ralph’s Grocery store, but the guy behind the counter couldn’t locate mis pobres llaves. Que lastima, indeed! “Hey, man! How you doin’? Havin’ a good night?” asked a local drunk chick sitting on the hood of her car. I wanted to grab her by the face and scream, “Does it look like I’m having a good night!?!” Instead, I went with the almighty thumbs up and pursed lip smile.

…Next step, back to work. The administrative offices are very creepy at night. Once midnight rolls around, regardless if you are in the building or not, the lights go down. Some people still lurk the theater (like Doug from the shops, who sleeps in a van in the parking lot…for real), but mostly it’s just empty. If you are lucky enough to walk the hallways of darkness and catwalks lit to pitch black nothingness, like I did, you can genuinely creep yourself out. Fun fact: you can also use the space to hold movie nights with your friends—I sat in on a little of their screening of Blazing Saddles and forgot how much I love that scene where Slim Pickens holds himself hostage. Beautiful.

…Back to the search, which meant going to Crossroads, the apartment complex our theater rents out to house our actors, designers, and visiting staff. It’s a nice place to temporary stay in. I actually lived in one of the units for a month after first moving down to San Diego. But when you are tired, gross, homeless, and upset, it’s not the best place to cheer one’s spirits. I was there earlier in the night to clear out some apartments, so I knew at least one of them was empty. Yes, folks, I bummed it in the dirty apartment of my workplace. I was officially homeless…what else could I do?

Only got four hours of sleep. I was surprisingly lucid this morning as I went to the JCC to swim. I really didn’t care about the workout—though it seems to help when I’m frustrated—I just wanted to feel clean. Retraced my steps one last time around the shopping mall city of our fair land with no trace of my keys. I went into work early, repressed my bad thoughts by diving into work (on a good note: one of my co-workers who’s helping me with my proposal for the Hodder Fellowship got back to me with some great notes!) and called my landlord. Here we go! I get paid today and already a third of it will go to getting me back in my apartment. He called me back with a monotone assistance to his voice: “It’s your lucky day. I have an extra set. Are you on your lunch break?” I am now. I rushed down, got the keys as he was leaving, and bolted home to make some lunch and put on a fresh pair of underwear.

Such an idiot sometimes.

Bar Mitzvah OY!

2008-09-16T18:28:00.000-07:00

“Do you believe in miracles!” cried my father from the bimah of our synagogue. Everyone laughed because it was quite hilarious and my father knows how to bring the house down. Sam was even smiling at this point—not out of embarrassment. Yes, my brother exceeded all expectations and became a bar mitzvah/grown up Jew/still teenager last weekend with all my family, friends, and the five other Jews in Salt Lake City watching (just kidding…there’s about 7 or so, depending on the sporting season).

The highlights are as follows…

Nightmare on 13th: upon Sara’s arrival and the meeting of my friends Skaughttie, Justin, and Jamie, she was instantly hooked on the notion that we had to go to a haunted house. What my lovely girlfriend didn’t realize is that in Utah we take our haunted houses very, very seriously. I think it might be part of a scared straight tactic—y’know, the devil freaks the living daylights out of you in order to bring you closer to the denominational flock. So, after a lovely Shabbat dinner where the waitress was a girl I went to school with from elementary to high school and after we checked in to our hotel room for the evening (where the bell boy went to junior and senior high school with me), we ventured down to 1300 S. and 330 East to meet Skaughttie, Lizz, and Skaughttie’s friend Mitch-The-Bitch. We got freaked out! Pitch black rooms with body bags that moved! Eerie tunnels with the shadows of rats crawling all over you! Freaky insane asylum set-up! All that said, this was the first year an actor went a little overboard. The psycho-clown took Sara hostage forcing me to give myself up to him to let her go. Then he really didn’t let me go. Skaughttie actually had to use his body as a barrier in order for me to pass. But really, it was Lizz, the un-PC ska-girl, who got the worst of it. One of the clowns was asking her out and popped some black-light soap bubble on her cheek. Any time the black lights set the stage, Lizz was reminded of the time she gave Cummy the Clown a blowjob in the haunted house.

Religion and Food: nothing—and I mean nothing—helps me stay with my Hebrew peeps like our food. Seriously, if ever my faith wanders, give me some challah and a falafel and you’ll have me saying the shema like it was my morning prayer. For Sam’s shindig, it was no exception. My parents went all out with kugal, salmon, strawberry salad, and the best desserts possible. But did I get to eat anything? Barely! Dodging the people of Kol Ami Temple is not easy, especially when you’ve a) graduated recently b) started a new job c) have your girlfriend to introduce around and d) spoke in your brother’s ceremony. I grabbed a quick plate at kiddush, but it didn’t sustain me through the evening, when the BBQ was laid out in fine, non-kosher glory. This I did chow down on. So much so that my the end of the night, I felt like I was going to keel over and all the brisket was going to bust out of my like I was a beached wale exploding. Really, though, I think it was the chair lifting that did me in. It was my last time for a while and even though indigestion followed…totally worth it.

Souljaboy’s Cash Money: if it were up to me I would have had the Kelzbros (Utah’s first, and as far as I know, only Kelzmer band) play all night. But my parents wanted to hear Lyle Lovett. I sorta wanted to sneak some Rhymefest in to the mix. And my brother…oh, my brother, wanted to hear “Souljaboy” by Souljaboy Tellem. I’ve told my brother time and time again, this is not a good song. Don’t listen to it! Not out of content or explicit lyrics—no, Superman that ho’ all you want—but really!? It has an awful beat, stupid words, and the guy’s voice is almost as annoying as Lil’ Wayne. But seeing how it was his day and not up to me, I told the DJs they could lay down that wax. Okay, little bit of advice for all the un-hip folks who are out of touch with today’s music: it’s not “Soldier Boy” by The Shirelles. Apparently these DJs, bless their hearts, had never heard of the headache-inducing version that my brother wanted to hear. He lost his temper, started breaking things, and throwing chairs. Cue Sweet Sixteen music right about…now! Sam went on a full rock star blowout that, of course, he forgot by the morning when his pockets were flooded with checks marked in numbers he still has no idea how to divide. Plus, an iPod. Instantly, he was happy again. Souljaboy what? He could download that ho’ now and listen to it day in and day out for the rest of his life. Or until he loses the iPod, which is exactly what happened the very next morning when I was supposed to leave. Not only did he misplace his newfound pleasure electronic, he misplaced all his cash and checks. Or so he says. What it comes down to, and I, ahem, might be slightly responsible for this, is that he does not trust my parents with the money. Now, I told him not to let mom and dad invest it for him. Much of my money was off wondering around in money markets and stocks, several which took big dives over the years, and none of which I had control over until it was all spent on tuition (which is what I have should have saved it for all along…in a saving’s account). But my brother is a different story. He has no accounts. He has no savings. He needs my parents to help him put the money in the bank and then obtain said money. “You stole it all,” Sam accused my parents, “I know you came in here and took it all!” These were the parting words as I went to hop a plane back to San Diego.

I…Cried: Shut up, I did. I’m not ashamed. In fact, despite the last highlight, I am very, very proud of my brother. He’s more like a son to me than a brother with the ten year age difference. He came so close to not making it (another rockstar moment I was not present for…) or doing anything like this…it’s really amazing to think he got up there and did it all by himself. I have to give him props for that. So when it was my time to get up there and give him a speech, my Lenny Bruce quote faltered me and I just cried. In between tears I said something I really meant, but can’t quite remember because I was breaking down like my mom should have been doing (and did later on). Yep, very proud of my little brother.

…shut up.