My friend Brandy once said that New Year's Eve is the one holiday for history buffs. Some would argue that the 4th of July counts, but I don't think so. The 4th is about America and patriotism (sort of) and blowing stuff up. New Year's is, okay, a bit about drinking and dancing and who's getting/giving that New Year's kiss, but it's also about the passage of time, reflecting on the year that passed, thinking about the year to come and oddly about connecting to large groups of people around the year. Honestly, New Year's means more to me than just about any holiday. I'm weird that way.
The thing is, though, like most people I know, I can't really remember a great, great New Year's Eve party. Thankfully, I haven't had some of the disasters some of my friends have had, but I also haven't had that special, knock-your-socks-off New Year's Eve, either. Maybe it's always freighted with too many expectations. Maybe it just never quite lives up to the ideal. Maybe, just maybe, there's too much booze involved and that can turn a party bad right quickly. I don't know.
Since we're coming to the end of a decade (holy f*ck!), I've been thinking about the last ten New Year's Eves and trying to think about how they all turned out. I figured I'd share with you all.
New Year's 1999 into 2000: This one was pretty memorable, not just because it was the Millennium and Y2K was going to kill us all. A friend's parents had an empty house in Florida and invited a bunch of folks down. It was a nice house, in the Panhandle. A couple of days of boozing, go karting, puzzle-making, more boozing. For New Year's, we were on a beach, watching fireworks. We celebrated twice, since, being in the Panhandle, we were just over the time zone line into Central Time. We watched the ball drop in NYC, had champagne and then went out to the beach for another one. The part, though, that sticks with me most was the long, 20 hour drive down and back. We started in Baltimore, where we got the car, at 9 in the morning, drove all day past stands for peaches and fireworks, stopped in a Wendy's for dinner, stood in the parking lot and watched the sunset and then realized that we had about 10 more hours of driving to go. That might have been a metaphor for something. I don't know.
New Year's 2000 into 2001: Yeah, this one is gone. Down the memory hole. If we were hanging out and I've forgotten, I'm sorry.
New Year's 2001 into 2002: Maine. Another friend was opening an office there and invited a bunch of folks up to hang out, ring in the new. It was post-9/11 and I'd had a hard year, so mostly I remember keeping to myself, looking out on the dark windows of a cold, strange city and trying to feel at peace.
New Year's 2002 into 2003: Yep, also gone. I might have had a party? If you were there, I hope you had a good time.
New Year's 2003 into 2004, '04 into '05, '05 into '06: All gone. Seriously, I have some concerns about my memory. One of these years, I went to a party on the first floor of the building I was living in, had a fairly bad time and right after midnight went back upstairs and watched an Entourage marathon on HBO. Good times. One of these (I think '05 into '06) was really great, though. I had a nice dinner with a small group of friends, then saw Clap Your Hands Say Yeah at Irving Plaza. The highlight of that show was the balloons. They had rigged up these balloons that were supposed to fall at midnight, but the rigging didn't work and the balloons stayed up there. We could see them, suspended right over our heads. Then, out of the crowd, one guy, one hipster-y guy, got his friends to lift him up on their shoulders so he could reach the netting holding the balloons. It became the focus of the show, watching this guy creep ever closer to the balloons, nearly slipping off his friends' shoulders, doing this obviously dangerous thing for no good reason. Except when he freed the balloons and the whole place erupted into cheers. It was awesome. I think that was my first image of '06.
New Year's '06 into '07: This was good and then it got weird. After hitting a couple of parties, I wound up at a house party on the Bowery. Good little band playing, dancing, random conversations with people. Booze a-flowing, but no ill after-effects. Well, not from the booze. I finally made it back uptown around 3 in the morning, passed out, ready to slumber well into the new year. But life had other plans. At about 4:30, I was woken up by voices. Lots of voices. In my apartment. My then-roommate, a nutty pastry chef, had just come back from the local drug bar's New Year's Eve party with a lot of new friends. New, drunk and high friends. Going to sleep wasn't really an option or a wise decision. So I stayed up. That New Year's Day, I think I got a total of 2 hours of sleep. A great way to start the year.
New Year's '07 into '08: Actually fairly mellow. A local dive bar. A good group of people. No fireworks, just good dancing, moderate boozing and no hangover the next day. Almost peaceful.
New Year's '08 into '09: Not my finest hour, to be honest. Way too much tequila, way too much in the department of expectations. Dancing at a friend's house party, which was awesome, but it was the kind of night that I wound up apologizing to friends for. Never again.
Ten years, distilled into ten nights, half of which I can't really remember. Here's to ten more, with better memories, more good friends and good times. Less living rooms full of cokeheads at 5 in the morning. Less booze and less whining. More, more, more.
Should old acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind? Not at all. Happy new year, y'all.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Thursday, December 17, 2009
How To Become a Misanthrope In Five Easy Steps
1. Follow the news. I've recently found myself filled with what can best be described as, well, hatred for humanity. Not to put too fine a point on it. I used to be a happy-go-lucky guy and all of a sudden, I'm Agent Smith in the first Matrix movie, wiping the sweat off of Laurence Fishburne's bald head and making him smell it. I've been trying to cart how that happened and I've narrowed i down to six simple things you can do to suck the joie de vivre right out of you and shrink that heart two sizes down. The first thing is pay attention.
I've been thinking of this past summer as the Summer of Bad Vibes. Between the long parade of celebrity deaths, mind-numbing scandals, and the free-form craziness available on Fox News, I was pretty ready to throw in the towel on the human race. I thought we'd hit rock bottom. But then, Lord love 'em, humanity found a way to kick open the basement door and keep going down. Well, no one said they weren't resourceful.
Seriously, if this is government by the people, for the people, the people are clearly vain, self-centered, small-minded bigots. I know I didn't vote Joe Lieberman to be the most important man in the world (or Ben Nelson or Olympia Snowe, for that matter), but this is our system and I vote in support of that regularly. A friend of mine paraphrased Bill Maher as saying that we've got the government we deserve because, at the end of the day, we're just not good people. I'm finding it hard to dispute that. And it's not even like America's got a monopoly on the dumb, crazy and bigoted.
2. Support the Arts. I'm an artist and a supporter of the arts (as best I can be) and this has been a pretty glum couple of months for the arts. Hell, it's been a glum year. After a couple of recent studies have broken, it appears that the arts are getting older, whiter and more privileged. Not to mention there's no funding, basically, anywhere to be had. All in all, a heck of a grand time to be a minority artist.
3. Spend too much time on Facebook. Guilty as charged. But despite what another friend says here, I'm actually finding that technology is making me like people less and less. The unending stream of babble, updates and nonsense, masquerading as connection, the half-baked, inside jokes pretending to be discourse, the whole thread of humanity. Ugh. And the worst part? I'm one of those people. I can't avoid it. Or rather, I've been avoiding it. Because there are definitely people who are my Facebook friends that I'd really rather not see in real life anymore (No, not you. Never you. Of course not, you!). Social network, my ass.
4. Internet date. If you ever want to believe in the openness of the human heart and spirit, yeah, don't date on the internet. Or really don't date at all. Very few things reveal us as simultaneously unbelievably shallow, totally untrusting and exceptionally repressed as online dating. Everyone's deal breakers are calibrated to the tiniest things, half of them totally physical. It's a Darwinian world where the strong survive and come out more alone than they went in. And again, like #3, the hardest part is when you confront all of that in yourself. When you find yourself rejecting someone for some small thing that you do yourself and you know you do it, you've found the cold heart of online dating. For those of you who have found real love in this world, a partner and friend who completes your life, treasure that. It's a miracle beyond miracles that anyone can find anyone else to actually love in this world. You're lucky. Fuck you.
5. Live in New York. The front row seat for the show that is humanity. And it is a terrible, terrible show, with an obnoxious cast, a grating soundtrack, smell-o-vision and it goes on and on. I used to believe that people were meant to live together, to connect, that, as Tony Kushner once wrote, the smallest indivisible human unit was two. Yeah, way off base there. Just watching the grim spectacle of people crowding in and out of the subway, ready to kick, punch, hell even knife each other over a cold, uncomfortable plastic seat that doesn't even fit a human ass is really enough to crush your spirit. And to do it twice a day? That's just cruel and unusual punishment.
Add it all together, let it stew for a few months and bingo! You've got a misanthrope. Just in time for the holidays. And because I'm an agnostic, I've basically turned into the World's Angriest Deist. I believe that God set up the universe with the most obnoxious possible rules, put us on a path of nearly unending misery and pain and then jumped the next train to a non-extradition country to live under an assumed name. Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett have one of my favorite descriptions of life: they say it's like playing an obscure and complicated variation of poker for infinite stakes using blank cards in a dark room with a Dealer who won't explain the rules and who smiles all the time. I'd also add that He cheats. Boldly. So you know He's cheating, but can't stop him. It's a mug's game.
Honestly, right now, the only thing that keeps me from flinging all of my belongings out a window, setting them on fire and heading for the nearest bell tower, is this: A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle. And Zach, the ten-year old kid I'm tutoring in English. He's just started reading it and needs some help preparing an essay for secondary school admission (because ten-year olds need more pressure in their life). I asked him to write me a little essay on the first chapter, to test his reading comprehension. But I haven't read it in forever, so he lends me an extra copy and I start reading. And it's actually more wonderful than I remember it. And I start thinking about what it must be like to be reading this book about this smart, awkward girl and this crazy family and the horrors she goes through to save them and the whole world while worrying about her crazy hair and her terrible schoolmates, too, what it must be like to read this at 10 years old. And what it will be like for me to watch him discover this world, these ideas about time, family and love.
And then I remember the old story of Pandora and her big box of all the evils in the world. At the bottom of the box was this one bedraggled, battered, little thing, the only thing that Pandora could keep from being lost into the world, one small pathetic creature called Hope. Poor, beknighted bastard-child that it is.
Crap. I even suck at being a misanthrope.
I've been thinking of this past summer as the Summer of Bad Vibes. Between the long parade of celebrity deaths, mind-numbing scandals, and the free-form craziness available on Fox News, I was pretty ready to throw in the towel on the human race. I thought we'd hit rock bottom. But then, Lord love 'em, humanity found a way to kick open the basement door and keep going down. Well, no one said they weren't resourceful.
Seriously, if this is government by the people, for the people, the people are clearly vain, self-centered, small-minded bigots. I know I didn't vote Joe Lieberman to be the most important man in the world (or Ben Nelson or Olympia Snowe, for that matter), but this is our system and I vote in support of that regularly. A friend of mine paraphrased Bill Maher as saying that we've got the government we deserve because, at the end of the day, we're just not good people. I'm finding it hard to dispute that. And it's not even like America's got a monopoly on the dumb, crazy and bigoted.
2. Support the Arts. I'm an artist and a supporter of the arts (as best I can be) and this has been a pretty glum couple of months for the arts. Hell, it's been a glum year. After a couple of recent studies have broken, it appears that the arts are getting older, whiter and more privileged. Not to mention there's no funding, basically, anywhere to be had. All in all, a heck of a grand time to be a minority artist.
3. Spend too much time on Facebook. Guilty as charged. But despite what another friend says here, I'm actually finding that technology is making me like people less and less. The unending stream of babble, updates and nonsense, masquerading as connection, the half-baked, inside jokes pretending to be discourse, the whole thread of humanity. Ugh. And the worst part? I'm one of those people. I can't avoid it. Or rather, I've been avoiding it. Because there are definitely people who are my Facebook friends that I'd really rather not see in real life anymore (No, not you. Never you. Of course not, you!). Social network, my ass.
4. Internet date. If you ever want to believe in the openness of the human heart and spirit, yeah, don't date on the internet. Or really don't date at all. Very few things reveal us as simultaneously unbelievably shallow, totally untrusting and exceptionally repressed as online dating. Everyone's deal breakers are calibrated to the tiniest things, half of them totally physical. It's a Darwinian world where the strong survive and come out more alone than they went in. And again, like #3, the hardest part is when you confront all of that in yourself. When you find yourself rejecting someone for some small thing that you do yourself and you know you do it, you've found the cold heart of online dating. For those of you who have found real love in this world, a partner and friend who completes your life, treasure that. It's a miracle beyond miracles that anyone can find anyone else to actually love in this world. You're lucky. Fuck you.
5. Live in New York. The front row seat for the show that is humanity. And it is a terrible, terrible show, with an obnoxious cast, a grating soundtrack, smell-o-vision and it goes on and on. I used to believe that people were meant to live together, to connect, that, as Tony Kushner once wrote, the smallest indivisible human unit was two. Yeah, way off base there. Just watching the grim spectacle of people crowding in and out of the subway, ready to kick, punch, hell even knife each other over a cold, uncomfortable plastic seat that doesn't even fit a human ass is really enough to crush your spirit. And to do it twice a day? That's just cruel and unusual punishment.
Add it all together, let it stew for a few months and bingo! You've got a misanthrope. Just in time for the holidays. And because I'm an agnostic, I've basically turned into the World's Angriest Deist. I believe that God set up the universe with the most obnoxious possible rules, put us on a path of nearly unending misery and pain and then jumped the next train to a non-extradition country to live under an assumed name. Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett have one of my favorite descriptions of life: they say it's like playing an obscure and complicated variation of poker for infinite stakes using blank cards in a dark room with a Dealer who won't explain the rules and who smiles all the time. I'd also add that He cheats. Boldly. So you know He's cheating, but can't stop him. It's a mug's game.
Honestly, right now, the only thing that keeps me from flinging all of my belongings out a window, setting them on fire and heading for the nearest bell tower, is this: A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle. And Zach, the ten-year old kid I'm tutoring in English. He's just started reading it and needs some help preparing an essay for secondary school admission (because ten-year olds need more pressure in their life). I asked him to write me a little essay on the first chapter, to test his reading comprehension. But I haven't read it in forever, so he lends me an extra copy and I start reading. And it's actually more wonderful than I remember it. And I start thinking about what it must be like to be reading this book about this smart, awkward girl and this crazy family and the horrors she goes through to save them and the whole world while worrying about her crazy hair and her terrible schoolmates, too, what it must be like to read this at 10 years old. And what it will be like for me to watch him discover this world, these ideas about time, family and love.
And then I remember the old story of Pandora and her big box of all the evils in the world. At the bottom of the box was this one bedraggled, battered, little thing, the only thing that Pandora could keep from being lost into the world, one small pathetic creature called Hope. Poor, beknighted bastard-child that it is.
Crap. I even suck at being a misanthrope.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Mind-Reading
I know it's Thanksgiving and a time for thoughts of family, hearth, and home, but...this just pisses me off so much. A couple of lefty blogs have linked to Peter Beinart's piece of mind-reading and anonymous sourcing as though it were the perfect key to understanding the frustrating actions of Sen. Joe Lieberman. I think it's all kind of bunk and worse, the kind of bunk that if Glenn Beck or Maureen Dowd wrote about Obama or John Kerry, they would all dog-pile on top of it. Beinart's column is a seven-paragraph pile of steaming b.s. that ignores the simplest, most basic fact: Joe Lieberman is running for office again in 2 years.
I'm not the senior political reporter of anything except my kitchen, but I read tons and tons about it, think about it, talk about it pretty regularly. So I feel completely comfortable spouting off. In the internet age, that's about as much license as you need. And this is something I want to spout off about: stop with the mind-reading of our political officials. Or, at least, do better at it. This is one of the places where I think more dramatists doing political coverage would be helpful. Because we understand a basic thing: people do things for reasons.
Joe Lieberman, as far as anyone can tell, used to be a fairly conservative Democrat, maybe less so on social issues, but never really a liberal flamethrower like a Teddy Kennedy. He also does seem to enjoy the limelight, but then again, show me a politician who doesn't and I'll show you a political science teacher at a high school. Wanting the limelight, the power and influence comes with the job.
Sure, maybe his feelings were hurt by the primary of '06. That's legitimate. It might even be key. But I just don't see it as the driving factor behind his swing to the right. Not on issues he had held fairly liberal views on in the recent past. I mean, sure, he's a bit of a Youstabee, but it wasnt' that far a trip. I've said it before: it's about 2012 and about a re-election strategy. Especially if he goes all the way and filibusters health care reform, the way he's threatening to. He's trying to reach out to Connecticut Republicans and not leaving any room for a "real" Republican to enter the race to his right. If he does like he did in 2006 and peel off enough moderate to conservative Democrats, he can win a plurality and keep his job. Not everything is Dynasty, with people motivated by pure emotion. There are calculations to be made, strategies to put in place. Joe's gotta be thinking, "How do I position myself for maximum appeal?"
Now I know that's more mind-reading. And, hell, we could all be wrong. He might have made an actual, personal swing to the right. It happens. He might be bought off by insurance money. That happens, too. In way, none of it matters. What matters is how you (and by "you," I mean the Senate Democratic leadership) deal with it. And that's where the obsession with Joe Lieberman, Egomaniac gets us (and by "us," I mean progressives) in trouble.
If we're thinking that all Joe needs is more time in the spotlight, then you wait him out. He's angry, his feelings are hurt and he's acting out. Like a petulant child. So you ignore his outburst and wait for him to come to his senses. I don't think that will work. I think if the Senate Dems try to wait him out, they'll be standing there, gobsmacked, when he votes to filibuster.
I think Harry Reid has to treat Joe not like a child, but like a conservative Democrat or a moderate Republican: make a deal. Figure out what Joe needs and wants and give it to him. And if that won't work, threaten him. Seriously. Find a charismatic, slightly to his left Republican and convince him or her to run for the Senate. Hell, find a charismatic, moderate Democrat and threaten to run him or her as a Democrat. Make sure that Joe knows the Democrats are willing to lose the seat outright. If it's a choice between being a hypocrite and keeping his seat, I think Joe will try to keep his seat. That's what he's been doing.
But, also: stop with the mind-reading. Or get better at it.
I'm not the senior political reporter of anything except my kitchen, but I read tons and tons about it, think about it, talk about it pretty regularly. So I feel completely comfortable spouting off. In the internet age, that's about as much license as you need. And this is something I want to spout off about: stop with the mind-reading of our political officials. Or, at least, do better at it. This is one of the places where I think more dramatists doing political coverage would be helpful. Because we understand a basic thing: people do things for reasons.
Joe Lieberman, as far as anyone can tell, used to be a fairly conservative Democrat, maybe less so on social issues, but never really a liberal flamethrower like a Teddy Kennedy. He also does seem to enjoy the limelight, but then again, show me a politician who doesn't and I'll show you a political science teacher at a high school. Wanting the limelight, the power and influence comes with the job.
Sure, maybe his feelings were hurt by the primary of '06. That's legitimate. It might even be key. But I just don't see it as the driving factor behind his swing to the right. Not on issues he had held fairly liberal views on in the recent past. I mean, sure, he's a bit of a Youstabee, but it wasnt' that far a trip. I've said it before: it's about 2012 and about a re-election strategy. Especially if he goes all the way and filibusters health care reform, the way he's threatening to. He's trying to reach out to Connecticut Republicans and not leaving any room for a "real" Republican to enter the race to his right. If he does like he did in 2006 and peel off enough moderate to conservative Democrats, he can win a plurality and keep his job. Not everything is Dynasty, with people motivated by pure emotion. There are calculations to be made, strategies to put in place. Joe's gotta be thinking, "How do I position myself for maximum appeal?"
Now I know that's more mind-reading. And, hell, we could all be wrong. He might have made an actual, personal swing to the right. It happens. He might be bought off by insurance money. That happens, too. In way, none of it matters. What matters is how you (and by "you," I mean the Senate Democratic leadership) deal with it. And that's where the obsession with Joe Lieberman, Egomaniac gets us (and by "us," I mean progressives) in trouble.
If we're thinking that all Joe needs is more time in the spotlight, then you wait him out. He's angry, his feelings are hurt and he's acting out. Like a petulant child. So you ignore his outburst and wait for him to come to his senses. I don't think that will work. I think if the Senate Dems try to wait him out, they'll be standing there, gobsmacked, when he votes to filibuster.
I think Harry Reid has to treat Joe not like a child, but like a conservative Democrat or a moderate Republican: make a deal. Figure out what Joe needs and wants and give it to him. And if that won't work, threaten him. Seriously. Find a charismatic, slightly to his left Republican and convince him or her to run for the Senate. Hell, find a charismatic, moderate Democrat and threaten to run him or her as a Democrat. Make sure that Joe knows the Democrats are willing to lose the seat outright. If it's a choice between being a hypocrite and keeping his seat, I think Joe will try to keep his seat. That's what he's been doing.
But, also: stop with the mind-reading. Or get better at it.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Wiped, Tuckered, and Plum Done In
I know there are, what, two months left in the year? A month and a half? But I'm throwing in the towel. I'm ready for hibernation. I'm done for, to say the least.
This year, for the first time in a couple of years, I participated in Octoberfest at E.S.T. Which was an unmitigated, top-to-bottom blast. I have no regrets about it...but I gotta say, it kind of wiped me out. I did a big rewrite on a full-length play and wrote a short play, which rehearsed for about twelve minutes. I went to a few things, danced my ass off quite a few times and generally had a grand time. At my age, grand times are starting to come with a price, though.
As the year is winding down and I think about my Grand Project, I got about half-way there. Which ain't shabby, but took a lot. I wrote two full-length plays this year, did one big rewrite on another play, wrote a short play, wrote a webisode, reconnected with a lot of theatre people and theatre companies, wrote this blog, worked my regular full-time job, and attempted to have something of a personal life. Oh, and facebooked like a champ. Eleven months into the year and I'm kind of done.
I didn't achieve a lot of the things I wanted to achieve or aimed for, but I got a bit further down the road. I think, for this year, that's enough. 2009 has been a weird one, lots of ups and downs. I might just lie back, put my feet up and cruise on auto-pilot into 2010. That's the year we make contact, right? I can handle that. I might just need a nap first.
Peace! No, really. Peace.
This year, for the first time in a couple of years, I participated in Octoberfest at E.S.T. Which was an unmitigated, top-to-bottom blast. I have no regrets about it...but I gotta say, it kind of wiped me out. I did a big rewrite on a full-length play and wrote a short play, which rehearsed for about twelve minutes. I went to a few things, danced my ass off quite a few times and generally had a grand time. At my age, grand times are starting to come with a price, though.
As the year is winding down and I think about my Grand Project, I got about half-way there. Which ain't shabby, but took a lot. I wrote two full-length plays this year, did one big rewrite on another play, wrote a short play, wrote a webisode, reconnected with a lot of theatre people and theatre companies, wrote this blog, worked my regular full-time job, and attempted to have something of a personal life. Oh, and facebooked like a champ. Eleven months into the year and I'm kind of done.
I didn't achieve a lot of the things I wanted to achieve or aimed for, but I got a bit further down the road. I think, for this year, that's enough. 2009 has been a weird one, lots of ups and downs. I might just lie back, put my feet up and cruise on auto-pilot into 2010. That's the year we make contact, right? I can handle that. I might just need a nap first.
Peace! No, really. Peace.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
The Lieberman Problem
Since yesterday, there's been a lot of hand-wringing, tea-leaf-reading and mindreading bouncing around the liberal blogosphere about Joe Lieberman's big announcement yesterday that he plans to join a GOP filibuster of health care reform if it includes a public option of any kind. A lot of the commentary is circling around the idea that Sen. Lieberman is in need of attention or just wants some love from the Democratic leadership. Or is just greedy. I'm not a professional political observer, but I think this misses the point and I think it's where Harry Reid got his math wrong. The point is: Joe Lieberman still wants to be the senator from Connecticut. And he's figured out the way to do that. All of this is a message to one person, really.
Jodi Rell.
Kos circles around it here, but misses it in his anger at Lieberman. If Jodi Rell enters the race for the Senate, Lieberman is toast. If there's a credible Democrat in the race, Lieberman is embarrassed toast. Either way, his career as the Senator from Connecticut is over. He's got two years to build his campaign. He can't reach out to CT Democrats because, well, they hate him. And he won't be able to go back to being a Democrat anyway. They're going to field an opponent, who'll stake out ground to Lieberman's left.
But...to his right? If the GOP fields a credible opponent, it will be Jodi Rell or someone like her, that rarest of things these days: a moderate Republican candidate. Connecticut is a moderate state. They send some far right clown out there, they'll get stomped. But if they send Jodi Rell out there, she'll lose. If Lieberman is running.
I think Joe just told the world that he's planning to run for the Senate in 2012. And that the CT GOP can have no better friend than him in the Senate. For Joe, it's all wins: as an "independent" who caucuses with the Democrats, it's pretty clear he's not going to lose anything by opposing them. But as, essentially, a solid Republican vote, he'll give the GOP everything they could want.
He's clearly thinking that 2012 will be a repeat of 2006 for him: a Democrat on the left, a no-name, unthreatening Republican on the right, Joe picks up the right-leaning Democrats, most of the Republicans and enough independents to beat out his rivals. In order to do that, he's got to establish a right flank that a Jodi Rell can't beat. Hence his position: I'm all for health care reform, and want to do it, but that public option is no good and I can't in good conscience support it. Nothing about death panels or socialism. It's all wrong about entitlements and taxes, but that doesn't matter. It sounds sensible and reasonable and, unlike some others, principled.
I'm a big believer in rational actors in this world. Maybe it's the theatre background. Ego, selfishness, self-importance are obviously big motivators. But they're also end results. We always learned in playwriting and acting classes that emotions are poor goals (I want to be happy!) but attaching it to a concrete thing (I want to be king so I can be happy!) makes it actionable. Joe does love the spotlight and the attention, but the best way for him to keep that: stay a Senator. And the best way for him to stay a Senator? Oppose the public option. It ain't pretty but it'll work.
Unless you're from Connecticut or have friends and family there who want the public option available to them. Then...you might have some phone calling or letter-writing to do. I'm just saying.
Jodi Rell.
Kos circles around it here, but misses it in his anger at Lieberman. If Jodi Rell enters the race for the Senate, Lieberman is toast. If there's a credible Democrat in the race, Lieberman is embarrassed toast. Either way, his career as the Senator from Connecticut is over. He's got two years to build his campaign. He can't reach out to CT Democrats because, well, they hate him. And he won't be able to go back to being a Democrat anyway. They're going to field an opponent, who'll stake out ground to Lieberman's left.
But...to his right? If the GOP fields a credible opponent, it will be Jodi Rell or someone like her, that rarest of things these days: a moderate Republican candidate. Connecticut is a moderate state. They send some far right clown out there, they'll get stomped. But if they send Jodi Rell out there, she'll lose. If Lieberman is running.
I think Joe just told the world that he's planning to run for the Senate in 2012. And that the CT GOP can have no better friend than him in the Senate. For Joe, it's all wins: as an "independent" who caucuses with the Democrats, it's pretty clear he's not going to lose anything by opposing them. But as, essentially, a solid Republican vote, he'll give the GOP everything they could want.
He's clearly thinking that 2012 will be a repeat of 2006 for him: a Democrat on the left, a no-name, unthreatening Republican on the right, Joe picks up the right-leaning Democrats, most of the Republicans and enough independents to beat out his rivals. In order to do that, he's got to establish a right flank that a Jodi Rell can't beat. Hence his position: I'm all for health care reform, and want to do it, but that public option is no good and I can't in good conscience support it. Nothing about death panels or socialism. It's all wrong about entitlements and taxes, but that doesn't matter. It sounds sensible and reasonable and, unlike some others, principled.
I'm a big believer in rational actors in this world. Maybe it's the theatre background. Ego, selfishness, self-importance are obviously big motivators. But they're also end results. We always learned in playwriting and acting classes that emotions are poor goals (I want to be happy!) but attaching it to a concrete thing (I want to be king so I can be happy!) makes it actionable. Joe does love the spotlight and the attention, but the best way for him to keep that: stay a Senator. And the best way for him to stay a Senator? Oppose the public option. It ain't pretty but it'll work.
Unless you're from Connecticut or have friends and family there who want the public option available to them. Then...you might have some phone calling or letter-writing to do. I'm just saying.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
A Word About Politics
Now that I'm coming out of the pre-reading fog, followed by the post-reading gloat, I'm coming back around to doing some political writing and thinking. Now, I'm very, very aware that this blog publishes to my Facebook page. My Facebook friends are a mixed bunch and I like it that way. I'm a raging progressive, full of piss and vinegar about leftist causes and issues. Some of my friends are to my left, some are to my right. I love all of them, no matter what and honor their thoughts and opinions. (And I'm not just saying that because I had a couple of glasses of wine, chatting with my roomie just now...)
In the world of Facebook, my friends sometimes interact and it can get heated. I think that's a good thing. Ideas should be questioned, buttons should be pushed. An opinion you won't defend, even with bullshit, isn't an opinion worth having, I say. But I also know that feelings get hurt, words are hurled and whatnot. I want to acknowlegde that. I throw some serious flames now and then, but I wanted to make a distinction. We seem to be moving into a period of very intense conversation, discussion, decision-making by our government about a great number of things and I want to be able to talk about it, blog about it, post about it and get feedback and start discussions and back-and-forths, but without anyone getting in a huff unduly. So I want to say something.
I love my Republican friends. I do. I love my conservative friends. I even love my libertarian friends. All with the same vigor and passion that I love my progressive, leftist, hippie, socialist friends. Like Walt Whitman, I hold multitudes and you are the armies of those I love. So trust that.
I want to make a distinction between people who vote Republican and Republicans, i.e. the elected and selected (sometimes self-selected) official voices of the Republican Party. I find Republicans often unpleasant, bizarre and, more often than not, off-putting. NOT the beliefs of People Who Vote Republican (though I have my disagreements there) but the words and actions of the Official Republican Party. So I'm drawing a line: when I'm mocking, shocked, outraged, in a state of disbelief, I'll try to draw a distinction between the Official Republican Party (i.e. The GOP) and People Who Vote Republican (i.e. PWVR). PWVR are cool with me, seriously. The GOP...not so much. Okay? When I post a link to a critical or mocking story, I A) won't take it personally if you don't read it, B) don't mean it personally and C) won't get angry if you post in defense. I just ask that you, PWVR, A) don't take it personally that I posted it, B) don't get angry if I spout off about it and C) defend your position if you feel like it. Is that cool?
I think we need to have dialogue in this country, real, true bipartisanship among the people, so that People Who Vote Republican and People Who Vote Democratic (and People Who Vote Working Parties, or Socialist Party USA and Green Party) can share ideas and thoughts safely and openly. Governing is a bit different, but that's a post for another day. I guess I'm just saying, in the immortal words of Rodney King, can't we all just get along?
That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
In the world of Facebook, my friends sometimes interact and it can get heated. I think that's a good thing. Ideas should be questioned, buttons should be pushed. An opinion you won't defend, even with bullshit, isn't an opinion worth having, I say. But I also know that feelings get hurt, words are hurled and whatnot. I want to acknowlegde that. I throw some serious flames now and then, but I wanted to make a distinction. We seem to be moving into a period of very intense conversation, discussion, decision-making by our government about a great number of things and I want to be able to talk about it, blog about it, post about it and get feedback and start discussions and back-and-forths, but without anyone getting in a huff unduly. So I want to say something.
I love my Republican friends. I do. I love my conservative friends. I even love my libertarian friends. All with the same vigor and passion that I love my progressive, leftist, hippie, socialist friends. Like Walt Whitman, I hold multitudes and you are the armies of those I love. So trust that.
I want to make a distinction between people who vote Republican and Republicans, i.e. the elected and selected (sometimes self-selected) official voices of the Republican Party. I find Republicans often unpleasant, bizarre and, more often than not, off-putting. NOT the beliefs of People Who Vote Republican (though I have my disagreements there) but the words and actions of the Official Republican Party. So I'm drawing a line: when I'm mocking, shocked, outraged, in a state of disbelief, I'll try to draw a distinction between the Official Republican Party (i.e. The GOP) and People Who Vote Republican (i.e. PWVR). PWVR are cool with me, seriously. The GOP...not so much. Okay? When I post a link to a critical or mocking story, I A) won't take it personally if you don't read it, B) don't mean it personally and C) won't get angry if you post in defense. I just ask that you, PWVR, A) don't take it personally that I posted it, B) don't get angry if I spout off about it and C) defend your position if you feel like it. Is that cool?
I think we need to have dialogue in this country, real, true bipartisanship among the people, so that People Who Vote Republican and People Who Vote Democratic (and People Who Vote Working Parties, or Socialist Party USA and Green Party) can share ideas and thoughts safely and openly. Governing is a bit different, but that's a post for another day. I guess I'm just saying, in the immortal words of Rodney King, can't we all just get along?
That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Monday, October 19, 2009
I'm Not Dead Yet!
Honest! I swear! I've been up to my eyeballs in writing. It's October and that means Octoberfest at E.S.T. For the uninitiated, that means about a gajillion projects going on at the Ensemble Studio Theatre's two stages for the month of October (and going into November). You can check out the full schedule here. I'm sure you'll find something to your liking.
I always use O'fest as a bit of a challenge to get something up to snuff. Since I was stuck on ANARCHISTS all summer, I decided to switch gears and work on my big, old-fashioned, Philadelphia Story style comedy, HOUSEHOLD NAME. I had a reading at E.S.T. more than a year ago, but I'm adding a character and an act to the thing. It's October madness.
In addition, I signed up to write a short play, specifically for E.S.T. members, as part of a late night series of short plays. That one's coming up on Nov. 6th. But HOUSEHOLD NAME is upon us and I need to get the word out. So here's the word. It's getting out.
The Ensemble Studio Theatre presents
(as part of Octoberfest 2009)
HOUSEHOLD NAME
a new play by J. Holtham
Directed by Jordan Young
How much can you give up in order to have everything you ever wanted?
When Ruth needs cash to get her dream archeology dig off the ground, but to get it, she'll need her mother, a famous and feared home goods mogul. Unfortunately, it won't be easy: her mother's just been indicted, there's something fishy going on between her stepfather and her mother's assistant and the world's worst gossip columnist is hiding in the closet. A comedy about the past you bury, the present that catches up to you and the future you can't escape...
Sunday, October 25 at 2 p.m.
Monday, October 26 at 7 p.m.
The Ensemble Studio Theatre
549 West 52nd St.
(bet. 10th & 11th Aves.)
For reservations and information, call (212) 247-4982
So come check it out. It's a comedy, so it's always better to have a good house for it.
And I promise...once this is over, more substantive posting is coming. While my fingers have been a bit quiet, the mind is a-stir with thoughts. A-stir, I tell you!
I always use O'fest as a bit of a challenge to get something up to snuff. Since I was stuck on ANARCHISTS all summer, I decided to switch gears and work on my big, old-fashioned, Philadelphia Story style comedy, HOUSEHOLD NAME. I had a reading at E.S.T. more than a year ago, but I'm adding a character and an act to the thing. It's October madness.
In addition, I signed up to write a short play, specifically for E.S.T. members, as part of a late night series of short plays. That one's coming up on Nov. 6th. But HOUSEHOLD NAME is upon us and I need to get the word out. So here's the word. It's getting out.
The Ensemble Studio Theatre presents
(as part of Octoberfest 2009)
HOUSEHOLD NAME
a new play by J. Holtham
Directed by Jordan Young
How much can you give up in order to have everything you ever wanted?
When Ruth needs cash to get her dream archeology dig off the ground, but to get it, she'll need her mother, a famous and feared home goods mogul. Unfortunately, it won't be easy: her mother's just been indicted, there's something fishy going on between her stepfather and her mother's assistant and the world's worst gossip columnist is hiding in the closet. A comedy about the past you bury, the present that catches up to you and the future you can't escape...
Sunday, October 25 at 2 p.m.
Monday, October 26 at 7 p.m.
The Ensemble Studio Theatre
549 West 52nd St.
(bet. 10th & 11th Aves.)
For reservations and information, call (212) 247-4982
So come check it out. It's a comedy, so it's always better to have a good house for it.
And I promise...once this is over, more substantive posting is coming. While my fingers have been a bit quiet, the mind is a-stir with thoughts. A-stir, I tell you!
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Meanwhile, In Bizarro World…
A Fox News commentator, um, makes sense? And asks legitimate questions of a lawmaker?
I'm sorry, what? My brains, they are blown!
Seriously, Roger Ailes better make sure to keep this guy around. This isn't the first time he's gone off-script. Can you imagine the tell-all he'd write if they fired him? Yikes. On second thought, Roger? Fire this guy, ASAP.
UPDATE: I was using MS Word to write this post as an experiment. Only partially successful. More on that later...
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Q&A
For a while now, I've secretly been nursing a burning desire. See, the very excellent Adam Szymkowicz has been interviewing playwrights, some of them friends, all of them excellent. (62 of them actually!) I have longed to be included, if for no other reason than to share my boundless wisdom with the world. Since I don't have any platforms for that at all.
Well, he finally asked! And I've answered! So check it out...
Well, he finally asked! And I've answered! So check it out...
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
This Guy Sounds Pretty Neat-O...
Can't wait to one Mr. J. Holtman.
For the record, I did get in touch with Carla Zanoni, the author of the piece and of this blog, and she says the MT will print a correction next week. I say, why rob J. Holtman of his rightful press. Long live the Holtman!
All kidding aside, it's always nice to see your name (almost) in print and get nice pats on the head. Much appreciated!
For the record, I did get in touch with Carla Zanoni, the author of the piece and of this blog, and she says the MT will print a correction next week. I say, why rob J. Holtman of his rightful press. Long live the Holtman!
All kidding aside, it's always nice to see your name (almost) in print and get nice pats on the head. Much appreciated!
When Unintended Met Consequences...
Amazingly, Congressional Republicans do something right. Well, almost right.
I believe the phrase you're looking for is "HA HA HA HA HA!"
Prepare to launch walkbacks in five, four, three, two...
*UPDATE - WOW!* That's what I get for not really reading things I link to, or paying attention to the blurts of the right-wing media. I just went back and read the rest of the Huffington Post article. This story is now awesome. Because that law passed the House AND the Senate. Which according to Schoolhouse Rock, means it's now a law.
I didn't actually realize this thing has passed into law. I figured that it has passed the House and the Senate would let it die a slow, agonizing death, as that seems to be the way our government works these days. But this insane, totally vindictive gesture against an organization that actually didn't do anything wrong is the law of the land (well, it will be if President Obama* signs it). And because it's the law of the land, it will actually be useful in cutting off quite a few companies that have done our national image some real harm. Of course, it may do some harm to politicians re-election funds...but what's a few million between friends?
Way to go, Congress. No, seriously. This is actually doing your job and denying funding to organizations that break the law. Interestingly, it probably won't affect ACORN too much, since they get so little federal funding. You stay classy, Congress.
Now, even more than before, I'm going to enjoy watching those walkbacks.
*And, yes, I still get a few goosebumps when I write that.
I believe the phrase you're looking for is "HA HA HA HA HA!"
Prepare to launch walkbacks in five, four, three, two...
*UPDATE - WOW!* That's what I get for not really reading things I link to, or paying attention to the blurts of the right-wing media. I just went back and read the rest of the Huffington Post article. This story is now awesome. Because that law passed the House AND the Senate. Which according to Schoolhouse Rock, means it's now a law.
I didn't actually realize this thing has passed into law. I figured that it has passed the House and the Senate would let it die a slow, agonizing death, as that seems to be the way our government works these days. But this insane, totally vindictive gesture against an organization that actually didn't do anything wrong is the law of the land (well, it will be if President Obama* signs it). And because it's the law of the land, it will actually be useful in cutting off quite a few companies that have done our national image some real harm. Of course, it may do some harm to politicians re-election funds...but what's a few million between friends?
Way to go, Congress. No, seriously. This is actually doing your job and denying funding to organizations that break the law. Interestingly, it probably won't affect ACORN too much, since they get so little federal funding. You stay classy, Congress.
Now, even more than before, I'm going to enjoy watching those walkbacks.
*And, yes, I still get a few goosebumps when I write that.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Flash Mobs Always Make Me Cry.
Like this one.
There's something about them, particularly these "spontaneous" dance ones, where a bunch of people turn a shopping center, or a train station, or a battleship into a Broadway musical. (Though this is also awesome.)
One part is that it's not "spontaneous" at all. They involve hard work, rehearsal, preparation. Working in theatre, none of that is new to me. But the idea of 20,000 people and not all of them being theatre people, mostly just regular people who like the idea doing that work, and being willing to jump in, just kind of fills my heart with joy. Dan Kois nails that part of it here, talking about the famous wedding dance, but it goes for all of these.
(A sidenote: as I was clicking through links for this post, I came across this. The two kids in the wedding video have put together a website requesting donations for a non-profit that deals with domestic violence. I think I might love them both a little now.)
But there's also the sense of community that comes out of these videos, the child-like wonder you can even see on Oprah's face, of having art magically spring up in front of your eyes. More art should be like that, feel like that, I think. Like it welled up, naturally, irresistably from the very earth beneath your feet. Like 20,000 people, unconsciously, simultaneously thought, "Let's move our arms this way. That will look beautiful." And then they did.
I think I watched that video about four times yesterday. I made my roommate watch it. I posted it on my facebook page. And every time, I got a little teary. Because it was 9/11 and because, for me, these videos are about community and reaching out. Connecting to your neighbor in some way, even for four minutes, standing on Michigan Avenue, and I can connect here, thousands of miles away and you can connect there, wherever you are, and share, for a little bit, that child-like wonder. It feels like, despite facebook, blogs, American Idol and whatever, the chances to be a part of something bigger than you and to know you're not alone are few and far between these days. I want to cherish these moments when I know, in a crowded space, I'm not alone.
I can see why people love the freaking wave.
There's something about them, particularly these "spontaneous" dance ones, where a bunch of people turn a shopping center, or a train station, or a battleship into a Broadway musical. (Though this is also awesome.)
One part is that it's not "spontaneous" at all. They involve hard work, rehearsal, preparation. Working in theatre, none of that is new to me. But the idea of 20,000 people and not all of them being theatre people, mostly just regular people who like the idea doing that work, and being willing to jump in, just kind of fills my heart with joy. Dan Kois nails that part of it here, talking about the famous wedding dance, but it goes for all of these.
(A sidenote: as I was clicking through links for this post, I came across this. The two kids in the wedding video have put together a website requesting donations for a non-profit that deals with domestic violence. I think I might love them both a little now.)
But there's also the sense of community that comes out of these videos, the child-like wonder you can even see on Oprah's face, of having art magically spring up in front of your eyes. More art should be like that, feel like that, I think. Like it welled up, naturally, irresistably from the very earth beneath your feet. Like 20,000 people, unconsciously, simultaneously thought, "Let's move our arms this way. That will look beautiful." And then they did.
I think I watched that video about four times yesterday. I made my roommate watch it. I posted it on my facebook page. And every time, I got a little teary. Because it was 9/11 and because, for me, these videos are about community and reaching out. Connecting to your neighbor in some way, even for four minutes, standing on Michigan Avenue, and I can connect here, thousands of miles away and you can connect there, wherever you are, and share, for a little bit, that child-like wonder. It feels like, despite facebook, blogs, American Idol and whatever, the chances to be a part of something bigger than you and to know you're not alone are few and far between these days. I want to cherish these moments when I know, in a crowded space, I'm not alone.
I can see why people love the freaking wave.
Monday, August 17, 2009
This Time of Year
I’m a summer person. I stay huddled inside, swathed in layers of wool, all winter, just waiting for the sun to come out and burn this city up. Maybe it’s the tropical island blood in me. Maybe it’s the memory of summers off from school. It might even be the all the women in their summer dresses. Who knows? But I come alive in the summer. I’m in my element. Sure, I sweat buckets all the time, but I never complain about the heat. I’ve never owned an air conditioner and don’t plan on getting one. I don’t want to miss a second of summer, because I know that too soon, it’s going to be winter again. Cultural stereotypes and “letting down the race” be damned, I’d go around in a loincloth all summer, soaking it in. (Also, body image issues be damned. I’d let the belly swing free.) I want to hold that heat inside of me for as long as I can.
But I find myself…unhappy. With the sun shining and the green grass of the park outside my building beckoning, I’ve got a dark cloud following me. I get snappish, short-tempered, moody. It always creeps up on me as we come into August. It happens slowly and always takes me off-guard. I should be happy, I tell myself, I should be enjoying this. But my spirit darkens and darkens as the days feel like they last forever.
At first, I think I don’t know why. I attribute it to the summer doldrums or whatever. I tell myself that I had a busy spring and it’s just caught up with me. There’s a disconnect. The world is telling to enjoy myself, but something inside of me is lashing out with anger and pain, like a wounded animal. I try to ignore it, but sooner or later, it starts to dawn on me what’s going on. Then I try to ignore it even more, try to pretend that that’s not it, that I don’t need to acknowledge it. But then I realize I do, or I’m going to do something stupid and truly self-destructive.
August 18th is coming up. And then August 25th. With my birthday in between.
My brother drowned in an inlet from Jamaica Bay near his house on August 18th, 2001. His body was found on August 25th. This year makes it eight years.
Eight years is actually a long time. Someone who was in middle school in 2001 has now graduated from, not just from high school, but from college. Someone born in 2001 is now in third grade and already a little person. This country has gone to war in two countries, had a recovery and a crash, and finally a new president. Amazingly, New York’s only had one mayor. Outside of Law & Order and The Simpsons, I don’t think a single TV show that was on in 2001 is still on.
In the last eight years, I’ve had four jobs. I’ve lived in seven places. I’ve met a lot of people. Most of them never knew my brother. Most don’t even know I had a younger brother.
When this time of year hits and I finally put it together with my low, black mood, I’m hit with a flood of memories, good and bad. Memories of my brother, my beautiful, passionate brother. Imitating Jim Carrey’s “I’m smoking!” from The Mask. Yelling at me, in the middle of some dumb argument, about how much he knew about the Marshall Plan (don’t even ask me what that was about). The way he would talk about acting, his love for it, his struggles with it. How disappointed he was at playing Waffles in a school workshop of Uncle Vanya, but how hard he worked at it. How my older brother and I had to go and get him out of jail so he could make his orientation at Juilliard (another long story…my family is full of long stories).
The first real play I wrote is dedicated to him, long before he died. Oddly, that play is about someone losing a sibling. In it, I put in it the way my younger brother would cry as baby, the way it would well up inside of him, but when he opened his mouth, nothing would come out. He’d sit, mouth wide, for a second before the sound kicked in.
There was one time my older brother, my younger brother and sister and I went to play pool. This was rare, having the four of us together like that. I remember sitting there, watching my older brother and my younger brother, sixteen years of difference between them, teamed up, both smoking and totally beating the snot out of my sister and I, and thinking, “Wow, we’re on such different tracks.” But they weren’t that different. One long train ride, my older brother, a sculptor, talked to me and my younger brother about art and how to approach it, as educated black men in the world. My younger brother and I were far more assimilated, far more integration-minded than he was, and he was trying to convince us that the world wouldn’t want what we had. He didn’t, neither of us. But I know we both struggled with it.
I remember the spring before, the spring I graduated from grad school and my mom threw a graduation party for me at her place in Brooklyn. It was the first time in a very long time all five of my siblings were in one place. We took a lot of pictures of that day. It would be the last time we would all be in the same place again.
And I remember the summer he died. A wave of guilt, anger, sorrow and regret washes over me. My brother auditioned for a play I did that summer, walking into the audition room unannounced. I never found out if he knew before he walked in what he was auditioning for. I didn’t know he was coming. He was so nervous, and so was I. He was also so good. We called him back. But, in the end, we didn’t cast him. If I’d known he was coming, if I’d thought about it more, maybe I could have written something for him, changed something. But it was my first full-length show and I didn’t. I didn’t know how to tell him. I held off until my older brother called me and, uh, gently nudged me to make the call. I did and he took it well and professionally. I left that phone call feeling okay.
But then, later in the summer…with my large, contentious family, there’s always someone fighting with someone. And that summer, I was stuck in one in a long line of fights with my mom. In the midst of it, my younger brother called me. I was angry, having just gotten off the phone with my mom, and told him to call me back later. It was a fifteen second phone call. The last thing my younger brother heard from me was “I don’t have time for you.” I carry that with me, always.
Losing someone you love is a terrible thing and, being a writer, it’s incomprehensible for me. Because there are no words for it. No words can convey what it feels like. Saying “you have a pit inside of you” is 1) an awful cliché and 2) just doesn’t do any justice to what it feels like. Because you can imagine a pit, a deep, dark, yawning pit. But you can’t imagine this. This is a place no words can go.
Even eight years later, whenever I see a tall, skinny young black man of a certain color, certain shape, I think, “Is that him? Maybe there’s been a terrible, terrible mistake.” It’s non-sensical. But I do. My brain still knows him, still has him imprinted in there and is still looking for the right thing to fit into the imprint.
Eight years. It will be eight years on Tuesday. It will be a hot, bright summer day. The kind of day in June or July that I love. The kind of day I should be spending, blowing off work and laying in a field, or walking around the city. And I might be doing those things. But inside…inside will be a different story.
Because eight years ago on August 18th, Edward Craig Scriven died. And I still miss him.
Especially at this time of year.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Dead Letter Office
Well, not exactly dead and not exactly letters. My friend Zaida at Manhattan's Peak has a great post up about importing some old posts from a previous incarnation of her blog and it got me thinking about a similar thing that's been happening in my life for the last couple of weeks. I've been getting old e-mails.
See, I got a new computer a couple of weeks back, a brand new, sleek and shiny laptop. My old laptop had soldiered on bravely, but was slouching towards obsolescence. The battery had failed a while ago, the CD burner came and went and I'd packed it to the gills with plays, short stories, pictures and what-have-you. It wouldn't be long for this world, so it was time for an upgrade.
I figured, since I was upgrading, I'd go all the way. As anyone who's talked to me for more than a minute knows, I'm a resolute and passionate PC guy. Screw Apple and their slick, easy-to-use computers. I like mine tetchy, surly, somewhat unresponsive and difficult. Like my women. Which explains many other things. But moving on.
Since I was getting a new computer, I figured I'd step up to all the new bells and whistles. Yes, that means the dreaded Vista. This would eventually try my patience. Be careful what you wish for and all.
For the better part of a decade now (and, Jesus God, it's weird to write that sentence), I've been using Outlook Express as my e-mail program. I've moved my accounts from computer to computer, set it up on various work computers. It's simple and I like it and, most importantly, I know it really well. So, of course, Microsoft has discontinued it for Vista. *Sigh* Okay, fine, I thought, out with the old, in with the new. I moved over to Microsoft Mail, their new e-mail program, and went about getting my old messages.
Anyone who's talked to me long enough to discover the depths of my disdain for Mac products has also talked to me long enough to realize that I spend a lot of time online and do a lot of e-mailing. In many ways, it's my preferred method of contact. Maybe it's because I'm a writer, or surprisingly shy and reserved, or maybe all of the TV I watched as a child has permanently warped my brain. Take your pick. I use my e-mail a lot, I get a lot of e-mails, sometimes even from actual people and I like to keep archives. For a while, on my computer before my last, I had several years of messages stored in Outlook Express. When, for some reason, I couldn't import them onto my new computer, I hung onto the files, thinking someday I'd either figure it out, or I'd get a new computer and be able to import them. It was honestly one of the things I was most excited about getting a new computer for.
But when I got my new computer, I couldn't find the old files. Which was a major bummer. Still, I soldiered on. I set up Microsoft Mail, hooked it up with my Yahoo account and started downloading the messages. I have about five years' worth. Five years of e-mails is, well, a lot. Something like 60, 000. I'm not kidding. It's a lot. And downloading it takes a lot of time. I set it up and then went and did things like go to work and come home and it would still be downloading.
Which was fine and dandy once. But then, for reasons known only to Bill Gates, every time I opened Microsoft Mail, it would start all over again, downloading the same messages again and again. So I switched to Windows Live Mail. And downloaded 60,000 messages again. But then it wouldn't download any new mail. So I switched to Thunderbird. 60,000 again. Again, no new mail. Apparently, I'm not meant to be downloading messages right now. Or maybe never again.
Watching five years' worth of e-mail scroll by, three or four times over, can be really overwhelming. Names pop up that you haven't seen in years, they suddenly dominate your e-mail, then fade away, replaced by other names. Threads come and go, themes, jobs, you relive old events. Sometimes I would be intrigued by a subject line that I didn't remember, or a sequence of events that I'd forgotten about. Sometimes I would read an e-mail from someone I'd lost. Sometimes I was amazed to find how the same kinds of situations, the same subject lines, the same threads would crop up over and over again. Sometimes I was amazed to find how much I'd changed, how I'd responded to something before. It was like finding a real-time diary.
But maybe the lesson of it all is to let go. Do I really need to carry the last five years with me all the time? Aren't today's message more important than last year's? Live in the present goes the old mantra. Live in the now.
But at the same time, this is my past, my history. My achievements, successes, failures, heartbreaks and fuck-ups are there, in cyberspace. I know that somewhere, somehow, they just might exist forever. And I'm okay with that. How will they ever publish The Letters of J. Holtham without five years of e-mail? Maybe it's a good thing.
But, after a month of seeing my past scroll down my screen over and over again, I'm ready to let it go and start a new archive. So feel free to send me an e-mail. In five years, it might remind me of this moment.
See, I got a new computer a couple of weeks back, a brand new, sleek and shiny laptop. My old laptop had soldiered on bravely, but was slouching towards obsolescence. The battery had failed a while ago, the CD burner came and went and I'd packed it to the gills with plays, short stories, pictures and what-have-you. It wouldn't be long for this world, so it was time for an upgrade.
I figured, since I was upgrading, I'd go all the way. As anyone who's talked to me for more than a minute knows, I'm a resolute and passionate PC guy. Screw Apple and their slick, easy-to-use computers. I like mine tetchy, surly, somewhat unresponsive and difficult. Like my women. Which explains many other things. But moving on.
Since I was getting a new computer, I figured I'd step up to all the new bells and whistles. Yes, that means the dreaded Vista. This would eventually try my patience. Be careful what you wish for and all.
For the better part of a decade now (and, Jesus God, it's weird to write that sentence), I've been using Outlook Express as my e-mail program. I've moved my accounts from computer to computer, set it up on various work computers. It's simple and I like it and, most importantly, I know it really well. So, of course, Microsoft has discontinued it for Vista. *Sigh* Okay, fine, I thought, out with the old, in with the new. I moved over to Microsoft Mail, their new e-mail program, and went about getting my old messages.
Anyone who's talked to me long enough to discover the depths of my disdain for Mac products has also talked to me long enough to realize that I spend a lot of time online and do a lot of e-mailing. In many ways, it's my preferred method of contact. Maybe it's because I'm a writer, or surprisingly shy and reserved, or maybe all of the TV I watched as a child has permanently warped my brain. Take your pick. I use my e-mail a lot, I get a lot of e-mails, sometimes even from actual people and I like to keep archives. For a while, on my computer before my last, I had several years of messages stored in Outlook Express. When, for some reason, I couldn't import them onto my new computer, I hung onto the files, thinking someday I'd either figure it out, or I'd get a new computer and be able to import them. It was honestly one of the things I was most excited about getting a new computer for.
But when I got my new computer, I couldn't find the old files. Which was a major bummer. Still, I soldiered on. I set up Microsoft Mail, hooked it up with my Yahoo account and started downloading the messages. I have about five years' worth. Five years of e-mails is, well, a lot. Something like 60, 000. I'm not kidding. It's a lot. And downloading it takes a lot of time. I set it up and then went and did things like go to work and come home and it would still be downloading.
Which was fine and dandy once. But then, for reasons known only to Bill Gates, every time I opened Microsoft Mail, it would start all over again, downloading the same messages again and again. So I switched to Windows Live Mail. And downloaded 60,000 messages again. But then it wouldn't download any new mail. So I switched to Thunderbird. 60,000 again. Again, no new mail. Apparently, I'm not meant to be downloading messages right now. Or maybe never again.
Watching five years' worth of e-mail scroll by, three or four times over, can be really overwhelming. Names pop up that you haven't seen in years, they suddenly dominate your e-mail, then fade away, replaced by other names. Threads come and go, themes, jobs, you relive old events. Sometimes I would be intrigued by a subject line that I didn't remember, or a sequence of events that I'd forgotten about. Sometimes I would read an e-mail from someone I'd lost. Sometimes I was amazed to find how the same kinds of situations, the same subject lines, the same threads would crop up over and over again. Sometimes I was amazed to find how much I'd changed, how I'd responded to something before. It was like finding a real-time diary.
But maybe the lesson of it all is to let go. Do I really need to carry the last five years with me all the time? Aren't today's message more important than last year's? Live in the present goes the old mantra. Live in the now.
But at the same time, this is my past, my history. My achievements, successes, failures, heartbreaks and fuck-ups are there, in cyberspace. I know that somewhere, somehow, they just might exist forever. And I'm okay with that. How will they ever publish The Letters of J. Holtham without five years of e-mail? Maybe it's a good thing.
But, after a month of seeing my past scroll down my screen over and over again, I'm ready to let it go and start a new archive. So feel free to send me an e-mail. In five years, it might remind me of this moment.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Writing Anarchists: Diary #4 (or The Doldrums or Shaking Hands With Failure)
Page count: 10
In the air right now: Sufjan Stevens, "Concerning the UFO Sighting Near Highland, Illinois"
To quote one of my all-time favorite writers, sorry I haven't rapped at ya in a while. Life...it just keeps happening, right? I took a trip out of town, I survived a yearly review at work, I drank some cheap beers (probably too many), saw a great show, saw a brilliantly awful movie (Everything you need to know about that is here. Read it and I dare you not to want to see the movie.), a little of this, a little of that.
A little of writing. Very little. Too little.
This project started off with admittedly, pretty ambitious goals: write a full-length play, from scratch, for specific actors, rehearse and put it up at least as a workshop all in about five weeks. It's a crazy idea. I managed to sell the Ensemble Studio Theatre, my artistic home, on the idea, at least provisionally, got a director I really like working with on board, and a bang-up cast who all signed on sight unseen. I got the dates I wanted, the venue, the whole kit and caboodle. I even got all of you involved, with my oh-so-witty posts and such. It was all so grand and exciting.
And then I hit the doldrums. Writing can be like sailing (as I, a lifelong landlubber, understand sailing): you set out for a destination, you have charts, maps, hard tack, whatever you need to get there. You've got it all, but there's one part that's pretty much out of your control: the wind. You have your tricks to keep moving forward, but if you hit the doldrums, well, you hit the doldrums. And I hit the doldrums. And with the doldrums, come the sirens.
The sirens sing and sing, but these aren't pretty, aren't singing about how much tail (wordplay!) you're going to get in the murky deep. They basically screech at the top of their lungs about how this whole endeavor is doomed to failure, you were wrong to set out, you were wrong to consider sailing, hell, you were probably wrong to be born, and you should rectify that error at your earliest convenience. All you can really do is lash yourself to the mast and try to ride the current out.
As everyone I know knows, I do love me some Facebook, but this is one thing (among many) that Facebook makes so much worse. Because there's nothing worse when you're struggling than a constant stream of happy, successful people updating about their various summer conferences, workshops, productions, writing adventures. That right there stokes the fires of bitterness. Which just plain ain't good when you're sitting down to write. Writing out of bitterness is the quickest way to kill any inspiration or joy.
So why go on Facebook, you ask. Very smart. Unplug, go live your life, do things. And I do. I get of the house, do karaoke, even go on the occasional date (or pseudo-date), talk to friends, have a gay old time. The last thing on my mind is writing. The very last thing. So far last, it might as well not be there. Which then begs the question of why do it at all. So when I sit down to write, yeah, there's nothing there. I'm thinking about some girl I like, or the ball game I watched, or what am I going to sing for Numbers karaoke (it's a theme night, all of the songs have to have numbers in them). Not about my characters or story, or the fact that I'm supposed to be in rehearsals, trying to pull this thing together.
See? The doldrums are cleverly self-perpetuating.
Sooner or later, you start to listen to the sirens and think, maybe this was all doomed to failure. I've written two full-length plays this year, both of which I'm pretty proud of. That's a pretty good haul. Kick back and coast for the rest of the year. That's the good side.
The other side is I haven't had a production in forever. I haven't even gotten a positive response from any theatres in forever. This career thing is pretty well stalled. So...why am I still at it? I'm barrelling into my late thirties and while I've already let go of being a wunderkind, there isn't a lot of time left for me to be emerging. When do you cut bait, paddle back to port and chart another, easier course? There must be other destinations, other islands or countries, maybe not so far off, across such stormy seas. Quiet, nice little places you can drop anchor and settle down and be, at least, content. That's the less good side.
So, okay, maybe there is one beautiful, lovely, perfect siren. She's the quietest of them all, barely a whisper. When the wind turns just right, I can hear her, telling me how great this idea is, how these doldrums won't last forever, that I can do it and then it will be wonderful. Everyone will be impressed, she coos, and riches, fame, fortune and love will follow right behind. I just have to go a little bit further. That far-off distant land is getting closer, every day, she insists. Just beyond the horizon. When you hear that one, it's hard to turn back. Because the other islands are nice, lovely and all but they're not where you really want to go.
I should be used to all of this. Since it happens every time. But every time, it's all new. And every time, I have to ask myself seriously: what am I doing? Where am I actually going? And what happens if I don't get there? Worse, what happens if I do? If you shake hands with failure long enough, you forget what success feels like. You fear the unknown. It feels like the smart thing to do is just walk it all back.
My mama didn't raise no idiots. But my dad sure did. I'm too dumb and stubborn to throw it in. I'll make some adjustments, maybe, do a reading, not a workshop, aim lower for now. But I'm going to finish the freaking thing. I am. It might suck a lot, but it will get done. I'll get to a little atoll, where I can rest, load up on coconuts and mangoes and then set sail again. I'm sure it's just beyond the horizon. Just a little further.
Apologies for both belaboring and maddeningly mixing my metaphors there. That's just how I roll.
In the air right now: Sufjan Stevens, "Concerning the UFO Sighting Near Highland, Illinois"
To quote one of my all-time favorite writers, sorry I haven't rapped at ya in a while. Life...it just keeps happening, right? I took a trip out of town, I survived a yearly review at work, I drank some cheap beers (probably too many), saw a great show, saw a brilliantly awful movie (Everything you need to know about that is here. Read it and I dare you not to want to see the movie.), a little of this, a little of that.
A little of writing. Very little. Too little.
This project started off with admittedly, pretty ambitious goals: write a full-length play, from scratch, for specific actors, rehearse and put it up at least as a workshop all in about five weeks. It's a crazy idea. I managed to sell the Ensemble Studio Theatre, my artistic home, on the idea, at least provisionally, got a director I really like working with on board, and a bang-up cast who all signed on sight unseen. I got the dates I wanted, the venue, the whole kit and caboodle. I even got all of you involved, with my oh-so-witty posts and such. It was all so grand and exciting.
And then I hit the doldrums. Writing can be like sailing (as I, a lifelong landlubber, understand sailing): you set out for a destination, you have charts, maps, hard tack, whatever you need to get there. You've got it all, but there's one part that's pretty much out of your control: the wind. You have your tricks to keep moving forward, but if you hit the doldrums, well, you hit the doldrums. And I hit the doldrums. And with the doldrums, come the sirens.
The sirens sing and sing, but these aren't pretty, aren't singing about how much tail (wordplay!) you're going to get in the murky deep. They basically screech at the top of their lungs about how this whole endeavor is doomed to failure, you were wrong to set out, you were wrong to consider sailing, hell, you were probably wrong to be born, and you should rectify that error at your earliest convenience. All you can really do is lash yourself to the mast and try to ride the current out.
As everyone I know knows, I do love me some Facebook, but this is one thing (among many) that Facebook makes so much worse. Because there's nothing worse when you're struggling than a constant stream of happy, successful people updating about their various summer conferences, workshops, productions, writing adventures. That right there stokes the fires of bitterness. Which just plain ain't good when you're sitting down to write. Writing out of bitterness is the quickest way to kill any inspiration or joy.
So why go on Facebook, you ask. Very smart. Unplug, go live your life, do things. And I do. I get of the house, do karaoke, even go on the occasional date (or pseudo-date), talk to friends, have a gay old time. The last thing on my mind is writing. The very last thing. So far last, it might as well not be there. Which then begs the question of why do it at all. So when I sit down to write, yeah, there's nothing there. I'm thinking about some girl I like, or the ball game I watched, or what am I going to sing for Numbers karaoke (it's a theme night, all of the songs have to have numbers in them). Not about my characters or story, or the fact that I'm supposed to be in rehearsals, trying to pull this thing together.
See? The doldrums are cleverly self-perpetuating.
Sooner or later, you start to listen to the sirens and think, maybe this was all doomed to failure. I've written two full-length plays this year, both of which I'm pretty proud of. That's a pretty good haul. Kick back and coast for the rest of the year. That's the good side.
The other side is I haven't had a production in forever. I haven't even gotten a positive response from any theatres in forever. This career thing is pretty well stalled. So...why am I still at it? I'm barrelling into my late thirties and while I've already let go of being a wunderkind, there isn't a lot of time left for me to be emerging. When do you cut bait, paddle back to port and chart another, easier course? There must be other destinations, other islands or countries, maybe not so far off, across such stormy seas. Quiet, nice little places you can drop anchor and settle down and be, at least, content. That's the less good side.
So, okay, maybe there is one beautiful, lovely, perfect siren. She's the quietest of them all, barely a whisper. When the wind turns just right, I can hear her, telling me how great this idea is, how these doldrums won't last forever, that I can do it and then it will be wonderful. Everyone will be impressed, she coos, and riches, fame, fortune and love will follow right behind. I just have to go a little bit further. That far-off distant land is getting closer, every day, she insists. Just beyond the horizon. When you hear that one, it's hard to turn back. Because the other islands are nice, lovely and all but they're not where you really want to go.
I should be used to all of this. Since it happens every time. But every time, it's all new. And every time, I have to ask myself seriously: what am I doing? Where am I actually going? And what happens if I don't get there? Worse, what happens if I do? If you shake hands with failure long enough, you forget what success feels like. You fear the unknown. It feels like the smart thing to do is just walk it all back.
My mama didn't raise no idiots. But my dad sure did. I'm too dumb and stubborn to throw it in. I'll make some adjustments, maybe, do a reading, not a workshop, aim lower for now. But I'm going to finish the freaking thing. I am. It might suck a lot, but it will get done. I'll get to a little atoll, where I can rest, load up on coconuts and mangoes and then set sail again. I'm sure it's just beyond the horizon. Just a little further.
Apologies for both belaboring and maddeningly mixing my metaphors there. That's just how I roll.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Creating Anarchists: Day One
This past Friday, the company that's going to work with me to create my new play gathered for the first time. Well, most of the company. Our director is at Williamstown, working on another project, and one of the actors is in rehearsal for something else. But the bulk of us were there, on the 6th Floor of the Ensemble Studio Theatre, sitting around the table, looking at a partial outline and discussing the world of the play and how I'm trying to build this play. For a first rehearsal with no script to speak of and an nearly finished outline that just rolled off the presses, it was incredibly productive. Just being in the room with these four awesome actors and watching them interact with each other and ask smart questions about the characters as I described them was food for the play. Since this play revolves around families, both natural and created, feeling the sense of what it's like to have these people together is key. And since the characters are being built specifically for these actors, hearing their voices, talking about family, weddings, politics, whatever just helps create the world we'll be living in.
Of course, I had to hide the incredible terror I felt knowing that in about six weeks, I'll have to have a play. That's a bit, well, terrifying. But it's better to be off and running.
Of course, I had to hide the incredible terror I felt knowing that in about six weeks, I'll have to have a play. That's a bit, well, terrifying. But it's better to be off and running.
Anarchist: A Comedy - Act 2 Outline
Act Two
Scene 6: In Which The Betrayals Begin
Jodie sends her mother an e-mail, wondering why she hasn’t heard from her in so long and asking if she’s seen or heard from Roger. Roger’s been harassing Jodie, looking for information about Barbara. Roger shows up at Barbara’s, looking for real intel. The conference has begun and the first day was marred by chaotic protests and he and his group need to know if the protesters are going to get their act together to do something organized. Barbara tries to find out what happened to the protesters from him, but he presses her, finally threatening her home and her family. Barbara tries to distract him by invoking their own past and even attempting to seduce him. She and Roger are interrupted, though, by Shango. Shango stands up to Roger and chases him off. The protests fell apart and he and Athena were separated. Barbara and Shango share a moment of concern and connection. They’re interrupted by Joachim, still acting squirelly. Athena arrives, upset that she lost Shango and that the protests fell into chaos. They’re planning a bigger thing for the next day, and Athena pushes Shango to hold it all together. Finally Orst arrives, bloodied and beaten by the police during the protest.
Scene 7: In Which Action is Considered and Re-considered
Alex sends his mother an e-mail, complaining about Roger harassing him as well, and trying to figure out what’s going on with Barbara. She ignores it. It’s later that night. Orst is resting on the couch and Barbara is ministering to him. Shango and Athena are arguing in the backyard about how this affects their plans. Shango wants to step up their action, do something more dramatic and effective. Athena think they should stick to their plan. Barbara comes out and joins them. Athena is reluctant to include Barbara in their plans, in order to protect her, but Shango decides to include her. They were planning to break into the hotel hosting the event, hanging a banner out of the building and spreading fake blood all over the hallways. Barbara encourages Shango to take it further, especially given what’s happened to Orst. Athena argues against any escalation, which would lead to more violence. Orst rises to remind her that violence has already started and if there’s going to be any change it has to be met equally. Athena rejects all of that, and reminds Shango that they’ve already tried violence and it didn’t work. She admits that they’re on the run for a series of environmental arson attacks. She wants change, but is no longer willing to risk her life or anyone else’s to get it. Shango finally agrees with her and they head off. Orst tries to tell him that he found an old, bomb-making friend at the protest and he could give them supplies. Shango tells him they don’t want any. But, when they’re gone, Barbara asks him for more information about his friend and the bomb.
Scene 8: In Which The Best Laid Plans Go Awry
Roger sends Barbara an e-mail, thanking her for providing such useful information, finally and assuring her that a check will be on the way. Barbara is watching the demonstration on television. It’s total chaos, again, but even worse. The police are overreacting, the demonstrators are nearly rioting, it’s awful. The police response is so coordinated, it’s like they know what’s coming. She’s obviously very upset about what she’s seeing. As she watches, Joachim enters. Barbara’s surprised to see him. She expected that he would be at the protests. He hems and haws, hiding a bag behind him. Finally, Barbara gets him to tell her his secret: he loves the circus. It’s not really about the animals or the activism for him. He always wanted to be a clown, but his family pushed him to do something “meaningful.” But he’s found happiness in the circus. He isn’t sure if that’s enough. Barbara is at a loss. They both watch the news unfold.
Scene 9: In Which Revelations Leads To Action
In the aftermath of the disastrous day, Shango, Athena and Orst try to piece together what happened. Barbara is out, getting food. Orst is pretty sure they were betrayed by someone from the inside, but Athena refuses to believe that. Orst can’t see any other way that the authorities knew as much about their actions as they seemed to. Although they all just barely managed to escape the police, Athena thinks it’s not a total waste. They can use the still-roiling anger of the protesters as leverage to force a meeting with the conference attendees. If they fear more chaos for the final day, and Shango and Athena can keep the protesters at bay, that could give them the upper hand in negotiating. Shango is frustrated at that plan, feeling like it won’t be enough. Their argument gets pretty heated. When Athena storms off, Shango asks Orst about his friend the bombmaker. Orst says he lost track of him during the protest. Shango has been further radicalized by the events of the day and wants to take more drastic action. Orst says he can make a few calls and see what he can find out. Barbara arrives to find Shango alone, still fuming about it all. He vents to her about his feelings of helplessness and loss of control. They bond over that feeling, and Barbara says that they can do something about it. She tries to show him what she’s got in her bag, but they’re interrupted by Roger. He’s come to negotiate on behalf of the conference. Shango is shocked to find that he knows Barbara. He outs her as an operative. Shango won’t believe her when she protests and storms out. As he goes, Athena comes down, far more professionally dressed. She’s actually the person who called Roger. She had provided inside information on the protests to him in an effort to win a place at the table. Barbara is shocked that she would betray everyone, but Athena argues that it’s the only way to make real change. She and Roger head off to meet with the bigwigs. Joachim enters, heading out to leave town with the circus. Barbara is left with her mysterious bag. Orst reappears, having been unsuccessful in his attempts to find more bombmaking materials. He admits that he wasn’t really trying all that hard. He likes the protests, the easy love and the conversation, but all of the drama just gets in the way. He didn’t really expect Shango to take him so seriously and want to take action. He figures that the last day will be a bust, so he’s already heading down to Mexico to protest at a resort or two. Once he’s gone, Barbara opens her bag to reveal a bomb. Shango re-enters and finds her with it. She says that she wanted to do something to take action and make real change. Shango tries to talk her down and get the bomb away from her, but she won’t let it go. The family she’s built is dissolving around her and she can’t stand it. Shango tries to talk her down as she becomes more frantic. As it seems like she’s going to set the bomb off, Shango grabs it from her. Athena returns for some of her paperwork and materials, and sees Shango with the bomb. She freaks out and starts calling the police. Shango goes to get rid of the bomb in the backyard, but it goes off. Barbara and Athena are left in the wreckage.
Scene 10: In Which A Death Has Consequences and Decisions Are Made
Barbara sits in the wreckage of her living room, bandaged and wrapped up. Jodie and Roger are there. Alex didn’t even bother to come back. They’re obviously distraught about what’s happened to her and the house. Jodie is now threatening to stay and take charge of her mother’s life. Roger is in agreement. Barbara clearly can’t be left on her own, they reason. They’re going to fix up the house, maybe sell it, move her away. Barbara takes it all in, not speaking. Jodie and Roger get frustrated with her and demand that she explain what’s been happening. She doesn’t answer them. She just gets up and goes to her computer, and checks her e-mail. They try to get her to focus, but she ignores them. She opens an e-mail from Joachim. She sees him in full clown regalia, juggling. He tells her how happy he is in the circus, how it’s where he’s always wanted to be and the important thing in life is finding the things that make you happy. Barbara laughs with joy at Joachim’s tricks and joy. The lights fade on her.
-End of Play-
Scene 6: In Which The Betrayals Begin
Jodie sends her mother an e-mail, wondering why she hasn’t heard from her in so long and asking if she’s seen or heard from Roger. Roger’s been harassing Jodie, looking for information about Barbara. Roger shows up at Barbara’s, looking for real intel. The conference has begun and the first day was marred by chaotic protests and he and his group need to know if the protesters are going to get their act together to do something organized. Barbara tries to find out what happened to the protesters from him, but he presses her, finally threatening her home and her family. Barbara tries to distract him by invoking their own past and even attempting to seduce him. She and Roger are interrupted, though, by Shango. Shango stands up to Roger and chases him off. The protests fell apart and he and Athena were separated. Barbara and Shango share a moment of concern and connection. They’re interrupted by Joachim, still acting squirelly. Athena arrives, upset that she lost Shango and that the protests fell into chaos. They’re planning a bigger thing for the next day, and Athena pushes Shango to hold it all together. Finally Orst arrives, bloodied and beaten by the police during the protest.
Scene 7: In Which Action is Considered and Re-considered
Alex sends his mother an e-mail, complaining about Roger harassing him as well, and trying to figure out what’s going on with Barbara. She ignores it. It’s later that night. Orst is resting on the couch and Barbara is ministering to him. Shango and Athena are arguing in the backyard about how this affects their plans. Shango wants to step up their action, do something more dramatic and effective. Athena think they should stick to their plan. Barbara comes out and joins them. Athena is reluctant to include Barbara in their plans, in order to protect her, but Shango decides to include her. They were planning to break into the hotel hosting the event, hanging a banner out of the building and spreading fake blood all over the hallways. Barbara encourages Shango to take it further, especially given what’s happened to Orst. Athena argues against any escalation, which would lead to more violence. Orst rises to remind her that violence has already started and if there’s going to be any change it has to be met equally. Athena rejects all of that, and reminds Shango that they’ve already tried violence and it didn’t work. She admits that they’re on the run for a series of environmental arson attacks. She wants change, but is no longer willing to risk her life or anyone else’s to get it. Shango finally agrees with her and they head off. Orst tries to tell him that he found an old, bomb-making friend at the protest and he could give them supplies. Shango tells him they don’t want any. But, when they’re gone, Barbara asks him for more information about his friend and the bomb.
Scene 8: In Which The Best Laid Plans Go Awry
Roger sends Barbara an e-mail, thanking her for providing such useful information, finally and assuring her that a check will be on the way. Barbara is watching the demonstration on television. It’s total chaos, again, but even worse. The police are overreacting, the demonstrators are nearly rioting, it’s awful. The police response is so coordinated, it’s like they know what’s coming. She’s obviously very upset about what she’s seeing. As she watches, Joachim enters. Barbara’s surprised to see him. She expected that he would be at the protests. He hems and haws, hiding a bag behind him. Finally, Barbara gets him to tell her his secret: he loves the circus. It’s not really about the animals or the activism for him. He always wanted to be a clown, but his family pushed him to do something “meaningful.” But he’s found happiness in the circus. He isn’t sure if that’s enough. Barbara is at a loss. They both watch the news unfold.
Scene 9: In Which Revelations Leads To Action
In the aftermath of the disastrous day, Shango, Athena and Orst try to piece together what happened. Barbara is out, getting food. Orst is pretty sure they were betrayed by someone from the inside, but Athena refuses to believe that. Orst can’t see any other way that the authorities knew as much about their actions as they seemed to. Although they all just barely managed to escape the police, Athena thinks it’s not a total waste. They can use the still-roiling anger of the protesters as leverage to force a meeting with the conference attendees. If they fear more chaos for the final day, and Shango and Athena can keep the protesters at bay, that could give them the upper hand in negotiating. Shango is frustrated at that plan, feeling like it won’t be enough. Their argument gets pretty heated. When Athena storms off, Shango asks Orst about his friend the bombmaker. Orst says he lost track of him during the protest. Shango has been further radicalized by the events of the day and wants to take more drastic action. Orst says he can make a few calls and see what he can find out. Barbara arrives to find Shango alone, still fuming about it all. He vents to her about his feelings of helplessness and loss of control. They bond over that feeling, and Barbara says that they can do something about it. She tries to show him what she’s got in her bag, but they’re interrupted by Roger. He’s come to negotiate on behalf of the conference. Shango is shocked to find that he knows Barbara. He outs her as an operative. Shango won’t believe her when she protests and storms out. As he goes, Athena comes down, far more professionally dressed. She’s actually the person who called Roger. She had provided inside information on the protests to him in an effort to win a place at the table. Barbara is shocked that she would betray everyone, but Athena argues that it’s the only way to make real change. She and Roger head off to meet with the bigwigs. Joachim enters, heading out to leave town with the circus. Barbara is left with her mysterious bag. Orst reappears, having been unsuccessful in his attempts to find more bombmaking materials. He admits that he wasn’t really trying all that hard. He likes the protests, the easy love and the conversation, but all of the drama just gets in the way. He didn’t really expect Shango to take him so seriously and want to take action. He figures that the last day will be a bust, so he’s already heading down to Mexico to protest at a resort or two. Once he’s gone, Barbara opens her bag to reveal a bomb. Shango re-enters and finds her with it. She says that she wanted to do something to take action and make real change. Shango tries to talk her down and get the bomb away from her, but she won’t let it go. The family she’s built is dissolving around her and she can’t stand it. Shango tries to talk her down as she becomes more frantic. As it seems like she’s going to set the bomb off, Shango grabs it from her. Athena returns for some of her paperwork and materials, and sees Shango with the bomb. She freaks out and starts calling the police. Shango goes to get rid of the bomb in the backyard, but it goes off. Barbara and Athena are left in the wreckage.
Scene 10: In Which A Death Has Consequences and Decisions Are Made
Barbara sits in the wreckage of her living room, bandaged and wrapped up. Jodie and Roger are there. Alex didn’t even bother to come back. They’re obviously distraught about what’s happened to her and the house. Jodie is now threatening to stay and take charge of her mother’s life. Roger is in agreement. Barbara clearly can’t be left on her own, they reason. They’re going to fix up the house, maybe sell it, move her away. Barbara takes it all in, not speaking. Jodie and Roger get frustrated with her and demand that she explain what’s been happening. She doesn’t answer them. She just gets up and goes to her computer, and checks her e-mail. They try to get her to focus, but she ignores them. She opens an e-mail from Joachim. She sees him in full clown regalia, juggling. He tells her how happy he is in the circus, how it’s where he’s always wanted to be and the important thing in life is finding the things that make you happy. Barbara laughs with joy at Joachim’s tricks and joy. The lights fade on her.
-End of Play-
Anarchists: A Comedy - Act 1 Outline
ANARCHISTS: A COMEDY
Outline and Character Breakdown
CHARACTERS:
BARBARA
JODIE/ATHENA
ALEX/JOACHIM
ROGER/ORST
SHANGO
Setting: A nice house in a development, not too far from a large-ish city in the western part of the
Time: The summer of 2008.
OUTLINE
Scene 1: In Which A Death Has Consequences and Decisions Are Made
It’s the afternoon of Bob DeWitt’s funeral. His son and daughter, Alex and Jodie, and his best friend, Roger, wait for Bob’s widow, Barbara, to pull herself together. It takes some time. They need her to come to some decisions about what’s going to happen now that Bob is gone. Roger lets them know that Bob’s business investments hadn’t done as well as he’d hoped, and the family is now broke and in danger of losing their house. They need to decide now, because Alex and Jodie are out of there, ASAP, and Roger needs to focus on work. Barbara isn’t sure how she’s going to pull herself together and keep the house. Everyone reminds her of what a bullying jerk Bob was, and how they’ve all hoped and waited for the day they were free of him. Jodie, in particular, yells at her mother for being a doormat all these years and being unable to stand up for herself or do anything proactive because of Bob’s iron rule. She declares herself done with her family unless they can get their act together. Alex is similarly detached, lost in a haze of alcohol. He and Jodie leave Barbara and Roger to figure it out. Barbara is confused and distraught. Roger makes a pass at her, but she rebuffs him. He offers her a job to get out of the pit they’re in: his security firm needs intel on a group of radicals coming to town to protest a conference. He wants her to let them in her house and gather information. Barbara isn’t ready to do anything like that. He says that she’s in a desperate situation and will need to do something. He leaves her the web address of a listserv for radicals.
Scene 2: In Which A Connection Is Made
Barbara is deeply ambivalent about going on the internet to check out the listserv, but finally, with a little liquid courage, she goes on and reads some of the postings. We see the people as she reads. Joachim, a young man, who’s following the circus, spying on their animal treatment is one. Orst, a middle-aged European of nebulous origin and not particularly great English, is backpacking across the
Scene 3: In Which New Tricks are Learned and Old Dogs are Discussed
Joachim is the first to arrive. He’s a quiet, studious young man, recently dropped out from a good college back east. His parents are quite supportive of his new lifestyle, almost to the point of pushing him into it. He’s quite nervous about his audition for the circus the next day. He’s been working on various tricks in order to impress them. Barbara isn’t sure how to deal with him, but watches his tricks and tries to help him out. She remembers how her own son liked to juggle when he was young and they talk about childhood pets. She connects with him and sends him off to bed. After he’s gone, she sits down to e-mail Roger, but leaves out the details of Joachim’s circus mission.
Scene 4: In Which The
The next night, Orst has arrived and the three of them are celebrating Joachim’s successful audition. Orst is convivial and charming. He’s very
Scene 5: In Which The Gods Arrive
Finally, Athena and Shango arrive at Barbara’s. They are seemingly very in sync, even though they’re quite different. Athena is a bit of hippie, and Shango is a bit of a punk. They are clearly quite close and have a real bond. They are also clearly hiding something. When Barbara asks about their names, they clam up and evade. They also talk in code about an big event they’re planning, a major action at the event. Shango and Orst bond, sharing visions of revolution and dramatic acts against the establishment and Athena and Barbara bond. Joachim enters, but is also clearly hiding something. Barbara, though, brings the whole group together for a “family dinner.” Although they’re strangers to her and new to the house, Barbara is happy to have people in the house. They share a toast together to the future.
- End of Act 1 -
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