I started writing poetry in third grade. Like so many things in my life, including my degree, my choice of writing poetry was predicated by my Olympic-level laziness. My teacher told us that we could either write a page-long short story or a 20-line poem.
Duh!
I think it was about Garfield.
My literary imagery hasn't exactly progressed miles since then, but here's something I've hacked out. Read it out loud, it feels better.
Salt
I can still taste the salt on your lips –
Sun-kissed blonde and sweet, sweet seventeen
Graduation week daquiris, sand surf
summer lovin’
tell me more
tell me Mooorrrree
Wave-tossed kisses
Under the Boardwalk
As the water licks our toes
You giggle.
I can still taste the salt on your lips –
Tangled clothes bare back sticking to the car seat
Elbows, knees and nothing fitting right
Ooooh, ow, no, yes, right theeerrrreeee
Shit, car’s coming
Can’t see to drive
Laughing, sweating, panting
growing up fast together
on an empty dirt road
Shirt on inside out walking in the front door
and Mama waiting in the kitchen
I can still taste the salt on your lips –
Feel your hair on the back of my hand
As the wind blows off the lake
You cling to me
One
last
time
And a single
Sweet
Salty
Tear
Runs down your face
Or mine.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Monday, November 28, 2005
Blogging is like AA
In that it is therapuetic, but somewhat embarassing to admit to. When I was a junior in college, I went into AA because I felt that I had a drinking problem.
Now, any of you that have associated with me recently are thinking "He doesn't seem to have a problem with it, he gets loaded just fine." And I tend to agree with that. BUT I needed some sober time for self-evaluation to realize that my problem wasn't with all the booze that I was drinking, it was with the foul crazy-ass women I was chasing. But that's a whole nother series of posts.
But one thing I remember from my time going to AA meetings was somebody telling me "keep your recovery private. You'll want to shout from the rooftops that you're clean, but people are just going to look at you funny, and with pity, and differently. And you're not going to like that."
Well, yes, people do look at you funny when you say you keep a blog, but that doesn't bug me. I'm accustomed to people looking at me funny. I'm funny-looking, it happens.
What is interesting is when people tell me that they read my blog. Or people that I know in my day to day life leave comments. That's a little odd. I've been going through this verbal bulemia here with no thought that anybody actually reads this thing, more of an exercise in memories and working the writing muscles. It's kinda odd to think of someone actually reading it. And cool, too. Because for somebody to actually remember a conversation that we had and go look this thing up means they give a shit, which is cool.
So thanks for stopping by, I'm glad to meet you.
Now, any of you that have associated with me recently are thinking "He doesn't seem to have a problem with it, he gets loaded just fine." And I tend to agree with that. BUT I needed some sober time for self-evaluation to realize that my problem wasn't with all the booze that I was drinking, it was with the foul crazy-ass women I was chasing. But that's a whole nother series of posts.
But one thing I remember from my time going to AA meetings was somebody telling me "keep your recovery private. You'll want to shout from the rooftops that you're clean, but people are just going to look at you funny, and with pity, and differently. And you're not going to like that."
Well, yes, people do look at you funny when you say you keep a blog, but that doesn't bug me. I'm accustomed to people looking at me funny. I'm funny-looking, it happens.
What is interesting is when people tell me that they read my blog. Or people that I know in my day to day life leave comments. That's a little odd. I've been going through this verbal bulemia here with no thought that anybody actually reads this thing, more of an exercise in memories and working the writing muscles. It's kinda odd to think of someone actually reading it. And cool, too. Because for somebody to actually remember a conversation that we had and go look this thing up means they give a shit, which is cool.
So thanks for stopping by, I'm glad to meet you.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Thanksgiving
This is an odd holiday for my family. We have the requisite death by fooding, the snoring through football and all the family getting together that everyone else has, but at some point in the day, there's a pause. It's not something official, and it's not something together, but at some point throughout the day you can see it cross everybody's face. It's memory, and that seems to be where the focus of this blog is going, so let's cruise a little further on up the road, as the song says.
1994, Saturday. Two days after Thanksgiving. Suzy and I have been together for a couple of months now and I'm spending pretty much every weekend at her place now, so that's where I'm found. It's late-ish, maybe 11. Far enough into the evening that when my pager goes off, it's a little unusual. When the phone rings downstairs, we ignore it, because it's Saturday night and we're doing what young couples do on Saturday nights when their relationship is new. Think back, you'll remember.
When the cell phone rings and the pager goes off again, I'm perplexed enough to answer my cell. It's John Fore, one of my roommates from Rock Vegas.
"Yeah, what?" somewhat annoyed.
"Dude. Call your Dad. He's trying to find you."
"What's up?" becoming concerned, because my Dad never calls. Anyone.
"I dunno, he just told me to have you call home."
Hang up, scared now. I look at my pager, it's my parent's number. Seriously concerned now, I go downstairs to hear my dad leaving a message on the machine
"...call me as soon as you get this, it's important."
I pick up, dial him back.
"Hey. What's wrong?" In my parent's world, nobody ever calls anyone after 9PM unless something is terribly wrong.
There's a pause, and I know it's bad.
"Wayne was killed in a car wreck a little while ago."
"No."
Beat.
"What happened?"
"We don't know yet."
"Should I come home?"
"No. There's nothing you can do tonight. Come home tomorrow morning, we'll know more then."
Beat.
"I need to go, I still have to call Bobby."
"Alright. I'll see you tomorrow."
And as I curl up into a ball, naked under the bar in my condo's kitchen, cold linoleum slowly imprinting flower patterns onto my legs and side, I realize that my brother is gone. Just like that, with a phone call, shit has become seriously fucked up.
Wayne Alexander was my brother-in-law. He married my sister Bonnie when I was a year old. I am the youngest of four children, current ages 52, 49, 48 and 32. So there's a little bit of a disconnect there. Until I got out of college, my siblings had always been more like other sets of parents or aunts and uncles than brothers and sisters. And I was always closest to Bonnie and Wayne.
Bonnie wanted to have kids in the absolute worst way, and it was a long time in coming for her, so she took me in as my 2nd mom almost from the time I was out of Mama's arms. I spent as much of my waking time at her house as I did my own when I was small, and their friends Guinea, Herb, Cranford and Lana and Joe were my extended family too. When Jessica and Stephanie were born, I was old enough to have distanced myself a little from that, but Bonnie is still the sibling I am closest to, by far.
I had my first beer at their kitchen table. We won't discuss the fact that I was 11. I shot my first gun in their front yard. I looked at my first porn in their closet (glad for a moment that my sister is internet-illiterate, I don't think she knows that I swiped a pile of Wayne's Playboys when I was in Jr. High). These are major events for a southern boy. Bonnie gave me my first Clapton album, and has been subsequently responsible for many of my favorite musical experiences of my life.
So to have Wayne ripped away from us that quickly was absolutely fucking devastating. I have never experienced anything quite so suddenly shattering, not even when my fiance dumped me from across the Atlantic Ocean (another story for another time, but I'll get there, I promise).
My father is an incredibly softhearted man. You'd never know it to look at him, a slightly gnarled sunburnt stump of a man with woodcutter arms and a plodding half-stomp of a gait, but he taught me that it's okay for a man to cry. We watched MASH together and wept like little girls when Henry Blake's chopper got shot down. So it wasn't a huge surprise to see him weeping outside my sister's house when I walked onto her porch. But I had never seen my brother Bob cry before, not even when his son Jash died the day after he was born. But Bobby was crying too that day, and it broke my shit right up. I remember only snapshots from those next few days -
My sister sitting on the couch looking for all the world like someone in advanced Alzheimer's, just uncomprehending. The epitomy of the word "haunted eyes."
Walking down the hallway that Monday in the theatre building at school and finding Marc, the chair of our department to tell him that I wouldn't be in classes for a few days, could he make that all work out for me, and this 6' 3" bear of a guy just folding me into a hug that for a second at least, held my pain at bay and let me feel safe.
The amazing amount of food spread through every room of Bonnie's double-wide. Southerners understand that not only is the way to win a heart through the stomach, but often the way to heal one begins there as well. The people of that small community made sure that my whole family's physical comforts were taken care of for those days while we tried to begin to patch our hearts together.
Standing outside the funeral home waiting for the private visitation before the greeting line, and waiting for Bonnie to arrive. My niece Diane, Bobby and I were standing out back waiting for her when Bobby said "Well, we always said she'd be late for her own funeral. I guess this is as close as you can really get." My mother slapped his arm, and I laughed for the first time in three days.
I don't remember much of the funeral. Nothing of what was said. Those aren't the things that stand out at those moments. I remember Danny Wallace's ponytail. I remember the sadness in Robert Blair's eyes. I remember people hugging me that I hadn't seen in years. I remember Mike Wallace and I talking for the first time in 5 years.
So this is a holiday for giving thanks. Really. Take a minute and look around the table, and be fucking thankful, because it can all change too fast. I still remember the conversations we had that Thanksgiving, because we were all talking about how much Wayne's mullet looked like Toby Keith's mullet, and how that boy was never gonna have a hit if he didn't fix that hair.
I'm thankful for all that I have. I'm also thankful for the experiences of loss that I've had, because that makes me appreciate what I still have. I'm thankful for the three people who read this blog, and especially for the reconnection it has allowed me to make with old friends. And for the new friends I've made this year. Friends are important. It's like somebody said, "Friends are the family that we choose." Thanks for being part of my family.
1994, Saturday. Two days after Thanksgiving. Suzy and I have been together for a couple of months now and I'm spending pretty much every weekend at her place now, so that's where I'm found. It's late-ish, maybe 11. Far enough into the evening that when my pager goes off, it's a little unusual. When the phone rings downstairs, we ignore it, because it's Saturday night and we're doing what young couples do on Saturday nights when their relationship is new. Think back, you'll remember.
When the cell phone rings and the pager goes off again, I'm perplexed enough to answer my cell. It's John Fore, one of my roommates from Rock Vegas.
"Yeah, what?" somewhat annoyed.
"Dude. Call your Dad. He's trying to find you."
"What's up?" becoming concerned, because my Dad never calls. Anyone.
"I dunno, he just told me to have you call home."
Hang up, scared now. I look at my pager, it's my parent's number. Seriously concerned now, I go downstairs to hear my dad leaving a message on the machine
"...call me as soon as you get this, it's important."
I pick up, dial him back.
"Hey. What's wrong?" In my parent's world, nobody ever calls anyone after 9PM unless something is terribly wrong.
There's a pause, and I know it's bad.
"Wayne was killed in a car wreck a little while ago."
"No."
Beat.
"What happened?"
"We don't know yet."
"Should I come home?"
"No. There's nothing you can do tonight. Come home tomorrow morning, we'll know more then."
Beat.
"I need to go, I still have to call Bobby."
"Alright. I'll see you tomorrow."
And as I curl up into a ball, naked under the bar in my condo's kitchen, cold linoleum slowly imprinting flower patterns onto my legs and side, I realize that my brother is gone. Just like that, with a phone call, shit has become seriously fucked up.
Wayne Alexander was my brother-in-law. He married my sister Bonnie when I was a year old. I am the youngest of four children, current ages 52, 49, 48 and 32. So there's a little bit of a disconnect there. Until I got out of college, my siblings had always been more like other sets of parents or aunts and uncles than brothers and sisters. And I was always closest to Bonnie and Wayne.
Bonnie wanted to have kids in the absolute worst way, and it was a long time in coming for her, so she took me in as my 2nd mom almost from the time I was out of Mama's arms. I spent as much of my waking time at her house as I did my own when I was small, and their friends Guinea, Herb, Cranford and Lana and Joe were my extended family too. When Jessica and Stephanie were born, I was old enough to have distanced myself a little from that, but Bonnie is still the sibling I am closest to, by far.
I had my first beer at their kitchen table. We won't discuss the fact that I was 11. I shot my first gun in their front yard. I looked at my first porn in their closet (glad for a moment that my sister is internet-illiterate, I don't think she knows that I swiped a pile of Wayne's Playboys when I was in Jr. High). These are major events for a southern boy. Bonnie gave me my first Clapton album, and has been subsequently responsible for many of my favorite musical experiences of my life.
So to have Wayne ripped away from us that quickly was absolutely fucking devastating. I have never experienced anything quite so suddenly shattering, not even when my fiance dumped me from across the Atlantic Ocean (another story for another time, but I'll get there, I promise).
My father is an incredibly softhearted man. You'd never know it to look at him, a slightly gnarled sunburnt stump of a man with woodcutter arms and a plodding half-stomp of a gait, but he taught me that it's okay for a man to cry. We watched MASH together and wept like little girls when Henry Blake's chopper got shot down. So it wasn't a huge surprise to see him weeping outside my sister's house when I walked onto her porch. But I had never seen my brother Bob cry before, not even when his son Jash died the day after he was born. But Bobby was crying too that day, and it broke my shit right up. I remember only snapshots from those next few days -
My sister sitting on the couch looking for all the world like someone in advanced Alzheimer's, just uncomprehending. The epitomy of the word "haunted eyes."
Walking down the hallway that Monday in the theatre building at school and finding Marc, the chair of our department to tell him that I wouldn't be in classes for a few days, could he make that all work out for me, and this 6' 3" bear of a guy just folding me into a hug that for a second at least, held my pain at bay and let me feel safe.
The amazing amount of food spread through every room of Bonnie's double-wide. Southerners understand that not only is the way to win a heart through the stomach, but often the way to heal one begins there as well. The people of that small community made sure that my whole family's physical comforts were taken care of for those days while we tried to begin to patch our hearts together.
Standing outside the funeral home waiting for the private visitation before the greeting line, and waiting for Bonnie to arrive. My niece Diane, Bobby and I were standing out back waiting for her when Bobby said "Well, we always said she'd be late for her own funeral. I guess this is as close as you can really get." My mother slapped his arm, and I laughed for the first time in three days.
I don't remember much of the funeral. Nothing of what was said. Those aren't the things that stand out at those moments. I remember Danny Wallace's ponytail. I remember the sadness in Robert Blair's eyes. I remember people hugging me that I hadn't seen in years. I remember Mike Wallace and I talking for the first time in 5 years.
So this is a holiday for giving thanks. Really. Take a minute and look around the table, and be fucking thankful, because it can all change too fast. I still remember the conversations we had that Thanksgiving, because we were all talking about how much Wayne's mullet looked like Toby Keith's mullet, and how that boy was never gonna have a hit if he didn't fix that hair.
I'm thankful for all that I have. I'm also thankful for the experiences of loss that I've had, because that makes me appreciate what I still have. I'm thankful for the three people who read this blog, and especially for the reconnection it has allowed me to make with old friends. And for the new friends I've made this year. Friends are important. It's like somebody said, "Friends are the family that we choose." Thanks for being part of my family.
Friday, November 18, 2005
Desert Island Cash
The local paper ran a big story on the new Johnny Cash flick, which I'm way looking forward to. I think Joaquin Phoenix should be able to carry off most of it, even if he hasn't quite lived as hard as Johnny did. But to finish off their artice, the local movie critic listed his top ten Johnny Cash songs, all from the pre-Rick Rubin era, proving that his head is firmly buried in the sand.
So here's a musical interlude from Falstaff - my ten Desert Island Johnny Cash Songs.
1) Delia's Gone - American I
2) Folsom Prison Blues
3) Boy named Sue - from Live at Folsom Prison
4) Rusty Cage - American II
5) Redemption Song - with Joe Strummer - Unearthed
6) Wichita Lineman - Unearthed
7) Hurt - American IV
8) Ring of Fire
9) Singer of Songs - Unearthed
10) Jackson - with June Carter
And along the same vein - here are my top 10 Desert Island Discs
1-4) Johnny Cash Unearthed
5) Indigo Girls - eponymous debut CD
6) Tori Amos - Little Earthquakes
7) Sam Bush - Live recording from Van Hoys Campground 2001
8) John Hartford - Aero-Plane
9) Hayseed Dixie - Live recording from 2003
10) Great Big Sea - Rant & Roar
So what 10 albums would you load on your iPod for a trip to a deserted island? List in comments or your own blog. Oh, and let me know if you want copies of the Sammy or Hayseed shows, they kick mucho ass.
Peace,
J
So here's a musical interlude from Falstaff - my ten Desert Island Johnny Cash Songs.
1) Delia's Gone - American I
2) Folsom Prison Blues
3) Boy named Sue - from Live at Folsom Prison
4) Rusty Cage - American II
5) Redemption Song - with Joe Strummer - Unearthed
6) Wichita Lineman - Unearthed
7) Hurt - American IV
8) Ring of Fire
9) Singer of Songs - Unearthed
10) Jackson - with June Carter
And along the same vein - here are my top 10 Desert Island Discs
1-4) Johnny Cash Unearthed
5) Indigo Girls - eponymous debut CD
6) Tori Amos - Little Earthquakes
7) Sam Bush - Live recording from Van Hoys Campground 2001
8) John Hartford - Aero-Plane
9) Hayseed Dixie - Live recording from 2003
10) Great Big Sea - Rant & Roar
So what 10 albums would you load on your iPod for a trip to a deserted island? List in comments or your own blog. Oh, and let me know if you want copies of the Sammy or Hayseed shows, they kick mucho ass.
Peace,
J
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Travel bitching
So I've been gone a lot lately. A LOT. First weekend in November is the North Carolina Theatre Conference Fall Gathering, and I'm the VP of that organization this year, so I was in Greensboro for 4 days. I presented 2 workshops, sat on 2 panels and MC'd the awards ceremony, so I was a little fried when I got home. Just in time to do laundry and pack for my trip to Orlando. Yay.
Lighting Dimensions International is the biggest trade show our company attends each year, and it was in Orlando this year. I am less than fond of Orlando, and I get eh glory of returning in March for the Southeastern Theatre Conference. Joy. So I fly on Thursday after being home for 3 days, with having a whole 15 minutes of awake time with the wife, since she was busy costuming Sound of Music for the local community college and was working 20-hour days. I'm there from Thursday through Monday with plenty of gladhanding, manufacturer's meetings, and assorted other bullshit, dropping me back home midday Monday. Today is Thursday and I'm still fried. I need a weekend in the worst way.
Don't get me wrong, I usually enjoy both of these conferences very much, but back to back made it tough this year. And having Suzy working on the show didn't help, but our house is slowly coming back to some semblance of order.
On a way cool note - Steven from my last post emailed me! We haven't talked in better than 10 years, and now I know where he is and what he's up to. He's still a wee blonde fokker, and I've gotten all fat. Oh well, happens to the best of us. Glad he's doing well. Anybody else from the old days reading this drivel - email my happy arse!
Peace,
J
Lighting Dimensions International is the biggest trade show our company attends each year, and it was in Orlando this year. I am less than fond of Orlando, and I get eh glory of returning in March for the Southeastern Theatre Conference. Joy. So I fly on Thursday after being home for 3 days, with having a whole 15 minutes of awake time with the wife, since she was busy costuming Sound of Music for the local community college and was working 20-hour days. I'm there from Thursday through Monday with plenty of gladhanding, manufacturer's meetings, and assorted other bullshit, dropping me back home midday Monday. Today is Thursday and I'm still fried. I need a weekend in the worst way.
Don't get me wrong, I usually enjoy both of these conferences very much, but back to back made it tough this year. And having Suzy working on the show didn't help, but our house is slowly coming back to some semblance of order.
On a way cool note - Steven from my last post emailed me! We haven't talked in better than 10 years, and now I know where he is and what he's up to. He's still a wee blonde fokker, and I've gotten all fat. Oh well, happens to the best of us. Glad he's doing well. Anybody else from the old days reading this drivel - email my happy arse!
Peace,
J
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Memory - Verdi Cries
We all lived on the 8th floor. Even the girls were honorary residents. Buddy's statement about girls on the floor after hours was "as long as I don't see 'em, hear 'em or smell 'em, I don't care."
Jesse "Jay" Campbell - the earth mother. Jay was the first openly gay person I ever knew, and he was the momma to the entire floor. Jay had this wild mop of hair and a funky snaggle tooth right in front, and was always smiling. Every memory I have of Jay he is smiling. Jay once decided to go visit our friend Julie in the girl's dorm in full drag. Not only did he make it through the lobby without getting hassled, some guy in the lobby had a thing for heavy chicks and tried to pick him up!
Steven Fuller - Steve was short, blonde, slight, pale. Funny, a worrier, a helluvan artist, and always stressed to the gills over something. Steve was quick to laugh, quick to cry, quick to flip out, and ready to try anything. Steven introduced me to the Chickasaw Mud Puppies, which has to be the greatest band name ever.
Indy - I don't even remember Indy's real last name. It was John something, but we all just called him Indy. He wore the hat, the leather jacket, had the bullwhip, the whole nine yards. Indy faked multiple personality disorder not so much to get attention, but to escape it. It was his defense mechanism in the hick town he grew up in. If you're batshit fuckin' crazy, the jocks will leave a geek alone. And Indy took geek to a whole new level.
Susie Genobles - I swear she's a fucking siberain husky walking on two legs. Susie had this amazing long dark brown almost-black hair and these ice-blue, husky-blue eyes that would cut right into your soul. She was a solid chick, not some delicate little flower, but she was also terribly, terribly fragile inside. She was always afraid of letting people in because that meant that she would probably get hurt again. She was almost always right. Susie knew Jay from before college, so he brought her into our circle.
Rebecula - Rebecca Vignati - She went the other direction from Susie - slapping on an outer coating of bitch to keep people from seeing the really great person that she kept hidden inside. There was a lot more to Rebecca than she let on. It took me the better part of a decade to realize that. Rebeccas knew Susie from home.
Jay, Indy, Steven and I all got placed on the top floor of Richardson Hall at Winthrop, in Rock Hill. It says something about a town when the dorm is the tallest building in the city, and it was at the time. We were the core of the 8th floor freaks. We were artists, actors and writers. There were a few musicians thrown in for good measure, but the normal folk pretty much transferred off our floor pretty fuckin' fast. We'd drop acid, turn off all the lights on the floor and play hide n seek. We'd get shitty drunk and tripping on Robitussin and wander campus. I seem to very vaguely recall running down the hall one night with a nearly empty bottle of white zinfandel wearing nothing but my boxers and cowboy boots.
Don't visualize, it could cause scarring.
One of our favorite places to wander became the graveyard about a mile off campus. We'd roam out from campus after dark, hop the fence, and check out the lives of people we never knew. There was this phenomenal monument in the graveyard, no idea to what, but it was like a big gazebo, or small roman monument. Several marble steps, with columns and a domed roof. Maybe 12' in diameter. We'd wander round, shoot the shit, and the girls would sing. Neither Rebecca or Susie were really singers, but they knew all the words to Verdi Cries by 10,000 Maniacs, and Gypsy by Suzanne Vega, and their harmonies were as pure as their hearts. I can get back to those moments, ever so briefly, when I play those songs.
It's midnight in the late summer, I'm out with my best friends. We know where our place in the world is and what we're going to do about it. All is right with the world, with our relationships, and we could care less what the future holds. Death and old age are things other people think about, and arthritis and high blood pressure are an old man's worries. I'm still skinny, my hair is long and blonde, and I could care less what tomorrow brings, as long as Susie Genoble's head is in my lap while I play with her ths black hair.
Hold me like a baby that will not fall asleep,
curl me up inside you
and let me hear you through the heat.
Suzanne Vega - Gypsy
Jesse "Jay" Campbell - the earth mother. Jay was the first openly gay person I ever knew, and he was the momma to the entire floor. Jay had this wild mop of hair and a funky snaggle tooth right in front, and was always smiling. Every memory I have of Jay he is smiling. Jay once decided to go visit our friend Julie in the girl's dorm in full drag. Not only did he make it through the lobby without getting hassled, some guy in the lobby had a thing for heavy chicks and tried to pick him up!
Steven Fuller - Steve was short, blonde, slight, pale. Funny, a worrier, a helluvan artist, and always stressed to the gills over something. Steve was quick to laugh, quick to cry, quick to flip out, and ready to try anything. Steven introduced me to the Chickasaw Mud Puppies, which has to be the greatest band name ever.
Indy - I don't even remember Indy's real last name. It was John something, but we all just called him Indy. He wore the hat, the leather jacket, had the bullwhip, the whole nine yards. Indy faked multiple personality disorder not so much to get attention, but to escape it. It was his defense mechanism in the hick town he grew up in. If you're batshit fuckin' crazy, the jocks will leave a geek alone. And Indy took geek to a whole new level.
Susie Genobles - I swear she's a fucking siberain husky walking on two legs. Susie had this amazing long dark brown almost-black hair and these ice-blue, husky-blue eyes that would cut right into your soul. She was a solid chick, not some delicate little flower, but she was also terribly, terribly fragile inside. She was always afraid of letting people in because that meant that she would probably get hurt again. She was almost always right. Susie knew Jay from before college, so he brought her into our circle.
Rebecula - Rebecca Vignati - She went the other direction from Susie - slapping on an outer coating of bitch to keep people from seeing the really great person that she kept hidden inside. There was a lot more to Rebecca than she let on. It took me the better part of a decade to realize that. Rebeccas knew Susie from home.
Jay, Indy, Steven and I all got placed on the top floor of Richardson Hall at Winthrop, in Rock Hill. It says something about a town when the dorm is the tallest building in the city, and it was at the time. We were the core of the 8th floor freaks. We were artists, actors and writers. There were a few musicians thrown in for good measure, but the normal folk pretty much transferred off our floor pretty fuckin' fast. We'd drop acid, turn off all the lights on the floor and play hide n seek. We'd get shitty drunk and tripping on Robitussin and wander campus. I seem to very vaguely recall running down the hall one night with a nearly empty bottle of white zinfandel wearing nothing but my boxers and cowboy boots.
Don't visualize, it could cause scarring.
One of our favorite places to wander became the graveyard about a mile off campus. We'd roam out from campus after dark, hop the fence, and check out the lives of people we never knew. There was this phenomenal monument in the graveyard, no idea to what, but it was like a big gazebo, or small roman monument. Several marble steps, with columns and a domed roof. Maybe 12' in diameter. We'd wander round, shoot the shit, and the girls would sing. Neither Rebecca or Susie were really singers, but they knew all the words to Verdi Cries by 10,000 Maniacs, and Gypsy by Suzanne Vega, and their harmonies were as pure as their hearts. I can get back to those moments, ever so briefly, when I play those songs.
It's midnight in the late summer, I'm out with my best friends. We know where our place in the world is and what we're going to do about it. All is right with the world, with our relationships, and we could care less what the future holds. Death and old age are things other people think about, and arthritis and high blood pressure are an old man's worries. I'm still skinny, my hair is long and blonde, and I could care less what tomorrow brings, as long as Susie Genoble's head is in my lap while I play with her ths black hair.
Hold me like a baby that will not fall asleep,
curl me up inside you
and let me hear you through the heat.
Suzanne Vega - Gypsy
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Y2J 05
It's time for my end of year CD again - and I need to get cookin' on this if I plan to have any available for the WPBT gathering in Vegas in December.
Here are the current eligible song/discs
Jason Mraz - Mr. A-Z
Sam Bush - live concert from Bele Chere this July
The Duhks
Nickel Creek - Why Should the Fire Die?
Montgomery Gentry - Gone
Trace Adkins - Songs about Me & Honky Tonk Badonkadonk
Darryl Scott - Live in NC
The NY Dolls - Lonely Planet Boy
Sex Pistols - Anarchy in the UK (show specific)
Tori Amos - The Beekeeper
Looking for other hot stuff off albums released this year. Lemme know if you've got something hot.
J
Here are the current eligible song/discs
Jason Mraz - Mr. A-Z
Sam Bush - live concert from Bele Chere this July
The Duhks
Nickel Creek - Why Should the Fire Die?
Montgomery Gentry - Gone
Trace Adkins - Songs about Me & Honky Tonk Badonkadonk
Darryl Scott - Live in NC
The NY Dolls - Lonely Planet Boy
Sex Pistols - Anarchy in the UK (show specific)
Tori Amos - The Beekeeper
Looking for other hot stuff off albums released this year. Lemme know if you've got something hot.
J
The Reviews
I know I'm not supposed to care what the critics say, but they can positively or negatively impact the box office, so I do care.
Creative Loafing is the weekly free arts newspaper, Charlotte Obsverver is the daily paper.
Here you go. This is the Creative Loafing review, and since the Observer calling me an idiot in print was more than 7 days ago, I can't download it for free anymore. And I have no intention of paying $3 to download the opinion that I don't understand the play.
So you only get to read the good review. The play is good. It's not that good, but I don't think I've seen more than 5 plays in my life that were as good as this one is made out to be. But I'm still proud of it, and proud of my cast. And that's all that matters, right?
8-8 in America
Off-Tryon's harsh realities
By Perry Tannenbaum
Published October 12, 2005
Creative Loafing
Finesse and subtlety are nowhere to be found at SouthEnd Performing Arts Center, where Steven Dietz's relentless, obsessively researched docudrama, God's Country, is sounding a loud, harsh alarm. Off-Tryon Theatre Company's production, clocking in at two hours and five minutes plus intermission, doesn't soften (or shorten) the assault, which comes hurtling at us like a grenade laden with razor blades.
At the heart of the drama are two of the most disturbing protagonists I can recall encountering. We spend the most time with Denver Parmenter, a member of the inner circle in The Order, a white supremacist group responsible for the most successful crime spree in US history. Self-servingly, Parmenter has turned state's evidence against his cronies, who are on trial in Seattle - Dietz's home town -for the 1984 assassination of talkshow firebrand Alan Berg.Played superbly by Mykel Chambers, with a malevolent superior smirk nearly worthy of Hannibal Lecter, Parmenter indubitably still harbors the noxious prejudices he professes to renounce in his plea bargain. His credibility - and that of the government prosecutors bringing the people's case against The Order - reeks with corruption.Nor is Berg a comforting presence during his intermittent appearances. Tom Ollis renders the Denver radio personality as markedly rude and abrasive. If you're looking for a cuddly Jewish victim of abominable anti-Semitism, look elsewhere. Dietz portrays Berg as the lightning rod he was and, under John Hartness's fevered direction, Ollis doesn't flinch from it.
So the alarming message of God's Country is richly complex. Yes, we should take seriously the seditious threat of American Nazis. And no, hurling hatred or contempt at them is not the best way of dealing with the scourge.Yet we find ourselves inwardly cheering Berg's incendiary rants. Worse, we find ourselves tolerating the government's dubious prosecutorial tactics, willing to trust the word of one monster if it will serve to imprison others.
Naturally, there are chilling embodiments of the most repulsive racism egging us on, appallingly American in their flavor. Seventh-grader Anthony Zanghi has a memorable debut as a young sprout who gets indoctrinated with The Order's twisted creed. George Cole dons camo to give his skinhead portrayal a muscular, Marine mien. When he shouts out "8-8!" - a coded Nazi salute - you can almost imagine Hitler stirring from his grave.
Each letup in the stridency is a welcome oasis. Best are the poignant regrets of a Father (Phil Taylor) who realizes too late how his nonchalant racist slurs have helped shape his rabid son. There's also a humorous patch when two hayseeds (Brian Willard and George Weldon) spout their conspiratorial theories.
Off-Tryon's 11-person ensemble divvies up over 40 roles. Exposition is often delivered via narrative and reportage, further complicating the actors' tasks. Now that this hurly-burly is up on its feet, maybe all of the cast have their lines down cold.
AV projections for the show add some zip, hammering home reminders that we're confronting real people and threats, and Julia Strachan's costumes are invariably on-target.
So why doesn't the diabolical KKK wizard brandish a torch? And why are fearsome militia wielding weapons that look like they shoot water rather than bullets?
Make no mistake though: this remains gripping theatre. Dietz's carefully documented presentation stands in bold relief against the raving irrationality that flourishes in our midst. Let him quote Yeats. Because things really are falling apart.
Creative Loafing is the weekly free arts newspaper, Charlotte Obsverver is the daily paper.
Here you go. This is the Creative Loafing review, and since the Observer calling me an idiot in print was more than 7 days ago, I can't download it for free anymore. And I have no intention of paying $3 to download the opinion that I don't understand the play.
So you only get to read the good review. The play is good. It's not that good, but I don't think I've seen more than 5 plays in my life that were as good as this one is made out to be. But I'm still proud of it, and proud of my cast. And that's all that matters, right?
8-8 in America
Off-Tryon's harsh realities
By Perry Tannenbaum
Published October 12, 2005
Creative Loafing
Finesse and subtlety are nowhere to be found at SouthEnd Performing Arts Center, where Steven Dietz's relentless, obsessively researched docudrama, God's Country, is sounding a loud, harsh alarm. Off-Tryon Theatre Company's production, clocking in at two hours and five minutes plus intermission, doesn't soften (or shorten) the assault, which comes hurtling at us like a grenade laden with razor blades.
At the heart of the drama are two of the most disturbing protagonists I can recall encountering. We spend the most time with Denver Parmenter, a member of the inner circle in The Order, a white supremacist group responsible for the most successful crime spree in US history. Self-servingly, Parmenter has turned state's evidence against his cronies, who are on trial in Seattle - Dietz's home town -for the 1984 assassination of talkshow firebrand Alan Berg.Played superbly by Mykel Chambers, with a malevolent superior smirk nearly worthy of Hannibal Lecter, Parmenter indubitably still harbors the noxious prejudices he professes to renounce in his plea bargain. His credibility - and that of the government prosecutors bringing the people's case against The Order - reeks with corruption.Nor is Berg a comforting presence during his intermittent appearances. Tom Ollis renders the Denver radio personality as markedly rude and abrasive. If you're looking for a cuddly Jewish victim of abominable anti-Semitism, look elsewhere. Dietz portrays Berg as the lightning rod he was and, under John Hartness's fevered direction, Ollis doesn't flinch from it.
So the alarming message of God's Country is richly complex. Yes, we should take seriously the seditious threat of American Nazis. And no, hurling hatred or contempt at them is not the best way of dealing with the scourge.Yet we find ourselves inwardly cheering Berg's incendiary rants. Worse, we find ourselves tolerating the government's dubious prosecutorial tactics, willing to trust the word of one monster if it will serve to imprison others.
Naturally, there are chilling embodiments of the most repulsive racism egging us on, appallingly American in their flavor. Seventh-grader Anthony Zanghi has a memorable debut as a young sprout who gets indoctrinated with The Order's twisted creed. George Cole dons camo to give his skinhead portrayal a muscular, Marine mien. When he shouts out "8-8!" - a coded Nazi salute - you can almost imagine Hitler stirring from his grave.
Each letup in the stridency is a welcome oasis. Best are the poignant regrets of a Father (Phil Taylor) who realizes too late how his nonchalant racist slurs have helped shape his rabid son. There's also a humorous patch when two hayseeds (Brian Willard and George Weldon) spout their conspiratorial theories.
Off-Tryon's 11-person ensemble divvies up over 40 roles. Exposition is often delivered via narrative and reportage, further complicating the actors' tasks. Now that this hurly-burly is up on its feet, maybe all of the cast have their lines down cold.
AV projections for the show add some zip, hammering home reminders that we're confronting real people and threats, and Julia Strachan's costumes are invariably on-target.
So why doesn't the diabolical KKK wizard brandish a torch? And why are fearsome militia wielding weapons that look like they shoot water rather than bullets?
Make no mistake though: this remains gripping theatre. Dietz's carefully documented presentation stands in bold relief against the raving irrationality that flourishes in our midst. Let him quote Yeats. Because things really are falling apart.
Friday, October 07, 2005
Opening Night
Okay so last night was opening night for our show, God's Country. After six weeks of rehearsal, countless hours in the theatre this week for tech work, dropping $900 on a brand new projector for the video, we're ready to open, with both of Charlotte's finest critics in the house.
And the fucking wheels fell off. It wasn't an absolute disaster. It was an absolute FUCKING disaster. It only takes a couple of moments of lag in a show like God's Country, which is written like a documentary film/rock video, replete with jump cuts and spliced scenes, to make the whole thing shift from tight to incomprehensible.
First there were a couple of line bobbles. Act I started really strong, but there were a couple of jumps and a couple of hiccups. It happens. There are a lot of words, and people are playing a multitude of characters, so it gets confusing. Then act II started, and in the first scene, one of the three actors completely went up on lines and had to ask for help from the other character!!!! It went downhill from there.
Next, one of my actors missed an entrance. Not just late, completely missed the entrance and was called onto the stage by the other actor! This guy has never missed an entrance in his life, so I don't know WTF was going on. Then someone kicks over what sounded like a bucket of screws backstage. Twice. And proceeded to make as much noise trying to clean it up as they did knocking it over. Then another actress misses an entrance. Act II looked like something out of a fucking Keystone Kops movie, only without the comedy.
I couldn't talk to my cast after the show. I couldn't speak to them, I was so unbelievably angry and disgusted. I have never been so disappointed with an opening in my life. This show is so good when they are on, but these fucking mental lapses completely killed the show, with both critics and a pile of theatre folks in the audience, so our word of mouth is pretty much fucked now. It looked like a high school production.
Couple that with the news that our roommates are not signing a new lease on the theatre, and I'm not sure what to do. I was all gung-ho earlier this week to pull everything together to dedicate all my resources, financial and personal, to keeping the company going and taking over the entire lease on the building if we could, but last night really makes everything seem so futile. We worked for weeks on that show, and about half my cast is there with me working as hard as they absolutely can. But the other half isn't, and that just absolutely kills me. A few people who are willing to skate through with an acceptable performance drags down the whole thing, when just a little bit of real focus would elevate the entire show to something incredible. Or not.
I really, really understand why directors precast shows and work with all the same people all the time.
But that's not it. I'm pissed off about last night, and I'm pissed off that some of my cast are there for the work and some are there to be in a play. But the people that fucked up are not the people who aren't focused. Murphy happened. It's over, and now I have to find a way to get together with my cast tonight and give them the confidence to pull their shit together and put on the show I know they are capable of. Because they can. I've seen it. Wednesday night's invited dress was aboput 90% of the show that I believe it can be. Which is what an invited preview should be. But last night the wheels fell off. So tonight, we try and figure out how to pull it back together.
Wish me luck.
And the fucking wheels fell off. It wasn't an absolute disaster. It was an absolute FUCKING disaster. It only takes a couple of moments of lag in a show like God's Country, which is written like a documentary film/rock video, replete with jump cuts and spliced scenes, to make the whole thing shift from tight to incomprehensible.
First there were a couple of line bobbles. Act I started really strong, but there were a couple of jumps and a couple of hiccups. It happens. There are a lot of words, and people are playing a multitude of characters, so it gets confusing. Then act II started, and in the first scene, one of the three actors completely went up on lines and had to ask for help from the other character!!!! It went downhill from there.
Next, one of my actors missed an entrance. Not just late, completely missed the entrance and was called onto the stage by the other actor! This guy has never missed an entrance in his life, so I don't know WTF was going on. Then someone kicks over what sounded like a bucket of screws backstage. Twice. And proceeded to make as much noise trying to clean it up as they did knocking it over. Then another actress misses an entrance. Act II looked like something out of a fucking Keystone Kops movie, only without the comedy.
I couldn't talk to my cast after the show. I couldn't speak to them, I was so unbelievably angry and disgusted. I have never been so disappointed with an opening in my life. This show is so good when they are on, but these fucking mental lapses completely killed the show, with both critics and a pile of theatre folks in the audience, so our word of mouth is pretty much fucked now. It looked like a high school production.
Couple that with the news that our roommates are not signing a new lease on the theatre, and I'm not sure what to do. I was all gung-ho earlier this week to pull everything together to dedicate all my resources, financial and personal, to keeping the company going and taking over the entire lease on the building if we could, but last night really makes everything seem so futile. We worked for weeks on that show, and about half my cast is there with me working as hard as they absolutely can. But the other half isn't, and that just absolutely kills me. A few people who are willing to skate through with an acceptable performance drags down the whole thing, when just a little bit of real focus would elevate the entire show to something incredible. Or not.
I really, really understand why directors precast shows and work with all the same people all the time.
But that's not it. I'm pissed off about last night, and I'm pissed off that some of my cast are there for the work and some are there to be in a play. But the people that fucked up are not the people who aren't focused. Murphy happened. It's over, and now I have to find a way to get together with my cast tonight and give them the confidence to pull their shit together and put on the show I know they are capable of. Because they can. I've seen it. Wednesday night's invited dress was aboput 90% of the show that I believe it can be. Which is what an invited preview should be. But last night the wheels fell off. So tonight, we try and figure out how to pull it back together.
Wish me luck.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Suzy
I've been married to a wonderful woman for almost the past 10 years, and today is her birthday. She hits 36 today, and yesterday I bought her a pile of makeup from Christy, our best friend and Mary Kay pusher, ahem, consultant. She loved it, was very sweet, and very happy. I love her a lot. We fight, like most folks do, but we always come back together stronger afterwards. The best moments of my days lately have been lying in bed with her after I get home from rehearsal and watching an episode of Smallville as we drift off to sleep. I like being married.
Monday, September 12, 2005
Perspective
My grandmother died today.
I'm more upset than I thought I would be. Or at least the finality of seeing the words in silly Times New Roman Serif made me realize that I actually am a bit upset by this. Commence diarrhea of the keyboard.
I have a great family. My parents have been married for something like 55 years. I am the youngest (by far) of 4 kids, with 5 nieces and 1 nephew. And 1 grand-niece (or is it great? I can't remember). My upbringing was standard Southern. Every Sunday we went to church, and in the afternoon we went to Grandma and Granddaddy's house.
I think I was 14 or so before I ever knew my grandparents' given names. Vera Dover Wyatt and George Dargin Wyatt. Dargin is one of those peculiar Southern names that we tend to saddle our children with in hopes that it will somehow connect them with something in their heritage. To date, I think it has only every worked with wealthy closeted homosexual men in Charleston or Richmond. I know that I have never felt any kinship with my ancestry by being handcuffed to the middle name Givens all my life (apparently my maternal great-grandmother was Willie Givens Feemster, a truly unfortunate and non-euphonious collection of syllables). But I digress.
Ever Sunday we would go to Grandma and Grandaddy's house, where I would play in the toy room with odd assorted leftover toys and whatever I brought with me to amuse myself and any of my cousins that happened to be there. My mother is the oldest of 12 kids, so there was usually a cousin or two. Granddaddy scared me. He was a big, loud old man, who had a speech impediment, and didn't walk well due to a factory accident, so I never really understood anything he said, and he just always got louder. In retrospect, and he's been dead long enough I suppose I can be this irreverent, he sounded a lot like the fucked up guy from the movie Goonies. Grandaddy was also a drunk, but I didn't know that until much later.
Grandma however, was exactly what you think of when you think of a Southern Grandma. She was a slight woman, with white hair done up in curls tight to her head. She has a soft voice, and a slightly creaky drawl that always made my name polysyllabic (a feat which cannot be accomplished above the Mason-Dixon line). "Jo-uhn," she called me, or to distinguish between my father and me, "Jo-uhn Givins." I never minded my middle name from Grandma, it's just how it was. For a while she tried Little John, but that lasted until I was about 13. My dad is about 5'9" on a good day, and I'm significantly less than "little."
She always asked how I was doing in school, and as I went along in years and moved out of the house, I only saw her at reunions and Christmas. Even then, she would always ask about the last girlfriend, or, eventually, my wife. Then she'd ask when were going to have kids (a question reserved for old relatives, anybody else can bugger off!), and from her I never minded. You never minded anything from a woman so gentle. There was iron in her, though. There had to be to raise 12 kids through the Depression, with a husband who was a drunk, and sometimes mean. She did what she had to do to raise those kids, and they all turned out pretty good.
A few years ago, I realized that she had no idea who I was. Not in some great philosophical differences way, in an Alzheimer's kind of "now which grandchild are you?" kind of way. That was ugly. Three years ago was our last Christmas with the whole family. Grandma was put into a nursing home the week between Christmas and New Year's.
I never visited.
I wasn't strong enough. I couldn't look into those vacant eyes and know that she didn't know me. I thought that my memories of her would be left intact by that fact, but I was so absolutely fucking wrong and it tears my goddamn guts out. I went to see my grandfather to get closure, and watching him lay in the hospital bed out of his mind was so bad that I thought it would be better to just remember Grandma how she used to be. But I don't. All I remember is two days after Christmas, 2000, in the basement fellowship hall of my aunt's church, giving my grandmother a hug and a kiss, and her looking at me and saying "Now which one of Frances' boys are you?"
So it didn't work. I didn't put enough distance to insulate myself from my grief, and I didn't do the things I should have done to not feel guilty today. And I can't ever change that. I know I loved that sweet little old woman, and I know that she loved me. And in the long run, yes, that is what matters. But I could have gone to visit. I could have sucked it up, dealt with the fact that she didn't know which grandchild I was, and brightened a lonely old woman's day with just a little bit of fucking effort on my part. But I didn't. No, I didn't put myself through the pain of seeing her alone in a nursing home. But I will carry around the guilt of ignoring that sweet old woman for a long time, and that's just the penalty for my mistake.
So go hug your grandma. Or your kids. Or whoever.
"Help somebody if you can. And get right with The Man." - Van Zant
I'm more upset than I thought I would be. Or at least the finality of seeing the words in silly Times New Roman Serif made me realize that I actually am a bit upset by this. Commence diarrhea of the keyboard.
I have a great family. My parents have been married for something like 55 years. I am the youngest (by far) of 4 kids, with 5 nieces and 1 nephew. And 1 grand-niece (or is it great? I can't remember). My upbringing was standard Southern. Every Sunday we went to church, and in the afternoon we went to Grandma and Granddaddy's house.
I think I was 14 or so before I ever knew my grandparents' given names. Vera Dover Wyatt and George Dargin Wyatt. Dargin is one of those peculiar Southern names that we tend to saddle our children with in hopes that it will somehow connect them with something in their heritage. To date, I think it has only every worked with wealthy closeted homosexual men in Charleston or Richmond. I know that I have never felt any kinship with my ancestry by being handcuffed to the middle name Givens all my life (apparently my maternal great-grandmother was Willie Givens Feemster, a truly unfortunate and non-euphonious collection of syllables). But I digress.
Ever Sunday we would go to Grandma and Grandaddy's house, where I would play in the toy room with odd assorted leftover toys and whatever I brought with me to amuse myself and any of my cousins that happened to be there. My mother is the oldest of 12 kids, so there was usually a cousin or two. Granddaddy scared me. He was a big, loud old man, who had a speech impediment, and didn't walk well due to a factory accident, so I never really understood anything he said, and he just always got louder. In retrospect, and he's been dead long enough I suppose I can be this irreverent, he sounded a lot like the fucked up guy from the movie Goonies. Grandaddy was also a drunk, but I didn't know that until much later.
Grandma however, was exactly what you think of when you think of a Southern Grandma. She was a slight woman, with white hair done up in curls tight to her head. She has a soft voice, and a slightly creaky drawl that always made my name polysyllabic (a feat which cannot be accomplished above the Mason-Dixon line). "Jo-uhn," she called me, or to distinguish between my father and me, "Jo-uhn Givins." I never minded my middle name from Grandma, it's just how it was. For a while she tried Little John, but that lasted until I was about 13. My dad is about 5'9" on a good day, and I'm significantly less than "little."
She always asked how I was doing in school, and as I went along in years and moved out of the house, I only saw her at reunions and Christmas. Even then, she would always ask about the last girlfriend, or, eventually, my wife. Then she'd ask when were going to have kids (a question reserved for old relatives, anybody else can bugger off!), and from her I never minded. You never minded anything from a woman so gentle. There was iron in her, though. There had to be to raise 12 kids through the Depression, with a husband who was a drunk, and sometimes mean. She did what she had to do to raise those kids, and they all turned out pretty good.
A few years ago, I realized that she had no idea who I was. Not in some great philosophical differences way, in an Alzheimer's kind of "now which grandchild are you?" kind of way. That was ugly. Three years ago was our last Christmas with the whole family. Grandma was put into a nursing home the week between Christmas and New Year's.
I never visited.
I wasn't strong enough. I couldn't look into those vacant eyes and know that she didn't know me. I thought that my memories of her would be left intact by that fact, but I was so absolutely fucking wrong and it tears my goddamn guts out. I went to see my grandfather to get closure, and watching him lay in the hospital bed out of his mind was so bad that I thought it would be better to just remember Grandma how she used to be. But I don't. All I remember is two days after Christmas, 2000, in the basement fellowship hall of my aunt's church, giving my grandmother a hug and a kiss, and her looking at me and saying "Now which one of Frances' boys are you?"
So it didn't work. I didn't put enough distance to insulate myself from my grief, and I didn't do the things I should have done to not feel guilty today. And I can't ever change that. I know I loved that sweet little old woman, and I know that she loved me. And in the long run, yes, that is what matters. But I could have gone to visit. I could have sucked it up, dealt with the fact that she didn't know which grandchild I was, and brightened a lonely old woman's day with just a little bit of fucking effort on my part. But I didn't. No, I didn't put myself through the pain of seeing her alone in a nursing home. But I will carry around the guilt of ignoring that sweet old woman for a long time, and that's just the penalty for my mistake.
So go hug your grandma. Or your kids. Or whoever.
"Help somebody if you can. And get right with The Man." - Van Zant
Friday, September 09, 2005
Fragile
Do you remember how you felt four years ago? When you watched the first tower come down. When you saw the hole in the side of the Pentagon.
How you felt when you saw Donald Rumsfeld do something good for a change and run back into the building to get people out. When you heard about Michael Judge, the NYFD chaplain that was killed by falling debris. When you saw the flag raised in the rubble.
Do you remember how you felt last week? When Tippitina's was silent. When the Famous Door Club was empty. When Pat O's was boarded up. When the helicopters turned away from Charity hospital because of shooting. When you first saw Interdictor's livejournal. When you found out that your friends were okay. Maybe homeless, but okay.
I feel fragile in moments like this. I feel helpless, and that burns me to the core. I am not inclined to sit by. It galls me to be unable to physically help people, but I can't. I can't go to Biloxi and clear the streets. I can't string new power lines through Gulfport. I have given of my money and will give of my time in the ways that I can, but I can't help but feel frustrated that it's not enough.
But we all do what we can. And what I can do, coupled with the efforts of all the other people that are helping, will be enough. Eventually.
These are not pretty times. Our government has failed us in our time of need. I don't need to dick around the blame game. I don't care whose fault it is. The fact of the matter is, four years after the 9/11 attacks, we still cannot handle a major catastrophic event in our country. So it's up to us, the people, to band together and fix things. And we will.
We will.
New Orleans will rebuild. Hopefully stronger. Hopefully as diverse. But she will rebuild. And I will be back there, drinking Hurricanes and watching Al not be able to hang. Wanna come?
But she will be back. Because this IS my South. And we take care of our own. She's like that classy lady from church after a stroke. She's down for a little while, and we'll need to take her a casserole or two for a while, but next Homecoming, she'll be in the front pew and she'll bring the potato salad.
How you felt when you saw Donald Rumsfeld do something good for a change and run back into the building to get people out. When you heard about Michael Judge, the NYFD chaplain that was killed by falling debris. When you saw the flag raised in the rubble.
Do you remember how you felt last week? When Tippitina's was silent. When the Famous Door Club was empty. When Pat O's was boarded up. When the helicopters turned away from Charity hospital because of shooting. When you first saw Interdictor's livejournal. When you found out that your friends were okay. Maybe homeless, but okay.
I feel fragile in moments like this. I feel helpless, and that burns me to the core. I am not inclined to sit by. It galls me to be unable to physically help people, but I can't. I can't go to Biloxi and clear the streets. I can't string new power lines through Gulfport. I have given of my money and will give of my time in the ways that I can, but I can't help but feel frustrated that it's not enough.
But we all do what we can. And what I can do, coupled with the efforts of all the other people that are helping, will be enough. Eventually.
These are not pretty times. Our government has failed us in our time of need. I don't need to dick around the blame game. I don't care whose fault it is. The fact of the matter is, four years after the 9/11 attacks, we still cannot handle a major catastrophic event in our country. So it's up to us, the people, to band together and fix things. And we will.
We will.
New Orleans will rebuild. Hopefully stronger. Hopefully as diverse. But she will rebuild. And I will be back there, drinking Hurricanes and watching Al not be able to hang. Wanna come?
But she will be back. Because this IS my South. And we take care of our own. She's like that classy lady from church after a stroke. She's down for a little while, and we'll need to take her a casserole or two for a while, but next Homecoming, she'll be in the front pew and she'll bring the potato salad.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
There are some real assholes in this world
And of course, when things really suck that's when the assholes rear their ugly head.
House Speaker Whats-his-fuck from Where-the-fuck spouts some bullshit about whether or not New Orleans should be rebuilt because after all, it's below sea level. Show some compassion, you overpaid ratfuck political asswipe!
And now the director of FEMA says that the folks stuck in Nawlins deserve some of the blame because "after all, there was a mandatory evacuation order." AND the trains stopped running. AND the buses stopped running. AND the airport closed. AND a lot of the urban poor don't have three big fucking SUVs in their front yard plus a Prius Hybrid they drive to make themselves feel all green and Earthday-y, you rotten politically-appointed bad-toupee-wearing ratfuck!
Jesus, white people suck. Rich white people suck more.
That's not fair. Not all white people suck. Wil Wheaton is a god-damn genuine superhero. Go read Otis, G-Rob & CJ's blog to see how f'n cool Pokerstars is to help with Hurricane Relief, not too long after they shelled out $200 grand of their own cash matching tsunami donations. And check out G-Robs NOLA memories.
But just like the looters are evil, and Jesse Jackson once again proves himself a jackass, these political ratfucks burn my ass worse than a 3' high flame.
House Speaker Whats-his-fuck from Where-the-fuck spouts some bullshit about whether or not New Orleans should be rebuilt because after all, it's below sea level. Show some compassion, you overpaid ratfuck political asswipe!
And now the director of FEMA says that the folks stuck in Nawlins deserve some of the blame because "after all, there was a mandatory evacuation order." AND the trains stopped running. AND the buses stopped running. AND the airport closed. AND a lot of the urban poor don't have three big fucking SUVs in their front yard plus a Prius Hybrid they drive to make themselves feel all green and Earthday-y, you rotten politically-appointed bad-toupee-wearing ratfuck!
Jesus, white people suck. Rich white people suck more.
That's not fair. Not all white people suck. Wil Wheaton is a god-damn genuine superhero. Go read Otis, G-Rob & CJ's blog to see how f'n cool Pokerstars is to help with Hurricane Relief, not too long after they shelled out $200 grand of their own cash matching tsunami donations. And check out G-Robs NOLA memories.
But just like the looters are evil, and Jesse Jackson once again proves himself a jackass, these political ratfucks burn my ass worse than a 3' high flame.
Go do Something Good
Go to Otis' Pokerstars blog and read about the benefit tourney's Wil had the grace to help arrange. He's a superhero in my book.
Or go to my cousin Pax's blog and link to the Red Cross site and give them some money.
Or both. I'll be in the tourneys, and I'll come up with some silly prize for anybody who actually reads this and busts me out. Note - the odds of me getting busted out = HIGH, but the odds of any of the three people who read this being the ones to do it = SLIM, so I'm probably off the hook there.
Or go to my cousin Pax's blog and link to the Red Cross site and give them some money.
Or both. I'll be in the tourneys, and I'll come up with some silly prize for anybody who actually reads this and busts me out. Note - the odds of me getting busted out = HIGH, but the odds of any of the three people who read this being the ones to do it = SLIM, so I'm probably off the hook there.
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Martial Law? Or just crazy?
There are cops directing traffic at every gas station in my part of Charlotte. Every one that is open, that is. The governor of NC made a request of everyone to do their best to conserve gasoline this week, until the pipelines that were damaged during Katrina can be operational again.
This announcement was not met with kind resignation. It's actually a little bit scary, when you drive around to get a burger. And yes, I did get in line and fill up when I read the announcement that Charlotte may see a gas shortage by the weekend. But it's a little scary to see flashing blue lights at the entrance to every convenience store. This feels a little like something out of a movie, and brings home a little bit how far-reaching the impact of this storm is going to be, when just a couple of days later my routine 10 hours away is affected.
This is one of those milestone events, where people of a certain age in 20 years will reminisce about how this storm affected their day-to-day life, no matter where they were. I feel like I've witnessed three of these events in my life - the Challenger explosion, the attacks on NY and DC in 2001, and now Katrina. I wouldn't mind a little delay before the next one.
I know - I'm lucky. I'm not one of the million or so people that used to live in a city that is now part swamp, part cesspool, part DMZ. But it's a little chilling to realize the connectivity that we all share.
This announcement was not met with kind resignation. It's actually a little bit scary, when you drive around to get a burger. And yes, I did get in line and fill up when I read the announcement that Charlotte may see a gas shortage by the weekend. But it's a little scary to see flashing blue lights at the entrance to every convenience store. This feels a little like something out of a movie, and brings home a little bit how far-reaching the impact of this storm is going to be, when just a couple of days later my routine 10 hours away is affected.
This is one of those milestone events, where people of a certain age in 20 years will reminisce about how this storm affected their day-to-day life, no matter where they were. I feel like I've witnessed three of these events in my life - the Challenger explosion, the attacks on NY and DC in 2001, and now Katrina. I wouldn't mind a little delay before the next one.
I know - I'm lucky. I'm not one of the million or so people that used to live in a city that is now part swamp, part cesspool, part DMZ. But it's a little chilling to realize the connectivity that we all share.
Sunday, August 28, 2005
First Blocking rehearsal down
So that's out of the way. Thank goodness. I hate blocking rehearsals. With a flaming, screaming passion. It's the BS that you go through so the actors have some idea where to go and what to say when they get there, that you have to do to get the stage pictures right, but it doesn't involve any real creativity. The actors are still really tied to the script because it's early in the process and they don't know their lines yet. They also are trying to figure out how to cross from point A to point B, so that's another impediment, so no real acting happens at this stage, and not a lot of real directing either. It's more laying the groundwork for future rehearsals.
And I'm always nervous before we get into blocking, especially with a piece as free-form as God's Country, because the blocking rehearsals are when you begin to see if the cast has bought into your vision, if they're going to go along for the ride or if they're going to fight you every step of the way. Not to mention I'm always nervous to see if I can actually herd that many cats into some semblance of order. We have 10 cast members in a 25' x 30' space, so it's fairly important that it be blocked well in order for the piece to flow correctly.
But tonight went well. We got the first half of act I blocked, and I was able to steer a couple of folks in some different directions with some of their character development, so I'm pretty happy with our progress. And we're still on schedule, so that always makes me happy. I think it's going to be a really good piece. It has all the political and hot-button topics that I enjoy exploring, and I have a cast full of people that are willing to put in the work to make it the best show possible, so that usually turns out pretty solid in the end.
Peace,
And I'm always nervous before we get into blocking, especially with a piece as free-form as God's Country, because the blocking rehearsals are when you begin to see if the cast has bought into your vision, if they're going to go along for the ride or if they're going to fight you every step of the way. Not to mention I'm always nervous to see if I can actually herd that many cats into some semblance of order. We have 10 cast members in a 25' x 30' space, so it's fairly important that it be blocked well in order for the piece to flow correctly.
But tonight went well. We got the first half of act I blocked, and I was able to steer a couple of folks in some different directions with some of their character development, so I'm pretty happy with our progress. And we're still on schedule, so that always makes me happy. I think it's going to be a really good piece. It has all the political and hot-button topics that I enjoy exploring, and I have a cast full of people that are willing to put in the work to make it the best show possible, so that usually turns out pretty solid in the end.
Peace,
Thursday, August 25, 2005
1st week of rehearsal down
So I've gotten the first week of rehearsals done for my next show, God's Country. It's a play by Steven Dietz about The Order, a group of racialist extremists who murdered Denver DJ Alan Berg in the mid-80s. It's a play ful of uncomfortable subject matter, with racism, anti-semitism and political upheaval, which is exactly the kind of theatre that I like, but it's going to be a challenge. I think I've got a pretty solid cast, but most of them I've never worked with before. Actually, 3 out of the 10 I've directed before, but it's been a long time since I've directed Tom O, and actually quite a while since I've directed Myk, but he's one of my best friends so I'm not sweating that. Also not sweating Uncle Phil, since he's become one of my closest friends over the past year or so.
But that still leaves a lot of folks that I'm pretty unfamiliar with. So far, most of them seem eager to work, but we've just gotten through reading the play and talking about it. Next week comes the blocking, which is always tough, and harder than usual in this show, which is very cinematic in nature, with lots of jumping from place to place, time to time and character to character. Reminds me of my fears starting out in Corpus Christi, and that turned out to be pretty fantastic.
I'll keep you posted.
But that still leaves a lot of folks that I'm pretty unfamiliar with. So far, most of them seem eager to work, but we've just gotten through reading the play and talking about it. Next week comes the blocking, which is always tough, and harder than usual in this show, which is very cinematic in nature, with lots of jumping from place to place, time to time and character to character. Reminds me of my fears starting out in Corpus Christi, and that turned out to be pretty fantastic.
I'll keep you posted.
Sunday, August 21, 2005
Highlights
New Jason Mraz CD is pretty good, more mellow than his last, but good. New Nickel Creek is OK, a little slow for my taste.
My wife has decided that I need a beauty regime. Now let's face facts - I'm a 32-year old, 6' tall, 255 lb. guy with a goatee and somewhat spiky hair. I don't need a beauty regime, I need major infrastructure renovations! But she's my wife, and a costumer, so letting her do whatever she wants to me was part of the contract.
So today, there was a facial. Not that kind you fucking perv. The kind where you scrub the first 3 layers of skin off your face, and then slop blue goop on your face and let it dry while it burns the next 3 layers of skin off your face. The theory is it closes up pores. My theory is that it's sulfuric fucking acid! That shit hurts.
Then the manicure. Not bad, I watch DVDs, she plays with my fingernails. No polish. I'm not goth. Then she decides my hair needs highlights. Fascinating. Whatever, I'm under it, I can't see it. So she slaps some shit on my head and tells me to let it bake for a 1/2 hour. I ask if this means I need to stick my head in the oven. She's not amused. It looks a little lighter, but it's redder than she was shooting for. Which is interesting, because my hair is brown. The brown that comes from being REALLY blonde as a child. So now I have reddish-blonde highlights (I suppose that's the term) in my hair. And she's happy and will let me drink as much beer as I want and fart under the covers. Fair trade.
Like I said, fuck it, I'm under it, the rest of you bastards have to look at it.
Peace
My wife has decided that I need a beauty regime. Now let's face facts - I'm a 32-year old, 6' tall, 255 lb. guy with a goatee and somewhat spiky hair. I don't need a beauty regime, I need major infrastructure renovations! But she's my wife, and a costumer, so letting her do whatever she wants to me was part of the contract.
So today, there was a facial. Not that kind you fucking perv. The kind where you scrub the first 3 layers of skin off your face, and then slop blue goop on your face and let it dry while it burns the next 3 layers of skin off your face. The theory is it closes up pores. My theory is that it's sulfuric fucking acid! That shit hurts.
Then the manicure. Not bad, I watch DVDs, she plays with my fingernails. No polish. I'm not goth. Then she decides my hair needs highlights. Fascinating. Whatever, I'm under it, I can't see it. So she slaps some shit on my head and tells me to let it bake for a 1/2 hour. I ask if this means I need to stick my head in the oven. She's not amused. It looks a little lighter, but it's redder than she was shooting for. Which is interesting, because my hair is brown. The brown that comes from being REALLY blonde as a child. So now I have reddish-blonde highlights (I suppose that's the term) in my hair. And she's happy and will let me drink as much beer as I want and fart under the covers. Fair trade.
Like I said, fuck it, I'm under it, the rest of you bastards have to look at it.
Peace
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
My South
This is the poem that is featured in the new book "My South" and on the DVD.
My South has a chip on its shoulder.
My South doesn’t care how you did it up North.
My South does NOT talk funny! And no, we will not say “dawg” again just for your amusement!
My South is TIRED of y’all tryin’ to sound Southern on TV, making jokes about Rednecks and still comin’ down here every year cloggin’ up our beaches and mountains.
My South gave you William Faulkner, Pat Conroy, Tennessee Williams AND Thomas Wolfe. Whattayou got?
My South invented NASCAR and you wish you did. My South is Dale Earnhardt #3 and #8. My south is Tobacco Road and Football Friday nights. My South is Dean Smith, Hank Aaron and WOOOOO! Ric Flair.
My South is Hank Williams 1, 2 AND 3. Toby Keith AND the Dixie Chicks. OutKast AND Earl Scruggs. My South is Stevie Ray Vaughan, Waylon Jennings and By God Johnny Cash will NEVER Die as long as I’m still wearing black.
My South has attitude and a long memory. My South has learned from her mistakes. My South gave you George Wallace AND Dr. King, and my South still has that dream.
My South is my daddy getting’ up at 5 o’clock every morning, climbin’ into a log truck and workin’ like a dog past dark every night. At 75 years old. My South is still calling her “Mama” after all these years and not thinkin’ nothing about it. My South is homemade peach ice cream, cookin’ a pig for Fourth of July, cake walks at square dances and a mountain of casseroles after my brother’s funeral, because my South takes care of her own.
My South is freeways AND Dirt roads. Pig pickin’s AND gourmet cuisine. Merlefest AND Spoleto. My South revels in our contradictions and is never, EVER short on style.
My name is John Givens Hartness from Bullock Creek South Carolina and this is My South.
My South has a chip on its shoulder.
My South doesn’t care how you did it up North.
My South does NOT talk funny! And no, we will not say “dawg” again just for your amusement!
My South is TIRED of y’all tryin’ to sound Southern on TV, making jokes about Rednecks and still comin’ down here every year cloggin’ up our beaches and mountains.
My South gave you William Faulkner, Pat Conroy, Tennessee Williams AND Thomas Wolfe. Whattayou got?
My South invented NASCAR and you wish you did. My South is Dale Earnhardt #3 and #8. My south is Tobacco Road and Football Friday nights. My South is Dean Smith, Hank Aaron and WOOOOO! Ric Flair.
My South is Hank Williams 1, 2 AND 3. Toby Keith AND the Dixie Chicks. OutKast AND Earl Scruggs. My South is Stevie Ray Vaughan, Waylon Jennings and By God Johnny Cash will NEVER Die as long as I’m still wearing black.
My South has attitude and a long memory. My South has learned from her mistakes. My South gave you George Wallace AND Dr. King, and my South still has that dream.
My South is my daddy getting’ up at 5 o’clock every morning, climbin’ into a log truck and workin’ like a dog past dark every night. At 75 years old. My South is still calling her “Mama” after all these years and not thinkin’ nothing about it. My South is homemade peach ice cream, cookin’ a pig for Fourth of July, cake walks at square dances and a mountain of casseroles after my brother’s funeral, because my South takes care of her own.
My South is freeways AND Dirt roads. Pig pickin’s AND gourmet cuisine. Merlefest AND Spoleto. My South revels in our contradictions and is never, EVER short on style.
My name is John Givens Hartness from Bullock Creek South Carolina and this is My South.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Coolness
There's a lot of backstory here, but it boils down to the coolest surprise I've gotten all year, so hang with me.
Once upon a time I get an email from Anne, another theatre person in town. It tells me about this spoken word contest that Turner South TV Network is doing, called Speak out for My South. Come up with a 2-3 minute piece about what the south means to you, present it at The Evening Muse, and if you're one of the 12 finalists, you get $100.
Sounded cool, so I wrote something up.
I made the finals. And the producers loved me! So I got them to schedule me to go last on the night of the finals, because I was in a performance that night. So I rushed ass over to Spirit Square, performed my piece, and was NOT the night's winner. So no additional $500 for me. Oh well, it was taped for TV and that was cool. Maybe I'd see myself.
Then it went into rotation during the Braves games. Pretty heavy rotation. My mom saw it, my dad saw it, it was pretty cool. They decided that I hadn't completely wasted my college education, after all. If any of you saw those spots, I was the fat guy with the goatee wearing a Johnny Cash T-Shirt.
So a couple months after that I get an email from someone saying they're with Turner South, and that they want me to go to New York to perform my poem. All expenses paid, with a small per diem. I'm always game for a trip to NYC, then the dates clicked, and I asked "is this a Republican thing?"
Yes. It was a party thrown by a Congressman from Mississippi whose name escapes me now, except for Skip, which I'm sure is no help. His wife was tired of people in DC asking if she wore shoes when she was at home in Miss., so she decided to throw a big Southern party in NYC for the Republican convention.
Now I'm unaffiliated, but NOT a G.W. fan, so I was a little leery, but decided a free trip to NY was doing my part to topple the regime by taking their money. So I went. When I got there, Pat from Turner told me that since one or two of the poets had issues with performing for the Man, they were going to give us a stipend in addition to our per diem. Even better.
Well, GW didn't show, just as well, but Trent Lott was there, and a bunch of guys with earpieces and a pile of muscle and bulges under their arms, so I guess there were a bunch of governmental types. I did my thing, got my check, and flew home. $750 to the better. I wouldn't have gotten that much if I'd won.
So on to today, not quite a year later, the whole rock star thing being forgotten, and Turner South sends me a package. It's a book, called My South, culled from poems from all the participants from all over the south last year. I thought "cool" but didn't really expect much, because Turner is now sending me cool My South stuff whenever they make it, but I started to flip through it.
They published my poem. This is an advance copy of a real book that real people who have never heard of me can buy on Amazon and my words are in it. And that is so totally the fulfillment of a lifelong dream of mine, to be a published writer. Although I guess technically blogging counts, but not until someone reads it.
AND there's a DVD included with the book featuring 15 performances of the My South Speaks stuff, and I'm on it!!!! I stuck it in the Xbox to see, thinking "no way," but hoping, and then got disappointed when I wasn't in the first set of 5. Or the second. And then I got to the third, and not only am I there, I'm the closer! I get the spot of honor as the last performance on the disc, the thing that people are left with if they watch the whole thing. BADASS. I flipped through very briefly to see if the other folks that performed in NYC with me (there were 4 other poets, although I kept telling them I am not a poet) on there, but didn't see anything.
So not only has my poem (partial) been published in a book that can be sold all over the country, but my whole performance is on the DVD that comes with it, not just the 30 seconds they ran on TV. It means even more to me because the part that they published is the ending, where I talk about my dad.
I'll post the poem tomorrow, need to find an electronic copy.
Once upon a time I get an email from Anne, another theatre person in town. It tells me about this spoken word contest that Turner South TV Network is doing, called Speak out for My South. Come up with a 2-3 minute piece about what the south means to you, present it at The Evening Muse, and if you're one of the 12 finalists, you get $100.
Sounded cool, so I wrote something up.
I made the finals. And the producers loved me! So I got them to schedule me to go last on the night of the finals, because I was in a performance that night. So I rushed ass over to Spirit Square, performed my piece, and was NOT the night's winner. So no additional $500 for me. Oh well, it was taped for TV and that was cool. Maybe I'd see myself.
Then it went into rotation during the Braves games. Pretty heavy rotation. My mom saw it, my dad saw it, it was pretty cool. They decided that I hadn't completely wasted my college education, after all. If any of you saw those spots, I was the fat guy with the goatee wearing a Johnny Cash T-Shirt.
So a couple months after that I get an email from someone saying they're with Turner South, and that they want me to go to New York to perform my poem. All expenses paid, with a small per diem. I'm always game for a trip to NYC, then the dates clicked, and I asked "is this a Republican thing?"
Yes. It was a party thrown by a Congressman from Mississippi whose name escapes me now, except for Skip, which I'm sure is no help. His wife was tired of people in DC asking if she wore shoes when she was at home in Miss., so she decided to throw a big Southern party in NYC for the Republican convention.
Now I'm unaffiliated, but NOT a G.W. fan, so I was a little leery, but decided a free trip to NY was doing my part to topple the regime by taking their money. So I went. When I got there, Pat from Turner told me that since one or two of the poets had issues with performing for the Man, they were going to give us a stipend in addition to our per diem. Even better.
Well, GW didn't show, just as well, but Trent Lott was there, and a bunch of guys with earpieces and a pile of muscle and bulges under their arms, so I guess there were a bunch of governmental types. I did my thing, got my check, and flew home. $750 to the better. I wouldn't have gotten that much if I'd won.
So on to today, not quite a year later, the whole rock star thing being forgotten, and Turner South sends me a package. It's a book, called My South, culled from poems from all the participants from all over the south last year. I thought "cool" but didn't really expect much, because Turner is now sending me cool My South stuff whenever they make it, but I started to flip through it.
They published my poem. This is an advance copy of a real book that real people who have never heard of me can buy on Amazon and my words are in it. And that is so totally the fulfillment of a lifelong dream of mine, to be a published writer. Although I guess technically blogging counts, but not until someone reads it.
AND there's a DVD included with the book featuring 15 performances of the My South Speaks stuff, and I'm on it!!!! I stuck it in the Xbox to see, thinking "no way," but hoping, and then got disappointed when I wasn't in the first set of 5. Or the second. And then I got to the third, and not only am I there, I'm the closer! I get the spot of honor as the last performance on the disc, the thing that people are left with if they watch the whole thing. BADASS. I flipped through very briefly to see if the other folks that performed in NYC with me (there were 4 other poets, although I kept telling them I am not a poet) on there, but didn't see anything.
So not only has my poem (partial) been published in a book that can be sold all over the country, but my whole performance is on the DVD that comes with it, not just the 30 seconds they ran on TV. It means even more to me because the part that they published is the ending, where I talk about my dad.
I'll post the poem tomorrow, need to find an electronic copy.
Quote of the day
There are pigs in the orchestra pit. I'm going back to the hotel.
I love my new Project Manager, he's got good stories.
I love my new Project Manager, he's got good stories.
Monday, August 08, 2005
Rant-omage
I already have a blog. Why do I need another one? Well, that one's a poker blog, part of a large network of poker blogs, and my attempt to track becoming better (I hope) at the craze that has become poker. But I still need a place to vent random shite, and blog random shite. I find it therapeautic (sp?), and I'm all in favor of some therapy lately.
SOOOOOO. What's on my mind?
Basically what's on my mind is Off-Tryon. Off-Tryon Theatre Company is my theatre company. I pretty much mean that literally, since I was a co-founder of the company five years ago, I'm the managing director, and I've put my life on hold essentially for five years to run this company. So now I'm not sure that I have the energy to keep it going.
Five years is a long time in the life of a struggling theatre group, and trust me, we've struggled. There have been times in the evolution of this company that I've started at every loud truck noise coming down my street, just sure that it was a tow truck coming to repo my car. I've been sent to collections for my mortgage, almost defaulted on my student loans, dropped out of grad school because I couldn't afford to go to school and run a theatre (financially or mentally), and had huge fights with my wife about why the fuck we continue to do it.
But then we hit one out of the park, and we remember why we do it. We've done some incredible theatre, some stuff I'm really proud of. Our production of Corpus Christi is still my favorite experience in 16 years of theatre. Our production of Never the Sinner was named Best Drama by the local arts paper, and our production of Sylvia was named Best Comedy by a jury of our peers in the Metrolina Theatre Association. There are actors getting paid work and better roles because we took a chance on them when they were unknowns. There's a decent, if struggling, independent theatre scene in Charlotte that didn't exist to this degree when we started up, and there are now more warehouse theatres than used to exist.
So I know we've done some good. But it hasn't gotten any easier. If anything, it's gotten harder. As I've gotten more responsibility at work I've had less time to spend during the workday on Off-Tryon business, so some things like publicity don't get done in as timely a fashion, and we can't get any consistent volunteer help to work on these things. And we don't have the cash to pay for someone to do them. And without publicity, there are no asses in seats. Which means no revenue, which means no money for publicity. Vicious cycle. And now we've closed down our own facility and moved in with another group of a similar type, which is working out fairly well so far, except now there's two groups' shite in a building that can't really hold one group's shite. But we've cut overhead by about 35-40% by sharing space, which is the only way both companies have survived this long.
And now I'm trying to cast the show to kick off our 2005-2006 season, which is a great lineup. We start with God's Country, a play about the white supremacist group The Order. Then we do Glenn's new play Intimate E-pistles, which Julie is directing. Then we do The Maids and My Sister in this House as a double bill. Then Six Characters in Search of an Author and close with The Shape of Things. That is, if we can cast the first show!
I need 11 actors and a kid. So far, I've had about 6 people that I've offered parts to have scheduling conflicts, two read the play and hated it, one got injured and can't do the show, and ONE, and actor that I've cast in a bunch of things over the years, accepted the part (reluctantly, although he never expressed that reluctanct to me) and then dropped out when he was offered a leading role in a different show. So I'm discouraged by the trouble in casting, and feel actually really betrayed by this other actor for taking the part and dropping out. I certainly would have understod if I'd known he was interested in the other show, but without any notice to drop out, I was furious. Now I'm just hurt.
I really start to wonder - is it me? Is it our company? I don't know what the reputation of the company is with actors, but we don't have critics constantly blowing sunshine up our bungholes like some other folks in town do. Our stuff is sometimes hit or miss, but any independent theatre is going to be! So I'm workng on casting the show, but damn, this shit of working all the time on shows gets old. Especially when you feel like you're expected to work on all the shows, and make sure that they're all great, but if it's one of your shows, you feel left out in the wind, twisting.
I'm just ranting, I think. I'm at least 65% sure that I'm not yet ready to walk away. But some things have to change, because I'm burned out. I don't have another five years like this in me.
Untitles
The title of this blog comes from the song Verdi Cries by 10,000 maniacs. My friends Rebecca and Susie used to sing this to me, Jay and Steven as we would traipse around campus and the cemetery right off campus back in our college daze. Let's see what comes of it.
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