Halloween: what I would do if I were me

Last Saturday I spent two hours waiting in line outside the SF Opera’s costume warehouse for their huge sale. Ask me how it was, and I will tell you: I have no idea. I waited two hours, did the math, and realized that it was going to be an additional two hours before I would be allowed to enter with my 14 closest line-buddies—for only 15 were allowed in at a time, and only after 15 shoppers had exited, per the fire marshal’s demands. The line wrapped around blocks of a Potrero neighborhood. We moved 10 feet every 15 minutes. None of the successful shoppers walked by with their purchases; we were all operating on blind faith that this warehouse did in fact have costumes in it. Teams sent delegates to purchase lunch from a nearby coffee shop. The girl in front of me called her dad to bring her a sandwich. Slowly people started to peel off. The college student behind me who had dragged her friend with her. The girl in front of me, only minutes after her dad left. The costume designer who had been chatting her up, convinced that nothing of any worth would be left. And then me.

Before leaving, I wondered if I should make a sign: “$50 for my spot in line.” As I got closer, I could raise my price. Professional line-waiter . . . those exist somewhere right? But, unable to resolve the ethical debate such a proposal demanded, I simply walked away. Two hours older but no worse for wear.

“But what are you going to wear for Halloween?” Well, actually, unlike most people in line I was not there for a) a Halloween costume nor b) additional garments to add to my theatrical collection. I was hoping to find a cheap wedding suit . . . maybe even a wedding dress for Rachel. Look. Stranger things have happened. I am sure there are operas in which a wedding ensues. And how nifty would it be to wed in appropriate garb styled to look like it’s from the 1800s . . .

Halloween is of course theater’s holiday. For one night, revelers embrace what we embrace everyday: the desire to create a different reality through the realization of fictional characters. On Halloween, you can be anybody, and as anybody you can do anything. For whatever reason, our day-to-day personalities shackle us to a set of rules that we made up for ourselves. I am shy, so I will not meet people. I am lazy, so I will not work. It is a lot of work to figure out what we WANT to do with our time, so we fall back on defaults of “what I would do if I were me.” It’s Saturday. So I will sleep in a little, read some of my David Eddings, probably go to the gym, and clean. Is that what I want to do? Must be . . . right?

But tonight I could choose to put on a costume of some other personality? Who would I be, and what would I do . . .

New addition to the extended feline tribe . . .

Hey, Linus and Mabel! You got a new cousin!

I am happy to introduce you to my kid sister Beth’s new kitten, Miss Admiral Calypso. How excited are you?!

You jerks.

Who knows if it will stick, but I love the name. It’s progressive (since Alene B. Duerk became a rear admiral in the Navy Nurse Corps in 1972, only a slow trickle of women have moved their way up the ranks . . . though knowing a little about Beth’s partner, Will, I have a suspicion it is more a reference to Star Wars than the U.S. military) AND ironic (Calypso was not only a sea nymph—and we all know how much cats ordinarily love water—according to popular mythology, she was also a bit of a . . . lustful, we’ll go with lustful . . . and young Addie Callie [Addy-Cal?] has been properly neutered).

Regardless: good job! There is no greater birthday gift than seeing loved ones happy. Truly.

Quote of the day:

“What will we say when our kids come to us
and ask with a smile on their face,
‘Hey dad, my friends got some new ninja swords:
is it cool if we smash up this place?’”

—”Everybody Get Dangerous” Weezer

On one’s birthday, one may dream . . .

In front would be a bookstore, but not an ordinary bookstore. Instead of shelves upon shelves, the bookcases would be pushed to the periphery, and in the middle of the floor would be heavy wooden tables like the ones in that secret library in which I studied and wrote during college. Scripts, theater scholarship, and manuscripts from local playwrights would line the walls. Every retailer would be a dramaturg, an agent, and an advocate of the local theater scene. Every customer, a lover of theater.

In the evening, glass doors to the bookshelves shut and lock. They become wallpaper as the store closes and the tavern opens. In the dimmed light the study tables look much more like those tables found in a medieval basement pub. The checkout area becomes a bar. Every bartender is a playwright, a director, an actor. Every customer a lover of theater.

In the back would be cozy conference rooms where nomadic theater companies could meet, where playwrights could organize readings or feedback sessions, where directors could tablework. Here will be the center of the Bay Area performance renaissance. Every month, a consortium of artistic directors will come together like the heads of the nation’s cartels to create a united front that will muscle theater back into the public’s attention. It will be as effective as the UN: nothing much will get done because the bigger theaters will look out for theirs, but a few changes will manifest, and at least they will all be talking. Most visibly will be the universally beneficial area-wide playwright tribute festivals—like Chicago’s O’Neill Festival, spearheaded by the Goodman—likely starting with Tom Stoppard, or maybe Sheperd. Other more subtle changes will occur in programming as theaters start to plan seasons that converse with one another.

Behind these rooms, or maybe on a different floor, would be the blackbox. Public readings, modest performances. Tryouts. Practice. A good first step. Semi-inebriated writers in the front room will stand atop tables and slur, “I have a play. It isn’t very good. But it will do.” He will burp with proper enthusiasm, people will cheer, and he will continue, “I need someone to read it.” Hands will shoot up, knocking tankards of ale onto the floor, and there is a swarm to the backroom.

Someone flips a switch and the lights come on. The audience pushes chairs into place, creating a stage in the center of the room. Some, who had left in haste, run back for their beer. The playwright is giving quick instructions to his improvised cast, “do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus, by use all gently, for in the very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say) whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness.” The actors nod as they read over their lines, listening not at all.

And then a hush. And then introductions. And then a play. It is a bad play. Maybe one of the worst ever written. But it is a good audience (maybe the best ever assembled). And everyone in the room knows that what is being read is shit. The playwright shakes his head as he sobers up enough to realize that he has become the punch-line of someone’s tomorrow-day-joke. But he doesn’t care, just as the actors do not care that they are putting on flimsy roles, and the audience doesn’t care that they have gotten dumber by witnessing this debacle. The playwright will go home and try again. The actors will remember always the value of a well-constructed character. And the audience will remember that even in the ugliest of performances, there can be found joy in the camaraderie of witnesses.

Last call was long ago, and the last of these merry artists disperse. They flood to the BART—which in this idyllic future does not shut down at 12:30am—and to their cars and cabs. Someone hands someone else their card as they promise to meet up in a couple days to begin a collaboration that will combine Marlow and the economic implications of a dominant China. Another group is going to meet tomorrow to put on an improvised clown show in the middle of Market Street. Already across a few blocks away, two young directors are sharing advice on how to deal with certain actors.

Just as the street clears, the lights of the bookstore bar flicker off. It will sleep until 11am, when it will open again to serve coffee and tea to the curious and the studious.

Power Ballad

As Dark Knight Dramaturgy nears its 30,000th view (holy crap!), I just wanted to share this! Thanks everyone!

Happy National Punctuation Day!

Yesterday I found myself taking the position that one could not misspell an onomatopoeia. I mean, yes, you can, but you shouldn’t be able to by the very nature of it . . .

So I wasn’t surprised–and, in fact, I was flattered!–when our PR guy sent this to our department:

Subject: I wanted to celebrate today with Pubs

Let’s all take a moment… http://www.nationalpunctuationday.com/

Yes, yes. It’s true! A holiday just for nerds like me! How did this come to be? Writes Lisa Black with the Chicago Tribune: “Jeff Rubin, 59, a former copy editor determined to rid the world of dangling participles, successfully bid for Sept. 24 to be listed as a holiday in Chase’s Calendar of Events in 2004.” I wonder if we are related.

In tribute, our marketing intern shared this fascinating piece of history with us:

Historical punctuation:

Timothy Dexter, one of my favorite people in the world, was an American businessman born in 1748. Through a series of fluke accidents, he became spectacularly wealthy–and magnificently eccentric. At age 50, he wrote a book about himself, called /A Pickle for the Knowing Ones or Plain Truths in a  Homespun Dress/. Dexter was practically illiterate; the book contains 8847 words (33864 letters) but no punctuation. Capital letters appear throughout the book with no discernable pattern. The whole thing looks like something my 14-year-old sister would text to me.

Readers complained the absent punctuation rendered the book unreadable. In response, Dexter included this page in all editions after 1838:

fouder mister printer the Nowing ones complane of my book the fust edition had no stops I put in A Nuf here and thay may peper and solt it as they plese”

,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

……………. ……………. …………….. ………………. ……………..

,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

_{. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .}

^{. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .}

…………………………! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !………………………..

…………………………….. ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! …………………………..

…………………………………. ! ! ! ! ! ! ……………………………….

………………………………………!……………………………………..

_{. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .}

^{, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,}

……………????????????????????????……………

I’m sure today is the sort of thing right after Mr. Dexter’s heart.

Ahhhhh. So good.

Everyone, get out there and hug a semicolon today! Or, even better, an en dash!!!

The Detective and the Dog Print: the intensity of the twist

In the dream I am happy at least at first. A man has come over to the house, which must be some amalgamation of the apartment I share with Rachel and my parent’s house because all three are present. The man is nice. Nothing out of the ordinary. Kindly. We give him a tour, finally stopping at the three prints I made during my undergraduate minor as a woodcut printmaker.

Woodcut printmaking is about narrative. It is about carving a story into wood. I never really mastered this, or even tried to. The three prints I made that were in this dream were portraits. The first was a distorted face yelling to the heavens—an image I first painted in 7th or 8th grade. The second, to balance the first, was a clown, whose disembodied head popped out of a jack-in-the-box box. It was meant to be light. Most people think it is creepy. The third print was conceived and carved very quickly, which is arguably why it is the most successful: it is of an androgynous face holding the box from which it has sprung, content, meditative, and calm.

In the dream, each of these prints had elements of red in them, though I never printed any of them in red. (Though I did color the nose of the clown print red once for a friend who wanted to give the print to her dad as a gift.) The man in the dream was appreciative of my craftsmanship and we are all getting along just fine. I look at Rachel—my soon to be bride—and think, “Nothing can mess this up. Everything is perfect.”

“So what happened to the dog print?” the man asks.

“What?”

“The fourth print, the one you did of the dog,” he replies, a little too knowingly.

The flood of realization sweeps over me, through me. It is an intensity of surprise I have never felt before. Everything about the situation changed in an instant of incomprehensible minuteness. I realize this was not a regular man who happened to stop by; this was a detective! In this fiction of my dream, the fourth print to which he is referring—having no equivalent in real life . . . though I did make other prints, none were of animals—was never printed because Rachel, I suddenly remember like a light turning on, many years back, had used the dog-print woodblock to kill a man! And our high school friend Becca had discarded the body! I spend the rest of the dream hiding the truth about my fiance’s crime from the detective. Of course I do. She can’t go to jail. We’re getting married.

I want to recreate the intensity of this surprise, this reversal, in a play, so rich that it reaches into the psyche and OPENS memories the characters and the audience didn’t even know they had stored in their brains. It was such a sensation that I wasn’t even mad at the detective. I was almost thankful for the experience, even though he was out to put Rachel in the slammer.

BRIEF ENCOUNTER: a San Francisco success!!!

“Run to the box office and get your tickets . . . one of the funniest shows I’ve ever seen . . . an evening full of fun.” —KGO Radio

“Every so often a theater piece comes to town that is so brilliantly conceived and executed, so entertaining on every level, that you want everyone you love or even like just a bit to see it. Kneehigh Theatre’s Brief Encounter, the opening show in American Conservatory Theater’s new season, is that kind of experience.”
—San Francisco Chronicle

“Positively magical” —Variety

“Wildly inventive . . . an intoxicating multimedia gem . . . you’ll want Brief Encounter to go on forever.” —San Jose Mercury News

“I didn’t want to leave my seat. They had to drag me out after everyone else left the theater. . . . It’s been dropped from celluloid heaven on the A.C.T. stage.”
—Beyond Chron

“Took my breath away and I knew I was in love with Emma Rice’s play . . . a sheer masterpiece.” —StarkSilverCreek.com

Once Kneehigh Theatre arrived, once they were set up in our theater, once they worked out those kinks one would expect when importing an entire show from England (and they worked the obvious kinks out by the end of the dress rehearsal!), I don’t think any of us doubted the gem we had. This is in no small part because every member of the Kneehigh company is a gem in his/her own right: they are ridiculously talented actors, singers, musicians, and performers; kindhearted, joyous, and generous people; and genuinely thankful for the opportunity to do what they love, thankful to us for inviting them and thankful to their audience each night for feeding their energy. And we are thankful they have come to share this show with us and the Bay Area.

We knew we had a gem. But it is still nice when the critics confirm it. Because they don’t always.

People are talking about this show in Florida.

A woman I met at last night’s performance had come in from Chicago (ahem, all my Chicago brethren . . . ).

Another woman bought a Words on Plays from me because “Oh, this will make great reading for the plane ride home.” (Which it will, thank you!)

Suddenly we are the center of the world.

On Tuesday last, we started a new experiment: the TALK WoP SHOP. An idea I had over the summer, the SHOP puts the creators of Words on Plays (my supervisor and me) in the theater to personally sell our product and discuss it—as well as the play itself and the theater more generally—with our patrons. Part of our theater’s mission is to encourage conversation; we’re taking this tenant literally. Previously Words on Plays was sold at the merchandise counter, but that counter is remaining unmanned this season because of low sales. So the our timing was good.

It is off to a slow but encouraging start. But I am reexamining my initial thinking. The idea stemmed from, among other factors, a comment made by our artistic director towards the end of last season: “the development staff is in the theater more than any other department.” Of course, this is not true: the front of house department is in the theater more than any other department, but her point is valid. Our patrons are most familiar with our theater’s hospitality and fundraising staffs. Certainly not a bad thing, but what if this model was exchanged for one in which representatives from the artistic staff were always present to discuss what the patrons are really there to think about—the art?

This is how smaller theaters have to do it because everyone is doing everything. The artistic director is the ticket taker. The playwright is the one who knows where the fire extinguisher is. And its lovely. Every show you are being welcomed in by a family.

This is where my thinking started. I would stand at my booth selling my product and furthering conversation about the show. But I think I may have been thinking too small. Last night I sold five copies. commendable but negligible. But I also sold at least two couples on November, our next show, by simply telling them how funny a script it is. I spoke to another gentleman about his time in England. I made a handful of people laugh when I directed them to the new location for the hearing devices: “Why don’t you put a sign up?” “Because then I wouldn’t get to talk to you.”

Members of the publications staff don’t have to do this: anybody from the administrative offices can do this. It isn’t a matter of being knowledgeable, or about selling Words on Plays, but about putting on a smile and playing host in a way the front of house staff cannot do because they have actual responsibilities like taking your tickets, getting you to your seat, and preventing the building from catching on fire.

Escapism after the Beep

Escapism The tendency to seek, or the practice of seeking, distraction from what normally has to be endured.

1933 Encycl. Social Sci. IX. 533/1 The bibulous, aphrodisiac lyrics strummed out by Anacreon of Teos at the banquets of Polycrates, tyrant of Samos, are an example of escapism, comparable to the songs of Alcaeus and Sappho in strife ridden Mytilene. 1935 L. MACNEICE Poems 26 This escapism of yours is blasphemy. 1937 H. READ Art & Society 260 Many of the critics of abstract art..dismiss it as the most evident byzantinism, escapism, absolutism.1940 L. D. WEATHERHEAD This is Victory ix. 188 Religion that was mere escapism. 1946 J. CARY Moonlight 16 Was she, after all, an escapist? Amanda had a great contempt for escapism. 1954 Essays in Criticism IV. 50 He is not entering a plea for mere ‘escapism’ in literature.

My cell phone died on Thursday, after years and years of abuse. When I brought it into the store yesterday, the salesman noted that it had “been through many wars”; he was, however, able to salvage all my numbers and transfer them to my new Tundra (“Versatile and durable, the Motorola Tundra is built to military standards and designed to withstand the most strenuous conditions.”).

The loss of my cell phone for two days contributed to the stress of this week, but less so than you might expect. I don’t particularly like having a cell phone, and I definitely entertained the notion of using this as my excuse to cancel my plan altogether. But, obviously, I caved. A number of people have told me they have “iphone envy.” I watch the people I know with their iphones seemingly embedded into their palms, and I have iphone phobia. An invisible chain of electrons has shackled them; to what, I do not know, but something if not inherently evil then, at the very least, dangerous. They may never get lost again, but they will also never be able to escape.

I was thinking about escape this morning at church because I realized that this is actually why I go to church. I go to slow down. I go to find an hour’s worth of peace. I go not to think, but, as one of our ministers said this morning, to be. I have always resisted the notion of escapism (which comes up often in conversations about the purpose of theater)  because I assumed that it meant one was escaping from some variation of unhappiness. Because I am not unhappy, what have I to escape from? It is also nearly impossible for me to escape into theater because I am already in it. I cannot watch a play without thinking about how it is working, why it is working, why it isn’t working, etc. I can enjoy it, sure, and I can appreciate it, yes, but I don’t remember the last time I was swept away by it. I assume this is the sad reality of most professional artists: you sacrifice some key ignorance/innocence that is necessary for submersion.

We have two shows right now that I wish very much I could lose myself in. Brief Encounter started previews on Friday, and it is truly spectacular. We just started a new 10UP program, selling seats in our second balcony for $10 for the first 10 performances. I sat up there with this new, wonderful, mixed group of patrons, so thankful that we have a theater that through some freak architectural phenomenon maintains intimacy even up high. Then last night I went to our second stage to watch our 3rd years in their first cabaret of the season, Sweet Charity, which had them dancing and singing and moving and acting in ways I’ve never seen them do before. They are both remarkable shows, interweaving song, dance, theatrical trickery, and solid acting in all the ways that make people love—and hopefully escape into—live theater.

The pianist this morning played something by Chopin, and I relaxed. It was only three minutes, but maybe that’s all you get some weeks.

Fearing OLEANNA

John: Well, there are those who would say it’s a form of aggression.

Carol: What is?

John: A surprise.

–Oleanna, by David Mamet

The most terrifying play I have ever read is David Mamet’s Oleanna. I read it first in college. I don’t remember what year or what class. I have a vague recollection of what room I was in when we discussed it and a hazy memory of who the teacher was. The unrelenting feelings of doom and paranoia it produced when I had finished reading it that first time, however, are quite clear. Years later, it was the reason I never closed the door to my office when I was meeting with a student. It was the reason I made it clear to them I did not want to be their friends, nor was it particularly important to me that we liked one another. It is probably the reason I henceforth never took a casual touch for granted (“Carol: . . . To lay a hand on someone’s shoulder / John: It was devoid of sexual content. / Carol: I say it was not . I SAY IT WAS NOT. Don’t you begin to see…? Don’t you being to understand? IT’S NOT FOR YOU TO SAY.”) It is probably why I often wonder if I shouldn’t constantly carry a small audio recorder around with me (just in case) and it may even be why I hate the sound of a telephone ringing.

Rereading it tonight makes me wonder how I ever found the courage to teach at all. It makes me second guess every conversation I had, especially with my female students, especially the ones who were not doing as well as they would have liked in my class. It makes me quake with fear that the student who wrote me a frantic email begging for me to call her to discuss why she got a B+ in the class so she could talk me out of it will one day find me . . . Just yesterday we went out to dinner with a friend who moved to Oakland to go to school for a teaching certificate, and for the first time (Rachel claims) I articulated without reservation that I want to teach again. When we returned home, our friend asked me if she could borrow some plays. I gave her Three Days of Rain, Topdog/Underdog, and The Real Inspector Hound and realized that they would all be on my syllabus if I was ever given the opportunity to have one. If I ever do find my way back to a university, I don’t even want to have a door to my office. And I want recording devices hidden everywhere. Maybe even video surveillance.

Oleanna was the 4th Mamet play of my Saturday, preceded by Boston Marriage, Speed-The-Plow, and Glengarry Glen Ross. With Brief Encounter starting previews in less than a week, it is time (past time, in fact) for the publications office to switch gears and start focusing on our slot-2 show, Mamet’s November. Also, I have been asked to help out (or maybe write for?) our Write Like Mamet contest. I don’t know all the details, but basically we will present a staged reading of 10 or so Mamet-esque scenes from students and playwrights from around the States. This will happen sometime during the November run. What does writing like Mamet entail? Well, here are my notes from my day of reading:

•    Fall from decorum when circumstances fail to live up to expectation
•    Phonetically spelled words
•    Class issues
•    Deception
•    Interrupted speech / unfinished thoughts / repetition of phrases
•    Transgressions / slight Biblical bent
•    Money, morality, crass but not sophomoric
•    “Ross”; “Broads”; “(Pause)”
•    Minimal staged directions / character descriptions
•    Incorporation of non-dramatic texts: e.g. John’s textbook; Gould’s “Radiation” novel
•    Double colons: e.g. “now: look: . . .”
•    Lots of talking on the phone

For those of you who aren’t so much into the theater, go rent Mamet’s Redbelt. It is one of my favorite movies!

Idea of the day: all classic dramas were intended to be fusion pieces. . .

Artistic retreat. Wow. EXHAUSTION. But the good kind of exhaustion. The mental equivalent to what you would feel if you had been building a stone wall all day: a feeling of a well-used instrument. A knowledge that you are going to be sore tomorrow. I got a headache about 15 minutes in, so hopefully being sore today relieves me from being sore tomorrow. That’s how it works. Right?

Out of our 8 hours of shop talk, many good things came, not the least of which is the idea presented above. A.C.T. has been experimenting in more fusion work as of late, and with Kneehigh Theatre arriving with Brief Encounter next week (Their set already arrived: by boat! The whole magical set is stored in a crate in the port of Oakland!) it is on our minds! Of course, we reaffirmed our commitment to “classical” work (and by classical I am pretty sure everyone throwing around the word meant “canonical”), and, to many, these two concepts seemed divergent. But they aren’t, as Kneehigh Theatre–and Redmoon in Chicago for that matter–are successfully showing! And I think the key is, as Emma Rice told me in her interview, it is all about THE STORY.

I may have mentioned this before, but ever since I wrote my senior thesis of the evolution of Sir Gawain as a fictional character of Arthurian romance, focusing specifically on his appearance in the amazingly rich and perplexing poem Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, I have wanted to write a play adaptation of the poem. I never figured it out. I still come back to it a few times every year. I wonder if it needs to be something much less “traditional” than what I have been thinking. Maybe the best way to capture the complexity of the original text is not with text . . .

(These two–though lovely!–are not part of the US tour…and I don’t believe they were a part of the UK tour either, but don’t hold me to that.)

And another example of Kneehigh’s work! Don John!