NFTF: Further Missed Missives

[The following rests under a rock beneath the window of the room in which Veronica stayed at the Compound, after the disappearance of Torvald Mayberry. It is written hastily on high-quality resume paper which has been thoroughly rubbed down with white wax crayon after the ink dried, to attempt some form of waterproofing. Unfortunately, this area is watered nightly via automatic sprinkler drip and mist system. The missive is rapidly mildewing at the edges. More care should have been taken with its placement and water resistance, or less caution should have been employed in communicating with Veronica.]

Dear Veronica,

I'm not sure how to get this to you without waking you or alerting others to my presence tonight. And the                annot risk alerting anyone -- there are those among the good Rachels and Ezekiels of t                              een subtly, deeply affected by the darkness of Torvald Mayberry. They do not know i               y                e devastating action in the event of my appearance or any major forward movement o               t of                her Henrietta.

              his reason that I leave this note. I think I'll make some grunting noises outside your window ton               bble around in the rocks and ferns there; hopefully that works and you find this note before too lon               tain now that you haven't found several of my other missives, and                nch farther when I am               ch things have I seen, my love: pearly wisps of the last fog of the sleep of the dreamer Merlin, soup upset by baby dragons, clearer glimpses of lost kingdoms than ever afforded by shroo               in Huddart Park. 

I have yet to gain complete control of my abilities. But I am working on it, learning a great deal. It appears that my overall lifelong distraction and apparent inability to pay attention to the time has been                indication of a deeper sense of time than would be shown by your average cubicle donkey; I get immersed in a moment, and for me the moment stretches -- it becomes elastic and malleable, and               times when I have told you I was certain I left the house on time and, with the absence of traffic, ou               to have been right on time to pick you up (I know you're shaking your head right now, stop it! Th               true! I'm not using everything we've been through to excuse a decade of inattentiveness and a life               missed deadlines, I'm explaining the exact why of those things! Gah.) -- those times when I h               either late or, just as often, oddly early -- those are the times when I have essentially been stretching the boundaries of my time bubble.

Think of it this way: when you yawn and stretch, it feels good, right? So imagine your mind and soul yawning and stretching, and kind of clicking in and becoming so relaxed that they stretch a little outside the edg               our personal time bubble. Or, in some cases, they stretch the bubble itself. Different effects               as a result of the nature of the stretching (hence the early or late variable, as well as the certa               of 'lost time' I've told you about -- you may remember Josh Q. speaks of an instance of lost tim               well; is this a Piscean ability?), but what's clear is that, as every individual's time on this earth differs, so every individual's personal time bubble and resulting relationship to time is as individual a               fingerprint, eye color, or taste in neckties. Time is not a universal force, but rather a human me               ent of a universally individual experience which, as most of us seem to experience it similarly, seem               e whole to adhere to a linear appearance. And as a result, those of us who occasionally step outside, ins               through time are labeled madmen, crackpots and liars. 

But I am a Time Traveler. And this Time Traveler -- no matter how early or late he arrives -- loves you. And will arrive in time. Quite literally. That's a promise.


Yours,


Edward


PS, Max is                                  and he needs food.

Down With Dogs, I: Very Small Theatres Part 2

I went with the gentle diversion. He got in his car and left, I walked to the subway, and the next day we all had lunch with Charles, the Artistic Director of the company. The purpose of this lunch was to discuss the project -- this was something Charles did with every one-act in the festival: dine with the cast and creative team in order to casually bounce some ideas around. I'm betting it was also a way to gauge the overall tension, positivity vs. negativity, or whatever else might be going on with any one project. Thing is, the cast and creative team -- with one notable exception among the actors -- pretty much got along. The only major issue was that the playwright refused to rewright.

So we all went out to lunch. And some ideas were bounced around, most of them useless because they didn't take into account the biggest problem in the piece -- which I will address soon. I was actually somewhat embarrassed for a couple of the actors, because their main ideas stemmed solely from the notion that the size of their roles, and thus their stage time, should be increased. This is not a quality in the heart of every actor, but it is definitely present in some. They count their lines, some even count the words, they actually seek ways to upstage everyone else in the play; these are the actors who will hide your props, move your costume, possibly even poison your makeup -- though that seems relatively rare. I haven't often encountered them, but the funny thing is that every one I've ever worked with has always shown her or his hand pretty early on in the process. The first sign is always greed for more lines, more stage time. Which is not to say that every actor who wants more stage time is a theatrical sociopath -- just as every person who likes weaponry is not a mass-murderer -- but the angling, wheedling, grasping desperation for more lines that some actors display is a clear and bright red flag. That moment in Rivendell comes to mind, in Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings, when Bilbo sees the ring on its chain around Frodo's neck and for a moment transforms into a scary grasping greedful creeper: that's what this kind of actor can't keep hidden away, and when she or he sees whatever represents her or his personal One Ring, greed and desperation take over and the actor will engage in behavior that ranges from the ridiculous to the deplorable.

We all met at the theater and walked down to a diner on the corner past Playwrights Horizons (was I the only one who looked with longing at those doors? Victor saw me and nodded as if to say, "You are right to be looking at those doors. It's only a matter of time." Alas, it would seem that the gift of prophecy does not rest among Victor's other talents.) Victor stood outside checking his voicemail as we got a large booth. He'd quietly insisted to me that he and I sit next to one another opposite Charles and the playwright, so I quietly arranged it thus; when Victor came in, it was with the news that our playwright would not be joining us for this mandatory lunch because of unforeseen personal obligations. To which Charles responded, "Translation: I'm a fucking pussy and I'm afraidseys to rewritseys my widdow babbow scwiptseys." 

This was a refreshing revelation, because it meant several things: first, that Charles was aware of the playwright's unwillingness to fulfill his side of the deal. Second, it appeared that Charles was thus laying the groundwork for open and honest discussion of the project. Those were the most important things, but an added detail was that it seemed that Charles had met this kind of resistance before and was impatient with unprofessionality. I asked him about it:

Edward: Charles, this can't be the first time you've worked with a stubborn playwright.

Charles: Oh my God, no. It's the entire reason we have that contract with all of our playwrights now: the first two festivals we did, we got people who thought collaboration meant refusing to allow us to do their play if we didn't cast it to their satisfaction, things like that.

At this point Charles opened the discussion to the table, and, while the main issue the actors had with the play was one of repetition and pointless lines, these important notes began to get bogged down as the more covetous actors began to work their dark charms. Victor and Charles were having none of that, and wanted more to focus on the clogged dialogue. Eventually, Victor even went so far as to say something to the effect of, "Hey, listen, we all want more to do. But until we get the issue of clarity across to our playwright, asking him to add more confusion will only make our work harder." This prompted the greedies to scrabble backwards, protesting that it wasn't about more lines. But it totally was. 

The leads were thus able to get their concerns across to Charles, who noted everything carefully in preparation for an e-mail and then meeting with the playwright. Finally, Victor asked the question I had been waiting to hear: "Does anyone have any thoughts about the overall structure or plotline?"

Silence.

I looked around, then raised my hand. Victor said, "Yes, Edward, O King of Structure?" Here is what I said:

Edward: Okay, here's the thing: this guy, our main character, he's a bestselling novelist, right?

Group: Uh-huh.

Edward: And the conflict in the play is rooted in his wife's fear that he's in danger of losing his job as a Biology professor -- and not getting tenure -- because he's focusing so much on his writing. Correct?

Group: Yeppers.

Edward: Then here's my question: if he's a bestselling novelist, what the fuck does he need to worry about a teaching job for? He has already made more money as, to quote page one of the play, " ...  a New York Times #1 Bestseller," than he ever will teaching Biology.

Group: [silence]

Edward: This premise, that a bestselling novelist would be so scared of losing a job that is only a miserable distraction from what he loves, is essentially flawed. And because it's the main support beam upon which the play stands, we are essentially presenting something that no half-intelligent audience member is going to buy.

Professor: Well, Edward, we don't know how successful he is ...

Edward: [pointing to script] Page One: "Honey, I am a New York Times #1 Bestseller, you'd think I could spend a Sunday afternoon working on my novel." I think it's pretty clear.

Wife: I always thought he was joking with that line.

Edward: Why?

Wife: Because otherwise, why am I so worried about his job?

Edward: You're proving my point.

Wife: Huh ... yeah, I guess I am.

Charles: You know, I hadn't even caught that. I think it's an excellent point, and I'll make that the thrust of my discussion with the playwright.

Professor's Fat Sister: I don't know ...

Victor: What don't you know?

Professor's Fat Sister: We're sitting here talking about rewriting his entire play ...

Victor: You were just arguing to bulk up your lines by half, Fat Sister.

Professor's Fat Sister: I just ... it feels wrong. All I'm saying.

Wife: Well, I can keep assuming he's joking if that's what needs to happen, but it's shit acting on my part and I know it. I can't invite an agent when I know I'm doing poor work.

Victor: What about you, Ballerina?

Ballerina: If the central conflict were no longer about not getting tenure at the university because of his relationship with his muse, what would it be about?

Edward: It would be about his relationship with his muse. His wife already as much as accuses him of cheating on her; the tenure thing is a pointless diversion -- this is a play about a love triangle between a writer, his wife and his muse. Getting rid of the tenure bullshit clarifies all of that, gives you all stronger wants and -- hopefully -- less confusing dialogue.

Victor: Thus Spake Edwardthustra.

Charles: Edward, do you want a job as a reader?

Edward: Yes, indeed.

Charles: We'll talk. As for the rest of you, this has been very fruitful and informative. I will run all of this by the playwright and, fingers crossed, I will succeed in --

Professor's Fat Sister: I still don't know ...

Charles: What is it, Fat Sister?

Professor's Fat Sister: It feels so underhanded, meeting like this. If I were the writer, I wouldn't want everyone rewriting my script without me being there. I don't know if I can be a part of it.

Charles: Are you backing out of the show? Because I have another actress ...

Professor's Fat Sister: Oh, no! No! Just ... y'know, concerned. 

Victor: Fat Sister, this is a mandatory meeting of which the playwright has been aware for months. He knew this was the lunch in which his script was likely to change. We are doing our jobs, according to our contracts. He is not doing his. 

Professor's Fat Sister: But Professor didn't even bring any of this up, the -- who are you, Edward, the "assistant director"? The "assistant director" brought this up. You're not -- he's not even a real member of the team, he's a gopher. Since when do gophers have opinions? I'm just sayin', is all. He's not an actor. He's an assistant.

[Long silence. Waiter passes, ignoring us; probably not the first time he's heard an exchange like this. Not gonna lie: everything she said hit home.]

Charles: Thank you for making your feelings so clear, Fat Sister. Edward, I apologize.

Edward: Yeah, no. Fine.

Charles got up to pay the bill and we all headed outside. I had plastered a pleasant smile on my face and, by some miracle, maintained it all the way back to the theatre. I think I let it slip once Victor and I parted at 8th Avenue, and I may have found a very tight corner to face on a very packed train back to Corona. For the first time in my life, I was looking forward to the numb soullessness guaranteed by a day of work at Restoration Hardware.

Victor called me the next day to tell me he'd had a long phone meeting with the playwright, who felt like we were "cutting his balls off." This affected Victor deeply. He began to back off. So, by the next week when Victor made a nice speech and handed the cast over to me, the wrighter had basically been given carte blanche and was using it to not rewrite anything in his play. My job had become very simple: shepherd the show through this last week of rehearsals and two days of tech, making regular reports to Victor, then attend all performances. I inquired later with Charles and Victor about pushing some rewrites, and the consensus was that it might be better for the company to avoid pushing a playwright into a nervous breakdown over a 30 minute play. I agreed, and everything ahead appeared to be clear skies and smooth sailing. None of us had reckoned, however, with the vengeance of the Professor's Fat Sister.

Down With Dogs, I: Very Small Theatres

While I lived in Queens, my friend Victor Maog contacted me. He was directing a play at The Vital Stage, 3rd Floor, corner of Dyer and 42nd Streets, a few doors up from Playwrights Horizons. Impressive location for indie theatre projects, and the play was exactly that: one of many in a festival of short plays. The entire conceit of the project -- rather well conceived, I feel -- was that playwrights would submit original plays that had never before been produced anywhere; part of the deal, to which all accepted wrighters agreed with a dated signature, was that they would work with and trust their directors: if the director felt that the piece needed to change in some way, they would discuss it and the wrighter would make the changes. I saw almost all of the plays in that festival, and many -- if not most -- were very good or great and had benefited from collaboration between wrighter and director.

The reason that Victor brought me on board had two levels: the first was that, excellent friend that he is, he wanted to give me an opportunity to be working and directing in theatre right away. He heard my idiotic plan to get a non-theatre job and "save up" for what it was: blind stupidity. Wonderful friend that he is, he never said a word about that stupidity -- instead saying, "Hey, I have this project coming up. And it conflicts with another thing I've got at Second Stage about two weeks in. Why don't you come on as my assistant director, and when the conflicts start I will hand the reins to you and you will get your first chance to direct on the isle of Manhattan?"

I was a very great fool at that time; it's probable that I am possibly an even greater fool today. But I knew enough to say yes. And I'm delighted that I did. In spite of what came next.

The play that Victor had agreed to direct was about a very famous, fictional, bestselling novelist. This novelist has hit a wall, major writer's block, and can't get anything done. He is also a biology professor at a local university, where the motto is, of course, publish or perish. Because he hasn't published anything in a while, his job is in danger. So as he's fighting all this internal stuff, he is suddenly visited by a very attractive young ballerina, complete with tutu and toe-shoes. She appears and disappears in between the various discussions the writer has with his increasingly frustrated and therefore unintentionally antagonistic wife. The main conflict in the play is centered around the writer's desire to be writing and his inability to do so, his wife's desire to see him remain gainfully employed by this major university and thus stay focused on his familial commitments. The writer, however, is falling in love with the ballerina. So when he's not writing, he's discussing writing and such with this very attractive young woman who is wearing the theatrical equivalent of nothing at all. He feels like he's cheating on his wife, she begins to feel cheated upon, things build to a climax and are eventually resolved as the writer has an epiphany and -- shocker! -- begins to write a play about a writer plagued by writer's block who is visited by a mysterious young ballerina who teases him into a sexual frenzy and thus inspires him to write.

Guess what? The ballerina was his muse! I know you didn't see that coming. 

Simplistic as the story appeared to be, it had heart and some very good moments in it. Victor, however, had not bothered to read it. He asked me to read it. I did. He asked me to join him in casting the play. I did. We watched auditions, he read various people in the roles, he tried all sorts of wildly inventive things (including veering dangerously close to casting a 250 lb. woman as the ballerina; the more he read her for that role, the more pissed off she became), and eventually he consulted me on every aspect of casting, taking my word as gospel and trusting me completely. The show was thus very well cast. I suspect that he did all of this on purpose to make me feel useful to the project and a part of the process. He confided in me that he didn't actually care about this show, it was something he'd sent a resume in for on a whim and when he got the call he'd had to look back through old issues of Backstage to remember what the job had been. I am fairly certain that he hadn't actually read the play, because his responses to every line seemed genuinely surprised / dismayed / amused -- whichever was called for. However, Victor likes to keep something secret, and here I am spilling the beans: he is a superb actor. So he may have been using his superior acting skills to get me deeply involved in the process. Truly, though, I really don't believe he'd ever read more than the title before the first day of auditions.

The show was cast, we got started on rehearsals, and the meetings with the playwright began. On walks between the theater and local bars or diners, the playwright confided the following to Victor and myself: he was a frustrated writer who made his living as a High School biology teacher; his wife was really, really angry with him for spending so much time writing instead of being focused on the family; there had been some sort of kerfuffle and things had come to a head but then resolved nicely. And for me, the only really dismaying point: this play had in fact been produced before; ten years earlier, the wrighter had produced and directed it himself in the cafetorium of the very High School in which he teaches. It had, he assured us, been wildly successful; and everyone in the school as well as everyone in his small town in New Jersey had been wildly enthusiastic about this, his magnum opus. All thirty minutes of it.

The problem I suspected we would meet around the next corner: the wrighter's complete emotional attachment to the material as it was, and a resulting unwillingness / inability to see it altered in any way.  I warned Victor. He was not concerned. I detailed my argument with sharp bullet points of gestures between the Times Square station and the building which housed the Vital Stage:

* The character is a writer who teaches biology; the wrighter is a would-be writer who teaches biology.
* The character's wife is / was angry with the character for the conflict between his commitment to his muse and his commitment to his family; so, too, for the wrighter.
* The obvious pride of the wrighter in having produced and directed it all on his own in the hinterlands of New Jersey; his increased pride at having it selected as part of a festival of one-acts at an independent theatre company on Fabulous 42nd Street in New York City!

These tersely-voiced and oft-repeated bullet points were met with calm and relaxed assurances from Victor:

1. Every wrighter in this festival has agreed in writing to collaborate with the director and alter his play as the director asks, thus ensuring that this is a festival of vital (get it?) theatre -- living, breathing work.
2. If it becomes an issue, we meet with Charles, Artistic Director of The Vital Stage, who will arbitrate and generally find in favor of the director -- though nobody wants to see a play cut from the festival.
3. The wrighter will eventually see the light when everything comes together -- it is safe to trust that everything will all work out. (Translation: in two weeks, I will be making a lot more money on a far more interesting project: a musical to be directed by Mark Linn-Baker; by that time, this will be your problem and we will be so far into this project that you will not be able to alter it in any way. But I truly appreciate your passion and I love your friendship, my friend.)

Sure enough, the actors had a lot of questions. Victor would note these questions and bring them to the attention of the wrighter. The wrighter would respond that he is okay with things the way they are. Victor counters with further questions, stemming from inconsistencies brought to light by the original and still unanswered questions. The writer maintains his position, digging in until he is entrenched in an artistic foxhole, shoring up his defenses after every Maogian bombardment and maintaining strict adherence to his unbending boundaries.

Not knowing that I was also a source of questions -- and perhaps more of a dangerous geyser than a gentle fountain -- the wrighter confided further to me: he hadn't just written, produced and directed this play in the cafetorium of the school where he works -- he had played the leading role of the writer/teacher caught at the crossroads between creative and procreative responsibility. This was, I realized at the time, probably the final nail in the coffin of any possible changes to the script. However, as my entire purpose in walking him to his car that night had been to find a gentle ingress of revision, I simply nodded and asked some polite questions about the hotness of the girl who played the ballerina in that first production. Then I believe that I took it up a notch and made some jokes about special meetings after rehearsal to "work the tip -- I mean the scene -- into the right spot."

The way he stumble-stopped and turned to me, face alternating between ashen and beet red, half laughing like I'd just said the funniest thing in the world oh my ho-ho-ho that's gigantically hilarious, and half gasping like a man suffering the first in what is destined to be a long line of inconveniently-timed myocardial infarctions, told me everything I needed to know. That knowledge brought me to my own artistic crossroads: Machiavellian promise or gentle diversion of topic?

The Machiavellian Promise goes like this: "That's right, motherfucker, I know. I know what you did. And if you don't allow us to change your play as we see fit and make it into the theatrical masterpiece it will never otherwise be, I'm going to tell everyone in the theater and everyone you bring to see this mediocre piece of shit that you fucked the ballerina. YOU FUCKED THE BALLERINA! [echoing in the parking garage, convenient for me, he's clutching his chest and backed up against his Ford Explorer ("almost paid off")] So now you have to ask yourself: 'What matters more: my reputation? Or my perception of my control over this production of my play?' Because there's something you need to know, fucko: you can always revert your play to its currently ridiculous, piddling namby-pamby suburban scraped-off-my-shoe status, once the show has closed. And good luck with your tenure at the High School, because your train stops here. Now: what's it going to be? Your way? Or mine?"

The Gentle Diversion goes like this: "Man, I am so distracted by the hotness of Estelle. Holy shit! When Victor cast her, I was like, 'Thank you! Thank you! Please let me help her with any quick changes!' But now that she's here in those toe shoes and tutu every night, it's all I can do to refrain from jizzing all over her thighs when she bends over to pick up that book! Is it wrong of me to try to fuck an actress in this festival?"

Guess which one I went with?

Down With Dogs

When I graduated from The Boston Conservatory, I had high hopes of moving to NYC and becoming a famous actor. I cringe just typing that, now, because those hopes were at odds with something else I carried in my heart at that time: the belief that I was a terrible actor. I did in fact move to NYC (Corona, Queens, to be exact), with a girlfriend for whom I was ill-suited and a half-formed plan to get a job and save up and then audition for things. That was fear-induced stupidity. The fact was, I had no idea what to do next or how to do it. My time at TBC had been marred by deep depression, and while I had graduated, it was three years later than what I was guaranteed by Neil Donohoe when I met with him at the beginning of my sentence. Of course, disorganized transfer student that I was, I lost the paper upon which he'd written all this down. And, of course, it was policy for his office not to keep a copy on file. It's what I like to call, The Conservatory Shuffle.

Very simple, really. Here's how it works:
     STEP ONE: Accept every student who fills out the paperwork properly.
     STEP TWO: Make lots of promises, sign nothing, trust the student to lose the document.
     STEP THREE: Keep raking in those tuition checks -- there's a lot of delusional would-be actors out there!
     STEP FOUR: Don't offer classes in the business of theatre and before you can say STEP FIVE, enough of the unfit will have transferred to another school that by Senior Year your graduating class is almost manageable; bonus: all that extra tuition has kept you afloat long enough to hire a CFO who now wants to know one thing: ever heard of grants and endowments?

No doubt various TBC administrators would be very upset with this assessment, were they to read my blog. They were upset with my assessment of things when I was Student Body President, as well. But this is what all the students had gleaned, and Donohoe himself told the incoming class in 1995 that TBC had accepted everyone who filled out the paperwork properly. And, to be clear, I have only a tiny whisp of suspicion that they would be doing anything like this (or new but similar) right now. Once bitten, twice shy.

All of which is a lengthy explanation of the soil in which I was emotionally rooted when I moved to NYC, got a job at Restoration Hardware at 22nd and Broadway, and began to master the transfer points between the Number 7 and the other, newer, less rickety but also less purple trains. I believed in my heart of hearts that I was not an actor, while simultaneously telling anyone I met at work that I was an actor. I did not go to a single audition for anything of import; I did, however, go to an audition for an original play in Queens, in a tiny performance space -- one of those converted basement/warehousey spaces with little Christmas lights around the actors' headshots in the four-chair foyer. I was late. The audition went something like this:

Hot Asian Director: I'm Amy, you're late.

Edward: Sorry, new to these trains.

HAD: Where were you coming from?

Edward: Corona ... ?

HAD: Did you take the Number Seven and transfer at thus-and-such?

Edward: No, I transferred at this-and-that.

HAD: That's why you're late.

Edward: But the this-and-that transfer point is easier than the thus-and-such transfer point --

HAD: You're new here?

Edward: ... yes.

HAD: Transfer at thus-and-such. Only fresh-off-the-boats and tourists transfer at this-and-that. If you're serious about theatre, you'll transfer at thus-and-such.

Edward: Okay.

HAD: Headshot and resume?

Edward: I'm fresh out.

[Pause during which the Hot Asian Director is clearly gauging the precise percentage of her time thus wasted.]

HAD: Okay. What would you like to read for?

Edward: The brother and the boyfriend.

HAD: Okay. This is Louise, she will be your reader.

Edward: Hi there, Louise.

[Silence.]

Edward (reading):      "So, hey, sis -- don't you think Johnny's kind of gay?"

Louise (utterly uninflected): "What, what are you talking about? That's my boyfriend you're calling gay."

Edward (reading):      "No, Amy, I'm asking if you think he's gay. I'm not saying he is gay."

Louise (still nothing): "Why would I think he's gay when his cock is in me every night, pushing and pushing like an oil derrick that just keeps pumping my sex like the dry California earth until I have me a gusher? I have me a gusher, Todd!"

Edward (reading):     "Should that be a 'gaysher'?"

[The reading is over, it was a very short side.]

HAD: Wow, Edward, that was a little homophobic for my tastes.

Edward: I'm sorry, would you like me to take it again?

HAD: Let's have you read the boyfriend. Now, remember, he's screamingly gay.

Edward: Okay.

HAD: A towering inferno of faggot, the kind who goes to a musical theatre school.

Edward: I ... see.

HAD: Any questions?

Edward: So ... if the earlier reading came off as homophobic, um, what exactly are you looking for ... with the boyfriend?

HAD: Do I need to repeat myself?

Edward: I guess not, no.

HAD: Any time now.

Edward (reading):     "Oh my gawd, Amy! Just look at your shoes! Where did you get those darling little numbers? I'll bet I have a little pillbox hat and veil that would match perfectly!"

Louise (Arizona creekbed): "Pertweeb, I really want to talk to you about what my brother has been saying."

Edward (reading):     "That's fab-ulous, but first! Let me tell you about what happened at rehearsal today. So: Jimmy came in late and Jill was like, 'Oh no he di'int,' and I looked at him and he had this sticky white residue dried all around his mouth! Oh my gaaaaawd! And I was like, 'Girl, you know that's just the glaze from a donut, that queen cain't resist no Dunkin' Donuts en route to rehearsal!' But then Jill jump up close to him and get a good whiff and say, 'Bitch, why do you smell like pancake batter?!'"

[Silence of the grave. In this case, the grave of my chances in this show.]

HAD: Thanks for coming in.

Edward: Do you want me to try either of those again?

HAD: Thanks, we're all set for today. Louise, do you have those sketches from the designer?

[Dismissed, I head for the door. As I'm reaching into my satchel for a train map, I find a headshot and resume. The picture was taken by Kathryn on a street off Hemenway, early one morning the previous Spring. It's actually an excellent picture. Triumph supersedes caution:]

Edward: Oh! I ... it looks like I have a ... headshot and resume ...

[HAD looks up from sketches of set design, lovely sketches actually, and doesn't seem to know who I am. Her eyes move from my face to the proffered headshot and resume. Silence. Louise slowly reaches out and takes it from me, glances at the picture and hands it to HAD. Slow sigh from HAD, eyes rolling slightly, as she looks at the headshot and turns it over to read the resume. Sudden intake of breath, she turns to me.]

HAD: You were in the workshop of Beasts and Saints?

Edward: Yes.

HAD: With Jennifer and Allen and Joe Machota?

Edward: Yes. Amazing score.

HAD: I know, right? Who did you play?

Edward: I was ... ensemble. One of the maids, the boss, those roles.

HAD: I love that show. Too esoteric for anything in the city, but ... wow.

[She is looking over my resume with more interest.]

HAD (cont.): So ... oh. Boston Conservatory.

Edward: Yes. 

HAD: That's a musical theatre school.

Edward: Well, they teach music, dance and theatre --

HAD: Thanks for coming in. Make sure the door shuts completely.

[HAD hands the headshot and resume back to me, turns back to the sketches. I am frozen in place. It feels like a slap. For a moment, I have no idea what to do. It feels rude to just turn and leave, but I'm pretty sure she never wants to see me again. This is weird. The moment stretches. I have no idea how to proceed. I am rooted to the spot. I can't make myself move. I am screaming inside, 'Move! Turn! Go!' I just can't do it. HAD glances at me peripherally, big sigh, stands and crosses the small theatre space to a curtained doorway, goes through. Louise follows her. The lights where I'm standing go out. It's the final straw, my camel is collapsed, dead. I turn to go, released from torment but more humiliated than I would have been if I'd just kept going instead of handing her the headshot and resume. As I'm crossing the tiny foyer and about to open the door, a voice speaks from my right. There's someone in the shadows where the little white lights don't shine.]

Voice: Blarb-blafrarb-plagarb-grafarb.

[Terrified for no definite reason, I slam through the door to the street, practically sprinting back to the train. My breathing only calms down once I transfer (not consciously) at thus-and-such. I see at least three people who graduated in the two years prior to me on the same car. None of us acknowledges the others. I realize that none of us are gainfully employed in theatre. This is the polite social veneer of artistic shame. To this day, I have no idea what the person in the foyer said to me.]

Thus began my intimate acquaintance with all things Rinky and all things Dink. Within six months I was trapped in California with no money to return to New York. I lost my job, broke up with my girlfriend, and (praise be to the woman scorned) lost my sizable portion of the security deposit. I still believed I could claw my way out of California. I still believed I would escape. I had not yet sunk much below my ankles into the swamp of theatrical mediocrity that is Community Theatre in the East Bay of the SF Bay Area (howls of torment from the bright lights in that incestuous little constellation), and I knew that with enough pavement-pounding, I'd eventually stop tracking that tar behind me at every audition. 

I still had hope.

A Blog About Theatre

For the last eight months I have been writing Notes From The Future and posting it episodically within this blog, because this is currently the only blog I have to my name. Obviously there's a bit of a conflict between the name of this blog (Rinky-Dink, Adventures In American Theatre) and Notes From The Future, which is a story about what happens to love when earthquakes, monsters and time travel get in the way. Or maybe it's a story about a couple of idiots who clearly chose the wrong path. And maybe I'm writing about Veronica and myself with unflinching clarity, or maybe I'm making myself far more attractive in print than I actually am. I'll never tell. What I will say is that I've hit a bump in the road.

Perhaps 'pothole' is the better word. Either way, the three of you who read regularly will have noticed by now that I have pulled over. The engine is off – in fact, it's cool to the touch. There's still gas in the tank, oil and water unmixed in their appropriate receptacles. But I am on my back under the car, staring at the complexities I've created and very, very aware that a) certain inconsistencies are about to trip everything up and, b) I will begin directing The Three Musketeers in late February. It's kind of like when I know I need to be up early in the morning and I therefore cannot sleep: I know I need to keep working and finish this damned thing (I even have notes on what comes next and how to end it), but it would appear that I have something-or-othered, and as a result I am thoroughly somethinged.

Part of it is health-related, and I won't bore you with details, but that's distracting. The other part is having to work at home. I don't know how people do it. The only time I can get work done is late at night, but working late at night = sleeping all day, which fucks my sleep schedule. It's 11:06 pm as of this moment, and I have to complete, edit, and post this blog within the next hour or fuck up the deliciously normal sleep cycle I've finally managed to regain after New Year's. I would love to drive up to Solano College every day and write in the Adjunct Faculty Office. But 120 miles round trip with gas prices what they are and things and such and pennywhistles among sandpipers, o the unmitigated profligacy of it all.

Another issue I'm having is with Blogger/Blogspot itself. While it has undergone some changes that are definite improvements, it seems that none of you can easily comment, no matter what I do to the settings. Not gonna lie: I totally love comments. That's why I practically beg for comments every time I post a link to my blog on Google+, Facebook, Twitter, etc. I recently met someone who is so obsessed with NFTF that she has read it in its entirety – twice! Never a word from her, alas, and she's just the person whose comments I'd love to have. Imagine my frustration when everyone tells me they try to comment, but the blog won't let them. Or it's prohibitively difficult. (I am assuming a high level of intelligence among you, dear readers, because I've noticed that smart people like my writing. Which of course means you're all geniuses. Would you care to celebrate this revelation with bonbons au gingembre? Join me in the escritoire!) There are several other venues I am currently considering and my current favorite is WordPress. It's a poor artist who blames the tools, but let's be clear: words are my tools, websites are the galleries in which I currently display my work.

Now, when I started this blog, I was thinking that I would use it to catalog my pithily unrepentant observations about theatre as it currently stands and as I've experienced it in the SF Bay Area and other regions here in the Western United States. Some of my stuff is just that. Oliver in Idaho, a series originally written from the trenches of the exact production described, was first shared via the blogs on MySpace. But MySpace is now the weed-choked, crack-vialed lot several blocks away where they shoot various scenes for The Wire, because the world, to quote Roland of Gilead, has moved on. O alas, it has indeed.

So, why haven't I continued to write directly about my experiences since 2006? Simple: I chickened out, took a job working for my Dad, and promptly fell of the face of the earth. After that, every show I did felt like a blessing that I couldn't endanger. Were I to write candidly about a poorly-written original musical, for example, there was a danger that the librettist, lyricist or producer might get wind of it. And since none of them had any idea that the show was poorly-writ, blah blah and etcetera. Instead, I concocted fictionalized versions of the productions in which I was involved. I had fun writing them, and when I go back and re-read, I am always a little saddened that they've never gotten much attention. I think parents must feel this way when they have awkward kids. “I love you, honey. And you are pretty. You are. You just … need to not be ugly any more.”

Recently, however, I had a chance to discuss my blog at some length with a couple of people. One was my brother-in-law, first initial J, who feels that I spend too much time writing about street names in early episodes. Fair enough. I don't know how much that thought will affect the eventual form the blog takes, but I appreciate the feedback. And if that is his only critique, I'll take it! My sister Hillary, on the other hand, wants me to cut every single reference to theatre. She probably only told me this because she had had some cocktails at our older brother's 50^th birthday party, and I truly do appreciate the response.

Because it got me thinking: am I writing too much about theatre within NFTF? I think she may be right: I might be a little heavy-handed with the Carol Channing references and Nathan Lane inflections. But I justified it, each and every time, with a glance at the title of the blog: Rinky-Dink, Adventures in American Theatre. I thought to myself (quasi-consciously), “Ah, this gemlike little quatrain about Sondheim vs. Styne is just the thing to justify this blog about time travel being published under a theatrical label. This will satisfy the theatre junkies who are so avidly – yet SILENTLY – reading my blog! Perhaps this will draw them into the light of day? Perhaps – dare I hope?! – just perhaps my cogent observations about the current state of affairs in mediocre regional theatre will be just the thing to get people commenting!”

Nope.

So I'm laying here under my blog, with hot inspiration dripping on my face and the smell of burned potential strong in my nostrils, and I'm thinking. My need to write about Theatre must be fulfilled. My youngest sister is so bored with my writings about theatre that she skips – actually skips – whole sections of it whenever I lean in that direction. What to do? Socket wrench? Shot of whiskey? Both? I'll take three, thanks, and then stare at the page some more. Meanwhile, I may just have to create a new, separate blog, somewhere else. Transfer NFTF over there, and maintain Blogger as the home of Rinky-Dink, as that association seems cemented in both the spiritual and the literal senses.

It's four minutes after Midnight. This blog is unfinished. Notes From The Future have yet to arrive. I am bracing myself for three comments followed by thunderous silence. Thus my writing career mimics almost exactly the shape of my theatrical career. Lesson learned:

Location, location, location.

Notes from the Future: Missives Missed

[The following was neatly folded and pinned via thorns to a rosebush near the entrance to the garden at the Compound; it would only have been found if Veronica had run after Max when he followed the summoning whistle; her name is written on the exterior in big red letters. It has fallen from the thorns and is now becoming part of the mulch beneath the rose, covered with snail tracks and a few leaves. Bugs and water are taking their toll; holes are clearly blank; some form of waterproofing may have kept it in better condition.]

Dear Veronica,

Bold move! Keep     ing to the shed at the t          he garden, circle behind it to the right, thr      he poison oak. Trust m      t rash is better than be        ht. Run!

Hopefull          Max are now in the shallow dugout behind the shed. The poison oak is deliberate. DO NOT TOUC              CE OR EYES. You must be vigi           is point. Again, DO NOT TOUCH YOUR FACE OR EYES. NO MA            HAT.

Hold still               Max. If he g                 m with a firm hug. Do not rub your face on him. Do not rub your face on him. Do not rub yo                   you choose to ignore this and my other warnings, your face and eyes will swell up ov                             ou will be unab               you most need to escape. By now, if you have learned anything at all, you will perh                       y dire warnings are extremely valuable. Please cherish my advice as gos                    unto ye from an observational crux which makes it possible for me to see the variatio            ath.

In the d                               aves, it's actually just oilcloth with leaves as cammo (long story); lift it off and you will find a nasty-look        en crate; inside that crate is a day pack with food and some poison oak cleanser. Follow the in                   tter, starting with your hands and arms. Do not touch your face. Use the e                        en doing anything piss- or shit-related. Please don't make me explain that and don't make me re                    three times.

If you can manage to stay there for three days, I will come for you. The ke              ax quiet while staying silent yourself. If you are disc             ast-Northeast (diagonally away from t                 t corner of the dugout), around the back of the Tor. Wait ther             enter the Tor until well a                 n then, throw some rocks into the Tor before y               en the trees. KEEP MAX W             U AT ALL TIMES.
I will wr                    en I can; you are not the only one who is                g.
Love,
Tad