politics, travel

San Antonio continued…”And the war…”

The first day I was here, we visited the Alamo and had nachos and margaritas on the river walk – a walled-in stretch of the San Antonio river which has the feeling of a Texas Disneyland. There were military cadets in bright blue uniforms marching along the water’s edge with their families and girlfriends, looking as clean and perfect as Disney characters.

But then I met the war correspondent from Sari’s paper. He had just finished a 3-hour-long interview with a veteran from Iraq who had had both his legs blown off.

The reporter told us: “We sat in the restaurant for 3 hours and no one came up to the man to thank him for his service to the country.” (I was ashamed that I myself have seen maimed veterans and not done that.)

The veteran asked him: “How can I be a father with no legs?”

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workstyle, writing

On writing and being wrong

I’ve been working on a fiction project which is pretty loosely fictionalized memoir. It’s drawn from my own life. It’s a catalog – Amina was doing a catalog story when I was with her in Ithaca, too.

Every time one of a particular kind of event happens, you write about it. But you don’t have to join them together. So you could do a catalog of the best meals you’ve ever had in your life, and write only about them. Or every time you’ve thrown up from drinking. Or every injury or major sickness.

I’ve been having a lot of success writing this catalog so far, but as I catch up to the present I find myself having a lot of trouble continuing it.

I tried to write in my journal first, but that meant acknowledging something had happened and it affected me personally, which hurt. So then I tried to write in the Word document on the computer, but that meant distancing myself from it, which felt cold and detatched. I don’t have the right medium in which to write about these things. Paper is too personal. The computer is too official.

And now I’m blogging about the difficulty of writing about it. Which feels like the perfect combination of journaling and typing.

If you don’t write about something, can you make it disappear from your memory? Does the absence of a record make it less real? And as a writer, do you ever get to forget? Will I ever be satisfied until I manage to write about this? Why do I end my blog entries with questions I already know the answers to?
(No, or at least I can’t. Yes, it does. No. No. And, to avoid answering them.)

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animation, film, Golda, humor rhymes with tumor, israel, Judaism, travel

South Texas and South Israel Park

Sari and I drove out to Poteet today, south of San Antonio, so we could see the area she covers for the paper. It’s very spread out, sunny, open and hot. We wore tank tops and shorts. The land is a beautiful place, with big overhanging trees and wide streets. I can see why people love Texas so much. It has a grandeur to it, even in a small town, and the sky really does seem large. It’s open.

But there’s a lot of poverty. The paint on the buildings is old, and the homes look patched together. We went by a mobile home with “Keep Away” spray-painted in red on one of the windows. We also went by rows of glistening, brand-new tractors, next to houses with crumbling wood. The juxtaposition between Poteet and the prosperity in San Antonio – and even more so in Austin – is extreme.

It was a drive that makes you think, a drive of extreme class contrasts, extreme poverty. Naturally, I got into talking about Golda and TJT and Jewish politics. I gave Sari my 10-minute history of Zionism and the state of Israel. We talked about politics in Palestine on the drive both there and back. We talked about institutionalized racism versus gun-in-your-face, bomb-on-the-bus racism. Texas. Mexico. Israel. The US. Palestine. Europe.

She’s helped me to remember some of the animation I used to do (Sari did the voice for this little film called “Misfortunes Of An Arrogant Child” that was at the Stanford film festival, when I was a junior) and we talked about the possibilities of making short films, short animated Internet segments a la Muffinfilms, which would have Jewish content – which would create something of an Internet comedy/theatrical voice for intelligent criticism of the Israel/Palestine conflict. (Now that’s a tall order.) Something like the South Park of the Jews. Something like a more meaningful Quarterlife. American Jews, or short animated kids, trying to make sense of it all.

It wouldn’t even have to be criticism. It could just be comedy-reportage. I’m really into this idea, but it feels like way too much responsibility – making sharp comedy about this issue is so hard, and so charged, and I’d probably end up with a real bomb on my hands, to use an inappropriate metaphor. Anyway, I don’t need another project.

Maybe I can start by making short animated films about something else with Jewish subject matter. Like I really need another project, right? Especially one that’s going to make everybody angry? But this is what I would want to watch. I guess that means it’s what I have to make.

Then we went to the zoo, came back and made chili. We’re going to see her roommate Monica play at an open mic tonight.

We also discussed, yesterday, what in modern entertainment today is the real child of Beckett.

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a propos of nothing, travel

Delayed dispatches from LAX (“Rest your back”)

I’m at the terminal, waiting for the flight to San Antonio, and I hear a guy with a purple shirt, cowboy boots, and a Texas accent talking into his Bluetooth headset (which looks like a piranha is attacking his ear). He says this, which I wrote down, word for word. I should start calling these things airport monologues.

TEXAN
I just sucked down two margaritas and chips and queso and steak fajitas.
Yep, two top-shelf margaritas.
By the way, I don’t like that school, the way it’s set up – her school – the parking – the kids just come out anywhere – there should be a front.
No, nothing against the school, just the parking.
So, I got the first-class upgrade. Basically, free liquor, that’s all I want.
I may not be able to drive when I arrive.
I don’t know if they have free mimosas.
Yeah, chicken-fried steak and cherries soaked in rum.
Nah, if I get home, wake up, and take four aspirins I’ll be fine.
It’s dehydration of the brain caused by consuming too much alcohol.
Wine?
(He seems disturbed by this idea.)
Well, if it’s wine, it’s a different kind of alcohol, you know, I’m not used to it…
Maybe if it’s a Zinfandel.
OK honey. I should go call (XXXXX). I’d love to see you tonight, but maybe rest…
No, you rest up.
Well, if you’re all worn out, I can’t have any fun with you.
No, I’m talking about a different kind of fun.
Yes ma’am.
Rest your back.

(And he hung up.)

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a propos of nothing, travel

In brevity,

I’m out of the whirlwind Los Angeles tour, and in TX with Sari. I have a delayed Dispatches from LAX post to put up, but I’ll just say this: we’re back in San Antonio, we went to Austin, hung out at Antone’s, and we discovered that Texans don’t dance to ska.

I’m on a real vacation. I’m not doing any theater whatsoever. But I did see the run of LOCAL STORY at NOTE on Weds, which was lovely. The old crowd.

I fly to Denver on Thursday, for LYDIA.

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directing, LA theater, style, the chorus, theater

“The stones would explain the smile”

I saw a great show with Phil C last night – the Evidence Room/Unknown Theater co-production of Martin Crimp’s* ATTEMPTS ON HER LIFE. Seventeen scenes in different styles, textures, and voices, all about one woman – Anne. Brilliant. And there were quite a number of choral elements in it, too. The two companies’ ADs co-directed it, alternating and switching off scenes, which is what I had wanted to try with a different show. So glad to see it working.

AOHL doesn’t have stage directions or divisions of text. I heard someone mention a production where all the actors learned all the lines, which is what I still want to do with choruses.

Every time I see one of Bart’s productions it makes me want to direct the play one day. Which I mean as a compliment to him. Often I see theater and it leaves me sick of the play, tired of it, never wanting to think of it again. Bart’s work makes the play seem like the most wonderful thing ever. Like there could be so many new discoveries in it.

Phil & I went to Cosmic Pizza after and discussed. I’m still spinning from the thoughts of the show. I wish I could see it again, but I leave Thursday.

Then, later, at the Silver Spoon with Ezra, this came up: has the presence of directors in theater actually removed some of the actors’ natural ability to self-direct? And who “needs” directors more – actors who naturally hold back, or who are naturally over the top?

Would it be a good thing for all actors to be in a production without a director? To try that? What would that mean?

*The very first show I worked on it LA was Martin Crimp’s DEALING WITH CLAIR, at the Matrix. I ran box office. Funny how these things come together – this Crimp will be one of the last shows I see in LA, for quite some time.

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a propos of nothing, classics, politics

About time, Augustus

Appropriately, I hear this in Los Angeles: “Italian archaeologists believe they have found the cave where, according to legend, a she-wolf nursed Romulus and Remus, the twin founders of Rome.”

Do we use that prefix “she-” for anything else? She-bear? I want to be a she-human. It sounds more like you’re a predator.

I also love this sentence, which sounds like it comes from a real estate bulletin, or something about the ongoing Malibu fires: “Closed to the public for decades due to the risk of collapse, Augustus’ palace will reopen in February.”

We went to Zuma yesterday, but the canyons are burning today.

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L'Internet, TV, writing

That and fifty cents will get you a formulaic television series

My father, who is more up on his entertainment industry news than I am, due to living in Los Angeles, informed me of what the world has known for two days – Quarterlife has been picked up by NBC.

TVSquad:“This isn’t a realistic portrayal of twentysomethings (at least I hope it isn’t). It’s merely an interpretation of twentysomething lives as seen through the eyes of fiftysomething producers.”

And, from the comments on that same post: ” “I only see one relevant sentence in that NY Times article. “The series … will not be affected by the current writers’ strike because of its ownership structure.” I think NBC just jumped at the chance to have any kind of scripted programming on for the spring.” “

So, since Herskovitz is a producer – and like all the producer/writers on reality TV and otherwise, is avoiding the WGA by claiming not to be writing – and since he’s writing QL, making it bad, but also making it scabbable – he’s managing to not only sell out the indie-cred of the Internet, but also work around the WGA strike (which is ABOUT getting WGA members paid for Internet work) thereby undermining the strikers even further. His rhetoric about working outside the studio system has played back into the studio system’s hands.

Now THAT – a producer tries to be indie and ends up selling out days later, through a model of creating scripted TV that removes the need for striking Guild writers – would be an interesting concept for an Internet television series.

WGA negotiations resume Monday.

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the chorus, theater, travel

Dispatches from the Las Vegas airport

As if anticipating the excitement, over the Grand Canyon, a passenger went into medical distress. The flight attendants asked for doctors on the plane, and they clustered around him and lowered the cabin temperature. A woman in her thirties and a man over seventy confer over the patient. They lay him down in the aisle. We land and paramedics rush onboard.

We wait, and stare out at the skyline, and think about death. From the window of the plane: an enormous black pyramid wearing an Absolut logo over its triangular hips like a pair of designer jeans.

The first thing I see when I get off the plane is a bank of slot machines like docks in a harbor, with people anchored at almost every terminal – and an equally large wall of candy in plastic barrels, and children docked at those.

The sound of slot machines rings and arpeggiates through the air like crows mating. The sound of winning sounds like someone sliding the back of their hand up the keys of a reverby electric piano. It sounds like a smile. A big, fake smile.

A bottle of water costs $3.25, and an Odwalla $5.00. We’re not in Ithaca any more.

But, God, it’s a theater town! A spectacle town. I think about Dan and his year on the Blue Man show here. Posters for theatrical experiences plaster the sides of the moving sidewalks. I don’t see a single ad for anything but a show. Zumanity – Penn &Teller – Phantom – Chippendales – Mamma Mia – Spamalot – The Producers. The walls are bustling with the snarling, laughing faces of actors and dancers. And they look like they know they’re the only game in town. It’s sexy. I’m enthralled. All thoughts of email blasts begging for donations so that theater companies can survive are blissfully wiped from my mind. I’m in Athens – or perhaps in the antiAthens – and Dionysos is ruling the terminals.

I start staring at an ad for UNLV that says “Do you have what it takes to make it in performance art?” and almost trip over the woman in front of me. Do I what? In PERFORMANCE ART?

I feel like I’ve gone tripping back in time to a sleazy Broadway, like I’m walking down some numbered avenue in pinstriped trousers, humming “They say the neon lights are bright…” People come to this place to have physical experiences. To see things live. They come for the damn plays.

Despite myself, I start wondering what it would take to work here. The Red Death / The Story Of O / LOST GIRLS / Pompeii Prohibited : The Vegas Experience? “The show that’ll make you wish you’d never come to Vegas?” Would Alan Moore license his work to a theater company? Or Battlestar Galactica: The Vegas Experience? Or, really, it ought to be MAHAGONNY, or Titus, or Aristophanes. An updated Thesmophoriazusae.* +

Or the Bacchae. They’re building a performance culture here and it’s only a matter of time before someone tries to transfer a serious play, isn’t it? Am I out of my mind? Is there such a thing as off-off-Vegas? **

Next time I’m going to have to go through more than the airport.

* From Wikipedia: “Thesmophoriazusae (Women Celebrating the Thesmophoria) is a comedy written by the Greek playwright Aristophanes. It was first produced in 411 BC, probably at the City Dionysia. How it fared in the competition is unknown. In the fantasy, the character of Euripides learns that the women of Athens are secretly holding a trial of sorts to decide his fate. The female population is up in arms over the playwright’s continual portrayal of women as mad, murderous, erotomaniac, and suicidal (even as his most sympathetic protagonists). They are using the festival of Thesmophoria, an annual fertility celebration dedicated to Demeter, as a cover for their plot to hold Euripides accountable for his slanderous words.”

+ Comic choruses on the brain. Aren’t they more active than the tragic? Can’t you say that they affect the course of the plot, sometimes?
Last night Lauren and I were talking Nietzsche and choruses, and I think I need to do a bit more work on how the comic choruses fit into that – whether they fall into the same spectator dynamics.

** You say obsessive. I say persistent.

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