The other day, I was directed to a ridiculous song protesting the proposed mosque near Ground Zero. The song is so over-the-top, I wondered if it was a parody written by the creators of South Park and "Team America." No, it was written by musician, songwriter and producer, Trade Martin, who has lots of real credits to his name, including a Grammy for producing albums for BB King. You can watch it here, then read my open letter to Mr. Martin.
An Open Letter to Trade Martin,
Dear Mr. Martin:
I watched a video of your song, WE'VE GOT TO STOP THE MOSQUE AT GROUND ZERO. It made me laugh, but I don’t think that was your goal. It also reminded that there are bigots like you in the world. But let’s set aside your jingoistic politics for a moment and talk about songwriting.
You open with these lines:
We’ve got freedom of religion, I understand,
But Ground Zero is one location where a mosque shouldn’t stand.
(1) The phrase “I understand” is both weak and misleading. Right away we know that a “but” is coming. What you’re saying is, “I accept that some of you care about freedom of religion, but too bad.” I don’t think you really understand anything about it at all. Be bold, Trade. Say what you mean. Like this:
Your freedom of religion is getting’ in my way.
A Mosque at Ground Zero will totally ruin my day.
(2) In my book, rhyming “understand” with “stand” is cheating. If you’re locked into “I understand,” perhaps the second line can read, “A mosque at Ground Zero is something that should be banned.” (Better yet: “shit canned”).
(3) The phrase “but Ground Zero is one location” is awkward. You’ve twisted the sentence around just to get the right number of beats and a rhyme at the end. Keep it simple: “A mosque shouldn’t stand at Ground Zero.” I suggest "hero" as the rhyme for "zero."
Enough of that couplet. Let’s look at some more lines from your song:
Thousands of Americans died in the attack.
It’s a sacred place and that’s a cold hard fact.
(1) Did you forget that non-Americans died in the attack too? That may not be important to you.
(2) You do realize that “attack” and “fact” don’t rhyme, right? I’m sensing a pattern here. I suggest you try a little harder.
(3) “Cold hard fact” is a cliché. I suspect that you have a weakness for clichés.
We can fix both of those problems with a few changes. May I suggest the following?
Thousands of innocents were viciously attacked.
Now it’s time for all of us to fight the bastards back.
Did you like the addition of “viciously” and “bastards.” I thought you would. By the way, if you ever decide to protest street vendors selling hot dogs near Ground Zero, you could use this:
Thousands of Americans died in the attack.
It’s a sacred location, not a place to get a snack.
Moving on, let’s look at another set of lines:
It’s a painful memory in our minds.
Our hearts keep breaking when we envision that tragic time.
(1) Is it necessary to give our painful memories a location? Where else would our memories be, if not in our minds? Oh. Muscle memory. Never mind.
(2) I hate to be a broken record, but rhyming “minds” with “time” is a stretch. Forget it. I give up. I’m not going to win on this point.
(3) Kudos for having the listener “envision” that terrible time. So much classier than just remembering it or thinking about it.
Moving on:
God help us retain the honor and trust,
For all the families that have suffered so damn much.
(1) I said I’d stop complaining about the weak rhymes, but “trust” and “much”? You can do better, Trade.
(2) Your church-going listeners might be troubled by “damn much” showing up so close to families, especially suffering families. Watch the salty language.
(3) A few alternatives to consider:
God help us retain the honor and trust
As we go out and find some heads to bust.
God help us retain the trust and honor
Of all of those Americans who are now goners.
God help us, the trust and honor to retain
For all the families who’ve got suffering in their brains.
(That last one might need some tweaking).
Final section, then I’ll let you get back to your songwriting:
If we let them build it, can’t you see,
They’ll turn 9/11 into a mockery.
(1) Moving the “can’t you see” to the end of the line is an old songwriting trick to get to the easy rhyme, but it sounds unnatural. It’s like saying, “I love you so much, don’t you know?” Or “You are my sweetheart, I do declare.”
(2) Bravo on rhyming “can’t you see” with “mockery.” You might get the hang of this yet.
(3) I might have gone with something like this:
Can’t you see, we can’t let them build it.
'Cause there’s hole at Ground Zero and we haven’t yet filled it.
One last thing: After the song ends and the credits show, we hear a recording of George W. Bush shouting in the megaphone with his infamous taunt, “I can hear you. The rest of the world hears you.”
The video editor repeats the final “hears you” over and over until it starts to sound like Bush is saying “air Jew, air Jew, air Jew.” Is there a hidden message there?
Showing posts with label batshit crazy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label batshit crazy. Show all posts
Bang! Boom! Bang!
The Fourth of July will be here in five days. That means it's time time for fireworks to start erupting prematurely. I imagine this conversation has already started:
"Dude! I just drove to Vancouver and spent $200 on fireworks!"
"Cool. I can't wait until the Fourth of July is here."
"Me neither. I suppose we could light off a few tonight."
"Righteous! Let's do it!"
"I mean after it's dark and everything."
"That's cool. I can wait until dark."
"Well, just a few right now wouldn't hurt. I got plenty. Maybe just the loud ones. I'm gonna save the sparkly ones for nighttime."
"All right! Got a lighter?"
"Yeah. Hand me a beer first."
Today's Oregonian was graced by a full page ad for fireworks placed by an outfit named "The Bomber Brothers."
At the top of the ad is this warning:
"Dude! I just drove to Vancouver and spent $200 on fireworks!"
"Cool. I can't wait until the Fourth of July is here."
"Me neither. I suppose we could light off a few tonight."
"Righteous! Let's do it!"
"I mean after it's dark and everything."
"That's cool. I can wait until dark."
"Well, just a few right now wouldn't hurt. I got plenty. Maybe just the loud ones. I'm gonna save the sparkly ones for nighttime."
"All right! Got a lighter?"
"Yeah. Hand me a beer first."
Today's Oregonian was graced by a full page ad for fireworks placed by an outfit named "The Bomber Brothers."
At the top of the ad is this warning:
Products in this ad are for sale and use in Washington only."
In the middle of the ad is this reminder:
No July 5th sales this year. Don't forget to stock up!
Let that be a warning to you.
In honor of Independence Day, I’ve taken the liberty (get it?) of categorizing the various product names from this morning’s ad. I only made up one of them.
JINGOISTIC:
American Rhythm
American Intensity
The Whole Empire
Wave with Pride
SOCIOPATHIC:
Fear No Evil
Utter Chaos
Loyal to None
Gangster
MENTAL HEALTH RELATED:
Mr. Happy
Crazy Excited on Steroids
Hopped Up
Cuckoo
Impossible Dream
NATURE RELATED:
Lady Bugs
Small Bees
Killer Bees
Yellow Jackets
Green Hornets
Ground Bloom Flowers
Magic Crystal
MILITARY THEMED:
Attack Vehicle
Black Hawk Helicopter
Victory Celebration
Parachute Battalion
Secret Weapon
Buzz Bomb
FONT RELATED
Arial (sic) Assault
DESCRIPTIVE (in order of intensity):
Flicker
Kaleidoscope
Pop Goes the Fountain
Fireworks Fiesta
Fast & Furious
Big Finish
One Bad Mother
One Bad Mother-in-Law
Holy @%&$, It’s LOUD!
IMPRESSIONISTIC:
Blue Stars
Desert at Night
Garden in Spring
Rouen Cathedral, Symphony in Grey and Rose
Time for Petty in Pink to Go
I promise we'll actually write something for Culture Shock very soon. Perhaps something insightful about the historic Health Care Reform vote. Perhaps something sillier. In the meantime, the post about "Petty in Pink" has to go. Enjoy this little dance number while you wait.
Hat tip to Michael Buchino for having shared this video on Twitter, where you can find me more often than here, tweeting as @mightytoycannon
Hat tip to Michael Buchino for having shared this video on Twitter, where you can find me more often than here, tweeting as @mightytoycannon
Be There or Be Square
Ladies & Gentlemen
Aficionados of Fine Music and Satisfying Beer
Members of the Press
Step forward and prepare to be dazzled, stunned and stupefied as The Mighty Toy Cannon and the members of the acclaimed musical ensemble, Bourbon Jockey, regale you with feats of vocal virtuosity and strumming of stringed instruments in a manner most astonishing. Step back, there's no need to push, shove or jostle--there will be plenty of room for all of you without raising a ruckus.
Should you choose to partake of a Bourbon Jockey performance, you will be transported on a journey down lost highways and dusty byways of America where you will meet truck drivers, libertine women and deadbeat desperados in the throes of drunken sorrow. Accompanied by the joyous amalgam of melody, harmony and rhythm, you will be besotted by tales of heartbreak and redemption, hope and despair. The bass notes will rumble deep in your bowels whilst the high notes shall pierce the veil of heaven and wrap you as if by the gossamer wings of the very angels themselves.
FEAR NOT brave spectator! The burden of sadness and introspection thus launched in your heart and mind may be soothed by quaffing ales concocted through the alchemical magic of the artisans of Roots Organic Brewing Company of Southeast Portland, Oregon and poured with the steady hand of attentive servers dedicated to ministering to your needs and lubricating your parched throat with AMBROSIA.
How much would you expect to pay for an evening of entertainment that lifts the soul while edifying in such a potent fashion? What price the opportunity to hear stirring tales of sin and transgression without suffering the searing heat of BRIMSTONE upon your own reddened cheeks?
FEAR NOT brave spectator! The burden of sadness and introspection thus launched in your heart and mind may be soothed by quaffing ales concocted through the alchemical magic of the artisans of Roots Organic Brewing Company of Southeast Portland, Oregon and poured with the steady hand of attentive servers dedicated to ministering to your needs and lubricating your parched throat with AMBROSIA.
How much would you expect to pay for an evening of entertainment that lifts the soul while edifying in such a potent fashion? What price the opportunity to hear stirring tales of sin and transgression without suffering the searing heat of BRIMSTONE upon your own reddened cheeks?
Would you not gladly drop a treasury note adorned with the visage of Andrew Jackson into a collection plate for such a privilege? Would you not swoon upon being informed that the only cost of this extravaganza is the humble sacrifice of a token contribution--that is to say that the entry fee is just one thin dime? Two nickels are enough to swing aside the turnstile and afford you the opportunity to partake in the dulcet tones of this renowned ensemble of chamber players steeped in the vernacular of American roots music.
Would you not be further stunned to learn that this meager fee --one-tenth of an American dollar!--were to be fully and unconditionally rebated to you immediately, such that the true cost of this once-in-a-lifetime event is NOT A SINGLE PENNY (as long as you fully commit in your heart within the next ten minutes)?
Yes, you have not misheard us, ladies and gentlemen. But let us repeat this message for the weak-minded and slow of hearing: For the price of a small portion of your leisure and sporting time, you can experience one of the most FASCINATING and CURIOUS musical experiences of the year—indeed of your entire lifetime. Many years hence, your great-grandchildren will gather around your deathbed imploring you to sacrifice your FINAL breath to tell them about the night you heard Mighty Toy Cannon and Bourbon Jockey perform at Roots Organic Brewing Company in the early weeks of the year of Two Aught Ten. Can you fathom the ignomy of admitting to your progeny that you stayed home that evening to watch television?
Don’t take our word for it, heed the insights of others who have bathed in the euphonious river of glorious sound produced by this remarkable conspiracy of musical genius:
“I liked it. It was fun, I guess. The beer was real good. The band looked like they were having fun. I have to get up early tomorrow morning,” said one delighted spectator as he left the venue in the middle of Bourbon Jockey’s penultimate public performance last year.
“They seem to be having a good time up there,” reported another audience member as she plugged her ears, presumably to forestall an overload of joyous goodwill.
Another dumbstruck listener said, “I don’t know what to say. I guess I'll fall back on something my daddy always used to say, ‘Judge not, lest ye be judged.’ I mean, who am I to define what’s good? Look, I could tell you that it wasn’t horrible, but that’s really all I feel comfortable saying right now. Why are you writing this down? I liked the beer and the servers were nice. The band did seem to be having fun, and it’s not like I had anything better to do.”
One long-time fan proffers this advice: “Try to get there early in the set because the singer seems to forget the lyrics the later it gets. Unless you like a lot of humming, you might want to arrive before they’re all drunk, though there’s a better choice of seats after the first fifteen minutes.”
If you doubt the wisdom of your neighbors and common citizens, listen to what the experts have to say. Ethnomusicologist Humphrey Von Humphrey said this after listening to an acetate recording of Bourbon Jockey:
In an unpublished review, a noted cultural critic declared, "It's as if T-Bone Walker and Hank Williams had a baby. And that baby was born with withered arms and something wrong with its soft palate and was raised by, gosh I don't know, Patsy Cline. And maybe it has a hugely swollen tongue or something. Oh, and the baby is drunk too. Forget the baby analogy ... it's more like if Howling Wolf and George Jones were arm wrestling while Fats Domino and Fats Waller argued over which one of the two was fatter. Never mind. There's just a lot going on during a Bourbon Jockey concert and these are grown men who should know better."
Important Details:
Bourbon Jockey
Thursday, January 7, 2009
Yes, you have not misheard us, ladies and gentlemen. But let us repeat this message for the weak-minded and slow of hearing: For the price of a small portion of your leisure and sporting time, you can experience one of the most FASCINATING and CURIOUS musical experiences of the year—indeed of your entire lifetime. Many years hence, your great-grandchildren will gather around your deathbed imploring you to sacrifice your FINAL breath to tell them about the night you heard Mighty Toy Cannon and Bourbon Jockey perform at Roots Organic Brewing Company in the early weeks of the year of Two Aught Ten. Can you fathom the ignomy of admitting to your progeny that you stayed home that evening to watch television?
Don’t take our word for it, heed the insights of others who have bathed in the euphonious river of glorious sound produced by this remarkable conspiracy of musical genius:
“I liked it. It was fun, I guess. The beer was real good. The band looked like they were having fun. I have to get up early tomorrow morning,” said one delighted spectator as he left the venue in the middle of Bourbon Jockey’s penultimate public performance last year.
“They seem to be having a good time up there,” reported another audience member as she plugged her ears, presumably to forestall an overload of joyous goodwill.
Another dumbstruck listener said, “I don’t know what to say. I guess I'll fall back on something my daddy always used to say, ‘Judge not, lest ye be judged.’ I mean, who am I to define what’s good? Look, I could tell you that it wasn’t horrible, but that’s really all I feel comfortable saying right now. Why are you writing this down? I liked the beer and the servers were nice. The band did seem to be having fun, and it’s not like I had anything better to do.”
One long-time fan proffers this advice: “Try to get there early in the set because the singer seems to forget the lyrics the later it gets. Unless you like a lot of humming, you might want to arrive before they’re all drunk, though there’s a better choice of seats after the first fifteen minutes.”
If you doubt the wisdom of your neighbors and common citizens, listen to what the experts have to say. Ethnomusicologist Humphrey Von Humphrey said this after listening to an acetate recording of Bourbon Jockey:
Their harmonies are wholly unique, not only within our traditional concepts of western music but, verily, to the entirety of world culture. Their choices of harmonic intervals – and their apparent ease in shifting those intervals at a microtonal level from moment-to-moment is astonishing. I can safely say that I’ve never heard anything quite like it. The jarring and unexpected microtonal dissonance carries into their instrumental work as well. I’m telling you that it is physically impossible to get that particular sound unless you intentionally fail to tune your instruments relative to each other. Of course, that would be crazy!
Another thing that intrigues me – perhaps 'baffles' is a better term-- is the band's artistic strategies with regard to shifting rhythmic patterns and its curious selection of tempo changes. As an ensemble, they display an uncanny knack for randomly speeding, then slowing the tempo– sometimes even within the traditional verse/chorus form. It’s simply remarkable that they all manage to end each song at approximately the same time—and here I’m talking about ending within at least two measures of each other. I’m reminded of the keening and wailing that accompanies the funeral rites of some tribal cultures, particularly the Oomaomao people who are, as a race, totally deaf.
Important Details:
Bourbon Jockey
Thursday, January 7, 2009
--starting at 8:00 pm going until they tire--
Roots Organic Brewing Company
Roots Organic Brewing Company
1530 SE 7th Avenue, Portland Oregon
No Admission Fee, Cover Charge or other Consideration
No Admission Fee, Cover Charge or other Consideration
Free Membership in the Bourbon Dynasty
(the exclusive Fan Club of Bourbon Jockey)
Recommended Dress: Classy Dungarees/Tube Tops
Bourbon Jockey is:
Ross McKeen (aka The Mighty Toy Cannon): Singin’, guitar slingin’ and harmonica blowin'.
Alan Cole (aka The Perfesser): Six string fireworks and harmony yelpin'.
Matthew Jones (aka Matthew): Upright bass thumpin' and gravitas.
Ross McKeen (aka The Mighty Toy Cannon): Singin’, guitar slingin’ and harmonica blowin'.
Alan Cole (aka The Perfesser): Six string fireworks and harmony yelpin'.
Matthew Jones (aka Matthew): Upright bass thumpin' and gravitas.
And now for something completely different ...
On some Friday evenings, after a long week of toiling in the fields, what I really need is a cool drink and time to surf the interwebs in the search for inanity. Here's what I found tonight, courtesy of the blog, Don't Judge My Hair, a journal of epic hairstyles. You're welcome.
Preparing to be Pelted with Propaganda
As part of his secret plot to destroy America (reportedly titled “The Glorious March to a Shiny Socialist Future”), President Obama and his White House henchmen have launched a scheme to indoctrinate American school kids.On September 8th, innocent children across our Great & Exceptional Nation (the greatest in the universe and in all history, past and future, without exception) will be strapped into their teeny school chairs and forced to witness Obama deliver a propaganda-laden screed liberally laced with poison and ichor--the Poison of Subversion and the Ichor of Treason.
Foolhardy daredevils can watch his stream of mistruths as they pour out of interweb tubes straight from the White House's Mind Control Center. No doubt, the self-styled President's message will be beamed into our brains by infrared laser beams from secret satellites, or distilled into liquid form and injected into our water supplies. I'm taking no chances:
Sure, the White House says the Kenyan-born usurper is "simply" going to "encourage" children by delivering a "positive" message in "support" of "education." But do you know who else told schoolchildren to work hard, stay in school and take responsibility for themselves? HITLER!(Probably. I’m not sure. Maybe it was Stalin).*
Like Glenn Beck on Fox News, I fear that it may be too late to stop this juggernaut of treachery... this farrago of insidious lies.It may too late to get my America back. You know, the America with tall glasses of milk and warm cookies after school. The America where housewives wear lace-trimmed aprons while mixing Manhattans, and fathers tuck briar pipes into the pockets of their cardigans. The America with a new Chevrolet in the driveway and segregated swimming pools.
Since it may be too late, I write this post for posterity and dedicate the following poem to future generations. My prayer is that as they huddle together in caves and wander aimlessly amidst the smoldering ruins of western civilization, they will read it and learn, just as our forebears were enlightened by the poem by Martin Niemöller which inspired me. (And that also happens to be about Nazis).
First they came and told us to work hard,
and I didn’t speak up,
because that’s not the way I roll.
Also, is this going to be on the test?
Then they came and told us to stay in school,
and I’m all like, "Uh, dude?
How’s that different from the first thing?"
I’m just sayin’. Jeez.
Then they told us to take responsibility,
and I’m like, "Don’t go getting’ all up in my grill...
bitch."
Yeah, that's right, I said it.
Then they like came for me,
and I’m all like:
"Whatever."
If you enjoy reading about truly deranged conspiracy theories, here's a story from Salon regarding another reason the President may want to talk to schoolchildren on September 8th.
* Correction: It was Mr. T who told kids to stay in school. Also: "Don't do drugs."
While we're at it, do we really want schoolchildren to learn how to spell? Here's the incompairabel doushebag, Glen Beck, spelling "oligarhy." For keyboard-playing cat lovers, the clip ends with a mind-cleansing musical number. [Editor's note: The foregoing sentence should have read, "For people who love keyboard playing cats ...", I think.]
For those readers who can't get enough of Mr. Beck, here's a fun little remix:
Chester Faces the Death Panel
Former Governor of Alaska, Sarah "The Mighty Quitter" Palin posted the following remarkable statement on her Facebook page the other day:"The America I know and love is not one in which my parents or my baby with Down Syndrome will have to stand in front of Obama's 'death panel' so his bureaucrats can decide, based on a subjective judgment of their 'level of productivity in society,' whether they are worthy of health care. Such a system is downright evil."
And now, Mighty Toy Cannon Productions presents:
THE LIFE OF CHESTER
Chapter 47: In which our hero faces the Death Panel and emerges both unscarred and more deeply appreciative of the delicate balance of life (as well as hankering for strong drink).
Chester sat in the waiting room flipping through a dog-eared copy of Golf Digest. An old woman parked her Rascal scooter next to him and quickly fell asleep, her knobbly chin resting on her chest. She smelled of lilacs, baby powder and wet diaper. Chester could not tell if she was breathing. He was afraid to check. He was afraid that touching her papery skin, even gently, would leave a bruise.
Across the room sat a young woman wearing sweatpants and a purple t-shirt that read “Juicy Juice.” On her knee she bounced a fat baby, making its over-sized head flop like a rag doll’s. Chester wondered if they still made Cabbage Patch Dolls, and whether the woman was holding a real baby or if she was one of those crazy people with wild eyes you see on the bus. Chester decided she was just sad and tired.
A teenage girl walked down the hall toward the waiting room with a smile that didn’t match the tear tracks on her cheeks. As she entered the room, an older man—Chester guessed it was her father—rose and gave her a hug. She whispered to him and he hugged her again. The receptionist handed her a file and wished them luck as they left.
A few minutes passed before a light above the reception desk lit up and Chester heard a soft chime. The receptionist called his name. As he approached the desk, she pointed down the hall without looking up from her computer screen. “They’re ready for you. Third door on the left. It shouldn’t take long.”
Chester walked down the hall and knocked softly on a door marked "Panel Room: Quiet Please." Hearing no response, he opened the door slightly and stuck his head through the opening before finally stepping inside. The chamber was an institutional beige and brightly lit with fluorescent ceiling panels. Its only decorative touches were a framed photo of the President, a flag, and a poster depicting a kitten riding on the back of a basset hound, the latter emblazoned with the Ministry’s motto in bold print: “It’s Good to Share the Load.”
Two men and a woman sat at a long metal table shuffling through stacks of files. They looked bored. The older of the men looked up as Chester entered. The thin layer of greasy white hair combed across the top of his head did not hide his bald spot. His tie was loosened and his short-sleeved blue shirt showed sweat stains around the pits. In front of him were a stack of manila files, a gavel and a nameplate that read, “Commissioner Black.” Chester decided he was the person in charge and gave him a friendly nod.
Mr. Black pointed to the single chair facing the table, returned Chester's nod with a weak smile and said, “Have a seat, Chester. We have just a few questions. Don't worry, they're not the 'riddle-me-this' kind from the fairy tales. We're not ogres.”
Chester glanced around the room and wiped the sweat from his upper lip as he sat. He tried drying his damp hands on his green coveralls. The air in the room was close and warm. Chester decided he deserved a drink when this was over. No matter how things turned out. It was the kind of decision Chester was used to making.
“Chester, do you know why we’ve summoned you here this afternoon?” Mr. Black asked. The others did not look up from their papers. “We need to know that you understand why you’ve been called here today.”
Chester had expected a more solemn setting. Oak paneling perhaps. Black robes would have been appropriate. These three looked like DMV employees on casual Friday. He expected a judge who sounded more sonorous and weighty--a James Earl Jones with bronchitis. Mr. Black’s voice was pitched to a higher register and he looked like the Vice Principal of a failing public high school.
The younger man, whose nameplate read “Commissioner Grey,” wore khaki golf pants and a red polo shirt. His hair was neatly trimmed and his orange tan was freshly applied. Chester wondered whether the Rolex was real. He guessed that Mr. Grey had been an investment banker, but was now serving penance in public service. He wondered how much the government paid its commissioners.
The third panelist--“Commissioner Green” by her name plate--wore a teal pantsuit. A yellow pencil held her dark hair in a bun, and a pair of sequined reading glasses were perched on the top of her head. She looked like someone who was not in the habit of showing approval. Chester could tell she was a community organizer of the most dedicated and passionate type. Give her a clipboard and she would march door-to-door and return at the end of the day with a petition full of signatures, even if she had to make half of them up herself.
Chester was thinking that hoods and solemn organ music would have been nice touches when he heard Mr. Black say, in a more insistent voice, “Chester. You need to pay attention to what we’re asking.”
“I’m sorry," Chester responded, a little startled. "I’m just a bit nervous. I honestly don’t know why I was called. It’s not as if I’m asking for special treatment. I’m sure it’s just a sprain.”
Chester rose and hobbled around the room. “Look. I’m getting around just fine. I was thinking an X-ray might be a good idea though. Make sure there’s no fracture. If that’s too much, I’ll just put some ice on it and rest up.”
The younger man looked up impatiently. “Can we just move this along? We have a long roster to get through and I have tickets for tonight.” Mrs. Green rolled her eyes and pursed her lips.
“Chester, there are other reports that are concerning to us,” said Mr. Black. Chester winced involuntarily at the use of "concerning" as an adjective. The other panelists just nodded and continued flipping through their files.
“It’s always hard to have to say this. We don’t want you to think this is easy for us. That would be a misperception ...a misapprehension. That would be looking at this all wrong. I assure you that the Ministry understands and regrets how this may seem to people. Unpleasant, regrettable even. But we have to look at everything.”
“We have to look at factors,” said Mr. Grey, as if that would clarify matters.
“It’s a balancing act,” added Mrs. Green. “It gets tricky, and is not something we enjoy doing. Think of us as umpires who are charged with interpreting the rules. We don’t make the law. Plus we like both teams … all the teams. We think all the teams are good and deserve to win. But that can’t happen, can it? Every team can’t win. You understand that, right?”
Chester slumped in his chair feeling lightheaded. He didn’t like the direction this was going. He wanted to stretch out on the linoleum floor until his head cleared, but he knew that wouldn’t help his case. He took a deep breath and finally stammered, “Have you already decided? What are you getting at?”
Mr. Black straightened his stack of papers and said, “Chester. In our considered judgment, we believe, to the best of our knowledge and with all due consideration of circumstances …”
“And factors,” added Mr. Grey.
Chester’s peripheral vision began to narrow and the room dimmed. He decided to go ahead and lie down. The floor was cool and the fog in his head began to clear almost immediately--just in time to hear Mr. Black conclude, “It’s just that we think you’re no longer … sustainable.”
Chester remained on the floor, but sat up and faced the panel. “Sustainable? What does that even mean? I’m in my fifties, for God’s sake--and the lower end of the decade at that. I feel fine. I’m still productive. All my pre-existing conditions have cleared up. I have certificates to prove it. How can you say I’m not sustainable?”
“All we mean,” explained Mrs. Green, “is that the resource inputs you require are greater than the societal value you produce in return. It’s simple mathematics, really. We consider all the factors.”
Chester yelled back, “But did you consider the multiplier? What multiplier did you use in your calculations? Did you account for the fact that I’m a Creative? My Creative License is good for another five years at least. I have the Bureau stamp to prove it.”
Mr. Black responded, “Chester, I assure you that our math is right. We included your multiplier in our calculations. Normally a Creative would score extra points. Unfortunately, you’re a poet. That's a Class C Creative at best. Your multiplier just isn’t as high as, say … an architect, or even a font designer. The multiplier for poets is nearly as low as that of a journalist.”
“Or a playwright’s,” added Mrs. Green, looking pleased.
Mr. Grey banged his fist on the table and shouted at Chester, “Enough arguing! This isn’t getting us anywhere. What do you expect us to do, buddy? You think we can afford to give you every little test or medical treatment you think you deserve?”
Chester shook his head and whimpered, “I’m not asking anything difficult. It’s just a sprained ankle. Maybe we could ask a doctor?”
Mr. Black chuckled at that. “Good God! Listen to Florence Nightingale here. Do you seriously think a doctor could add anything to this discussion? What century do you think this is, man?”
Mr. Grey went on, “Okay, Mister Poet Man. Suppose you tell us who should be denied medical attention just because your friggin’ x-ray is so damned important.”
He threw a file folder full of papers across the room, pulled a handgun out of his briefcase and pointed it at Chester. “Let’s you and me go out to the waiting room and you can tell me who is less deserving of care. Then you can just go home and pretend this never happened.”
Chester sat motionless, his eyes following the gun as Mr. Grey paced around the room waving it in the air. He looked at Mr. Black, hoping he would interject, but the older man was jotting notes and riffling through his papers. Mrs. Green appeared to be sending a text message.
“If you think this is so easy, maybe the Minister of Human Sustainability should have appointed you to this panel instead of me,” Mr. Grey shouted. He opened the door and pointed to the lobby. “Who? Which one would you choose? The old lady with the bad kidney? The retard?”
Mrs. Green looked up and clucked, “We don’t use that word anymore, Dwayne. That little boy is a child of God like the rest of us.” But Mr. Grey had already left the room, the door slamming behind him. Chester looked at Mr. Black, who only shrugged and turned back to his notepad and said, "I hate this part."
Chester jumped at the sound of a gun firing. Mrs. Green sighed and shook her head, but kept on texting. Chester stood and began to pace, sweat pouring down his face.
Mr. Grey entered the room accompanied by the smell of sulfur. Calmly, he asked, “Okay, now where were we? Oh yes, we were discussing medical ethics weren’t we? We were dialoguing about prioritization of care allocations.”
Chester, nearly vomiting, sat back in the chair and put his head between his legs. “How could … how could you…”
The three panelists burst into laughter. Mr. Black pounded Mr. Grey on the back and said, “We really got this one going didn’t we?”
“Look Chester,” he continued, “don’t go freaking out on us. It’s just a broken ankle like you said. No biggie. Go home, give it a rest.”
“Besides,” added Mrs. Green, “we looked at your credit reports. That’s one of those factors we consider. Quite an important factor, frankly. With the size of your credit card balances, do you seriously think the banks are going to let you off easy?"
"That's right," said Mr. Black. "The bank has pre-approved your continuance, but only on condition that you keep making the minimum payments each month. You might try cutting back on the drinking a bit too.”
He added with a chuckle, “You understand that you won’t be getting the $4,500 Cash for Clunkers credit, don’t you? After all, you’re still here and that credit only goes to the estate of the discontinued.”
Chester turned to Mr. Grey. “You didn’t really shoot anyone in the waiting room did you?”
Mr. Grey grinned and shrugged his shoulders, “No, I didn't have to this time. The old lady croaked while waiting her turn, so we met our quota for the day without bloodshed. Say, she's not like your mother or anything is she?”
Mr. Black stood up and gathered his papers. “I think our work is done for the day, Comrades. Good luck, Chester. Can you do the Administration a big favor pal?"
"What's that?" Chester asked.
"If you really support the troops, you won’t mention any of this to the media, will you?”
"No, I guess I won't." Chester said as he walked out the door. He stopped at the reception desk and paid the mandatory Death Panel Tax, surprised to learn that it had just gone up another 20%. He hoped he had enough credits left for a drink or two at the Coff-em-Up Club on his way home. He needed that drink.
Chester sat in the waiting room flipping through a dog-eared copy of Golf Digest. An old woman parked her Rascal scooter next to him and quickly fell asleep, her knobbly chin resting on her chest. She smelled of lilacs, baby powder and wet diaper. Chester could not tell if she was breathing. He was afraid to check. He was afraid that touching her papery skin, even gently, would leave a bruise.
Across the room sat a young woman wearing sweatpants and a purple t-shirt that read “Juicy Juice.” On her knee she bounced a fat baby, making its over-sized head flop like a rag doll’s. Chester wondered if they still made Cabbage Patch Dolls, and whether the woman was holding a real baby or if she was one of those crazy people with wild eyes you see on the bus. Chester decided she was just sad and tired.
A teenage girl walked down the hall toward the waiting room with a smile that didn’t match the tear tracks on her cheeks. As she entered the room, an older man—Chester guessed it was her father—rose and gave her a hug. She whispered to him and he hugged her again. The receptionist handed her a file and wished them luck as they left.
A few minutes passed before a light above the reception desk lit up and Chester heard a soft chime. The receptionist called his name. As he approached the desk, she pointed down the hall without looking up from her computer screen. “They’re ready for you. Third door on the left. It shouldn’t take long.”
Chester walked down the hall and knocked softly on a door marked "Panel Room: Quiet Please." Hearing no response, he opened the door slightly and stuck his head through the opening before finally stepping inside. The chamber was an institutional beige and brightly lit with fluorescent ceiling panels. Its only decorative touches were a framed photo of the President, a flag, and a poster depicting a kitten riding on the back of a basset hound, the latter emblazoned with the Ministry’s motto in bold print: “It’s Good to Share the Load.”
Two men and a woman sat at a long metal table shuffling through stacks of files. They looked bored. The older of the men looked up as Chester entered. The thin layer of greasy white hair combed across the top of his head did not hide his bald spot. His tie was loosened and his short-sleeved blue shirt showed sweat stains around the pits. In front of him were a stack of manila files, a gavel and a nameplate that read, “Commissioner Black.” Chester decided he was the person in charge and gave him a friendly nod.
Mr. Black pointed to the single chair facing the table, returned Chester's nod with a weak smile and said, “Have a seat, Chester. We have just a few questions. Don't worry, they're not the 'riddle-me-this' kind from the fairy tales. We're not ogres.”
Chester glanced around the room and wiped the sweat from his upper lip as he sat. He tried drying his damp hands on his green coveralls. The air in the room was close and warm. Chester decided he deserved a drink when this was over. No matter how things turned out. It was the kind of decision Chester was used to making.
“Chester, do you know why we’ve summoned you here this afternoon?” Mr. Black asked. The others did not look up from their papers. “We need to know that you understand why you’ve been called here today.”
Chester had expected a more solemn setting. Oak paneling perhaps. Black robes would have been appropriate. These three looked like DMV employees on casual Friday. He expected a judge who sounded more sonorous and weighty--a James Earl Jones with bronchitis. Mr. Black’s voice was pitched to a higher register and he looked like the Vice Principal of a failing public high school.
The younger man, whose nameplate read “Commissioner Grey,” wore khaki golf pants and a red polo shirt. His hair was neatly trimmed and his orange tan was freshly applied. Chester wondered whether the Rolex was real. He guessed that Mr. Grey had been an investment banker, but was now serving penance in public service. He wondered how much the government paid its commissioners.
The third panelist--“Commissioner Green” by her name plate--wore a teal pantsuit. A yellow pencil held her dark hair in a bun, and a pair of sequined reading glasses were perched on the top of her head. She looked like someone who was not in the habit of showing approval. Chester could tell she was a community organizer of the most dedicated and passionate type. Give her a clipboard and she would march door-to-door and return at the end of the day with a petition full of signatures, even if she had to make half of them up herself.
Chester was thinking that hoods and solemn organ music would have been nice touches when he heard Mr. Black say, in a more insistent voice, “Chester. You need to pay attention to what we’re asking.”
“I’m sorry," Chester responded, a little startled. "I’m just a bit nervous. I honestly don’t know why I was called. It’s not as if I’m asking for special treatment. I’m sure it’s just a sprain.”
Chester rose and hobbled around the room. “Look. I’m getting around just fine. I was thinking an X-ray might be a good idea though. Make sure there’s no fracture. If that’s too much, I’ll just put some ice on it and rest up.”
The younger man looked up impatiently. “Can we just move this along? We have a long roster to get through and I have tickets for tonight.” Mrs. Green rolled her eyes and pursed her lips.
“Chester, there are other reports that are concerning to us,” said Mr. Black. Chester winced involuntarily at the use of "concerning" as an adjective. The other panelists just nodded and continued flipping through their files.
“It’s always hard to have to say this. We don’t want you to think this is easy for us. That would be a misperception ...a misapprehension. That would be looking at this all wrong. I assure you that the Ministry understands and regrets how this may seem to people. Unpleasant, regrettable even. But we have to look at everything.”
“We have to look at factors,” said Mr. Grey, as if that would clarify matters.
“It’s a balancing act,” added Mrs. Green. “It gets tricky, and is not something we enjoy doing. Think of us as umpires who are charged with interpreting the rules. We don’t make the law. Plus we like both teams … all the teams. We think all the teams are good and deserve to win. But that can’t happen, can it? Every team can’t win. You understand that, right?”
Chester slumped in his chair feeling lightheaded. He didn’t like the direction this was going. He wanted to stretch out on the linoleum floor until his head cleared, but he knew that wouldn’t help his case. He took a deep breath and finally stammered, “Have you already decided? What are you getting at?”
Mr. Black straightened his stack of papers and said, “Chester. In our considered judgment, we believe, to the best of our knowledge and with all due consideration of circumstances …”
“And factors,” added Mr. Grey.
Chester’s peripheral vision began to narrow and the room dimmed. He decided to go ahead and lie down. The floor was cool and the fog in his head began to clear almost immediately--just in time to hear Mr. Black conclude, “It’s just that we think you’re no longer … sustainable.”
Chester remained on the floor, but sat up and faced the panel. “Sustainable? What does that even mean? I’m in my fifties, for God’s sake--and the lower end of the decade at that. I feel fine. I’m still productive. All my pre-existing conditions have cleared up. I have certificates to prove it. How can you say I’m not sustainable?”
“All we mean,” explained Mrs. Green, “is that the resource inputs you require are greater than the societal value you produce in return. It’s simple mathematics, really. We consider all the factors.”
Chester yelled back, “But did you consider the multiplier? What multiplier did you use in your calculations? Did you account for the fact that I’m a Creative? My Creative License is good for another five years at least. I have the Bureau stamp to prove it.”
Mr. Black responded, “Chester, I assure you that our math is right. We included your multiplier in our calculations. Normally a Creative would score extra points. Unfortunately, you’re a poet. That's a Class C Creative at best. Your multiplier just isn’t as high as, say … an architect, or even a font designer. The multiplier for poets is nearly as low as that of a journalist.”
“Or a playwright’s,” added Mrs. Green, looking pleased.
Mr. Grey banged his fist on the table and shouted at Chester, “Enough arguing! This isn’t getting us anywhere. What do you expect us to do, buddy? You think we can afford to give you every little test or medical treatment you think you deserve?”
Chester shook his head and whimpered, “I’m not asking anything difficult. It’s just a sprained ankle. Maybe we could ask a doctor?”
Mr. Black chuckled at that. “Good God! Listen to Florence Nightingale here. Do you seriously think a doctor could add anything to this discussion? What century do you think this is, man?”
Mr. Grey went on, “Okay, Mister Poet Man. Suppose you tell us who should be denied medical attention just because your friggin’ x-ray is so damned important.”
He threw a file folder full of papers across the room, pulled a handgun out of his briefcase and pointed it at Chester. “Let’s you and me go out to the waiting room and you can tell me who is less deserving of care. Then you can just go home and pretend this never happened.”
Chester sat motionless, his eyes following the gun as Mr. Grey paced around the room waving it in the air. He looked at Mr. Black, hoping he would interject, but the older man was jotting notes and riffling through his papers. Mrs. Green appeared to be sending a text message.
“If you think this is so easy, maybe the Minister of Human Sustainability should have appointed you to this panel instead of me,” Mr. Grey shouted. He opened the door and pointed to the lobby. “Who? Which one would you choose? The old lady with the bad kidney? The retard?”
Mrs. Green looked up and clucked, “We don’t use that word anymore, Dwayne. That little boy is a child of God like the rest of us.” But Mr. Grey had already left the room, the door slamming behind him. Chester looked at Mr. Black, who only shrugged and turned back to his notepad and said, "I hate this part."
Chester jumped at the sound of a gun firing. Mrs. Green sighed and shook her head, but kept on texting. Chester stood and began to pace, sweat pouring down his face.
Mr. Grey entered the room accompanied by the smell of sulfur. Calmly, he asked, “Okay, now where were we? Oh yes, we were discussing medical ethics weren’t we? We were dialoguing about prioritization of care allocations.”
Chester, nearly vomiting, sat back in the chair and put his head between his legs. “How could … how could you…”
The three panelists burst into laughter. Mr. Black pounded Mr. Grey on the back and said, “We really got this one going didn’t we?”
“Look Chester,” he continued, “don’t go freaking out on us. It’s just a broken ankle like you said. No biggie. Go home, give it a rest.”
“Besides,” added Mrs. Green, “we looked at your credit reports. That’s one of those factors we consider. Quite an important factor, frankly. With the size of your credit card balances, do you seriously think the banks are going to let you off easy?"
"That's right," said Mr. Black. "The bank has pre-approved your continuance, but only on condition that you keep making the minimum payments each month. You might try cutting back on the drinking a bit too.”
He added with a chuckle, “You understand that you won’t be getting the $4,500 Cash for Clunkers credit, don’t you? After all, you’re still here and that credit only goes to the estate of the discontinued.”
Chester turned to Mr. Grey. “You didn’t really shoot anyone in the waiting room did you?”
Mr. Grey grinned and shrugged his shoulders, “No, I didn't have to this time. The old lady croaked while waiting her turn, so we met our quota for the day without bloodshed. Say, she's not like your mother or anything is she?”
Mr. Black stood up and gathered his papers. “I think our work is done for the day, Comrades. Good luck, Chester. Can you do the Administration a big favor pal?"
"What's that?" Chester asked.
"If you really support the troops, you won’t mention any of this to the media, will you?”
"No, I guess I won't." Chester said as he walked out the door. He stopped at the reception desk and paid the mandatory Death Panel Tax, surprised to learn that it had just gone up another 20%. He hoped he had enough credits left for a drink or two at the Coff-em-Up Club on his way home. He needed that drink.
Mighty Toy Mamet Covers the Beer Summit
This morning's paper reported on yesterday's so-called "Beer Summit," at which President Obama tried to lay some healing hands on Professor Henry Louis Gates, Jr. and Officer James Crowley. Vice President Joe Biden joined the festivities.
The article concluded with this line: "The four men munched peanuts and pretzels out of small silver bowls." That was a prompt I couldn't possibly resist.
Warning: Contains Adult Language. All characters and dialogue are fictional.
The article concluded with this line: "The four men munched peanuts and pretzels out of small silver bowls." That was a prompt I couldn't possibly resist.
Warning: Contains Adult Language. All characters and dialogue are fictional.
A BEER IN THE ROSE GARDEN
-A One Act Play-
by Mighty Toy Mamet
SCENE:
A picnic table in a verdant garden. In the background we see a white, colonnaded mansion. The table is set with small silver bowls filled with pretzels and peanuts. An ornate silver punch bowl with ice is on a side table. We see the necks of beer bottles sticking out of the ice. Four men are seated at the table drinking beer from glass mugs. They are casually dressed, as if preparing for a round of golf. A man in a white jacket stands at attention next to the punch bowl.
BARRY:
Hank...Hank...Hank. Okay. Hank. Look.
[taking a long pull on his beer, holding his hand up to halt the conversation]
Give Jim a chance to speak his mind, Hank. He’s a good man. We know what he is. He's fine. All I'm saying, Hank, is it looks like he made a mistake ... wait, wait, wait… that’s all I’m saying is give him another chance to explain here.
I don't want to tell you your job. I’m no professor, and I don’t want to pretend like I know what happened that night.
HANK:
That’s bullshit.
BARRY:
All that I'm saying is this. Things get set. I know. You know they do, you get a certain mindset... A guy gets a reputation. We know how this...all I'm saying, let’s get this thing beyond us and move on from here.
HANK:
Look, Barry. You may think this is going to blow over. Blow over and, what, be forgotten? Maybe you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be ...[pause] Shit. Never mind ...
BARRY:
... No. Hank. C’mon. What are you saying? Are you saying I don’t know what it’s like to be ... What? I mean, what are you saying here? Are you ...
HANK:
... No, no, no, no ...
BARRY:
... back up a second here. Because I’m where I am now, that means I ... what? I don’t remember where I was before? That’s just bullshit, Hank.
JIM:
Hey. Listen. I appreciate the beer, but I told the kids we’d see the space museum before we go home. Hard Rock Café too.
JOE:
Listen you little cocksucker. Excuse me, but Jesus H. Christ. Do you know who you’re talking to?
JIM:
What the fuck?
JOE:
Wait just a god-damned minute. I mean, look, Barry’s trying to say something. He’s saying something important, and if you don’t shut your piehole… I mean, I’m literally going to crawl in your face and ...
BARRY:
... Joe, Joe, Joe.
JIM:
Is this how this is going to happen? Is that why I’m here? What? So you can give me ... All of you can just ...
HANK:
... See. There. That’s what I’m talking about. Right. There. He’s doing it...
BARRY:
What do you think Tyrone?
TYRONE:
Excuse me, sir. What do I think about what?
BARRY:
You know, about the thing that happened. What do you …
TYRONE:
I try not to think about it much, sir.
JOE:
Look, I think Tyrone ought to sit down with us here. It doesn’t look right for him to be serving. Not today ...
HANK:
It doesn’t LOOK right? Is that what this is about? Looking right?
BARRY:
Well, no. Not exactly. No ...
JIM:
[Standing, fists clenched]
Look, this is bullshit. I don’t care who’s watching…
BARRY:
... no ... wait ...
JIM:
... or what kind of way it looks ...
HANK:
... I only ...
JOE:
... What the ...
HANK:
... wanted somebody to say he’s sorry and move ...
BARRY:
... okay, let’s calm down. Just chill out and enjoy the beer fellas ...
TYRONE:
[opening more beer and filling their glasses]
It’s cold. That’s what I think. It’s cold and tastes good.
BARRY:
How about those Sox? Let’s just talk about the Red Sox? Would that be okay with you? If we talk about baseball a little.
JOE:
Shit on a cracker, Barry. Look, I’m telling you it WAS a stupid thing for him to do. It was done stupidly. Why can’t we just say that. Stupid.
BARRY:
... no, no ... wait now. Joe.
JIM:
... Bullshit. It’s me. That’s who you’re talking about. And my family. My family waiting for me. Shit.
[pause, wiping his brow]
Due respect, I thought Boston was hot in July. Give me another one of those fucking beers. I don’t care which kind. Red Stripe, Blue Moon. I’d even drink some of that yellow Chinese beer. What’s it called? Ching Chong? Good with chow mein though.
[During the following, Barry is intently watching a fly buzzing around the table]
HANK:
Look. I mean, speaking of China. China, that’s the whole problem. I was tired after, what? 20 hours on a plane. You would too. You ever flown from China? No. No, I wouldn’t expect you would have been to China. Not lately.
JIM:
Lately. Kiss my ass lately. Like I don’t ever go nowhere. I don’t go nowhere ‘cause I’m just a cracker cop from Southie. Is that it, professor?
HANK:
I’m not saying ...
JIM:
Yeah? Seems to me you always got something to say. Shit, you get paid to talk and write and that shit. Write books and talk on television.
HANK:
It’s not ...
JIM:
What’s that? You call that work? Bullshit! You're burning my ass with that bullshit.
JOE:
Look. This is what you need to know. When I was growing up in Scranton, we all lived on different ...
JIM:
All due respect sir, you can shove Scranton up your pansy ass.
[Joe stands up and takes a step toward Jim. Barry suddenly smashes the fly on the table, startling everyone but Tyrone. He picks the fly up and drops it in Joe’s beer mug]
BARRY:
Now look. You two can either sit the fuck down and shut your fuckin’ mouths, or I can call an agent over to bust you down so motherfuckin’ fast you’ll be crying like pussies.
[They sit]
You think I like this? You think I like sitting here drinking beer with you fuckbags? There are people looking this way. Some of them can hurt you very badly.
JOE:
Let ‘em look. Like my old mother used to say ..
[Barry grabs Joe by his collar]
BARRY:
You think. What? You think I don’t have anything better to do? Nothing better than drinking this pisswater beer? Is that it? What you think?
[He holds Joe down and forces him to drink the beer with the fly in it. The others at the table drink their beers, avoiding eye contact. Tyrone chuckles quietly]
You see that bowl there? That bowl with the beer and ice?
You know who made that bowl? Paul Fuckin’ Revere made that bowl. You know who that is?
JIM:
Please tell me you’re not askin’ me who is Paul Revere. Where do you think I’m from? Revere? Like I don’t know he’s like the guy on the horse with the declaration of independence. From Boston.
BARRY:
So, you know then. You know that I’m a guy who has a friggin’ punch bowl made by Paul Revere? What does that make you think?
JIM:
Well, I guess ... I dunno. What?
BARRY:
That’s right. That’s what it means to be the guy who brought the beer in a motherfuckin’ museum piece. It means you’re listening to me now.
And, here’s what we’re going to do. You listening, Joe? Hank? Jimmy cracker boy?
[They nod]
What we’re going to do is this. What we’re going to do is make happy. You know how to make happy? You know how to make nice? Let’s just call it our happy ending. Tyrone, what’s the word Carter called it?
TYRONE:
Détente?
BARRY:
That’s right ...
TYRONE:
Rapprochement?
BARRY:
That too. We’re going to ...
TYRONE:
Agree that this was a candid but friendly discussion between honorable men?
BARRY:
Yeah. That’s it. Thank you, Tyrone.
Then Jimbo here is going to have his picture taken with my lovely wife. And then some TV reporter is going to kiss his ass to get an interview tomorrow morning. Right? A big hero and martyr. Another Captain Sulley. Until some grizzly bear is caught on video with his head stuck in what? Stuck in a friggin’ can and the cable news guys decide to run that instead of this story. And then ...
JIM:
I was thinking that, also ... I mean, maybe ...
BARRY:
... and then he’ll get a six figure deal book deal for his memoirs. Right? Don’t think about seven figures, cracker. Don’t start thinking you’re worth that.
JIM:
But. But. The helicopter ride?
BARRY:
... and then what? Then, he’s going to shut the fuck up until he’s an old man. That’s what he’s going to do. And when he’s an old, old man with withered nuts, you know what he’s going to do? I’ll tell you what. That’s when he’ll tell his grandkids all about it. He’ll be drooling in a cup, and he’ll be telling ‘em what a big deal he used to be. That’s what he’ll be saying. But you know what? You want to know what? Nobody ... I mean nobody is going to give a rat’s ass about any of that. They’ll be thinking about how bad he smells. He’ll tell them what a big man he was and they won’t be listening. They’ll be looking at the door.
Are we good here, boys? Everybody?
[Jim nods]
HANK:
Now. What? What am I getting? I’m getting jack, I think. A beer? That’s it? That's all I'm getting out of this? I’m the one. I’m the one who’s had his dignity, what? Taken. Stripped away? I guess that’s always the deal, isn’t it? I walk out of here and make the apologies. “I regret the misunderstanding.” Is that how it goes? I say, “I welcome this learning ... this ... what? This teaching moment?” Is that my cross to bear?
BARRY:
Yeah. No. No. Wait a minute Hank. What do you want, Hank? You want Jesse and Al to have a beer with you too? You got me doing this. Do I want to be doing this?
JOE:
You know what I think we ought to ...
BARRY:
You think we care what you think?
JOE:
I just ...
BARRY:
This is what you’re just going to do, Joe. You are not going to say anything about this thing we’re doing. You are not going to. No. It’s like you weren’t even here. Right? Right? Drink your beer and shut the fuck up.
HANK:
Hey ... that thing. What?
JIM:
Can I go now? Leave, I mean? Maybe take a beer with me? For my wife. She’s waiting. She's somewhere, waiting for me.
BARRY:
Get out of here. We’re done. Don’t forget to smile for the fuckin’ cameras on your way out.
- END OF PLAY-
Sarah Speaks
Earlier today, Sarah Palin gave her final press statement as Governor of Alaska. Not surprisingly, Ms. Palin used the opportunity to lash out at the media, issuing this stinging rebuke:"You represent what could and should be a respected and honest profession, that could and should be a cornerstone of our democracy. Democracy depends on you, and that is why our troops are willing to die for you. So how about, in honor of the American soldier, you quit making things up?"
I like the straightforward tone of that last part. No pussyfooting around. I'm going to give it a try:
“Hey honey! How about, in honor of the American soldier, you bring me another beer?”
"Hey buddy! How about, in honor of the American soldier, you move your fat ass out of my way?"
"Hey Congress! How about, in honor of the American soldier, you fix the health care system?"
Think it'll work?
More on Storm Large's Genitalia
Yesterday, just moments after being posted online, links to the just-released video of Storm Large singing 8 Miles Wide began to clutter my Twitter and Facebook feeds. For our out-of-town readers, 8 Miles Wide is the catchy tune from Crazy Enough, Storm's hit show at Portland Center Stage. As we say in the business, the show "has legs" -- it's been extended multiple times and is giving Portland's largest theater company some much welcome cash flow this summer. NOTE: The show will definitely be closing on August 16th. FURTHER NOTE: I have not yet seen the show.
The title of the song refers to the breadth of Ms. Large's nether region (metaphorically, we presume). My colleague excitedly posted the video on Culture Shock almost immediately after its release. This morning, the video went national with a mention on salon.com, which called it "the catchiest tune about giant lady parts that you will hear all day."
Couldn't we just leave it at that? No. Sorry.
Here's an excerpt from Mark Twain's classic book,Tom Sawyer, after replacing the word “cave” with “vagina.”
The title of the song refers to the breadth of Ms. Large's nether region (metaphorically, we presume). My colleague excitedly posted the video on Culture Shock almost immediately after its release. This morning, the video went national with a mention on salon.com, which called it "the catchiest tune about giant lady parts that you will hear all day."
Couldn't we just leave it at that? No. Sorry.
Here's an excerpt from Mark Twain's classic book,Tom Sawyer, after replacing the word “cave” with “vagina.”
Every few steps other lofty and still narrower crevices branched from it on either hand -- for Storm Large’s vagina was but a vast labyrinth of crooked aisles that ran into each other and out again and led nowhere. It was said that one might wander days and nights together through its intricate tangle of rifts and chasms, and never find the end of the vagina; and that he might go down, and down, and still down, into the earth, and it was just the same -- labyrinth under labyrinth, and no end to any of them. No man 'knew' the vagina. That was an impossible thing. Most of the young men knew a portion of it, and it was not customary to venture much beyond this known portion. Tom Sawyer knew as much of the vagina as any one."
100 Years of Blogging Dangerously
Gather ‘round me youngsters, and I’ll tell you a wee tale from old timey-time. You might even call it a legend, ‘cause it’s the story 'bout how your great-great-grandpappy became the blogger known ‘round these parts at that Mighty Toy Cannon.Before I git started, one of you tykes might just top up my glass there. Don’t be stingy now. Fill it up to the top and plop another one of those olives in there. Oh yes indeedy! That’s what I call tasty. Okay, simmer down now and pay attention.
It was the long, hot summer of 2008 as I remember it. I wasn’t doin’ nothing what amounted to anything. I was just a lost soul sitting outside of the social network peering in through the window like a hungry dog lookin’ at a pork chop. Everybody those days was startin’ to blog and facebook and twitter and twatter, and all kinds of crazy things they was doing. I could hardly keep up with it all. It was just one big mess of intercommunicating that would raise hackles on the head of a hoarhound in heat. You see, we was all learnin’ to get along without having to look each other in the face.
One day that fellow you know as Uncle Jeffy sent me what we used to call an e-mail message. The “e” stood for “electrozimbonic,” and it was the way we used to talk to each other. That was the time right before holographic iBrain implants made communicating as simple as sayin’ “Howdy do?” to your neighbor. Nowadays y’all are used to communicatin’ using jes’ your brain waves. Back then we had to flap our lips or use our fingers to make words.
Well, I remember that July day when Uncle Jeffy (we called him Culture Jock) sent a message to a mess of us that read, “Hey. I need some help making this here Culture Shock blog more interesting and entertaining.” There was another word he used--it’ll come to me in jes’ a second-- provocatitious? I’m not sure if that’s right, but it’ll have to do for now.
Ol’ Culture Jock asked, “Would you be willin’ to lend a hand?” He said it would be like an old-timey barn-raising. The way he told it, we’d all pitch in and drink lemonade and eat biscuits when we was done. Everybody else … I forget their names now … jumped in right away, but I was naturally skeptical. You might have even called me dubious.
Well, I said to Culture Jock right off, “What the heck would I have to say ‘bout anything?”
Right back at me, he said, “Go on! You say interesting things all the time! Everybody says so, they do.”
Then I said to him, “What if I want to stay 'nonymous ‘cause I don’t want nobody finding me out and learning my secrets?” I didn’t really have secrets, but we had this thing called “privacy” that we used to let our heads worry ‘bout back then.
Just like that, he answered, “Heck. You could just make up some crazy old name and nobody would ever know the difference.”
So I threw one last thing at him: “What if I get in one of my moods for weeks at a time and jes’ stop writin' anything?”
You see, that was a time when this old fellow you're listenin' to had important work to do. There was grants that had to be written and arts that needed to be administrated. That was before the Council of Overlords passed the Oxygen Tax on Breathing, givin’ us a dedicated funding source for all the artistic and cultural stuff you now enjoy for free. Nowadays, if you’re born a Creative, you get all kinds of special mollycoddling, and you live the life of Goldman Sachs, looking down on regular people from atop your highrise units over at the South Waterfront Protective Compound. Back then, we was underappreciated and never got squat from nobody.
These days, things are good as pudding for artists, that’s for sure. I still regret that we couldn’t stop the robots from replacing human actors though. That was the one battle in the Great Culture War we lost. I gotta admit, after that happened, theater got more … what’s the word? … consistent. But we still have the ballet!
Anyways … where’d that martini shaker git to? Pass it over here quick, ‘cause I’m starting to feel parched with all this story-tellin’. Ahh, now that’s what I call a pleasing refreshment!
As I was saying, it took a bit of jawing, but Culture Jock finally convinced me to give it a go. “Don’t worry about writing posts on any kind of reg’lar schedule,” he said, “Nobody ever keeps up with blogging! Shoot, most bloggers give up once they realize nobody out there gives a hoot what they got to say.”
I guess that must have convinced me 'cause the next thing you know, I done posted something! My very first blog post. Jes’ like that, I was on the Internet Highway plying my trade as a gol’darned blogger by the handle of Mighty Toy Cannon.
By the end of that very first year of blogging, I had published 168 posts on Culture Shock, not to mention another 42 on a darn site of my very own, Mighty Toy Cannon (which I named after myself on account of it was all mine). I was as hot as a meth house on fire with a basement filled with kerosene! I could scarcely believe how much time I was wasting writin’ up some of that crazy stuff most every night. Lookin’ for the pictures to go with every post was half the fun! Lord knows, I was pleased to use that word “published” all the time, ‘cause it sounded so awfully important and all.
Those were good times back then. We was all posting things left and right and willy-nilly. Sometimes we got all serious and grim about topics, especially when some politician was actin’ bat-shit crazy. Some called us high-and-mighty and smug, on account of us tellin’ folks how things ought to be. You woulda thought we were in charge of the world! And you know what? We shoulda been, dammit!
Other times, we was jes’ a bunch of cut-ups, jokin’ around, trying to make people laugh and forget their troubles. We was bustin' people up like they was chifferobes! Lord knows, them was troubled times back then. People wanted a good laugh and we gave them what they needed!
I know, I know. Truth be told, we didn’t have a clue in heaven what our Followers wanted or liked. Most times they just read things and kept real quiet, like hidin' in the woods from a grizzly bear when your hands is full of fish heads dipped in honey. When that happens, you try not to jerk fast so as not to be noticed any more than you already are. But we knew they were there.
We always figured our brilliant writing had them readers cowed. That’s right, I said it, they was cowed by our extraordinary show of intellect. Every darn one of them readers wanted to comment, you know they did. But did they? No! They was scared to say nothin’ on account of we set the bar so goddamned high! I know it’s a grievous sin to be prideful, and I expect I’m gonna burn in hellfire and all, but it’s gotta be said before everyone forgets what it was like back then!
No, I’m not cryin’ sonny boy; I just got a piece of dust up in my eyeball. Which one is you anyway? Little Baby Cannon the Third? That’s sweet. Now why don’t you just get me a little more ice while you’re up and about. Might as well pass that bottle over too. That’s a good boy.
Now where was I? Oh, sure there was some posts I’d just as soon forget. Some of them still sneak up and haunt me now and again, makin’ me wonder what the heck I was thinking. But, other posts still make me kind of prideful to this very day, I have to admit in all modesty.
Pretty soon, me and my Culture Shock pals were startin’ to draw a little attention to ourselves. People were even admittin’ in public that they were Followers. Every now and then, other respectable folks would notice and comment about the crazy things we wrote.
You want to know who? Well, for example, people like those brainy guys at Art Scatter. They said a thing or two now and then.
You don’t know who I’m talking about? Well they were those fellows what won the Pulitzer Prize for Excellence in Cultural Blogging ‘round about 2022, the year Culture Shock was disqualified due to the Incident.
Yeah, that’s right-- they're the folks whose heads are on display down at the old Memorial Coliseum Museum and Fun Time Center. Why that Barry Johnson fellow was the last journalist left at the Oregonian when it was finally sold to the owner of the Pyongyang Gazette. Barry once wrote that one of my book reviews was the “best book review of the year” back in '09. Now I’ll grant you he wrote that after the year was but a week or two old, but it sure was a nice thing to say and he didn't have to go doing that.
Now quit all that wiggling or you’re gonna knock over my beverage and there’ll be hell to pay! I’ll be done soon enough and you can go back to gathering up sticks and twigs.
Pretty soon, more people knew me as Mighty Toy Cannon than by the name my folks bestowed on me at my birth. They was callin’ me things like “MTC” and “Toy Cannon.” Sometimes they’d mash it all up together as “mightytoycannon” and sometimes I'd called myself “MTCannon.” I’d be walking down the street and people would shout, “Yo! It’s the Cannon!” and give me the thumbs-up (when people still had thumbs), and they’d say, “I liked that post you posted!” I’d tip my hat and go on my way, holding my chin up a little bit prouder.
Well I tell you, that first year of blogging was something else. Some credit my series of "Election Countdown" music video posts in October of that year for having put Barack Obama over the top in that final election. Others say we were doling out hope at a time when hope and a million shares of General Motors wasn't enough to buy you a shot of Stumptown coffee.
Now quit all that wiggling or you’re gonna knock over my beverage and there’ll be hell to pay! I’ll be done soon enough and you can go back to gathering up sticks and twigs.
Pretty soon, more people knew me as Mighty Toy Cannon than by the name my folks bestowed on me at my birth. They was callin’ me things like “MTC” and “Toy Cannon.” Sometimes they’d mash it all up together as “mightytoycannon” and sometimes I'd called myself “MTCannon.” I’d be walking down the street and people would shout, “Yo! It’s the Cannon!” and give me the thumbs-up (when people still had thumbs), and they’d say, “I liked that post you posted!” I’d tip my hat and go on my way, holding my chin up a little bit prouder.
Well I tell you, that first year of blogging was something else. Some credit my series of "Election Countdown" music video posts in October of that year for having put Barack Obama over the top in that final election. Others say we were doling out hope at a time when hope and a million shares of General Motors wasn't enough to buy you a shot of Stumptown coffee.
I still have a hard time believing how quickly that first anniversary came around. You know what’s ironic? The traditional gift for a first anniversary used to be paper! You kids don’t even know what paper is, do you? That goes to show you something.
Shoot, at times that year seems to have flown by just about as fast as it took for Major League Soccer to fail in Portland! Other times, I remember it going as slow as being stuck in a hovercar on the 48-lane Nike River Crossing and Cyclocross Bridge to Vancouver before the Great Reckoning severed our relationship with our northerly neighbors.
You want to know what happened after that first year of blogging at Culture Shock?
Shoot, at times that year seems to have flown by just about as fast as it took for Major League Soccer to fail in Portland! Other times, I remember it going as slow as being stuck in a hovercar on the 48-lane Nike River Crossing and Cyclocross Bridge to Vancouver before the Great Reckoning severed our relationship with our northerly neighbors.
You want to know what happened after that first year of blogging at Culture Shock?
Well, we’ll just have to save that for another time. I’m startin’ to think this glass isn’t going to fill itself. Skedaddle you little muskrats! Give this old man some time to think his thoughts by hisself.
Arts Stimulation
The NEA just announced new grants made under the “American Recovery and Reinvestment Act.” These were grants designed specifically to save jobs--either by keeping someone from being sacked, or by allowing a laid off employee to be rehired.You may recall that Culture Shock covered this topic months ago when we decried Republican Senator Tom Coburn’s batshit crazy attempt to restrict funding of arts and cultural projects. That coverage included this rip-roaringly hilarious parody of an NEA grant proposal.
The NEA awarded 631 grants totaling close to $30 million. Only arts organizations which had received NEA funding within the most recent few funding cycles were eligible. The NEA also allocated a share of economic stimulus funds for state arts agencies to distribute. Now that the first round of direct grants has been announced, I expect that the Oregon Arts Commission will soon be announcing who will receive funds from its pool of money.
Oregon received a total of $350,000 in nine grants. Curiously, Oregon Ballet Theatre wasn’t among them. The local winners were:
Literary Arts, Inc. $50,000
Miracle Theatre Company $25,000
Oregon Symphony Association $50,000
Portland Center Stage $50,000
Portland Youth Philharmonic Association $25,000
White Bird $50,000
Out of towners were:
CALYX, Inc. $25,000
Eugene Symphony Association, Inc. $50,000
Fishtrap, Inc. $25,000
Congratulations!
It's not quite the lifetime achievement award, but...
As we head into the home stretch of the theater season and prepare to celebrate numerous theatrical accomplishments at the Drammy Awards on Monday night, I would be remiss if I didn’t take a moment to sing the praises of Portland Center Stage.
I truly believe that any proper theater season ought to have its hits and misses, so I will be frank: I didn’t much care for the season opener, Guys and Dolls, and felt like the entire community coasted through other earlier installments of R. Buckminster Fuller and Christmas Carol. Solid productions all, but nothing really blew up my skirt until Apollo came along -– which sort of knocked me around and rustled me up a bit. There were parts of the production that I truly loathed, but I also was intrigued with some of what I saw, and ultimately I appreciate that the production demanded that I take notice of it, and of modern theater in general.
With momentum, the theater spun out How to Disappear… (which I quite enjoyed despite some shortcomings in the script) and The Importance of Being Earnest, which I missed seeing but heard often how solid it was. Frost/Nixon was certainly worthy of all the critical accolades it received.
But then the crazy kicked in. Unlike some of the veiled public comments to earlier posts, I for one love me some Storm Large so I was tickled to see that Daniel Stern recently wrote to Chris Coleman saying that Crazy Enough was “one of the great nights in the theater that I have ever had.” I’ll be sure to see it again once or twice again during its extended run. And Grey Gardens is, to me, both thoroughly entertaining and hauntingly intriguing. The reviews have been mixed-to-positive, but I think I agree with Marty Hughley most when he calls the season finale “the most fully realized and well-executed musical to grace the Gerding stage.” From top to bottom, headdress to heels, this really is a fantastic production.
So my hat is off to PCS, which has had its share of challenges along the way this year. I confess that I track PCS more closely than any other organization in Portland since I worked for the theater through most of the '90s (did you know that that’s what all Culture Shock authors have in common??) and I pause for a moment to recognize that lots of really talented people had to be let go this year. That means that the rest of the staff had to work extra hard and make other sacrifices to keep things moving forward both on the stage and behind the scenes with fewer resources and less manpower. But I trust that continued excellence, matched with ongoing prudence, is going to help PCS (and by extension the rest of the arts community) recover very soon. Hell, they will probably be even stronger organizations in the long run given all that they have learned and accomplished this year.
Yes, let’s save the ballet, and let’s also recognize that many organizations, including PCS, are doing a lot of things really well right now -- and they need your support too. We’ll accept guest columns recognizing the extraordinary accomplishments of other arts organizations, and there’s still lots of room to comment on Mighty Toy Cannon’s post about your theatrical highlights of the past year.
I truly believe that any proper theater season ought to have its hits and misses, so I will be frank: I didn’t much care for the season opener, Guys and Dolls, and felt like the entire community coasted through other earlier installments of R. Buckminster Fuller and Christmas Carol. Solid productions all, but nothing really blew up my skirt until Apollo came along -– which sort of knocked me around and rustled me up a bit. There were parts of the production that I truly loathed, but I also was intrigued with some of what I saw, and ultimately I appreciate that the production demanded that I take notice of it, and of modern theater in general.
With momentum, the theater spun out How to Disappear… (which I quite enjoyed despite some shortcomings in the script) and The Importance of Being Earnest, which I missed seeing but heard often how solid it was. Frost/Nixon was certainly worthy of all the critical accolades it received.
But then the crazy kicked in. Unlike some of the veiled public comments to earlier posts, I for one love me some Storm Large so I was tickled to see that Daniel Stern recently wrote to Chris Coleman saying that Crazy Enough was “one of the great nights in the theater that I have ever had.” I’ll be sure to see it again once or twice again during its extended run. And Grey Gardens is, to me, both thoroughly entertaining and hauntingly intriguing. The reviews have been mixed-to-positive, but I think I agree with Marty Hughley most when he calls the season finale “the most fully realized and well-executed musical to grace the Gerding stage.” From top to bottom, headdress to heels, this really is a fantastic production.
Jerry Likes My Corn from Portland Center Stage on Vimeo.
So my hat is off to PCS, which has had its share of challenges along the way this year. I confess that I track PCS more closely than any other organization in Portland since I worked for the theater through most of the '90s (did you know that that’s what all Culture Shock authors have in common??) and I pause for a moment to recognize that lots of really talented people had to be let go this year. That means that the rest of the staff had to work extra hard and make other sacrifices to keep things moving forward both on the stage and behind the scenes with fewer resources and less manpower. But I trust that continued excellence, matched with ongoing prudence, is going to help PCS (and by extension the rest of the arts community) recover very soon. Hell, they will probably be even stronger organizations in the long run given all that they have learned and accomplished this year.
Yes, let’s save the ballet, and let’s also recognize that many organizations, including PCS, are doing a lot of things really well right now -- and they need your support too. We’ll accept guest columns recognizing the extraordinary accomplishments of other arts organizations, and there’s still lots of room to comment on Mighty Toy Cannon’s post about your theatrical highlights of the past year.
Bikes and Ballet
Tonight I was going to blog about the new Zoobomb sculpture that is scheduled to be
But speaking of The Mercury's good coverage. Is it just me, or are the arts like the center of the media universe lately? Juicy little cross-over stories of late have helped, like the Arts Mayor Scandal and the great Coliseum debate. But also, in general, interest in the arts seems on an uptick, and dozens of fantastic arts-centric blogs are certainly contributing to the phenomenon. But I'm not just talking not just about the authors of these stories, it's also about the readers.
Oh, the readers. Have you seen the batshit crazy going on in the comments section of Barry Johnson's OBT story?!? Wow. People are really into this. Even Lars Larson is monitoring the situation, lord help us all. And even though half or more of the public's online comments are regrettable, I think they are actually helping motivate folks who might have otherwise stayed detached, stirring them to stand with the ballet and fight for all things symbolic of art and artistic excellence in our community.
The rising sentiment on the street and in the blogosphere seems to be that if we can just save the ballet now, we/they can fix it to be a better business in the fall. And I'm beginning to think there's enough willpower brewing to pull it all off.
La Ville la Plus Cool du Monde!
Yup, that's us, the coolest city in the world! At least, according to this month's issue of French Glamour. Check out the nine page spread on Portland--clearly, the French have excellent taste.
Even if you can't read French, do scan the text--it contains some real gems. For instance, how easy it might be to mistake Cannon Beach for Rio de Janiero. That we are, in fact, La Mecque du vert (I think I may make that for dinner tonight). Next time you need pizza, be sure to call l'institution hot lips. And did you know that pole dancing was invented in Portland in 1968? -- so proud, brings a tear to my eye.
The writer clearly got to know some Portlanders during her stay. She uses our favorite humble line about our home -- we are un bourg, pas une ville. And her summation of pop culture hits our proudest high points: Gus Van Sant, Pink Martini, and, of course, The Simpsons.
French Glamour suggests a stay of at least ten days to completely enjoy Portland's delights -- merci beaucoup!
The author also displays a nice bit of Gallic wit when writing about Pink Martini's latest album: "Hey Eugene, prenom masculin, mais aussi ville d'Oregon, hey hey."
Um. Actually, that's not that funny.
And that thing about French good taste? Remember, they revere this guy:
Nixon: Uncomfortable in his own Skin
Last Friday, upon returning home from a satisfying opening night performance of "Frost/Nixon" at Portland Center Stage, we snuggled up on the sofa with a nightcap and a bowl of popcorn and proceeded to surf the net on our respective laptops, engaging in a little post-theater research and memory freshening. There's nothing quite like historical research to top off a night of theater.Since then, I’ve been trying to write a review, hoping to deliver a post that provides the reader with my uncanny analysis and musings on media, political corruption and human nature. I wanted to draw parallels between Nixon’s corruption and other political travesties, national and local. I wanted to reflect on the role of media in politics and how it has changed over the past 35 years. (Note: MY GOD! Has it been that long?).
Unfortunately, after six days of noodling, all I've come up with are dribs and drabs of incomplete thoughts. I keep getting distracted watching YouTube clips of the original Frost/Nixon interviews and listening to snippets of secret White House recordings. I'd like to be able to use the following Nixon blooper clip as a springboard for profound commentary on media and image-shaping, but mostly I just thought it was funny ... in a sad kind of way:
Over at Art Scatter, Bob Hicks writes more eloquently about Nixon as a tragic figure, so read his post (including the comments) and then pretend that you heard it from me. I'm done trying to weave the following random notes into a coherent essay. Best that you just go see the show, which runs through May 10th at the Gerding Theater ("The Bob"). It's good.
Full disclosure: I’m a neighbor and former colleague of director Rose Riordan and we frequently bump into each and talk about the business and art of theater while walking our dogs late at night. Our dogs are friends too.
1) "Frost/Nixon" is a complex technical achievement, with panels and set pieces that slide smoothly in and out, and lots of projected video (recorded and live). While tricky, all of these elements work together without being obtrusive or flashy – the whizbangery did not distract me from the story. The extensive use of video projection is an essential part of the storytelling and is not a gimmick. (Note: The actors aren’t lip-syncing to prerecorded video as one patron reportedly complained). The proscenium itself is encircled in a bezel that says, "I'm a giant TV set."
2) Technical bravado aside, the true key to the production’s success is that Riordan found just the right Nixon in Bill Christ. For any production of "Frost/Nixon," the big challenge is to transcend the three basic Nixons implanted in our brains: (1) The original Tricky Dick we watched on television from the Checker’s speech to his resignation; (2) the cartoon Nixon with floppy jowls and outstretched arms flashing the victory sign; and (3) Frank Langella.
Bill Christ conveys key Nixonian mannerisms and vocal inflections without sounding like a hack impressionist. He portrays Nixon’s complexities and vulnerabilities, and even manages to elicit a smidgeon of empathy. His nuanced acting holds up even when his gigantic mug is supersized on the video projection that dominates the set.
3) If there are weaknesses in "Frost/Nixon," they are in Peter Morgan's script. I think the play leans too heavily on expository speeches by two of the side characters: Jack Brennan (Scott Coopwood) on the Nixon team and Jim Reston (Adam Ludwig) as one of Frost's researchers. I’m not sure how else the necessary exposition might have been accomplished, but it struck me as a clumsy mechanism to bring the audience up to speed and move the story along. (Note: "Clumsy" may be too strong in this case ... make it "inelegant").
4) Other than Frost and Nixon, I thought the other characters were weakly developed (though well played and directed). Of course, the play's focus should be on the match between the title characters. Still, I would have liked to have known more about the other characters and their motivations, beyond what the script provides. For example, the character of Caroline Cushing (Allison Tigard) is introduced as a woman Frost meets on a flight while on his way to meet Nixon in advance of the interviews. She's invited to accompany him and they become an "item." In real life, Cushing was a journalist who had already been in a relationship with Frost for five years before the Nixon project. Tigard's portrayal gives the role enough weightiness to avoid coming across as Frost's arm candy, but the picture still seems incomplete.
5) The script makes David Frost out to be a journalistic lightweight and party boy. Perhaps that’s an accurate depiction, but it makes him less plausible as a “worthy opponent” (as Nixon ultimately declares). The underdog overcoming odds and beating a tough opponent is a perfectly legitimate plot trajectory. In this case, Frost's transformation from hapless bimbo to master debater seems to happen too quickly, conveniently and without enough dramatic tension. (Note: I couldn’t resist writing “master debater,” but did edit out the reference to Frost as a “cunning linguist” because I have my standards).
6) One of the play’s pivotal scenes involves a drunken Nixon making a late night phone call to Frost in which he exposes all of his insecurities and grudges. (Note: I’m putting “Drunken Nixon” on my list of potential band names). It’s a powerful and effective scene, but one that is completely fictional. I'm not sure what to think of that. I know, I know, it's a play, not a documentary, but still. (Note: I really mean it when I say I don't know what to think about this ... but at least it made me think about the role of truth and imagination in creating theater based in historical fact ... ).
7) I would like to say that "Frost/Nixon" will win a Drammy for best set, except that I think that category might be won by either "The Receptionist" or "How to Disappear and Never be Found" -- also directed by Rose Riordan. Bill Christ should at least be nominated for Best Actor -- but if he wins, the monkey-fightin' Portland acting community will go batshit crazy because he's from out-of-town.
8) Really. Go see the show. Ignore my little penny ante quibbles. It's really well done and is a fascinating story with lots to think about afterwards, food for thought, blah blah.
Oh, one more thing: It's always good to be reminded of how power corrupts. Nixon thought he had the right answers and that his reelection would serve the nation best; hence, the ends justified the means -- lying, cheating and covering up were okay because he was the guy with the brilliant mind and great ideas who was going to save us from ourselves and the rest of the world. Isn't that always the slippery slope upon which politicians risk finding themselves?
Storm vs. Princess Leia
The personal memoir has had a fantastic decade, with bestsellers by such authors as Dave Eggers and David Sedaris, as well as Augusten Burroughs ("Running with Scissors") and Jeannette Walls ("The Glass Castle"). But the theater, too, has always been prime for confession, and right now in the Pacific Northwest two women hold the stages at two of the region's largest theaters. Carrie Fisher is at Seattle Repertory Theatre performing her one woman show Wishful Drinking, a hit with audiences everywhere it plays. And here in Portland, Storm Large is captivating, and rocking, audiences with Crazy Enough at Portland Center Stage, a "one woman with bitchin' band" show.
With the usual healthy rivalry between Portland and Seattle in mind, the ever witty and clever Trisha Pancio (who is publicist for PCS) responded to a challenge about comparing the two shows for savvy theatergoers. Caveat: Trisha has only read about Ms. Fisher's show, so we're sure there are more opportunities for her to score some meaningful points.
But for now, here's a scorecard:
Carrie vs. Storm, a breakdown
Drugs
Carrie: Codeine
Storm: Heroin
Point goes to: Storm
Effed- up parents
Carrie’s dad: smoked pot
Storm’s mom: repeatedly attempted suicide
Point goes to: Storm
Musician relationships
Carrie married: Paul Simon
Storm lives with: Davey Nipples from Everclear
Point goes to: Carrie (I mean c’mon! Paul SIMON?)
Weird props
Carrie: Princess Leia buns
Storm: dildos shrunken by her ridiculously large man hands
Point goes to: Storm
Claim to fame
Carrie: OMG the bestest scifi film of all time
Storm: Reality TV
Point goes to: Carrie
Audience interaction
Carrie: “Learn How to Have Sex with a concrete statue of myself”
Storm: “Hey boys! Learn to sing about your 8 mile wide vagina!”
Point goes to: Lets call this one a tie
Style
Carrie: One liners and Hollywood insider zingers
Storm: Gut wrenching ballads and anthems about her vagina
Point goes to: STORM.
addendum: a Good Friday conversation about this scorecard that included two of Culture Shock's contributors prompted one more face off point.
Fan base
Carrie: StormTroopers (strange men dressed in those crazy white tin costumes)
Storm: Storm's troopers (including strange young men, but no tin)
Point goes to: damn. Carrie.
With the usual healthy rivalry between Portland and Seattle in mind, the ever witty and clever Trisha Pancio (who is publicist for PCS) responded to a challenge about comparing the two shows for savvy theatergoers. Caveat: Trisha has only read about Ms. Fisher's show, so we're sure there are more opportunities for her to score some meaningful points.
But for now, here's a scorecard:
Carrie vs. Storm, a breakdown
Drugs
Carrie: Codeine
Storm: Heroin
Point goes to: Storm
Effed- up parents
Carrie’s dad: smoked pot
Storm’s mom: repeatedly attempted suicide
Point goes to: Storm
Musician relationships
Carrie married: Paul Simon
Storm lives with: Davey Nipples from Everclear
Point goes to: Carrie (I mean c’mon! Paul SIMON?)
Weird props
Carrie: Princess Leia buns
Storm: dildos shrunken by her ridiculously large man hands
Point goes to: Storm
Claim to fame
Carrie: OMG the bestest scifi film of all time
Storm: Reality TV
Point goes to: Carrie
Audience interaction
Carrie: “Learn How to Have Sex with a concrete statue of myself”
Storm: “Hey boys! Learn to sing about your 8 mile wide vagina!”
Point goes to: Lets call this one a tie
Style
Carrie: One liners and Hollywood insider zingers
Storm: Gut wrenching ballads and anthems about her vagina
Point goes to: STORM.
addendum: a Good Friday conversation about this scorecard that included two of Culture Shock's contributors prompted one more face off point.
Fan base
Carrie: StormTroopers (strange men dressed in those crazy white tin costumes)
Storm: Storm's troopers (including strange young men, but no tin)
Point goes to: damn. Carrie.
Jerks!
Don’t you just hate it when Oregon lands in the national and international press in a way that makes us all sound like backwoods rubes? As if we're Floridians, for God's sake!The latest is the story out of La Grande, where local high school administrators decided that Steve Martin’s play “Picasso at the Lapin Agile” was too racy for the young ‘uns. Apparently, one parent scratched up a petition with 137 signatures from community members who objected to the play's setting in a bar and its sexual references. It's a known fact that high school students in Eastern Oregon don’t drink, nor are they sexually active.
The concerned parent read the script and counted 18 instances of profanity, 15 instances of religious exclamation or religious profanities, 22 instances of sexual references or sexual content and 17 instances of alcohol use. At least we know they can count.
What thrust this story beyond our borders is that Steve Martin heard it and offered to cover the costs of producing the play off-campus. Steve Martin is hereby forgiven for the Pink Panther films.
Read more about it in the La Grande Observer, The Oregonian, the BBC or the Huffington Post.
I will never, ever understand why some people are so afraid of the expression of ideas, or why some parents can't see that their high school children are intelligent people capable of independently interpreting what they read in books or see on stage.
UPDATE:
You can read Steve Martin's letter to the citizens of La Grande, as printed by the La Grande Observer.
You can also visit the blog authored by Kevin Cahill, the teacher who selected Mr. Martin's play.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
