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Confessions of an American Amateur Theater-Reviewer: Preliminary Confessions #3: Continued | The Nether

Posted in Theater Review with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 20, 2017 by gregnett
masks

Comedy. Drama.

Confessions of an American Amateur Theater-Reviewer
PRELIMINARY CONFESSION #3: Continued…

As someone who came from a family of mostly low-income, blue-collar (and “no-collar”) workers, started out in Music (guitar and piano) in grade school, detoured into Art (cartooning) and organized Sports (Basketball, Football, Baseball, Volleyball, Soccer) with flights of fancy into Interior Design and Graphic Design during middle school and junior high, then back into Music (songwriting) after my short-lived attempt at going to college, and finally into Film (producer/writer-director; more so screenwriting) at the start of adulthood—not only did my “career” choices steadily creep away from what mommy dearest had envisioned for her baby boy, but I too was left with a bit of a moral dilemma: does my current (and now mainstay) passion—writing; whatever the medium—make any significant contribution to the world in this day and age, or any of my past “creative” endeavors I left behind? This quandary has been the pebble underneath my heel for quite some time, and as recently as this past fall when I made the decision to go forward with this (slightly tongue-in-cheek) confessional, combining bits of my life with unscientific observations of modern day society as a way to discuss the medium of Theatre (stage plays), I had to sit in deep thought for a half day or so and reflect on why was I even bothering to write any of this—anything at all—down in the first place… Cleansing my brain of all the toxic negativity American culture is currently steeped in as well as my own self-doubting and self-deprecating ways, I regained the confidence needed to see this endeavor to the end. I’m never one to re-invent the wheel, and I’m sure, dear reader, that you may have heard many of these reasons before, but here are a few reasons on why the Theatre should matter. To you, dear reader, I would like to point out a few of the positives:

(1) The Cost. Both tangible and intangible. First-world problems about sums it up—if I were looking for the proper expression. While over a $7-dollar slice of cherry pie at a “roadside” diner, I expressed one of my many observations (grievances) about contemporary life in good ol’ Oosa (U.S.A.) to a group of my closest of friends: which is that “diner prices”, “fast-casual prices”, and “restaurant prices” are all now within $4- to $5-dollars of one another; the idea of a “cheap meal” is a thing of the past. The mere fact of eating out is expensive, certainly a lot more than enjoying meals at home. I also find that the costs for Entertainment are just as relative… Music festival tickets, professional sports tickets, Vacations (air travel plus room & board), movie tickets, comedy shows, nightclub venues (definitely for men) are within $15- to $20-dollars of one another, more in fact for the popular draws (MSG shows, Lakers tickets, Coachella, Broadway musicals, Travel to a locale during a special event, say Mardi Gras) — so there’s definitely enough griping to go around when it comes to spending what’s in your wallet. Those of us here in the “First World” with mad time to fill should definitely reconsider our stance on not attending the Theatre. If anything, most playhouses are slashing ticket prices—or giving them away for free—just to get people’s asses in those tiny chairs. Do you think Coachella or the Staples Center where the L.A. Clippers and L.A. Lakers play would ever consider doing that? As far as the intangible: much of the other areas of Entertainment have been extremely corporatized which, in essence, is predicated on maximizing profits whereas the Theatre (sans Broadway; though the medium too would like a larger bottom line) — bad material and all — seems to be more about how we (Society) are driving the culture. And you can’t put a price on that!

(2) A great if not better option to go on a Date. An excellent venue for Social-gathering. Another man is less likely to test your manhood — meaning you won’t have to “defend her honor” — while one a date at a theater versus the food court at the mall or right outside the men’s bathroom at a sports arena. (What is it with American men wanting to get into fist-fights outside the one room in a public facility that’s there so humans can relieve themselves?) I’ve hit on this before but the air in the theater is quite pretentious and in that setting, it’s rare that tempers flare—just think of the cost incurred to get into the building. No one’s trying to get kicked out! Theater patrons go out of their way not to speak or make eye contact in general, so there’s never any worry about a scuffle happening. Hopefully, the date is to see a comedy (or a musical) which allows for lots of playful hitting, knee-grabbing, and eye contact which is crucial early on in any courtship. (You can thank me later.) As far as it being an excellent choice for social gatherings, well consider the alternative: digital screens. Earlier Millennials and prior generations know what I’m talking about; face-to-face interaction is something we still pine for. It’s my own personal theory for why so many of us feel so aimless walking around nowadays—that and the economy. Hell, if the date is going well you might be so inclined as to talk to the other couples seated around you—between acts or coming back from intermission, of course. Who knows, that same conversation could potentially lead to some networking. With the average age of the theater-goer currently sitting at 54, the Baby Boomer you’re trading barbs with just might put you in the run-in for his/her position when they retire or bring you aboard so as to groom you along seeing as one so cultured as you is at the theater on a Saturday night… Sure beats firing off résumés online, or figuring out if you possess any of the skills for the “jobs” listed on Craig’s List.

Well, dear reader, that will have to suffice for now. I would like to turn our attention to August’s stage play, The Nether.

virt_world2

They’re out there…

Title: The Nether (2013)
Playwright: Jennifer Haley
Time Period: Postmodernism (Transrealism)
Plot: A young detective investigates the inventor of an online virtual realm where morally questionable acts involving young children are being carried out behind the anonymity of “Shades” — human avatars that could potentially be real and what, if any, ethical ramifications this may have regarding the real world.
Dope Line(s):

[Scene 5]

MORRIS
It’s more than that, Mr. Doyle. It’s sound, smell, touch. The Hideaway is the most advanced realm there is when it comes to the art of sensation.

[Scene 13]

IRIS
People come to things on their own time. We offer a place where you may dismantle everything the world has told you about right and wrong and discover pure relationship.

[Scene14]

DOYLE
It draws people who are—broken—I know that, but—I don’t judge them—they are part of us, too—they are part of the world—God does not judge them—why should we?

virt_world1

Ones & Zeroes

The Eagle has landed! I’ve been back home for a little more than a month now and both my body and sleeping pattern have adjusted back to west coast time. It’s the bank account that’s jet-lagged. But no worries, the system wasn’t built for folks like moi to keep it all. So spend it all I shall, whenever it does touch my hands… For those of you who have been with me, you might get the sense that I’m in good spirits—well, I am! One needs to be whenever one is blind-sided by life, in many more ways than one as of late. (Some things are just too personal for me to say here.) So who cares if this month’s play trivializes pedophilia, or has no clue on how real criminal investigations are run, or is ignorant as to how mental illnesses work; in real life, I’m being cleaned out by my own government for a fraud I didn’t commit with the paperwork to prove it, and my country’s president(?) is instigating World War III, at home and abroad. To hell with morals, screw decency. Pour big globs of debauchery and bad behavior all over the mob; just see if we push back—we won’t! We’re plebs for a reason! I’m a hundred percent sure now there’ll be a purge soon.

The Nether received rave reviews—spoiler alert!: this gets only a “meh” from me. And it pains me so to say that because this playwright is my contemporary—or would be if I could ever get over the hump and make an impact on Pop Culture—and a fellow Angeleno by way of San Antonio, Texas. Troubled waters lie ahead… I know readership is low for this blog, but I also know that Millennials and Gen-Xers love to “Google” themselves (sounds dirty, doesn’t it?) — so only time will tell how playwright Jennifer Haley will receive me… But for those #TINWIPA faithful—oh, how little of you there are—you know exactly where Big G (to those special two in Las Vegas, Cousin G) draws the line when it comes to taste and decency, so I must remain firm… I believe it was Roger Waters of Pink Floyd who said it best: “Leave them kids alone”. And with a few days (weeks?) left before the official start to the new school year here in the States, I wanted to see what the kids were doing. And by kids, I mean the playwrights currently making names for themselves in the Theatre world. Overall this series is geared towards old stage plays but I wanted to reserve at least one slot for a modern stage play, and The Nether has the proud honor of being on my inaugural list.

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Small on scale, big on dreams…

I couldn’t have been more than twenty-five or so pages in when I had to read the word “molestation” having had the notion be implied to me in a number of ways in earlier scenes… The majority of them featuring the play’s protagonist Detective Morris—a woman!—who works ‘em hard and fast; a sort of tough, no-nonsense and perhaps overworked public defender in an unknown city, world, and time. We are far out into the future and the Internet/internet we affectionately slave all of our time away on is now like those old Nokias of my high school days—gone! A major upgrade has been made to the web and it even has a new name, “Nether” — thus the riddle of the play’s title is solved. Yes, the world many of us fear where humans can no longer tell what is real and what is fake is alive and kickin’, and if weren’t for what this play was trying to peddle, I would have had no problem in finding this sort of world-building inventive. But, ideally, we get to see none of this brave new world only glimpses rather, because much of this play’s narrative involves overtly-dramatic interrogation scenes—the stockiest I’ve seen this side of a film festival circuit. (Interrogation scenes are common with new filmmakers looking to make their first short film. Just about any space can be turned into an interrogation room and then all you need is a few props and two committed actors to sell the drama.) And like so many before in this series, the story unfolds bit by bit, the heaviest of all the exposition being front-loaded so as to lace the back end with lots of navel-gazing and soap-boxing. However, Haley has decided to break her story line in two (which isn’t a bad idea in itself): one part is in the “present” featuring the interrogation room drama, the other in the “past” taking us inside the Nether—but still in rooms and the occasional foyer. And back and forth we go, watching as the two converge… And it’s the story that takes place in the Nether region (pun intended; forgive me) that makes me pause for concern.

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Jennifer Haley

Side note: Early on in my mind before I keyed in on what type of story this was going to be, I envisioned this play as a feature film, a fast-paced thriller where we cut back and forth between the different interrogation scenes all of which would be even more intense and amplified, and the majority of the “action” would take place in the Nether, requiring Det. Morris to jump back and forth between the virtual world and the real world while in pursuit of the truth/bad guy. Either world, Det. Morris would be running down some corridor, or turning over her shoulder and seeing ones and zeroes in everything around her, and always having a feeling that the world—either one—is on the verge of collapsing in on itself as she races towards some stock, arbitrary countdown to save a little girl from a pedophile which she would do—heroically, of course. And, as always, just in the nick of time. But then, the little girl would be lost to the Nether world forever, perhaps never being real at all, which would add some emotional weight to the story because the audience would’ve grown attached to her by then. And as the little girl turns to pixels, she would give Det. Morris a code that would show her the location of the server or the bad guy—or both. Det. Morris then would haul ass there, talk it out with the bad guy for a bit, then waste him… Again, this was all in my mind, and I was only about thirty or so pages in—and even then, I was giving this play too much credit.

Instead, as written, much of the suspense is telegraphed in advance; so people like me are far out in front of where Haley is trying to go with her story. Now I’m a fan of disjointed timelines, but it really serves no purpose here other than to drag out the story. And when stories start to drag that’s when I start to ask questions, especially when they take place in the future and technology (as well as surveillance) should be better than what’s currently on the market. I start to ponder questions like: Why doesn’t law enforcement have its own team of white hats to aid Det. Morris in finding out who the inventor is and tracking down his location? Why can’t the government just shut down the Nether (internet) seeing as there are “kids” involved and platforms allowing pedophiles to congregate could potentially become a societal issue which in the world of this play it clearly is? Egypt’s government did it (in 2011) and the U.S. has the Patriot Act (which if the President wanted to he/she could technically shutdown the Net) so some future politician/bureaucrat must surely have access to the Nether (internet) kill switch, right? Does Det. Morris have a superior officer, and if she does, why isn’t she or he monitoring her behavior? For that matter, shouldn’t Det. Morris have a partner to at least try to ensure that she doesn’t cross the line, and if she does decide to, at least there’s someone present in her life with a firm moral compass for the case she’s been tasked with trying to solve to perhaps prevent her from doing so? Why does Doyle’s lawyer—if he even has one—allow his client to keep being brought back in for interrogation? Hell, why is Doyle’s lawyer not present, considering what’s at stake (pedophilia charges)? Did Doyle even contact his lawyer before deciding to speak to and cooperate with law enforcement? Nothing was in writing, so what if Det. Morris reneges on her side of the deal? … I can go on and on and on. (No wonder Americans have no idea about how the Law works. Just look at the material they have available to them.)

inter_room2

The room.

I guess one would find all of this cringe-worthy and unsettling (and possibly riveting) to see this acted out on stage: where and older man gets fresh with a little girl. Me, I would’ve walked out. Forgive me, I picked this at random from a best-of list and assumed it was going to be about dreams… Anyhoo, Det. Morris is knee-deep in a gentleman’s ass by the name of Doyle. He has been spending time in a realm known as “The Hideaway.” This realm exists in the Nether and was created by Papa, the kind of evil guy who believes he’s smarter than everyone in the room. She’s in his ass also, though spoiler: he goes by a different name, Sims. Both of these men suffer from mental illness but that never gets discussed nor does their sexuality really, considering it ranges from homosexuality to pedophilia. Papa (Sims) has created “shades”, avatars that allow users in the real world to be on his platform anonymously—and they nor he can be traced for some reason. The eerie thing is that some users take the form of little girls who then “play” in a little girl’s bedroom with another user who is usually an adult male or a male creature of some kind, and when the men have had enough “playing”, their next task is to bludgeon the girl (it’s always a girl, am I right?) to death with an ax. (Depraved, sadistic, nihilistic material; I can’t believe I read this.) There’s also a “crossing over” option available to users which means that they may possibly stay there in the Nether forever but it isn’t fully explained and dealing with all that was going on, I just had to let it go.

bloodyaxe1

Sadistic weapon of choice

Now I’ll say this much: Haley nails the sci-fi elements, though a lot what she offers up sinks under all of the navel-gazing from some her characters (Papa/Sims). One little girl, Iris, is Det. Morris’s way into finding out who the inventor is and the scenes involving Iris are some of the most inventive, and by inventive I mean disturbing… And that’s pretty much crux of this story: a man has created a “cyberplace” for other perverts and degenerates to get their rocks off online and he’s been brought in for questioning, and while in questioning he defends his right along with other pedophiles/pervs to be exactly who they are… Gross!

inter_room1

Talk!!!

I guess that’s the thing with modern stage plays. The ever present “shock value” that turns a lot of people away—myself included—from the Theatre. Someone is always vomiting on themselves or someone else, or getting completely naked (always a busty white woman) for no effin’ reason, or getting mutilated, or coming up with the most heinous act imaginable just to see if they can make an audience cringe then crafting a “story” around it afterwards, not even bothering to see if the “story” itself is concrete. Then me, poor me, I come along and ask a few questions, wondering why something is, and I’m told to “Relax… It’s just art, bro!” Okay…

There’s no sense in asking whether this play holds up or not; it was only written four years ago. Rightfully so, the play does deal with a relevant topic: online virtual portals where things like child pornography can potentially be traded and discussed. (Yikes! Yuck!) From the looks of it, this play has opened all sorts of doors for Haley, and I tip my hat to her: congrats! But having read The Nether, I’m left scarred so there’s no way in the world I can see what else she has going on… Well boy and girls and aliens, I see you next month with a classic work from one of the founding fathers of the LGBT theater movement.

 

 

stage-chair

‘Til September…

 

 

Rating: 2.5/5

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Confessions of an American Amateur Theater-Reviewer: Preliminary Confessions #3 | Dame Lorraine

Posted in Theater Review with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 16, 2017 by gregnett
masks

Comedy. Drama.

All this talk of myself, and my railing at society but what of Theater? For that I have reserved my concluding words: it’s actually much worse than I thought—though I’ve already expressed that sentiment. But, to this hour, I don’t think my dear reader has ever heard me make mention of Theater’s finer qualities—with any extended detail, that is. And you will, though not now, as I would like for us to quickly turn our attention to July’s stage play, Dame Lorraine.

 

d1

Dame No. 1

 

Title: Dame Lorraine (1979)
Playwright: Steve Carter
Time Period: Postmodernism
Plot: An African immigrant family, mired by past transgressions, gather in the Harlem apartment of their physically disabled patriarch for the return of a family member recently set free from prison in hopes of finding closure with what got him incarcerated more than two decades ago.
Dope Line(s):

[Act 1]

ANGELA
I shouldn’t have come. Why did I come here?

[Act 1]

DORCAS
I never thought to see you in this house again. I ain’t want to see you here … but I too glad you come. You have to understand … we had to stay here and my place was with him. I just a woman. You have to understand. I was doing what I thought best.

[Act 3]

PICTON
I sorry I do this thing to you. I sorry I plant all them bad flowers in you. I ain’t never want to see you cry. I beg you forgiveness. Before God, I beg you forgiveness.

 

har1

Harlem 1970s

 

Coming to you live from New York, from inside an undisclosed location in Brooklyn. But this here story takes place in Harlem circa 1979. No, seriously. I’m in NYC for this one. #TINWIPA goes on the road from time to time… I’m out here on the east coast celebrating my B-Day; this little thing I do where I pick a different city to toast to my getting old. I’m torn between Madrid or Tokyo for next summer and it just might come down to an old fashioned coin toss. But enough of that, I wanna talk Dame Lorraine, part three of Steve Carters’ Caribbean Trilogy (Eden, 1975; Mountain Dew, 1977), all of which could fall anywhere along the timeline of the twenty-six plays Carter’s alleged to have written. (This pompous S.O.B. claims to have some of his plays “hidden” in a trunk somewhere.)

Fair warning: this is the Kill Bill edition boys and girls and aliens, and I’m going to swing the Hanzō around mightily for this one. With that bit of business out of the way, I have just one question: Are black content creators being held at gunpoint and forced to produce material that showcases the most horrific and disturbing images (and sounds) of the Black experience in America, or are they doing this of their own free will? But then to ask that question is to immediately ask another: What is it about Black (and Brown and Asian) suffering that (white) audiences find so enamoring? These two questions always jump to the front part of my mind whenever I encounter material like this. To me, both of them are rooted in the question: Who is this film/play/book/song/installation for?

 

d2

Dame No. 2

 

In today’s world Carter clearly wouldn’t be in touch with his audience; as is the case with whites who lord over the images and representations of people of color. Film and Literature—Theater too it seems—constantly get it wrong whereas Music, Fashion (model representations aside) and Sports hit the nail on the head every damn time. When black youth is the face of sports culture (Lonzo Ball, Dak Prescott) and the backbeat to corporate commercials (Lil’ Yachty, Kendrick Lamar) and the pulse of online buzz (Black Twitter, Beyonce’s Beyhive), I start to wonder what’s taking the others so long to join in on the fun… Black people, I can surely attest, are done with the suffering narrative; they go the other way every time. People like Misty Copeland and Kevin Hart have broken new ground, and so have the Migos and Future and that last dude that was President of this country, yet the biggest movie “made” for black people (and for whites to feel guilty about) this calendar year is Detroit? Yes, the ’67 Detroit riot is an important moment in (Black) American History and long overdue perhaps, but you guessed it: more Black suffering. What about the current cultural zeitgeist known as Turn Up culture? Will it ever see its day on the big screen, or on the best sellers list, or on stage (Hamilton doesn’t count). I feel like I already know the answer so why bother…

 

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More Harlem 1970s

 

For someone like Steve Carter, I get the feeling that he thought very highly of himself while in his prime. I mean, to be a part of the Negro Ensemble Company he would’ve had to… Still, I’m not ready to put him or his contemporaries—and mine also—on the same level as sadists, but I can’t seem to grasp why their need to go overboard in their indulgences of black suffering. In Carter’s case, an African family is trying to weave back the family fabric torn apart twenty-seven years ago when the oldest of eight sons initiates a gang rape scenario on his young sister only to be caught in the act by his father who he then beats within inches of his life thus making it hard for the man and his wife to survive in Harlem, New York which at the play’s point in history (1979) was figuratively falling to pieces. And rather than having them move on, Carter puts them all back under one roof where they await the brother’s return as if he were the Prodigal Son.

 

globe1

The Harlem Globetrotters

 

Like The Rover, the plot points don’t easily connect and that’s marred even further by syntax—but that’s the gist of what happened for the family involved in this story to be where they are at the start of the play. We enter the home of Picton Moulineaux through the eyes of his daughter Angela Moulineaux (who as raped as a pre-teen) and her bi-racial boyfriend Salvatore “Sal” Buongusto (half black, half Italian; bigotry abound because of this). Rightfully so, she wants nothing to do with this place but since her father is on his deathbed and the coincidental release of her oldest brother King Moulineaux from prison, Sal has put it to her that she should work some things out with her family as it will help things in the intimacy department between them. (Picton named all of his sons with titles traditional of the French royal court like Prince, or Earl, or Marquis). Things happen glacially, and the back and forth took some figuring out… Again, this is that irksome thing I hate about writers who have no actual story and are merely holding things off for shock value: they have characters withhold key information until the very last minute possible or avoid answering direct questions and just monologue instead; it was In The Summer House all over again. However much a mess this play is though there was an opportunity for me (and now you) to learn what a Dame Lorraine is, so there’s that. And seeing as I’ve spoiled the bulk of the play, you can read for yourself how Picton goes into great detail for what he calls a Dame Lorraine which aids in giving the play its title. I would like to talk about the actual Dame Lorraine character that still exists today…

 

apollo

Old school Harlem

 

The Caribbean’s rendition of the cakewalk as discussed in Color Struck, is the simplest way of putting it. Mockery of the ruling French elite that became a thing of its own and can still be seen today in Caribbean carnival culture, hence all the photos of portly black women. More than one character exist and the photos throughout are of the modernized version of Madam Gwo Tete. When returning to the barracks (slave quarters) the slaves would emulate what they had seen while servicing French high society’s elaborate parties and coronations, exaggerating different portions of their bodies, however, for comedic effect. For Madam Gwo Tete it was humongous breasts then later an even bigger ass, the ass originally belonging to Madam Gwo Bunda. So, should you read Dame Lorraine, you’ll have a better understanding of what Picton means when he talks about seeing a performance and his mumbling off of various words attached to the word “Madame.” Lastly, all of the Dame Lorraine characters don masks so as not to make out the “respectable citizen” behaving so lewdly behind underneath the costume.

 

image

Dame No. 3

 

I didn’t necessarily have high hopes for this play though I did hope that it would be decent. It being my B-Day month I wanted to select something from a black playwright and about an issue I’ve been thinking about a lot lately: Family. There’s not much to glean from here other than the fact that I would never do any of the heinous acts committed in this story to my own blood… I’ve always enjoyed the dynamic of families coming together for an event, light or tragic, in one location and maybe not this story but something much milder will always be relevant, especially if it charts the fragmentation of daily family life and the overall looseness of what constitutes a family in the 21st century. Stories like that never get old whereas Dame Lorraine, I couldn’t be happier if it’s never mentioned past this point. Well, that’ll have to suffice. I’m in New York City for the first time ever! and there’s an entire city filled with tall skyscrapers and moving about are 8 million people with 8 million stories—and I need to go finish seeing what that’s about! I’d love to tell you what’s up for next month but my laptop is Los Angeles but I’m sure it’ll be better than this play. Happy Birthday, me! Thank you, New York!

 

 

stage-chair

‘Til August…

 

 

Rating: 1.5/5

Confessions of an American Amateur Theater-Reviewer: Preliminary Confessions #1: Conclusion| The Lady of the Camellias

Posted in Theater Review with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 16, 2017 by gregnett
masks

Comedy. Tragedy.

 

Confessions of an American Amateur Theater-Reviewer
PRELIMINARY CONFESSION #1: …Conclusion

So blended and intertwined in my life are occasions of laughter and of tears, that I can’t recall without shaking my head and smiling, an “incident” that occurred back in the early fall of 2010, a bit of an icky little situation that ultimately deaded my live-theater attendance. I was working in a restaurant downtown at the time, and I was just coming out of a funk over — what else — my film “career”, and wasn’t quite clicking on all cylinders just yet; but was in a good place mentally where, if needed, I could be sociable; where I could be in a room with other people all pursuing the same thing I was pursuing and not be at all bothered by any of the conversations or be so in my head that I’m just sort of halfway listening to someone lie “fudge” the truth about all of the “wonderful” and “exciting” things that were happening for them in their career; the usual shop talk aside from droning on about what one had to “endure” while at their Day Job waiting tables, stocking groceries, or brewing corporate coffee. (Uber wasn’t in yet.)

I forget who exactly had invited me to this party I went to. But I feel the strong need to attribute my being there to someone so I’m just going to randomly pick my old friend Greg (same names) and say that it was him, even though I’m fairly certain it wasn’t, and I eventually ended up riding there with Thomas and Edwin anyway. This party was in Silver Lake. Again, this is 2010 and I didn’t really have a good feel for what L.A. was—not like I have now; and I wasn’t all that excited about being at a party in that particular neighborhood. Silver Lake, in my humble opinion, can be a loathsome part of town, especially when you’re down on your luck and hard-up for cash—like I was. Back then, I pretty much hated L.A. across the board but in my assessment of Silver Lake, having ventured there a handful of times prior to that evening; I could see why East Coast Americans had mockingly come to call Los Angeles, La La Land. Silver Lake’s stretch of Sunset Boulevard on any given day, to me, feels like a scene right out of the movie They Live—but in reverse. By that I mean, your eyes are visibly exposed and everyone else’s are shielded behind a pair of blacked-out Ray-Bans® and you’re the one being stared at because you’re not wearing flip-flops, or dirty Converse® sneakers, or ripped denim, or Hippie beads, or a baggy V(ee)-neck tee, or a fedora, or vintage clothing; there’s no “ink” on your sleeves (forearms) — you get my drift. 2010 was like peak Hipster time (How are these people even allowed to get away with calling themselves individuals?) out here in L.A. — and none of it ironic. But me, silly me, I’m a glutton for punishment, and I hadn’t been out of the house in a while and would’ve happily agreed to rob a bank if that instead had been offered to me. Plus, I wanted to hang out with Thomas; no homo—I just wanted to do bro-shit!

It had been my intention originally to just bunker down at the edge of a sofa or grab a chair and pull it up against a wall out of the way and camp out there, maybe then make a few trips to the snack table, let Thomas do his thing, and as the party progressed, have Thomas find me, pour ourselves a cup and raise one. But after wandering around by myself for some time, in awe that a man still in his early 20s had come up on a nice chunk of change (by way of paychecks from some network sitcom that was popular with white suburban tweens) and purchased himself fly-as-f—k man cave at the very top of the Silver Lake hills (I don’t know the name; Mount something, I think), I veered into the “first-floor kitchen” for an iced adult beverage, not because I necessarily wanted one but because I wanted something to do with my hands. And in itself, 2010 was interesting moment in time. This is before YouTube started playing commercials before every freakin’ video clip, and way before smartphones became the pervasive little pests that they are; yes, people actually talked to one another in group settings not talked to one another while glued to their cell phone screens in group settings. And since everyone’s necks weren’t at a downward angle, one could enter a room and be greeted, or make eye contact with the host and others—and perhaps even nab a warm smile from one of the ladies, or fellas. Most importantly that “special stuff” wafted all through the air (vibe), hanging there to let you know if the party you found yourself at was going to be chill or nah

Most of the desserts and junk food had been depleted and the drinks as well… I don’t know if I’m the only one who notices this, but there is this strange phenomenon at house parties where the brown liquor disappears first. After that, the tequila and beer drop off; then the wines—red and white. Pulling up the rear is vodka and gin. Poor gin. Nobody’s friend. Hardly anyone touched you back in 2010. We’ve all seen it: that jumbo bottle of Seagram’s that’s trotted out each and every party and/or get-together and forced to live out its lonely existence at the back third of the drink table, isolated from all of the other cooler, sexier alcohols; and no matter how “wild” the party gets, it never gets opened—not even on a dare… Is it just me? Am I the only one who notices this? Well, it gave me something to grin about, in between bites of salvaged scraps of mushy birthday cake and lukewarm frosting (I was at a get-together and not a B-Day) that I recklessly shoveled into my mouth. (So uncouth; I know.)

It was as if everyone at the party—or at least in my vicinity—just stood waiting and looking around, anxious for some sort of event to take place. It was well after midnight and most of the conversations were starting to fatigue, and from a quick scan of the faces still present there was but one hedonist amongst the lot of us (me!) so putting forth the idea of a group orgy was definitely out of the question. And for some time standing there nibbling, nibbling and mixing some Tropicana®-whatever juice and gin (I caved.) concoction, there had been an animate object in the shape of a human being steadily creeping towards me from the left—the Devil’s side—with slow and determined steps (knee-high leather bootz) and being accompanied by the obnoxious sound of child-like snickering.

“You have cake on your face… Oh, my God! It’s all over your chin.” And then an encore of more child-like snickering.

I’ll tell you no lies: I become completely unhinged in moments like this. I’m still shell-shocked over some ish that happened to me back in tha hood and would prefer it if people would engage me head on… But that’ll never happen so…

I communicated my embarrassment, internally. I tend to be that way around beautiful (Latin) women. My next thought was that all was lost; and that my only chance for executing a retreat was to sacrifice my adult beverage. However, on reflection, I was quite determined to make the most of my trip to the “first-floor kitchen.” The young senorita was in the utmost alarm, both on her account and mine: but, in spite of this, so peculiarly had the viewing of my face, in this wacky episode, taken hold of her bodily functions, forcing out of her that long, loud, and lovable language of laughter (Alliteration boys and girls and aliens.) that momentarily severed several of the conversations happening one room over in “the den” (open-kitchen floor plan), and in the process, unburdened me with having to issue a harsh sentence for violating my personal space.

She was an actress — What girl there wasn’t? — and I, a writer; a pre-Tinder, face-to-face match made in creative-type Heaven. Fast forward one half-hour later and I’m still saying all of the right words, and I’m doing a so-so job of eating my junk food, and our responses to each other’s questions seem real—and the moment isn’t like something out of a Romantic Comedy. Our time together—plus or minus some bizarre cock-blocking from my own homeboy Greg—was truly genuine… You know, it’s chance encounters like these that makes one say, “I went to this really cool party last night.” Hell, if I know. I only spoke to one person (her) and had ghosted on the host earlier in the night soon as he started boasting about his accomplishments and gave myself a tour of his place. (Who does that? Just exactly what kind of asshole am I?)

Anyhoo, MaribelMaritza… uh, let’s see, MaMa— something. This is by no means to protect the innocent; I simply can’t remember her name—but I’ll never forget that face though. Three days later M— got me into her theater show free of charge, some small-box theater joint in DTLA that receives funding from the city to help foster Latino thespians. I was with it—and all that it entails. With interracial relationships, I’ve learned over time to just relax and take it easy. They know that I’m black (“African-American”) — it’s written all over my skin for Christ’s sake…

I thought the entire production was self-indulgent, and it seemed to be all about this one dude; this chubby, Latino do-every-job-in-the-theater type. You have to watch out for scumbags like him, especially in small, crumby theaters as was the case with the one I was at. His type tend to hire gullible young actresses who’ll do just about anything for a role, only to seduce them then discard them at the end of a production. Their only other hires are gay dudes, fearing competition from other heterosexual men. His house, his rules; I guess. Yeah, his type are all about sleeping with the main actress; that’s their reason for turning over in the morning. And M— was the main actress, so the first “date” or first “interaction” rather, involved a bit of recon work on my part because I could plainly see how “familiar” he was with M— at certain moments in the “play” and based on the cast (him, her, two other girls, and several gay male supports), as mentioned above—I knew his type and was extra motivated in wanting to eff up his world. But, I didn’t want to get too turnt up on the first night and decided to just sit back and play it cool.

And played, I was. After the show, I get up out of that small-ass theater seat and start making my way over to M— to congratulate her and out of the corner of my eye I see another black guy starting over to her, and, of course, the Latino Everyman following behind her like a whipped poodle, shadowing the poor girl’s every move. And now I’m thinking to myself, “What is this?” Because, I’m nobody’s fool. I’m nobody’s pawn; perhaps a rook from time to time. And I don’t fight over scraps of meat either—well, not this particular scrap of meat. This should’ve been in the bag, the way I saw it. Something’s not adding up. And how the f—k did I not see this coming? And now more questions start to sprout up… Why the free ticket? And why the lengthy late-night text messaging convos? And why all the initial interest and exchange of phone numbers? I’m not even a week into knowing this girl and I don’t even know if I feel like investigating any of this ish; and so: I just let it go… Some things just ain’t worth it.

And whether I wanted to know or not, all of my questions were answered two days later when I— (protecting the innocent here), my drop-dead gorgeous Asian co-worker and “friend” walked up behind me and tapped my shoulder while I was standing at the computer terminal. “Hi, Greg.” I breathed evenly for a moment, and then I turned poised but a little pissed. “I guess you already heard what happened?”

“I haven’t heard anything. What are you talking about, I—?”

“Well, I saw you talking to M— at the party…”

“You were there?”

“Yeah, the guy I’m seeing was the guy M— was seeing…”

He was there?”

“Yeah.”

“What’d he look like?”

“Well… He was tall, about your height. Black.”

Tall and black… Oh, yeah. That’s right, you do like black guys.” I— was one of the few Asian women in Los Angeles who was willing to admit that publicly: that she was into black men. And that’s when it hit me: I—’s dude and I had crossed paths that night at the theater. He was also the same black dude I vaguely remember seeing at the party (in Silver Lake), Thomas and I being the only other brothers that were there. Interesting. I clocked him looking at me when I was talking to M— in the kitchen, and he didn’t seem to be at all bothered by it. Well, I’ll be goddamned. I guess dude was doing a little recon work on me. “So what’s up, I—?”

“I did something bad.”

“Tell me.”

“Well, that bitch…” — It’s always “that bitch,” am I right fellas? — “…is upset because J— likes me and not her. She’s a slut anyway because you, J—, and H— (Latino Everyman) all f—ked her, and now that bitch has nobody! I had to put that bitch in her place the other night. She kept calling J—’s phone while I was with him…”

Let’s get one thing straight: I hate Drama. Especially the drama of messy little girls, because none of the females involved in this here anecdote had acted like women.

I had to cut I— off mid-sentence: “Wait, wait. Hold up… I never f—ked, M—.”

“You what…? But I thought…”

“Nope. You seem to have gotten hold of some bad information. Or came to that conclusion all on your own.”

Wait for it. Apologies tend to take a long time.

“Oh, Greg. I am so sorry. My bad, I…”

“It’s all good, I—. I’m going to be honest with you: you just threw me in the crossfire by being messy. It sucks, but it’s whatever. I actually did kind of like her though. I went to go see her a few nights ago. She had asked me to come see her stupid-ass play” — I felt that way on the strength of the Latino Everyman not her — “and she wouldn’t even talk to me afterwards or reply to any of my texts. And now I know why,” I said; smiling—and proud of myself that I had remained calm the entire time. “But, like I said, it’s all good. I hope things work out for the best between you and J—.”

THE END. FOR NOW —

Creative-types and Sex and Friendship and Art and Life and Loyalty and Integrity and Hard Work—quite an interesting emulsion these things are here in Los Angeles… And where I was around that time (2010), I just wanted to put each back into its individual bottle and keep them separate; that in itself no easy task. But it’s all for the best now, I hope. As far as the theater (Art) I merely extracted what I wanted from it the most which was the material

And that’s how a nice and easy-going fellow, that would be me—who has no theater background at all—got it in his mind to want to write criticism on stage plays. The above “incident”, though a bit melodramatic, was the culmination of more than my fair share of similar theater run-ins (Drama). Episode after episode after episode of ones like the above, or much milder versions, had taken a toll on me. And it didn’t help the other side either (audience member) seeing as I actually knew how the sausage was really made—and, of course, theater’s notoriously steep ticket prices which I sure as hell couldn’t afford… I’m clueless as to how the theater is now; I’m still about two years out from setting foot back into one. But back then I was really open to the idea of having a real theater experience—but, man, all of the bullshit. Some were power-hungry. Most approached it as a stepladder to the movie business. Many were just horny. All—or what felt like all—seemed indifferent about the material and only a tiny, tiny few had any extensive knowledge of the medium. Tradition meant something to them. So, in effect, this theater review series is a way for me to make up for lost time—and diggin’ in the crates for old material is as good of a place to start! I’d be ecstatic if any of the plays in this series are revived for modern audiences… Okay, that’s enough of me being in my feelings. Let’s turn our attention to April’s stage play, La Dame aux Camélias.

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The Auteuil – 19th century French Elite Hangout

Title: La Dame aux Camélias [The Lady of the Camellias] (1848)
Playwright: Alexandre Dumas fils
Time Period: Late Romantic Period
Plot: A Parisian courtesan, in spite of her many admirers, falls hopelessly in love with a young bourgeoisie man.
Dope Line(s):

[Act I]

MARGUERITE
Go away at once, if what you say is true. Or else, love me as a friend, and in no other way. Come and talk to me sometimes, but have no illusions about me, for I’m not worth much. You are too young and have too much feeling to live in this world of ours. Love some other woman and marry. I’m trying to be honest with you.

[Act II]

MARGUERITE
Good-bye, you foolish boy. Does he love me, I wonder? Am I even sure that I love him, I who have never loved?

[Act IV]

ARMAND
Then I will tell you. You gave yourself to him because you don’t understand the meaning of loyalty and honour; because your love belongs to the highest bidder and your heart is a thing that can be bought and sold; because when you found yourself face to face with the sacrifice that you were going to make for me, your courage failed you, and you went back to the past; because I, who have devoted my life to you and my honour, too, meant less to you than your horses and carriages and the jewels around your neck.

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Book Art

There’s a quote floating around out there in the ether with Mae West’s name attached to it that I’m sure to butcher here. It goes a little something like this: “Men love women with a history, because they’re hoping that her past will repeat itself.” Not bad, huh? Not good either—morally and socially speaking, that is; opting to give away the milk for free, or at a relatively affordable price. Oh, the Horror… and the humanity… There are some out there who believe that if we (America) were to lift up the bar on Sex (Legalize it!) that these here walls are sure to crumble. That’s a weighty “proposition” to consider: on whether or not to commodify sex. A quick, wet finger to the wind tells me that a decision is looming; and just as quickly I bury my head in the sand. I can’t bear the thought on how good ol’ Oosa (U.S.A.) is going to tackle the world’s oldest profession. But considering what’s going on in DC, ATL and in the Bay Area with the Missing Black Girls—it an absolute fact at this point that many of them have been funneled into the sex trade—as well as the usual turning of tricks in every dirty, cheap motel along every dirty, cheap highway in this here republic, one can see that the situation has become critical.

The “cat” (Brace yourself.) is really out of the bag now here in the 21st century; it’s even gone digital (Backpage). Yes, we are a long ways away from The Pill and the Sexual Revolution and the Swingin’ Seventies and whatever the nicknames for the eighties and nineties were… What a mess! The moral fabric of our country is hanging in the balance… What do we tell the girls? And the little boys? Or the Christians? And the alien debunkers? And we can’t forget the pimps & hoes? A magnificent quandary to ponder. And here I am being crass about it. I’m sorry; it’s an unforgivable character flaw. I’m like that in moments like this when there’s way too much gray area—and no visible solution.

Stick. To. The. Blog. Post. G!

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White Camellia equals Hanky-Panky

 

Oh, but I just can’t help myself—not after reading material like this. La Dame aux Camélias [English translation; The Lady of the Camellias], or Camille, written by Alexandre Dumas fils (at 23!) first as a semi-autobiographical novel of the same name—then hastily was put together to be performed on stage a year later—does the impossible and makes me empathize with a hoe, er, I mean a courtesan. Further, a femme galette, which is like the Ferrari® of hoes; because not only do they dole out sex, they’re also highly educated and are as just as refined as the crème de la crème of the then Parisian high-society (mid-1800’s). Only difference is that they come with a heftier price tag to garner their “services.” And all this means is that these femme galettes really knew how to please a man. Thus, the earlier quote from Mae West… Because if there’s anybody who’s in trouble should the original-pimp-of-the-land (Uncle Sam) push the RED BUTTON and legalize nookie, it’s regular women. Yeah, these galz might play nice with the hoes now, retweeting memes and quotes, or mobbing up at Slut Walks for whatever it is that they do there, and hoisting up high to the sky their personalized, homemade posters about “sex workers” needing “rights”, but quietly these broads are shaking in their bootz. Back-alley logic, perhaps; but I’ll be alright

A recent article came up out of the muck a short while back legitimizing what men like me already knew but was revealing to those who were oblivious somehow to the fact that we Americans ain’t gettin’ busy no mo’. Sex—other than hoes & johns—is on the decline. It’s not as bad as Japan but it’s been trending downward for some time. There are a lot of factors that may have led to this atrocity of cold, sexless bedrooms and no nooners on the washing machine during lunch break; here are a few: contemporary dating mores, longer work hours/careerism, pornography, Feminism, video games, smartphones. Yet, if you cruise past any random Insta-thot’s profile page and peek at said thot’s follower amounts, you’ll see that the thirst is real. American men want it; but American women ain’t giving it. So, is there any wonder why the Porn business eclipsed $10 billion dollars in profit in 2015 which can be easily backed up by the smut-filled search histories on you galz’ guy-friend’s & husband’s laptops, or that the underground sex trade is now hovering close to $15 billion annually? And there’s clamoring now to bring this illicit business above ground? Pussy would put Disney® out of business… Fifteen billion dollars is Nike® on a bad year, and you can’t walk past that many people without seeing their brand on someone’s feet… So that’s what we would be unleashing onto the general public—if one were discussing things morally, that is. But it isn’t like sex isn’t everywhere nowadays anyway. I mean, have you seen what they do with breadsticks in fast-food pizza commercials?

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Dumas Himself

 

And yet I keep coming back to the numbers… Who? Who’s buying it? Add the two numbers above together and that’s twenty-five billion dollars. Who? Who out there is it? Most American men deny in public that they don’t watch porn or pay for crotch but the numbers don’t support their claim. So, who? Now I sound like a goddamn owl. Who goddammit? Is it you reading this? Are you the who?

Moving on.

Prostitution is Big Business—and has always been and *sigh* might always be. And where Big Business is—Uncle Sam wants to be there also… But I’ll back off for now seeing as Le France has our attention à la Camille. And as palate cleanser, here are some useless interesting facts about camellias to rinse away all of the sex talk.

It is said that the camellia flower speaks to the heart and expresses positive feelings. Colors range from white, yellow, pink, red and purple. In the Koreas camellias symbolize faithfulness and longevity. Some contemporary meanings of the camellia are of desire and passion, and refinement. In Western civilization, white camellias were used in the past by mothers at funerals when mourning over the early loss of a child. Oh, and here at home, in the still-behind state of Alabama, the (pink) camellia is the state flower and represents “southern beauty.” Its place of origin is Japan where it was cultivated for thousands of years, and did not make its way to Europe until the mid-1700’s. A timely saying is: “Nothing says spring quite like camellias in bloom.”

And it is spring; it began last month. But there was some overlap with Women’s History Month, so why not celebrate spring now! Love is in the air, folded in with all of the toxins and smog, and I couldn’t think of a better stage play to add to my inaugural theater review series for the month of April. Camille is considered by some to be one of the greatest love stories ever told. An online search will bring up a plethora of movie adaptations, theater revivals and musicals—but I still wanted to see for myself what all the fuss was about. I’m going to be brutally honest here and totally contradict a lot of what I said last month as far as storytelling goes. It’s also interesting to note that I’ve recognized a few parallels in the four plays (to be discussed at a later time) — three of which do some peculiar things with the locations and characterizations. Romeo and Juliet is the only outlier in that it “feels bigger” than what it actually is whereas the others stage plays are confined to one, or a few locations. And, so…

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Marie Duplessis – Real life Camille

As if in French farce, though we are in France, Camille’s opening scene takes place in the drawing room of a beautiful Parisian home circa 1848. A gentleman by the name of de Varville is sitting impatiently and having a small discourse with a close friend, Nichette. It’s rather harmless banter about her and her fiancé Gustave (who won’t appear until later in the play) and why he hasn’t married her yet seeing as the two have been seen together in public—holding hands of all things abominable. They’re both waiting for the titular character to arrive back at her home and in she comes, The Lady of the Camellias, Marguerite, a title she received for her choice of camellia she wore on her person while a courtesan: red for when she is menstruating, white for “Come on, boys. Time to have a little fun!” She’s absolutely brazened, both beautiful and confident, and can easily slick talk every man in the room. Side by side with Summer House, the two main characters come crashing & thundering in hard—which is more or less a staple of the medium. With screenwriting I’m used to taking in those early moments of a script to see if the writer will “show” me who the main character is—because film is a visual medium—whereas in theater there are no cameras and showing doesn’t come into play all that much. In theater (stage plays), characterization is more often than not verbally expressed (“tell”). And in less than five pages, Camille puts In the Summer House in my rear-view mirror—and thank Gawd! Dumas, being a master student of the stage having studied the movements before his, borrows heavily from Greek Tragedy and turns the plot very quickly, giving us the crux of Marguerite’s dilemma and joining her with her eventual lover up front. Like I said, Marguerite is no longer a courtesan—at least from what I can gather—but can’t seem to keep men from orbiting around her (de Varville). And due to a relapse back into past her “profession”, on top of an ominous lingering cough, life for her is slowly starting to turn sour. Her current john man/helper Duke de Mauriac—mentioned throughout in name only—was set to provide for her as long as she could keep it in her pants but since she couldn’t do that, fifty-thousand francs worth of debt that Marguerite rung up under his name now hangs over her head—and he wants it all back.

But, no worries; she’s got Love now. Armand, the new apple in her eye, is at her home with his friend, Gaston, who is there with his friend, Prudence, a milliner (hat-maker) and across-the-lawn neighbor/dear friend to Marguerite. And, of course, there’s Olympe, Marguerite’s brothel-buddy from back in the day; and Saint-Gaudens, an elderly gentleman who’s Olympe’s current sugar daddy, not to mention Nanine, the maid—the maid/butler being a stock character of farce because of their ability to move in and out of scenes helping to expose/provide information and move the plot forward. A bit of a character pile up, but Dumas does an amazing job not to make the scene feel “stuffed”—though most of the story plays like this. About fourteen characters, roughly, have some sort of bearing against the plot.

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Red Camellia means no Hanky-Panky

Which brings me to my central point; because, in essence, Camille is yet another plotless story. The next four acts of the play, all of which take place at various locations (Marguerite’s dressing room; a château in the French countryside; Olympe’s house; then back at Marguerite’s) and at various times (four days later; three months later; one month later; six months later) make relatively no significant changes to what we learned in the opening act—that these two, for better or for worse, are madly in love with one another and want like hell to be together. Sure, there are some reversals and setbacks (that’s drama) and later developments, but this is essentially is a two-hander with a smorgasbord of supporting characters. That’s not to say that this story wasn’t a joy throughout—because it was! This is truly powerful stuff. I may have been extremely generous to Romeo and Juliet in giving it a 4.5/5 rating back at the beginning because one could make the argument that Camille is possibly a better romantic story than R&J—just looking at the characters of Romeo & Juliet and Marguerite & Armand side by side. I stood up; I didn’t throw the book—but was oh so close to doing it. What happens here is truly heart-breaking. I felt so bad for the both of them. In reading up about Camille, the challenge of any production was to find the right Marguerite, and if you didn’t the critics nailed you for it. The list of women who actually received praise for their performance as Marguerite is a rather small one; those other women were run out of town.

I keep a small, private stock of stage plays that I like to believe no one else knows anything about. (We literature buffs are a weird bunch.) And this play is going into that collection and may even crack my top ten. Like I said, I may sound contradictory, but when the writing is this superb and the characters are this rich, you tend to overlook plot mechanics, time jumps, and coincidences—or that Dumas, in adapting himself, fails to include in the stage play a clear understanding for those who might not be privy to the novel that Marguerite is suffering from consumption (tuberculosis). It’s no exact science but it’s still a code I live by. Camille is the exception to the rule, however. I even respond to its deep though uplifting theme of redemption through love and suffering… And I shouldn’t say two-hander because there is sort of a loose “triangle” here. I know I’ve said a lot already, definitely more than I’d originally planned and not even close to what I wanted to say. But I would like to leave you with this one particular exchange just in case for some reason, you might not get around to reading this play:

[DUVAL: Cannot you see what your old age will be, doubly deserted, doubly desolate? What memories will you leave behind you? What good will you ever have accomplished? You and my son have two very different roads to follow; chance has brought them together for a moment. You have been happy for three months; do not sully that happiness; keep the memory of it always in your heart. Let it strengthen you; it is all you have the right to ask of it. One day you will be proud of what you have done, and all your life you will respect yourself for it. It is as a man of the world that I am speaking to you, it is as a father that I am pleading with you. Come, Marguerite, prove to me that you really love my son, and take courage.

MARGUERITE: And so, whatever she may do, the woman, once she has fallen can never rise again. God may forgive her, perhaps, the world never. What man would wish to make her his wife, what child to call her mother? It is all true, what you have told me. I have said the same thing to myself many times, but I never understood it until now. You speak to me in the name of your son and daughter; it is good of you to use those names. One day, sir, you will tell this beautiful and pure young girl, for it is for her sake that I am willing to sacrifice my happiness, that somewhere in the world there was a woman who had only one thought, one hope, one dream in life, and that for her sake she renounced them all, and that she died of it. Because I shall die of it and then, perhaps, God will forgive me.]

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“Bois du Boulogne” – Alexey P. Bogolyubov

If that doesn’t move you then I don’t what will … So does this story hold up today? Well, no; not really. There’s a small, small window for this kind of material to be impactful but it’s closing fast. Considering where we are now with Prostitution, and how desensitized and oblivious we are to it, and how much of a problem it is globally, I don’t see how a story where a high-priced prostitute falling in love with an upper-crust man (Pretty Woman) would bring us all to tears, or make us consider doing something about eradicating the profession. Society is way too fragmented now as is for us to give people grief for who they choose to fall in love with—and still be able tackle all of the Big Problems as well. Hell, a political scandal dies down after a week or so. No one has the time or the energy—I sure don’t!—to keep up with who someone is sleeping with, even that someone’s family. At best,  a relative or friend will just tell you to “be safe and make sure that they love you.” Who you fall in love with in today’s world is your business, and no one else’s. So, if you want to make a prostitute from the Bunny Ranch your wife or make an “escort” off of Backpage your girlfriend—go for it! Whatever makes you happy, bruh! Now that doesn’t mean you won’t be fodder for the internet trolls, ‘cause they’re gonna get ya regardless. You’ll be a joke or a meme for like a month, if that, then it’s on to the next one. Anything past that is nothing a private patch of land in North Dakota or an expensive three-bedroom loft TriBeCa can’t handle. Most Americans are chumps anyway; they just act tough online. If they were to see you and your hoe-turned-housewife, or vice versa, walking down the street they wouldn’t do a thing at all. They probably wouldn’t even recognize you because they’d already be harping on the next “issue” and expressing fake outrage over that one. So go ahead and love who you love—or, if you can’t find love, you’re more than welcome to add to the debauchery by spending a couple of Ben Franks on the by-the-hour artificial version…

Well, enjoy the start to your spring. Start thinking about getting yourself in shape for the summer. Beach Season is right around the corner. Next month I contradict myself even further (farther?) — because the stage play I’ll be reviewing then is going to be all about the effed up things a man does to a horse!

stage-chair

‘Til May…

 

 

Rating: 4/5

Confessions of an American Amateur Theater-Reviewer: Preliminary Confessions #1: Continued| In the Summer House

Posted in Theater Review with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 19, 2017 by gregnett
masks

Comedy. Tragedy.

Confessions of an American Amateur Theater-Reviewer
PRELIMINARY CONFESSION #1: Continued…

A wiser man than me once said that “we never do anything consciously for the last time”—that is, anything which we have long been doing—“without sadness of heart.” (If ever there was a saying more soothing to the creative Soul than this one—only the universe knows.) This truth I felt intensely, when I came to leave filmmaking behind, a career option I had fallen madly in love with, and where I had thought I would find fulfillment and happiness. (Just be patient; even I am so over talking about this. The TL;DR version that will eventually dead this matter is coming this summer.) On the night I left film forever (Yes, I remember!) I grieved in my room all by my lonely, and may or may not have shed a few tears. (No, I don’t remember—or do I?) And that night, while looking over a healthy pile of rejection letters from literary managers and agents, and film festivals (I do it to myself honestly, holding on to ish like this), I rolled over in bed, and, catching a glimpse of my face, my reflection in the mirror as if on standby, locked gazes with it, and looked myself intently in the eye, thinking to myself, “What now, G? What now? How in the hell are you gonna come back from this one? Of all the stupid things you’ve ever done in your life this one hurts the most. Now you’re stuck here—in Los Angeles of all places. And you don’t even have enough money to get your ass back home… I want out of this goddamn town! I want out of this industry! I’m not even IN this industry! I don’t want anything to do with film ever again!” And I was right: I never did have anything to do with it—until recent. Still at the mirror, I looked at myself self-righteously and proudly (Hey, we all do in that moment—am I right?), smiled resolutely, nodded my affirmation (or rather, my goodbye), and I parted ways with the movie business forever—or so I thought.

Morning came—so dramatic; I know—and under normal circumstances I would’ve been ready to launch into my day. I’m thankful for my up-and-at-‘em approach to life, and, in many regards, I’ve benefited greatly for having this outlook—though it wasn’t on showcase in that moment. As for my residence: it’s a spacious, second-floor, balcony apartment (occupancy four), and I have been blessed, from my first moving in, with a cast of supportive roommates and “a room of my own room” just like good ol’ Virginia, which I use—then and of course now—as an area of leisure and study. At about six-thirty or so I got up, and stared with hazy contentedness at the treeless skyline of S——, the now gentrified L.A. enclave cloaked in a gray sunlight and slowly beginning to tinge sky-blue with the gloomy dullness of a typical, cloudless December morning. (Told ya I know the date!) Again, I agreed that I would be unwavering and overwhelmingly fixed in my decision: but yet I was vexed by the looming possibility of setbacks and obstacles; and if I could’ve foreseen the shit-storm that my life would become over the next two years, and quite the back-breaking, soul-crushing shit-storm of pain and misery at that which wasted no time in starting up around me, I would’ve… Well… Well, I don’t have the heart to jot it down here…

To this vexation the calm peace of morning presented a disturbing comparison, and in some degree a mild stimulant. The moment was more profound—or at least it seemed to be—than that of any other time in my life here on the West Coast: and to me the stillness of morning is more moving than any other stillness, because the city (L.A.) hasn’t come alive yet; and thus, I’m able to sit quietly and introspect and think freely, unabated. I put on a pair of sweats, moped about, and did nothing of importance. Up to this point in time my room had been my “meditative tower”: here I read, and typed, and poured over notes all hours of the day well into the wee hours of the night: and, painful as it is to admit, that for what remained of 2014—and 2015 and 2016, respectively—I, who was about as easy-going as they come, had lost my joyful vigor and stanch optimism upon ending the violent and contentious see-saw battle with my chosen career path; yet, on the other hand, as a “creative type” (loosely), so passionately fond of books, and visual art, and stage plays (Yay!), and dedicated to all sorts of intellectual endeavors, I recall not sitting for too long an interval in the caustic stew of dejection, and sought out random activities from time to time. Still moping about, I was a bit teary-eyed, I think, as I looked around on the floor at all of the crumpled-up sheets of paper, underneath my stool at a stack of dusty notebooks, at the dog-eared novels stacked at the base of the wall, and other relevant items of my former trade, knowing for certain, that I looked upon them for the last time—or so I thought. Even as I write this today, it has been three years since enduring the worst of it: and yet, at this moment, I can picture the scene quite vividly as if it were yesterday. The lost look on my face: pitying and abominable; my eyes and mouth of which had prior operated with great animation, and the whole of my face once so radiant and jolly, had been completely debased. A thousand times over I avoided the mirror, seeing as there was nothing to gather as consolation from looking into it…

Damn, here I am once again putting the cart before the horse. The summer needs to get here in a hurry. And try as I may: I don’t want to spend precious hours during this portion of my life reminiscing about the past. Admittedly, I have yet to arrive at something definitive in regards to Preliminary Confession #1. Well, it should be painfully obvious to you now that my casual avoidance of the question is by design, hence the protracted lamentation (and teaser). Hell, any salesperson worth his or her salt is constantly thinking of ways to drum up business; they have to get you, the customer, to come back somehow… I think you see where I’m going with this. Anyhoo, and without further ado, we now jump to March’s stage play, In the Summer House.

 

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Old School Ocean Fun

 

Title: In the Summer House (1953)

Playwright: Jane Bowles
Time Period: Middle to Late Modernism
Plot: A middle-aged woman of good carriage becomes an overbearing presence in her young daughter’s life who is just entering into adulthood. Over the course of a year, the two women confront and avoid one another—at times to the detriment of those around them.
Dope Line(s):

[Act 1, Sc. 2]

GERTRUDE
. . . Even my griefs and my sorrows don’t seem to belong to me. Nothing does—as if a shadow has passed over my whole life and made it dark. . .

[Act 1, Sc. 3]

MRS. CONSTABLE
I don’t know where to go or what to do next. I can’t seem to tear myself away from you or Mr. Solares or Mrs. Lopez or Molly. Isn’t that a ridiculous reaction? I feel linked to you. That’s the only way I can explain it. I don’t ever want to have any other friends. It’s as if I had been born right here in the garden and had never lived anywhere before in my life. Don’t leave me please. I don’t know where to go. Don’t leave me.

[Act 2, Sc. 1]

 MOLLY
After a while I could sit in that booth, and if I wanted to I could imagine I was home in the garden . . . inside the summer house.

 

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Amusement Backdrop

 

As the great philosopher Forrest Gump once said: “Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you gonna get.” *heavy sigh* Boy, I absolutely had no idea what I was in for with this one. Which reminds me: it’s Women’s History Month. Helloooo, Ladies! This one’s for you: In the Summer House by Jane Bowles. What’s that? Never heard of it? No worries; perhaps in the past is a great place to keep this one.

You know, after reading such an odd play like this one I figured that it would be best if I let you in on the process. In the initial blog post announcing this series I mainly hit the bullet points but now might be a good time for me to go a little past that, seeing as it’s still early in the series and my style, tone and format aren’t completely locked down yet. Oh, and I also don’t want you guys to think that I’m a d**k and doing this series just to crap on other people’s work as a way to feel good about myself.

 

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Salute to Women’s History

 

Okay, for starters: there are just too many stage plays to choose from—millions possibly. 2017’s lineup is already locked in place and isn’t at random. Each play is in essence a tie-in—at least for this year—to whatever is in observance (Black History Month, Women’s History Month, etc.) for that particular month which is why I went with In the Summer House, a play that was written by a woman, features a group of women, and is set during what I thought would be an interesting time period showcasing the lives of women: the decade before the Sexual Revolution (1960’s) and the rise of 2nd wave Feminism.

It’s a given that my style is unorthodox (undisciplined); no fancy words and academic analysis here, or paragraphs boggled down by theater jargon. And since this is my slice of the internet, I’m not going to hold back saying how I feel about something I’ve read. And with readership as low as it is, what need is there for me to swab clean my initial reaction to something? However, I do try my best to keep an air of professionalism just in case someone from the print media ranks stumbles upon this blog, likes what they’ve read, and then asks me what my take is on a current theater production. What I’m saying is: I’ll zip it up for by-lines and dinero. Other than that: the beat goes on.

 

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All-female Mariachi [Taxco] Band, 1950s

Preliminary Confession #1 — How did a nice and easy-going fellow such as myself get it in his mind head to want to want to write criticism on stageplays? — isn’t fully answered but I did allude, even before this question, to the fact that I come from a film background. And a lot of the jobs I took early on required that I read and evaluate screenplays (for free!) which get their DNA (formatting) from stage plays because—guffawHollywood’s first wave of filmmakers were theater directors and playwrights. (The style of screenplay still being used today is called the Master Scene Format which was created by Thomas Ince in 1911.) So, in essence, I’ve been reading stage plays for a minute now (2006) and that’s why I can’t help but give such a strong opinion on how to “correct something” in them. That part of me won’t go away. Another part that won’t go away is how I go about picking what to read. Again, I trust my film senses: I read theater websites, see what plays my favorite writers have read, ask people I know what they’ve read (this is actually how Hollywood finds new material), seek out lists of classics—but the main thing I do is look at the title. Just about everyone in the film industry is guilty of it. And for the undiscovered writer, that’s really your only sure shot: the title—which explains how out of hand they’ve gotten as of late. Personally, I’ve read over 1,000 screenplays. (This is a very, very low number; some who get paid to read scripts average 700 scripts a year.) Nowadays I’ll read maybe three or four new ones start to finish if that, and skim maybe the first 15-to-20 pages of another four or five more but I don’t consume them in high volume like I once used to. Much of what’s written on spec today won’t get produced thanks to sequel-itis and comic book-itis currently squatting in our movie theaters. The scripts floating around Hollywood at the moment are basically one-hundred-page calling cards to do work-for-hire on studio tent-pole projects… So when it came to narrowing down my list for the inaugural twelve—and the year following—some made the cut just on their titles alone as well as my own subjective tastes. I’ve also held off reading them in advance so that whatever I have to say about them happens in the moment… Look, not all of these plays are going to be stellar—just go back one month. I knew going in that I’d see some peculiar ones and that I would have to do my best in trying to be fair, honest and open-minded as possible when it came to critiquing them. It’s just that on back-to-back months here at the very beginning I’ve really been caught by surprise.

 

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Jane Bowles, herself

 

This particular work came recommended from a blog I read where a follower asked the blogger what plays should she consider for her young, all-girl theater company and this play was listed in her response—which brings me to why I brought up my script-reading background. This play falls into the not-so-rare situation of where the title caught my eye. In the Summer House — it has a nice ring to it. It sounds profound yet ominous and tragic, metaphorical… As a script-reader I gravitated towards stories that are set in one location—which the title implies. Horror, which is all the rage right now (Get Out), benefits significantly from this. One location means smaller budget which in turn means more money for P&A (prints and advertisement). And for a filmmaker constricted to just one location, it’s a true test of his or her creative ability. This, on title alone, would’ve been added to my reading pile back in the day. Now reading it would’ve been an entirely different story because there are a few variables to consider. Like, did this come into the office through an agency, or on spec? If it came in on spec, I would’ve set this aside after page five. No way would I waste my time or risk getting fired from my non-paying job by investing time in reading this. And if it came in through an agency, I’d just bite my tongue as best as I could but still articulate to the boss man in the comment section on the coverage page that this script was a chore to read and heavy, heavy revisions would be needed before this could be seen by a paying audience. Now some readers go further, getting down right vindictive with their comments, but that never really suited me. I’m not a malicious person; I just want the story to be good. I’m not out to destroy a writer’s career before they even had a chance to get it started.

About my tastes: I like ensembles, one-location settings, and short time-frames (an afternoon, over the course of a night, three days; nothing more than a week), well-written monologues. Stuff that drives me up the wall: “You’re late!” scenes, narrative time jumps (one year later, five years later, TEN YEARS LATER!!), grandstanding (I’m not sure of the actual term but it’s when a woman tells a man, or vice versa, to “Leave!” either verbally or silently and just as the man starts off she yells, “Wait!”), casually racist jokes or racist stock characters (Magic Negro, Gay Best Friend who’s a party/wedding planner, broken-English Asian actor. Seriously, is every Latino male over the age of 40 a lawn mower, and is every Latino male under the age of 40 a gangbanger? Better yet: what are Americans’ understanding of Muslims before 9/11? Seems like they’re all depicted as either hopeless or criminal and the only way to save them is to continue occupying their land and dropping bombs on them, ignoring their pain and suffering because only American troops are the ones dealing with PTSD. [Is that too political for you? Oh well!]).

 

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Ocean Front, circa 1950s

 

What else: no plot (as in a story with no goal; people just standing around yakking), bodily fluids (semen, fecal matter, urine, etc. whether visible or mentioned) and mutilation (perverted sexual acts, animal cruelty, slicing of the epidermis, stuffing of objects into the orifices, extreme violence and gore whether realistic or CGI, etc.). I’ll go one step further and say that writers who write scenes in their script/play showing or mentioning the acts of defecation and urination in an unnatural way, or showing a character slicing open their own skin just for the sake of “shock value” should be brought in for psychological evaluation. These people clearly need proper medical care & attention and shouldn’t be indulged. I’m mystified as to how they manage to get into rooms with people who make films for a living and convince them that they should fund their projects. It’s absolutely mind-boggling… Now that’s just a small selection and by no means extensive even though it looks that way. It might even give you the impression that I’m no fun. No. A man can’t just dine on caviar alone. There are some exceptions; I pray that they come up along the way. I’m usually good at avoiding a lot of the cons when it comes to movies. But stage plays ain’t like movies. I can see movie trailers and steer clear of the bad ones. I’m going into a lot of these plays blind because the synopses for the majority of them make no damn sense at all. They’re like trying to read an anthropology book on Stone Age civilization; two paragraphs in and you’re clueless as to what any of it actually means. Whew! I’ve said a mouthful. Now that that’s off my chest, on to our stage play…

 

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I’ll take mine Rockefeller

 

I try to dig up little tidbits on each of these and it appears that Mrs. Bowles left planet Earth at the age of 56 leaving behind a fairly light body of work (one novel, seven short stories and this stage play). My take from reading up on her can be surmised in two words: proud bigot. Sorry, not sorry. She had a stroke at age 40, developed a limp because of it, and then took out her frustrations on the rest of the world, feeling that she can say whatever she damn well pleases. In her own words: “I’m Jewish, homosexual, alcoholic, a communist — and I’m a cripple!” Then again, maybe she’d fit right in considering America’s current social climate. So as you can see, she was known more for what she did away from the stage, that is, her being abrasive, in an open marriage and her being a “homosexual” (again her words, not mine; besides gay had an entirely different meaning back then) — but that sort of stuff barely moves the needle nowadays, not when people can change “transition” to a new gender (Caitlyn Jenner) or become so color struck (Boom! Another monthly tie-in, though hella forced this time.) that they would want to change “transition” into an entirely new racial identity (Rachel Dolezal). So her alternative lifestyle only gets a meh and a half nod from me. If you want to wow me, you have to do it on the page—something she couldn’t even do in real life. Summer House’s stint on Broadway was insignificant, and critics then (1953) were split 50/50.

In Bowles’ story: Gertrude Eastman Cuevas and her daughter Molly are the owners of precious beachfront property in southern California that is footsteps away from the Pacific Ocean. At opening curtain we are in the garden and just off of it and the main house sits a “round summer house covered with vines.” Molly is in and out of this summer house constantly, using it as a place to hide from her overbearing mother. Oddly, Gertrude’s behavior comes at you right out of the gates. Some of the things this lady espouses wouldn’t even be said in polite company. She has an acerbic remark for just about everything: men, women, brown people, children, work, money, life. Nothing misses a lashing from her tongue. It being the 1950’s and all, it’s interesting to note the difficulty Gertrude has had in raising a child on her own. She now finds herself debating on whether or not to marry Mr. Solares, a Mexican (-American?/ -immigrant?) suitor who has been courting her for some time. Her reasoning isn’t that drawn out and seems to be purely financial:

[GERTRUDE: I’m thinking of seriously marrying Mr. Solares, after all. I would at least have a life free of financial worry…]

Besides that there isn’t much in the way of conflict here. But a series of characters are introduced, so many in fact that I just plain stubbornly don’t want to list them. And I like stories with lots of characters but here there are so damn many, none of which are all that distinguishable, nor do they do anything interesting. I’ll just focus on these three: Lionel, Vivian Constable and Mrs. Constable. Mr. Solares and his sisters and the other random characters that pop up from time to time are a non-factor. Vivian and Molly are roughly the same age (15 and 18, respectively) and this, if any, is where the play gets its central conflict from. Allegedly the theme of this play is about mother/daughter relationships and you can kind of see that here and there, but those moments are so fleeting, and what you get in between them are unfunny, senseless pratfalls, random character walk-throughs, on-the-nose musical numbers, way-out-in-right-field navel gazing, and random time jumps (ten months here; two months there). After reading this play, I wanted to throw the book at the wall. But that course of action is reserved for that special bunch of literary works that successfully manage to get under my skin. Throwing the book is an act I consider to be on par with a compliment, good material or bad…

Vivian too is constantly trying to get from out underneath her mom and has made her rent her a room in Gertrude’s house. Mrs. Constable allows it but is staying close by at a hotel up the coastline and stops over sporadically to check in on her daughter. I wrote in my notes that Vivian and Molly, based on the dialogue given to them, must be mentally retarded disabled because the ish they say, man… I guess the implication here is that Gertrude and Mrs. Constable have stunted their daughters’ growth. Well, if that’s the case, where the hell is Child Protection Services or the local law enforcement for that matter because something happens to one of these young ladies later on in the story and I’m amazed that the adults involved were able to keep their freedom. I’m even more amazed at the fact that neither of these two young ladies has walked into traffic yet, especially Molly.

Later on in the play Lionel, a fast-food employee at the local seafood shack, gets it in his mind to ask for Molly’s hand in marriage—and it was at this point that I broke down mentally. Imagine asking someone pointed questions about making plans to be together and what their outlook is on the future and them completely ignoring you, opting to chase ladybugs around a yard and speak ethereally about the moon and the stars and not wanting to feel pain… What the ever-loving f—k!

The men in this story. Hell, the women in this story!

I wrote the entire damn cast off. Mr. Solares is a pushover and is completely dismissive of Gertrude’s cattiness and racism. Lionel has no clue about life and proposes to a much younger woman than he his who is a complete ditz, who over time will become a burden on him. Vivian too is a Dodo bird, and as for what happens to her, well… it happened and? (Spoiler.) Mrs. Constable is spineless and was made to be a lush merely for theatrics. Mr. Solares’ sisters and servants are just over-the-top stereotypes of Mexican immigrants that would in no way fly in this day in age. There isn’t even a sufficient amount of back story on any of them to justify these characterizations except for Gertrude who gets the tried-and-true “daddy issues” crutch.

 

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Or raw with a little horseradish and Crystal hot sauce…

 

I’ve come to grips with the fact that I may very well never make an impact on Pop Culture, but holy mother of Venus I know I’m better than this! Just exactly what was going on five or four or three decades ago for theater/literary critics to keep a light shined on this kind of material? Why would one of my favorite bloggers recommend this to a woman for tweens to perform?

Absolutely nothing happens in this story; there is no plot! And it doesn’t even take place in the summer house!! Let me clarify the no plot statement: I’m not against plotless stories, not if they are filled with interesting characters. None of these characters felt real to me. Just about everything they said was stilted and if it wasn’t stilted dialogue, it was underlined by music score. Furthermore, what hurts a plotless story are narrative time jumps. It makes a story feel disjointed because the minute something gets interesting, you suddenly are rushed forward to a new point in time and have to build up forward momentum all over again. Bowles, in trying to keep her story interesting, decides to add more characters but our connection to the original, main characters was never cemented, yet she just continues to pile more and more of them on…

Does this story hold up? Seems like a funny question considering all that I’ve said. But the crazy part is, falling back on my script reading days, I would place this story on the border of “PASS” (reject) and “CONSIDER” (re-read at a later date to see if it can change our minds on wanting to reject it). Consider has these varying degrees and after a while it becomes sort of like ordering steak. This could be something to “consider” but with what I said above: heavy, heavy revisions. The majority of the “conflicts/situations” (proposals, marriages, foreclosures) in this play happen off-screen—but not in a good way like Chekhov. They just randomly do for some reason. And none of what does happen on stage justifies all of the bizarre time jumps except Vivian and Gertrude’s marriages which they’ve arranged to have together. Correcting this wouldn’t be all that difficult… I like the idea of a single mother being overbearing to her daughter, and juxtaposing that against the decade of the 1950’s could work beautifully, seeing as that was a stagnant time for all Americans. Deep-six the year long time-frame and just and have it all come to a head on their wedding day which could be over the course of an afternoon. This also would be one of the rare occasions where I would recommend flashbacks—but like salt, use sparingly. And, of course, get rid of the inane pratfalls, racism and bigotry—or at least be more subtle. Merge a few characters together and it would make for an explosive situation all under one roof, or all outside in the garden, rather, next to the ocean. Because undeniably, Gertrude Eastman Cuevas is an interesting character—speaking out the way she does considering the time period. And if given just a little bit more to go off of, she could truly be something special. Bizarre scripts like this one fizzle up out of the murk every now and then in the film business. A story like this one would be bought by A-lister’s production company then heavily revised beyond recognition. And as soon as the A-lister has the chance to put down the cape or the machine gun, getting this kind of material made would be their top priority because main characters this challenging and this complex don’t come around all that often. And on those days, your job as a script reader is difficult. Because you don’t want to be the guy who wrote “PASS” on a script that could potentially land Meryl her next Oscar® nomination. Add to that the fact that the industry is currently on a manhunt, er, I mean, womanhunt for stories with strong, female protagonists. Plus, we all know period pieces are shoe-ins for Best Picture… So this one smells like “CONSIDER”. So, yeah, in a weird way: this story does hold up. The mother/daughter estranged-relationship that’s fully dimensional is a story not often told.

Well, I think I’ve exhausted my point. Hopefully, there’s enough here to last you until next month. I’m three weeks into a 30-day juice cleanse and I’m hella grumpy from typing and revising this blog so much. One Love, boys and girls and aliens… I’m on my way to the kitchen now to pour myself a bowl of vegetable broth.

 

 

stage-chair

‘Til April…

 

 

Rating: 2/5

Tuesday Thinker (The Last One) – Week #2 September 2016

Posted in Writing & Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 13, 2016 by gregnett
Prison cell sketch by James-in-the-Shell

“Prison cell sketch” by James-in-the-Shell

This will be my last Tuesday Thinker in quote form… Going forward, an actual blog post about life, America, whatever tickles my fancy will be replacing said quotes. Again, the whole quotes thing was never that “original” to begin with. Besides, Instagram pretty much does the same function… Onward, ho!

“The more corrupt the state, the numerous the laws.” — Tacitus

Tuesday Thinker (Double Up) ― Week #5 August 2016

Posted in Writing & Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 30, 2016 by gregnett
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“‘Lost’ or ‘The clueless art collector'” by Fiona Hernuss

“We are prepared for insults, but compliments leave us baffled.” ― Mason Cooley

 

“It is usually frenetic living, not high energy, that robs my peace of mind.” ― Steve Goodier

Tuesday Thinker – Week #3 August 2016

Posted in Writing & Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 16, 2016 by gregnett
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“AphroWoman: In Transit” by CHDWCK80

“We live in a society of an imposed forgetfulness, a society that depends on public amnesia.” ― Angela Davis