All The Odd Hours

This BLOG is ending...

2010-11-08T21:29:00.000-08:00

Because, well, soon, my website should be up and ready to go. And it will have a blog on it.
And it's not like I've been putting a lot of entries HERE.

SO. Follow me on LPONTIUS.COM, the day after tomorrow....

Gr. (Please, help me help you, give me a synopsis...)

2010-05-23T10:36:00.001-07:00

So, I'm reading scripts for a competition. The competition requires a twenty page sample.

They don't say WHAT twenty pages, true. And that's cool. Any twenty pages from a play, I'm cool with that.

Now, personally, I would do the FIRST twenty pages. These are the pages that introduce the audience to the world of the play, the style, the language, and most likely the major need/conflict of the play. To me: it's perfect for a submission of twenty pages.

Now, some people are submitting the LAST twenty pages... Ok. They feel this is the most exciting part of their play (which if it is...what does that mean for the first 80 pages?) Fine, I'll read the last twenty pages.

BUT GIVE ME A SYNOPSIS. SOMETHING so I understand WHAT HAS HAPPENED BEFORE. Help me help you. I want to like this play, I, in fact want to LOVE the play that I'm reading. But, if I'm struggling to figure out why people are yelling and screaming, punching, crying then I'll have a harder time loving the play.

A synopsis. A few sentences ANYTHING. Not just a character list or a location, what has HAPPENED.

You wouldn't just show the last twenty minutes of a play to an audience so why are you making me read the last twenty pages?

Even a play that begins in Media Res STILL functions like the beginning of a play, we get information about who, what, where and why.

But the LAST twenty pages are designed to be the LAST pages, things are coming to a close, conflicts are settled, characters lives are moving on, but without context I don't CARE, I don't UNDERSTAND.

So, if you have decided that the first twenty pages aren't the best or the most exciting (which then, you should really look at those pages again, who wants to sit through something boring to get to the exciting bits) and you are going to submit something from the middle or the end: take a few sentences and set up the scenes. Provide context.

Help me love your play.

Well. I'm moving.

2010-04-27T16:55:00.000-07:00

It's been decided and it's been put into affect.

I'm moving.

To Los Angeles.

The movers today took all of our furniture and so I'm sitting in a bare apartment. I'm hunched in a corner typing on a milk crate, sitting on the floor. So, it's really hit me: I'm moving.

We didn't make this decision lightly, but, we didn't make it with our heads. Certainly the idea of quitting a job that was pretty good, working with people that I liked, meeting astounding people (I'm looking at you Edward Albee), leaving a place I like to live for...well, let's just say, we have a good feeling about it.

We're moving to Los Angeles because I want to write for TV. And that's just insane.

Now, I think I'm talented, I have some friends, I have a manager, but to chuck a job, a home aside for an incredibly tough field to get into? That's the insane part.

Like I said, we didn't think we our heads, but with our passions.

I'm passionate about writing, I'm passionate about creating, and so...

We're moving.

(I promise to do a better job at blogging. It should be a pretty exciting summer... We're driving across the country, moving and making a six week trip to India and Singapore, all in the next three months. So, it should be good.)

2010-01-13T08:34:00.001-08:00

Playwrights, stop hurting theater....

2010-01-13T05:13:00.000-08:00

There’s a trend lately. Well, maybe it’s just the shows that I’ve seen, so maybe it’s a trend that’s unique to my theater going experience. But, it’s beginning to make me mad.

Playwrights aren’t writing plays anymore. They are writing collections of scenes. These collections of scenes run for about 90 minutes and then there’s either a quick resolution or simply a strange image, followed by a black out.

Over the course of those 90 minutes there will be some good scenes, maybe some interesting observations of humanity, but the scenes aren’t connected to each other, it’s almost like each scene is happening in isolation. I find more and more often I’m watching a series of ten minute plays with the same characters, sometimes in the same situation, just behaving slightly differently. It’s fucking boring.

It’s because the scenes aren’t adding up. Aren’t building on top of each. Aren’t moving us forward to a climax.

They just exist.

Let’s be blunt: how often have to seen plays lately, written by people in their 20 or 30s (hey, maybe even one of mine), where you kept saying to yourself, oh, they didn’t need this scene, they could have started the play at the second scene….no, I mean, the third scene…well, alright the fourth scene. It’s because the material is all compartmentalized. Segments. Bits. Each containing their own, and perhaps even, unnecessary exposition.

I want to see a play with drive. I want to see a play that what happened in one scene EFFECTS what happens in the next. I want to see a play the moves towards a climax.

Maybe it’s a new dramaturgy, I don’t know. But I find that it’s boring, flat, generally striving towards irony with passive characters.

Though, maybe, it’s not the fault of the playwrights. Maybe it’s the fault of how we teach and develop work in this country.

When I was a student and when I taught, because of time constraints, we can only really bring in a scene or two at a time to read and to talk about. And that’s no way to write a play. Sure, I can bring in a scene into a classroom—and I’m going to do my best and write a really great scene that’s interesting, because, let’s be honest, I want to impress—and then we’ll talk about that scene, what questions we have, for that scene, what we liked, in that scene, and what we didn’t…in that scene. The scene becomes the focus.

However, context matters. A scene isn’t a single entity of a play. No more than characters. Scenes, characters, action, every component has to work in concert with the rest so the entirety works. Not singular moments. The play.

All that said: Playwrights, stop hurting theater. Please stop writing ten minutes collections and go back to writing plays...

Things you need for a trip like this

2009-11-04T18:48:00.001-08:00

Basically I'm out here doing a fact finding mission and to meet people- to throw myself out into the universe and see who catches me.

These are some of the things you need:

Friends...or friends of friends (so stay in touch)

Facebook (in order T0 stay in touch)

A smart phone-one that does texts, email, internet AND has a GPS (so you can stay in touch, and figure out where things are in relationship to you)

A car with a GPS (so you can get around, not get lost, and get to places on time)

A place to stay (that's where friends come in real handy)

A calender (so you can organize)

A willingness to be flexible (because things happen)

And a desire to just talk to strangers (because meeting new people is how things happen to you)

More later...

The end of a good day...

2009-11-04T18:33:00.001-08:00

I'm doing something that isn't done in LA, something that might be considered...well of less import.

I'm seeing a play.

I don't know for certain which, a friend invited me, but it will be nice to see something where someone else does the talking.

It's been a great week, lots of chatting, coffee/tea. People have been extremely generous with their time and their stories.

More thoughts later...

How many days have I been here?

2009-11-03T13:32:00.001-08:00

I think it's day three.

I'm on the second meeting o the day, with one more to go before I meet a friend for dinner.

It's 'like' a vacation, but not as I'm not doing anything but having meetings...

Weird.

Finally...he updates...

2009-11-02T08:00:00.001-08:00

It's been a while I know. No excuses....welll good ones anyway.

I've been writing. I am now a Dramatists Guild Fellow, which means I get to develop a work with some fantastic playwrights.

And right now I'm in LA. I'm here to meet people (old friends, new friends, new contacts) and get my toe into the door.

At the airport the car rental place gave me a Mustang convertible...which is cool, and a GPS which is necessary. And it was hot...that doesn't seem right to me, not in november.

But I do have to say this, waking up to sunshine and perfect weather is awesome.

Off to breakfast, more later.

It's been awhile...

2009-07-22T04:49:00.000-07:00

...and it might be an even longer while before I put up a substantial post.

I've been working on a few things lately and they've consumed my time, even making me wake up early!

Warner Brothers has a TV Writers Workshop that I'm applying for. I'm very excited by it. It's nuts and bolts, it's in LA, and...yep...I want to move into TV.

Jury Duty....#4

2009-06-20T08:04:00.000-07:00

Below is the document that proves that I helped deliever Justice...well...at least that's what they said I did...

...now, when I read the last sentence...I felt a little guilty about getting out of the trial.

*sigh*

Jury Duty #3

2009-06-19T18:47:00.001-07:00

Caught and released! Right after lunch...they dismissed me! I guess it pays to be thoughtful and and judgmental in your answers during jury selection.

I'm back in the pool.

We'll see what happens next.

It's funny one of the things I'm most worried about: my writing schedule. I'm doing a show that is going to go up shortly and so soon things were supposed to return to normal, work during the day and write in the morning and evening. But it's a pattern I'm used to.

Having to sit all day in a jury box would be a brand knew boredom. The lack of activity would drive me batty.

If I'm not working my survival job, I would rather be writing. If I have to sit and listen, I would keep thinking: this is time that I could be working.

Sure: it's my civic duty...but, as an artist, isn't it my duty to create work?

(Ok, that last sentence, that's just to make me feel better. I don't know if it's a greater duty than jury duty, or if it's even a duty to create art...that's a subject for a different blog.)

Jury Duty #2

2009-06-19T18:46:00.000-07:00

Shit.

I might be on a case. ARGH.

It's a case against the city, some guy who worked for the city tripped over something, or...whatever...who knows yet...and now he's suing. Suing for, probably, a life time of money.

We got called up from a central room to a smaller room and they drew names. And then they started eliminating people. "Have you ever worked for the city?" A few raise their hands. Dismissed. "Anyone been involved in a case like this or maybe know someone that has?" Dismissed.

One woman said that she's unemployed and through a long trial she would only be thinking about not having a job. Dismissed.

Sonofabitch.

Why didn't I think of a great excuse?

I'm giving truthful answers...which maybe the problem...but I'm also being grumpy--again, truthful--and I'm sorta staring down the Attorney representing the plaintiff. I'm hoping he thinks, "This guy doesn't like me..." Which is rapidly becoming the truth. He's droning on and on.

We haven't even gotten questioned by the City's Attorney...we're on a lunch break now.

I have got to figure out a way to make him think I dislike him too...

Then, I bet I'll be off the case.

Jury Duty...part 1

2009-06-19T18:45:00.000-07:00

**the below, and following posts, were written in real time--the court house blocked access to the blog site...jerks***

The civic duty of everyone...I suppose. But, now that I'm sitting here, having to get up early, trudge to a not particularly pretty part of Queens, after listening to a court officer at the end of his rope, and a Judge, who recounted his resume from 1948 on, who talked about each court in Queens, and the movies that are based on real court cases from Queens--riveting--and now we get to watch Mrs. Doubtfire as we await our name being called...I really question whether or not civilization is worth it.

I'm here from 9 to 5...no matter what, and I may have to come back on Monday.

And the best thing: it's civil court...so, it's going to be about dogs biting neighbors and car crashes.

This is karmic payback for my love of the People's Court.

More as it comes in...

Hey! Theatre People! Stop HURTING THEATER!

2009-06-07T17:43:00.001-07:00

On Saturday my wife and I went to see a site specific piece about the environment. We went because my sister in law in the video installation had a short movie. Now, until we got there I didn't realize it was going to be one of those site specific pieces which drags the audience from site to site. Generally, I hate that kind of work. Rarely does it work, does moving the audience from place to place actually ADD to the story. I feel more like a child being ushered around a museum where I am talked down to by the guide.

And much to my surprise...I wasn't surprised. It was EXACTLY as I expected.

A piece about the environment where they dragged us around and told us how polluting is bad...

WOW. Shocked! Shocked I am. Polluting bad?! Really!? Holy CRAP, we should do something about that. Really. We should get on that, right now. With the polluting stuff...we should, like, you know...start recycling and using less...

It was bad theater. It talked down to the audience (it was a New York theater going audience, I have a feeling they know pollution is bad and recycling is a good idea), wasn't funny when it needed to be, and was awfully, awfully singular in it's dimension.

Why is it when we're doing outdoor theater we suddenly have to simplify? Why do we have to make it like a political rally organized by 8th graders? Why do we need the silly dance with garbage? Why do we need the conceit that an actor is "late" so the other actors have to "improvise?"

What about this? Let's talk about the real world challenges about moving from a nation that consumes a treMENDOUS amount of oil to one that uses less? If you're going to tell me to eat organic food because it's good for the environment, can we talk about how EXPENSIVE it is?

Let's stop preaching to our audience. Let's actually talk about how complicated things can be.

Oversimplifying and preaching to the choir isn't going to get us anywhere. We need theater to be dynamic, challenging in both substance and style. We need to defy the expectations of our audience, we need to excite their imaginations--not meet them.

Because if we don't...why do we need theater when we have so many other things that surprise us, engage us, and challenge us?

And, oh, and one final thing: can we ban the phrase "it's a complicated time" from our work? Like things weren't complicated previously... Yes, they were. It's a sort of temporal selfishness to assume NOW is more complicated than THEN... Get over it.

So.

2009-06-07T11:09:00.000-07:00

The performance went well.

It would have been even better if the audience hadn't gotten slowly more and more impatient with the host all night.

She couldn't remember what was next, she interfered with the acts, and worst of all: she wasn't funny.

waiting...

2009-06-05T17:20:00.000-07:00

as a part of the clown show i'm in, which be perfoming at a festival in booklyn, we're doing a cabaret...bits and pieces of the shows...

i'm waiting right now to go on...well the whole show is waiting...rain and fires down in the subway.

i'm suppose to come the audience...but I can't sit in the audience...I would be to nevous, but backsage or where the ticket booth is, I can at least move and stretch.

a wee nervous, let's see how it goes!

in a lunch line...

2009-06-03T10:31:00.000-07:00

...at chipole...

how about that for a self indulgent blog post?

wurd.

now, I suppose, I should go back to work.

It's happening again...but isn't that a good thing in this economy?

2009-05-19T03:55:00.000-07:00

It looks like I will be writing another Pakistani TV serial. I know you are all fans of my TV work in Pakistan and follow it closely...er, um, yeah.

I just met with someone yesterday and he wants me to do another one. 10 to 15 episodes and based on some English language novel. Something before copyright laws. Something that has romance, a good story, wholesome--did they write unwholesome stories in the 19th Century? Probably, but they don't teach those in English class.

I have to admit though, I'm a little nervous taking on such a project. I have a few other things that I'm working on AND a full time job. I have two spec scripts I'm working on, a show, and a play I'm hoping to return to.

That's the thing with the TV serial job...it's a LOT of work in a very short amount of time, basically 4 months to write a 700 page script by myself. And it's not just sitting down and going, it does require a wee bit of planning.

And it's hard to turn down the job...I would be paid to write. And that's a hell of a lot of fun. It's more fun when it's ALL that I'm doing, but I currently have a day job I like doing to, so I'm not willing to throw it over board yet.

The first thing to do: what story do we look at. And it's funny, the other day I was saying I wanted to read all of Charles Dickens...

...I shouldn't complain...and I AM going to take it...but holy crap I'm going to be busy...how am I going to find the time to watch TV?

Finally.

2009-04-14T15:34:00.000-07:00

I have cracked the egg. well, proverbial egg.

I finaly figured out how to blog with my phone. This website isn't as compatable with my phone as I would like.

Now keep in mind...i'm doing this on my phone so typos WILL abound.

It's been a while, hasn't it? yep.

the show went we'll, but it certainly made me reaize how hard this business is. it is tremendously difficult. harder than one would think. and it's all so intangible...there's no clear path other than keep doing it. keep running into the wal over and over agin.

and while I'm not old, it gets harder to do this as I'm getting older.

But still, I'm not sure what else to do.

so what else? I got a new show coming up...a clown show! I'll be in it. two nights only!

more details to come!

now, i'm gonna go buy some pens.

Opening Night....

2009-03-11T08:06:00.000-07:00

Just a friendly reminder:
It’s OPENING NIGHT for On the Night of Anthony’s 30^th Birthday Party…Again…and I hope you have tickets for tonight or some future date.

I wrote the first draft of this play two years ago. A particular moment in my life. And it’s curious and strange feeling to see this play coming to life, it’s a little bit like looking back on my own history—it’s like a diary entry from its moment of first creation.

And because it takes a time to bring a play to the stage (through the rewrites, the readings, the development, the rehearsals, etc.) that moment of first creation gets further and further away, until…I don’t know….well, it feels curious and strange to see a play that WAS you that maybe NO LONGER you.

The author’s relation to material is always different than an audiences. An audience is experiencing it for the first time, but the author has experienced it so many times, in so many different ways.

Last year, I had a show called Umbrella produced. The piece is very critical about what urban life does to the human soul…not the comedy my mom was hoping for…and the piece was first started in a dark period of my life. An audience member came up to me and told me how much they were moved by the play, which was great, and I knew that intellectually, but, in a weird twist, I was surprised. I think it was because I had moved on. I wasn’t…invested…emotionally in this play anymore. I wanted it to succeed, I still do, I think it’s a good piece of work, as is On the Night of Anthony’s 30^th Birthday Party…Again (buy your tickets now: https://www.ovationtix.com/trs/pr/643085) but the work seems outside of me now—something I did, not something I’m doing.

What am I doing? I’m working on a new play: New Horizons Through the Interplanetary Medium. I just had a reading at Potluck Plays, thanks to Heidi Handelsman. And it was great to hear and to find myself in this spot now. Whatever spot that is...

The show run March 11^th through the 28^th, Wednesday to Saturday at 8 PM.

Tickets are $18

Manhattan Theatre Source

177 MacDougal Street

New York, NY 10011

www.Theatresource.org

www.whirledpeasproductions.org

For Reservations: 212-501-4751

For Tickets: https://www.ovationtix.com/trs/pr/643085

On The Night of Anthony's 30...in rehearsals!

2009-02-19T10:41:00.000-08:00

My play On The Night of Anthony's 30^th Birthday Party…Again has gone into rehearsals, and I'm very excited.

Produced by Whirled Peas Productions at the Manhattan Theatre Source, directed by Megan Demarest, produced by Montserrat Mendez, On the Night…opens March 11^th

On the Night of Anthony's 30th Birthday Party, Again is a single door farce about that moment in your in your life where you need to make a choice about your future: do you embrace it or stay where you are? Ben faces a decision of a lifetime. He must choose between his fiance and the girl who got away while surrounded by his closest friends. Plans are created, mistakes are made, and everything happens after the cake in this bittersweet comedy.

Featuring:

Tom Everett Russell* as Charlie, was always a good listener and a nice guy, too.

Tyler Hollinger* as Ben, the coolest guy you knew.

Synge Maher as Kate, the coolest girl you knew and you always wanted to be around her.

Stephanie Lovell as Beth, that smart sarcastic girl who was loud and spoke her mind.

Kate Grande as Jenny, that girl who was quiet in class but knew the answers.

Brandon Potter as Max, that guy who knew everything but you never knew his name.

Carsey Walker Jr.* as Otis, that guy who was always a blast at parties.

Andrew Glaszek* as Anthony, that guy that was always together and always the center of attention.

* denotes members of Actors Equity Association

The show run March 11^th through the 28^th, Wednesday to Saturday at 8 PM.

Tickets are $18

Manhattan Theatre Source

177 MacDougal Street

New York, NY 10011

www.Theatresource.org

www.whirledpeasproductions.org

For Reservations: 212-501-4751

For Tickets: https://www.ovationtix.com/trs/pr/643085

I did it.

2009-01-19T12:42:00.000-08:00

I did it. When I made the decision to do it, I was just fine with it. But then, about an hour later, I started questioning whether or not it was the right choice.

I walked out of a show. A friend of mine was in it. He was great, lovely...I had never had a chance to see him perform.

But.

I did not like the play. I was bored out of my mind. I just didn't want to sit there any more. If it had been on TV, I would have changed the channel. And I'm sure there were people who loved the play, great. And it looks like it is selling well, great. I just couldn't. Sit. There. Any. More.

But, it's always the great dilemma, right? I want to support theatre. I want to support my friends. But sometimes...

I don't think it makes me any less of a supporter of theatre...we shouldn't be blind supporters, right?

I used to live in Minneapolis and there was this independent coffee house I went to...it was close, it was independent, and I felt good. Until, I began to realize...I didn't really like the place...to much smoke, slightly over priced, and the greatest sin: the coffee wasn't all that good.

I don't like walking out. When I sit in a theatre, when I pay my money, I want the show to be great, good, whatever. I want to be in love with theatre. And it kills me when I just...when I just can't sit there anymore.

My Wife's Documentary Of Our New Year's Eve...

2009-01-01T16:56:00.000-08:00

New Year Eve, Times Square, 2008-2009 from Deepti Gupta on Vimeo.

New Years Eve--Times Square...we survived...

2009-01-01T10:47:00.000-08:00

So. I'm working at the Dramatists Guild of America, and the office overlooks Times Square, and so, Deepti and I were able to watch the New Year come in from the office.

On our way...

Deepti was video taping everything, so, I am photographing her videotaping...in the elevator...

Our view out the window, towards North...

And across the street...

And of the ball...

Which changes color....

See.

For all the 12 year old girls out there...The Jonas Brothers and Ryan Seacrest....

And at the one hour mark...we celebrate New Years in Nova Scotia...

Yep. Seriously.

And for the Baby Boomers...Dick Clark...

A cop doing his job...hanging out...

Deepti keeping it real...

At the 30 minute mark...already sending in the clean up crew...

And finally...

And then we wait a little bit for it to clear out...

And that was the night...back down into the subway, a taco from the taco wagon, and then a freezing walk back home.

Happy 2009, and let's hope it's a better one than 2008...

Speeding towards the big finish

2008-12-05T17:03:00.000-08:00

I'm working on a new play. It's a big play and it's not following a...well...a dramatic structure. In a lot of ways, it's more novelistic. It's the stuff that's happening in between two events. Whereas a dramatic thing writes a little faster, we're heading towards a climax, the character may get what they want, etc, etc. This one, this novelistic one, is taking it's time, it's moving slower in it's development.

...but wait, didn't I just say that I'm speeding towards the big finish?

Yes. I have a reading on Sunday, and I want to get this puppy totally written. Even if it's bad, I want it to be done and done.

It's that time of year when you look back AND look forward...

I've written quite a bit this year...I reworked a play in production, I did a draft of an old play, I'm writing a draft of a new play, I wrote a short play, and I wrote a screenplay for a tele-film (coming to a pakistani TV network in your area...) AND, I've co-written stuff with my friend Mozz....he and I worked on a screenplay together...

That's a lot of pages.

Which is good.

So, what about next year. I want to write AT LEAST the amount I've written this year. Not sure what though. I've toyed with only writing comedies. That could be fun. Or just doing adaptations.

Not sure. Must ponder.

Job

2008-12-02T17:02:00.003-08:00

Hey!
It's not so bad being a white collar worker!

Now, I just need to figure out a crime!

Tomorrow

2008-11-30T09:14:00.000-08:00

FYI. I start a new job tomorrow.
I'm working at the Dramatists Guild in the office.
It's been a little while since I've had an office job, and I've grown rather used to the lifestyle that I've been leading...but, let me tell you, the idea of getting health insurance and a 401K...in these times, it sounds pretty good.
But, then, that means I have to be there. And that's the part I don't like so much.
It's not the work, that'll be interesting. It's definitely the showing up I don't like.
*sigh*

Election Night...

2008-11-05T07:27:00.000-08:00

After voting...I went to Rockefeller Center to watch the results.

I brought the wife.

And a few others came along.

The Center was lit up like a big graph...as one got more votes...it went higher...Obama in blue, McCain in Red.

And over the course of the evening...

And it also got a little chilly....

But...it kept climbing higher...

Until finally...

And then...

Ah....victory.

Voting...

2008-11-04T08:43:00.000-08:00

I voted.

ELECTION!!!!

2008-11-04T04:18:00.000-08:00

Holy crap.
I couldn't sleep last night.
It's like Christmas morning...but you won't know what you got until like Ohio and Florida stop voting.
ARGH.
Now, I guess I had better go stand in a line.

CLOWN!

2008-10-24T06:00:00.000-07:00

ARGH!
For the past three weekends I attended a FABULOUS clown workshop as taught by the equally fabulous Jane Nichols. Did I mention it was fabulous?

It was.

Imagine spending 8 hours Saturday and Sunday sitting in a studio LAUGHING. That's basically what we did. Laugh. Sure, sometimes we weren't, but most times we were.

Clown asks of the performer generosity of spirit and of play. And it takes a helluva lot of guts to get up there in front of people and try to make them laugh.

And our group had a lot of guts. No one gave up, and sometimes, Jane would keep someone up there for 15 minutes...letting them swing in the wind.

Because in failure comes great ideas. It may not feel like it, it may feel like you haven't found anything...but...some little wiggly idea comes out. Maybe it's how someone turn their head. Or a little silly physical joke. Something. All of us failed to get laughs...but something would always spark a little giggle. And a giggle is a beginning.

Clown, to me, is play. Playing free, with abandon, and for US, the audience. One needs imagination, a willingness to reveal that playful side, and lots of energy. Even standing there in your clown character takes energy...you have to be ready to jump...metaphorically and really, at a moments notice.

Everyday we started playing these real complicated games...like tag. And I sorta mean that...for some reason these simple games at the beginning would seem complicated to us adults. But, finally, we would settle into the game and then play hard to win.

Sweating, we would begin with more play...simple entrances, tricks...I brought in my yo-yo, and Jane from the audience would play, ask questions, tease, provoke...And it was fantastic fun to watch.

(I haven't written a blog in ages, it seems, and I'm trying to get back into the habit, so forgive my poor writing skills...I'm not going to blame it on me, but the time of day...DAMN YOU 9:28!...and the coffee...DAMN YOU COFFEE!)

Anyway...the whole thing ended with performing in front of an invited audience. Without any sort of rehearsal...just things pulled from exercises and improvs. It was scary, intense, and a tremendous amount of fun.

Why, Larry, why did you take this incredibly fun class? Well...internet, I took the class because I've been talking about performing again, getting back out there and in front of an audience. I've always liked this kind of work and I get such a kick in the (big) pants from it.

Maybe next time I'll write better about clown...but it's tough for me...clown...and not the stupid birthday party clown...is a sort of mystical intangible creature for me...it is or it isn't.

And I'll write more soon...

PART FIVE!!!!

2008-09-30T08:39:00.000-07:00

First draft done.
Off my plate.
Onto other projects. Let's see if I have to do any rewrites!

In the meantime...I start doing a Clown Workshop this weekend. I'm all excited and nervous. Terri fed really. Clowning, and we're not talking your Birthday Party clowning, demands complete honesty of a performing. And trust that the Heavens will open up and the ground will be there.

Oy.

So...a TV movie for Pakistan...PART FOUR!!!!

2008-09-23T09:17:00.000-07:00

A draft is done.
Lordy.
Now.
Editing.
Because...it's a pretty crappy first draft...but...well...it's a first draft.

Alright...Part 3...I'm Writing a Pakistani TV Movie...sigh

2008-09-16T06:17:00.000-07:00

Well.

Here we are again. Me writing about writing...rather than off and doing the writing.

There's something a little sick about that I suppose.

The Update: I think I'll have a finished draft done by the end of this week...that is if I don't start obsessively blogging. (And given my track record, I doubt that'll happen.)

I don't know if I'm built to write the straight up family drama. Meaning the family drama where just the ordinary troubles of family are the main source of the conflict. (Yep. I said ordinary). Jealousy, the past, etc. I don't know if I'm the best writer to do that sort of story.

Now...I do believe every writer can write all kinds of stories...but each writer is going to have a unique take on that particularly kind of story and each writer will have certain kinds of stories they gravitate to more than others.

With this movie, I'm a little bit limited...and normally, I have no problems with limitation, but I'll get to why I'm frustrated with some of the particular limitations...

First...this is going to be a low budget affair. Locations are limited. Personnel is limited. This is going to be in a foreign language...and if this was made in Pakistan that wouldn't be a trouble, but even here in a New York, actors who speak Urdu aren't common. (That's so WEIRD, right? Not really.) Anyway. Three actors, that's pretty much it.

Second...Well. Hm. I don't have a second limitation.

THIRD...third would be the style and subject matter. And this is the most constrictive for me. Basically: a family drama where I can only hint at certain things, a family drama where I can only go so far, a family drama that's...restrained in some ways, and melodramatic in others... It's what the audience will accept in Pakistan that sort of limits me.

(For all the outcries...American audiences LOVE it when boundaries are pushed.)

With these limitations, it's hard for me to be enthusiastic about writing the story. It's all me really. This particular story isn't playing to my strengths as a writer. It's going to have limited humor...(which isn't something that's universal--only slapstick really is...and cartoons) and it's not going to have something...unusual.

If I was going to write about someone having an affair I would do something crazy, like the guy is having an affair with...I don't know...something like...a goat. yeah. A GOAT. That's what I would do.

What's that? Edward Albee did that? In a play called The Goat. Shit.

Anyway. I guess what I'm saying, I feel like I'm muting my own voice to write this, so it's a challenge to engage.

(All of my writer friends are reading this saying: Don't cave! Use your voice! Make it yours!)

I think the audience in Pakistan might be a wee bit confused if the man has an affair with an Alien from the planet Xenon.

But, I know what you're saying.

Alright. Enough of this whining. Back to the grindstone.

Out in the Wilderness: Writing a Pakistani TV movie part 2

2008-08-15T11:19:00.001-07:00

Seriously, what am I writing?

That's the general response I get from people when I tell them. Yes. A TV movie for Pakistan.

Oh. You mean...WHAT am I writing? As in, what's it about?

Right. Well. It's a family drama of an affair that I think is going to end badly. Basically: a young woman arrives in America after the death of her father, to come and live with her sister and her husband. The young woman begins an affair with the husband and the results are tragic.

How tragic? I'm not so sure. But pretty tragic.
How do they start their affair? I'm not so sure...but it should be pretty romantic, until, well, it becomes tragic.

Love the details, don't you?

The story is going to be told from three different points of view, each time from the beginning. So we're going to be playing with narrative. And playing with narrative is a tricky thing. If you gonna do it, you should do it for good reasons. Don't just muck around because you can, it won't serve you, and it will only serve to confuse the audience. And that's like, you know, the LAST thing you want.

So, we're mucking around with the narrative. We're doing it to show truths behind the lies, motivations and behaviors may mean something else, etc.

Oh, I really hope we're not mucking around for no good reason.

Since it's being told from three different points of view, I've decided to change my method (or madness) a little bit. I'm writing all three pieces at the same time. I was afraid that if I just wrote it straight through, then I would repeat myself in the following sections, or contrive reasons to not repeat myself. But, if I write all three parts at the same time, then I can really give each main character their own strong point of view and really make them individual.

I think it'll work. It seems like it will work. It should work.

Yeah. I think it's going to work.

next time: part three? Really...there's more?

Out in the Wilderness: Writing a Pakistani TV Movie Part 1

2008-08-13T10:23:00.000-07:00

A new project: A TV film for Pakistan.

From time to time, I get an opportunity to work on a project that helps pay the rent. And this particular one is a TV movie for Pakistan. It'll be shot here in New York. Probably in September. That is if I get the script done (I will.)

When I'm writing something I always seem to change how I write. I don't always reinvent the wheel, but I certainly change up my habits. However, there are two general ways of going about beginning: to outline or not to outline.

Outlining can be extremely helpful...it gives one a road map, a general shape, and it's great to have in case you get stuck on a scene...you always know where you are headed.

Not Outlining can be great too. You can grab onto the sense of mystery...as you write you discover what the story and characters want and do. There's a surprise to the writing that doesn't always come from outlining.

Now, of course, with outlining you can feel trapped.

And with not outlining you can get stuck, lost.

Goods and bads.

Now with a movie...it's sorta best to outline. Well. That's not true. For ME it's best to outline. Personally, I think movies are a little more structured than plays...or conversely, plays have a lot more flexibility than movies.. (At least linear films and plays...I don't want to open a can of worms and he said, she said...this ain't science.)

So, I outline. And with this new movie...I wished I had done more.

Don't get me wrong, I have a shape for the film. A general shape. However, in this case, I think it maybe a little TOO general.

See. I'm in a bit of a time crunch. It's mid-August. The director wants to shoot maybe mid-September. There's a little but of pressure.

This is where a good outline comes in handy. As I've been writing pages, I've just been writing pages, people are talking, doin' stuff...but it's not particularly dramatic, nor germane to the story. (Did I use germane correctly? Maybe.) The characters are just sort of...being. Drama is about compression. Of time. Of dialogue. Of events.

This is where an outline comes in handy. When I start wandering, I can turn to it and sharpen the scenes, heighten the drama.

Though, I suppose, I could also just meander and then do it all in the rewrite...

Though, though, due to time, I need to have great pages faster...the director wants to see some work...and film is a director's medium. Because it's a visual medium.

Which frankly is another reason to cut out dialogue. And make scenes shorter. And it's also the biggest difference between stage and screen: who wants to watch someone yammer on and on on TV? I know I don't.

Enough rambling...I should've made an outline for this blog.

Next blog: Seriously, what am I writing?

A Picture is worth a thousand bucks in this current market...

2008-07-31T07:41:00.000-07:00

Ah. There I am. In the hospital.
With a hat on.

I know what Irony is OR DAMN YOU BUNDLE OF HIS! OR Hey all this and all I got was a pair of socks? OR STRUM AND DRANG, signifying nuttin'

2008-07-24T05:19:00.000-07:00

Tuesday has come and gone. And oh what a Tuesday it was.

Tuesday, of course, was the day I had my procedure to finally take care of my WPW Syndrome. SYNDROME!

And it was a long Tuesday coming. Back and forth with the doctor and the hospital and the insurance people to finally get THIS Tuesday. First my doctor wasn't ON my insurance, then the hospital I was going to go to didn't accept my insurance, then my insurance wanted more paperwork to prove that I should have the procedure, and then, finally, Tuesday.

Tuesday. Deepti and I met at a park near Macy's and went to the hospital together. By this point, I wasn't nervous. I had made the decision to be curious rather than nervous. It worked a little bit.

We get to admittance. I check in. They check my blood, four vials they take from me, FOUR VIALS, then another EKG. And then it's up to Cardio.

We check in there, lots of checking in at a hospital. Joan, a gruff no nonsense wicked sense of humor loves her job nurse, yes, Virginia they do exist, gets me to put on the silly robe with the slit in the back. And socks with little rubber stuff on the feet. I hop into bed and Joan starts the questions.

Do you do this? Do you do that? How often do you do this? Why do you do that?

I answer them.

Deepti clarifies my answers. Deepti and Joan got a long.

And then I wait. I wait some more. Deepti calls my parents. We wait again. There's a patient on the table...because it's a special table...ok, really, it's a special table in a special room, and he's taking a while.

Finally. He's done. Two hours after I was supposed to go in...he's done and up and a few beds from me.

One of the doctors whose going to do the procedure comes in, introduces himself, talks me through the procedure and then asks me some questions: Do you do this? Do you do that? How often do you do this? Why do you do that?

Do Doctors read?

We find out that the procedure could last anywhere from 2 to 4 hours. We tell Deepti to go see a movie. She's not sure, she doesn't want to wait at the hospital--and really, it makes sense, waiting there would be maddening.

Brian, another nurse, the sassy kind, and Paul, a nice guy, quiet, come to wheel me down, and Deepti follows. She mentions that she might go see Mamma Mia...Brian tells her not to, that it's bad (Sorry ABBA fans.)

I say good bye to Deepti and then it's into the room.

It's a small room, with an even smaller room inside...which is a monitor room for the x-ray machine...or a DJ booth, either one. In the center is a narrow table with the flat disc above it, the x-ray machine itself, and surrounding the table are computers, monitors, etc.

I'm wiggled onto the narrow table and that's when they start slapping on the patches...cold, cold patches, which will be hooked up to the monitor so they can...monitor my heart rate, blood pressure etc. Beep...Beep...Beep...

I got oxygen, some meds, and then...they shave me.

Well, they shave me after Brian convinces the little Coffee Klatch that was going on at the door...people chatting, catching up...to perhaps close the door. I appreciated that.

The catheters were going to go in on both sides of my groin muscle. Two on one side, three on the other. Two shots of meds later they started putting in the catheters. Which I could see. Up to my left was the tv monitor for the x-ray...and up they went to my heart.

Basically, the catheters were going to produce electrical signals in order to find out where the extra node was that was causing the problem.

(Just a quick reminder...we all of a node, Bundle of His (or Kent?) that controls the beating of the heart by sending out electrical impulses. WPW syndrome are for those of us that have an extra node, the electrical signal sometimes gets stuck in a loop between the nodes and produces a rapid heart rate...the solution, destroy the extra node.)

So the catheters were going to poke around in my heart trying to produce the tachycardia or rapid heart rate.

And you can feel it...it's weird...generally you don't have a LOT of control over your heart rate, but to have someone else control it...with a computer...the doctors were sitting on my right staring at a computer, poking a keyboard making my heart beat in strange rhythms...it's just weird.

At this point the Black Eyed Peas song Don't Funk With My Heart passed through my head.

I also found the experience intensely funny...could be the meds...but I was pretty conscious...and perhaps a little to chatty. But I was seriously trying hard not to laugh. Not just because of the song in my head, but this image of a doctor poking my heart with a stick trying to make it beat funny.

Which it finally did. He found the node, caused the tachycardia and then turned it off. More whispers from the doctors...and the whispers weren't good. I knew they weren't good...because they kept saying "this is really interesting..." No one wants to hear that...because that means your case is extraordinary. In this case, I want to be the most ordinary cat in the room.

And here's where I learned a dose of irony...after MONTHS of getting this arranged, after YEARS of having this, here I am, on the table, plugged in, naked and shaved, and the Doctor says to me, "We aren't going to do it."

Crap.

Here's why. My extra bundle is about 3 mm from the Bundle of His, you know, the important one. The catheters they have are about 3 mm, and if they try to burn away Mr. Extra Bundle there's a good chance they would burn the Bundle of His. Which would mean, I would be left without a means to regulate the beat of my heart.

In other words, I would need a pacemaker.

They decided at my youthful age, I didn't really need a pacemaker, that my particular case wasn't life threatening, that...well...it wasn't worth it.

Alright.

So, they took the catheters out. And if I didn't know irony before...then I knew it again. Because on the way out, the catheters triggered an episode.

At least in the hospital they have a med that can stop it...and it's a freaking rush through your body. But, yeah, it stops it right away.

Up to Cardio. Because now...I have to recover from the procedure...even if they didn't actually do...anything. Because they went in through the femoral in my groin, I wasn't allowed to sit up for a few hours, I had to lie flat on my back...or I would bleed.

They called Deepti, who didn't go see a movie, and she got there as quickly as she could...and we hung out. And hung out...and hung out. There's really not much to do when you're lying flat on your back. With tiny little wounds in your groin. In the hospital.

So. That was the day. Lots of waiting. Lots of laughs. Lots of electrical impulses into my heart. And not much else. Back to where I was...except NOW, I have an inOPERABLE Syndrome!

FEEL FOR ME!!!!!

;)

ps--yes. I kept the socks.

FALLOUT being PRODUCED

2008-07-20T11:17:00.000-07:00

Working Man’s Clothes Productions, as a part of their Binge Olympiad, is going to produce my short play FALLOUT. They are a great company, doing LOTS of work, you should check out their site here.

FALLOUT is a short comedy about two roommates waking up from a night of binge drinking only to find a mystery. Why is there aluminum foil over the windows? Why did they write notes to themselves to not going outside? And who got laid?

The BINGE OLYMPIAD is over two weekends, but FALLOUT is on August 15^th and 16^th…more details below.

I hope to see you all there!

Working Man’s Clothes Productions Presents…

BINGE OLYMPIAD

the final annual NYC Binge Festival

Fridays and Saturdays,
August 15th, 16th, 22nd, and 23rd
11PM - 3AM

ONLY $5.00 ADMISSION
Keg - Masters in the aisels!

in the West Village at
WINGS THEATER

154 Christopher St
(between Greenwich St & Washington St)
West Village, NYC

Short plays
MINERVA'S MUSCLES by Bekah Brunstetter,
LUNA by Jason Grote,

FALLOUT by Larry Pontius,
THE BREAK-UP by Tommy Smith,
TAKE OUT CHINESE by Casey Wimpee,
TURNING by William Meny,
DYING OF CONSUMPTION by Delaney Britt Brewer,
THE FART COLLECTOR by Kalli Newman

Directed by Michelle Bossy, Alexandra Hogue,

Jake Witlen, Stephen Brackett, Matthew Hancock,
Justin Swain, and Steven Gillenwater.

Special Guest Performances by The O'Debra Twins, Lumberob,
Carla Rhodes, Sputnik Sweetheart, C Phineas, Everywhere Theater Company, The Wild Yaks, and more!

Neighborhood: Manhattan/West Village
154 Christopher St Ste 3B
(between Greenwich St & Washington St)
New York, NY 10014
(212) 627-2960
W 4th St (A, C, E, B, D, F, V)

Syndrome BE GONE!

2008-07-18T09:02:00.000-07:00

So.
As some of you may know, I got a syndrome...WPW syndrome to be exact...something that every so often makes me heart beat accelerate to speeds that suck. (Did you know there is a Speed of Suck? Oh, yes, there is.)

Finally, it's going to be taken care of. On Tuesday I go in for a catheter ablation...which means sticking a wire up my femoral artery, going to the heart and burning out those troublesome extra nodes that cause the problem.

It's my first over night since...well...since I was born.

And then I hope to go see The Dark Knight the next morning. All I see is win win here.

Babies...

2008-07-13T10:41:00.001-07:00

Last week I saw some babies. Now these weren't just random babies. I see random babies all the time in New York. And random babies are the reason to NOT have babies. Random babies are the ones who are screaming, puking, and pooping...each an act to garner attention from the parent.

THESE babies were babies of my friends. So, in other words, special babies. Babies that make you go...Aw....and....Ooo...and Can I hold her/him?

Within a month two close friends had babies. Two close friends who are also in the arts. It's possible! That's what my wife and I realized. But, how possible is the ongoing discussion...

I think, often in the arts we talk about sacrifice and that we must "suffer" to be good artists. That we have to make a choice between a life in the arts and a "normal" life. As I'm getting older I'm finding that idea patently...stupid. Why can't a life in the arts be normal?

And besides, wouldn't it only benefit your art to have a more full life, a more well rounded sense of the world?

If you only do one thing, if you only have one thing in your life...your art...isn't that tunnel vision?

There's a difference between dedication to something and the willful exclusion of everything.

Sure, the course of my life is going to be different than most, and it's even different than those in the art world...who writes Pakistani TV shows, show of hands....I should be able to have it all. It's the challenge that EVERYONE has, really.

Art and a family. It should be interesting...

I saw a great play the other day...

2008-06-27T06:07:00.000-07:00

My friend, and director of Umbrella, Padraic Lillis, just recently directed a one-act called Sweet Storm for LAByrinth Theater Company.

It was a sweet story (and how often do you get to see that?) of a young couple who just got married, he's a preacher and she is the love of his life who suffers from Polo and can't walk anymore. The future they once thought was going to be so easy is now a whole lot harder.

It was a play in development, so they only performed it three times, with a simple set, costumes, etc. But it was so lovely to get lost within the characters desire to make everything alright, to press on with life, even in the face of everything.

And in the effort of full disclosure, I was so incredibly jealous: the writing was great. The language, the characters, the tone, was just...it was so full the work. Lush maybe the best way to describe it.

Honestly, it was great seeing a great play. Bad plays put me off. Mediocre plays put me off more--don't just assume because you're doing theater it's great. But seriously, when I see work that stinks, I don't want to go back to the theater, I don't want to waste my time or money. I would rather watch a movie or a TV show. Or, and you can ask my wife, I have a stack of books with my name on them (scribbled in) that I should really get to.

So, I beg, just do good to great work.

Website update

2008-06-20T09:22:00.000-07:00

Hey...a quick one...

My website has been updated!
Deepti, my lovely wife, has redesigned the site and it looks great.
Take a look.

And I promise, I'll write here more often.

An Addendum: Who are we writing for?

2008-06-03T08:05:00.000-07:00

Who are we, as playwrights, writing for?

Ideally, ourselves and an audience.

But, I think in reality: the intern. The intern who has the task of first reading the plays, grading them, making notes, and then they are passed up and depending on those grades perhaps read by someone in authority.

I know this to be true, because I have BEEN that intern. I have had to read through stacks and stacks of plays, put my comments on them and pass them along, and from my write up (my opinion) it may or may not move forward.

I know it's impossible for the Literary Manager to read everything, there are just so many people out there who want to be playwrights (which constantly surprises me) submitting work.

But the real gatekeepers...are the interns. Be nice to the intern.

(Also--for those playwrights out there who haven't interned, I would recommend it...being on the other side of the table, see how playwrights submit work...you learn a lot.)

Submissions.

2008-06-02T09:07:00.000-07:00

If it's one thing I hate about being a playwright (and a writer in general) is submissions. It's the least exciting part of this business and it's the one where I have the least amount of control. Did I mention it's my least favorite part?

It’s true.

Personally, I hate writing the letter: Dear So and So, I would like to submit my play…

Submit. Bleh. I hate that word. Submit. It sounds like I’m giving up. Like I’m giving them POWER. Which, in a way, I am.

Maybe I should use the world share. Dear So and So, I would like to share my play…

Well. I don’t know. I’m not in kindergarten. I ain’t sharing the play, I want them to pay me to do it. Exchange? Dear So and So, I would like to exchange my play for cash…

I don’t think anyone would go for it.

So, let’s put semantics aside, maybe someone smarter will find a better word.

The thing is: you have to play to pay, you have to submit your work, send it out, share it, whatever or no one is ever going to see it, read it, produce it. It’s like buying a lotto ticket, you can’t win if you don’t play.

Now. Personally, I don’t play the lotto, because I have the same chances as any Joe Schmoe has. And I don’t like those odds. I would like to have BETTER than average chances of winning. So, I don’t play the lotto. (Alas, I will never be tremendously wealthy and then lose it all because I made really dumb purchases.)

BUT, when I’m submitted my plays, I try to increase my chances…how? I edit and I research. First I edit out all of those things I’m not right for. For example, I’m not a Latino writer, so I probably shouldn’t submit to that theater or competition.

Once I have narrowed things down a wee bit, I do some research. I look up the companies who I might submit to. Who are they? What do they do? Do they do what they SAY they do? For example, a theater company says they like doing new work, all kinds of new work (thumbs up, right?) Well, then, why is it in their season history a list of abstract new work? Because really when they say they love new work, they only love a CERTAIN kind of new work. (Which is fine, great, but, please be specific.)

Now the list is narrowed even more. (And yes, I judge a theater company on their website. If it looks cheap, then, yeah, it reflects poorly.)

There are other things to consider. Money. Sometimes I have to pay to submit. I think that’s stupid and I rarely do it. Theater companies feel it’s the price of doing business. But no one would ask an actor to pay to audition. No one. So, why should I have to pay to audition my play? (And, for you theater companies out there: reading submissions is the price of doing new work, you shouldn’t demand a fee.)

So, once my list is made…print out the plays, fill out the forms, type the letters. It’s dreary and boring. And that’s that.

Though…I have to say…companies doing email submissions…I love it.

More another day.

New news...A reading...

2008-05-20T09:10:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone...

This year seems to be rolling a head in a very productive way.

On Saturday, May 31st, a short play of mine, Some Mixed Signals, will be read along with other one acts as a part of the Manhattan Theatre Source's new Writers Forum, of which I am a member.

The reading is Saturday, May 31st, at 3:30 at the Theatre Source located at 177 MacDougal Street (between 8th and Waverly Place.) And of course, it's free.

The other writers are going to be Elizabeth Urello, Pamela Yaco, and Bill McMahon. Great writers all, it should be a fun time.

The Theatre Source started the Writers Forum a few months ago, meeting on a weekly basis, in order to create a home for writers and to ultimately have a source for material to go into production. The exciting thing for me is to have a theater associated with a writing group. It’s important to realize for WHAT we are writing (the stage) and that it is not just happening in a vacuum (the stage is RIGHT next door to our room.) We hear people rehearsing, we see audience go into the theater. It’s a powerful reminder.

We don’t write in a vacuum, we don’t write for our desk drawers.

We write for us and for the audience to come.

So: come check out the readings, soon public readings will be a part of the Writers Forum, and later workshops and productions will follow…

Troubling Plays...

2008-05-14T07:24:00.000-07:00

So. In my last blog I mentioned something about plays that give me trouble. I want to talk about that for a second. Or two. Or three. Now this is all about the FIRST draft of a play, I'll talk about drafting another day.

Sometimes a play comes out onto the page pretty well formed, no problems, easily done. That's a blessing. More luck. Well, a dash of preparedness, and bit of thinking, and then a bunch of luck as I'm writing that the whole thing seems to come together without much hemming and hawing.

Then there are the other plays that seem to come together mysteriously. Like stepping out of a fog they sort of arrive. That's not to say I sit back and just wait. I wish it were that easy. I have to keep plugging away at the play...writing scenes, doodling lines, thinking, writing...madness.

The trouble...well...let's talk about what trouble means: trouble is my confidence being shaken. And when it's shaken those ugly things start popping up: I don't know enough about my play, my play is boring, I don't know how the play is going to end and it will go on and on and on forever, and who wants to watch that.

Trouble.

The troubling plays begin with a tickle in the back of my lizard brain. They begin with an impulse that won't go away. An image or a feeling or a line. These keep returning and returning, perhaps each time bringing a little more information or just more questions. But the nagging prevents me from NOT writing about the image or the line, etc. I have to pursue the play, the characters. And it takes time. And patience.

Umbrella took me five years to write--pulling teeth slowly. A Thousand Yard Stare and New Horizons, both new plays of mine, have been in my head for over two years. They both circle my brain slowly, each time a tiny bit of information is revealed, or an idea on how to tell a story I don't know how to tell pops up...

It can be a battle. My conscious mind versus my sub-conscious mind.

Sometimes I'm convinced the play is even purposefully, willfully being obtuse in order to torture me. But I think that's just the story of a paranoid mind. But what if it were true? And my plays WERE out to get me...hm...

All of this is to say, however, as troubling as these plays are to create, I think they are my most rewarding. Not just in the final product, but also in what I learned on the way towards the final draft. The mistakes, the wrong paths, the experiments gone wrong, all eventually become solid choices, the right path and the experiments that glow.

I just wish I could do it in my first drafts.

Where DID Dar and Matey come from?

2008-05-07T07:17:00.000-07:00

There's a lot of Dar and Matey fans out there. I know, because I'm one of them. Where did The Lunar Adventures of Dar and Matey, Estuary Pirates, Episode Two: Danger in 1/6th Gravity come from?

And ultimately, where DO my plays come from?

Generally, I start with an image or a hook that gets me excited to start writing.

With Dar and Matey, I got an email asking if I would be interested in writing a play for a dark night series. I was in the middle of writing a play that was really challenging me...it happens...I'll write about that another day...I'll just say this: each play presents it's own unique challenges and you have to choose to rise to it or not.

So. I said yes. I'll write a play for the dark night series.

And now, I needed an idea.

Two things came together in my head...one...Dar, see the above photo. Dar is a coconut that I bought in Mexico this past January that had been cut and painted to look like a pirate. Now. I've always been interested in pirates. Who isn't? (And this was before Pirates of the Caribbean.) I thought the coconut was hysterical. When I got home, it went right on the book shelf staring at me. I named him Dar...to some amusement in my home.

And the other thing that went on in my head: I wanted to do a play that was just adventure. No reflection, no belly button staring, no single set. I wanted adventure. In the 19th Century they used to do plays that had volcanoes erupting, floods, earthquakes...the things that seem only reserved for film nowadays. At some point, theater turned away from telling those stories.

So. Coconut head meet a Desire. Mix. Blend.

A lot of my plays come from a collision of ideas and things I bump into. Forms, images, words overheard, they all come together during the process of creation. Each process is unique. With Dar and Matey, it came a desire to tell an action-adventure story on stage and an object. Umbrella began with the image of two people walking late at night. And with another play, On the Night of Anthony's 30th Birthday, Again, it began with the idea of writing a single door farce.

And that's the exciting thing: I have no idea where a nugget for the next play or screenplay might come from...I have to keep my eyes and ears open...

Dar and Matey on STAGE!

2008-05-06T09:26:00.001-07:00

So, I went to a run through last night of my short comedy The Lunar Adventures of Dar and Matey, Estuary Pirates Episode Two: Danger in 1/6 Gravity. It was awesome.

The play itself is a silly adventure romp about two pirates who have been transported to the Moon and in order to get back to the Earth have to help King Kuna Luna get his daughter back from the Terrible Titian on the Moon Tim.

Stolen Chair Theatre Company is putting it on as a part of their show The Accidental Patriot. They are putting up on their dark nights short plays that are in theme with the show.

Emily Otto, an Associate Artistic Director, asked if I would be interested in writing a show for their dark nights and I jumped. I had been working on a new play and it was giving me problems, so any opportunity to NOT work on that and work on something else was not to be missed.

I wrote it quickly and emailed it. Now...not to pat myself on the back, but I think the play is hilarious. Sometimes, though, what I think is hilarious, isn't to others. (That's because they are wrong...but that's a blog for another day.)

Anyway. Deepti and I snuck into a run last night. And it WAS hilarious. The cast are having a lot of fun with this silly adventure. Serious fun. They are playing hard and it works, it really really works. It was great to see.

I hope you all get to check it out...it runs May 7th and 14th...click here for more information.

And ALSO go see Stolen Chair's The Accidental Patriot.... I know I am...

Bull!

2008-04-30T08:09:00.001-07:00

My mom and dad came to New York City for a few days, to come and see my show.

You remember, I got a show going on? (Check it out soon, it's in the final week!)

They were only here for a few days, so we tried to pack in a lot. My mom was feeling better after X number of surgeries on her back...I could here it in her voice when I talked to her on the phone, she had her energy back. And it was nice to see, after a few years of having terrible pain.

We tried to get in the Statue of Liberty...and it was a PERFECT day to do it...of course, everyone else thought the same thing, so there was an hour and a half wait to get to the Statue. So, we did the next best thing...We went to Staten Island.

It's a free trip.

Over there...well, we didn't see much. Is THERE much on Staten Island? We did see...what they called a museum...but was really an abandoned lighthouse factory. The buildings were falling apart...which was sort of heartbreaking...they must have been so beautiful once.

Staten Island done.

Next. The Bull on Wall Street. That's the picture. We sort of had to fight to get it taken...French Tourists were putting their kids on the Bull's head, as Japanese Tourists were getting their pictures taking with the Bull's balls. A metaphor? If so, it's bigger than me.

Lunch, nap. Then dinner with my Uncle and Aunt.

Next day...Central Park. Another perfect day. At least we didn't have to wait in line to get in.

Flowers, trees, castles, ponds, musicians and hotdogs. Awesome.

Then, they saw the show and packed up and went back home...soon, they are going to Sweden for two weeks, while I continue to slave away here in New York...

(I have to apologize for this blog...there wasn't much meat to it. Just a laundry list of stuff that happened. It wasn't very good. You know it, I know it. Let's just move forward and hope that the next blog is better.)

Enterprise sucks.

2008-04-22T06:33:00.000-07:00

Enterprise. The car rental. Sucks.

I was going to rent a car from them here in Harrisonburg, VA to drive back to Reagan National airport...they were going to charge me a drop fee. Of a dollar a mile. About a 150 bucks.

Was this on the internet? No.

Did we rent the car? No.

There's a Hertz in town.

So, I'm in Virginia

2008-04-22T06:11:00.000-07:00

So, the wife and I are in Harrisonburg, VA. She's here to do some work, you know, the kind that pays you money. She's going to be one of the voices on Rosetta Stone's new Hindi computer program. Me...well, I'm tagging along for a few days, getting out of the hustle of New York...I traded it for the hustle of Harrisonburg, VA.

Except. There's no hustle. No hustle at all. And no bustle either.

It's sorta nice. There's not much to do...except shop. Eat. Walk around...where people say hello to you. And smile. Well, I think it's smiling, it's what I remember smiling to look like. I'm pretty sure it's smiling.

One of the things we did when we got here was drive over to Monticello, the home of one Thomas Jefferson. That guy. You know...writer, scientist, President, all around smart guy...when did we stop electing those types?

It was a beautiful drive over...winding through some small mountains, great views.

Monticello is...not what I expected. I thought it would be bigger. Well, the estate itself is big. But the house...is smaller than what I thought. The rooms aren't that big and they open up into each other, few hallways, it's room, room, room. Gorgeous, luscious rooms with views and light, but still...they aren't the mansions that we see today.

Still. Just to imagine that Jefferson and who knows who else walked these rooms, sat in that chair, died in that bed...Jefferson...who wrote the Declaration of Independence. This was truly a Founding Father...someone who really thought about Government, Freedom, what is is to be an American.

Perhaps we have exalted these Founding Father too much...but I don't know...as this election season keeps going on and on and on...and both parties look like idiots because they seem only in it for themselves and not the larger ideals, I keep thinking about the start of my country. The men (and women) not only fought a war, but, more importantly, thought. They had the intellectual rigor to ask the big questions, to debate the answers, to really try and make something that would last. It's lasting...but if we keep leaving the idiots in charge...

Also:
I don't know if any of you have been watching the John Adams mini-series on HBO, I haven't, but I caught the last episode here in the hotel. Now, SPOILER ALERT, when Adams and Jefferson DIE...bet you didn't know they died...they use Monticello. Clearly. It was so strange for me to see...the actor playing Jefferson, walking around the office and library...the same one the day before where I wasn't allowed to touch things. It was kinda cool.

And a bit of trivia. John Adams and Jefferson died the same day, the 4th of July on the 50th anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence.

Reviews...

2008-04-18T07:49:00.001-07:00

Alright. The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.

Actually, most have been pretty good, but I'll put them all up...

Variety
NYTheatre.com
TheatreMania.com
Backstage
Broadwayworld.com

Onward...

A quick one before I run off...!

2008-04-17T15:51:00.000-07:00

Opening night went very well...Lots of people responding very well. I'm very excited.
There are reviews out there. Some good. And some not so good.
I'll post them later tonight.
And as a bit of final information: it's really challenging to sit next to someone who clearly isn't liking your play.

Oh, well.

Open Night!

2008-04-15T09:50:00.001-07:00

Well. It's here. Opening night. Weeks of rehearsal, preceded by months of prep, preceded by years of writing and developing...

And it's all come to tonight...Opening Night.

I wish I could say that I'm nervous...and probably if you caught me at a still moment, I admit the truth, but I feel like I have all of these things I need to do before tonight, and tonight is just HOURS away.

Gifts, emails, scripts to read, a shower to take, food to eat, meetings to run to.

The biggest problem for me isn't being nervous...it's being nervous, sitting in the audience. I don't know what to do. Yes, the obvious answer is to watch the show, but, well, I've seen it, so I keep listening and watching the audience. Wondering what THEY are thinking.

Thoughts that went through my head during preview:

Is that guy with the tilting head sleeping?
That woman who keeps whispering, does she hate my show?
Is that old guy asleep or dead?
Is that the reviewer? Or is THAT the reviewer?
Why didn't they laugh at the cold hands line, I always laugh at the cold hands line...
Is it cold in here or am I dying?

So, for me it's tough sitting in the audience. I'm nervous, and when I'm nervous, I get chatty. And no one likes a guy whose chatty during a show.

But this is the truth: It's a good show, it's a really really good show. I'm very proud of everyone who has worked on the show, I'm proud of MY work on the show. I hope it's hard to get a ticket it's so popular.

And speaking of tickets, you can go to Ticket Central to buy them online.
Go to Alchemy's Website for more information...
Or mine...

The show opens tonight, I'll post some reviews when I can...hope you can make it...you have until May 4th to do it!

Umbrella...the previews...

2008-04-11T08:58:00.000-07:00

Last night, I saw the final dress run of my show Umbrella...It went great. The show looks great, the direction is great, the actors are great. (That's Christa Kimlicko Jones in the photo, she plays Helen.)

I'm really proud of this show, I hope you can all come and see it.

Tonight's the night...tonight we start previews...we have a LOT of shows this weekend, it makes things tight, and I'm hoping we have big crowds.

And it's weired being the writer, after the last few bits of rehearsal today, to clean up some tech issues, I don't really have anything to do. Except tell people to buy tickets ( go to Alchemy Theatre's website, use the code AHLS for a discount!) and tell all of their friends to see the show.

I may wander the street of New York, try to pick fights with tourists...it IS that season again, and I wouldn't want a tourist to leave New York City with the idea that New Yorkers are friendly...don't they know the proper way of walking is quickly and NOT stopping in the middle of the sidewalk to take a picture of a building...a BUILDING???

Or I could see a movie. But there's nothing this boy wants to see until the summer (really, have you seen the previews for Iron Man? Or the new Indiana Jones Movie?)

I could watch the show...nah. That's impossible. There won't be an empty seat in the theater.

Hm...I'll have to give some more thought to this...

I'm Getting Rid of My Bundle of Kent...

2008-04-08T15:08:00.000-07:00

So...as long time readers of this blog might remember...I have a syndrome. But to catch up those long time readers...I'll explain...so you don't have to read again.

I have what's called WPW Syndrome. Basically, the heart has an electrical system that regulates the beating of the heart. I have an extra one...and according to Wikipedia (i know, i know) it's called the Bundle of Kent. This Bundle sometimes takes over, throws the whole shebang out of whack and the heart starts beating rapidly. Very rapidly. Basically, no speed control.

I had another little incident a few weeks ago...it lasted a little bit to long, alright, it lasted 8 hours. 8 hours of a racing heart I think will get to any one. And some where in the back of my head a thought popped in...hey, maybe I should go back to my heart doctor get this Bundle of Kent zapped.

And so. I have. Well. Not the zapping part. Not yet. That's in about a month.

Basically, I'll be sedated, thank you, and they will insert a catheter into my femoral artery...that be in the leg for those keeping score, and send little wires up to my heart. While I'm sedated, thank you very much, these wires will poke around and the Kind Doctor will start my arrhythmia...in order to find my Bundle of Kent.

And once located...zap. And I'm cured. All while I'm sedated, thank very very much.

It's an over night stay at the LOVELY Mid-town hospital of Mt. Sinai.

Anyway...I'll let you all in on a little secret...even though I'm showing a bit of bravado...I'm a wee bit nervous.

More info as it comes...

Damn you Spring!

2008-03-23T07:21:00.001-07:00

Spring is teasing me. For the past few days, it's been sunny outside. Somewhat warm. All the arrows have been pointing to: the Arrival of Spring.

And then it gets cold at night.

Damn you spring for teasing me.

It's not like this has been a bad winter for those of us living in New York City. Well, actually, yes, it HAS been bad if you like things like snow, ice, slush, and falling on the ground. But if you DON'T like those things, it's been pretty good.

I personally have been disappointed. I don't need a lot of snow, but I like it. And New York City has gotten zilch, nada as far as snow this winter.

So, I'm done with winter. Done with it like last decades fashion. (I would say last years, but let's be honest, I still wear last years fashion.) Winter has disappointed me, so I'm ready to move on.

However, spring has chosen it's own arrival time.

And it's making me mad.

When the hell does summer come?

I've come up with another great excuse not to write!

2008-03-17T08:25:00.000-07:00

It's a perfect excuse!

I'm preparing to send out invites for my show! It's publicity! Of course I can't take the time to work...it's a lot of work to get the letters written, the resumes printed, the labels put on envelopes.

There's just NOOO time to get that stuff called writing done. Nope. Not a lick of time. Because I have got to get the show advertised.

You know...that show called Umbrella. (www.AlchemyTheatre.org for tickets...)

*sigh*

Alright. I know. It's a poor excuse, really isn't it?

The sad thing is how aware I am of it, but then I keep making them. I admit it, it's sometimes hard for me to just sit and write...especially at the beginning of something...or if I'm rewriting something I haven't touched in months.

Sometimes, it's just about the momentum.

I used to roll my eyes at the idea of writing every day...I used to think...nah...it's no fun, I need to write when I feel like it.

I was young and stupid.

You DO need to write every day, you need to write if you want to get better, if you want to make this your career...it is about momentum and not waiting for some sort of Muse or when I feel like it. It's writing because that's what you do, not because it's a hobby.

Ugh. I suppose I should write something. Man...that's what I get for listening to my advice.

Working: A poem.

2008-03-16T09:22:00.000-07:00

Off to work.
Starbuck's opened late.
The vanilla latte...upset my stomach.
At least, that's what I blaming for the stink my bathroom.
Is that a good excuse?

Now...

2008-03-15T18:04:00.000-07:00

Now NYC has a falling crane problem.

A crane fell off a building, hit a couple of buildings and then crushed a townhouse, at least four people are dead, and I don't know how many are injured.

When I was working at American Express, a crane fell off a nearby building.

I remember a few years before I moved to New York, parts of a plane fell on the city.

It's not the crime, it's things falling from the sky.

Tired this morning

2008-03-13T05:47:00.000-07:00

Up late.
Up early.
Ish. Earlyish.
Have to run some errands in the morning.
All I want to do is watch America's Next Top Model.
I'm so glad there is such a thing as DVR*

*No. This is not a plug, nor an endorsement. I watch too much TV as it is, and this just makes it so much easier.

First Rehearsal!

2008-03-11T08:35:00.000-07:00

First rehearsal last night!
It felt great getting as many people together who are a part of this show and hearing the play for the first time in a LONG time.
And, to pat myself on the back, it sounded great.
And, I know this, because I didn't feel like throwing up. That's the a good signal for me. If I didn't want to hurl my cookies on the table--and what a waste that would have been, they were excellent cookies, it means the rewrites I did are pretty good.
Everyone was excited after the reading and the discussion was great.
I didn't say much. I didn't want to. I've been with this play for five years and I have certain answers to questions in my head. But I wanted to hear what others were bringing to the table.
This isn't a vanity production.
If it was just my point of view...well...I don't think the production, the play would be as rich, I don't think it would be served.
The talent and the care that everyone is bringing to this production is quite thrilling.
And I am excited.
More updates later...

RUN!

2008-03-09T12:36:00.000-07:00

That's what I feel like.
Yesterday I was running around New York.
Today I will be running around.

Ok. Not really running.

No one runs in New York. Except for Marathoners and thieves.

Ok. Add potential terrorists to the list.

And I don't need to be shot or tackled to the ground by some over zealous NYPD.

Which does bring to mind: We were BOMBED.

Sure, it wasn't a BIG bomb, but a bomb nonetheless. Someone bomb the recruiting station in Times Square at the wee hours of the morning this week.

And they don't know who did it.

Someone rode up on a bike, dropped off a bomb, left in the heart of the busiest city of the world and the Police and FBI have no idea who the person is.

So much for the department of Homeland Security...

RUN!

Pain in the Neck

2008-03-06T12:34:00.001-08:00

Getting older. It sucks. I'm only really beginning to understand it.

This morning I woke up with an impossible pain in my neck. It's not like I went out, ran a marathon or hiked a mountain or saved a girl from a burning building. I was sleeping. What could I have done in my sleep to hurt myself? Don't answer me. I don't think I want to know.

I'm also realizing it's not just about my body falling a part bit by bit, it's also the things that I loved as a child are becoming more and more distant...and I scratch my head and wonder, why did I like Buck Rogers in the 25th Century? When it was on TV, I loved it...that 6 year old couldn't get enough. Watching it now...well...I still like it...but I think it's that 6 year old inside of me screaming to get out.

Last night I saw my first commercial for Apple's new super thin laptop. It looks pretty cool. And the words tumbled out of my mouth, "The future is now."

Things become a necessary part of our culture so quickly now. Cellphones, MP3 players, laptops.

At 34, I feel out of date sometimes...unable to keep up with the whirl of arrival of new technologies. I feel like you have to constantly by 22 years old to understand what the hell all these new things are for and how to fully use them.

My God, have I become that old man, screaming for you kids to get off of my lawn?

Look out!

Blank

2008-03-04T14:25:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I'm lousy with titles and so today is one of those days.

When I'm working on something I either come up with the title right away or spend weeks, months on coming up with the right title.

And sometimes, I just settle. I don't know if titles make a play/movie/story or not. Perhaps. I think they hook but I don't think they reel in an audience. A title can stop someone from moving on, but if the story sucks, a great title won't save it.

Anyway. That's just an lengthly explanation of why I have no title for this entry.

It rained, I tried to work out, had a meeting, ate at Chipotle, and now, finally arrived home, just in time to watch People's Court. Mmm. People's Court. Where people have there disputes settled. I feel like an expert in the law because of it. The prime lesson: always always have something in writing.

And, on a final note...to make this entry COMPLETLY a mish mash with no sort of focus--it's that sort of day, sorry...I need to say something about the previous blog entry.

My wife was not stingy with her internet connecting phone. She was quite generous, in fact, allowing me to use it to blog on the bus. Then, she read the blog and didn't find the idea that I had to get the phone back in order to write more--in some sort of dramatic banter battle--funny. She thought me making her the tough mean wife for comedic effect a cliche and that I could do better.

But the secret is...I can't. Sigh.

blogging on a bus

2008-03-03T15:38:00.000-08:00

my wife, sister in law and I popped down to DC for a day to see cousins of my wife. Now we are on a cheap bus back to NY.

Technology rocks. Or is scary depending on which side of the gun you are standing. I'm on a bus, writing a blog. I can report to you my queasy stomach, my head ache and the fact my seat is broken.

At least the driver turned off the Foreign film with its foreign subtitles.

Where IS the bathroom?

More when my wife gives me her smart phone again.

Dar Matey

2008-03-01T20:45:00.000-08:00

Just a quick one...as I'm going to get on a bus and go to Washington DC tomorrow morn...

Had a few good days of writing, got the pages done of the screenplay I'm working on with my friend Mozz.

AND, I started writing a silly play about Pirates on the Moon called The Luna Adventure of Dar and Matey, Estuary Pirates, Episode 2: Danger in 1/6th Gravity!

Dar Matey, there be pirates on da moon....blood thirsty they be...

I'll post it when it's done...

Now if only...

2008-02-29T10:48:00.000-08:00

I'm back in New York. Working at home. Frantically trying to get pages done for a screenplay I'm working on with a friend of mine (I promise, Mozz, soon, very soon.)

And now I have to deal with the landlords.

First it's the bill. They keep adding this 15 dollar charge to our rent. I called, expecting to be on the phone for some time...but they picked up...the charge is removed.

Success!

Now, I have to get someone on the phone to talk about the lease renewal...grr.

The problem is I have to go through this computerized phone tree...and then endless cycles of the same quasi techno hold music.

In order to make things easier for them, maybe for us, we now have to deal with a computer long before we can deal with a human being. Something, though, gets lost in the equation for more efficiency.

I don't know...maybe it's...humanity?

Back to the phone tree.

My Pakistani Serial...

2008-02-27T21:22:00.000-08:00

So...I got this job...I'm a writer, right?
Well, one of the things I've written is a 13 part serial for Pakistani TV. It's been shot. It's been made, and it's about to air. The link below is the first trailer for it.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=HiqR04kZlr8

That's right. Written by me.

Now, all those in Pakistan...please, tell me it's good. No. No. Tell me it's GREAT.
Because I get the giggles watching the trailer.

I wrote a car exploding, but I didn't think it would happen! Watch it! A car explodes!

AWESOME.

And for everyone...

2008-02-26T06:58:00.000-08:00

I've set what needs to be set...so now people, whether or not they belong to Google, can post a comment.

Including my mom.

And because I listen to my wife in all things...I've put the Umbrella poster back at the top...

Letters to the editor

2008-02-26T06:39:00.000-08:00

Just a quick one.
Letters to the editor is a reason I don't think I could live in my home town on a full time adult basis.

In one letter to the editor, one man, whose ultimate point was that everything was falling apart and that's why we need to get back to the word of God, or in this case the original King James Version of the word of God, this man wrote "Global Warming is a sham. Why is it so cold recently?"

Because it's the WINTER?????

Global Warming means the AVERAGE temperature is going up, not that seasons are going to disappear tomorrow.

That's ok. He's believes in the "Word" of God. But just the King James Version. You know, the one that was created 400 years ago for political purposes. Not the one that's like 2000 years old.

Ugh.

I'm not even going to go into the letter to the editor a few months ago that seriously suggested burning Harry Potter books because they taught witchcraft.

Welcome to Middle America.

My only hope is that Middle America is to busy to write in and that it's the crazys with to much time on their hands.

Not all of Middle America wants to burn Harry Potter or wonders why it's so cold in the winter.

Home flat Home.

2008-02-25T11:04:00.000-08:00

I'm at my parents house for a few days.

My mom had surgery a week or two ago on this back thing that she has been having problems with. Long time fans might remember a snarky comment in a previous blog this son made about my mom being rebuilt. The rebuilding continues!

My dad travels for work so he's gone for a few days. And since I'm carving out a career sitting on my butt at home, my wife and I figured I could do that in Illinois. So here I am.

I was just at the grocery store picking up some stuff for dinner. It was weird. The grocery store.

Well.

From my perspective it was.

It was a normal grocery store. For the Mid-West. But for those who live in New York City it was acres and acres of so many choices to make, boxes and boxes of pasta, row upon row can goods.

And it wasn't crowded.

And the aisles were wide.

And the lights were bright.

And the staff was cheerful.

Like I said. Weird.

I got outta there real quick.

...after I paid for my food.

To much space is beginning to freak out this New Yorker. I need walls! I need buildings that block out the sky! I need to have people constantly in my way!

All this silence and space! It's enough to drive one MAD!

That said. It's nice to have a break from New York.

Crap. Writing this in the morning again.

2008-02-24T05:21:00.000-08:00

I don't know why.

And I don't have much to write about.

Oscars are on tonight, but I can't say I'm excited. I haven't seen many of the movies. I keep wanting to, but my desire to do nothing but stare at the internet has cut into the desire to leave the house. Perhaps I am slowly becoming Agoraphobic. That would be sweet.
Living in a city like New York--it's so easy to get everything delivered.

Actually, I do have to say, one of the things I AM excited about regarding the Oscars: Jon Stewart hosting. I'm by far more interested than that than the movies nominated.

Alright. I'm done.

I have to go to some conference/get together today. Maybe I'll write more about it. Maybe not. It's been fun, but pointless. And the fun hasn't made the pointless worth it.

Yeah.

(Man, I feel like I'm a crappy blogger. Crappy in the sense I'm like every other blogger out there.) Bleh.

Morning.

2008-02-22T05:47:00.001-08:00

In a few weeks, I'm heading into rehearsals for my play...Umbrella.

Poster to the left. It's pretty cool.

I have to admit I'm a little nervous. Because...it's an Off-Broadway show.

Off-Broadway! I hear you scream. And then...silence.

Off-Broadway? What's that mean?

It means the kind of contract the theater company has with Equity Actor's Association to pay their actors, the size of the budget for the show, the amount for a ticket, and where the reviews are put into the paper.

It's kind of a big deal.

It's also scary as all hell. Scary because my play is being paid for by someone else's money. Because people are going to be paying a lot more for a ticket than they have for before for a show of mine.

Deep down, I know this is a good play and there are talented people on board. So, I shouldn't be nervous.

But I am. Because I keep thinking about what happens AFTER the show...

I am taking a few steps to mitigate that nervousness.

1. I'm working on another project or two. The major rewrites are done, I may tweak here and there, but, I'm done. So, I'm turning my creative self to something else.

2. I'm not going to read any reviews. Not until after the show opens.

3. I'm going to enjoy rehearsals.

4. And I'm going to talk and sell this show to everyone I know. I want butts in the seats. I'm proud of the work others and myself have done. People need to see this show.

That said. Still nervous. But excited.

SO. Come and see my show. Umbrella. It previews April 11, opening night is April 15th, closing is May 4th.

Go to AlchemyTheatre.org for more info!

Or turn to this blog...I'll tell you more as more happens.

Now. It's finally snowed in New York City.
It's probably going to melt in about 5 hours.
So, I'm going to go play in it while I can.

I'm sure some of you are thinking...

2008-02-21T21:26:00.000-08:00

...my god...how many posts did he just put up?

Well. I'm getting rid of my blog at MySpace...and I didn't want to lose all the blogs I had over there (my mom would kill me), so I brought them over here. Besides, does anyone really still use MySpace anymore? It's like SOOO 6 months ago.

Read through them. Play catch up. There are some great little bits of traveling.

And...I have to admit, I've been a bad blogger.

I hope to be a better one. This place seems easier to use. More accessible. My mom can even post.

So. Fans. Old fans. New Fans. I'll blog more here.

Tomorrow, I'll write about the show that I got coming up. Something I've VERY excited about.

Larry

Last one to move, #21...

2008-02-21T21:25:00.003-08:00

View From My Apartment...21

Recently...I got back from India, having celebrated my first Diwali there (a few pics will be uploaded), and I was going to write about that.

And then, Thanksgiving happened, so I was going to write about Diwali AND Thanksgiving.

But. Then. I haven't. Not that I won't in the near future. But. Well. See.

Alright. I'm suffering from Momentum. We all have momentum. It's just a question of whether or not it's a moving sort of momentum or a sit and ponder what's coming up next on Turner Classic Movies. I suffer from the later.

Lately, I just haven't been able to get motivated to get up off my ass and go put my ass back down at the keyboard. And I think it's becoming a circular problem, the less time I spend in front of the computer working creates a bigger desire to NOT want to be in front of the computer working. What IS next on Turner Classic Movies...?

I think, honestly, I have become a little afraid. Afraid that I may not be as good as I think I am. Afraid that I won't have any more great ideas. Afraid that I'm to lazy to do this as a career. Afraid that time is running out. Afraid that I won't be able to make the big push that's required to really make writing a CAREER. A living. A life.

And so of course, the easiest thing to do is to do nothing. Well. Not nothing. I AM watching Turner Classic Movies after all....

But it's time for a change. How many times can one watch A Touch of Mink?

Next year I'm proposing not a New Year Resolution, but a New Year Revolution. (Oh, stop rolling your eyes, Butch.) A Revolution, a change of heart, a change of mind. To finally get off my ass and write more, go and see more.

Frankly, to practice what I preach: to write bravely, honestly, and with an open heart.

Oh. Hell. Why am I waiting until next year?

Vintage View #20

2008-02-21T21:25:00.001-08:00

View From My Apartment 20

This is just a quick one...

...So. I have a job. Some of you may know about it, others may not. It's a rather silly job as jobs go. I update the rolodex of a CEO of a major corporation. I won't say who, because that wouldn't be right. Let's just say it's an AMazing EXperience and leave it at that.

Basically: I go through the rolodex and call and confirm the information is still up to date.

This job affords me some time to think.

Which I guess is ideal. Though, what would be trully ideal would be the view that is right outside my door: All of Manhattan. But...no. I get an office with no windows.

But I have time to think.

And one of the things that I was thinking about was things I've said in job interviews. One thing pops to mind and it's particularly relevant to the job I have now.

I have said, "I like the office environment. It's a good fit."

Now. Let's be honest. I was lying. Of course I was lying. Who FITS an office environment? I was lying because I want the job...not because I want to update rolodexes, but because I want the pay check.

Who fits an office environment? And I'm not talking about the people who are doing something they care about that happen to work in an office, I'm talking about the paper shufflers, the phone answers, and the copy makers...Why, why, why?

I guess it's the paycheck too.

I have had some office jobs that really are about collecting paper from a group of people, putting into one form and then sending it out to a different group of people. I am just a funnel. Well. No. I'm the guy that operates the funnel that is the computer.

And when this world becomes paperless...I'll be doing the same thing, just not touching paper, which sort of further removes me one more step from reality.

I don't know for certain what the people on my floor do. I know they answer phones. They take messages. And I see them typing. But I don't know WHAT they are typing. The whole floor, save for the executives are just made of Admins. But what are they doing in there, in their offices and cubicles?

Me? I'm calling two thousand names asking: Is this you? Is this still your number? Do you still live here? And what exactly is YOUR job title?

It's a living.

#19, I have a Syndrome, Vintage View!

2008-02-21T21:24:00.002-08:00

The View From My Apartment 19

Sorry, fans, I haven't been here for you…I know, I know, you've all been crying in the dark, desperate for the next blog, and I have let you down.

But, I have a good excuse. It's all because…

I Have A Syndrome!

It's true. I have a syndrome. It's a called Wolf-Parkinson-White Syndrome. It's a syndrome of the heart which affects the process of the electrical signals between the upper and lower chambers of the heart. More on that later.

I've had this thing with my heart ever since high school. Every so often it would suddenly start beating faster, sometimes after I did something strenuous…You're all thinking, duh, Larry, my heart does the same thing. When this happens, it's called tachycardia, basically, the heart races and it doesn't slow down, like in normal hearts.

At first it was scary. Suddenly, the heart is doing something you don't expect. Or want. Overtime, however, I got a little used to it. It became a nuisance. One of those things. Hopefully it will go away…

What I feel for a moment is clenching of the heart and it suddenly bumps up how many beats per minute. This accelerated rate generally stays around for about an hour, and then, a clench, and then it's back to normal. And let me tell you…it feels SO good when it goes back to normal….

But Why Did You Go To the Doctor Now?

Well.

A few weeks ago Deepti and I went upstate to go see a friend of ours, Tommy Schoffler, in a show. It was also a great excuse to get out of the city. (One does have to wonder, do I spend ANY time in New York? Not when I can help it.)

At dinner, before the show, sitting beside Lake Champlain, chatting, having a beer, suddenly, I felt it. The clench. And my heart started racing. When I work out, I generally go up to 160, this was faster than that.

There IS a danger here with the accelerated beat. The biggest problem…well…the biggest problem would be heart attack, but mine doesn't beat THAT fast. The problem with the accelerated beat is that if the upper and lower chambers aren't working together, and they are beating fast, it doesn't provide enough time for blood to enter into the heart. It can cause dizziness, fainting, etc. And yes, in extreme cases, i.e., rare, a heart attack.

When it happens, I generally try different things that in my mind cause it to go back to normal. I either try to take deep calming breaths or I try the opposite, I hold my breath. My thinking was that I was trying to recreate whatever it is that caused it to start…In the end, I think what happened was one time I held my breath and the heart returned to normal and it's something that I thought I had done. Silly self-medicating Larry.

Anyway. That night it kept going, and going. All through dinner, and I thought, well, it will stop during the show, and then all through the show, I'm breathing deep, holding my breath. It went all the way through the show. We had drinks after…all through drinks. Five hours later, as I was lying down in bed, clench…and ah, a return to normal.

Through out the night, Deepti kept feeling my heart race, looking at me, I would nod all calm like. She said, "You're going to a doctor."

I stamped my feet, crossed my arms, pouted on the train back to New York, doing my best to look all sour at her.

Doctor Number One—this is short

I made an appointment to see my doctor. I should actually say the doctor that my health insurance assigned me to, because I've never seen him, so really, could he be mine?

I make the long walk to the end of the block…yes…his office is actually attached to my apartment building. The office was small and in some need of updating, some paint, carpet, etc. And the Doctor was nice, we chatted, he listened to my heart, we both knew he was just a step in the chain.

He decided to order an ECG (echo cardiogram), which was done there, much to my surprise. In the back room. Among the file cabinets. In the middle was one of those doctor tables with the paper. The woman at reception came in, had me take off my shirt, and hooked me up to the machine…which looked like it came out of the 1980's. Some of the leads had to be attached with tape, for which she apologized when she ripped them off.

I made an attempt at a joke, "Yeah, you didn't become a nurse to torture people."

"What?"

I repeated my joke. She smiled, "Oh, I'm not a nurse; I'm just the office manager."

With that, I took my abnormal ECG and got a referral for a cardiologist.

Doctor Number Two

I have to admit, I was a little nervous to go to the Cardiologist. Ok. More than nervous. Anxious. This of course is the perfect state to be in when you're seeing someone about your heart. But I couldn't get over this idea: this is about my heart, my heart, a pretty important organ to the body. One that HAS to keep working.

Images of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom passed before my eyes.

I was perfectly happy just ignoring this thing, it only happens once or twice a year, if that. And, as long as I didn't know anything about it, it wasn't life threatening. I was wrapped in my ignorance is bliss and I have to admit, I like it.

But, I got busted. Deepti felt it. It lasted five hours. It was time.

Yesterday, I finally made it to my Cardiologist.

In reception, there were a few patients…average age: 1 Million. And here I was throwing off the curve. I felt…I'm not sure how I felt, but I had a sinking feeling. Like: wow, I'm here getting treated. Wow, I'm really not as invulnerable as I thought. Wow, thank god I have insurance to pay for this.

Finally, my name is called and I'm shown into a room. Small room. With other equipment that a nurse is using. I meet with the doctor, he's funny, he listens to the story that I have told again and again. He nods. He decides to do three tests.

Another ECG.

And a sonogram of the heart. I wait in line. There are four old ladies a head of me. I feel a little foolish. One woman, whose name is Barbara; I know this because her Daughter in Law has to shout for Barbara to hear. She was frail, walked slowly into the room before me. When she came out, with her tiny bony hand pointed into the room, telling me it was my turn. I think I joined a club that day.

Off with the shirt, onto the table, technician sticking the sonogram wand hard against my chest. The machine flicked and then there on the screen…my heart, a fleeting black and white image, beating, ventricles opening and closing, opening and closing.

I have never felt so exposed.

That done…

Heart Monitor

The last thing was the heart monitor. I knew I was going to get one attached. I used to work in the cardiology department of a health clinic in Minneapolis. I knew they would want to observe and record my heart…I just didn't realize how many wires would be attached.

Again, off with the shirt, and out with the razor. Razor!? Yep. I may not have a lot, but, she had to shave off some chest hair. That done, she started slapping on the leads. One, two, three…seven leads, all going to this device on that gets hung like a fanny pack. Stylin...!

And it's not like the wires are short so you can hide them, they dangle, they hang, and I'm all taped up to them.

I have to wear the monitor for 24 hours; I'm wearing it right now.

I am an escapee from sci-fi cautionary tale of medical science.

Treatment?

So, Larry, what are the treatments for WPW?

I'm glad you asked. Basically, two treatments. WPW is caused by an extra conduction pathway in the heart, so the electrical signals get a little messed up and the timing between the upper and lower chambers of the heart get goofy. One treatment is medication. The other catheter ablation.

Catheter, isn't that thing that goes up your pee-pee when you are in the hospital so they collect your pee so you don't pee all over their sheets? Yes. But this is different.

This catheter would go up my femoral artery, the big one in the thigh, and go up to the heart—gross—and then a little radiofrequency energy (so says the American Heart Association website says) destroys the extra conduit, curing the patient. This would be me. Let's up I'm unconscious, because, quite frankly the idea of a long thin wire going up my leg to my heart freaks me out a little. It's like a bizarre way of killing someone out of a James Bond movie.

So, those are the options. Most likely it will be number two, as medication for something that only happens maybe once or twice a year is silly.

Hey, Are They Any Famous People "Afflicted" With WPW?

Yes!

Tony Blair.
Meat Loaf.
Marilyn Manson.

So…

So…I'm hooked up the monitor which will be dropped off on Tuesday, and then the Doctor will look through it…and we will figure out the next step.

But the good news…I'm not dying, I don't need a heart transplant—but I'm sure if I did, someone out there would offer, and I thank you, but, please, put your hearts away, you might need them later.

Stay tuned…

#18, View, Vintage...

2008-02-21T21:24:00.001-08:00

The View From My Apartment 18

But, Larry, Didn't you Just Do A Whole Series of Blogs on Traveling? Why more?

It's true, fans, I just had a vacation. Two weeks away from the drudgery and the constant sensory assault that can be New York City. Week One was spent in the lovely small town of Paris, France whilst week Two was spent in my hometown, the relentlessly growing Normal, Illinois.

(Yes. My hometown is named Normal. If you want to make a big deal of it, I have a knuckle sandwich waiting for you. A knuckle sandwich made with Grade A beef, hot mustard, and cheese. Do you really want to mess with that?)

What do you do in Paris? What everyone else does...stand in line.

We got into Paris early on a Monday morning, after a not what we expected flight from JFK on American Airlines. We HAD expected free drinks, like on most international flights. I have to say most now, where before I would have said all, because American Airlines does not give you free booze like everyone else. Though, one steward was nice and gave us a free bottle of wine to go with our "food." Oh, and no personal TV screens...I felt like I was back in the 1980s.

One of the reasons for going to Paris, as if one needs a lot of reasons, was because my sister in law, Swati, has just finished up her classes in an art school there and we weren't sure for how long she was planning on staying after. So, we took this moment to go.

Swati has been there for over three years, learning the language, getting to know her way around. Now that she was finished with school, she was carving out a career, finding work. She is a painter, dancer and now getting more into installation work. I mentioned the language thing, right? Because, yeah, it helps a lot in France.

She also helped get us a place to crash while we were there, a one bedroom apartment right near a Metro station. And a cheap place to crash...

Her boyfriend, Freddo, is a painter who lives near an area called Montmarte, a hill that over looks the city. A hill where Picasso studied. A hill made famous in the movie Amelie. It's made up of those twisty tiny streets, cafes, and little shops. Oh, and it's near the site of the now legendary tourist trap Moulin Rouge.

We trudged behind Freddo and Swati as we made our way up the hill, sweating, breathing deeply, like I said, it was quite a hill. Basilique du Sacre-Coeur sits at the top, overlooking the city, built in the shadow of both the Franco-Prussian war and the French Revolution of 1870, and at it's foot steps one can sit and look at the city, enjoy the sun, and listen to two guys playing guitar, singing English songs, trying to make a living. The view is breathtaking. The entire city seems to be at your feet. It was where we first saw the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame...and, really, the whole city...stretching forever.

That night, Freddo and Swati take us to the river Seine, to get a view of the Eiffel Tower. It's about 11 PM. The tower is lit and it is staggeringly beautiful. I just kept taking picture after picture, almost the same one...somehow I wanted to capture the same simple beauty of the Tower in a picture. But I couldn't. I don't think anyone can.

So ended the first day...

We didn't have a plan per se but a list of things that we wanted to do...So each day was sort of up in the air...and on the agenda for day two...a tour of the river Seine...

New York City had been in the 90s when we left...but Paris, ah, Paris was going to be in the 60s! And raining. Don't think that rains spoils Paris. It doesn't. It makes it your own city. Rain clears out the crappy tourist, makes them run. The rain washes away all of the affectation, makes the place more real, because it's not so perfect. A rainy day in Paris is like a beautiful girl who suddenly has her make up washed off, really all the more beautiful.

It drizzled constantly on our boat ride from the Eiffel Tower to Notre Dame and back, French history warbled out of the speaker on the boat, followed by English we couldn't quite hear. But it sort of didn't matter. Deepti and I just watch these marvelous buildings slide by...and occasionally Deepti would get the people on the bridges above us or on the boats near us to wave.

After: we decided to walk from the Tower to Notre Dame, as I wanted to see inside. On the way there, as we crossed the street with a 50ish looking woman, she exclaimed something...in some language that wasn't French. We looked and in her hand was a thick gold wedding band for men. She pointed at the ground...claiming she just found it. Deepti and I were quite thrilled for her, what luck, we said, and we kept walking, the 50sih looking woman a head of us.

Then, she turned back. She handed Deepti the ring, it didn't fit her it seems. Wow, we thought. Cool, we felt. Ah, Paris. As the woman walked away...

Then, she turned back. Let me tell you...the sign for begging, it's universal. The woman wanted some Euros for a sandwich. Ah...Paris. Deepti gave her a few...the woman felt it wasn't enough for a sandwich, Deepti offered her the ring, "Sell it, use the money." The woman waved her off...Now, at this point, I was getting a little annoyed, sure, fine, con us with the ring, but then don't keep asking for MORE money...

Realizing she wasn't going to get anything more out of us...our Gypsy friend, as we later found out, moved on. We continued our walk down the Seine, laughing at the little theater that happened to us. We only gave her 3 Euros and it was quite a show.

We cross another street and coming towards us...is another lady...also about 50...Deepti sees in her hand...a gold ring, palmed, ready...And behind us, a young lady in her 20s...

We finally arrive at Notre Dame and we get into our first line of our vacation. The sun had come out and brought the tourists...The line moved fast, sadly, not a sign of what was to come. Inside...

I want it to be something special. I'm not one for organized religion, but I do believe in holy places...those places where you can let your mind relax and perhaps get into touch with something higher. Currently inside the Notre Dame, for a few Euros, you can purchase postcards to commemorate your visit.

The place is filled with tourists who look at this holy place with marvelous stained glass windows and long history through the lens of their cameras or video recorders, where they will experience their trip later in front of their computers. The great church echoed with the sound of cameras clicking, people talking and kids running.

As Yoda might say, disappointing it was.

The next day came a marvelous opportunity to line up: The Louvre.

The Louvre, all you Da Vinci Coders don't have to listen to this, was at one point one of the palaces of the King of France. In fact, it's original stone foundation, which you get to see, is from the 12^th Century. However, currently it's biggest claim to fame: The Mona Lisa. And when you mention the Mona Lisa to my wife, she rolls her eyes, and then demands to know...why is this painting famous?

Because it is.

So. We wait in line to get tickets into the museum, which, we learned is also the largest museum in the world and if you spent 1 minute in front of each painting, it would take you four months to get through. We had several hours. My wife gets punchy in museums after a while. Trust me, it isn't pretty, but it can be funny.

We get our ticket. Well. Truth be told. I get my ticket. Deepti is going to use Swati's student pass to get into the museum. We show our tickets to the busy ticket lookers...busy chatting with each other, and they barely glance at me or my wife's fake ID. And INTO the museum we go.

We take our time through the museum. Plenty to see. And some of those moments... "Oh...this painting is...here." The Louvre is mostly paintings from before the Impressionist movement, a lot of Greek and Roman, Medieval and Reniassance work. A sort of History of Art.

You could spend four months there. You might lose your mind...but you could.

So. We finally arrive at it. The Mona Lisa. It's held in a very large wall in the center of a very large room, behind thick plexiglass. In front: a large horde of people with cameras and video cameras...clicking and recording away. Now, in theory, you aren't supposed to use flashes...but that didn't stop, nor were they stopped, the mob of people trying to get a photo of the Mona Lisa. The tiny Mona Lisa. It's a small painting.

Now...I don't know if this is true, but has been told to me by someone from the inside, Swati, that in fact the painting that is in the Louvre for display is actually a copy. One copy of several. Really, why show the real one is a fake will do?

It's not hard to make a copy...there were tons in the gift shop...

We left the room...allowing the tourists to jockey for position in front of the fake. We walked on, to go see some real paintings, in peace.

Our next opportunity for lining up came at Versailles. But this time we brought two people who didn't mind standing in line...Swati and Freddo. We had taken the train from Paris, about 30 minutes, and gotten out of the station, walked five minutes and there we were. From Louis XIV to now a town and a train station had sprung up.

We walked over the uneven cobblestone drive way, that could hold a football field to the line. A long line. A very long line. Well, I'm not actually sure HOW long the line is...it ran from outside to somewhere inside the palace. It was a long line. That wasn't moving very fast. Swati wisely pointed out, and I pass on this hint for fellow Parisan travelers...after 4 PM, the cost goes down. She suggested that Deepti and I should go look at the gardens, while they wait in line and get tickets for the tour.

Happy to not stand in a line...we walked out back to the gardens...

...that go on FOREVER. The gardens...designed for one man are...it's a park. A big park. With a gorgeous fountain, labyrinths, and a man made lake. In a theater history class we were told that Louis XIV would stage mock sea battles on the lake, and I remember thinking, it couldn't have been all that great, I bet it was a small lake.

It is NOT a small lake. It's pretty big. In the shape of a small T, but, big nonetheless.

It took us twenty minutes to get down to the lake from Versailles. And another twenty minutes back up once the tickets had been purchased. I have a feeling the King didn't have to do all that walking. I know I wouldn't have if I was the King. It's good to be the King.

Swati and Freddo gave us our tickets and we were off...

The palace was mobbed...it could have been the French Revolution all over again...but...no. Tourists, again looking at the world through a viewfinder, proof that they were there I suppose. In the meantime, their kids ran on the wrong side of the ropes and played with the irreplaceable furniture.

The most breathtaking room was the recently open Gallery of Mirrors. One side were mirrored doors probably twelve feet high and on the other side large windows overlooking the gardens. It was hear the King would great guests and throw balls. It was beautiful.

After our trip through the palace, one has to wonder what the Kings and Queens would think of their home being turned into a tourist destination, we borrowed a rowboat and toured around the man made lake...

The next day's standing in line was at the Eiffel Tower, we were finally going to go up the top. This was the day before Bastille Day, July 14^th, their Independence Day, so the line was particularly long and slow. At one point, we weren't sure if they took cards or not (they do) so I went off to look for an ATM. One guy pointed a direction so off I went. 15 minutes later, I decided, I'm not going to find it. So, I turned around and came back. My wife had only moved 20 feet.

She went off. She was smart, she asked some South Asian guys where there was an ATM. She found it, eventually, but it took her some time.

So, please note: it's hard to find an ATM around the Eiffel Tower. Be prepared.

Two and a half hours later, we were finally in the elevator....to the second floor...and another line...to go to the very top. While we were waiting for the next elevator...we looked around...Something that Freddo had told us early in our trip, but we didn't quite see, he called Paris a grey city, because there wasn't a lot of color...and it's true. All around the tower was the same color, different shades, but it was all grey.

Finally, we go to the next elevator and up we went...to an even grander view of the grey city. It had been cloudy and wet all week, but that day it was perfect, warm, sunny and not a cloud in the sky. We roamed around the upper deck, trying to find all the places that we had been at...it was easy to do...and then...

We waited in line to go back down to the second floor...

And waited in line to go back down to the ground...

We couldn't spend more time at the Tower, we had dinner plans, and that's my only regret, not spending more time on the First or Second level of the Eiffel Tower...

What I thought would be our last day of standing in line was for the Comedie-Francaise...On Bastille Day, this 400 year old theater, renowned for putting on the works of Moliere...like...when he wrote them...gives away free tickets to the afternoon performance. So...we got in line at 10:30 AM. You would think it was like a rock concert...people were already ahead of us in line, and the tickets weren't going to be released until 1. And it was just like a rock concert...people did their best to get a little bit of an edge to move up...when there was movement, taking a little bit more of a step than someone else...slowly moving up the ranks.

It didn't really matter anyway. There were more than enough seats...Swati, Freddo, Deepti and I sat in this gorgeous red theater, it didn't look a day over 200. The play was Moliere's Le Misanthrope. And I couldn't remember if I had read it or not. I had read so many one summer they blended together...

The play started...of course, it was in French. But I kept thinking...it's a comedy, comedy is sort of universal, we'll be able to figure out what's going on.

By intermission, I had changed my mind. I didn't know what was going on, I figured out who was who, but that was it. And it wasn't a comedy. My luck: they do the only play of Moliere's that's not really a comedy. Deepti and I decided to leave.

Swati and Freddo were enjoying it immensely so...we left them to their own enjoyment.

We found a different place to have enjoyment: the French Café. And no lines. I have to admit, I could get used to the Café like style. Small tables, out on the wide sidewalk, positioned to people watch, and drinking espresso. Or beer. Or wine. And eating great food.

A week zoomed by in Paris. I haven't even really had a chance to tell you about the walking, the trains, the trip to Swati's Art school (in a quiet suburb of Paris). Or even the morning breakfast's at McDonald's where they serve espresso. But this is only supposed to be a blog...

But I will tell you of our final line in Paris. The airport. American Airlines. A long line. To the first counter. "Where has your luggage been?" asked the guy looking at my passport. "With me?" To my wife, "Where has your luggage been?" My wife looked at him, "With me?" He cleared us. A step forward to the check in counter. Then, over to security...A tearful good bye with Swati—she had a busy week as well, she was working doing interviews while finding time to squeeze in time with us, and then we stand in another line for security. Then a line for immigration. Then the metal detector. Then they wanted to look in my wife's bag. Then my bag. (In the meantime, our plane is boarding, but there is no sense of hurry from the French Woman taking everything out of my wife's bag.) And then...to the bathroom. Ah HAH! No line. Well. For me. But my wife, alas, a line.

And then...to the plane...and a very fast small line...and onto the plane...that still didn't serve us free booze.

And then...Normal

My mother invited Deepti and I down to Normal, IL for a week, to celebrate my wife's birthday and to spend some time with the family. We had one day in between Paris and Normal. Quickly repacking...well...throwing in dirty laundry and presents...we jumped back onto the plane.

Bloomington/Normal is a college town of about 120,000 people two hours south of Chicago. My family has lived there since 1980 and my parents have been in their current home for just over twenty years now. It's just a little over time...the most recent big change...my room has been converted into a guest room. Gone are the two twin beds, replaced by double bed. Which, being married, I suppose is for the best.

And while it may seem to be a respectable guest room...the Space Shuttle mural suggests otherwise.

The first thing I always notice when I get our of the airport is how quiet everything is, how still. It's then I realize how noisy New York City is constantly. It becomes background in the city, but it never goes away...noise, movement, rushing.

There's a lot of land in my hometown. It's mostly farms around the city, but they are beginning to be bought up and cut up into new subdivisions. With new houses come new stores, new churches and new school.

East of the city is a brand new kind of farm. A wind farm. They have already put up over 100 of these giant windmills, over 400 feet tall at the blades. The land is so flat you can see them for miles, circling up and down the horizon. More are to be added. If it's put on your farm land, the company that builds and operates them will pay you around 5000 dollars a year. Just for having it. Some farmers are pretty happy, some, and some small towns, don't want the wind farms. Perhaps...well...I don't know. The amount of land you trade for the money, it would never earn you 5 grand a year. And besides if you had 10 on your land...

We only had a few things on our agenda to do, much like Paris, but, actually, we had to organize things a little bit more. My wife wanted to go swimming, I hadn't gone swimming in 15 years, so that required not only a purchase of a suit for her, but also for me. We were going to see the Illinois Shakespeare Festival. We were going to throw a birthday party, and finally, I had to help trim the trees in my parent's yard. Adventure!

I realize it is challenging for a women to find the right swimsuit. Or at least, I realize that now. I found mine in about 30 seconds. I found the men's suits. Found a color and size I liked and then...I was done.

Deepti on the other hand...it was more involved. Perhaps if we had started earlier in the season it would have been easier. More of a selection available. Who knows. What I do know? We went to every store that just might carry a swim suit. From store to store, my wife would find the right section and begin to grope and poke at the suits trying to find the right one. Finally, success.

My wife was excited about going swimming. She hadn't really learned and she hadn't gone in a long time. She wanted to practice, she wanted to get more comfortable in the water.

But, much to her disappointment, swimming would have to wait until the next day.

We went swimming only twice this trip. The first time I had some bad problems with water plugging up my ears. The second time...my wife realized: it's a public pool, with a lot of kids...who knows what fluid lurks in the water...

I had an epiphany while trimming the trees in my parent's back yard. While I like living in a large city, not have to own a car, can get any sort of food I want, large book stores, I realized that I missed living in a small city, having a nice sized house with a large backyard. Sure, I would have to do things like stand on a ladder as it wobbled on a branch in order to reach an even higher dead limb and then drag it to the curb...but as I was throwing a branch on the garbage pile, I realized, I want this.

Now before my parents start searching the classifieds for a starter home in Normal, IL, I want to be clear, I don't want it yet. I'm still happy slogging away in New York City. But...I have an idea of what I want to slog away for...

Deepti also had an epiphany. As she was putting the branches on the trash pile she realized what a big city girl she is...and then stopped putting branches on the pile.

We have some things to work out.

My quick points of the Shakespeare Festival:

Much Ado About Nothing...if you are going to make something bland...don't bother.
Love Labor's Lost...surprisingly excellent.
Henry V...delivered with all the passion of someone running for office. For the third time.

The party done, the kite flying done, the fear of swimming in a public pool firmly rooted, it was time to go...

It had been a really great week. While Paris was beautiful and romantic, it was a lot of walking. And Normal, IL may not get many...or any...points for being beautiful...it does require a car to get around and that helped a lot these poor hips of mine.

And I have to admit, I like being home for a little bit in the summer, when the corn is taller than me, wind blowing in my face, and I can see for miles and miles...with no urban sprawl...(though perhaps now...suburban sprawl.) I know I'm being sentimental...but it was good to be home and do...nothing.

And for that...thanks Mom and Dad.

Alright. Another blog done. And I don't have any travels coming up, so maybe I'll write something untravel related. Of course, there is a weekend train trip the wife and I are talking about...hm...

The View #17, still Vintage!

2008-02-21T21:23:00.002-08:00

A View From My Apartment 17

Hello my children! Gather around Grandpa Larry as he completes his tale of his trip to India. Quickly! Before it disappears into the depths of his hazy memory! It seems like the trip was SO long ago now...a distant memory...but still...a tale that he should finish...so his wife and his mother will not bother him any longer. I believe in some circles it is called motivation...Come! Listen! Before I forget more!

My Wife Goes to Pakistan...maybe...

We return home from Bombay after a whirl wind trip to the movie capital of the world...(If you go by sheer number of movies made, Bollywood CRUSHES Hollywood. Sure, if you go a silly thing like Box Office numbers, it's a little different...)

Deepti is an actor. She and I have both done work for a cable channel in Pakistan, thanks to our friend Mehreen Jabbar. Mehreen is a filmmaker based in New York City who was making TV for consumption in Karachi. She, Deepti and I have worked on a few projects together. In fact, Mehreen has gotten me two commissions to write TV serials for Pakistan. (I'm closing in on finishing #2! It's a 600 pages script! I think I may die).

Deepti has done two serials for Pakistan, both filmed in New York, and they seem to like her. In fact, there's a teenager in Pakistan that is a big fan of my wife's work. It's weird.

Before our trip to India, a producer at the cable channel found out that Deepti was going to be in that part of the world, and asked if she would be interested in doing a serial while she was there. My wife, who never likes to turn down and opportunity to work, said yes. The idea was to shoot part of the serial in Australia and then finish it up in Pakistan. Deepti was excited: she had never been to either place.

Now is the time for a little history. Some of you may know this, others may not. Pakistan and India...they don't get along. Well, I should say their governments don't get along. In fact, some might say: they hate each other. Border disputes are common; the territory of Kashmir is HIGHLY contested. Now these two countries used to be ONE country (fans of the film Gandhi know what I'm talking about.) Though before that, it was an area of smaller city states, before the British came in...It was called Hindustan.

When the country finally gained it's independence from Britain (Go Gandhi!), there were troubles from within. Muslims and Hindus...well, sometimes they don't get along. In the end, much to Gandhi's disappointment, the country was divided. Pakistan and India. And the two have not been...friendly since.

As a side note, and you know how I feel about side notes: the embassies in New York City are back to back.

So, because the countries don't like each other, even though the citizens share a spoken language, heritage and, until fairly recently, a common history, it is difficult for one to get in without the proper visas. And the visas are hard to get.

At times it seems, my wife was the only one working towards getting her into Pakistan. It seems the production staff had never tried, and never did any research. My wife did all that. Even while we were traveling into Rajasthan, Deepti was on the internet communicating with the production staff, finalizing the contract and finding out what needed to be done to get the visa. (Every village seemed to have an internet café, but not necessarily paved roads.)

In the end: it was on the side of the producers in Pakistan. They had to go to a government security office and get a form that basically would say that Deepti isn't a criminal, she isn't a terrorist and that she was of no threat. It would take about five to six weeks to process and she would get the visa. Shooting was supposed to start in about two weeks. A problem. Which, of course, could have perhaps been avoided if the producers had done any of the research.

But why cry about spilt milk?

A change of plans. Now, they were going to film in Australia and then to Thailand!

And then ANOTHER change of plans! They were just going to film in Australia. So, Deepti just had to get the Australian visa (and she only had to do a phone interview to do that) and then she was off.

I'll let Deepti tell of her adventures in

Australia

...shooting the series, seeing old friends, getting Chicken Pox...

Jantar Mantar

But, before Deepti went away, we were able to do some site seeing. There was one site in particular that I wanted to see: Jantar Mantar, an 18^th century astronomical complex in the heart of Delhi.

The complex has is made of what look like strange sculptures but are in fact astronomical tools. The most recognizable is the giant sundial, over 100 feet fight high and accurate to the minute.

There are other...for a lack of a better term, machines, there that can be used to predict the motions of the moon, planets and the sun. These devices are made from a red stone topped with white lime stone. Precise marks are inscribed. These are like any other scientific machines, just made from stone and you climb around in them.

The area is enclosed, you have to pay to get in. Just like the Taj Mahal, if you are Indian you get a deal, me, I had to pay 100 rupees. Which, well, is about 2 bucks. So, it's still a deal. But, Deepti, she had to pay 10 rupees. Which is a much better deal. We momentarily thought about trying to sneak me in, but then we realized...I don't really look Indian. So, we abandoned that plan.

It was a bright, cool, day. One of those days you just want to hang out and enjoy. Jantar Mantar, walled off from the city, was quiet, peaceful. Couples were sitting on the grass and enjoying the stillness. In fact, it was the first time I really found a place in Delhi that was still—no rushing of crowds, no beggars, no one trying to sell me something. It was just...the place, the grass, and the sun.

We began to move to the first sculpture...no...device...no...machine. We moved to the first thing. It was about twenty feet high, a long stairway in the center and two half circles curving down to the ground. I couldn't tell you what it was for, but...I loved it. I was fascinated.

I've always been a sucker for anything space related. When I was a kid, I was fascinated by space travel and exploration, I soaked up the history, I even went to Space Camp. Though strangely, while I was interested, I never really got into astronomy. I liked it, took a class, but I never went beyond the simple telescope my parents got me for Christmas. I would take it out occasionally, every so often looking at the moon or a star...which would turn out to be Saturn. I was a haphazard Astronomer.

I think I like to hear about it...

Anyway...So, while I was doing my best to figure out what this particular building was used for, a 60 year old man limped over to us. He explained to us that he was an employee of the complex, and wondered if we had any questions. My Super-Ego whispered in my head: you don't have any questions! You're a smart guy! There's a plaque. Read the plaque!

My wife, however, had the good sense to say yes. My Super-Ego crossed his arms and became petulant...but silent.

The man took us to each building. The largest by far, and in the center of the complex was the sundial. My Super-Ego: Duh, I knew that one. It was large triangle, about 100 feet high and on the ground on either side of the triangle were markings... The man pointed to the shadow and asked us the time...it was off from Deepti's watch. By about 30 minutes. He smiled and explained...The sundial was locale time...if adjusted for longitude...it was right, to the minute.

The next building was a round, two stories with what seemed like windows all around it. There was nothing inside the building, it was empty, no floors or anything. This was used for the phases of the moon.

The last one he showed us was a monument that was dug into the ground, like an empty swimming pool, curved with metal rods in certain places, this was used to help establish a child's horoscope. Then he said, this is the only one that no longer works. My head tilted, didn't work? There were no moving parts. Then he pointed to the buildings outside of the complex to the east and the west. Because of their height, they block certain important parts of the sky, making it impossible for this particular machine to work to its fullest. Modern life encroaching in on the past...

At the end...the man reminded us...he was an employee there, and he was paid a salary...but if there was anyway we could see to...you know...

Information does not come with out a price. 50 rupees.

The Coat and Mummyji

Before I left India, I wanted a Nehru jacket. It's that jacket that doesn't have a collar, with buttons that go all the way to the top. It just looked cool. At least on Nehru.

Of all the things that I wanted in India this was it. A jacket. A lovely jacket. )I like jackets. So, cut me some slack.)

Deepti and I spent a few days together shopping in Delhi before her flight to Australia. We found a few...but they were too big. We kept looking. We found presents for friends and family, but no jacket. How could we not find a Nehru jacket in Delhi?

Finally, we ran out of time, Deepti had to go. We kissed good bye and off she went to the land down under.

Which meant, I was home with my in-laws. Alone.

Getting married isn't just getting a wife, it's also getting another set of parents who will feed you. It's awesome. (and feed I did, I must say.)

Mummyji liked the fact that I liked Indian food, and that I would keep eating. And eating. Now...the thing is if you say no, I don't want any more, that doesn't mean they won't give you more. In fact, you will kept being offered and given food. One no isn't enough. You have to say no repeatedly. Or more delicious foods will arrive. Hot, fried delicious foods.

Deepti gone, and Daddyji back to work, it was me and Mummyji. She played catch up in the house, that silly old wedding was a distraction to getting things done in the house. I was content for a little bit to read, just to sit and read and not meet anyone.

In the end though...there was the jacket.

Mummyji likes to shop. That is a fact. That the Sun will rise and set, my mother in law will shop. She was excited about finding the Nehru jacket. It became a quest.

We got a driver and went to various markets. One was this lovely outdoor market, geared towards tourists. A wide open walk way, with various little shops. Even a food court representing different foods from all around India. Mummyji and I made it around to every shop. No jacket. Though, that didn't stop us from buying. I got a marble elephant for a friend, and, finally, found the marble Taj Mahal for our home—a painting of the Taj on a piece of marble. Mummyji found some things for my niece and something for my wife.

Onto the next market. And then the next. And the next. We started asking, do you have any Nehru jackets? They would show us what they have, and I would just shake my head...all of them were without sleeves. Not what I wanted. We pressed on.

Soon, I learned something. Language is a finny thing. I kept asking for a Nehru jacket, and I kept getting ones without sleeves. And I knew ones WITH sleeves existed, but I was amazed we couldn't find any. I mention this to Mummyji. Why weren't we finding any Nehru jackets with sleeves? Because jackets don't come with sleeves.

Er?

In India, coats have sleeves, jackets are sleeveless. Let that be a warning to those who are traveling to India. Language isn't always what you think it is, even if you are speaking the same language.

P.S.—I got my Nehru...coat.

Going to America

The time had come. Three and a half weeks in India. Meeting a whole new part of my family, seeing a whole new country. And I was ready to go. I think I had had enough culture shock or something. It was time to go home.

Ah, sweet British Airways...

Having said my goodbye's to Mummyji, Daddyji and I got into a car and headed out to the airport. I think I had been to this airport 15 times since I had arrived in Delhi. To pick people up, to fly out of...so many times...I think the beggars recognized me.

Daddyji dropped me off, waiting for me to check in. Everything was fine. I had time to go through security, board and then, as the schedule said, plenty of time in Heathrow for my flight back to New York. I waved a final good bye to Daddyji—he couldn't come inside the airport without paying, I headed into the airport.

Where I waited.

And waited.

And waited yet again.

It seems the flight was delayed. Imagine my surprise.

Finally, we boarded the plane...I got my window seat near the bulkhead...plenty of leg room, I learned that lesson on the first flight. I settled in for my flight...only beginning to panic a little bit...my few hours of leisure time at Heathrow were evaporating....

And indeed...it dwindled to...me rushing through the airport with only 30 minutes to get to my plane. I was hoping to have had time to buy liquor at the duty free shop, booze for you all...but...alas, you will have to complain to British Airways...

And then onto the next plane...

On the leg from Delhi to Heathrow, I had my last bit of Indian food for that trip. A simple curry. Then, for the next meal, somewhere over the Atlantic, the menu changed. I had my first taste beef in three weeks. Suddenly, my whole palette had to change...back... To something a little less complicated, more direct than anything I had eaten for almost a month.

It was a taste of home. A taste that...Ok. I'll put it this way: I generally tell people I only had one moment of food poisoning while in India. And, from a certain point of view that is true...because it wasn't until I was over the Atlantic, hours away from New York that...I'll also put it this way...I gave British Airways a special gift in the toilet.

New York at night from the sky...is beautiful. It glitters, shimmers. The Empire State Building, Central Park. And from the sky at night you can see how massive the city is, how far in every direction it stretches. It also feels like you are visiting a city of the future, something out of Blade Runner. Perhaps I felt that because I had no idea what time it should be...the beginnings of Jet Lag.

I was worried. About customs. Not that I had anything illegal in my bags, but...I had a lot. And I'm not to sure when I have to declare something. Sure, I received that piece of paper in government speak, but, still, I'm always nervous they are going to demand my bag to be opened and discover that I bought one to many T-shirts of the Taj Mahal and I now need to pay taxes. Right then and there. Cash only, no check, no credit cards.

The guy at customs barely looked at me. I was ushered through with no problems. A small part of me was disappointed...but, then, the smarter part of me was thrilled, now I could get into a cab and go home.

And home I went...where for four days I went to bed at three in the morning and waking up at eleven. Oh, sweet sweet jet lag...

And so...

That's it! That's the trip. My first and the beginning of a life time of trips back to India.

I am living a life that I never imagined. I never imagined I would marry a woman, a wonderful, amazing woman, from another country. That half of my family is in a country on the other side of the world. That my life is now wrapped into the history of this marvelous country, filled with such astounding contradictions, with ancient history, with new found pride as it grows by leaps and bounds.

My new family welcomed me, my parents, and others with wide open arms and for that I am eternally grateful.

And what's next for the View From My Apartment? Now that I have finished the series, I'll be able to dedicate more attention to this blog. I hope to do this much more regularly and my apologies to those who have waited with patience (like my mom) for me to stop being so lazy and write this damn thing. Thanks!

Long Vintage, the View #16

2008-02-21T21:23:00.001-08:00

The View From My Apartment 16

The Wedding

A typical Indian wedding has three events. The night where henna is put on the bride and groom, the wedding ceremony itself and then the reception. In most cases, the wedding ceremony is very late at night, early in the morning, and the reception is the following day.

The first night, the women and the men are separated, the men talk men stuff and the women sing, dance and get henna done. Who would you rather hang out with? Well, as the groom, I could do whatever I wanted. I went with the women folk. (Though to be fair, the men DID have better drinks offered, so I would go up there for a nip.)

Our wedding was smaller than most, in part because we had already been married, and because we were doing it at an odd time of year. (When the priest came to discuss the ceremony itself, he looked up our charts, and suggested that we actually get married on a different more auspicious day. We threw fate to the wind and pressed on...)

We did the henna night down in the basement of the apartment complex, decorated for the night, with a DJ, waiters, plenty of pillows to sit on. The men had to remain upstairs in the apartment until meal time.

In a weird sort of way, it's like a bachelorette party—without the obligatory sex toys. We danced to Bollywood songs, and laughed. Deepti and I danced to my favorite number from Bunty aur Babli, a song called, Kajra Re as performed by my favorite star Amitabh Bachchan, more on him later. For those who want to see the fabulousness that is Amitabh--he's the older bloke with the red scarf-- go to http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4XdM-WA1FmM and check out Kajra Re.

I thought I had caused quite a sensation, my Bollywood moves, I thought were quite fly. But then...Arjun arrived.

You remember him? The eight month old who couldn't stop staring at this white man? Nidthi brought him down, and suddenly, something primal seemed to have over taken the girls. The moved as a pack towards the little boy. A sound rose from within their ranks, it began as a rumble, turned to a roar, then transformed into shrieks. The girls reached and pulled the baby away from his mother. He was passed around, thrown into the air, and fought over by the girls.

I didn't think he would make it. At least intact. But he's a survivor that Arjun. He survived the tough love from all the women.

The next day...the wedding.

Now, remember when I wrote that the priest felt that the day of the wedding wasn't the best day? If you don't remember, take this moment to go back up, read it again. I'll wait.

Alright. So, the priest, in order to make it a more auspicious day, had to perform a little ceremony before the actual ceremony—which would take place outside in the courtyard.

It should have been so simple. However, the priest's scooter couldn't start. That's right, our Hindu priest uses a scooter. Awesome. But, for whatever reason, he was late. Like by an hour.

In the West, we freak out about such things. We are very needy about things starting on time. I am horribly guilty. I want movies to start early I get so bored and anxious waiting.

But not so in India. Now, one could argue that it is all tied to the world view and mythology of Hindu culture. Possibly. But I think a more likely explanation: being late happens. A lot. You have to get used to it or die.

Eventually, he showed up. And began his ceremony. There were offerings, chanting...more offerings, participation by everyone. It was nice. It took some time to get started, as all the men in the room had something to say. Remember this: In India, everyone has an opinion and will share it with you. (Of course, that just might apply everywhere.)

We had some pictures done. A very strange experience of a man telling us how to pose in unnatural ways. But it was a hoop we had to jump through in order to get to...

The wedding itself...

It was outdoors in a large tent put up the day before. Carpeting had been put down, pillows around a fire pit and two large thrones. Guess who the thrones were for? That's right, hail to the king, baby.

Oh, and did I mention there was food? Yes. Off to the side, there was a buffet with chai. Welcome to anyone to go and nibble during the ceremony. This is one thing I really wish Western ceremonies would embrace. I have sat through to many wedding ceremonies where a warm samosa would have made the event that much more exciting.

Deepti and I sat around the fire, the priest on the other side. And the ceremony began. There were more offerings, prayers by the priests, my in laws made offerings, my parents made offerings, Deepti and I made offerings. And then the priest asked Deepti and I a series of questions. Now, this was done in Hindi, and I only had a good friend of Deepti's, Rahul, to rely on. I could have promised anything. I just nodded, you know? I think I'm ok, but you just never know.

We then circled the fire several times and then...we were married. That was it. Simple. I don't know if anyone attending was paying attention by that point, they were eating and chatting during the whole thing. Something else I think the West should adopt. I would like attending weddings much more if I could chat to the person next to me.

Oh. Yeah. I almost went on to the reception, and I'm sure my wife would appreciate it if I did. Because the next little bit, well, it doesn't reflect well on her family.

Remember when her mother tried to poison me with cashews? Well, one of her uncles tried to poison me with dairy. I had, up to this point avoided the dairy. It didn't smell right to me. It was perfectly safe...well...but it hadn't been as pasteurized as it is in the US. So, I didn't drink the milk or eat the yogurt.

During the eating portion of the wedding ceremony, one of her uncles fed us, each a spoon of yogurt.

I was fine. Until after the ceremony. That's when the cramping started. Followed by the diarrhea. (This part, I'm sure, my mother would wish I didn't make public. Good thing for you that I'm writing this, eh?) Now...it was a vivid green. The sort of green I didn't think the human body could produce. But (tee hee) there it was, green. And whole lot of fluid. More fluid than I had taken in. It just kept pouring out. At a certain point I was more amazed than I was worried. In the end (giggle) there wasn't anything left. I took some medicine and hit the bed. By morning I was fine. Not eager to eat, but fine.

Let me tell you: it takes more than yogurt to kill this man from the mid-west.

The reception was going to be at a hall not far from the center of Delhi. It was beautifully decorated. The main responsibility of Deepti and I was to smile and say hello. This was going to be a bigger event, three hundred people, than the wedding ceremony itself. Everyone my in laws had ever met was invited—ok, perhaps that an exaggeration...or not.

We begin making our rounds, seeing some relatives again...who all seemed to know that I had been ill, as they asked how I was feeling. Should I have been suspicious? We also met friends, co-workers, everyone. The reception is also where people give the gifts, basically tokens of congratulations, or what have you, and they also give money to the parents who hosted the wedding.

I met a lot of people that night. I wish I could bore you with everyone that I met. But...I can't remember. And it's not because of time, but by the end of that night, I just couldn't fit anymore names into my tiny little brain.

The night ended with Deepti and I FINALLY getting to eat the food that was set out.

As we were getting ready to go, that's when the demands for the tips began. It began for me when I was exiting the bathroom, a man said to me, "tip?" That surprised me. Because I didn't know what he had done while I was in the bathroom for him to get a tip. I mean, it's not like he did anything for me IN the bathroom. I looked at him strangely, but kept on walking.

Soon, it became clear, everyone was in search of their tip for the event. All the servers, etc. And they ask for it. And if they don't like how much they get, they will tell you. Just be prepared. And that guy came after me in the bathroom for two reasons. 1. Because he thought he would get a lot out of me, being American and not familiar with the rupee so I would over tip and 2. Because he would then go to my father in law and ask for another tip.

He was sneaky. But he didn't plan on my ignorance...

Taj Mahal

After the wedding, my parents, along with her sister in law and a cousin, took Deepti and I on a trip to the Taj Mahal in Agra.

The whole trip is a part of a package—a bus, accommodation, tickets into Taj Mahal as well as the Fort in Agra, and a tour guide. We get to Agra, a moderately sized city, where the major bucks come from tourism, the Taj IS a wonder of the world after all, in the late afternoon.

In order to preserve the Taj, the city had much of the industry shut down, so pollutants wouldn't damage the marble. This also means that you can't drive up to it. You can only get your car so close, and from that point on, you take an electric bus, and then you walk the rest of the way.

We went early in the morning, just after breakfast. It was chilly. But bright out. Once we had our tickets, and once we had been searched (please, no explosives at the Taj Mahal) we enter into a courtyard. Our tour guide says some stuff. I don't remember. I kept thinking, weird, I'm about to see the Taj Mahal. I hope he didn't say anything I should remember, something that I might later want to put into a blog. But, really, that's what wikipeida is for.

We go through this court yard, into a gate, and framed perfectly, is the Taj. It's gleaming white marble, it's symmetrical shape, with the four towers leaning out just a little, in case of Earthquake, the towers won't hit the shrine.

It's just beautiful. And serene. And a tomb. I'm afraid that my words won't quite describe it, and there are plenty of pictures, so I won't bother. But the experience of actually being there, where craftsmen spent decades carving the marble and all the inlay work...because a man wanted to honor the memory of his wife. Sure, he was a king, and she was queen, and he could afford to build it, but in the end, it was because he loved her so much he wanted something that mirrored her beauty.

It's strange...what I remember most...I didn't have any questions, I just didn't. All I could do was simply marvel. At the level of craft, at the size, and...hell...it was the fucking Taj Mahal. Its name is its meaning. It's a glorious tribute.

You know what it is? It's something that no husband ever will be able to surpass. This one guy, he screwed over husbands forever.

It is a national symbol. It is a thing of pride And the level of care to maintain the area is high...once you get through the park and ponds, before you are able to walk onto the tomb, you have to put on little paper booties, like doctors wear. And, I read recently, they may pack Taj in mud in order to remove some of the particulates that have already begun to change the color of the marble.

But it's interesting...and we do here in the US as well...while it is an object of national pride, there is also an industry to be made from it. Once you leave the Taj, you are confronted by people eager to sell you things, either books about the place or, strangely, mini marble chess sets. And these people will not take no for an answer. In fact, no merely means you are negotiating.

These people make their living from tourists, so it makes sense for them to be there as you come out, but there was for me, such a disconnect from my experience inside with the experience outside. I wanted to continue...contemplating, I guess. I had seen something of extraordinary beauty, and right after that, I had to push my way through peddlers trying to get me to purchase sandals.

Like I said, we do it here in the US, what major historical place doesn't have a gift shop? Gettysburg? (They have a bookstore in their visitor's center. I just looked it up.

But still...there's something a little wrong with reducing something so large into a trinket or a t-shirt. It is about a memory. Sometimes. Other times it's about having a badge saying: I went here. There's just a part of me that hates reducing a thing and then duplicating it. All in all, I much prefer the real thing to a t-shirt.

That is not to say, I am not a complete hypocrite. We did eventually find a small marble drawing of the Taj Mahal. We had hoped to find a miniature, but they all looked...well...manufactured in bulk. And crappy.

Sometime in your life: Go see a Wonder of the World. The pyramids, Taj Mahal, something. Do it. It's so much better than a photo.

Delhi vs. New Delhi

Time for a little history lesson. Delhi is a very old city, and had been for many centuries a seat of power. For a time Calcutta, or Kolkota as it is now called, was the capital of India. After the Rebellion of 1857, the British, those rascally Imperialists, moved the capital back to Delhi, deciding a city in the center of the country, might be easier to govern from.

At the turn of the 20th Century, the British decided to do some redecoration. Specifically, central Delhi. The British built government buildings, which are still used today, as well as Connaught Place, a giant traffic circle/park with a series of shops surrounding it. This area, with its government buildings, parks, etc., is New Delhi. Made by the British.

Amitabh Bachchan and Bombay

We had one more trip to do together before my wife went to Australia and I came back to the United States. We were heading off to Bombay, or Mumbai, for those keeping count. Deepti works for a company that does corporate training. The company is looking to expand into Asia, and they wanted Deepti to audition actors for future work.

And being the acting capital of India, a trip to Bombay was in order! Deepti has old friends there, and family...the Mighty Arjun and family just moved to Bombay. The company was paying for the hotel room and her ticket, so, I got to be a groupie and tag along.

Another trip to the Delhi International Airport...

This time, however, we go to the domestic flights. A security guard, with a semi-automatic rifle over his shoulder, checks to see if we have tickets to get into the airport. We do, and we go in. The luggage is passed through an x-ray machine, and then we head off to check in.

Deepti does all the talking. The woman behind the counter checks her ID, but not mine, and takes out luggage to be loaded onto the plane. I thought it was curious that my ID was looked at, but, then, I thought, it will be checked when we board the plane.

Not so. We board, getting in line to walk up the stairs into the plane. I'm tempting to ask the stewardess if they want to see my ID. Perhaps they just forgot to ask. Maybe it was their first day on the job. I'll be helpful. But, no one else's ID was being checked. So...I roll with it—'cause I fly like that.

The plane ride—which was a part of a brand new fleet owned by Kingfisher, an Indian beer company—was a little under two hours. We were served food, there was TV. A domestic flight with food and TV? I felt like I had seen the future.

I was excited to go to Bombay. I got to see another part of India, it was by the ocean, and it is Bollywood. And who wouldn't want to go to Bollywood?

I have grown to like Bollywood movies. At first, they were weird—mostly they were weird to me because I couldn't get over the fact that no matter the genre someone was going to sing and dance. It could be a drama, an action film, a film about disease, there will be a moment when people will sing and dance.

What got me through: oh, yeah, we do that in American musicals. Every Bollywood film is an American Musical. Just in Hindi.

And by far my favorite Bollywood movie stay is Amitabh Bachchan. He's been around for some time. He is huge. He is the biggest star in the Bollywood film industry. He is...Brando, Harrison Ford, and John Wayne all wrapped up in one tall guy. Who know wears a toupee...so through in some William Shatner. There isn't a genre he can't do...light comedy, heavy drama, action. He's a supernova of talent. Oh, and add in some Elvis, the dude can dance.

Once, when he was badly injured on set, people from all over India came to Bombay to pray for him. Pray for him.

When he makes a movie, thousands and thousands show up on the set to catch a glimpse of him.

He is an industry unto himself.

He also hosted the Indian version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?

Anyway. I wanted to get a poster. I had seen some in Delhi, but, frankly, they sucked. Sure, they would cost me only a quarter, but if I was going to spend my hard earned rupees, I wanted to spend it on a great poster of Amitabh. Deepti was sure that I could get it in Bombay.

From the airport, I take my first auto-rickshaw. It's basically a tricycle with a tiny motor. And they are all over India. They are cheap rides, a little smelly, and maybe not all that safe. I recommend that if you do go to India, get an Indian friend to negotiate for you while you hide behind a tree. It will be a much cheaper ride.

We get to the hotel, suffer through some problems, and then meet up with some old friends of Deepti's. They were actors that Deepti had trained with in Delhi. They were a lot of fun, interested in what we were up to. And it didn't hurt that we ate and drank right on the ocean.

We make plans to meet up with more acting friends the next night. It's been a long day, and Deepti had to work the next morning.

That following evening, we get our plate nice and full: spend some time with Deepti's friends, and then, as they have newly moved to Bombay, see Nidthi, Anirbahn and the MIGHTY ARJUN! Will this kid ever just leave me alone?

So, the friends collect at the hotel, and then they decide the best course of action, as there is a happy hour, is to go and drink at the...TGI Friday's. In the mall. Yes. That's right. A TGI Friday's in the mall. Back in an auto-rickshaw, and off to the mall...

It was like I had never left America. The stores, the glass, the lighting, it was like your average mall in your average American town. And as far as the Fridays. It was lifted straight out of my home town. From the American movie posters, street signs, to the menu. It was a copy. Of TGI Fridays. In Bombay. Of all places.

I do have to point out two differences. 1. There were Indians and 2. the burgers were made from lamb instead of beef.

And I think we drank light beer. My brain swirled. Perhaps globalization IS a bad thing...If it means exported entire restaurant decorations to another country...it's just evil. Plain evil.

Deepti, recently, suggested they took us there for my sake. No. It was the happy hour.

We drink, we chat, and then we split. Time for dinner. We grab another auto-rickshaw, they are just SO cute, and head off to the restaurant. The place is a sea food joint that Anirbahn had wanted to take us, and...sigh...it was close to the home of one Amitabh Bachchan. I felt like a tourist in Hollywood. My heart began to beat just a little faster, my mouth became dry as we approached.

And I didn't see much. There was a guard posted outside. And a wall. And I assume somewhere behind that wall was the man. Perhaps he was kicking his feet up, toupee off, drink in hand playing Xbox. I doubt it. But it is possible.

With a heavy heart, we get to the restaurant and meet with Nidthi, Anirbahn, and a sleepy Arjun. As we eat, a very delicious meal, Arjun is passed around, eventually ending up in my arms. He didn't seem to mind. Finally. He got over his fear of white people.

We finish dinner, they go off, we go off back to the hotel.

The next morning, after packing, we go in search of my poster. I can't leave without a poster. That would be criminal. And I do wish there was a great story to tell about getting the poster. But really people, I went to a store and bought a poster. That's it. It was cheap. It was excellent. No story here. No great little revelation of culture or the world. I bought a poster. How often do great revelations and stories happen to YOU when you go and buy, oh, I don't know, a pair of shoes? Sometimes things just happen. In this case, I got a groovy poster of an actor. Which now hangs proudly in my office. Staring at me. Constantly. Why doesn't he just leave me alone?

Back to the airport. Where at no point Deepti or I have our ID's checked. Not once. We could have been anyone. It was kind of awesome.

Next up:
The final few days in India, Astronomy, and British Airways back to America!

The View #15, Vintage!

2008-02-21T21:22:00.004-08:00

The View From My Apartment 15

More tales of Larry and Deepti in India!

The Luggage Recovered!

So. When we arrived in India our luggage did not. Well, half of the luggage did not. British Airways assured us they would find it and delivery it. No worries. Right?

Well...

I love the internet. The internet is a place that provides information. Up to the minute weather reports! News! Email! Movie trailers! I love it. One can find all sorts of useful (and to some useless) bits of information. British Airways has their own website—one that provides information like departure time! Arrivals! And luggage!

Whoopee! I thought. We'll be able to know when our luggage was going to arrive! How comforting. And sure enough, a day or two after our arrival: our luggage was at the Delhi International Airport and the "delivery process had been initiated." What joy! Ring the bells! Chant some chants! Our luggage was coming!

Well...

The "delivery process had been initiated" remained on the website for another day or two. And still no luggage. So we began to call. Hoping that some fine person on the other end of the line would be able to tell us: where are the bags?

I was getting upset at this point. I admittedly had a fear that they were on some truck somewhere in Delhi and people were going through them. The Liberal in me was getting a little antsy about such an attitude, until I realized my wife was feeling the same way. The Liberal got over being upset.

The people that we WERE able to reach had little to say, except the "delivery process had been initiated." Lovely. They couldn't tell us zip.

And my father in law (Daddy-ji) had booked the whole family into a hotel outside of Delhi in a state called Rajasthan and we were leaving soon...and still no luggage. So, we decided, time to go to the airport, which we did on our way out of the city to the countryside—we figured, it shouldn't take long to find out what was going on, it should be easy and then on our way. Right?

Well....

We arrived at the airport, and of course, it's as busy and crazy as ever—the fog had caused more troubles and generally it is a chaotic place. We make our way into the British Airways office, which is FILLED with luggage. A flutter of hope passed through my heart—some where in all of this—are my clothes, my presents for the family, all I have to do is dig.

We talk to the tired looking British Airways woman—she takes a look at our baggage claim tickets and types into her computer. And guess what? The luggage was still at the airport—the delivery process had begun and ended very quickly. It turns out, our bags were stuck in customs. The locks. They wanted to look inside our bags, but they didn't want to cut off the locks.

We asked, "if they were stuck in customs and they needed us to open it to look inside, why weren't we called?" The woman stared back at us—hoping, I think, to turn invisible. It didn't work.

Armed with paperwork, and determination, my wife went to customs—only one person would be allowed to go. Since my Hindi is, shall we say, lacking, she was the best suited.

Daddy-ji and I followed her as far as we could go and watched her disappear into customs. We waited outside. We chatted. About the weather. The people. It was a pretty pleasant afternoon.

My wife came storming out of customs...A document was not given to her. So, she had to go all the way back to the British Airways office, get the proper paper, and then make her way back. Daddy-ji and I thought it best to remain where we were...

And my wife came storming back into customs. And we waited. Chatted. This was the most conversation time I had ever had with him. Talking on the phone to people you have never meet while they are on the other side of the world isn't the best way to get to know them. Here's a little fun fact for you: the first time I had ever talked to my future father in law was when I asked permission to marry his daughter. Talk about pressure to entertain. It was a nice chat, a sort of circling around each other intellectually, trying to figure the other person out.

There was a pause.

And then suddenly—my wife appeared. With two bags. Finally. I could put on some clean clothes.

Rajasthan!

Rajasthan is a state south west of Delhi. We were going to a small town where a hotel chain had opened up a new resort hotel. This company was taking old castles, great houses, called havelis, and the like and converting them into nice hotels. An opportunity to live like the wealthy had a hundred or more years ago.

The seven of us (two parents, my wife and I, her sister and her boyfriend and the driver) packed ourselves into a car built for five without luggage. This led to some creative packing and stacking of both the luggage and the people inside. It wasn't particularly comfortable but it worked.

This leads me to a new vocabulary word for the day: jugaard. Jugaard is the idea of taking something that might be broken and using whatever it takes to just make it work. For example, it was raining on our travel to Rajasthan and the windshield wiper wasn't working well. So the driver, instead of buying a wiper, wrapped a towel around the old wiper. In our case, it was making 7 people and luggage fit in a car built for five.

There aren't highways in India like there are in the United States—the roads were built to connect one town or village to another. It's much more like the old Route 66—the roads wind through the countryside, some of them are in need of love, others are nice, and you pass through town after town.

On these roads I saw a weird clash of poverty with the 21st century mixed in. The roads could be dirt, above ground sanitation, open air home and then suddenly, an internet café. People using camels for transport of goods, being passed by nice SUVs. Some people sitting in their homes with the lights on, others huddled outside by a camp fire. Many of these villages were doing their best to keep up with modernization, but they just couldn't afford it. Many people were living a subsistent life.

We stopped once in a village, as the driver wanted some chai. We unpacked ourselves to stretch and breathe again. It was late, it was dark and there wasn't much in the village. Freddo started smoking, I started talking to Deepti. Then, Daddy-ji, got worried. Nervous. He said we should go. And by the tone of his voice: he meant right away. We were attracting too much attention. He was nervous that we would be robbed.

Back on the bumpy road.

The haveli was beautiful. The building itself is like two squares next to each other. In one square, along the edges are the rooms, with an open court in the center, then the next square has another court, and leads to the kitchens. The rooms were large with huge ceilings and stone floors. And it smelled of moth balls. Just what I imagined the turn of the last century to smell like.

The next day the plan was to go to another village and look at other havelis, some restored and some not. One of the restored ones we went to was owned by the village. A man, years ago, purchased it and gave it to the city with the idea of turning it into a tourist destination, in order to help get money into the village. I don't know how successful the plan has been, but the haveli was beautiful. This one was larger than the one we were staying in. More elaborate paintings, and rooms. It would be easy to fall back into time in these buildings.

The legacy of India is complicated. For many years it was a country occupied and run by a foreigner power. In order to do that, the British needed allies within India, and used India's wealth to pay for those very allies—the Rajs, for example. And those with the wealth and power built these beautiful palaces in these places—and perhaps brought a lot of work and notoriety to these villages—but when the rich people left....their households fell into disrepair as did the villages. And now, people live in and around these former glorious households of the past.

Deepti and the Bindi!

My sister in law, Swati, kept fighting with my wife about wearing a bindi. The bindi is the dot that married women wear. This is also sometimes done in conjunction with a red powder called sindoor being placed in a short line on the top of the head from front to back. These are done to signify to unmarried men that this woman is unavailable.

In New York, Deepti rarely wears a bindi—unless it's a special occasion—and hadn't planned on wearing one in India.

However, Swati was adamant. She was concerned how her sister might be looked at, walking hand in hand with another man, let alone a white man, with no outward signs of marriage.

Deepti and Swati are very close, my wife is very protective of her little sister, but when they fight—it can become quite a battle. They don't get to see each other very often, so I think they like to explore the full range of emotion—love to anger.

Round and round they went. Both sisters dug in their heels.

In the end, with a little help from me, Swati won the war of attrition and my wife wore the bindi. It's just a dot.

Arjun!

One of Deepti's aunts lives a few blocks away from her parents' apartment. She is one of Daddy-ji's sisters, her name is Sarla, but because she is the sister of my wife's father, I would call her Sarla-bua. Her daughter, Nidhi, was living with her. Nidhi and her husband Anirban were planning on moving to Bombay soon. Anirban was already there, working and finding a place for them to live. Nidhi had given birth to a wonderful baby boy: the mighty Arjun.

I added the mighty part. For mighty he is. Not in weight, not in height, he was only eight months old, but mighty in his looks. This was one cute baby. Round cheeks, big eyes and a smile—toothless and very gummy—that was brighter than the sun.

We went over with some presents—as is the polite thing to do. Deepti reunites with the family she hasn't seen in many years and I meet them for the first time. There is hugging, laughing, especially when I do the respectful thing and try to touch Sarla-bua's feet. This is an outgoing family. Food is served—another attempt at poisoning—but avoided.

And then Arjun is brought out. He seems me and his eyes go wide. Now, I think I'm pretty good with kids—they like me, I'm playful. I get on with kids. And I have the full expectation that I will with Arjun.

His eyes went wide and he stopped blinking when he saw me. He wouldn't stop staring. And then I realized, there was a little bit of fear in those eyes.

Deepti can't keep her hands off babies. She grabs Arjun and does her best to lavish attention on him. But he won't stop looking at me. She would turn him away, but he would do his best to look at me. I took him.

In my hands, he was still, unsure and still staring. And then...he began to whine, he tried to pull away—as well as any eight month old can pull away. And not wanting to upset a baby, I passed him on. He stopped whining, but not the staring. We were certain at this point, he had never seen a white man before—I'm sure he was wondering what poor dreadful event had befallen me. I was a nightmare to him, I'm sure.

The conversation in the room was fast, frantic and in Hindi. Hindi is just such an expressive language. Its quality of rhythms and tones creates an atmosphere of energy. Deepti was thrilled to be speaking Hindi again, I could tell. Now, I think I've said it before, my knowledge of Hindi is limited, and I didn't recognize anything that was being said, but, I feel like I could follow the conversation. I think I did. Well, I knew when they were talking about me. And that's all that's important, right?

Next:
The Wedding, Taj Mahal, and Delhi vs. New Delhi, and Amitabh Bachchan!
(We're entering into the home stretch—it's the first of the last two blogs about India!)

Vintage View #14

2008-02-21T21:22:00.003-08:00

The View From My Apartment 14

Morning in India.

It was cold. Seriously. It was cold in the morning in India. I wasn't prepared for that. Well, to tell the truth, neither was the rest of the country. We had arrived in India during a particularly cold winter. That's not to say I saw snow on the ground, but, it was much colder than the country had anticipated.

And me as well. Even if I did have my luggage, I didn't have warm clothes inside. I was expecting to come FROM a cold place to GO TO a warm place.

The apartment my in-laws own is a three bedroom, two bath, a living room, large kitchen, and porch overlooking the park in the complex is designed for warm weather. The stone floors, the plaster like walls, are designed to pull heat away. This works even in cool weather, so it just makes things feel even colder.

However, it is a country of shawls, so...we layered up.

My wife and I slept in her old bedroom, recently refurbished by her parents. A brand new folding bed/couch combination, which slid out into the room. We also got the room with the computer—which in this day and age is a true bonus.

I woke up, I didn't sleep all that late, it was maybe nine or so in the morning, others may disagree, but then, this is my blog.

I realized something when I got out of the bedroom and headed towards breakfast: I was only going to have Indian food while I was there. Every meal was going to be Indian food. It makes sense really, in America we have American food, unless you specifically make the choice to have Indian, Chinese, Mexican, etc. But still, it wasn't something that I had really thought about. I like Indian food, so it shouldn't be a problem. I had just never eaten Indian food all the time, every meal.

Mummy-ji and a woman that she hires to help with making food, Gita, were in the kitchen, Daddy-ji was in his chair reading the newspaper. He gets quite a few papers everyday, and several on the weekends. That morning I read in the paper about the troubles the airport was also having with fog. Flights were being canceled left and right. And it seemed the staff there was about as well equipped to handle it as Heathrow.

One woman at the airport, so enraged at the behavior of the people behind the counter, threatened to set herself on fire if they didn't get her onto a plane. In New York, the target of the fire would have been the airport. Different strokes.

The first thing that happens: chai. Always chai. It's tea with milk, sugar and other spices. Chai is everywhere in India. If someone offers you chai, that's what it is. Of course, if you are European, they will ask if you want it with milk and the etceteras, and it will please them to no end if you say yes.

So, the tiny cups of chai are passed around and breakfast is being made. The questions of "did you sleep well?" were asked and answered. Everyone had slept well. Swati (my sister in law) was sleeping so well, she was still at it.

I'm going to disappoint some of you, my readers, and for that, I'm sorry, but I don't remember what I had that morning for breakfast. I just don't. I had quite a few there, and they blurred and blended. Most likely it was made up of purantas, a fried bread like pita that can have things stuff in it: like potatoes or carrots. I love them. Not as much as I love puri, which is also fried and also a bread, but a little lighter—though not in the caloric sense. My wife thinks I shouldn't eat puri. Mummy-ji likes to make them. It's a very difficult position to be in.

After breakfast, the big plan of the day was to go shopping. Things had to get done, we were already a day behind because of British Airways and the fog. So, we had to go to the market for clothes: a dress for Deepti and a suit for me. These would be clothes for the reception night, the day after the wedding. It was going to be Mummy-ji, Deepti and I piled into a car together with a driver. Drivers are cheap in India, so if you need one for the day, it's quite possible. And, well...I'll get to the traffic in a second.

Daddy-ji, because he knows what it is like for foreigners to come to India and drink the water, had provided Deepti and me a whole box of bottled water just for us. These were handed out and we were off.

This was the first time I was really able to see where my in-laws lived. We came in so late and with so much fog.

The apartment complex has a fence all the way around it, and there are a few buildings within, with narrow lanes leading to each one. Small cars are packed tightly around them. The buildings were white stone, and everyone had a clothesline hanging from it. There's a small park, where the grass is mostly dead—the kids like to play cricket. Some had lived in the complex for quite sometime, some for their entire lives. It was like a neighborhood with in the gate.

The car pulled out onto the street outside.

Rules of the Road

1. Rules of the Road in India are merely suggestions. The traffic in New York is gentle and easy going compared. The drivers in India are prepared and drive like they are in combat, and they are. And I truly feel for the people on motor bikes.

2. If there is space for your car, take it before someone else can. If you can get your car even a little further ahead, do it.
3. Motorcycles are meant for more than one person. Why carry just one? Quite often I would see a family on a motorcycle. The father driving, the mother sitting side saddle. If the child was small, the mother would hold him. Or, the child would sit in between mother and father.
4. Go fast. Until you can't go fast. Then stop. Go, stop, go, stop.

Delhi is a city that is changing. New roads, new transportation, new money. The country is developing at a rapid pace; suddenly people can afford a car, or finally something that can transport the family. While the city is transforming, there is still a mixture of very old and very new—for someone who lives in a country only some 200 years old, it's unique.

The Market and the Suit

We arrived at the market. And what a market. I think I was expecting something like a mall—which there are plenty in Delhi, and again my expectations were challenged.

The market was a narrow street filled with shops on either side, jam packed with people, carts and an occasional car would try to make its way through.

It was noisy, colorful, and filled with Indian people. (At this point...I don't think I had quite really realized that yes, I am in a foreign country, a foreign country where my whitey ass is the minority. I couldn't recognize signs and the language, well, I know very little Hindi—my wife is more than willing to tell you how bad my Hindi is.) Mummy-ji led the way.

There were lots of foods—with smells that I couldn't recognize. It was more like a carnival than a place to shop.

We were heading towards a shop to get my suit made. Daddy-ji had gotten his suits made there and my in-laws like the work. The shop was about half way into the market.

Before we got there...I noticed something. People were staring. At me.

It was an occasional thing. But...heads would snap, glance and turn away. Except for the kids. The kids would stop doing whatever they were doing and would just....stare. Open eyes. Tourists never go to this area. It's not a place a tour guide would take them. There's nothing to see really, and the shops, well...in the tourist markets, shops pay tour guides to bring them tourists. This particular market is way off the path.

So the kids were staring. I had never been stared at. Even in high school when more clothes could be considered eclectic. Never like this. I didn't know what to do. So, I smiled. Which didn't change their reaction. At all. Stare. Stare. Stare.

The suit...well...the suit was easy. Measure, measure, measure. What kind of fabric? Deepti is amazed by my skills of shopping. While I enjoy trolling for books, clothes I am a man of a different sort. I know what I like right away. And I can be picky. But I'm fast. I found some charcoal gray fabric with a light pin strip. I had never had a pin strip suit. I had never had a suit MADE for me. It was kinda nice. No. I was great. I was cool. I got to decide vents or no vents, how many buttons, size of the lapel?

If you ever have an opportunity to get a suit made just for you, do it. Of course, it helps to either have someone else pay for it, or be in India where it's just a little cheaper.

That done: back out to the market and then home. Which meant...stare, stare, stare, and then...onto the roads!

Next up: The Luggage Recovered! Rajasthan! Deepti and the Bindi! And meeting a mighty hero of myth: Arjun!

Vintage #13, The View

2008-02-21T21:22:00.001-08:00

The View From My Apartment 13

The Trip Continues.

A nine hour plane ride is a curious thing. Things begin to blend—awake, sleeping, lunch, dinner—these things become a little meaningless. You're in the air, traveling east at several hundred miles an hour crossing time zone after time zone. It's a lot like being in a room with no windows—outside doesn't matter. You could change your clocks and calendars and that's the time and day it is. It's a sort of purgatory of waiting. You have nothing to do but wait and fill time. They should show movies or something.

Oh. Wait. They do.

In fact they show lots of movies. And TV shows. There's nothing that says you're traveling to India more than a rerun of Everybody Loves Raymond or Friends. Needless to say, I was glued.

Deepti and I sat next to each other just behind a divider—which provided quite a bit of leg room, with no one in front of us. Sadly, though, we were in the middle, so the window was WAAAAY over there. Which, in hindsight, is just fine—it was dark and foggy, I wasn't going to see anything.

But there was a tiny little TV, all for me. The Tiny Little TV provided such a degree of safety—it of course did tell me what to do in case of evacuation, though not what to do in case the plane crashes in the mountains miles away from help and we are forced to eat the other passengers—and I'm surprised it didn't. The Tiny Little TV was a safety blanket of culture, it was going to ease me in, be my sugar coated medicine as it were of arriving in a country where I don't know the language and I have only a rudimentary knowledge of the culture. Ok. Let's be honest. I was nervous. I hadn't been to India before. I didn't know what to expect. But the Tiny Little TV would provide a tether back to my home country and it would give me a final delicate TV kiss as I landed in India. Oh, Tiny Little TV—I should write poems about you.

Not only was there TV, but there were also movies, quite a few, some I hadn't seen that I had wanted to. And now, for free! Well—if you include the 1500.00 airfare. (By the way, Lion Witch and the Wardrobe is BO-ring and don't let anyone tell you otherwise.) ALSO included: games that are impossible to play with the controls provided AND a map that plays out in real time. You can watch as your plane crosses into countries that may or MAY not be friendly to the US. (I had practiced my Canadian accent, just in case, eh.)

The food comes in two forms: veg or non-veg. Which of course is veg or meat—but I guess saying, "Would you like to eat meat?" sounds a little brutal. But, yes, for the record, I will take the non-veg. And yes, I would like another mini-bottle of wine, thank you so much for asking.

And they give it away for free!

There was a little movie at the beginning, on the Tiny Little TV, telling us passengers to make sure we drink plenty of water (does Bordeaux count as water?) and to exercise occasionally. Of course, British Airways does NOT provide a gym on the 747's; at least not to us in coach, the only recourse is to walk.

Late at night, or was in the morning, or the afternoon, I got up to go to the bathroom and take a little walk. Behind me, there were rows and rows of sleeping people, heads back or to the side, eyes closed and still. Just the whir of the engine. I made a circuit. Up and down a row, and through where the stewards sat and whispered. Outside: it was black. And the plane was still. It was strangely peaceful. Calm. Just sleeping, whispering and whirring. It felt good to stretch my legs.

Food marked time. British Airways gives you a meal shortly after taking off (veg or non-veg!), a snack and shortly before landing another meal. Each one getting more and more Indian. Like ticks on a wall, food was our only way of knowing when we were in the Universe.

We were scheduled to arrive in the middle of the night. And as usual, British Airways was prompt in their lateness. We approached a fog covered Delhi sometime around three in the morning. At least that's what our pilot said. To me and my body it was like five in the afternoon. I think. Maybe not. But it didn't feel like three in the morning.

The plane landed. I still couldn't quite make out the city—it looked like any other city that I have seen from the sky, late at night.

I get off the plane and I realize: I'm in India. I'm not able to read the signs. And there are even more Indians. Strange. India having Indians. But it's true. My wife and I follow everyone else towards customs.

At this point, my wife and I have to separate. She gets to go into the citizens line, me...I have to head to the line for all foreigners. I get worried. What if they ask a question and I can't answer it? What if they ask to see money to prove that I'm not going to be a burden to India? (I've been asked these questions before: when I made a trip to Canada, and I didn't have a passport...I was grilled in customs...but that's a blog for another day.)

I look to my left: there is a couple sitting off to the side. The woman is crying. I can hear her saying she didn't know, she didn't know. And I'm not sure what she didn't know. Next to them is an Indian customs official, a woman who seems understanding. In my mind: some how they didn't have a visa, or something. I don't know. But the crying woman at three in the morning in Delhi makes me a little worried.

I get to my customs official. He takes my passport. Stamp. Boom. Boom. Stamp. He hands it back to me. I'm done. I'm free. I'm in India!

My wife is waiting for me and now we head off to the luggage.

The airport in India is chaotic. Families are returning home for the holidays and when they come home they are bringing gifts for everyone. Everyone. So, the floor is filled with people with carts filled to the top with fillings of gifts. Zoom. It's like a freaking highway.

We stand at our designated spot. And we wait. And wait. Two of our bags arrive. The two that we had to check in at the gate in Heathrow. And then we wait again. And again. A baggage guy asks me if I have all my bags. I tell him no. Our names are on a list. The list is those whose bags are still in London.

In London.

These bags have most of our clothes and all of our gifts. When we had missed the plane that was supposed to take us to Delhi, so did our bags. And while we had gotten rebooked, they didn't. So, now we had to fill out papers.

This means standing in line. Standing in line in India is a sport—because there really aren't lines, well, lines that people are willing to follow. Everyone just hovered around the counter and started demanding attention. I let my wife go in. I knew I would be ill prepared. I was good at standing guard. Which I did. I should get a medal.

Finally, she gets a piece of paper, which we have to get signed by someone else before we can leave—these are the final gate keepers, more customs officials. We wait in a shorter hover. Get it signed, but then that man tells us we have to go back to the other desk to get something else signed again. And then we could leave.

So, Deepti runs back, gets the paper signed, again, and then we come back to the same guard and he looks at it, tears a piece of paper, keeps one—which turns out to be an important piece of paper that we should have had, but that only comes into play later—remember this. And then, we get to leave and go to the waiting area.

My wife hadn't been home in four years. I don't know what she was thinking. I was excited, curious, nervous. I had met her mother, father and her sister a while ago, but this was on their turf.

We see my father in law—here after referred to as Daddy-ji, and my sister in law, Swati, right there in the middle of the waiting area. Smiles on their faces. It was good.

Deepti and I hug them. We mumble stuff about the lost luggage, Daddy-ji nods—he expected something like that must have happened—because it took so much time for us to get out.

We follow them to the car.

Now—to wait inside the airport requires a small fee—this is to keep people out—to keep people from just staying inside the airport. And the entrance is guarded by men with guns. Semi-automatic guns. Every time I see a gun like that they always seem so unreal to me and I have to fight the urge to run up, grab it and run.

The door of the airport opens and it is a sea of people. Of cabbies asking me if I need a ride, of families waiting for sons and daughters to come, of beggars. We make our way through the crowd and find the car.

Inside is the driver they had gotten, he was sleeping, Daddy-ji knocks on the window and the driver pops up. We load in, partial luggage and everything.

It's cold in Delhi. And foggy. Very thick fog. And there's a smell—earthy, spicy. Something. Forgive me for fetishizing the country, but there's a different smell in the air.

The car pulls out of the lot—we get to the gate where we have to pay. The guy who is responsible for the lot talks to the driver, the driver talks back, Daddy-ji joins. It's something about money. Back and forth. I'm not sure what, I ask my wife, she, however, is involved in the discussion. Later: the guy at the gate wanted to charge us more because we were a few minutes past the "time" we were supposed to be there. Of course, the guy was ready to take a bribe to let us out, but when Daddy-ji asked for a receipt in return for the bribe...well...the deal fell through and the guy let us out.

On to the street. At this time of night, they are pretty clear. And thank God—the fog got so thick at time the driver had to slow to a crawl. The trip back was filled with questions about the trip, questions about home, questions about what we were up to, questions about what I thought. I didn't have many answers, I was spending so much time just looking out the window, trying to figure out what Delhi looked like.

After a journey of about an hour through roads and paths that I would never be able to recreate, we arrived at the apartment of my Daddy-ji and my mother in law, Mummy-ji. We stagger up the stairs—by this time all this moving and driving and thinking and traveling was beginning to take a toll. I was getting ready to sleep.

Mummy-ji was up and ready for us. We come in the door and she smiles, thrilled to see her daughter home again after so many years. And Deepti was amazed at how much the apartment had changed—they had redecorated up to the minute of our arrival. New paint, new cabinets, new work in the bathrooms. It looked wonderful.

And then...that's when my mummy-ji tried to poison me.

Now, I have to take a step back and say two things. 1. She didn't mean to. And 2. She had no idea I had an allergy to cashews. I didn't either until a year or two ago. It's one of those things. One of those things that makes my face turn red, my tongue swell and difficulty breathing.

So, mummy-ji, because you are supposed to do welcome home prayer, or pooja, did one. A pooja involves rice, candles, and Indian sweets. Without thinking, as mummy-ji is offering the Indian sweet to me, she has to put it into my mouth, I open wide, ready to receive. It's only after that my wife thinks to ask:

"Are there any cashews in the sweets?"

Daddy-ji, as proud as can be: "They ALL are made from cashews!"

I take the rest out of my mouth. We wait. Nothing happens. We breathe easy. It was out first cultural hurdle. Which we all came through with flying colors. We talk a little more but we are all beginning to fade, my in-laws have been up for many hours waiting and we have been traveling all day.

We head off to our rooms...ready to sleep in a non-traveling way...

And then...well...of course, then is the next day. My first day in India!

The View #12, Vintage!

2008-02-21T21:21:00.004-08:00

View From My Apartment 12

The trip continues...

So. Where did we leave off? Ah. Yes. Jolly old England. Land of Shakespeare. Tea. And Royalty. The epitome of good behavior.

Well. Perhaps.

Heathrow, when we had landed had been under cloud cover for days. And this had backed up a lot of planes. A lot. And not just in England. Apparently there were flights out of Europe that weren't even taking off because they couldn't land at Heathrow.

We had just missed our flight and now it was time to rebook. My wife and I, and the rest of Europe. We got into the line as quickly as we could. And began the process of waiting. Which, really, shouldn't take long, right? There were maybe 50 people a head of us. It should be fine. Right. Maybe there's even another flight out to Delhi today, we'll just be hours late, but we'll still get there.

Two hours later and I was beginning to think, perhaps they needed more staff.

Basically, there were three people who were assigned to rebook us lost travelers. And many of them were pissed lost travelers who were determined to laugh in the face of mother nature, the airlines and destiny and still arrive where they wanted to as soon as they possibly could. Many of them didn't understand: there are no flights. One guy was trying to get to Denver, CO. Denver was undergoing a blizzard. I knew he wasn't going to make it. So, things took some time.

As I said in the last edition, the British are not particularly good at solving problems and this trip was certainly testing that theory, but they ARE excellent at apologizing. And waiting in line as another opportunity to apologize. In this case, for not having enough staff to handle the rebooking. At about two and half hours in line, they started passing out water, sandwiches, and cookies. Mm. Cookies.

Finally, we get to the front of the line. Which is a great place to be. Finally the journey is over, finally the pickering, the depression, the what the hells are over. We've arrived. Perhaps there's another flight today? Sure, that guy didn't get to go to Denver, but that was Denver, we're doing to India, surely we must be different!

No.

They rebook us on the next flight, which will be the next day. I think the guy behind the counter was happy with us—we didn't argue or yell with him. Why? Unless he can fly a plane he ain't worth it. The flight being the next day, they gave us a hotel room. Bonus!

And now we have to go through customs, which of course means standing in another line.

Panic, however, sets in. I'm a US citizen. I have a US passport. Many places in the world, Europe and the UK for example, I don't need a visa to visit. It kind of kicks ass really. The US passport. Heee AH! However. My wife is an Indian citizen. Indian citizens require a visa to visit the United Kingdom. Will she be able to get out of the airport?

We get to the head of the line much faster—there's more staff—go figure. Behind the counter is a snappily dressed British Bloke. I say Bloke because he had pin stripped pants and purplish shirt that could only be pulled off by a British Bloke—like a guy in a British Heist film. I would never be able to pull off a look like that. I was jealous. I handed him my passport—with a knowing heart that I would have no problems.

And I didn't. And then my wife handed hers. With her Green Card.

Now. Let me tell you something you may not know about the Green Card. It's not Green. I don't know if it was ever Green. But my wife's isn't. It's like a pale yellow. However, a Green Card is a marvelous thing. When we got to India, everyone always asked, like it was a great key to some magical place. When in reality, it opens the door to our apartment in Queens.

The British Bloke checked the card, checked her passport, filled out some papers. And then...he had to check with his boss. This British Bloke was in training.

He came back all Bloke like. We were fine. For 24 hours! Wahoo! England ROCKS!

We're out of customs and then to the bus—after making our way through baggage claim, which looked like a luggage store had exploded.

We get on our bus, which will take us to a nearby hotel, for our free night with dinner and breakfast. Free! I love it! The bus made it way around the Heathrow Complex—an appropriate name for sure. And the fog was thick. I cannot emphasize this enough. I had thought I had seen thick fog. But. No. England triumphs.

We make it to the hotel, we check in, go to our room and sit. For the first time in hours. Silence. Comfort. And a bathroom that hasn't been visited by the rest of the world. We nap. Then. We eat.

The dinner is a buffet. And all you can eat. Not that one is going to eat everything. It is a buffet and has been sitting there for who knows how long. But eat we do. My wife likes deals and nothing is a better deal than free.

We go back to our room. We watch some American movie. Watch some British TV. Titter at the jokes we think we understand and then we sleep again.

Back to the airport.

We go into Terminal Four in a different way than we left it. We go in the front door. And into utter chaos. People wandering around, pushing luggage carts, leaving kids to find for themselves. People standing, sitting, sleeping, not sure what to do, where to go. Everyone was a refugee. It was like Dunkirk. (Points to anyone who remembers Dunkirk).

My wife and I were determined. Determined to get to where we needed to be and get on our damn plane. India wasn't going to wait for long.

Now. I need to step back a little. We both had checked in some luggage and we both had rolling bags for the overhead. In New York, we were told they looked ok, even though British Airways was hardcore and our bags were just a wee bit over. And from New York to Heathrow everything was fine. So. We were hoping that it wouldn't be a problem again.

It wasn't. Our luck had run out. We had to check them in. No extra charge, this time. But they wouldn't even budge a wee. My wife was pissed and I ushered her through the whole thing rather quickly, I wanted to get through security. I wanted to get to my gate.

This led to our first fight of the trip. I was trying to avoid a confrontation between my wife and the security woman. I just wanted to get my wife through everything and then...it would be ok. However, what I got was a fight between me and my wife. In hindsight, I should have just let her yell at the woman behind the counter.

But. We did it. We got through. And we had some time to kill. Which we did buying liquor at the duty free shop.

And then we went to our gate.

There were a lot of Indians going home. It was the holidays after all. But. Still. There were a lot. It was going to be a crowded flight. And this time, I was going to be able to sit next to my wife.

We boarded the plane and commenced departure procedures. In both English and Hindi. Meals were both western and Indian. The movies...yes...English and Bollywood.

I ate. I slept.

We arrived in Delhi!

Next up! Wait, is it supposed to be this cold and foggy in India? Why are my In-Laws trying to poison me!?

Another Vintage! the View #11!

2008-02-21T21:21:00.003-08:00

The View From My Apartment 11

Alright.

I guess it's time. People have been asking, some have been demanding that I write a blog about my first trip to India. So. Here it goes.

I've struggled with it, honestly. It was such a surprising trip, and many times a whirl wind. And in some ways, things were so different, that I'm not even sure how to write about it—where to put it into my brain.

When it comes down to it: this was a trip where for the first time I was meeting a lot of my in-laws at once—and then getting married. But it was also a trip to a foreign country that was going to be really foreign to me—I've only been to Canada (doesn't count), Jamaica (designed for tourists), and Texas (kind of speaks English.) This is also the home country of my wife—a place she hadn't seen in four years.

It was going to be quite a ride.

I'm going to do this in episodes—dedicating a few blogs to the whole trip, until the whole thing is done.

British Airways (Flying the We Know How to Apologize Well Skies)

Our airline of choice was British Airways. They seemed like responsible blokes, so we took it. When we got to the airport, we found out our flight was delayed, as was the flight before us. It was going to leave at the time that our flight was supposed to, so they rebooked us onto that one.

It was important that we got to Heathrow in time, as we had a connection flight to Delhi—and we really didn't want to miss it. Because to miss it would through everything into chaos. And NO one likes chaos when they are traveling across the globe.

So, they put us onto the delayed-flight-leaving-when-our-flight-should-have-left-flight. Sadly, we didn't get to sit together. More sadly, my wife had the better seat. She had leg room. And was able to get up and move. And wasn't next to a whiney 8 year old.

At least the movie selection was pleasant and the food was good.

Soon, things were to turn ugly. The flight—delayed as it was, and should have been on time for us, was getting even more behind. It seems that Heathrow was covered in fog. To me, fog isn't so bad, it's like a little cloud, just makes driving a little bit of a hassle.

A click and the dulcet tones of the captain would come on. "Good evening ladies and gentleman, I hope you are having a very pleasant evening. We are making our way towards the UK, but it seems that we are encountering some troubles on the ground and we maybe a little late. Nothing to worry about I'm sure, and if there is anything we can do to make your flight easier, please don't hesitate to ask. We will land just as soon as we are able."

Um. Yeah. You could land my plane on time you tea drinking limey bastard.

It was the fog though. Nothing the tea drinking limey bastard at the helm of this plane could do about it.

"Ladies and gentleman, this is the captain from the flight deck again, please pardon the intrusion. I want to give you an update—it seems Heathrow is just socked in with fog and they are having to delay landings. Keep in mind all planes are having to be delayed. We are so very, very sorry for this delay, but it just can't be helped. And again, if there is anything we can do to make your flight easier, please don't hesitate to ask. If there are any more updates I'll announce them just as soon as I can."

I have never encountered British fog. The British, they know how to do fog. It was thick. It was grey. And it was impossibly dense. And planes had a hard time landing. The fog had been there for three days and Heathrow was in chaos. Chaos like I had never seen before.

"Ladies and Gentleman, the captain again, I hope you had a jolly time flying with us, I'm sorry for all the delays, and unfortunately, due to the shut down of Heathrow, of course, which is due to the fog, and not our own inability to schedule planes, we will not be landing at a terminal, but some where out on the tarmack, where a bus will take you to your destination. I do hope you had a pleasant trip and you will fly with us again! Cheerio!"

As we were approaching, it was getting really close to when our flight to Delhi (ah, India!) was going to shut its doors and take off. My wife had convinced the flight crew that we needed to run to get to our connection—so they allowed us to move up to first class.

If you ever get a chance to be in first class—take it. The comfy seats made me forget my connection. Oh, sweet, sweet comfy seats.

Anyway. The plane landed. In the fog. As we went down the steps to the awaiting bus, I could barely make it out, the fog was so thick. And it was chilly. And it was wet. Where had we landed? My wife and I hurry down the ramp, into the bus...and we were off. This didn't bode well for our connection.

Running through an airport isn't like the movies. There is no music, there is no grand gesture. It's: OMG, I have to get to my connection, OMG, I hope security doesn't think I'm a terrorist. OMG, I hope my heart doesn't burst.

We ran. We bickered about which way we needed to go. Finally, we found where we needed to go. And of course, had to go through ANOTHER security check in. Which we do. Rapidly. Only to find out...yes...the plane had closed its door...and had taken off.

Crap.

Next up: Three hours in line! Chaos in Terminal 4! My trip to England! Wait! You said you were going to India!

Vintage! Blog! #10!

2008-02-21T21:21:00.001-08:00

The View From My Apartment 10

About clutter, I'm a man of two minds. In some ways, I actively support it. In other ways...well...I carefully organize my bookshelf and my CDs. Perhaps I suffer from a lame kind of OCD.

My wife just got back from India, and I was a good husband and I cleaned the house before she got home. Not that it was quite a sty, but I had been living the life of a bachelor, so things needed to be picked up. Of course, as soon as she got home, we had to open the suitcases right away—hey, there were presents—and so the clutter returned.

But that is easily remedied—she's working on putting all the doo dads and such away.

The physical clutter is easy to pick up, because we see it, we touch it, and sometimes stub our toe on it. But, in the 21st century, there is a more insidious kind of clutter, a clutter that has no stench, a clutter that maybe isn't really clutter, but...it is. I am referring to electronic clutter.

Last night, in an effort to not watch TV, and since I wasn't particularly interested in working, I went through my hard drive, just to see what scripts or monologues or whatever (remember it was an attempt to find something else to do than work) I might find. I found a lot. A lot.

Letters to friends I don't even talk to anymore, contact information that is horribly out of date, introductory emails, horrible writing assignments, etc, etc. A glut of electronic information. These are files that I haven't opened in years and years.

I thought about it. It doesn't hurt me to have it. I certainly don't stub my toe on it, and if I don't want to look at it, I don't have to open those files. And these are small files, it's not like they are taking up a whole lot of room. But—in the end, in the interests of organization and reality, I deleted them.

But then, I looked into my playwriting files. Into the folders of plays that I consider finished. Drafts and drafts and drafts, notes and notes. Endless doodles of scenes. False starts. Drafts that I will never look at again. What should I do with this?

I have no idea. It's the clutter that is more than clutter. These old drafts aren't the pieces of paper lying on my floor, or the coins that have fallen out of my pocket. These are the beginnings and mutant brothers of my work. Do I just chuck it? And if I do, it goes into electronic oblivion...it's not like I can run out and dig it out of the garbage.

But...they serve no purpose anymore. Sure, someone could appeal to my vanity and say preserve it for the future...but...again, that's an argument to my vanity. And believe me there's enough bad work in these files I don't need whatever reputation I have severely crippled by it.

I feel like I should dispose of them. Just go on a mad Guy Montag burning spree. (5 points for anyone knowing that reference.) Just go into the computer and delete, delete, delete! Gloriously sending those files to the recycle bin, bwah hah hah, and not look back! Just a clean simple folder for a play, story, or screenplay.

But, I'm resistant.

In some ways, I do feel bound by these electronic files that have no mass or mind. They reflect who I was at the time I was creating them. Not only are they pieces of my work, but, quite simply, they are pieces of me. Of who I was. Of where I was. Of what I was thinking. At that time. And that makes it hard to throw away.

But, I don't read them. I don't go in and examine who I was. That's who I was. I'm not that now.

We all have tokens of our past. Objects that we have imbued with significance, with memories and emotions of a certain place and time. I have a Return of the Jedi blanket, I adore that blanket and when my wife is really nice, I get to use it. I'm looking at my bookshelf and I see a Darth Vader shampoo bottle from 1980. These objects transport us into our past, through memory. Sentiment is a powerful thing.

But these are real objects—I have to move Darth Vader if I want to get a book.

In the end—it's all clutter. But is it worth saving? These electronic files take up a tiny, tiny bit of my hard drive. They could easily remain and nothing would change the function of my computer. Like I said, I'm of two minds.

So...what do you think? Should I purge? Should I keep? Help me solve this uniquely 21st Century problem!

For next time, and I promise it won't be so long: My Trip to India! ALL of those new relatives! The Taj Mahal! The Wedding! And, of course, super-star Amitabh Bachchan!

Vintage, The View #9

2008-02-21T21:20:00.003-08:00

View From My Apartment 9

I think it's only fitting, since it has been forever since I have posted, that I write about something that is clearly one of my favorite things: Procrastination.

I'm sure I've mentioned it before. But, because of its clear importance in my life, I feel it..s important to talk about it again.

Procrastination. Or maybe, I'm just someone in favor of crastination. What is crastination? I don't know. I would look it up, but that would require me to get up, cross the eight feet to my book shelf and get down the B.A.D. (Big Ass Dictionary). I'll do it later.

I don't know how I became a procrastinator, but, here I am. I wait. Maybe I'm a waiter, not a procrastinator. Nah. Because if I'm a waiter, then I'm just waiting for the right moment, with procrastination, one is experiencing the right moment to do what ever activity one might have, but they are putting it off.

I like to distract myself. Just now, I looked out the window to see what was there, not to think of this next thought, but, what might be more interesting out side rather than inside my head. Back to distraction: thank god I was born when I was, in a century that thrives on the next big distraction. TV, movies, gossip. So much information is flowing at all times, it takes effort to shut it out, rather than a century ago, one probably had to make an effort to find out what was going on in the world.

And now, of course, we are reaching a point where our distractions are competing with each other. TVs are getting bigger and flatter..one company is putting out a flat panel TV with an ambient light on the back..as if the flashing images of your favorite shows are no longer enough to remind you where to look.

Game consoles are getting faster with better images, and of course, you can also multi-task in your distraction, because they can also be used as DVD players. And in fact, with the new Wii, you can play sports using the remote, going through the motions and everything, probably work up a real set. It's only costs several hundred dollars, much better deal than buying an 80 dollar racket to go play tennis. It keeps you safe out of that dangerous sun and that noxious fresh air.

Not to be out done, and taking a different course, is the MP3 player..smaller and smaller, with more and more storage space. Now, we can take our music library out for a jog, which in the old days of CD awkward, in the middle ages of cassette tape weird, and the ancient days of vinyl upsetting, and I don't think people jogged in the days of the shellac disks. Perhaps in the future we shall be able to implant our MP3 players under our skin and control it by our finger tips, uploading with a wire stored in our nose.

(Whoops. I just looked up gramophone records on Wikipedia. I wanted to know what they used to be made of, for the above paragraph, and then I got stuck reading about the argument between CD and vinyl regarding sound fidelity. So, let's just take this as an example of the quick sand like quality of the internet to distract.)

Distraction.

Honestly, I distract my self from getting things done because I don't always want to get things done. That sounds counter intuitive, I know. But. Well. I'm a writer. So, I'm supposed to write, right? So, what happens if I write long enough? Well, probably, I would finish something. And when I finish something, I need to do something with it, right?

Right.

But, what if nothing happens with the stuff that I've written? All that time wasted. So, it goes.

Let me be more honest. Sometimes I want to distract myself from the work at hand because...ok...let me put it this way. I work with deadly chemicals. In this case, the deadly chemicals are the ones in my brain. I hope the work that I create touches people some how, some way emotionally, that means I'm triggering chemicals in their heads, which means, I need to get into some emotional places myself. The deadly chemicals.

Writing truthfully, honestly doesn't come easily. It's exhausting. It's hard. Especially when you begin stepping into things that might hurt. Hey, not everything can feel good!

I know when I'm getting into something close, personal, because I begin to get antsy. I want to search for something on the internet, I want to change what I'm listening to, I want to go check out what's on the History Channel (World War 2, again!?), rather than to sit and deal and write about something that is personal, painful, and perhaps best not brought up again.

I procrastinate to avoid. Avoid ..going there... Avoid finishing. Avoid, avoid, avoid. It's far easier to distract myself with an MP3 player than face what..s going on around me.

Because if I face what is going on around me, then I have to do something about it. And maybe that's why distraction devices race off the shelves: we don't want to really look outside our windows, we don't want to hear what the person next to us on the subway maybe saying, we don't want to know.

Because then we would have to do something about what we see...

Another Vintage Blog The View #8

2008-02-21T21:20:00.001-08:00

View From My Apartment 8

My apologies. It's been sometime since I have written. It's because. Well. I didn't want to admit something.

You see. For almost a year now, I have been harboring a secret. A secret that...well...a secret that is too heavy for me to carry as a secret any longer. This secret is a burden and a half.

Ok.

I'm not all real.

That's my secret. I am not a totally real human. Some of my parts are fake. That's right. Fake. I am slightly more machine than man than I was when I was born. Oh. True. I don't have that cybernetic arm that I'm hoping to get someday. It is something much more insidious than that. With a cybernetic arm, that would be clear, that would be obvious. You would know that I would have the ability to pick up a car and hack into your computer, entering into the digital world.

I have a fake tooth. Well. I WILL have a fake tooth. For the moment, I have a retainer like thing with a fake tooth hanging off of it, designed and determined to fool you, the casual viewer.

Last winter I was eating some Indian food my wife had brought me. I was chewing on some Tandoori chicken, as I am wont to do, when it happened. I bit into a bone. It seems part of the preparation of Tandoori chicken is taking the bird apart with a saw..a table saw, or, perhaps, just a handsaw. So. I bit into a bone. And it hurt. A lot. It was the left incisor, you know, the lame Dracula like tooth, the one you use to tear flesh from the bone, and not bite into the bone? That one.

Well. It started to wiggle. Oh, man, I thought. This sucks. It wiggled and it wiggled. I was going back to Illinois to see my parents and I already had plans to see the dentist I had been going to for many many years. How many? I don't know. That many.

So, for a few weeks, the damn thing wiggled and I kept biting into things with it. I cursed my name to the high heavens, yet, nothing happened. The tooth wiggled and I kept biting into things. It was a vicious circle.

Finally, I arrived at the dentist.

So, here's another dark secret. I still have baby teeth. Perhaps that isn't a surprise to some, but, it..s true. Behind my baby teeth there was nothing...no adult tooth to replace it. These babies in my mouth are the original things, in there since...well, I don't know since when, that's how long.

And it turns out that the tooth that bit into the Tandoori chicken was one of these lucky ones to have survived 30 years, one of the last ones to hold on desperately.

The dentist looked, he poked, he x-rayed and he sighed. It had to come out, he said. There was only 3 millimeters of root holding it in and it was never going to take hold again. The only real option was to take it out.

I was surprised at my reaction. I don't think my wife was, but, I was. I was upset. I didn't cry or anything, but it felt like someone had just punched me in the chest. My tooth had to come out. I had never had a tooth taken out. Well, ok. When they FELL out, but even then, I didn't pull them out, I let them stay as long as they liked, holding on by the merest of flesh. No string and door for me.

It's a body part, you know. And this one, THIS one had stayed around. It liked being in my mouth. And now...I had to part with it. All of a sudden, I felt like I was falling a part. My knees starting hurting, my hair turned white and fell out, and I had an overwhelming need to sit outside in the summer with a blanket on my lap.

The tooth was pulled with out much fuss, but a lovely amount of laughing gas. Which is funny, I don't remember laughing as the oral surgeon approached me with pliers. He gripped the tooth and pulled. Didn't feel a thing. It's just a very weird visual. And then...

And then comes the cybernetic parts. Alright. Not REALLY cybernetic. It doesn't do anything. The implant. But, it sounds very sci-fi. Me and my implant. It's basically a metal plug in which, at a later date, they will screw in a fake tooth. A fake tooth, I hope, is made from some sci-fi metal which will allow me to tear through steel.

Of course, from the removal of the tooth until the new super tooth, I had to heal for eight months. In the meantime, I had to wear a retainer with a plastic tooth attached with the cute name of ..flipper... Because, as the dental assistants tell me, patients flip them in and out. Cute.

I suddenly went from being old and my body falling apart to being 13 again and wanting no one to look at me or my mouth. And suddenly, I had to learn how to talk clearly all over again. Nothing screams success like a retainer lisp!

But, I'm now nearing the end of the tooth journey. Soon, I'll be able to lay down the retainer, and pick up the new tooth. Which, sadly, will not be super and I should probably NOT try to tear through steel.

The eight months have been interesting. At the beginning, I never left the house without the flipper in my mouth. Never. I would turn back if I forgot it. But, then. Eventually, I started leaving flipper free. I was...nervous about how I looked. Without a tooth. What did people say? Is that girl crying because of me?

No. She wasn't. It's New York City. There are a lot better things to cry about.

The new tooth is going to be put in just after Thanksgiving. It should take an hour of screwing, literally, and probably glue. And then, I'll have a brand new smile. No more plastic, no more retainer lisp.

And it's kind of a weird feeling. I'm thrilled that I don't have the retainer anymore, which I have to keep in a glass of water at night..yeah, with the little fizzy things. How cool am I? It's going to be gone soon and I'll have a tooth that isn't original, that is totally man-made, by some person in a lab who makes teeth. Teeth. TEETH!

In the end, it's totally unnecessary. I don't need that tooth to eat. Or smile. Or breathe. Or...whatever. But getting the fake tooth will make me feel more complete. Even if it's an illusion, it will be like I have all of my parts. After a while, I will forget about the tooth being fake. It will be there, like all of the rest.

And maybe that's what we do as we start to age, and we aren't ready for it. We try and replace what we have lost, or cover what may be growing (!). I go back and forth whether I'm ready for my future self. Some days, I'm all bring it on! Give me my soft belly! My thinning hair! My stiff joints! But many days, I want to say: I can eat ANYTHING! I can put my legs behind my head! I don't need to sleep!

It's inevitable, however. It's a law of the Universe, its Thermodynamics. Every system slides towards Chaos. I'm just not sure how to do it gracefully...

Another Vintage Blog #7

2008-02-21T21:19:00.004-08:00

View From My Apartment 7

So. This week I'm going to write about last week. And last week was vacation. And, ah, what a vacation it was.

My friend Ben was getting married in a lake lodge resort in northern Minnesota, so we decided that we would make a go of it and get there a few days early to enjoy some peace and quiet. And did we have the quiet? Oh, yes. We did.

We left New York City at 6 am..and who would think New York would be noisy at 6 am? We landed in lovely Minneapolis around 10 am, picked up our rental car and hit the highway. All the way to...The Mall of America.

That's right. The Mall of AMERICA. The mall that represents America. I guess. I'm not sure what the thinking was, but then, it's three floors and the size of the Pentagon, so I don't know if there was any thinking involved. I remember on 9/11 that it was evacuated for fear that it too would be attacked after the Pentagon and the World Trade Center.

We stopped at Macy's to get our wedding present..could we have been bothered to get one in New York? No. So. We got them a present at Macy's in the Mall of America. We went to the counter to get it wrapped. The woman took the present, we chose the number and then we waited. And by we, I mean all three of us. The woman behind the counter sort of stared at the box, we stared at her. Slowly, but, surely, she started pulling paper. Then looked at it all again. Then cut it. Then pulled some tape, looked at it, and then applied it to the package. Twenty minutes later...

We were on the road! Heading north! North into the woods.

It was a little scary.

I lived in Minneapolis for four years. And the first north I had ever gone was a north suburb. I had heard of the ..beauty.. of Minnesota, but I had always scoffed at that idea. How could it possibly be more beautiful than Minneapolis? Than St. Paul? I mean, come ON.

Traffic disappeared as we went north. It fell away as we got off the major highways. And then...the color...so much green. And mixed in with the green...yellows, oranges, reds. I had forgotten about Minnesota in the fall.

And then. Two rainbows. Two RAINBOWS. Within minutes of each other.

Ok. I admit it. North Minnesota is prettier than the Twin Cities.

The Lodge that we were going to was fairly expensive, more expensive than my traditional home away from home..the Super 8. But, meals were included and it was supposed to be nice, and we don't spend money like that normally, so...what the hell.

Oh. My. God. The place, first of all, was BEAUTIFUL. We got a tiny cabin, i.e., cute, right by a lake, and so every morning we wake up with this view...of water...of trees...just beauty. We had our own fireplace! We had our own hammock! People...this was awesome.

The lodge served two meals, included in the price of admission, breakfast and dinner. Breakfast had fresh baked goodies as well as eggs or pancakes or waffles. And the dinner...the dinner. It was a four course dinner. Four. And if you wanted you could have five or six courses.

And let me tell you...the Filet Mignon...it was heaven in the form of medium rare beef. And I say this with honesty...if it was legal in the United States, I would marry it. I would marry that piece of beef, I loved it that much. Deepti..I'm sorry.

The wedding went off without a hitch with the most perfect weather that Nature could provide. People were happy, charming, all those great things that happens at weddings. I got to see old friends, introduce them to my wife and talk and talk and talk...

And after spending five days there, we had to come back to New York. A land of concrete, of noise and cable TV. A land were you can get anything you want right way, it may not be very good, but you can get it now.

I'm hardly one that can stand up and say no to fast food. I am clearly one who is firmly entrenched in the I Want It Now or as Close to Now as I Can Have It Generation. I like that I can go in and get a meal plopped down in front of me fast, I like that I can go and get Japanese food in a few minutes.

But is it always good to get something right away? To just have it handed to you without any trouble (because waiting is a form of trouble for some)?

True..I didn't make the food in this magical lodge that I visited. It was a person with great skill, who took the time to train and practice to make such divinity. And then, to take the time to prepare the meal for someone the likes of me..who can whip up a mean batch of cereal.

But, is faster better? Is now better?

I would argue no. While it's great to get what you want right away, there is to be said for the journey towards what you want. Be it a meal, the perfect pair of shoes, or a career.

I admit it; I hate struggling, struggling sucks. But, if it takes some struggle to make Filet Mignon that I would marry...

We miss the woods. We miss the ease of living. Or maybe it was the fresh air. I don..t know. But, suddenly, as we arrived back in New York, there wasn..t a thrill of coming home, but the sense of defensive screens coming back up. Of going back into battle. And it's taking some time to remember: why are we living in this city?

Because it's a part of a journey...

That's it for this week. Next time...the topic: Why do I write all sentimental and sweet and shit in this blog? It should be electric.

Vintage Blog View #6

2008-02-21T21:19:00.003-08:00

The View From My Apartment 6

Why is pine the smell of clean? I think its an interesting question. And frankly, I have no idea. My wife wanted me to make up an answer and hope I would fool all of you kind people out there who read this blog. I briefly considered it...I did. But then I didnt come up with any good answer. Other than this...

Because it smells better than coffee. Because it smells better than tomato. Because it smells better than a lot of other things.

We associate the smell of clean being something different that the smell of dirty.

They COULD invent soap that had no smell whatsoever. A completely odorless soap that does the job just as well. And they have for laundrybecause certain people are allergic to the chemical smells they add to the detergent.

But who would want to clean their kitchen counters and floors with a soap that had no smell? No one, I would guess.

Who wants to spend all that time cleaning their house and have it smell exactly as it did before? How would you know that you accomplished anything? Sure, the socks are off the floor but if the joint smells the same, what does it matter? No one likes the smell of dirty, no matter how clean it looks.

Personally, and Im sure Im not alone, and I know this wont be a huge admission to my parents, Im not a huge fan of cleaning. Now, I dont live in filth, I live in disorganization. (Unless we talk about my booksthen we are talking organized.) I admit to a certain amount of chaos. And as the law of Thermodynamics teaches us: if you want to fight chaos, then you have to put energy into it.

So, when we clean, we put a lot of energy into it. And I believe we want to know without a doubt that we have cleaned. True, we can see it. But in this day and age where video can be manipulated, who is possibly going to believe their eyes? So, we want to see and smell it. We want to smell clean.

Of course, now there are products that give you that smell of clean without actually having to clean! Fabreeze. Whats the point of Frabreeze? Oh, thats rightit just makes things smell clean. You dont actually HAVE to clean, just spray it on those dirty, smelly shoes, and voila! Its like clean.

Theres a Frabreeze commercial where a mom is going through her sons roomor very butch daughterand she finds a huge mess in the closet, including dirty sneakers. Whats the solution? Spray Frabreeze on it and its just like being clean.

Its easy...

And maybe thats what bugs me about Fabreeze. It takes all the smell out of clean, and just gives you the smell.

It feels hallow. It feels empty. I hate that. Do we really want less? Do we only want ease? What about substance?

I feel like we already live in a time where substance is losing ground. TV, Novels, Film, Musicthey have always had their lighter fair, but it feels like the lighter fair is more and more important to people. For Gods sake, why do we care about pictures of Tom Cruises baby? Why is it on main stream network news? I feel like now more than ever bubble gum literature and easy movies receive praise.

Who wants to be challenged? Who wants to have to question their lives and what they do in the Universe?

Im not arguing for the total elimination of all escapists stories. I love my summer blockbuster, I do. But, I try to balance it out. I dont think I can go see a movie like Mission Impossible 3 to help understand my life. I go see movies like Little Miss Sunshine.

But...just as a question...do people want to know, to want learn, want to challenge themselves? Is there a point to art? To storytelling? Do people want substance?

Or would they prefer to just spray Fabreeze on it?

A Vintage Blog The View #5

2008-02-21T21:19:00.001-08:00

The View From My Apartment 5

Today I want to talk about that ugly emotion known to all as Envy. Im choosing envy because, well, I thought I was jealous, but then, I realized...nope...Im actually envious.

Envy according to my Oxford English Reference Dictionarygod, I wish I was British, is a feeling of discontented or resentful longing aroused by anothers better fortune, etc.

Ill admit it, I suffer from the big old case of Envy.

Recently a friend of mine sent out a mass email about some work of hers that is going to be produced. And its great. Intellectually, I think its wonderful. We need more new work produced, she is someone that works hard, she writes what she wants to write and I dont think she compromises. So, its great news.

Of course, I didnt take it as such. Now, Ill be completely honestand Im sure she knows this, so I dont think Im letting out any great secret: Im not a huge fan of her work. Its not my cup of tea. Its not the work Im interested in writing and not always interested in seeing. Like I said, Im glad shes doing the work that shes doing, Im glad that shes finding companies and audiences that like/love her worktheres enough room for ALL kinds of theater in this world. She works hard so deserves her success.

But, what is killing meand here is that ugly wordwhat Im envious ofthat people arent producing MY work. (Dont worry, I hear the whining too). I look at the success of my friend and I wish it was MY successthough the reality is, the theaters that are producing her work arent interested in my workwe work in very different genres. But I WANT to have success that I can email out to people as well. I want to attend productions, I want to have...you know...everything.

Its this battle that I am having between my intellect and my gut. My gut is a whiny three year old demanding that he gets treated the same as everyone elseregardless of...well, regardless of anything. The three year old is throwing a tantrum because he didnt get the same kind of bicycle as his brother. The three year old has chocolate chip cookie crumbles running down his shirt, refuses to put on a clean pair of pants and will NOT take his nap, and you cant make him.

On the other side is the intellect, who is busy trying to talk to the outraged three year old, trying to placate him with statements of logic, reason, and positive energy. The Intellect is wearing a nice cardigan sweater, you know the one with leather patches on the elbow, and would be smoking a pipe, if it wasnt for all that cancer. The Intellect knows hes right and yet still finds it impossible to control the three year old.

So, its midnightthe three year old is still running around screaming his head off and the Intellect is thinking of picking up a drinking habit.

Whats the way out? Well. I guess, its admitting you have a problem. Wait. Thats drug addiction.

Perhaps the same thing applies here.

Alright. My name is Larry Pontius and I have envious addiction.

I get horrible envious of the successs of my friends. When I hear a friend is getting a production or a development workshop or a fellowshipthe three year old awakens and wants his juice box. I want the same things that they have, completely ignoring two things: 1) They are struggling just as much as I am and 2) my own successes.

One of my closest friends in the whole wide world is a fabulous playwright named Megan Gogerty (megangogerty.com). She is a marvelous human being and an extremely talented person. I am envious of her success. Shes had fellowships, productions, and yet, as she would tell you, she is still struggling to succeed in this business. (PSa quick plug, she wrote a moving musical called Love Jerrygo to her website for my info.)

And then there is my successesI just finished working on a 13 part serial that will be made for Pakistani TV. I got paid to write. And as my wife can attest I whined and complained the whole time. It took me like three weeks to realize that I am being paid to write. Wait? Isnt that what youve always wanted Larry? Why yes, yes it is. But, like a three year old tyrant, I dont see the toys that I have, but the toys in my brothers hands.

Clearly, I have issues. But, Im getting comfortable with that. Paula Vogel came to my school once, many years ago and spoke to us Undergraduates. She spoke about this very thing. She looked at her success and the success of her friends as mutually inclusiveas one gained some success, it seemed to allow them all an opportunities. As an individual within a community achieves, so does the rest of the community. We rise together, she said.

Its a great image, and its a wonderfully positive way to go through the world.

But, try explaining that to the three year old...

Next time: Why is pine the smell of clean?

A Vintage Blog, The View #4

2008-02-21T21:18:00.003-08:00

The View From My Apartment 4

So, what is it going to be this week? What finely honed view point is that master of the blog going to come up with? Well. Im glad I have your attention. It is going to be about some that has come to take over the American consciousness. And deservedly so.

So this blog will cover: Weight Loss...or, There Aint No Hot Chicks at the Gym.

I admit it. Im trying to lose some weight.

What is this world coming to?

And why have I jumped on the band wagon?

I could argue that I jumped on the band wagon because my wife signed us up for a gym membership that locked us in for two years, so I might as well go. It was quite a surprise to receive that phone call from my wifeI was expecting one in regards of prices of membership, not being signed up for one. In fact, I was hoping it was only going to be about prices, because, I admit it: I was going to widdle my out of joining a gym. I was going to back away from any promise I had made to my wife in terms of joining a gym, getting healthier, and hopefully, compromising on what I like to eat.

But, alas. The sentence was brought down. Two years, hard time, to be served at Ballys.

That, however, isnt the reason I go to the gym, honestly.

Now. Im not a fat man. Im not. Ive seen fat people...Ive tried to share a seat on the subway with a fat person. Notice: tried. However, I do have a little bit of a tummy. Its like the fat on a duck, it provides for my long flights down south in the fall...if I were to do one. Its a little pudge, thats all. Its those Little Debbie Zebra Cakes collecting in one location. Its all those years of my youth not exercising, not doing much physical, besides performing on the stage. And now that I dont perform regularly...well...you can see where Im heading with this...

So. I got a few pounds I want to shed. Or more specifically, I want to get rid of some fat and replace it...either with muscle or...nothing. I want to get rid of my pudge. Shed it. Make it go away.

But, its not just about the pudge. Theres more to it. I go to the gym because I realize Im getting older. I have realized my own mortality. It could be the thinning hair. But, its actually the stiffness and the inflexibility. Its the hangovers. Its all those things that I didnt feel when I was 22 years old.

And as I have realized my own mortality, I have really recognized the mortality of those around me.

My mother over the past year has practically been rebuilt from the ground up. Over the past year she has had: surgery on a foot, minor surgery on both hands, breast cancer, and, continues to have, diabetes. And soon, in a few weeks, surgery on her spinal cord to help correct to problems in one of her discs.

This however, has barely slowed her down. My mother is a very independent woman. Aggressively so sometimes. She likes to be able to do what she wants. When I was in graduate school, every spring she would drive down to Austin from Illinois to see me, and then over to Colorado to go skiing. And then home. By herself. She came out to see my wife and me after we moved into our apartment in New York Citywhen she needed a walker to help her walk. Its quite impressive if not a little crazy.

Recognition of mortality doesnt mean a fear of death, a fear so gripping that you dont leave your home because that bus, oh, that city bus is going to hit you...No. Realizing your mortal makes you realize how precious time on Earth really is. You only get...85 years? Maybe more, maybe less. When I was a teenager, 85 years seemed like a long, long time. But as I have grown up, and time has slid by...85 is a drop in the bucket. Its a blink of the eye. True, so much can happen in 85 years...but...still, theres still a lot more that COULD happen.

Do I wish that I had taken more of an interest in my health ten years ago? Sure. But, then I wish a lot of things about ten years ago. Past is past. That doesnt matter. What matters is what I can do in the present that paves the way towards the future. And so, if I can get into the gym a few days a week, get into the habit of eating a little better, working out a little longer, maybe Ill feel really good when Im 80 years old.

So. Time is precious. Its not to be wasted. Life is for living. And quite frankly, I want to live a long time and I want to feel good that whole time.

Im losing my hair, I dont see very well, Ive lost a tooth (and through technology, I will be rebuilt), I have knee problems some times. Im not as young as I once was. But you know what? I still feel pretty good.

So. I go to the gym. I get over feeling silly in the locker room, feeling silly on the machine. I hunker down and I read a magazine and I sweat. Just like everyone else in the gym.

Oh. My wife gave me another reason for me to go to the gym. She said, You could look at the hot chicks. Well. Guess what....There aint no hot chicks at the gym. There are people like me...people who realize its time to get on the treadmill and get that pudge off the belly. People who want to feel good about themselves. People who want to feel their heart pound in their chests. People who like to live.

And remember...you ONLY have 85 years...so much to do...so much to do...!

Vintage Blog The View #3

2008-02-21T21:18:00.001-08:00

he View From My Apartment 3

So, I promised in my next blog that I would come back with good news.

And so...I bring you good news.

I finished episode 8 of 13 for my TV series I am writing for Pakistan, so I am more than half way done. In fact, I can count the remaining episodes on one hand. Its been a strange and rocky road writing for a series that will be made halfway around the world, rather than the whole way around the world, because, well, because that would be New York, if it was all the way around. I think itll turn out pretty good, and Ive learned a whole lotlike its hard, really hard to do this...but it has allowed me to do other things.

I worked out yesterday. I did. My wife and I are determined to reinvest in our commitment to going to the gym, they are taking our money anyway, I should go and sweat there, and be the ass who doesnt wipe off his machine. And, Ive lost two pounds...

I am successfully selling some comic books. Those that live near me have already heard the question, Do you want to buy some comics? from me...Im sure many of you, and you are out there, had to resist the temptation to catch up on back issues on Batman, Superman, the Hulk and of course, Aquaman. I have turned to the internet and the joy that is EBay. My father is a little sad to hear that Im selling them at a ridiculous rate, but then, the point is to get rid of them...those delicious, sweet tales of heroism that so engaged me in my youth, that of course, have significantly devalued over the years. But I AM selling them, so it still goes into the good news part of the graph.

I had a great time with my friends Tommy and Jud this past weekend. Wives went out to dance, as the men stayed home and ate meat. Yes. Meat. Sausage. Chicken. And cheese. From a can. And we drank. Oh, yes, did we drink. Things with Vodka in them. And oh, yes, we smoked. Yes, we did. Jud was very kind and provided tobacco products for his friends who just love their Nico-Queen...

I had a massage on Friday. For our one year anniversary, my wife, wonderful soul that she is, gave me a massage. Well. I mean to say, she bought me a massage at a health clinic. So, Friday, after getting some work done, I headed to the health clinic in Mid-town Manhattan, got undressed and got a rub down. The woman was kind and only hurt me a little bit...she worked the muscles that had more recently decided to masquerade as bone...she worked those out. However, Im sad to say, though relieved, she did not massage my Psoas.

And finally, I have good news to reportTom DeLay must remain on the ballot in Texas...good luck with that Write In campaign Republicans! This is an example of many foolish things that are happening in the political races this fall--I'm sure the level of Absurdity will increase as we near the elections. My only hope--all incumbents lose. I honestly want everyone to be thrown out--Republican and Democrat alike.

And while this isn't good news, I do want to say this. While I have never been a big fan of Lieberman, I never did get on board with the Joe-Mentum campaign, I'm a little annoyed at Democratic Party members telling him to stop running. This is a democracy, he's on the ticket, he can run. Yes, maybe he's a sore loser, and yes, maybe he will steal votes away from Ned Lamont. But guess what, it's a democracy, and there is no law saying how many people can run.

And perhaps with 3 candidates, well, there's probably more, but how votes for the Libertarians?, with 3 candidates, perhaps we will get more than just party rhetoric, perhaps people will ACTUALLY have a choice.

I think it's unAmerican--I can't believe I just wrote that--to tell someone NOT to run for something, because you are afraid of losing.

Is your candidate SO bad that you have to stop competition?

If you are going to run for office you have to accept the fact that you might win or lose. Losing is a part of Democracy as winning. But the point is to win on your ideas, your passion, not by narrowing the pond (mixing metaphors, damn you).

We find ourselves in a polarized society, and I think that has happened because we seem to be breaking things down to yes/no... withus/againstus... black/white... we are decreasing the level of discussion rather than increasing it.

Honestly, if I lived in Connecticut, I probably wouldn't vote for Lieberman, but, again, honestly, I don't know him very well. So, perhaps I would. I certainly think he should have the right to run, just like Lamont, that Republican...hell...even that Libertarian...but who is going to vote for him?

Vintage Blog The View #2

2008-02-21T21:17:00.000-08:00

The View from My Apartment .2

Why oh Why Cant I finish That Play?

I have lots of ideas. I have lots of plays and people bubble up to the conscience surface of my brain. There are lots of ideas in the world. Lots and lots, and dont let anyone tell you otherwise! Lots.

And some of these ideas I write down. Some of them I stick with long enough that I write into a full play. Or Creator Entity of your Choice, a screen play.

But Im slow. Oh, sure I can pump out pages when Im in full steam, I can churn them out, when I know what Im doing, where Im going, or if Im just cramped for time. Otherwise...

Lets be honest with each other, shall we? I dawdle. I do. I am the last of the great dawdlers. I dont always like sitting at my computer and writing. I hate being confined. I hate having to sit still. I hate being on output.

Input vs. Output. Those that know me know that I like to read about a bunch of different things, that I like to watch a bunch of different things, that I like to be on input. I love the inflow of information, be it about the Knights Templar of old or how one of your pets died. I love it. Im a dawdler and a gossip. And as someone that likes being on input, its hard for me to flip the switch over to output and tell you, the audience, whats going on in my heart and my soul. Could be fear...could very well be I dont like to reveal whats going on down below...

Back to dawdling. So, in the morning, when I get onto my computer, I first surf. I surf the computer well. I read two sites about the news, then a site about Sci-fi/fantasy films and comics, and then another site where sci-fi geeks get together and discuss why they think Superman Returns was a failure or why Heath Ledger is going to make a good Joker in the next Batman movie. Just dont get them on the next Star Trek movieyoull want to eat your own ear off.

Before I know it, I have wasted my time, and I dont know if my brain has gotten smarter, dumber or...is there another choice?

So, after two hours on the computer, then I have to take a break. That means lunch or seeing whats on TV....did I already mention the Knights Templar? Yes...I did. Thank you History Channel!

And then maybe its back to the computer...for a few hours...just a few, I set and I crank out some pages...before my Judge shows come on...Oh, for the power of the Peoples Court!

So...clearly, I like to distract myself. In fact, this particular blog is being written instead of writing some pages. What and Why am I distracting myself?

To be...well...to be to the heart of the matter, I dont think I like to be sitting with myself for to long. Thats why I like the input switch...its information coming in pushing around all the other stuff already inside so I dont have to think to much, just consume.

I wrote an essay once for a class about being brave. Its times like these that I dont find myself being brave. That Im not brave enough to sit with myself and create something on the page that can move peoplewhich I know I can do. That Im not brave enough to allow myself the success that I deservewhich I know I can achieve through hard work, an open heart, and perseverance.

I must be brave. To finish the work that I started. To finish the plays. To finish the stories. To move forward.

Thats it for now...

Next time...Ill write about good news...

Vintage Blog from My MySpace Blog The View #1

2008-02-21T21:16:00.000-08:00

The View From My Apartment. ..1

By way of introduction.

I live in an apartment situated in a mostly latino-family orientated part of Queens. Its called Sunnyside. Like I said, its mostly families that live around us. We have a family with a small son, maybe three years old, who, ever since we moved in says hello to us. My wife and I say, hello, right back.

Im a writer. Im actually currently being paid to write, which is extraordinary, but I still find time to complain about it. I have yet to learn to shut and realize how lucky I am, even though I think the project is tough. I think of myself as a playwright, but I have an interest in getting into screenplays. I want to eat.

My wife is an actor. A lovely woman as many of my friends and family can attest. She makes a decent enough living as an actordoing corporate shows, the occasional TV thing. She also complainsbecause shes also still learning that shes successful, as shes making most of the money she earns from acting. It may not be Broadwaybut it is acting.

I think we both have a phobia of working in an office. Perhaps not a deep seated fear, like spiders or having blood taken outminebut enough of one that working in an office feels like a living death. Or perhaps just me.

Like I said. Were both successful. But. Perhaps. Not in the way we think we should be. Which means, we dont own a car, a house, get to go on vacations or buy that island next to Johnny Depp. But. You know, if we just changed what are definition of success, just a littleto something like: I want to make my living as an artist...well...then....we have achievement!

Of course. Theres still the day to day living and the day to day problems of an artist. Mine mostly revolve around not getting enough done...but...this is about introduction...and I wanted this first blog to be short.

Next blog: Why oh Why cant I finish that play?