More like ROCKtober.

It's been a couple of long weeks for me, and I'm happy to report that I've survived.  If you're at all interested, here's a breakdown of the last few weeks of me not posting.

I spent almost all of September working on two projects for Space 55.   The first of these projects is a production of Kim Porter's "Munched."  Her play is about a mother accused of the abuse of her 5 year old daughter, with the primary "evidence" in her trial being a questionable diagnosis of "Munchausen by Proxy."  The play follows Marybeth (the mother) and Katie (the now adult daughter) twenty-two years after the fateful separation, and revisits critical moments in the past and recent events leading up to the current day.  I don't want to say too much about the plot, in case you haven't had a chance to go and see it.  You still have an oppurtunity, by the way, to see it the last weekend of October at Space 55.  It's a play whose subject matter is unusual, and it's side by side anecdotal story telling is a fascinating way of exploring the story of the two damaged main characters.  The show is great, and worth seeing while you can!  You don't have to take my word for it: here is a great review from The New Times Blog.  Also, here's a review from Raising Arizona Kids which is written by another local blogger, Lynn Trimble.

I don't trust anyone with pet birds.

A couple of notes on Ms. Trimble's review- she spends way too much time putting "under-represented" "in" "quotation" "marks" in her "second" "paragraph."  She then tells Space 55 they need a new, less "shabby" venue, and to "Deal with it."  My words to Ms. Trimble:  writing a review of the actual, physical theater doesn't make you a theater critic, it makes you an architectural critic.  Did you come to see air-conditioning vents and doorknobs, or a play?  Space 55 is hardly "anti-establishment" as you say in your post, nor is it trying to be "hip" by using a converted laundromat as a theater- they are trying to put on innovative and affordable theater.  If you want to see a better space, feel free to donate.  They are a non-profit, after all.  You can write it off on your taxes. 

In the booth at Space 55, working on my hunchback.

A twist of sweetness to offset the bitter tonic- here's an article from Modern Times entitled "More Than A Black Box" that seems to actually get the Space's ideology, and calls it (in a positive sense) "unlike any theater in Arizona."  When I first started going to shows at Space 55, I felt that way, too.  It was inviting and intimate and felt very close to home.  In a way, the venue reminded me of the kind of place I would have gone to see a local band when I was a teenager, but all grown up.  Call me sentimental, but there's something about painted brick and concrete that makes me think "local artists."  I even have black concrete floor in my living room.  I liked the Space so much that I invested probably 30 hours a week there through all of September, not to mention the hours spent searching for props and whatnot outside the actual theater walls.

The other major project I've been working on for the Space is "Hollis' Traveling Treehouse (and Dance Party), "
a show conceived of by Shawna Franks, The Amazing Ash Naftule, and myself, written by Ash and I, and directed by Shawna.  It stars some of my favorite local performers and lots of creative cats are signed on to work with us in the coming season.  In the writing process for the show, I watched two whole seasons of Pee-Wee's Playhouse, countless Blue's Clues and Dora the Explorer episodes, and even did a run thru of The Elephant Show (not as good as I remember) and other bizarre kids fair (Gulla Gulla island, bitch.).

This picture explains EVERYTHING.

The great strangeness, for me at least, was that I initially envisioned the main character of the show as a girl, and spent a week debating with the Amazing Ash Naftule about various female performers to write as the show's star.  I was initially hesitant to take on the role when Shawna and Ash suggested I play the childish lead, but now I'm ridiculously thrilled to have an chance to say things like "Oh, Kittens!"  and such.  I'd love it if you came to the show sometime- it's every First Saturday at 10:30.  I'll hug you.


Between working the lights for Munched, writing organzizing performing Hollis, and working with the other Late Night Series performers, September/October has been incredibly busy for me.  I even decided to go back to school for a BA in English, and am attending online courses towards that goal.  It'd be nice to work as a freelance writer, and I need the help with my fiction work anyway.  I am hitting a creative and productive peak and I don't see a plateau anywhere on the horizon.  I'm painting again, completing a collection of cartoon fantasy characters I always planned to, and will hopefully be showing it by November.

Also, if you love me as much as I love me, you can watch me do art and stuff for AN ENTIRE FUCKING DAY October the 29th.  Check this schedule out:

10 AM- Choose Your Own Adventure Show @ Torch Theatre.
1:30 PM- Quantum Leapfrog Show @Torch theatre
3 PM - Naptime.

7 PM- Tech for MUNCHED @ Space 55
3 AM- Cult of the Yellow Sign DARKNESS ABSOLUTE Show @ Torch Theatre


THEN I SLEEP FOREVER.

Also, check out the Arcana Cabaret every 2nd Saturday and the WTF Variety Hour every third Saturday at Space 55.  I work a little on both shows, so you might see me running lights or performing.  Or hallucinating and drooling.  Which should come as nothing new.

SOON! MORE POSTS! ABOUT THINGS!

Right Coast, Finale

It's been a crazy week in the present with rehearsals for two shows and running around trying to find props and such, but I'm back with the finale/footnotes for the NYC Right Coast Adventures. 

     When I woke up my last full day in New york I felt drained.  It seemed like so much had happened, and it melted all together into a giant heap of vague greyness.  I had the feeling that I had experienced one long day where teh sun and moon traded shifts but time never really passed.  I had coffee with Shawna, and then went out to do my best Amazing Ash impression and see the city a little.

   I am no Amazing Ash Naftule- I spent most of the day in a thoughtful fog, trying to organize the events of the week into some semblance of a normal timeline.  I wandered the parks of the Lower East Side and spent hours simply sitting in Thompson Square park, feeling the coolness of the air and wondering if I could take going back to the 115 degree summer of Phoenix.  I ate more pizza.  I started to feel a little depressed.

Depresso.

    Maybe it was the fact that my morning coffee came from "D'espresso," whose logo I couldn't help but read as "D'epresso,"  Maybe it was the time spent in the park, alone, watching families roll by even though it was the middle of the day in the middle of the week.   I'm going to blame the logo- the sideways D even looks like a forced smile.  This sort of thing seems to happen to me after a week of something new- I start to get tired, maybe culture shocked. I don't know the right term.  I was starting to get tired of delicious food and beautiful people everywhere.  I wandered into Greenwich village.

This, I guess?

I'm not sure what exactly I was expecting. Hippies?  Bob Dylan?  I just sort of ended up there because the streets took me there- I'm not particularly fond of the modern myth of the Hippy, but I guess I had thought it would be something like St. Marks a little.  Head shops.  Something...different.  What I actually found was a cloud of business suits with cell phones and places to go and a sign declaring a farmer's market that Sunday.  Pretty much everyone near me was in a suit.  Unshaved and dirty with a backpack on, I felt like punchine to a joke 40 years in the making. 

     The thing that actually upset me, though, wasn't the lack of some poorly-defined vision, but a simpler complaint.  There was nowhere to sit down.  I found this out when I went to sit on a piece of masonry next to a church, only to find iron bars with rusty spikes protruding from them welded to the surface.  I kind of mentally shrugged and moved on, but every place that looked like I could rest my tired ass on had the same preventative measures.  In a way, it was like that stuff you see on the edges of rooftops that prevents pigeons from landing there, or those bus-benches that have hard dividers to hobo-proof them.  I got the subliminal message : "Buy something, or move along."  I chose the latter and wandered back to the inviting stoops of St. Marks and Bowery.

Look at that punam.

 I met up with Shawna that evening to go and see a preview of our friend Amir Levi's one-man show, "Male Matriarch."  We wouldn't be in town for the actual performance, and so Amir was kind enough to invite us to a rehearsal to at least get a sense of what his show would be like.  Amir's auto-bio show was a story about gay identity, and Amir's conflict with his cultural desire to create a nuclear family based on his Mexican-Israeli American family's values.

 I've often say this about "fringe" theater:  I can't stand the "I'm-gay-isn't-it-fabulous" and "I'm-gay-isn't-it-painful" genre of performance art, but Amir's show was more complicated than that.  There was an interesting sense that he was not the main character in his own autobiography- the biographical stories of his mother and grandmother delivered in character take a large block of time up throughout the show.  In fact, one of the major themes was that Amir felt as though he did not have the kind of stories or identity that the guiding matriarchs of his life had.  The fascinating lives of the women he sprung from sort of create the boundries along either side of the path that he will walk through his life.  I encourage you to see Amir's show, especially if you're sick of self-importance masked as fun camp in theater.  Amir was genuinely vulnerable without the detached irony that tends to taint such works.  I was really touched he invited us to a rehearsal so we could see him perform. 

A battle of the bands.

Strings vs. Whistle

     Afterwords Amir, Shawna and I went to the Pig N' Whistle pub in Times Square.  Did I mention I was in the Theater District?  It had a lot of old tall buildings, if you like that sort of phallic visual riot.  Anyway, it struck me when we sat down that this was the second Animal & Musical Instrument named pub I'd been to, with Shawna, while travelling.  Spooky, right? 

     All the pubs I've been to have names like The Dubliner, and McCaffery's, so maybe this musical animal thing is coastal, or maybe I'm just naive.

     We had our drinks, I ate some amazing fish and chips, and we parted ways. I got a room at the Bowery hostel for one (which they ended up charging me the same as a two person for, after the fees for just walking in and whatnot) and realized how incredibly small that kind of room is.  Amir had offered to let me stay with him in Brooklyn (I think) but at this moment I wanted to be alone so much that I paid for it.   The next day was the day I had to catch a subway to the air train to the plane at JFK.  I was eager to get home, in a sense, if only because I couldn't afford to stay even one more day.  I met for coffee with Shawna, and then headed over to Economy Candy, if only to gawk.

Great, now my eyeballs have diabetes.

     And gawk I did.  Economy Candy is packed from floor to ceiling with so much candy it'd make Willy Wonka skittle in his pants.  There's practically no room to walk- children have to actually remain calm in an environment that mentally overloads them.  I didn't buy anything, because I needed to spend my money on real food, but I did spend a good amount of time just staring at the sweets I wish I'd known about when I was a kid.  I saw a little boy roll his eyes back in his head like he was having a seizure when he came in. Candytastic.

    I ate a great fish taco with shredded radishes in it for lunch , gathered my stuff up at the hostel and met up to say goodbye to Shawna (and get subway directions, because I'm dumb) before hopping on the subway.  It was a long ride, and I slept through most of it before reaching the Airtrain at JFK.  I went through the crazy screening process and stood in front of those full-body x-ray things.  Surprisingly, the TSA in NYC were way nicer than the ones in Phoenix, and had that same New York attitude I'd come to admire:  They were polite but took no shit.  The Sky harbor TSA agent I dealt with on the way to New York couldn't cut it as Wal-Mart greeter and relished the small power she had over my shoes and wallet.  In fact, fuck you, old lady TSA agent at Sky Harbor who was WAY too grouchy and mean.  There were like, 8 people in the airport on your shift, what's your excuse?  I hope your diaper breaks, and all your children resent you. 
   

"Hold on tight, spider monkey."  That joke's for the ladies.

     Everything went smooth and slow, like a greased up turtle, until I actually got on the plane and got out on the runway- then we were delayed for two and a half hours.  There were apparently apocalyptic thunderstorms over the airport and planes were trying to sneak out between the balled up fists of these thunderheads as they passed.  We finally got up in the air, and despite the constant, light rattling turbulence, everything went fine. My neighbors didn't want to talk to me so I got to listen to the crazy ass J-Pop radio channel that Delta flights have (channel 7, homie) for most of the flight.  I watched Water for Elephants because it was literally 14 inches from my face and couldn't help myself, but I couldn't hear anything, so I'm pretty sure that movie is about a hobo vet and a drunk guy who beats on animals and his wife.  Am I wrong?  I doubt it..


  I landed in Phoenix after drifting in and out of a bored, hobo-vet interrupted slumber.  I put my feet down and it was still 115 degrees out, but at least it's a dry heat.  Yeah, I went there.  It's hot in Phoenix, yes, but at least the sweat evaporates.  All my clothes were 80% ass-sweat from the New York humidity. When I got back to Phoenix, I did my laundry faster than ever before.  I woke up the next day at about noon and realized that it was probably time for me to go back to college.  So I am.

SOMETHING NEW, SOMETIME SOON!

THANKS FOR READING!

Right Coast, Part 6

     Turnips, Pac-man theater!  MTV near misses!  IRISH PIRATE BAR!  All this and a little bit more in Right Coast, Part 6!  I wish I'd taken better notes- a drunken scribble would have helped.  More after the jump!

Right Coast, Part 5

We encounter more Phoenicians in New York, eat the best dinner of my freaking life, and run the last two shows Monday the 15th.  The ensemble shares one of those numinous experiences that can't be replicated, but can be forced into the shapes of words and put on the internet! Right Coast, Part 5!  More after the Jump!

Right Coast, Part 3

     In which I discover the joy of a dollar slice of pizza, the weather shifts from hot and humid to torrential downpour, and I risk life and limb for a cab.  I reflect on one of humankind's only perfect creations.  More after the jump!

Right Coast, Part 2

     Right Coast, Part 2! Three days in the making, spent trying to remember how the hell I stumbled all over the East Side drunk after opening night.  Beers are drank, hats are purchased, memories are erased.  I think this is the gist of it- let's see if this makes any sense.  More after the jump!

Right Coast, Part 1.

    Fresh from my trip to California, I return to Phoenix, put in my two weeks at the bookstore, and book a flight to New York for early August.  I spent a week in the Lower East side eating street pizza, studying rat/squirrel relations, eating street falafel, nursing hangovers, and eating more street pizza.  My second travelogue, (cleverly named "Right Coast") begins now.....right now!

Left Coast, Finale

The trip comes to an end and I debate what it is exactly that I had accomplished.  I also buy way too much junk at Amoeba Records in Hollywood!  More after the jump!

Left Coast, Part 6

    In part 6 I begin to wind down, reach my limits, and realize I haven't done really anything the whole time I've been in California but drive, drive, drive.  Will I break and see the sites?  Or will I just go to bed?  More after the jump!

Left Coast, Part 5

I begin the long trip home on the 1 towards LA after sleeping in a bar.  I've successfully made my mark on a Galaga machine in same bar.  I learn the value of sunscreen.  I blink and almost miss the town of Harmony.  What strangeness awaits me along the road back to Phoenix?  Are you sad I didnt' get around to posting yesterday?  More after the jump!

Left Coast, Part 4

In Part 4 of my adventure diary, I explain the real reason I drove into California, get stared at by tourists, and sleep in a bar.  Guess which thing pleased me the most?  Also, I've just realized I've been refering to my destination as Whitelawn cemetery, but it's actually Woodlawn.  Apologies.  More after the jump!

Left Coast, Part 3

In Part 3 of my relatively aimless wanderings through California, I discover great cigarettes about Chinatown, visit the home of Emperor Norton, and lecture you on important books you're too busy to read.  More after the jump!

Left Coast, Part 2

Part 2 of my mindless wandering up and down California. My car breaks down, I don't have anywhere to sleep, I go to my grandmothers.  Exciting! More after the jump.

Left Coast, Part 1.

     Towards the end of July I took a week to drive aimlessly through California with only one real destination in mind: the town of Colma.  There, in Whitelawn Cemetery, the body of Emperor Joshua Norton is buried.  Having had some time to review my logs of the trip, I've realized that some of the best stuff has very little to do with California and everything to do with not planning very well at all for a road-trip.  This is Part 1 of that poorly planned trip.

Take this Job...

     What kind of person would quit their steady job, which provided a regular income and health benefits along with paid vacation and quarterly bonuses in an economy like this?  Me.

     After three years and a a few months of working at a Texas-based chain used bookstore, I reached my limit.  It wasn't the lousy pay, the atrocious management practices, or the fact that I spent 80% of my time hunched over paperwork in a concrete cell.  It wasn't even the indignation of watching most of our stores profits get whisked away to Texan coffers, slowly draining the local economy.

    It was that I started to hate books.

    I love to read.  Be it sociology or philosophy, psychology or metaphysics, literary fiction or historiography, I still enjoy reading above most other hobbies.  I play video games, sure, watch movies, even read the odd comic now and then, but a good book still holds my attention best.  A good piece of fiction lasts a lifetime.

     The problem was that I spent all day ordering quilting books and novelty books, or figuring out ways to cross-merchandise Leprechauns-in-a-box with books on Irish history.  To some, the idea of working in a used bookstore must seem like heaven on earth- surrounded by the wealth of ages, engaging in brilliant discourse with fascinating people, meeting local authors and organizing book clubs to read "Remembrance of Things Past" while sipping coffee and penning poems.  I'm sure that kind of experience remains, somewhere in the world, but not where I worked.  I drank coffee, pints of it, in an attempt to maintain the hectic pace of processing somewhere between two and four thousand pounds of books every week. I did meet a few fascinating people, both peers and elders, who've made for lasting friendships and correspondences, but the bulk of the people who come into a large used bookstore are the sort who you have to deal with everyday in any retail job.

     Obsessive-compulsive who want only crisp dollar bills and quarters from states starting in A.

     Religious zealots convinced you need the Word so badly they physically trap you in the bookshelves to share it.

     People claiming to be werewolves, vampires, wizards, and lycanthropic undead sorcerers.

     Unique, however, are those that sell to used bookstores.  I've bought from the public entire collections of 30 year-old D&D books and the complete works of Kafka, but for every person who comes in with a solid gold grade like that, there's ten people bringing you a box of broken glass and rat feces, a "super-collectible" Time Life book about the The Modern USSR, or a survival knife.  They never let you keep the knives.

    Sometimes, they try to sell Bus Route books and the Yellow Pages, and are always shocked you don't want them. 

    I've been called pretty much every offensive word you can imagine, and some that were invented on-the-spot just for me as a special treat.  My favorite being "conspirator against the body of Christ" and "Douche-fag."  It was always stunning to have such bile spewed at you when you're offering to pay someone for their 22 year old National Geographic magazines.

     The truly sad thing is that anyone with a bit of start-up money and a lot of time can open a used book store and secure themselves an honest, if not difficult, living.  Sell DVDs, sell CDs, sell magazines, records, video games, posters, rags and bones- buy at 10% and sell at 50-60% of the cover price and you'll turn a nice profit if you know anything about books at all.  Even in a time when people claim the written word is dying or translating to the digital, people still want their romance paperbacks and cheap comics.  They NEED the brick and mortar experience, and part of what they pay for is the ability to stand in a sea of media and browse and wander.  They live for the dream of finding that thing they didn't even know the wanted.  They still hope against hope to meet that special girl in the Manga section.  The sad thing is that this experience is becoming rarer, as more and more local chains wither under the best-seller pushing book sections of Target and Walmart.  Our nations tastes move towards the bulk.

     What strikes me more than anything is that the experience hasn't changed that much at all over the last century.   In an essay by George Orwell he lays out his own complaints and sorrows about working as a used bookseller.  I scoff- he didn't have to run an e-store on the side.

     What will I do now that I've quit?  Rejoin the workforce, flip burgers, sell cars?

     I think I'm going to reach out and try to reclaim my love of the book.

    I'm going to get back to writing.