There was this interesting phenomenon in the mid 90s when Gen X so-called “alternative” acts were making this deep dive into our collective unconscious. This was all part and parcel with our generation rising into adulthood and reclaiming (and declaiming) our maimed childhoods.
Weezer’s "Blue" album (1995) includes nods to KISS and Kitty Pryde. Smashing Pumpkins' “1979” is a yearning paean to adolescence. Ben Folds Five reminded me that they’ve got my old ID and I’m all dressed up like The Cure.
Then there was the Canadian quintet Barenaked Ladies. We were first told that their name originated when founders Steven Page and Ed Robertson wanted to create songs that make you feel the way you did the first time you saw a bare naked lady.
I can’t remember where I heard that explanation, but I heard it at the same time I was exposed (yes) to their first LP Gordon, and I got it. It reflected a yearning which is, supposedly, devoid of malice, if only because when you are an adolescent, you are too small and weak to act upon it, to do any harm, you just want. And you want badly.
The problem is, we don’t remain small forever. And like a Stephen King character who transforms from a bullied, spotty nerd into a strong, attractive stud (see: Arnie Cunningham or Harold Lauder) the protagonists of Barenaked Ladies' songs treasure amusingly geeky and nostalgic touchstones. Listen to "Enid," or "Grade 9."
But – as in a Stephen King novel – this arrested emotional development can be a defense for wretched, toxic behavior. Yes, I fell into Gordon as though it had been written for me. From the first strains of "Hello City," which I experienced as a young man trudging through the snow-packed sidewalks of Cleveland, producing and promoting underground theater in a remote storefront, I was lost in these emotions. They get me! They get us! Our crowd is making the music, and it’s really good!
I was also aware of the abuse that is inherent in the lyrics. “I put my hands around your neck / you wrap your arms around me.” It wasn’t subtle, but you know. Guys feel like that sometimes, it’s just a song, you know?
Their second album, Maybe You Should Drive, was released in August 1994, and if I thought their first album was written for me, this one was as though they were stalking me. By that time in my life I was playing an unwinnable game, balancing my relationship with the woman who would soon be my ex-wife with the woman who would become my life partner and the mother of my children.
I love you … intermittently.
A is for asshole, I’m sorry.
She’s my alternative girlfriend.
Jane doesn't think a man could ever be faithful,
Jane isn't giving me a chance to be shameful.
I mean.
For a guy who is not much of a live music guy, I have seen this act more than most. At the Odeon in 1994, Jacobs Pavilion in 1995, at the Lakewood Civic Auditorium in 1996. The second single from their third album, I Was Born on a Pirate Ship (say it while holding your tongue) and released during the Night Kitchen years, was “The Old Apartment.” It’s an aggressive song about a man reminiscing about an abusive relationship – he is the abuser. The music video is incongruous, depicting a young couple trashing an apartment together. But the song is about a violent, abusive man missing his lost love and regretting his behavior. He doesn’t sound changed.
Why is this important? Why has this stuck with me? Because it's not merely cognitive dissonance, this melding of sweet melancholy, loopy humor, and aggressive tendencies. It's not honest, it's gaslighting, making excuses for poor behavior. I'm not a bad guy, look how silly I am, I'm not a bad guy, I said I'm not a bad guy didn't you hear me?? It's Incel Rock.
"One Week" was fun, I remember it being used for the opening of 10 Things I Hate About You. But that was in 1998. By then I was thirty, and past this second childhood, it was time to get serious, to become a man. Ideally, a good man. That is for others to decide.
Last week I was running the track at the Rec Center, and a song came on that I knew but I could not place from where. A bombastic anthem of nostalgia and regret with an all-encompassing theme of acceptance.
A quick search reminded me that this song, It’s Not Over (‘Til It’s Over and Done) by Bleu McAuley was the song that played over the closing credits of the Netflix series Sandman, based on the comics series of the same name.
When I was a teenager, I yearned for something which was not yet possible; that a TV show or movie might be successfully adapted from the genre materials that I loved so dear. Not just comics, but also books like Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. When such attempts were made they suffered from a lack of technology and funding (see the BBC’s TV series for HHGTTG) or the inability to transfer what was essential about the material to the project (see Howard the Duck).
As I was never a DC fan, I had no strong emotional ties to either Superman or Batman, so while those movies (1978 and 1989, respectively) were important, to me they were only weigh stations to something that mattered. When X-Men (2000) was released I was a giddy 32 year old and mostly satisfied.
Sandman was an epic, 75-issue fantasy series which focused on the personification of dreams, sometimes called the Sandman – but not really, he was more often called Morpheus or often just Dream, and his primary function was managing that place we all go when we fall asleep.
I loved this comic because it was literate, transgressive, and Goth – Goth in that it was dark and moody and brooding and romantic. It also owes a lot of its imagery to familiar musical acts; Dream appears like Peter Murphy or Trent Reznor, Lucifer like Bowie. Word has it Delirium was modeled after Tori Amos, and Desire, of course, looks like the cover of Duran Duran’s album Rio(Patrick Nagel, RIP). My ex-wife Diana introduced me to the book, which started publication in 1988, and we read them issue by issue. Later, I bought the bound reprint books.
The other night I asked my wife Toni why Sandman has been so important to her (yes, I married two women who love Sandman, quelle surprise) and she reflected to me how expansive it is, and immersive. When she thinks of it, she doesn’t see the panels, the specific artwork, she sees worlds.
When it was announced in 2019 that Sandman would be a series on Netflix, I was excited about that. In the past, such announcements came with a certain amount of dread, like the feel you get every time they announce a new Fantastic Four movie. I love the IP, they are going to fuck it up. The thing about comics, for example, is that they are episodic, and most superhero movies prior to The Avengers (2012) would spend half the movie on the origin story. Even when there was a reboot, they would tell the origin story again.
Then there is the idea of cramming years of potential narrative into one two hour feature. It loses nuance, even when it looks spectacular. There will be nothing unique or interesting. And then there is casting. There were plans for a potential Sandman film in the early 90s that was to star Arnold Schwarzenegger.
But mostly, it is the adaptation of one thing into another thing. Comics are one particular thing, and movies a total other. Comics are cheap and movies are expensive, so comics can do so much more because it is only ink on paper and relatively few are reading them, whereas movies are practical and have to make money.
Martin Freeman (Arthur), Sam Rockwell (Zaphod) "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy (2005)
This is where Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (2005) failed. The source material is a science fiction satire, with the emphasis on satire, not science fiction. To wit; it is veddy British. In the original, a bunch of weird things would happen in the service of a dry, witty punchline, and the film kept the set-up but cut the punchline. The film gives us spectacular visuals and gags presented by writers and directors who did not understand or care why it was popular in the first place.
But now it is the 2020s and not only can you make almost anything look real, popular culture is so fragmented that the idea of a comic book with an enormous – and intergenerational – cult following being turned into not a single feature film but an anthology series makes total sense.
I will not describe the allegations here, except in how they relate to the subject at hand. Let us state what was and what is. Neil Gaiman was once a model figure for those who feel outside of the mainstream; he not merely wrote the works that made them feel seen – adult fantasy fiction like Sandman, and also children’s books like Coraline – but was a constant presence in public and on social media who defended the right for people to be different. His tweets were a protection against the trolling of J.K. Rowling.
At the same time, in his personal life, he was a serial abuser, a monster and a creep.
The second season of Sandman dropped this past July, with little notice or fanfare. I didn’t even discover that it had for a month after. The first season encompassed (more or less) the first twenty issues of a seventy-five issue series. They could have easily made three or even four seasons from the remaining fifty-five books, but chose to cram them all into this final, second series. Even the most lauded issue of Sandman, the World Fantasy Award winning story about Morpheus commissioning Shakespeare to write A Midsummer Night’s Dream is briefly shoehorned into a different episode. It is as though the folks at Netflix said, all right, let’s get this shitshow over with.
I chose to watch, even though I was conflicted about doing so. I mean, so many artists contributed to making this show a reality, that’s the thing about artistic collaboration. So I wanted to see it, I wanted to see them. But I was wondering how it would feel, knowing what we know. As it happened, I had my second bout of Covid in late summer, which was an opportune moment to binge the second season while in my own private delirium.
"It had been her own fault." Sandman #17: Calliope (1990) Pencils: Kelley Jones Inker: Malcolm Jones III
Knowing what we know, certain storylines pop with dread. To quote a meme, “Mister Police. You could have saved her. I gave you all the clues.” One, Calliope, is about Richard Madoc, a famous author with writer’s block who takes action to harbor the actual muse of epic poetry – essentially, he has trafficked her – to spur his creative output.
Dream arrives to free her from the author, something he does not actually have the power to do. The author must freely release her. But Morpheus can torture Madoc, and does so by flooding his mind with so many original ideas he goes nearly insane. When the writer announces Calliope is free, his torment ends, but he can no longer think of anything new or original.
Not arrested, not pursued by other supernatural entities, Madoc simply remains creatively empty, which we are free to assume is something Gaiman believes to be the worst punishment imaginable. (It isn’t.)
Witnessing the second season, released post-allegation, themes of remorse, regret, and atonement are pushed to the forefront. To be honest, they were always there in the text, but are so much more apparent now. Dream had committed an unforgivable act, and in the process of making it right was compelled to do something which (literally) brought the Furies down upon him.
In the end, all the chaos, pain, and anguish, the sum of a lifetime of poor decisions, are wiped away as the entity that was Dream is eliminated and replaced by someone new. End of story.
But reality is much more complicated. Morpheus apologized, repented, and took responsibility for his actions. To date, his creator has not.
Back in class and it feels so good! Except my back, my back does not feel good. I hope this does not become a thing.
I am on track to finish the first draft of my new “dream play”. There’s been a lot of buzz on social media about outlines, and whether or not you are a moron not to have created one. This play has no outline, though things do seem to be progressing towards a final resolution. I do not know if it is going to be victorious, tragic, or a mystery. I don’t think I’d know that yet, outline or no.
The wife suggested a second scene, and I played around with that. A waking scene. I may be able to come to a resolution in this way, but I am leery of tying things up too neatly.
Meanwhile, I have been receiving plentiful and supportive feedback on my new illness narrative. I have let that go for a few weeks, writing more than what was necessary for the initial assignment, but holding back on continuing until I received a green light from the professor.
My proposal reads like it is its own scene, and I need to find the right place to include that. At the same time, there are so many thoughts that, while interesting or even poignant, do not belong. They do not fit. They will not be included. You get me? You do.
Also, I led a discussion on Tuesday about Lily Hoang’s book, A Bestiary. I have read several personal narratives this semester, in different classes, written by women, and describing in part their relationships with manipulative, abusive, dishonest men. They also let the reader in on their feelings of complicity, putting the reader in an uncomfortable position of judgment.
I think I’m taking the summer off. The poetry course I took last summer was a bit overwhelming. This year has been exciting, but also taxing. I need more time to focus on the family.
This play is a work of nonfiction, adapted from personal writing by Johanna Orozco and also the journalism of Rachel Dissell. The play premiered at Cleveland Public Theatre/Teatro Público de Cleveland in 2015, and is the true story of a young woman who was shot in the face by her boyfriend and how she survived.
It’s not just about that. It’s about domestic abuse, and about the failure of our protective services. It is also about the fourth estate, and how journalism has been compromised by the corporations who have acquired our media outlets and have compromised them to serve profit.
Cleveland Public Theatre, 2015
And it’s about women. How they are hurt, and once hurt how our systems are more successful at protecting the men who have harmed them.
The subject matter is compelling enough, but it is well-served by the playwright. Rivas structured a fact-based script which is gripping, moving, poetic and frank.
As a personal note; I don't know any of the players involved in this tragedy. But I do know the high school. Located on Cleveland's near west side, Lincoln-West is a city school, and before COVID we would bring the residency program there once or twice a year, to teach Shakespeare, and The Crucible. It's a great school, and I engaged with brilliant, young students there, taught by strong, dedicated teachers. Devastating events like these can truly happen anywhere.
Seinuk creates a modern Greek tragedy, complete with chorus of voices, debate and off-stage violence, and the Unities followed in spirit if not the letter.
The question, for several of these teen protagonists, is when does betrayal actually happen? When an act of tragsression is committed, when the act is proposed, suggested, or as yet unspoken, living on in the mind of the perpetrator?
An intense tale for the #metoo era, flashing with on-point modern lingua (it helps that I have teenagers in my house) old wrongs fuel present actions and the conclusion is tragic for everyone involved.
We are halfway through the month of April, which is amazing. Because what is happening? In today's play, life is decsribed as "messy and loud." At the moment it is very tidy and quiet.
Reading a stack of plays every April is a journey around the world, or at least this hemisphere, something we all can use right now. Stacey A. Bryan is a playwright in St. Thomas and takes us there in this play.
So many people close to me are tormented by those voices in our heads that tell us we are wrong, what we are doing is wrong, the person that we are is wrong. Bryan's protagnist Layla has a literal person in the mirror who reminds her daily of how far short she has fallen.
It's a play with a strong message about body issues, but it's also a romantic comedy and a family drama, a poetic and earthy account about seeking perfection in yourself, and acceptance with what you eventually find.
Water is a powerful agent. It is a lubricant. It is an adhesive. It can cleanse. It can kill you.
The use of actual water onstage can be as disorienting as nudity. Each, handled in appropriately, can take you out of the production.
Because water is an uncertain element. You can slip. You can fall. And then there's the whole just being wet part.
In Bloody Poetry, as John Polidori I had to enter wet. I had fallen out of a boat (offstage) and had to enter dripping. For Lysistrata, buckets of water were dumped on people, so much so that one hot weekend an actual fog was generated onstage due to the water and the heat.
That last production was produced at Cleveland Public Theatre, where I have seen a great deal of water used on stage, in Melissa Crum's haunting production of The Drowning Girls, and in several of Rayond Bobgan's devised works. I recall Open Mind Firmament, which concludes with W.B. Yeats (Brett Keyser) sweeping torrents of water into the air, caught by the light, sweeping in fractured arcs.
Hamlet is an inscrutible play. Shakespeare is usually pretty straight-forward. If someone is sad, it is because we just saw what has made them sad or, failing that, they will just tell us why they are sad.
Hamlet, the man, in spite of all his talk, leaves things out. Or he doesn't make sense. We are missing bits. Unfortunately, trying to divine his motivation has made people question the motivation of everyone else in this play, in spite of their more traditional Shakespearean behavior.
Ophelia tells her father that Hamlet has courted her in "honorable fashion." We should believe her, but few do. His smutty talk at the play leaves many to assume they have had sex, but it's his smutty talk. Later, she sings bawdy songs which many take to believe as commenting on their carnal experience, even going so far as to suggest that she is pregnant. Shakespeare is usually more unfront about such things.
Why does Ophelia go mad? It is because her lover rejected her and then murdered her father. Her lover murdered her father, Occam's razor.
Strayer's Drowning Ophelia is a survivor's tale, of a woman's journey to rise above the brokenness and betrayal one feels when abused by a beloved family member, one whose departure makes confrontation impossible.
Ophelia never had the opportunity to confront her abuser, and so Hamlet gets to move forward feeling as though he got something wrong and feel bad about it. Strayer's protagonist also grapples to attain peace through action, fighting madness, and we are left to hope that she some day will.
Four years ago, which may as well be a lifetime ago, we were talking about four hundred dollars. As in, what percentage of Americans are four hundred dollars from crisis. That that is the line between moving forward, and total disaster.
Asking for charity has less stigma than it used to. It still has a stigma, no question. But how many people do you know have been assisted by a Go Fund Me page - maybe set up by someone on someone else's behalf - to get them through a difficult economic time?
Socialism remains a dirty word, state-sponsored socialism. But we practice private socialism every day. Targeted assistance. I give my money to help the people I know. But it's not much. It's never enough. Imagine if we all gave to help everyone. But Americans don't want to help everyone, because we hate those other people.
Now, to family. Whether we're teaching Salesmanor Glass Menagerie, we ask the question, what do we owe family? Do we owe them anything? What do they owe us?
Takacs has created a modern sit-com with Be a Mensch, a Jewish Glass Menagerie (complete with fragile unicorn) in which the eldest son is also faced to choose between his family and self-determination, dominated by a larger-than-life absent father figure. Only in this case Abram is not dreamily self-involved as Tom Wingfield is, but harshly realistic.
It's a coming of age story, one with a much more satisfying, if troubling, conclusion than Tennessee Williams's memory play.
When I was a kid in the late 1970s, my brothers introduced me to a Dungeons & Dragons knock-off called Tunnels & Trolls. Like Marvel at that time still positioned itself as the younger, hipper version of DC comics, T&T was an RPG with an attitude, and a sense of humor which was absent in its rival.
T&T originated out of Scottsdale, Arizona as a mail order RPG where their DMs would play games with folks in far-flung areas by mail. Campaigns took some time, I can tell you. To more easily facilitate game play for those who did not yet have a cohort of players they created the “solo adventure,” like a non-lineal book that took you from one page to another, back and forth, by a roll of the die.
For the record, the first T&T solo adventure, Buffalo Castle, predates the first Choose Your Own Adventure book by at least a year, in case Netflix wants to use that in their defense in the Bandersnatch lawsuit.
The version of Here Be Dragons I have read is a draft version, one currently in process, but it is an exciting concept with a troubling premise, and one I hope the playwright pursues and takes to greater extremes. The “game master” character presents the audience with several opportunities to either alter the outcome of certain circumstances, or to see exchanges from varying points of view, through the use of dice, or other decision-making devices.
The subject is toxic masculinity within the gaming community. The bros have always lorded over alternate worlds (much as they have this one) often with tragic results. My first solo T&T adventure was Lee Russell’s Labyrinth. The cover art features a muscular hirsute Minotaur holding a maiden by the wrist. She is wearing a dress featuring a breast-exposing bodice, and her face is turned away. I first played this game when I was ten.
This is an intriguing narrative, not just about abuse but complicity, and the kind of mania which can overtake an individual when an imaginary world holds more interest, excitement -- and safety -- than reality.
As a man in a play once said, "This play is memory." This play includes several nods and allusions to past classic plays and movies about American families and their intimate intricacies, like tiny knots that must be unpicked to be understood. These references serve to place this unique, specific tale in its rightful place as part of that larger tapestry.
I Go Somewhere Else is told from the point of one women at three stages of her life, yearning to understand her mother, for it is she, the mother, who is truly at the center of this tale. Reda, the mother, is possessive, abusive, and controlling of her daughter (first Lanny, then Langree and finally Tabitha.)
On one day, the younger self asks -- though there is an implicit request or plea involved -- "Aren't we supposed to love everybody? No matter what they've done to hurt us in the past?" For when someone we love hurts us, we assume it is something we have done to deserve it, even a blameless child thinks this.
The playwright creates a mother who is at turns proud and irrational and mean-spirited and sad, yet deftly lays out the story of Reda's life and relationships which leaves it squarely at our feet to understand her and to forgive her, as we strive to understand and forgive our own mothers. The way we hope our children may one day understand and forgive us.
