On Self-Control

One of my notable character traits, which I assume is related to my being the youngest in a trio of brothers, is my sharp tongue. 

The eldest sibling doesn’t need to prove their dominance, they simply are; always bigger, always stronger. The middle child is the mediator, to be sure, and also circumspect. Like Janus, they sees both ways, being younger and older, and yet not definitively either.

The youngest, this youngest, exerted his personhood the only way he could. With his mouth. If he got physical, his older brothers could always smother him with a pillow until he could no longer fight. This is a thing that happened. Why throw a punch, when depriving the offending child of oxygen is so much more effective and doesn’t leave a bruise.

So, I had a big mouth. Witty, but also vulgar. And when cornered, I lashed out. I graffitied, writing with soap on mirrors, pencil on desks, chalk on boards, carving into wet cement. When, in sixth grade, I was caught writing something particularly nasty about someone on a table in the library, a panel was convened to try and channel my impulses.

My guidance counselor asked if I was interested in creating a middle school newspaper. 

"Sure!" I said. 

Fine, he said. Create one.

Unfortunately, I am not an eldest child, I had no sense of independent initiative and required guidance, not knowing how to ask for it and none was provided. I continued to stew in silent resentment through my middle school years.

The high school did have a weekly newspaper and I was finally able to express myself through cartoons. I also wrote the occasional story or opinion piece which were inevitably disastrous, my penchant for unfortunate and often irrelevant metaphors distracting from whatever point I was trying to make.

Words can be an ugly tool. Worse, when you have an affinity for using them but only for the expression of resentment and spite. These were the early  plays I wrote to either drive a wedge between myself and people who cared about me, or to kick them in the ass on the way out the door. I need not elaborate. Some saw their way onto area stages, others did not, but they were read. It was ugly. And stupid. And embarrassing.

Practicing restraint is one thing, it requires constant vigilance. My wife deserves all the credit, not for teaching me restraint, but for sharing with me more a open engagement and understanding of the world and the people in it. It’s humbling, and this humility has helped me to finally, as so many before had recommended, think before I speak. And to edit, edit, always edit. And also to know when its best to delete.

Play a Day: The Two Kids That Blow Shit Up

Carla Ching

For Sunday, I read The Two Kids Who Blow Shit Up by Carla Ching and posted at New Play Exchange.

When I was younger, I held the belief that I would have one of those relationships which lasted my entire life, from childhood and on through to whenever. I held onto this belief for longer than was necessary, but when I look back it really wasn’t that long. Life really does seem to go on forever when you’re in the middle of it.

Still, I love those stories that span decades about people who are each other’s one, less than perfect soulmates, much more than friends.

Max and Diana were united when their parents began sleeping together, and over the next thirty years they manage their folks and themselves, two souls entwined in a need for trust, for having one person that they can entirely count on.

And that’s hard. To be the child of divorce, to have addictions, enter into unstable relationships. To clean up after each other’s messes, and those of their parents. It’s a very touching, soul-bearing work that jumps back and forth in time, from childhood to middle years, and all points in between, creating a tapestry of love and dependence. It’s worth it to have someone.

Who should I read tomorrow?

Play a Day: A Godawful Small Affair

Hayley St. James

For Thursday, I read A Godawful Small Affair by Hayley St. James and posted at New Play Exchange.

Any play that uses a lyric from “Life On Mars” as a title must be read.

David Bowie left the earth, and everything went to shit. I’m not the first person to say that, it was a meme during the year 2016. What most do not know is that Bowie died - then my father died - then Prince died, then everything went to shit. In that order, over the course of three months. That's how things so swiftly fell apart for me.

St. James script is a pandemic play, and between their pandemic play, and my pandemic play, and surely the countless more pandemic plays out there, pandemic plays are going to be a thing, and several of them will actually be very good, and important, and even timeless artifacts, documenting a world we never thought we would need to endure.

Or to someday soon endure again. Sorry. 

St. James’ story is one of loss and longing, and the walls both real and imagined that separate us from our loved ones. I have been fortunate enough to be quarantined with a family, and one a supportive one. We respect each other, we respect each other’s walls, but also (not to crack the wind of a poor phrase running it thus) leave our doors open.

What of the new lovers who have been trapped together? And those who have been quarantined alone? It’s a non-binary love triangle that celebrates the joy of coupling, but also the ennui of sameness. Google the phrase “time passes so strangely these days.” It is a refrain in this script, but also the subconscious mantra for our time.

Who should I read tomorrow?

Play a Day: Crying On Television

R. Eric Thomas

For Sunday, I read Crying On Television by R. Eric Thomas and posted at New Play Exchange.

Some write plays that really want to be TV shows. Too many locations, to wacky, too much self-awareness. You can tell the playwright is writing for the stage with an eye to adaption into screenplays.

With Crying On Television, Thomas has created a stage play which has agreat deal to do with our collection obsession with television programs, but it is definitely meant for the stage.

It's a heart-warming story of a cadre of folks who (may or may not) live in the same New York City apartment, but rub each other the wrong way in a genuine attempt for connection in the place where they live.

How do adults make friends in the big city? Is it as easy as it is on a sit-com? Or can we find true love on a reality show? Each character is searching for their version of Prince Charming, who could be love but may also be a real friend.

The script is also very witty, the dialgoue had me laughing out loud, and, at one terribly awkward party, even farce-adjacent. And it's sweet.

Who should I read tomorrow?

Play a Day: The Princess of Caspia

Ricardo Soltero-Brown

Twenty-one plays in twenty-one days. Three weeks of new work!

For Friday morning I read The Princess of Caspia by Ricardo Soltero-Brown, and which is available for download from New Play Exchange.

Bourgeois love is a complication of its own creation. It is only appropriate that the loopy love triangle present in this work are self-obsessed and selfish, and I approve of the message that ridiculous situations will eventually play themselves out ridiculously.

Getting letter-shamed by a world-famous political prisoner is a particularly inspired touch.

Yesterday and today I am attending a national arts-in-education conference downtown. The theme is "digital transformation" but I have a phobia about crossing the intersection of arts and technology.

I should write a play about that.

Play a Day: Love's Labors

Sheila Cowley

For Saturday I read Love's Labors by Sheila Cowley, and available for download from New Play Exchange.

Between last night's experience (more on that soon) and this morning's read and a strange dream I had last night, my mind is overwhelmed with thoughts of fulfillment.

Love's Labors centers around a middle-aged man coming to terms with his sexual identity. It's not a coincidence that this revelation comes as his son is getting married - and his wife proposes they renew their vows.

When I was in my first dating relationship - very young - my girlfriend started having these marriage fantasies and would talk to me about them. I was thirteen years old, and she was putting into my head thoughts of a life together.

Perhaps we would have broken up soon regardless, but if she wanted our time together to last until high school, her encouraging me to imagine the future was not the wisest decision. In much this way, "renewing our vows" puts the protagonist into a consideration of his life choices.

I am not dissing people renewing their vows. But if the unexamined life is not worth living, you have to be prepared for what your examination may reveal.

Play a Day: This Is How You Got Me Naked

Catherine Weingarten

This morning I read This Is How You Got Me Naked (a sexxxy comedy) by Catherine Weingarten, which is available on New Play Exchange.

God, I needed this play this morning. Weingarten writes entirely absurd but plausible Millennial dialogue with absolutely no shame.  If I didn't know any better, I would think this piece was written specifically to piss off my Baby Boomer colleagues.

Every generation tells their story of longing and unrequited romance. Every subsequent generation has their opportunity to say, yeah. That's not it.

Several years ago I was lurking in a coffee shop on a college campus, trying to think of what to think, when a cohort of young people settled in nearby and just started talking. I wrote some of it down. It seemed so random, like randomness for its own sake.

If I'd been paying better attention I would have followed the narrative, and not been distracted by the intentional distractions. I want you or I think I want you and in any case I don't want you to think I want you at least not until I know you want me. There's a million plays right there.

When did we move from friends with benefits to hookup bros?

I'm old.