My friend Bill is an actor and playwright. Here’s something he just shared:

My mother, Florence, ninety, passed away tonight after a long illness. I was in rehearsal three thousand miles away. She said she’d see us on the other side but had “to go to a summer job.” She asked where was I, her eldest son. My siblings told her that I was starring in a show. She smiled and passed away, they tell me. I loved her very much, she was my initial audience, my reader, my safe harbor, my inspiration, my teacher.

Dramatists live for good dialogue, strong images, and fitting resolutions. I love Florence’s line that she had “to go to a summer job.” (Great metaphor!) And then, when she hears that her son is starring in a show, she smiles and passes away. Great exit.

So how was that 24-hour-long Mike Daisey show anyway?

Judging from this (written by my pal Mead Hunter!), pretty good.

My friend Kim Gambino is in rehearsal for a play in Omaha, NE — but she lives in New York. So how has she been attending rehearsal? Via Skype. Another triumph for the marriage of technology and the arts.

(To the tune of “Gotta Share!”)

A friend sent this to me.
Said this is for you, Lee.
I told him it was fun
Not a home run
But worth seeing up here.

It means a lot that he shared
Shows that he cared
That he dared
To break out of the mold…
Of the old…

Mike Daisey’s new monologue piece is 24 hours long. Not 24 minutes, not an hour and 24 minutes, not 2.4 hours — 24 hours. I would like to see that (so long as there are bathroom breaks — for my sake and for his).

Unfortunately, I can’t. It’s in Portland, OR ( that seems easily overcome, with a plane ticket). But, also, I’ve got tickets for a different show, one that is conveniently located closer than Portland, OR. In fact, it’s right here in my town of Burbank, CA. But what is it about September 17th anyway? That’s when Daisey’s piece is, but it’s also when my friends the Burglars of Hamm are putting on their new show for — you guessed it — one night only. Where were these other events before  I landed these other tickets? Or is it that the very act of booking something somehow ensures that other opportunities crop up for that very same date?

By the way, I’m on Mike Daisey’s email list. Here’s what he had to say about why one would want to do a 24-hour-long show. I admire his pluck.

Hello All,

We’ve been quiet this summer, preparing for the largest show of our lives. This is the culmination of years of work, and the fulfillment of an insane dream. ALL THE HOURS IN THE DAY is a 24 hour monologue which I will perform for the first time next month as the finale of the T:BA Festival in Portland.

Answers to a few FAQs: Yes, this is real. No, it is not a stunt. Yes, it really is 24 hours long. No, I am not kidding.

When people learn the show will be a full day in length, they often express shock and incredulity. Some, in the context of an arts festival, experience a feeling of loss…they exclaim, “But how can I watch a twenty-four hour show!” in a surprised tone, almost pleading, a tone that speaks of collecting and owning and coveting. Because we have been trained to possess the art we see.

I saw Star Wars at a movie theater as a child–it was the first indelible mark a work of art made inside me. I can still remember Luke staring out at the double sunset, and when I remember it, I see it now as a prism–I remember seeing it as a child, I remember seeing it again and again on laserdisc, betamax, VHS, late night screenings in college, pirated DVDs, back in the theaters scarred by Lucas’ digital fuckery, in hi-def, via bittorrent. I have just now gone to the net and watched that scene again…it is always at my fingertips. There is a version where the keyboard cat plays Luke off the screen. There is a version where someone has dubbed in terrible dance music. There is every version we can imagine.

What we long for is the version lost to us–the original story, the story that is larger than ourselves. The way a movie stops playing at the theater, and can only be resurrected by retelling until it is finally our own. A story so large that we struggle to contain it, and in that struggle remember that the point of this exercise, this theater, was to create a charged circumstance where we come together to create a community, a ritual that cracks open the boundaries of our life and lets the light in from outside. That sense of wonder. That awe. Two suns turning red against the fall of night.

If you are reading this, I can not know you. But I know you live on this earth, and have spent several thousand days doing so. None of us knows how many days we will have, how the hours are marked for each of us, what that merciless terminator line swinging from day into night holds in its hands. What could one day mean for any of us? What could we learn together if we cracked that door?

Scheherazade told her stories for the same reason we all do–to save her life.

Please join us for what I hope will be a remarkable day.

Be seeing you,

md

* * * 

There are two phrases that mean nothing to almost anyone else, but which have stuck with me most of my life: “Glx sptzl glaah!” and “Tlon, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius.”

The former is the baby-speak cry of Sugar and Spike in the comics of the same name by Sheldon Mayer. When the babies talk, all the parents hear is gibberish. But we lucky readers are privy to the rather sophisticated notions and outlandish schemes of these toddlers. If you’re wondering if this was unacknowledged source material for “Rugrats,” I suspect so. The first season of “Rugrats,” before rampant commercial needs overwhelmed creative impulses, was often wonderful. “Sugar and Spike” was consistently wonderful; even as an adolescent reader of mainstream superhero comics who groaned when some relative would mistakenly give him a “Richie Rich” or, God forbid, “Archie” comic, I was devoted to “Sugar and Spike.” And soon, very soon, you too will be able to share the joy:  an archive edition will finally be released by DC Comics next month.

(By the way, I bought the issue above right off the stands in 1970. I was 8.)

“Tlon, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius” is a short story by Jorge Luis Borges that I first read almost 30 years ago. It concerns a massive conspiracy by intellectuals to plant the false idea that there is a secret world called Tlon, with a nation called Uqbar. Inserting this false information into encyclopedias and referencing it elsewhere helps to, in essence, create the actuality — just as the creation of fiction implants ideas in readers that sometimes become reality. (Who invented the satellite? Well, the notion came from Arthur C. Clarke.) The fact that this phrase has stuck with me for 30 years proves the point.

In other words, both phrases are about imaginary languages and secret meanings.

Which takes me to today’s Google Logo (shown above). I was thrilled beyond measure to see that it was an homage to Borges, born 112 years ago today. More about that Google doodle, and how  Borges’ thinking led to the creation of hypertext links, can be found via this hypertext link.

To some degree, we are all of us privy to secret languages all around us every day, even when spoken in languages we purport to speak:  the thrum of jargon and subtext and obscure reference. It’s amazing we can understand anything. To some degree, this is what all of Harold Pinter’s plays are about:  that we understand nothing, while understanding everything all too well.

How much does Comic-Con matter to San Diego and its businesses? Here are two signs found near the restaurant in our hotel.

No, I haven’t tried the Captain America shot. (Yet?)

Here’s a fellow we saw standing in front of the convention center. I have no idea what his costume is supposed to be. I just liked the idea of an angry cigarette-smoking flower reading a book in front of the Con; that this guy is an exhibitor just sweetens the deal.

But then, you run into all types at the Con. Here’s someone you rarely see in daylight.

And here’s the same guy with my friend Roscoe Smith.

When I saw a panel entitled “State of the Industry” listed, I decided to go. Comic-books are an important part of my life, and for 40 years I’ve been hearing that they’re going to die any minute. (And, when you see the sales figures showing that major Marvel titles are lucky to sell 40,000 copies a month, you finally believe it’s true.) The graphic novel has led to a revival of the form, and certainly there’s money to be made in all those movie and TV properties, but I hope to keep getting those periodicals, too. So I went to the panel, and here’s what I discovered:  It was intended as a discourse between publishers’ reps sitting on the dais, and comic-shop owners, who made up the audience. It was a small room, overstuffed with perhaps 50 comics shop owners — and me, sitting quietly like a spy, the only reader in the house with no financial stake in this. Here’s what I got from it:  the publishers are going digital as quickly as they can, and the comics shop owners are very worried about this. One publisher (I forget which, but I don’t think it was DC or Marvel) couldn’t figure out why  a coupon they had made for comics shops to share with people to get them to try digital comics for free had failed; the retailers quickly let them know:  “Why would I want to get my customers to buy digital comics? What’s in it for me?” At times, the conversation was so heated I was waiting for angry villagers to arrive. The publishers were saying that readers of digital comics were a different audience, and therefore no threat, but if that’s so, someone wanted to know, why were they trying to get the shop owners to get their buyers to switch? And if they’re separate audiences, why does the last page of every Marvel digital comic have a plug for the Comic Shop Locator where you can find your local shop? Someone else complained that digital comics are 99 cents each, while the same comic is $2.99 (or more) in a shop. One of the publishers said that digital is “a very small part” of their business — and then the crowd wanted to know just how “small” a part; when the guy said 1-2%, then the retailer wanted to know if it was this insignificant, why were they devoting so much time to it? So my takeaway was this:  The publishers are heading into digital as quickly as they can, and the comics-shop owners, acutely aware of the recent demise of Borders and other bookstores, are feeling very threatened. And oh, by the way, two weeks ago I subscribed to Marvel’s digital comics; I spend about $40 a month on comics — the digital service cost me $40 for the year.

The next thing I went to was a tribute to artist Gene Colan, who died recently.  I thought Mark Evanier’s opening remarks were apt: that Gene Colan was lucky, because he lived long enough to be celebrated. Thousands of fans (including me) got the chance to tell him how much his work meant to them; he received a museum show devoted to his work while he was alive; and the next generation of editors who were devoted to his work kept him busy and respected. Marv Wolfman was also kind enough to say that he felt that it was from working with Gene Colan that he learned how to write comics. Marv was the fourth writer assigned to “Tomb of Dracula” (after Gerry Conway, Gardner Fox, and Archie Goodwin had each done two issues). There wasn’t much action in the book, which largely revolved around what would seem to be the supporting cast, making plans and deciding what to do. And while Colan could draw action (brilliantly), he also excelled at penciling highly expressive faces. This meant that Marv had to learn to write character-driven stories — and that’s what has driven his career ever since, as anyone who’s read his comics knows.

The next panel concerned the birth of comics fanzines, and included Paul Levitz (former president and publisher of DC Comics, and onetime fan editor of The Comic Reader), Roy Thomas (Alter Ego), Maggie Thompson (several fanzines, and then the Comics Buyers Guide) and others. I asked a question about RBCC, the zine that introduced me to comics fandom because the editor/publisher actually advertised it in comic-books, which was where I found out about it, and fandom. I can’t overstate the importance of this publication to me in my adolescence. Here’s what I learned about it:  The editor, G.B. Love, had cerebral palsy, and typed each issue one key at a time, and was only able to strike that key by hitting it with the eraser end of a pencil clutched in one hand. That he was able to publish that thing despite this challenge is a testament to his dedication.

Other highlights:

Terence and I went to AMC’s “Walking Dead” booth, where we found ourselves trying to get off the rooftop before the zombies broke in. As someone noted on my Facebook page, he seems awfully gleeful to be sawing my arm off. (Note Roscoe watching in the background with great alarm.)

My friend Paul and I dropped in on the “Dark Shadows” panel. Like many other kids in the late 60’s, I rushed home from school so I could watch it, and was daily annoyed by the debate with my grandmother because she also had to watch another boy, a boy whose name I still remember was Glenn Jupin, and Glenn Jupin was too afraid to watch it, and I wanted to know why he couldn’t just go play in another room. (This is what life was like before DVR, DVD, and multiple TV sets.) I did watch it, and just about every day. Tim Burton is making a new version with Johnny Depp, and the crowd and I had our trepidation. (I still haven’t forgotten his take on “Planet of the Apes.”) Someone said, “I don’t want Barnabas to be Jack Sparrow with fangs.” Kathryn Leigh Scott is now 68 years old and is stunning. Maybe she really did get bitten and is immortal.

Our crowd, minus friend Larry, went out to dinner at Buster’s Beach House, where this photo revealed my son Lex’s friend Brendan to be possessed by a demon of a high order. (Sad, and a little terrifying.) Left to right:  Trey, Lex, Brendan Beelzebub, Roscoe, myself, Paul, and Terence. (Larry has been beamed off somewhere by “Star Trek” people.)

After this, we went to see “The Worst Cartoons Ever” — and believe me, they qualified, hilariously so — and then the animated version of “Batman: Year One.” These two showings were on opposite ends of the convention center. Midway between them, we took this shot:

You will never again see the Sails Pavilion deserted in this way during the Con (picture 50,000 jammed just into this photo, and you, ahem, get the picture). It was a phenomenon, and I’m glad we captured it in a photo.

After “Batman: Year One,” which I thought was pretty good (especially enjoyed Bryan Cranston as Lieutenant Gordon), we walked past what I’m calling “South Park Village,” closed for the evening and every bit as spookily bereft as Storybookland.

Finally, what is this a photo of? People camped out after midnight so that they can get their Con badge first thing in the morning.

More soon.

I just found out that while I was out of town, the bookstore where my daughter and our friend Steve and I have done Christmas wrapping for the past four years to raise money for Moving Arts… went out of business. I’ve grown to expect bookstores to close; I didn’t realize the trend was going to take our holiday traditions with it. Feels lousy.

Here’s the latest in a line of spoofs of the musical Spider-Man: Turn off the Dark. Setting aside for a moment my thoughts about the well-documented travails of that show (documented here and here and here and here and here and here and even here and now I’m thinking maybe this subject should have a tag all its own), let’s discuss something else I’m on about:  PBS.

Because I’m still trying to figure out why public tax monies are supporting, for example, Dr. Wayne Dyer.  And I remain unclear how Antiques Roadshow and its ilk serve any public need, especially given that shows very much like it are on commercial stations. But now I find that I’m turning against Sesame Street, too, because while I enjoy the clip below, I can’t find any educational justification for it. In what way is this different from things on the commercial networks Sprout or Hub? Why does it somehow make more sense to fund television programming than, for example, public education? Anyone?

Speaking of people who “in the cosmic scheme of things have no problems,” I submit the current “debate” generated by Tony Kushner, the everything-award-winning playwright of “Angels in America” and many other globally produced plays, including “Caroline, or Change,” “A Bright Room Called Day,” “Homebody/Kabul,” “Slavs” and “The Intelligent Homosexual’s Guide to Capitalism and Socialism with the Key to the Scriptures,” which is currently playing off-Broadway. Evidently in a recent interview, Kushner said in passing that “I don’t think I can support myself as a playwright at this point. I don’t think anyone can.” Which ignited this controversy.

While I know that they are rarer than a royal flush, I have met some wealthy playwrights, including Stephen Sondheim and Edward Albee, and got to know one of them somewhat well, Jerome Lawrence. Jerry and his writing partner Robert E. Lee were responsible for “The Night Thoreau Spent in Jail,” “Auntie Mame” (which led to their further hit adaptation, “Mame”), and “Inherit the Wind.” Each of these was wildly commercially successful. From its premiere in 1955 until at least the early 1990s, there wasn’t a day that “Inherit the Wind” wasn’t in production somewhere in the world. Judging from his house alone, which Jerry had built on a bluff with a three-quarter view of the Pacific Ocean, the UPS man was arriving every day with boxes of more cash.

Granted, times have changed. But on the face of it, the idea that Tony Kushner can’t support himself as a playwright is ludicrous. His plays are in constant production around the world, his lecture fees are noteworthy, and I imagine he’s received any number of awards, fellowships, scholarships, and distinctions, that come with monetary rewards. (Note that I’m leaving out his screenwriting career.)

Kushner’s complaint strikes me the way movie stars do when they say about a pet project, “I did it for nothing.” What they mean is: They did it for scale (which every actor I know would be delighted to get), and for back end (which almost no actor I know gets). Jerry Lawrence was a playwright, not truly a screenwriter (although he had credits there as well), and made millions upon millions from his plays. Given all the productions “Angels in America” alone had, including the current one, plus all the productions from his other plays, plus print royalties, plus lecture fees (which are part of being a playwright), I find it hard to believe he can’t make a living. Perhaps what he means is that he can’t make the living he’d like to; that’s a different matter, and to that I’d note that I’ve yet to meet anyone, from my low-wage theatre friends to the two billionaires I’ve met, who felt they should have less.

After I posted this sentiment online, someone else weighed in with something even more to the point: “He can’t make a living as a playwright and he’s surprised? This is a joke, right? I once helped Tony Kushner move a daybed that he bought in Austria for $10k. I wouldn’t lose any sleep over his checking account or how he manages to pay his bills.”

Exactly right.