Case in point: Using other people’s political misery and suffering to try to sell shoes.
Update:
If you click no further re the thing above, make sure you read this. The backlash was instant — and hilarious.
It’s always nice to visit some place new. (I can say that with confidence because I’ve already visited Newark, NJ.) Right now I’m in Eugene, Oregon for a couple of days of speaking with the nicest, most socially committed people imaginable, helping them look at new ways to get out their message about what they do. This is my first visit to Oregon, birthplace of my good friend the writer EM Lewis and, for all I know, many other people as well. I have found a lot to like. Principally among them: crisp clean air that reminds me of my birthplace in the Pine Barrens in the late autumn; friendly service; and good beer.
The Bier Stein, above, presents one perfectly valid reason to visit Eugene, Oregon. Within, one can find billions of biers from which to choose, as well as fine kraut and sausages to accompany them. What I did not expect was this: a cream of portabello mushroom soup with smoked gouda, roasted red peppers, and spinach, that was so slam-bang good that you would swear off all competing soups for the rest of your life. Look, I know: That soup sounds a) like a cliched Oregon soup gone bad, and b) like something I would not only never eat but would also gladly mock. Too fey, too hippie, too something. But I asked the bartender or whatever they’re called around here what was good, and I drank the bier he recommended and it was good, and I asked him what was good to eat, and he recommended that soup and he was absolutely right. Here’s a tip: Whenever you’re someplace new, ask the locals, or the bartender or whatever, what’s good. And then order that. As a general tip for living, this is a good one to follow. I wish I had taken a photo of this soup to help cement it into my memory, but I inhaled it faster than any digital camera could have captured it.
As is unfortunately all too often the case, I won’t get to see too much of this city. Last year I did a lot of traveling around the country, and when my wife would ask me how, say, Castle Rock, Colorado was, I would say, “Do you mean the airport, or the hotel?” ‘Cause usually that’s about what I get to see. I hope I get to come back to Eugene and spend some more time with the fine people here, and if I do, I’m ordering that soup again.
I was just asked to serve as a judge again this year for the PEN USA literary awards. This is my second time, and it’s again an honor. I’ll be toting around new plays through the summer and reading them and scribbling feedback. Last time I did this, I got to hang out with Larry Gelbart for a little while at the awards ceremony; that in itself made it worthwhile.
And I was just booked again into the Great Plains Theatre Conference this May-June in Omaha. This will be my fourth year serving as a judge or feedbackmeister or whatever they call it, as well as a workshop leader. GPTC is one of the very best playwriting retreats in the nation, one I’m proud to be associated with. I’ve made many good friends there, seen many good plays, and have even written a couple of them on the spot while I’ve been there. (One of which was produced last year.) Talk about environments — it’s a terrific environment to go to with a play.
I just came across this interview with my friend and former student, playwright Stephanie Alison Walker. (I knew her when she was just plain Stephanie Walker. In fact, I knew her before that, when she was Stephanie Weinert. But now she’s Stephanie Alison Walker. Such are the ways of writers.)
The focus of this interview is on Stephanie’s writing environment — her desk, her setup, the inspirational collage nearby, etc. I found this very interesting. For many years, my writing was done in a separate home office. But for probably the past five years or more, my preferred writing environment has been outside. Outside with my laptop, a glass of wine or something stronger, and a cigar. It was said that Arthur Conan Doyle wrote anywhere, even on the platforms of train stations with his wife and kids in tow as they awaited the train. I’ve done that too, writing anywhere, but whether or not I can write anywhere, editing is done best without disturbance.
The notable thing lacking, for me, in this discussion of Stephanie’s writing environment is sound. I write to music, usually the more raucous or dissonant or bizarrely twisted the better, but it depends upon the mood of the play. (And yes, the mood of the music informs the mood of the play.) You know that really harsh Nirvana album that most people didn’t like? That’s the one I wrote a play to. But I’ve also written to Glenn Gould (a favorite) and Erik Satie.
And where am I writing this now? From the desk in my office, before delving into a fully scheduled day. I’m looking forward to working on my new play the next couple of days while I’m out of town. And, maybe, outside.
As I was working on the previous post (about Mr. Rotten v. Mr. Lydon, and two John Constantines), I was sent the video below. I’ve watched it, and the artwork is unmistakably that of Neal Adams. Neal Adams was one of the hero-artists of my youth, responsible for the most amazing comic-book art of the period, and the most visually impressive story arc (The Kree-Skrull War in “Avengers”). Now he’s sketching fast-food heroes for Taco Bell, for what I’m sure is many multiples of remuneration. I am not opposed to this — many of my friends, especially in dance, go off and do corporate so they can continue doing art, and I write corporate six days a week. (And on the seventh, I rest.) There is a fine tradition in supporting your art with commerce. I just wish this were cleverer.
Speaking of young, today while singing lead on Rock Band with some girls, my 8-year-old son tossed in this ad-lib: “I’m single. I’ll be here all week.”
In the current story arc of the Vertigo comic book Hellblazer, John Constantine, who was originally modeled by Alan Moore after the young Sting, travels back to the 1970’s to rescue his fiancee and winds up meeting his earlier self. Each of them is repulsed by what he sees. Constantine the younger is a punk, with a mohawk and piercings and attitude to match; the current Constantine is a fattened fifty-something with not much to show for himself. The results of this bad team-up are hilarious, especially when the twentyish fiancee winds up sleeping with the younger Constantine, but returning to present-day life with the version who is more than twice her age. Each Constantine feels like a cuckold — to himself.
I thought of this today when I read this piece about Johnny Rotten, who has a penchant for doing home repair, and who is peddling a new book of his sketches — for $750. I don’t begrudge Mr. Rotten, born John Lydon, his success. I’m glad he’s still with us, and I look forward to that eventual new PiL album and tour. But I would enjoy seeing an encounter between Johnny Rotten circa 1977 and John Lydon in 2011 purchasing plumbing supplies in the local hardware store.
Unfortunately for me, I’ve seen a number of one-man shows. And I’ve directed several. It’s a lot harder than it looks — usually for the audience. My advice for actors considering writing and performing in a one-man show: Unless you’re the man known as Dame Edna, you probably shouldn’t try it. Read this piece from The Onion and know this: In my experience, everything they mock is all too true.
My friend Rich Roesberg, the poet laureate of Northfield, New Jersey, recently received this poem via the Internet:
WINTER POEM
It’s winter in New Jersey
And the gentle breezes blow
Seventy miles an hour
At five below.
Oh, how I love New Jersey
When the snow’s up to your butt
You take a breath of winter
And your nose gets frozen shut.
Yes, the weather here is wonderful
So I guess I’ll hang around
I could never leave New Jersey
Cuz I’m frozen to the ground!
Which prompted him to craft this reply:
SUMMER POEM
It’s Summer now in Florida
And the heat is just plain brutal.
The bugs are everywhere —
They just ate someone’s poodle.
It’s 96 today
without a cloud in sight.
Three mailmen just expired —
They should bring the mail at night.
Yes the weather here is awesome,
At least, if you love heat.
The soles of my shoes have melted
And they’re stuck fast to the street.