Coming: Next of Kin

Monday, October 20th, my play Next of Kin, about a military family dealing with the effects of the Iraq war, will have a reading at Portland Theatre Works. More details to come.

The Doldrums

Even dedicated political junkies get to a place where they can't eat another sound bite. I'm there. I'm curious to see if the polls shift away from McCain this week--I have a feeling they might if Palin's bloom fades a bit (ironic that the McCain campaign chose to attack Obama as a celebrity, then answered with a celebrity of their own, but this whole campaign has been an unreal blizzard of ironies from Day One)--but I'm pretty much resigned that it's going to be back-and-forth, back-and-forth until the debates start at the end of the month. "When the still sea conspires an armor/And her sullen and aborted currents breed tiny monsters...."

In the meantime, I'll let Hunter S. Thompson sum up my feelings....

"Many appeared to be in the terminal stages of Campaign Bloat, a gruesome kind of false-fat condition that is said to be connected somehow with failing adrenal glands. The swelling begins within twenty-four hours of that moment when the victim first begins to suspect that the campaign is essentially meaningless. At that point, the body’s entire adrenaline supply is sucked back into the gizzard, and nothing either candidate says, does, or generates will cause it to rise again…and without adrenaline, the flesh begins to swell; the eyes fill with blood and grow smaller in the face, the jowls puff out from the cheekbones, the neck-flesh droops, and the belly swells up like a frog’s throat…The brain fills with noxious waste fluids, the tongue is rubbed raw on the molars, and the basic perception antennae begin dying like hairs in a bonfire."

Third Time Around Dept.

(Photo by Owen Carey)

I'm pleased to announce that my play Lost Wavelengths has been chosen as a finalist for the Oregon Book Award, which is kind of like Oregon's version of the Booker Prize. I couldn't be happier to be in such distinguished company. I've twice been a finalist (for Bombardment and Altered States of America), and it's both gratifying and humbling. Though everybody says it's great to be nominated for this or that, the OBA is a case where, whether or not the play's finally chosen, you've really already won just by being recognized. Thank you so much, Literary Arts!

Oregon Book Award Finalists

Our Sarah

Well. Isn't she just a spunky, down-to-earth, snowbilly attack dog from hell?

Also, just from personal experience with similar types: she's completely batshit crazy.

Good luck.

Dear John...

Far be it from me to offer advice to a Republican on how to recover their campaign after so utterly fucking it up to almost George W. Bushian standards, but, well, turn the other cheek as that one guy said. He won't listen to me anyway, so we're safe.

That said, Palin ain't going to fly. The whole thing has been such a thorough disaster that they're probably considering nuking Alaska so she has to drop out to deal with the crisis (which she probably would at least as well as Bush handled Katrina). Brass tacks, John McCain is, uh, not a young guy. He's had melanoma, the most dangerous form of skin cancer, four times, and there's a fairly decent chance...we'll, let's just say picking Palin was stupid on so many levels that it's hard to count (and really throws into question McCain's judgment, not to mention whatever medication they're giving him to keep him upright), but mostly, it makes him look, really, really old, and, when you consider we're in the middle of two wars and the economy's tanking, the thought of someone like Palin being a heartbeat from the oval office would make you take a deep breath before snapping open the paper each morning. Politically, McCain's pretty much screwed. If he stays with her, it's going to be one long train wreck from here to November (though I really look forward to the vice-presidential debate for a change...that is, unless they have to stop it because it looks like Bidens squashing a kitten with a tassled loafer).

*meeeoooorrrr!* crunch. silence.

If he dumps her, he looks like he's covering for making a bonehead mistake and all the evangelicals will huff, take their Bibles, and stay home. But...there is a way he can cover his ass. All he has to do is come out and say: "My friends, I believe there's been a great misunderstanding. When I said I was choosing Palin for my running mate, everyone assumed I meant Sarah Palin. Well, they all got so excited that I didn't want to dash their hopes, and I thought, well, maybe it'd work out. But, I'm a maverick, you know, and I have to stick to my straight talk. And that's why I'm here to explain that I didn't mean Sarah Palin. I meant Michael Palin.""I believe Michael will, well, he'll liven things up. He brings the funny. Even if it's that kind of British funny not everybody gets. You know, the whole vice-presidential thing's gotten pretty deadly with Dick Cheney, so to speak, and I think...I think in these times of trouble, America not only needs a vice-president who can communicate well with our Canadian friends. And with lumberjacks. But who has executive experience working in the Ministry of Silly Walks. And let me tell you, my friends, when we walk up to the podium together, it's going to be a walk you'll never forget. Now, if you excuse me, it's my happy nap time."

Joe Biden debates Michael Palin. You say you want an argument?

Do it, John. It's the only way.

Dept. of Stupid Ideas

I was recently chatting with a friend about making music, theatre, etc., and we were both agreed that, yeah, it'd be cool if there was a place in the country you could go where you could crank up the amps, and folks could jam, try out new stuff. And pretty soon we were like...and yeah...we could do play readings! And workshops! And record! And a space for photographers! And...and...and...we need a barn! Or a rich friend with a barn. A rich patron of the arts with a barn. At which point, it devolved into some kind of mutant Mickey Rooney on acid let's put on a show, and we laughed it off, and the conversation meandered into something equally silly....

But.

For some reason, I keep thinking about the barn. What if...there really was one out there? And someone was into it? You could kind of, I don't know, do a co-opt thing where folks chipped in a few bucks to help defray costs, and you could have jams with a few invited friends, a pot-luck, a bit of theatre, a bit of music, and....

Yeah. It's totally fucking nuts. But then, so am I, so I went a posted an inquiry on Portland Craigslist under "Artists." I'm sure nothing will come of it. But...but...but....

Nevermind.

Language is a Virus