The return of the 24 hour challenge: #12

I know.  It’s rather unbelievable.  What have I gotten myself (back) into?

But in a longstanding Lichtenbergian tradition, I have resurrected 2009’s 24 hour challenge in order to avoid working on Five Easier Pieces, of which I have exactly three abortive attempts.

For those who cannot recall exactly what I am talking about, head over to the 24 hour challenge page and refresh your memory.

And here we go:

From Mike, who will be astonished to learn that his numbers (4-1081-33) finally came up:

Come Sweete & frolick then with vs
Noe Longer doate on Telaphus
A youth aboue thy fate
A wanton Wench & rich beside
Hath him in twofould bondage tie’d
Nor does he proue vngrate.

That’s ll. 31-36 from “Maecenas Birthday,” by the Roman poet Horace, translated by one Thomas Pestell, an early 17th c. poet about whom not even Wikipedia has a thing.

Let’s see if I can get this up by tomorrow midnight.

4/19/13, 8:58 p.m.

Well, what do you know?  I did it.

A little background: entries #12, #13, and #14 have all been on sticky notes on my monitor since 2009.  I had to look at them every morning and every night, right above my Lichtenbergian chalice.  So it’s not as if I haven’t give these scraps some thought.  Even before I had to stop the 24 hour challenge because of decamping to Valdosta in June 2009, I knew that I wanted to set this one as a kind of Cole Porter beguine, a song for a 1930s chanteuse, as it were.

See what you think.  I think the tempo could be a little slower.  It would have to be interpreted, of course, by the artistes.

24 hour challenge #12, “Maecenas Birthday” for Mike: score [pdf], bassoon [mp3]

Marriage equality and language

With the gay marriage debate all over but the tossing of the bouquet, I have begun to wonder about language: how will it change to adapt and codify the new reality?

We went through the same kind of thing back when couples started living together instead of getting married at all: is she your “girlfriend”? “Roommate”? I had one friend in college who insisted on introducing her boyfriend as her LOVER, said practically exactly like that. It made me giggle then, and it still does. (She still introduces James as her lover, forty years later.)

Most of society has settled for “partner,” and in fact gay couples have benefitted from that so far.  But now we’re talking matrimony, and “partner” has already been codified as “unmarried sexytime person,” so that won’t really do. (Side note: when someone I don’t know well talks to me about their partner, there is always that slippery moment when I listen extra sharp to establish context: is he telling me he’s gay and in a committed relationship, or is he talking about the guy with whom he owns and operates the Harley-Davidson franchise?) (Or both?)

I brought up the topic last night in a discussion, and my lovely first wife promptly epitomized the problem by framing it as, “Which one’s the husband and which one’s the wife?”

That lays bare rather explicitly our sexual assumptions about it all, doesn’t it? It seems to me, I offered, that the first step is to disconnect what goes on in the bedroom (or at least our curiosity about it) from the terms we use in invitations, announcements, and office chitchat. It is not necessary for one person to be the “husband” and one the “wife” in a marriage, if by that we mean fulfilling traditional sexual roles.

We already have a useful term, of course, in “spouse.” Just like “partner,” it wouldn’t be hard for society to begin to prefer the gender-neutral term, but I suspect that for quite a while yet, we’re all still going to be curious about which flavor spouse we’ve invited to dinner.

Using “spouse” as a society would also help us reign in those who might insist on flaunting their sexytimes, which is not in good taste no matter who you are. A same-sex couple who insist on being called “husband” and “wife” are dragging the terms right back into traditional sex role territory that we should be glad to escape. We get it: you’re having sex. What no one wants to know (about any relationship) is the nature of the sex you’re having. It would be like a straight couple insisting on being referred to as “mistress” and “slave” outside the confines of their bedroom. What would the Dowager Countess say?

Not only that, but that way madness lies: if Joe tells me all about what he and his wife did over the weekend, and then Joe’s wife turns out to be a barrel-chested lumberjack, I think I am right to declare shenanigans. There’s also then the spectacle of two men claiming each other as “wife,” and on and on. Too much granularity when all we really need to know is whether you’re living with someone as partner or spouse, and if so, what gender they are just so we can be polite whenever we’re chatting about the weekend.

My prediction is that for a long while we’ll call all men who get married “grooms” and “husbands,” and women will be “brides” and “wives,” alternating with “spouse” when it feels right. Of course, it will all get easier over time: we will already know that Joe is married to Brett, or that Susan has a girlfriend, or who Dale means when he refers to his lovely first wife.

And eventually, we’ll simply ask our new coworker if he’s married and if the answer is yes, then, “Why don’t you ask your spouse to join us for drinks Friday afternoon?” without wondering in the least which flavor is going to show up at Alamo Jack’s.

Spotlight on… me?

Working on Spamalot has been a treat, but it’s also felt a little strange, and I finally realized that part of the reason why must be that I am in fact unused to performing.

Think about it—since I started directing theatre in Newnan in 1975, here’s a list of the shows in which I had roles:

  • Hotel Paradiso, Maxime
  • Midsummer, Oberon (1979) & Theseus (1997)
  • Twelfth Night, Antonio
  • The Dining Room, various
  • You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown, Schroeder
  • Love Letters, Andrew
  • Pericles, Gower
  • Henry VI/3, Clifford
  • Into the Woods, The Baker
  • Marriage of Figaro, Count Almaviva
  • Wit, Dr. Kelekian
  • Auntie Mame, Mr. Babcock
  • Coriolanus, Aufidius/various

That’s it. Out of the hundreds of shows done in Newnan for the past 38 years, I have had roles in fewer than twenty of them, and only five of those could be considered lead roles, and only one of those was a starring role.

And Arthur, King of the Britons, is a starring role, the kind that gets your name up in lights on the marquee if not the top of the Playbill title page. That’s hard for me to wrap my head around, actually.

It’s not because I am unused to being a star, because in GHP Land I am a huge star where hundreds of people whose names I do not know think I am wonderful and gush on Facebook that they saw me at some function or other. (It’s mostly amusing and of course bunches of fun, but even on that small scale I am acutely aware of the responsibility to be perceived as cheerful and gracious to my “fans.”)

That’s not what I’m talking about with Arthur, however. Arthur is not about being a star, about stardom, it’s about handling a starring role. On one level, of course, there’s nothing different about it than any other role—you learn your lines, your songs, your choreography (eventually), and you use your skills to evoke laughter/tears/delight/horror/whatever.

On another level, though, there is a huge difference between being Arthur and being the Third Peasant from the Left. There is a responsibility to the production that does not weigh in the same way on the Third Peasant; if he flubs a lyric or a step or screws up the timing on some gag, hardly anyone but his mother will notice, whereas if I screw up something, it has the potential to wrench the whole show out of its frame.

There is also a curious sense of dividedness inherent in the role. On the one hand, there is a huge amount of attention being showered on me, but at the same time, it’s not really me, it’s Arthur. This is true of any role, of course, and it’s one reason some people have a hard time committing to playing the truths of an unpleasant character, but it’s magnified in a very weird way in a starring role. I can see why some actors would become irritating divas: if you confused Arthur’s “stardom” with your own, you might begin to believe that it was you that everyone loved so incredibly much. That way madness lies.

I’m not sure even now that I’ve adequately explained how odd playing a starring role is for me. I’m sure anyone reading this is likewise puzzled, because I imagine that most people would never associate “shy, self-deprecating modesty” with me. But dammit, I’ve been working on that, and now here’s a stumbling block in my path to enlightenment. Which you can see for yourself March 13-24 at Newnan Theatre Company.

Dear Fox News: Shut up.

::sigh::

So even if we were talking about a 102-year-old Klansman waiting to vote for the zombie Strom Thurman—which we’re not, but even if we were—here’s the rule: when you’re 102 years old, you get a pass. For everything. No one is allowed to mock you. For anything.

The fact that anyone has to explain this to Fox News is a sad commentary on Fox News.

Additionally, at no time should you have to stand in line for three hours to vote. Even if you’re zombie Strom Thurmond in a wheelchair.

Personally, I’d like to know why those standing in line simply didn’t pass her up to the front—there you go, Fox News, mock those losers. But leave the 102-year-old alone. Losers.

Late Stage Capitalism

A couple of weeks ago, we were out to dine with some friends in a downtown Atlanta hotel restaurant. As we were leaving, I made a pit stop in anticipation of the drive home, and in the men’s room one of the urinals was dead.

I knew it was dead because it had been bagged and tagged. And on the great big red bag, in great big letters was johnnycovers.com.

Go ahead, I’ll wait.

Yes, that’s a thing. Do we live in a great nation or what?

That’s it. I don’t really have anything more to say about it.

A cool Christmas gift

I have two favorite Christmas gifts this year.  One, from my lovely first wife, is a simple brass bowl, a singing bowl from Tibet. Nothing to look at, but when you strike it the tone resonates for a full 1:50 minutes—probably longer if you were truly listening in a quiet room.  It’s astounding.

The other is at the opposite end of the spiritual scale:

Behold! the ice cube of my dreams!

My son gave me a silicone ice cube tray that makes ice cubes that are two inches on a side.  Other than being just hipster-awful, they are a gift from the gods.  I think all right-thinking people would agree that if we were able to identify the individual who invented half-moon ice “cube” makers for refrigerators, no grand jury would indict us for whatever violence we inflicted on him once we dragged him out of his house and through the streets.  Nasty, awful things that block the flow of tissue-restoring fluids from the glass to your throat—truly a crime against civilisation.

But these… They are majestic in their grand simplicity.  One drink, one cube: less dilution, perfect chill, and no blockage of life-giving liquids, ever.  Truly, a wise child to give so marvelous a gift.

The Hobbit

I went to see The Hobbit, and it was everything I thought it was going to be: a beautifully designed but completely overblown piece of self-indulgence on the part of Peter Jackson.  As soon as it was announced that Jackson had assumed directing duties and that the movie would now be in three parts, I knew what we were in for, and indeed, that’s exactly what we got.

There’s this idea out there that Jackson is a natural “story teller” of some kind, but nothing I’ve seen in LOTR or in The Hobbit (or God help us, King Kong) indicates anything but that he is completely unable to resist stopping the plot cold while he shows off his cleverness in some ludicrous “action” sequence.

Two thoughts on the matter: after The Return of the King won the Oscar—after—Jackson went back and shot that stupid skull avalanche in the Paths of the Dead.  Note: he didn’t edit it back into the film from the cutting room floor, he called the actors and the crew back to New Zesland, shot it, and inserted it, a scene that adds nothing to the plot or the characters, nothing to the mood of the sequence, nothing to the film.  It was the very definition of completely unnecessary “whizbang/stupid,” and that’s the sum of my impression of Peter Jackson’s vaunted ability to tell a story.

Second thought: the dwarves’ escape from Goblin Town is ten minutes of video game/pinball excess—fourteen tiny figures fleeing across rickety bridges, collapsing paths, etc. etc.  Their progress is hardly impeded as the camera swoops over, around, and through the cavernous space.  (I can only imagine the thing in 48 fps/3D… oy.)  Thousands of goblins/orcs swarm over everything, yet never seem to have the least effect on the outcome.  In fact, nothing has an effect on the outcome; by the end of the sequence, not one thing has changed.  It’s one big messy nothing-burger.  (Cf.: the collapsing stone arch in Moria…)

Compare this to the Escape from the Death Star: four different groups of characters who are all trying to get back to the Millennium Falcon without getting caught.  There’s suspense, action, and all of it is wrapped up in plot: rescue the princess, shut down the tractor beam, get the Death Star plans to the rebels.  Once we hit hyperspace on the way to Yavin, things are different than they were ten minutes earlier.

But Dale, you will object, a) the Goblin Town sequence had no such built-in plot point; and b) Lucas was working without the benefit of the technology we have now.

My point exactly: a) no plot point to drive?  Then skip it.  Give us a workman-like “flight through tunnels” with some twists, perhaps ending with one last bit of swordplay at the back gate (which, quite curiously, Jackson decided to leave completely unguarded)—and get them out of there.  Maybe take the time to give us some dwarf banter that might help define which one of those beings we’re supposed to know and like.

And b), that’s the mark of a “story teller,” isn’t it?  To use that amazing technology in service to the story—that’s the trick.  Peter Jackson seems unable to do that.  I have dire fears for the next six hours of this movie.  What do you want to bet that Bilbo’s cleverness in smuggling the dwarves out of Thranduil’s halls in barrels will be jettisoned in favor of yet another whizbang/stupid fight sequence?

As for Parts II and III, I intend to enjoy them—but only with a fast-forward remote in my hand.

Triumphant return

Yes, it is true. I have been cast as Arthur, King of the Britons, in the first non-touring production of Monty Python’s Spamalot in Georgia, at the Newnan Theatre Company.

And yes, that means that my triumphant return to the Newnan stage is exactly as I left it: singing the lead role in a musical comedy as a clueless aristocrat.

Am I being typecast?

A Proustian moment

I had an odd moment last night at Newnan Theatre Company. Second night of auditions for Spamalot, learning a dance sequence on the mainstage. I happened to look up, and there on the ceiling were some letters of the alphabet, chalked onto the black paint.

It took me a moment to realize that it was my handwriting.

These were the positions of the wings and drops for Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro, my farewell piece as artistic director of Newnan Community Theatre Company, aka Newnan Theatre Company. Other than an uncomfortable wedging of Coriolanus into the space one night back in 2008, Figaro was the last time I performed on that stage, and that was ten years ago.

From the sublime to the ridiculous…

Fragment #4

So, the founder of Domino’s has a sad.

One of the more offensive comments rightwingers make about employers not wanting to provide their female employees with perfectly legal medication as part of their healthcare is that if women don’t like the religiousy beliefs of their employers, they are free to seek employment elsewhere.

I have a counter-offer: if Tom Monaghan’s deeply held religiousy beliefs conflict with the law of the land, he is free to sell off his interests and go do something else.