Theatre is dying.

I've been developing some projects with an actor buddy of mine: a possible production of my play Louis Slotin Sonata, here in Seattle, and a late-night offering of short pieces intended to explore the problem of horror in theatre. He didn't show up at my party this past weekend and I must confess I was a bit foolishly irritated with him.

Then I got this email from him on Wednesday.


First off, my apologies for not showing up at your party. I was fighting off a bit of a stomach flu and then I received a call that afternoon telling me that Tacoma Actor's Guild was going out of business and that the production of Glass Menagerie I was supposed to start rehearsing this week, had been cancelled. It was like a sucker punch in an already weak stomach.

Needless to say, I was not in a festive mood and spent the evening sulking at home.

It's been five days and I'm still not over it. It's a miserable feeling to watch theatres topple over one by one in this city. There was an article in the Sunday NY Times about the dearth of new plays on Broadway and that, if you do the math, it signifies the imminent death of theatre as we know it. (Which, God knows, may be a blessing in disguise, but still...)

So, I'm licking my wounds at the moment. But, if anything, it proves beyond any doubt that it truly is up to us to pick up the slack. So, yes, let's meet and talk. I now have the time to move forward with the Slotin production and have a few new pieces of info. to share with you. (And, of course, there's "Often Lie.")

When is good? I could do early next week, if you'd like.

Let me know.


Theatre is dead.

It really is as bad-- no-- worse than it has ever been for the art form; well, at least since they closed the houses in London during that asshole's interregnum. But even then we had a repressive enemy. The overlords don't even give us a second thought now.

Theatres are closing all over the country. My own career as a playwright, never scorching mind you, has cooled to the point where for the first time in years, I don't have a production coming up somewhere in the next year or so. And this, not to bitch, after my first national media coverage, on NPR in October. Show me a playwright who premiered their first work after 1985 making a living with scripts, and I'll show you a television writer. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.)

It's a damned unlucky lull is what it is. In October Iceowl and I wrote a screenplay in 8 days because we made it to the second round of Sundance Institute's Fellowship application process, only to be told, "Thanks but no thanks" a week ago. A San Francisco theatre that had expressed a keen interest in my latest play has suspiciously gone silent. Theatres that have lasted 25 years and longer, with established reputations and long lists of subscribers are closing their doors forever all over the country. And yet. . . and yet . . .

I wrote back to my actor-friend.


I'm so sorry you got that double gut punch. I remember a few years back there was a production of SLOTIN all set up and ready to go at a cool "Empty Space-ish" type theatre in Chicago. They even paid me up front and everything. Then it fell through with barely an explanation. It sucked.

But on the other hand, I think you're right. All this carnage is a clarion call to those of us who think we can offer something new and better. Theatre IS nearly dead. And that's what I think is so exciting about it. We absolutely NEED to find new ways of doing it-- not so that it survives, it'll always survive, just like bacteria and cockroaches do-- but so that we can enjoy ourselves as we offer it to our friends and neighbors in the community. It's not so much about saving theatre as it is about saving ourselves.

Theatre shall rise again.

I've been in correspondence with Stewart Brand of the Long Now Foundation, ever since he came to my play reading in San Francisco back in September. At one point, I asked him in an email if he had any playwrights attached to the project of building a ten-thousand year clock and accompanying library out in the Nevada-California desert. He responded that none of the playwrights he'd ever talked to had taken the project seriously. I pounced. I wrote him explaining that theatre is the best low-tech solution to the deep time communication dilemma. I began reading everything on the website bibliography. I was determined to become the Long Now Playwright. And. . . . things look good for my doing just that. (I don't want to jinx negotiations. Just suffice it to say: things look good.)

So ironies of ironies: I can't get arrested as a playwright in my own city in my own time, but with a huge amount of luck and some amazingly hard work, my play, or rather something inspired by and derived from it, could, if a myriad of things go right for the project specifically and for our race generally, be performed ten thousand years from now.

Long live theatre!

Warning: I'm going to write about the 2004 US Presidential election. Yes, I know you probably don't want to hear anything more about it, no matter what your political views might be. But bear with me, at least for a little while. I have a few observations to make, and I've also got a few stories to tell--stories that you don't hear too often in other places.

I'll get to them in just a little bit.

First let me give you some background so you know where I'm coming from. I grew up in the Northeast, went to school in the South, and have since moved to California. For most of my adult life, I've been a fiscal conservative and a social liberal/libertarian. I believe in small government, minimal interference in citizens' personal lives, and local control of education and infrastructure and welfare. I think that campaign finance reform is a well-intentioned but poorly-implemented policy; I'm in favor of the legalization of marijuana, at least for medicinal purposes. I'm pro-choice--forever uneasy about it, but pro-choice nonetheless.

And so, in the 2004 election, I cast my vote for Michael Badnarik, the Libertarian candidate for President. I didn't actually want him to win-- the man's pretty wacky--but he came closer to my ideals than either of the major-party candidates. I couldn't vote for Bush, the big-government fan who used a wartime State of the Union address to take a random slap at gay folks who'd like to get married. I certainly couldn't vote for John Kerry, the man who protested Vietnam, voted against the first Gulf war, and then voted for the far less justifiable second Gulf war for reasons he could never adequately explain (he either trusted that the government would conduct itself rationally and appropriately--in which case he learned nothing from all that Vietnam experience he kept blabbering about--or he helped send our troops off to war just so he could look all tough and Presidential, in which case he should be shot for treason along with Hillary Clinton, John Edwards, and anyone else on either side of the aisle who voted yea but knew better).

But I digress. I am supposed to be telling stories and making observations here.

In the days before and after the election, I spent a lot of time visiting two political websites, namely Democratic Underground and Free Republic. If you haven't heard of them, DU tends to be left-liberal while the Freepers tend towards the religious right. Both sites are full of passionate people and interesting news stories presented in the most biased manner imaginable, and they both have strict censorship policies that result in the banning of anyone who deviates too far from a very narrow party line set by the moderators. So they sort of balance either out.

Anyway, the Freepers have been ecstatic, of course, while the DUers...well, let me just say that at times I seriously considered posting the phone number for a national suicide hotline. I am not trying to be funny here. Some of those people sounded like they might need it. They were worrisome enough, but the angry people bothered me the most. "Angry" is actually an understatement--these folks were enraged. Some of them swore up and down that there must have been fraud. Some said that they didn't know anyone who had voted Republican. (This was probably true; like many Freepers, a lot of these people perceive unity only because they've carefully insulated themselves from opposing views). Other folks posted all sorts of graphs and charts that purportedly showed voter fraud in Ohio and Florida. (I didn't have a chance to look at all of them, but the ones I did look at didn't seem to show an understanding of margin of error, statistics, probability, base rate, and the like.)

But others, by far the angriest of them all, said no. There's no fraud, and even if there were it wouldn't make up the three million votes. No, the blame for the election lay squarely with a bunch of Bible-thumpin' gun-totin' wife-beatin' inbred racist porch honkies who turned out for Bush in droves, and who voted not with what little brains they had but happily did whatever Rush Limbaugh or Fred Phelps or whoever told them to do.

Nope. It was fraud or it was porch honkies. That was about it.

I wish I could make you understand just how poorly a man like John Kerry goes over with those "porch honkies" in the South. He doesn't speak the language. He doesn't know the customs. He's not from around there. He doesn't fit in.

See, there's a particular way of speaking in the South, a way that affects everything from what you say to how you say it. Northerners often mistake it for stupidity, but it's not that at all. It sounds simplistic, but what's not said is often more important than what's said. Your values and principles suffuse what you say, but you don't really speak about them directly. You weigh alternatives, but you don't vacillate or equivocate. You are polite, and you respect the other person's privacy and dignity. You use simple and straightforward language, but at the same time you use allusions and oblique references. As with the accent, it's a tricky thing to fake. They say that if you didn't grow up in the South, you'll never quite understand it. After having lived there for over a decade, I'm inclined to think they're right.

If you don't speak that language, you'll find it hard to communicate with folks in the South. You won't understand them and they won't understand you. George Bush, for all his linguistic incompetence, can speak that way. Carter and Bush the First could do it, sort of, though not as well as the men who defeated them; Clinton and Reagan were masters. I think Al Gore once knew but forgot how after all those years in Washington.

And John Kerry can't speak to the South. In speech after speech, and to a lesser extent in the debates, he showed that he had no idea how to do it and only the vaguest idea that it needed to be done. He's all wrong--wrong in ways I can't even begin to describe. It's one big reason why he lost. It's one reason why a Northern Democrat hasn't won a Presidential election since John F. Kennedy over 40 years ago. It's one reason why the Democratic Party has slowly lost its seats in the south until the only Southern Democrats left are mostly DINOs like Zell Miller. It's one reason why the Dems will continue to lose unless they figure this out.

I'd like to tell you about a woman I know. Her name is Carolyn, and she was the secretary in the department where I did my graduate work. We were probably the only two people in the department who weren't radical leftists (this is a university, after all), so we got to talking about politics. We didn't actually agree on all that much, but we both disagreed with everyone else, and that was somewhere to start.

Carolyn is what you'd think of as a fairly prototypical Southern woman. Every Sunday, her family dresses up and spends the morning at the Baptist church down the road from her house. She cooks, cleans, and takes care of the kids; her husband handles the house and car repairs, and on the weekend he cooks stuff on the grill. She's the nurturing mother; he's the disciplinarian. They're overweight and dress in handmade clothes. They speak with strong Southern drawls. They're poor.

One day we got to talking about the upcoming election. Carolyn said that she was "conflicted" about the war in Iraq. She wondered from the start whether it was a good idea, because Colin Powell didn't have anything but some grainy photos and sketchy diagrams, but she knew that Saddam Hussein was clearly an evil guy. She was troubled to find out that the WMDs didn't appear to exist and that Saddam wasn't as much of a threat as it had seemed. She was worried about a draft--she has two young sons--and said that on the whole she was "beginning to doubt."

Carolyn was conflicted about gay marriage too. Her religious beliefs were opposed to it, for one, but it went deeper than that. She said that she didn't really understand homosexuality on an emotional level, but that when she saw gay couples together, it didn't seem like they had what she and her husband had. Still, it wasn't a major issue for her, and she said that she'd probably be willing to live and let live. So far, that's what she's done--the gay and lesbian folks in our department have never had a problem with her on that account, and she certainly knows about their sexuality.

And she was worried about the economy and terrorism and the national debt and everything else that people worried about in this election, but still in spite of all of this she told me that she was voting for Bush. I knew her well enough to ask her why, and here's what she told me.

Shortly after she got married, Carolyn found out that she was pregnant. She didn't explicitly say so, but I suspect from the way she told me about it that the conception had occurred before marriage and that her family wouldn't approve. They were dirt poor and could barely afford their house and beat-up old car, let alone a baby.

Carolyn seriously considered having an abortion. But before she even told her husband about the pregnancy, she went to find out more about what the abortion would entail. And she went not to the Bible or her church or her pastor, but to some medical books and websites. She found an obstetrics book that had pictures of fetuses at different gestational ages.

She turned to the right page. She looked at the eight-week-old fetus, and the fetus looked back at her.

And that was it. She said that at that moment, she knew she couldn't have the abortion. More to the point, she came to believe in her heart and mind that the fetus was a living human being, basically the same as her two-year-old son, and that nobody should be allowed to have an abortion except in certain special cases. You might say that it's not right to impose on a woman's body in that way, but in her view an abortion is a much worse imposition on the body of the fetus. You might say that it's awful to make a woman go through an unwanted pregnancy. But she knows how tough it is; after all, she had the kid. What she said was that when you have a kid it's hard work of one kind before they're born, and then it's hard work of another kind afterwards. As for stem-cell research and discarded embryos, she believes that it would be better for a woman to have no children at all rather than to use a fertilization method that would lead to the destruction of what she believes is human life.

That's what she believes. You may agree or disagree--heck, I disagree with her. But she's not simply parroting something somebody told her, and she doesn't argue by quoting Bible verses. She's faced this issue straight-on, thought about it, researched it, and come up with her own view--a view she holds very deeply. So when George Bush gave a speech about embracing the culture of life, she knew what he meant. She knew he understood how she felt, and that's why she voted for him.

Now, what do the Democrats have to offer this woman? How do you think she'd feel about John Kerry's position on abortion? Do you think she'd find it consistent at all? And how do you think the folks at DU would treat her if she started posting there? Would they see her as a thoughtful and intelligent woman? Would they firmly but respectfully disagree with her, as she would them, or would they pelt her with sneering and contempt and then delete her account?

Sure, the Freepers and Republicans are just as guilty in their own way, with all their burbling about highfalutin Northeastern liberals, and when they're out of power, I'll write a node about them. But the point is that people like Carolyn are really out there, whether the Democrats realize it or not, and if you want to win you have to talk to her.

Several years ago, I worked with a Sikh guy named Mandeep. Now, to understand what I'm going to tell you, you have to know that Mandeep--by his own admission--looks remarkably like Osama bin Laden. It's not just the turban and full beard; Mandeep's tall and thin, has the same nose, and his skin is roughly the same color. Needless to say, this isn't exactly the ideal look in the post-9/11 world. Or so you'd think.

A few weeks after the September 11 attacks, Mandeep and his family were driving back from a camping trip on the mountains. Now Mandeep is one of the nicest guys you'll ever meet, but he's a bit forgetful at times, especially when it comes to doing chores. He was supposed to get the car's radiator or whatever fixed, but winter was coming and he didn't think it was necessary. But sure enough, the day they drove back was boiling hot, and the car overheated on an empty highway somewhere in the rural western half of a deep red state.

As I said, Mandeep is an exceptionally nice person. His wife...well. Suffice it to say that while Mandeep didn't want to walk a mile to the next exit in the sweltering heat while wearing a turban and a full beard, he really didn't want to stay in the car with his wife and three cranky kids while they waited for someone to show up. Anyway, the next exit led to a crossroads...and only a crossroads. There wasn't a thing there except for a boarded-up old restaurant on one corner, Riddle's Garage on another, and empty road in all four directions. Now Riddle's Garage was covered in American flags, bunting, and "We Will Prevail" signs--not to mention battered old political signs for Republicans going back to Dwight D. Eisenhower. Mandeep, who had heard all the tales about racist Southerners and shotguns, was a little nervous. But he didn't have much of a choice, and in he went.

Well, the Riddles didn't even blink when Osama's twin brother walked in the door. As soon as he explained the problem, they closed down the garage--closed it down!--and put the "Back in 15 Minutes" sign up. Mr. Riddle drove out in his tow truck and Mrs. Riddle followed him in her car because the truck could only hold two other people. Once they got back, Mr. Riddle set to work and Mrs. Riddle brought out fresh iced tea and lemonade for everyone. Mandeep and the Riddles' eldest son talked about basketball; Mrs. Riddle and Mandeep's wife talked about their kids. As for the kids themselves, they played with the Riddle kids. You could tell that the Riddle kids were a little taken aback when their mom called them in, but she gave them the no-nonsense glare and they set to it.

They played Tinkertoys, of course. Mrs. Riddle said it: "Everyone likes Tinkertoys."

Mr. Riddle fixed the car, charged a price that was so low that Mandeep almost felt guilty, refused all of his efforts to pay for the drinks, and sent them on their way with best wishes and a recommendation of a nearby restaurant that had some vegetarian food. Not a word about terrorism or their appearance or anything. No racial slurs, no violence, just good country people. And Republican, born and bred.

Now you tell me. How often have you heard a story like that about the South? How often do you hear about sacrifice and courtesy and people helping people regardless of background or appearance? Do you hear those stories, or do you only hear the stories that confirm your prejudices? What stories do you tell about the South? When people ask you about the racial climate in the US, do you make jokes about the rednecks in the South? How much time have you spent in the South? What do you really know about it anyway?

I am telling you all this because I sometimes think that the left doesn't realize or care that people like Carolyn and the Riddles exist. To them, the red states are essentially one big asylum filled with those people you see on Springer or Sunday morning evangelical shows. And yeah, the South has those people. The stereotypes are true to an extent. But they're false to an extent too, and it's the falsity that really stings, because those of us who have spent time in the South know that there's more to Southern culture than evangelical racists in stained t-shirts. When Southerners talk about the great aspects of Southern culture, they're talking about things like this--about the customs of kindness and civility and generosity that you just don't find up North, or at least not in the same way. And there's a sadness and perplexity that the rest of the country just doesn't get it and never will.

I have news for you. If you want to win, you have to get it, or at a bare minimum you have to try. You can't win by casting a blanket rejection of all the guys with Confederate flags on their pickup trucks, or whatever it was that Howard Dean said before screaming himself into oblivion. You can't win by spitting in the face of the Riddles and Carolyn and the hundreds of red-staters I've met who are just like them. Because those guys are not all morons. They are thinking reasoning beings, citizens just like you, and they vote whether you like it or not. And you can get their vote, as Clinton sometimes did, if you don't contemptuously dismiss their home and their culture and their values.

Mike Moore isn't going to help you here. Hell, Mike Moore makes his millions by capitalizing on the division; why would he want it to disappear? No, if you want to win, you are going to have to remember that these people exist, because it's your job to represent them after all. You are going to have to listen to what they say, and you are going to have to speak their language. And if you don't, then you can expect them to reject you--just as you have rejected them.

Fortune has a pretty nasty sense of humor, you know that?

Eighteen months ago, I was lonely, desperate for love, and couldn't find a boyfriend to save my life. Then came Lex and Matthew.

Now I'm scared to death at the mere thought of love and relationships, to the point where I no longer even have the desire to seek them. I don't know what the hell I want, if anything.

So out of the woodwork come all of these guys whom I would have dated in a second eighteen months ago. THANK YOU, FORTUNE, BUT YOU'RE A TAD LATE!

It sucks for me, and it sucks for them. It hurts me, and it hurts them. People express an interest in me, and I get the delightful task of telling them, "Nope, sorry, I'm damaged goods, let me just crush that brief hope you had."

Even if I ever do want love again, there will be a long period where I'm far too scared to risk anyone else's feelings by trying to act on that desire. Who the hell knows what I might do?

Fuck it. The only thing to do with this is grind it forcefully into the dust. That, and avoid people.

Sorry for the whining; I needed this. Downvote if you wish.

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