Heaven knows what you’ve got to prove

Rico’s place, Berkeley, ten p.m. Two dogs prance in, tongues flapping, flanking Steve. Steve carries the bongo drum that he pulled down from the attic. The wine is sugary and bubbly, made only days ago from the fig tree that grows behind the house. Brian and Sean are in the middle of a heated discussion.

“No, you never saw it,” insists Brian. “You never saw a plane anywhere near the Pentagon. You never saw any sort of video or other evidence indicating there was a plane anywhere near the Pentagon at any time. You just saw pictures of the damage to the Pentagon. Didn’t you?”

“I never saw a plane hit the Pentagon,” grunts Sean. “But it happened.”

“But you don’t know it happened. And if you saw the evidence that I’ve seen… Well, you might think differently,” says Brian.

“Are you saying that there was some kind of…” Sean waves his glass in the air. “Conspiracy? Are you saying that they forged the evidence of a plane crashing into the Pentagon?”

“No. No, I’m not saying that. All I’m saying is that if you’ve seen the evidence that I’ve seen, you might think differently about it. Consider that they interviewed the building manager of the Pentagon immediately after the attack. And the building manager said that each level of the Pentagon collapsed, as if it had been dynamited. Purposely wired to explode. How do you explain that?”

“I have no idea,” says Sean. “I have no idea of the physics involved when an airplane hits a building.”

“And if a plane hit the Pentagon,” says Brian, “wouldn’t you expect to see airplane parts everywhere? Engines, seats, that sort of thing? Where were all those things, after the Pentagon blew up?”

“Well, where were they at the World Trade Center?” counters Sean. “The plane was full of fuel. The plane blew up. There were only tiny pieces of anything that didn’t burn left. Now are you saying they faked the Pentagon disaster?”

“I read the 9/11 Commission Report. Total bullshit,” continues Brian. “Complete and total bullshit. And, you know what? In the pictures that they showed of the Pentagon, you could see computer screens, undisturbed and unbroken by the blast. Now! Can you tell me how an entire plane can fly into a building, and a computer screen, right next to the point of impact, will remain unbroken?”

“Honestly, I have no clue,” says Sean. “I haven’t seen the pictures, and quite frankly I don’t think that’s evidence of a conspiracy.”

“Now wait a minute! One damn minute!” sputters Brian. “Are you saying to me… Are you trying to say to me… That you don’t believe that the government lies to you?”

Sean rolls his eyes. “Oh. The government has repressed the truth, like, a million times.”

I remember what city I’m in. I tune out of the conversation, unpack my guitar, and plug it into the amplifier.

Swim the warm waters of sins of the flesh

Three people, one mission: to put on The Rocky Horror Show in San Jose. Screaming fights, whipping, women’s underwear, false eyelashes, desperate illness, spanking and one gratuitous home mortgage refinancing.

A rough cut of the Absolute Pleasure documentary is up for your review. A fast server (when it’s up) is here and the file name is AP20040908.mpg .

Alternately, you can download it from a very slow server by clicking on the Video link at left, select the RockyHorror directory, and download the file AP20040908.mpg .

This is a huge movie file, about 496 MB, so you might prefer to use a download manager to get the whole thing.

How can I unwind or get some rest

B-Street Billiards, Thursday night, past my normal bedtime. Guy-guys swat about pool balls with cues and suck on expensive beers. Valerie sports a slinky dress and heels. Charles’s hair is growing long; it slides into his eyes and he flicks it out with a sidelong glance across the table.

“What?s the matter, John?” says Valerie.

“I’m down,” I say. “The SUTN show has delayed production yet again, and I haven’t acted for a long time. I don’t even know if I can turn it on. I feel like I’m not an actor anymore.”

“Here’s a story,” says Charles. “Marilyn Monroe is walking down the street with a friend, and she says, ‘You notice anyone looking at me, right now?’ Friend says, ‘No.’ Marilyn says, ‘That’s because I’m Norma Jean. Watch this.’ And she turns on the Marilyn, and suddenly all the men’s heads are craning to look at her, and all the men on the street are in love with her. She turns it on.'”

“Yeah,” says Valerie. “Some women can do that. Watch this.” She takes another swig of Beaulieu Vineyards and surveys the room. Then she does a slow burn, her eyes speaking something dark and wild.

“What –” I start.

“Sshh, wait,” says Charles.

Valerie’s cell phone rings. She answers it and listens, scanning the bar. When he saunters from the other side of the room, he’s wearing bluejean overalls and a red baseball cap cocked backwards on his blonde locks. He grins and hangs up his own cell phone.

“Hi, Justin,” purrs Valerie.

“Um, yeah, so I gave you a call last week, but you never got back to me,” says Justin, beaming. Twenty feet away, a round-hipped chick checks her watch and glares at us.

“You here with someone?” asks Valerie.

“Oh, she’ll wait,” says Justin. “I just wanted to know when I could see you again.”

“You haven’t seen me before,” says Valerie, tugging a button on his overalls. “And, by the way, I’m nearly twice your age. What would your mother say?”

“She wouldn’t have to be there,” says Justin.

“Oh, nowwww –” says Valerie, dangling the syllable like a silver spinner on a fishing line. “Go be with your little girlfriend.”

Justin returns to his chick, who tugs him from the bar, whispering something in his ear. Charles laughs and says, “You disappointed him, Valerie. You should at least give him a call.”

Valerie picks up her cell phone immediately and dials it. “What should I say?”

“Here, give me the phone,” I say.

I press my ear to the earpiece and listen. “Hello?” says a muffled voice.

“Ahhh… Uhhh…” I say, moaning.

“Hello?” says the voice.

“Oh! Oh oh oh yes! Yes!” I build, panting, groaning, heaving, and screaming in glorious dubious ecstasy. I pound the table. “Oh oh oh like that oh yes AH!” The five pool games stop. The karaoke pauses.

“Okay,” says the voice. I hang up and give Valerie back her phone.

“That actually turned me on a little bit,” says Charles. “I give him thirty seconds.”

Twenty-seven seconds later, Justin saunters back in the front door of the bar, girlfriend in tow. Justin walks to Valerie, his open cell phone still in his hand.

“Wow, that was awesome, Valerie,” says Justin.

“Actually, Justin.” says Valerie, swatting a fly from her glass of wine, “That was not me.”

“Really?” Justin blinks, utterly crestfallen. “Whoever that was, it was a really good actress. Who was it?”

At this moment, two things happen, in almost but not exactly the same instant:

– Comedy occurs;

– I am no longer depressed.

Who here in the crew was he talking to

Last night, a dream of mine was fulfilled: I heard the current draft of “Bishop’s Eighteen Wives” read by my dream team. And they absofuckinglutely ruled.

And if that wasn’t enough, they stayed afterwards, and with great patience, explained to me the flaws and shortcomings of the script, and suggested ideas for fixing them.

For the record: the coolest type of people on earth are actors. They’ll do any goddamn thing you request of them, typically with no pay and no respect. Keite, Crystal, Sean B., Sean W., Clare, Charles, Alex, Anthony, Rob, Lisa, Mr. Fantastic, Shannon: you dominate the known universe.

You know you ghetto, look at the way you walk

True story: In sixteenth-century Bavaria, a tailor ingratiated himself into the Catholic Church and declared himself a bishop, God’s representative on earth. He promptly banished the men from the town and serially married the women.

“The Bishop’s Eighteen Wives” is a two-act roller coaster of ribaldry, religion, and revenge. It’s got thrilling swordplay, seduction of nuns and farm girls, a silent murderer, tavern fights, instant marriages, a poisoned needle, and several pieces of women’s undergarments. “The Bishop’s Eighteen Wives” is funny, philosophical, and very very sexy.

Table read, my place, tonight, 6:30 p.m. Wine and beer and pizza and sushi. If you’re one of the three people who read my blog, come on by.

Daddy’s gone across the ocean, leaving just a memory

The fifteen-pack Sears Portrait Package includes a choice of predetermined backgrounds and props. Olan Mills lectures us: “Our photographer will take five poses using various backgrounds, props, and special effects. You will need a table like the one below which you can print out and bring to the studio.”

In either case, you are expected to encapsulate your most personal memories of your family with a predesigned, focus-tested Happy Meal menu of photos.

As Mr. Fantastic says, fuc dat.

Go invent your history. Go make your family photos something worth looking at.

Kimi ni kondo au hi no tame ni

Before Narita was home to a vast international airport, it was home to a shrine and a series of low-ceilinged tourist shops. This particular restaurant is hundreds of years old. Eel is in season here. It’s rich and fragrant, almost the consistency of butter. Call it unagi.

“Yellow lace,” Haba-san says to me, scarfing up a piece of unagi. Yoshimi, his new girlfriend, nods and smiles. “You know, in Japan we have only yellow lace, really.”

“I’m surprised,” I say. “In America, we have all colors of lace. Black, red, blue.”

Haba-san coughs on his unagi. “Blue lace?!” he grunts. “I don’t think you have blue lace there. You are laughing at me.”

Outside the door, two cats growl and grumble guttural threats at one another. A delicate old lady pads up, her slippers scuffing on the hot pavement, and she utters a syllable. The cats spring and scatter like water.

I consider trying to explain the word “catcalling” to Haba-san, but decide against it.

“Actually, we mostly have the white race in the United States,” I say. “Some black, some red, though.”

“Yah, I know,” said Haba-san. I wondered what he thought I thought.