Only shooting stars break the mold

Dear Keith,

Read your script and all I can say is, wow! Wow! I say Wow repeatedly, in that thrilling low voice that I reserve for unusually exuberant situations!

I was so overcome with raw emotion that I could do only one thing, which is to read the script again. After careful consideration, then, I can surely say, without fear of contradiction: Wow!

I catch my breath, fan myself briefly with the printout to recover some equilibrium, and dedicate myself to a more academic analysis of your oeuvre.

Wow! Sorry, that just slipped out, there. I will refocus.

Now, regarding the elements of your script. It is well-typed, with very bold spacing choices. And your command of spelling is immaculate. I note with pleasure that you have elected to spell the word “bologna” with the requisite g. The secondary spelling, “baloney,” is frowned upon in modern literary circles.

Now, regarding your characters. Your protagonist is Bruce, a brilliant actor, misunderstood, underappreciated for the artistic genius that he is. Immediately the character leaps off the page to me. He talks exactly to my own personal situation in life. Here is an actor, struggling against the appalling difficulties of black-box theatre, ultimately to be truly admired and respected for the talent he is. A classic story!

However, one concern. Bruce, unfortunately enough, is a name that lesser writers have chosen as a cliche to represent homosexual characters. Do you think, perhaps, that people might mistakenly think that Bruce is homosexual due to his name? I wonder if the fact that he comes on stage wearing a dress and wig might wrongly suggest this idea? I see Bruce as a manly character, one generically dashing and charming after he effects his transformation. Perhaps we can provide him with a more masculine name, in order to avoid this line of analysis altogether. I leave the correct choice of name to you, the creator. Suggestions? I don’t know, perhaps Spike? Horatio? Doctor Z?

Here I must thank you for the extremely kind dedication that you wrote at the beginning of the play. I wonder, though. Do you think that the general audience will get the “Dedicated to the Great and Incomparable John Byrd” business at the beginning? If it’s not spoken in the actual play, how will the theatregoers understand and appreciate it? I can try to incorporate it into my interpretation of Bruce, but it would be challenging. Will it be printed in the program? Or perhaps there could be a small sign on an easel, to the right of the proscenium, with the inscription “Dedicated to the Great and Incomparable John Byrd.”

Now that I consider the matter, I think the small-sign idea might be most appropriate. A small sign does not take up valuable space in the program, where the other actors will surely want to list their biographies. We can post a small spotlight on the sign as well, so that it does not become a tripping hazard during blackouts and during intermision.

Now, the next character, Laura. I love the bit with the kiss between Laura and Bruce at the end. “You are so fucking beautiful” and a big smoocheroo. I am all about smoocheroos in the theater, especially when they involve me. But I think the moment would have to be authentic to play. Do you think we could get a blonde to play the part? I know a few blondes who currently refuse to have anything to do with me. With such a powerful role as Laura to offer, I could possibly get an exception from the court order and maybe make a phone call or two.

Actually a brunette would do as well, I suppose. The color of the hair, it’s one of those mutable actress qualities, one of those female properties that change with the latest fashions, with the checkout-stand magazine covers. We mustn’t put too much stock in it.

Perhaps a little experimentation with wigs and a number of actresses would be in order.

There are definitely a number of other parts in the play, which I can’t remember very clearly. It would be useful to have a list of characters at the beginning, so that I can keep them all straight. I am quite confident that we should be able to find other actors to play these parts. Most of them are quite easy, I think: no more than a few lines to memorize. There are plenty of actors in the greater Bay Area who excel at memorizing lines, and I think that many of them would appreciate the chance to play a part without the line-memorization burden of Hamlet or Macbeth.

Given a script of this caliber, I’m sure that we should have no problem finding a theater to produce it. We all know that TheatreWorks has a “new works” program intended to support the production of recent scripts, but we all also know that “new works” is basically a euphemism for “crap.” Might I convince you to tell a small white lie regarding the production of this script? Namely, that you wrote it about forty years ago? That way, it can’t be truly classified as a “new work” and thus it stands a better choice of production. The existence of an interesting backstory always assists in the production of a script. Perhaps I’m the first actor in forty years you’ve met who can manage the demands of the role?

There may be some confusion as to why you dedicated the script to John Byrd before he was born. We’ll deal with that as it comes.

Ah well. I suppose the Hillbarn will pick it up in any case.

A note regarding the costuming. I can supply the wig, beard and dress that my character requires. Perhaps I should bring my complete collection of women’s clothing to some rehearsal, so that we can determine the costume elements that best support the character.

Thanks so much for writing the script. It’s got potential. I can smell the potential. And I bet you can, too. We’re going places, you and me, kiddo. Just you wait.

The joint was jumping and the band began to swing

“You shoulda heard those knocked-out jailbirds sing, let’s rock!” I shook the electric guitar and laid down power chords. “Everybawwdy, let’s rock! Everybawwdy in the whole cell blawk! They was dancin’ to the jail! house! rock!”

I finished the chorus and stopped abruptly. George Furth sat, grinning thinly before me. He’s seventy-three years old, an elfin mug laced with a drizzle of white hair. A white monogrammed scarf hangs loosely around his black turtleneck. I idly wonder why he’s wearing a scarf on a warm sunny day.

“Well, we got another Elvis here,” says George. I smile politely.

Doug Katsaros sits down at the piano and starts banging out the Eagles. I grab an edge of the piano and hang on. “On a dark desert highway!” I scream. “Cool wind in my hair! Warm smell of colitas…”

George pounds the table. “I can’t hear him! Doug, play quieter!”

“What?” shouts Doug.

“QUIETER!” screams George.

“Sorry,” says Doug.

I try again. “Welcome to the Hotel Caaalifornia! Such a lovely place, such a lovely place…”

We peter out at the end of the chorus. Again, George’s nondescript smirk. “Your mother must be proud of you.”

I think. “She’s my mom. She doesn’t have a choice.” The audition’s over, somehow.

So I’m getting off Adam’s Cardinal when the call comes. George is writing, Doug is musicking, and they want me to play and sing it. The showcase is called “The End” and it goes up at the end of May. They want to tour the show.

These guys all had their turn on Broadway, and they want to get back to where they once belonged.

First rehearsal was last night. We’re still working out the arrangements, but Doug has me singing (four songs, one solo), playing bass, acoustic guitar, electric guitar, and — dear sweet God — the banjo. Are banjos legal on Broadway?

You don’t have to be beautiful to turn me on

Wednesday night, ten p.m, South First. The jukebox drones and the waitresses dawdle. Valerie drops her glass of red wine on the table with a thonk and scratches her nose. She’s in lecture mode.

“Now. About kissing in film scenes. There is a protocol to be followed. I was doing this sci-fi film once and I was gonna get kissed by this bad-ass biker dude. And the cameras rolled and he gave me this little teeny kiss. So I tell him, whatsa matter, ya fuckin’ pussy? Kiss me, goddamn it! And the cameras rolled again and he stuck his tongue in my mouth, so I slapped him up-side the head and said Don’t you ever do that to me again in your life! So the third time he got the kiss vaguely sorta right. Protocol.”

Valerie killed the rest of her wine. “Wanted to tell you. Saw that kissing scene with you in that video I asked you to do. Gotta tell you to keep that tongue in your mouth. It’s a safety issue, you know. You don’t know what germs the other actor is carrying. Basic rule of stage and screen: never kiss with tongues. So in the future, don’t you stick your tongue in anyone’s mouth either.”

I blinked. “You going to slug me?”

“I need another glass of wine,” Valerie said, flagging a waitress. “Hey!”

Let the sun and light come streaming into my life

An hour ago I auditioned for Doug Katsaros’s new musical. Katsaros wrote this B-flat. It’s late, I’m hungry, I’m waiting in line for a sandwich. To my left is a woman: five-foot-four, possibly Filipino or Korean. She has a thick pair of wire rims on her stubby nose. She carries about fifty pounds of unflattering weight, mostly around her belly. Her thick fingers, devoid of any rings, sift through her wallet. As they do so, I catch a glimpse of a neatly stacked wad of orange Super Lotto tickets.

And in that instant she becomes very real to me, a life of the same recipe as yours and mine, a creature of mud and dreams.

No one knows what it’s like to be the bad man, to be the sad man

Eight thousand feet down, the Sacramento Valley shines beneath me, a living emerald quilt. Lakes shimmer in the brilliant haze. From here, the cars are white blood cells, coursing through the veins of Calaveras County.

Adam Wilt is the amiable pilot of this Cessna C177A N30304, vintage 1969, with all the Populuxe design hipness of the period. The vinyl dashboard is crinkled and cracked from years of sun and air, and the windshield is streaked with hairline scratches, but the ashtrays are clean and the wings are unmarked. The fat-ass engine growls and hauls us through the fog.

“We’re at cruising altitude,” says Adam. “I would say it’s OK for you to get up and walk around the cabin, but I’d have to get out first.”

“I’ll bet you’ve used that joke before,” I said.

Adam looked chastened. “No, I haven’t,” he said. Mountains, fields, trees, sky: everywhere, luscious and thrilling hues of green and blue.

We met Josh and Tasha at the airport, who greeted us like old friends. They smiled and corralled us into their van, loaded with props, sunscreens, a tent, a power generator, and a gregarious chihuahua named Dieter.

In half an hour we are at a lush, open, green pasture that goes by the quaint name N 57 deg 36.657′, E 120 deg 53.387′. Dave Kellum, the director, introduces me to the costume: a green industrial plastic slicker, black coveralls, black shirt and tie, gas mask, and bowler top hat, filled with several bags of ice to keep me cool. The suit plus full-face gas mask plus balaclava plus bowler hat plus galoshes plus slicker plus backpack weighs in excess of eighty pounds.

I stand in front of the camera. Grips reflect fill lights on my sweltering head. I blink and become Geoffrey Done.

“Son of a bitch,” I whisper. I raise the pistol towards the mechanical eye, two-hand grip —

Bang! Cut! “Okay, next set-up,” says Dave, and four people scramble to rearrange my costume.

Six hours and fourteen set-ups. At the end of a productive day, Adam and I are back in the Cardinal, floating at one hundred twenty miles an hour into a picture-perfect west-coast sunset.

Mary Moon will outlive all the septuagenarians

Ten p.m., Rico’s housewarming party in downtown Berkeley. A wide-eyed, Birkenstock-wearing ragga sits cross-legged on the floor with a Slinky in one hand and metal crimpers in the other. He twists the wire into a dog on all fours, a hunched man, and an unidentifiable blob. The twists of wire end up upended on the coffee table.

“Taurine,” the short-haired redhead pronounces with authority. She fingers a plastic cup of warm wine.

Sitting on the couch is a mellow co-ed who slaps lightly on a Latin bongo drum, laying down a protest beat. His left hand keeps the beat while his right hand works a small Baggie from his pocket. The plastic bag, filled with about half an ounce of tiny green leaves, arcs through the air into Rico’s lap.

“Taurine,” the redhead says again. A mottled pitbull-pointer mutt noses into her lap and looks at her lovingly. “Dogs need it in their diet. It’s what they add to vegan dog food so dogs don’t get sick.”

Rico opens the Baggie and sniffs the contents. Rico opens the packet of green spice and fishes out a small furry mouse, with a ratty brown feather for a tail. He shakes the leaves from the toy and inspects it critically. “What the hell is this?” he asks.

The drummer laughs. “Catnip. For your cat. Put the catnip in the mouse.”

My wife rubs my neck as I fingerpick the guitar. I ponder: is it right? is it decent? for a dog to eat vegan dog food?