Model Minority

It was discovered recently that another Bay Area theater group will be conducting its run around the same time as our show.  Competition among artists is one of the those funny things that end up showing that despite all the pomp and pretension that the arts should be embraced without the moral dead weight of, “I’m better than you,” the truth is that theater is no exception.  And that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

This train of thought is going to de-rail and re-rail so hold on…

My parents never encouraged my artistic side.  Don’t get me wrong, they didn’t try to beat it out of me like I was some rotting tree infested with rabid feral squirrels, but they never took me out to great movies, theater or concerts.  They were too busy trying to put food on the table and learn enough English so they could avoid getting bamboozled so you’ll understand if nurturing my creative vision was low on their to do list.

Which is why I both envy and despise the concept of parents trying to force their kids to become celebrities or artistic prodigies.  Sour grapes on my part?  Maybe.  Morally grey area?  You betcha.  You’ve seen them at malls, churches, school functions… violently being berated and violently throwing tantrum or emotional conniptions…I’m talking parents and children both.  Yes.  Sometimes children are gifted.  Sometimes you have a young Bobby Fischer or Mozart…or sometimes you get an untalented retarded meat puppet who will grow up, do some drugs, and deny and then confirm and then deny that he ever got his tally whacked by a famous pop star.

 

Let’s look at Suzuki. 

If you ever played a string instrument, you know who this Japanese cocksucker is.  Suzuki basically invented a method of teaching the deceptively complicated 4 string instrument family chord structure (violins, viola, cello and sometime bass) into a child like easy number structure enabling tone deaf children everywhere to think they could play Beethoven’s 9^th or Eine Kline Nacthmusik when in fact it sounds like a cat being sexually assaulted by a large ham.

So because of Suzuki and any other second rate dramatic or music teacher, your kid, that kid, or some kid grow up thinking they have talent when they don’t.

I have friends who are all involved in their own projects to varying degrees of success.  I’ve also seen some pretty great shows from companies I have no ties to.   So in a sense, theater is a mostly friendly rivalry.  Watch the waiting area after a show…it’s full of smiles, hand shakes, hugs and “great job” and “I really liked it”.  Unfortunately, they ought to have some recording devices a few blocks away where more honest commentary like “what the fuck was that” and “I will never get those 2 hours of my life again” sometimes raises its ugly head.  Is it disingenuous?  Sure.  But very few people can get away with being brutally honest all the time in theater and I’m no exception even though I’ve tried.

Alexander the Great used to have some guy walk beside him during victory parades to remind him that he was human.  I don’t have enough money to pay for that kind of employee especially in California where the employee taxes are just…wow.  So all I have are my neurosis, anxiety, and the memory of the first bad screenplay I wrote…whew…it’s still pretty awful.

So I try to keep things in perspective and understand objectively my place amongst the clamoring theater artisans seeking validation but I’m not immune to my inner ego’s reassurances that, “yes sang…you are indeed better than everyone else.” So until my fragile world comes crashing down my ears revealing me to be merely a lawyer with delusions of literature, I’m looking forward to tossing the gauntlet and respectfully challenging any other group to do better than me.

So we hold our auditions this Saturday for Las Vega-Nauts.  Hubris called and said I’m out of toilet paper.

Some quotes from my two favorite shows (at the moment).  I motivate you to indulge your inner couch tuber by watching them…

"House"

"Hello, sick people and their loved ones! In the interest of saving time and avoiding a lot of boring chitchat later, I’m Doctor Gregory House; you can call me "Greg." I’m one of three doctors staffing this clinic this morning. This ray of sunshine is Doctor Lisa Cuddy. Doctor Cuddy runs this whole hospital, so unfortunately she’s much too busy to deal with you. I am a bored… certified diagnostician with a double specialty of infectious disease and nephrology. I am also the only doctor currently employed at this hospital who is forced to be here against his will. That is true, isn’t it? But not to worry, because for most of you, this job could be done by a monkey with a bottle of Motrin. Speaking of which, if you’re particularly annoying, you may see me reach for this: this is Vicodin. It’s mine! You can’t have any! And no, I do not have a pain management problem, I have a pain problem… but who knows? Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m too stoned to tell. So, who wants me?"

And HBO’s "Deadwood" with enough profanity to make David Mamet blush:

"Announcing your plans is a good way to hear god laugh."

"I begrudge that pervert his happiness …"

"I may have fucked my life up flatter than hammered shit, but I stand here before you today beholden to no human cocksucker."

So in the past few weeks, friends of mine have utilized or thought of utilizing email as a way of bearing bad or unpleasant news.  For example, my good friend in NY is trying to find a diplomatic way of ending a casual dating relationship she’s been involved in. 

How should I end this, she asked?

I replied, how about an email?

What should I write?

The following is my suggestion:

Dear _____,

This is a hard letter to write so I’m not going to disrespect you by trying to avoid the issue.  I think at this point, I would be more comfortable if we could just be friends in this relationship.  Although I enjoy our time together and would love to continue to do so, I find the idea of embracing you passionately as appealing as warm lettuce.

I’m not saying your wholly unattractive because I’m sure many people have found your [describe feet, hands, eyes, hair or other nuetral body part] appealing but for me, I would rather sleep with a burlap bag full of rabid mongooses then to spend a night with you.  And I say this with the deepest amount respect.

Please accept my apologies for writing to you via email.  I know it’s impersonal but I’m being selfish in avoiding a personal face to face conversation where it would be inevitable that my stark revelation would be greeted by weeping and bawling from you.

I hope we still hang out but I understand if I am too much raw carnal temptation for you to be able to maintain a platonic friendship.  Hopefully I will talk to you soon but take comfort that I will treasure our time and always think of you fondly as a warm pleasant surrogate younger brother.

Best regards,

[Insert your name here]

Seriously…that’s how I feel right now.  Nothing new to report.

I have spent two hours this morning thinking of a comedic sketch involving people in Care Bear costumes on stage directed and written in a production by David Mamet.

I’ve just been notified that another sketch turned into a short one act has been accepted to a local Staged Reading Festival.  Yes.  I’m still holding to the idea that staged readings are primarily an exercise in futility but apparently I’m not getting enough attention and validation so here I go again.

Oh…and apparently everybody is in love except me and I’m this close to ending my term as companionable third wheel, odd man at dinner party, wing-man, shoulder to cry on, or the recipient of torrid bed-room antics.

I was at a club last week and after trying to hang out with two friends in their newly christened couple mode.  After narrowly avoiding getting mauled in their passionate mating dance, I gave up, walked toward a corner, sat down, and accidentally drank a floater while listening to Digital Underground’s Humpty Dance for the third frigg’n time that night while buff gay black man gyrated in front of me.

"Hello Buff Gay Black Man…although you certainly seem to take care of yourself and are wearing an impressive Kenneth Cole ensemble, I would appreciate if you could impress your straight lady friends with your delicate butterfly on ecstacy dance moves from a different location as you are blocking my view of the monitor which is playing clips of Starsky & Hutch.  Thank you."

This BLOG was brought to you by Seu Jorge’s Portuguese cover of David Bowie’s "Starman".

Random Sang Trivia: Sang had his hair permed back in middle school.  All photographs from this time have been destroyed so don’t bother.

Logistics.  Boring.  But it’s got to be done.

Gears are shifting and groaning under the weight of inertia as we move head first into the spiked brick wall known as auditions.

I’ve been on both sides of the table when it comes to auditions.  And I can say that with a lot of people there is a justified and wholly legitimate reaction to stress, panic and fret about the prospect of displaying your dramatic/comedic wares in front of a judgmental director and production staff.

My own personal accounts are hardly noteworthy except to say that I scared thunderbird theater back in 2000 when in my cold reading of a Gerald Ford character (typecasting I know), I decided to add a prat fall off a chair and off a stage to simulate our former President & Football player lack of shall we say…grace.

Unfortunately, I didn’t warn them of this ad lib nor was I at all versed in the arts of stage combat or physical comedy.  Yet that did nothing to deter my enthusiasm much to annoyance of my then director/fight choreographer and currently good friend.  He seemed to worry that my ability to hurl myself fearlessly into walls and off-stage was off-set by my lack of safety concerns.  Guy wouldn’t let me have any fun.

So in the next two weeks before audition day arrives, I’ll be talking with hopefully our talented costumer who has had the dubious distinction of sticking his hand down my pants…yes I said “his” and yes…I said pants.  It was very confusing and I’m still trying to sort it all out.

Then there’s what I hope to be our fight choreographer.  No pants diving here…just a good guy and all around professional. 

Rounding off the bunch will hopefully be our music composer & art designer.  I don’t know the former at all but the latter is the paramour of a childhood friend.  The man is also a fierce artist which is why I’m trying to pilfer his abilities for my own selfish purpose.

But the best news is the viewing of our rehearsal space.  Thankfully for me it’s conveniently located in downtown.  Good amount of space and plenty of storage and thus not requiring transporting ridiculous amounts of props and costumes as was the case in EVERY DAMN SPURN PRODUCTION.  I have carried, hefted, and tolled in cabs, subways, buses, taxis, double parked cars on over 2 dozen occasions for that comedy show.  I miss many aspects of my NY show…slave labor was not among them.

Okay.  That’s it for now.  Weekend is here and I need to work out some rage brought on by the NY Appellate Division…I’ll relay the transcript of that ridiculous conversation some other time.

I’ll end by saying that in my attempts to get off to a good start as director, I have asked my talented acting friends, what their pet peeves are as far as directors.  I was hoping for some technical or stylistic comments.  Surprisingly, the overwhelming remarks were more along these lines:

Don’t yell.

Don’t talk down to me.

Be on time.

Don’t ignore me.

Don’t touch my ass.

No spitting.

Don’t sleep with my mother.

I guess the secret of being a good director is not being an asshole.  Oh well.  It’s that last one that’s going to be tough.

This BLOG was brought to you by The Be Good Tanya’s “The Littlest Birds”

Random Sang Trivia: Sang hates

Colorado

because he was involved in a freakishly horrible FunHouse accident at age 11.