Theatrical Thursday

Theatre poster of the week, The Jungle Book.


No Shame Theatre post of the week.


(lights up full)

How many of you here on this idyllic Sunday morning are victims of your memories?

How many of you here today can’t remember your first girlfriend’s eye color, but remember every embarrassing incident and every shameful moment you’ve ever experienced? You can’t remember things you’d like to, but can’t forget things you desperately want to? And you remember these events at the most inconvenient times. I think you know what I mean…

Joy can be fleeting. Happiness, ephemeral. Shame though – shame is eternal. Or so it might seem… Unless you fight it friends – fight it with every breath and every glance down your neighbor’s blouse. And fight it you should, because contrary to those figures that our scientific kinsmen ballyhoo, it’s Shame that is the number one killer in this country – the Demon Shame.

Shame seems a necessary fact of life my brothers and sisters. But it is not. Shame is merely the memory of hubris or bad timing or ill luck. The fault is not in you, not in your stars, but in your too-active memory for transgressions observed. A transgression not observed is surely no transgression at all.

Who told you “You should be ashamed of yourself!”? Was it your mama?

Do you think that Bill Clinton’s mama told him he should be ashamed of himself?

And if she did, do you think he listened? Should he have listened?

What separates great men from merely average men? What lifts a dyslexic coke-head and a drunk oilman to the highest position in our land? Is it shame? No friends – it is assuredly not. To be great requires that you understand shame, that you know it, that you have wrassled with it, and that you have defeated it. Again and again.

If you or I experienced a “Lost Weekend”, or wake up in jail, or accidentally went AWOL from the Texas Air National Guard, we would be prone to letting that change us. To becoming ashamed and letting life take us by the short hairs. But not the great men, no sir! When our esteemed Vice President got pulled over for his second DWI, do you know what passed through his mind? It wasn’t “Oh my god, I could’ve killed those children!”. It wasn’t “This time they’ll have my license for sure”. And it surely wasn’t “I’ll lose my job, my wife will leave me and I’ll go to jail”. No no no! What would be the sense of that?

You can be sure the big Dick pursued a much different line of reasoning. “Well, I guess that makes me about 186 and 2. I drive right well when I’m tanked up”. And that, friends, was that. Not for him the paralysis of the conscience-stricken. Not for him the wishy-washy feel-good hand-waving of atonement. No indeed! He had a job to do, and he’s doing it. Shouldn’t we all be doing our jobs?

Too too many here among us today start at a deficit, as the victims of a Liberal Arts education. Too many have sworn to learn from the mistakes of the past and promised never to become like Alexander the Great, like Stalin, like Hitler. And that’s all well and good. But don’t throw the baby out with the bath water friends.

It’s all very well to say you’ll never be like old Shicklegruber, for there are many facets to the man’s personality that were odious and undesirable – His fashion sense, his absurd vegetarianism. But look also at what made him an effective leader. His total lack of shame was little short of a miracle. He was a tiny little dumpling of a man – an ugly, surly drunk with a bad mustache. He had nothing to live for, but he did it all. And why? Because he had no shame.

But how can Mr. Hitler’s better qualities help us today? How can we benefit from his example? Not with your petty provincial code of silence for one thing. Shame must not be fought in silence friends. Not in silence, nor quiet contemplation in a hidden monastery. Not in isolation or at a remove from the world. You must fight this fire with fire my friends! Every time you get caught with your hand in the cookie jar, you just take some more cookies. After all, you deserve them!


Theatrical Thursday

Theatre poster of the week, Gypsy. Book by Arthur Laurents. Lyrics by Stephen Sondheim.
Music by Jule Styne.


No Shame Theatre post of the week.

Host and Hostess


Hostess – An effectively beautiful but stern Human Resources Director

Frieda – A scared minimum wage employee.

Bob – The Alpha and the Omega of religious retailing.

Dwayne – Server of delicious snack treats. Not the sharpest pencil in the box…

(A gathering of nametag-wearing employees in a large auditorium. Dwayne is serving cut-up chocolate cookies from a large tray throughout. The Hostess stands in the middle of the room. The ceiling lights are at 50%, and there is no spotlight on the “TV window”)

Hostess: Welcome coworkers! Please sit down and make yourselves comfortable. I realize that this big Easter meeting is unprecedented and so – to make you feel more at home – I will take a question from the audience. (looks all around the room, before seeing a woman in the back of the auditorium) Yes? (squints to read name tag) Frieda. What can I help you with dear?

Frieda: (knits her brow and speaks tentatively) Um…

Hostess: No need to be shy here, Frieda. You’re among friends. (big corporate smile. Sweeping gesture indicates everyone in the room.)

Frieda: Well, what I’d like to ask is this. (nervous pause) Are we in some kind of trouble?

Hostess: Heavens no, Frieda. I’d say quite the reverse in fact. I think you’ll find this gathering quite rewarding. Here, I’ll show you. Let’s begin, shall we? (Hostess holds out the remote control, and presses a button).

(lights down in Room, Up on the “TV Window”)

Bob: (appears in the “TV window”) Friends. (smiles beatifically)

If you are seeing this video tape, it will mean that I have died and gone to join ol’ Walt in Heaven’s rosy embrace. But don’t despair. My life was blessed. I got to meet a great many of you, the Bobsmart and Bob’s Club faithful, before I died. And I’m here now to tell you, you few, you precious few hundred who are viewing this tape today, that you are more important to me and to the world than you’ve ever dared imagine.

Despite my past words to the contrary, and your managers glowing reports, you too often think of yourselves as mere employees, as wait staff who stand for long hours on cold concrete floors serving sample hors d’oeuvres to a public who doesn’t appreciate your service.

Dear friends, I am here to tell you that nothing could be further from the truth. You are special! You have what others today can only dream of. No, I’m not talking about a job…I’m talking about a vocation. A calling. I’ve called you here as my representatives- not merely to represent me in a passive or servile way. Oh, no dear friends. You are here in the very heart of my sacred ministry.

You have passed every test – great and small – that I have set before you. You have been patient in the face of the blind and callous mass of pagan humanity. You have signed the vow of secrecy. You have not missed one single day of work in a four month period preceding this talk. You do not speak in a derogatory or salacious manner. You are model citizens and excellent servers, but more than that- You are my Apostles friends.

Yes, you heard me right- Apostles. And I want to thank you for that.

Every day you have walked the holy aisles of my meeting houses, every time you have served my flock – whether you served them Tex Orton’s Mild Picante Sauce or Bobby Jo Jittmeyers’s Deep Fried Pork Cracklins – you have delivered! And now, now it’s time for you to know the tru—

(Bob freezes in the middle of the “oo” sound” as Hostess pauses the tape.)

Hostess: (interrupting, moving in front of the TV. Speaks soothingly) Now see there… Bob has placed his faith in you. Is there anyone here who feels unworthy of Bob’s love? Is there anyone here who would like to leave now to go back to their duties? (pause) No? Very well then, let’s continue…

(Hostess presses the play button, and backs away from the TV reverently.)

Bob: (continuing from before) …uth.

Friends, I’m talking about the Eucharist- the sacred ritual through which the Blood and Body of Christ are given to the members of the church. In ancient times this was only a metaphor- a beautiful metaphor. But today… Today things are different. In today’s world, a mere metaphor will no longer suffice. The world needs an honest-to-God Eucharist!

And through the miracle of Genetically Modified Foods, that’s what you have been bestowing upon the masses- the membership of My Holy Bob’s Clubs throughout the world. You and all those members I welcome through my doors are now of the body, of my body.

Yes, you heard me right. I’ve had my own genetic material put in everything we sell exclusively here at Bob’s Club: from Cousin Kate’s Home-Baked Ham to the very Heavenly Chocolate Whammies you have been eating here today.

Welcome to my body, you precious Apostles! Amen!

(lights out in the “TV Window”, lights up full in room.)

Hostess: (turns off TV, chews and swallows audibly) Amen! You are truly the blessed my brothers and sisters. Go with Bob, for he is the Light and the Way!

Dwayne: (milling around) Anybody want more o’ the Body? (pause) He’s delicious…

(lights fade out)

Theatrical Thursday

Theatre poster of the week, Berlioz Romeo & JulietFrom Michael Bartlett’s House of Last Things.



No Shame Theatre post of the week.


(lights up full)

Friends, what’s so deadly about the Seven Deadly Sins?

Let’s break that problem down, by addressing the sins by name.

Who can tell me what those sins are? Don’t be shy now. I won’t bite.

Lust! Yes, sir!

Well, Lust is the first thing on the minds of some of us here today. And why not?

Lust is a simple desire for pleasure, for gratification of our senses, especially of a sexual nature. So it is written, and so indeed I believe it is. So, I ask you congregation, what’s wrong with that? Did not the good lord above grant to us five senses? How many among you really know the last time you smelled something of the divine? When you last tasted something sublime? When you touched the thigh of a… ahem. Well, it is perfectly human to feel such yearnings, and to have them fulfilled, is it not? We are but creatures of flesh and blood as the Lord himself made us, and yet the desire for sensual attainment is listed here as first among seven “deadly” sins. Now who can name me another one?

Pride, yes indeed – A sense of one’s own dignity and worth I believe it is. Is that wrong somehow? Should we be meek and mild and easily brought to heel by any old tin-plated, un-elected despot? A tsar? A pope? An Imam?

Anger, yes. Mighty Anger – A righteous and important emotion. Without anger, nothing ever changes. This great country would not exist but for righteous anger. There would have been no historical Tea party in Boston, no Declaration of Independence. No Little Big Horn.

Covetousness. Without coveting things, well… We’d never buy anything we didn’t need. Imagine! Never again an impulse buy in the express lane at the Piggly Wiggly, or at the day-after-Thanksgiving everything-must-go bonanza! Wouldn’t this be just another impoverished third world country without covetousness? I think it would.

Are you getting the same impression I am from this list of so-called “Deadly Sins”? That perhaps – just perhaps – we in the church have been… How shall I put this? Wrong?

Perhaps the emphasis should never have been on these so-called Sins, but instead on the word Deadly. There’s nothing in this world that leads to Death… like Life. Are you with me here people? And if these so-called Sins are the hallmarks of living rich and free and sexually satisfied, well, I’ve got to say I’m all for them. Aren’t you?

The only thing that’s wrong with these “sins” lies in their constancy. Sloth and Gluttony are fine, even desirable. You’ve just got to get into the correct rhythm. Too much of a good sin, now that’s a problem. Too little of a sin, well – that’s not desirable either, is it?

If more of our workaholic parishioners could be bothered with a little bit of Sunday Sloth, wouldn’t they be better off? If the anorexics among us – those little engines of willpower gone wrong – would just eat a sandwich or a saltine occasionally. It’s neither Vanity nor Gluttony you need to beware of; it’s too much of one at the expense of the other.

Seize the Day people! There’s only so much eating and drinking and vanity and righteous pride and fornicating that this holy day can hold. I say – Get down with your bad selves, and to those selves be true!



Theatrical Thursday

Theatre poster of the week, Blithe Spirit by Noel Coward.


No Shame Theatre post of the week.



Guard 1 – Surly. Disgusted by Evan. No time for small talk.

Guard 2 – Rough. Hates Evan’s guts. No time for small talk.

Evan Mould – Funeral Director with a difference, mid-thirties, southern accent.

Dan Bailey – State prosecutor, mid-thirties, grave, an old friend of the Mould family. Has a manila folder with papers that he shuffles through nervously. Avoids eye contact.


 (A windowless conference room in a Southern prison. One table front & center with two chairs. Lights up on the table and Dan sitting, thinking, his briefcase sits near his side. The door opens and the two guards escort Evan in.)

Guard 1: (to Dan) Here’s the defendant you ordered, sir….

Guard 2: (to Evan) Enjoy your visit, you little goat-fucker.

(Guards exit and shut door hard behind them. Dan rises, briefly considers shaking Evan’s hand. Doesn’t. Dan sits back down.)

Evan: Nice to see you too, Dan. You wouldn’t want those guards thinking we grew up together or anything would you?

(Evan sits down)

Dan: Look, I’m not here as your friend, Evan. I’m here off the record- To see if we can’t diffuse this… this situation. If not, I’ll be prosecuting you tomorrow. I’m not looking forward to that any more than you are.

Evan: But, Dan, I am looking forward to it. I’ve been looking forward to it ever since they picked me up. I’ve got nothing to hide, man. You ought to know that. It’s not like I plan to wear a bulletproof vest for the rest of my life. The sooner this kangaroo court is done a-hopping, the better for everyone.

Dan: I’m sorry about the guards just now. That’s just unprofessional.

Evan: He’s just pissed about what he thinks I did with his sister… No big deal. He’s the least of my problems now, believe me. I’ve had death threats coming every day in the mail. Did you hear about the bomb they planted in my car? There are some crazy ass redneck fools in this town, Dan …and they all want me dead. Assholes.

(a momentary awkward silence)

Dan: (resigned) OK. You want to tell me about it?

Evan: About what?

Dan: About what you’ve done…

Evan: What I’ve done!?! I haven’t done a damned thing, Dan. It ain’t exactly a sin of commission we’re talking about here. You and the DA gonna throw the book at me for a little littering?

Dan: (disbelieving) Littering? A little littering!?! Come on, Evan, I think we both know better than that. Don’t we?

Evan: Yeah, you’re right. It’s not even littering, ’cause it’s my damn property to begin with. And it’s all biodegradable- All of it. That’s nature’s plan, Dan. Funny what you forget when you go off to Tulane. Too much law, too little sense.

Dan: Surely even you understand all the fraud charges. There are four hundred and nineteen of them so far.

Evan: Don’t talk to me about fraud, Dan. This blessed state of ours wants every corpse in a coffin, even those bound for cremation. That’s the real death tax. Death and Taxes, together again…

You ever hear those coffin salesman tell the truth? You ever hear them talk about the need to air out a corpse? How the methane builds up? How those fancy airtight coffins explode? You ever hear them talking about dressing the dead? About the all that waste? No?

You ever see the other morticians at work, Dan? All that wax, all those needles, the toupees, the make up? It’s like being backstage in Vegas with Wayne Newton. Those morticians are God damn magicians at making the money of the bereaved disappear. Into thin and rotting air.

You gonna sit there and tell me you never knew that our business was different? All those meals together? All the times you borrowed my old man’s suits? All the times you took some of mama’s prize-winning roses to your girl? All those times you “respectfully suggested” that we raise our prices, told us we were “noncompetitive and should be more like the other mortuaries”?

You just weren’t paying attention, Dan. The truth is, the Mould family practices what we preach- “From the earth we are made. From the Earth we shall return.” Always have, always will. You tell me what’s wrong in that.

Dan: It’s illegal, for starters. The whole town wants you dead.

Evan: This whole town don’t know its ass from its elbow, Dan. Hell, half of them still think we won the war.

Dan: (reluctant) And there is the desecration of all those bodies to consider.

Evan: That’s all they are, Dan. Bodies. There’s nobody home. The lights are out for good. There’s nobody left inside to worry about where the bodies lie. I could stack them up like so much cord wood or pose them like dogs playing poker. Hell, I could dress ‘em in capes and spandex and put them on my roof. The plain truth is, they just don’t care. They are empty envelopes whose contents have all been skillfully removed by a hand mightier than yours or mine… You think tearing down a forest and spending a fortune on an industrial furnace is more “sacred”? We human beings are scum, Dan- Scum – Lawyers like you most of all. The least—hell, the most—we can do is leave our bodies to the soil.

Dan: They are talking about the death penalty, Evan. Some people are talking about… about leaving your body out to rot afterward, just like you did with all those others.

Evan: And teach them the lesson first hand? (thinks for a moment) Sure, Dan. I’m up for that. Just make sure you come and pick a rose off me every now and then, ya hear?




Theatrical Thursday

Theatre poster of the week, Lettice and Lovage.


No Shame Theatre post of the week.

Home Truths

(lights up full)

A picture is not worth a thousand words – it’s really worth a good two thousand minimum. It doesn’t have to be some Impressionist treasure, or a Pre-Raphaelite allegory either. It could be an old black and white photograph – hinting at a film noir menace in its inky shadows. However sunny the world was when the picture was snapped, the shadows lengthen over time as the photo cracks and flakes. Pictures capture something vital, not necessarily your soul – though in the case of some of you here, it would explain a great deal – but truth.

Picture This: A small child, barely a toddler, is taking his first steps. He’s beginning to fall backwards, arms held out for support that may not come. A baby deer caught in headlights. His fluffy, fleecy, too-large, footie pajamas are also caught in the blinding flash and glow as white as phosphorus. He looks like a baby David Byrne in that big white suit from Stop Making Sense. You may say to yourself “this is not my beautiful house”.

You may say to yourself “these are not my beautiful jammies”. You’ll have guessed by now that the child in the photograph is me.

And it’s a funny picture, but not as funny as it should be. Something’s wrong with it – something as subtle as it is important. If you didn’t know my family, you’d never guess. You’d never notice; and if you did, you’d explain it away as a trick of the light.

In the background, behind the falling child I was, my mother is seen sitting in a chair. You can’t see her face, or her arms or much else really, but it’s definitely her. All you can really see is her leg. That’s enough to tell you that it’s my mom. She had fine legs – really lovely legs. She was gorgeous. But in the picture, the white-hot flash seems to somehow – reflect – off her leg.

That’s the problem. Below her knee, revealed by the camera’s flash, is a shiny smooth fitted prosthesis. A new leg to designed to match the beautiful leg she’d so recently lost. And in shape, there is no discernible difference. In reflection though, the difference is laid bare.

I grew up with a mom who was smart and funny and sarcastic and wouldn’t dance.

I don’t remember how old I was the first time I heard the story of her missing leg or how many times I’ve heard it since. I ask her about it time and again- On my last visit with her and all the visits I can remember. It’s not that I like to hear about it, I don’t even like to think about it.

It’s the truth of it that I wonder about. I still doubt the story that I’ve heard so often. The truth seems so out of reach and the story… Well. Here’s the story:

My dad was a pioneer boy. Born and raised in Rifle, Colorado. Learned to swim when his brothers threw him off a bridge into the roaring, ice-cold Colorado River. Trapped beaver and muskrat and put the furs on the train to Chicago. Hunted deer & elk on the high winter mountains, for meat- not sport. Never excelled in school because there too much farm work to do.

One day he met a beautiful blonde- a worldly city girl from L.A. A teacher. He courted her and won her hand in marriage. They left the homestead and went to Laramie, Wyoming. They lived in the basement of house owned by the most wonderful people… and they were so, so happy there…

One day, their landlords went out of town, on vacation. My parents were left to look after the place…Of course they could watch the house, anyone could do that… But how could they show the same kind of care and consideration that their landlords had shown to them? What unique skills did they have that might go that extra step? Well, my Dad could clean their guns… Sound FX: (Loud Gunshot!)

My father would never keep a loaded gun in the house, and assumed no one else would either. That’s the story… and try as I may, I just I can’t believe it’s true. My father is the most competent and logical craftsman you’ll ever hope to meet. He’s been a miner, a lumberjack, a carpenter, a builder, a fire fighter, a teacher, an administrator and a hunter. Despite his upbringing – or maybe because of it – he’s a very smart man. That’s why the story about the landlord’s loaded gun seems so wrong, so out of place in a life like his. But right or wrong, it’s their story and they’re sticking to it. And if not that, then what? Are there better answers? None that I have ever thought of…

I’ve wondered about the truth of it for years. I knew that the doctors had taken the skin from her heal and stitched it to shattered leg that was left, but to picture the detached leg… The sudden firing. The smell of gunpowder. The shock of the blast. My mother’s leg. Blown… off. The spattered blood, the shattered bone. The pain, the cries, and the frantic emergency calls. The guilt. Can you imagine the guilt?

(long pause)

I think that was the defining moment of their relationship. Whatever else had come before, this was the moment of truth. I can never know what really happened that day, what’s really reflected in the picture of a flailing toddler and his mother’s false leg… I can never know the truth because I was not there. But I do know that my parents love each other still, and are growing old together with love. That’s the only truth I know.



Theatrical Thursday

Theatre poster of the week, Duke Ellington’s Sophisticated Ladies.


No Shame Theatre post of the week.



Ali – A smart and thoughtful young woman principled and straightforward.

Johnson – A slightly sputtery authority figure.

Eric – A cool young man.

(lights up full)

Ali: You wanted to see me?

Johnson: Yes, Alison, I did. Have you reconsidered my offer?

Ali: (stern) Yes, Sir, I have.


Johnson: And?

Ali: And I’m afraid I still can’t accept.

Johnson: (surprised) …because?

(slightly longer pause)

Ali: Because it’s Fascism, Sir, plain and simple. I refuse to be involved with anything so morally bankrupt.

Johnson: (in total disbelief)Morally bankrupt? …Fascism?  I’m not sure I—

Ali: (interrupting) Don’t patronize me, Sir. You know perfectly well what I’m talking about. (begins to rant). Fascism is extreme right-wing ideology that celebrates conformity to a mythical standard of “normalcy”. It cuts through all other notions of what is right or natural. It attempts to lull us into a false sense that there is no death or decay, just your perfect – and perfectly artificial – status quo. Any natural tendencies toward variety or individualism threaten your perfect organic community and must be crushed beneath your jack-booted feet.

Johnson: (getting a word in) Now look here, I don’t even wear boots and you know—

Ali: (cuts him off, continues ranting) Your sort of Fascism promotes the idea of (counting them off on her fingers) class superiority, hybrid inferiority, persecution, territorialism, expansion, and – of course – (her sixth finger raised is a forefinger that she points accusatorily at Johnson) genocide. Oh, it wears the face of a socially acceptable, politically correct movement. Of course it claims a noble pedigree, but please! It’s a Procrustean hotbed of senseless conformity that flies in the face of science and nature. It’s a violent and elitist tradition that has traditionally be the province of pampered young men. You feel that I’m lucky to even be offered this job, because I’m a girl – a woman, but the truth is no one is lucky to have this job. This job – this working for the man, for the Fascist pig dog – this job sucks! I pity you, Sir. I really do. Good day.

(Ali turns and walks to the door. Eric enters as Ali exits. She gives him a dirty look as she passes.)

Johnson: (turns to Eric and sighs) Well… your sister still won’t mow the lawn. I guess I’ll need to raise the price after all.

Eric: A cool 20, minimum.(pause) Ya big Fascist.

(quick fade to black.)

Theatrical Thursday

Theatre poster of the week, Wonderful World of Dissocia by Anthony Neilson.


No Shame Theatre post of the week.



Angela – A beautiful and ambitious chat show hostess.

Nigel – Famous rock star, aging but still vital. Very comfortable with his fame.

Cue Card Holder – A man doing a job.

(lights up full)

Angela: To those of you just tuning in, welcome. You’ll recognize our guest – He’s headlining a solo tour while the rest of the boys in the band are in rehab!

I am delighted to welcome the one, the only – Nigel!

(A few bars of Classic Rock are played as Nigel enters. Cue Card Holder stands and shows the “Applause” card briefly and sits back down. Nigel enters to audience applause. Angela gets up to greet him. They both sit down.)

Angela: Welcome. Welcome. Make yourself at home.

Nigel: Hey Angela. Always nice to see you too, love.

Angela: That was an amazing show you put on last night at the Omni. All the old hits… well, not all the old hits of course –There wouldn’t be time for all of them in a 3 hour show. But listening to you sing all those classics got me thinking… You’re sixty years old, is that right?

Nigel: Yeah love, sixty. What’s it to you?

Angela: (a little taken aback) Well… um. I wondered how you had the energy to be whooping it up on stage night after—

Nigel: (interrupting) You should see me after I leave the stage, love.

Angela: …night – energy when most of your contemporaries are resting comfortably in their Florida retirement homes. What keep you going, Nigel?

Nigel: Legacy, Angela. Legacy.

Angela: And what do you feel your legacy is, Nigel? I mean, you’ve been a Rock & Roll God for four decades now, so when you say “legacy” Nigel, just what do you mean?

Nigel: I mean – the reason I got into this game in the first place.

Angela: And why was that, Nigel?

Nigel: (quickly) Crumpet.

Angela: (cluelessly) Crumpet?

Nigel: You know… Cun–   (Stops mid-word. Smiles slyly, looks around.)

What we wanted then – it’s the same thing we want now. It’s just that with age, we look at it a bit, y’know – differently. With more perspective. You know when we was young, we looked at the great Blues guys, cause they got all the chicks. And they were just poor Negroes. I mean we didn’t look too bad by way of contrast. So we thought – well! Yeah!

Angela: Sex?!? That’s it? That’s your legacy?

Nigel: Don’t knock it ‘til you try it, love. (Chuckles and pauses for audience laughter) But seriously, legacy is what you leave the world, am I right? So I asked myself – “Nigel” I says, “what will people remember in a thousand years time? What’s gonna last? What’s gonna go the distance?” (looks pensive) And the answer isn’t my money, not my fame. My music… (looks to the audience and archly raises a brow) … well, I suppose there might be an outside chance at that. But the real answer is genes, Angela — Children.

Angela: (back on track) And you’ve just had your 9th child named… (finds it in notes) Ruby – with the voluptuous young South African… um, (tries to think of nice way to say porn star) “model” Alexandra van Houten. Is that right?

Nigel: Ruby – Yeah. Cute little thing she is too. Mark my words, she’ll be a heartbreaker like her mom. (smiles) But that’s not really my point, Angela.

Angela: No?

Nigel: You ever hear of a chap called Screamin’ Jay Hawkins?

Angela: (stumped, she looks into the audience hopefully) um…

Cue Card Holder: (audible whisper) “I Put a Spell on You!”

Angela: (relieved) Ah – “I Put A Spell On You”. (expectant smile) That guy?

Nigel: (bemused) Yeah, that guy – I caught his act once in California – what a showman! And amazingly successful, genetically speaking.

Angela: What do you mean – ‘genetically successful’?

Nigel : (nodding) Screamin’ Jay Hawkins has 95 kids confirmed and only married once. No telling how many others there are out there… he probably has 300 grandkids by now…

That’s what it’s all about, love. It’s about unlimited numbers of very fertile and very willing young girls; enough money to buy them trinkets and treat the clap; enough prestige so the mothers of your children around the world think they’re doing the world a favor while remaining at a discreet distance; and above all – Above all it’s about the genes. That’s a legacy, love.

Angela: So you’re implying that you have more than 9 children?

Nigel: (disbelieving her naivety) Implyin’? Please… Here’s Screamin’ Jay with a cool hundred kids, and you never even heard of him. Well, you’ve jolly well heard of me! So just imagine how many little Nigels there are out in the world today, love.

Angela: (incredulous) That’s a lot of single mothers, Nigel. Surely someone would notice.

Nigel: Someone in the press you mean? Someone I haven’t done in the press? Someone who don’t want to be me in the press? People see what they want to see. ‘Specially when it comes to sex…

Do you know what the word Cuckold means, love? It’s like the cuckoo bird leavin’ eggs in someone else’s nest. If I told you how many married women I’d had, you wouldn’t believe me. Sometimes the man gets a whiff that the baby isn’t his, and sometimes he knows for a solid fact. But that don’t stop anything. Never has and it never will. Sometimes I find a gold digger like Alexandra, or she finds me. But truth is, she was worth it. Got out of that marriage, got another lovely little girl, and got another great piece of ass into the bargain. And, believe it or not, I’d never done it in the Voortrekker Monument before…

Angela: But surely, you don’t plan on keeping up this… “lifestyle” forever? Not when you’re …85?

Nigel: That’s what you think, love.

It’s the muscle memory that matters, love, not the skin. I figure with clean living and science on my side, I should be good for a 100 – or maybe more – before my time expires. And these days, it’s only beauties for me, love. You get better kids that way. And they’re more fun to look at from the backside too, even if the young one’s need some schoolin’.

Angela: Ahem…(looks at watch) well that about wraps it up for us here on the Angela Darling show. A big thanks to our guest for a very revealing interview!

(Cue Card Holder stands and shows the “Applause” card briefly and sits back down.)

Nigel: (leans in) So beautiful, you wanna shag?

Angela: (coyly) Sure… (she smiles wide and leans in for a kiss) …Dad.



Theatrical Thursday

Theatre poster of the week,  Godspell.


No Shame Theatre post of the week.

A Republican Reverie 

A piece for two voices        Voice 1: Bold Text        Voice 2: Italic Text

(lights up full)


All the presidents menus

Caviar without caveat.

Caveat emptor


The Emperor’s New Clotheshorse

Wayne Newton joins the Dick Armey

How the Newt Gingrich stole Christmas

How Do Ron Ron?


Ex-con, Exxon

Enron, L. Ron

Don Regan, Ron Reagan.

Nancy boys and Hardy Boys

The religious right, the religious right now.


Diabetics for Dianetics.

Rehnquist and shout.

Gone a-courting


Currying favor, carrying furor

Vested interests, interesting vests.

Caesar Dressing, undressing at the palace.

Julius and Sid. Milton Burlesque,

A John Milton Omar Bradley Game.

Fun for the whole family values.


Look on my works ye mighty.

And disappear.




Theatrical Thursday

Welcome to… Theatrical Thursday!

I design and illustrate theatre posters – a lot of theatre posters – for clients in New York, Atlanta, DC, and my hometown Portland, Oregon. It has been my good fortune to create posters for world premieres (from Stephen King & John Mellencamp, Craig Wright, and Stephen Sondheim), Opera (Aida, la Traviata, Madame Butterfly) and classics alike (1776, Blithe Spirit, Mame, the Mousetrap).


I also wrote (and occasionally performed) short pieces for No Shame Theatre – it was a lifeline, an outlet, and a chance for me to learn with professional writers and directors Todd Ristau and Clinton Johnston. Many of these pieces were topical and timely, a few seem to hold up, and one or two still get performed.

A Painful Death


Arthur Halliday – A rumpled unshaven man with bloodshot eyes and messy hair.

Joan – A patient, composed and erudite Librarian

(Arthur is seated stage left – under a spotlight – at a table that has unopened bills, a pack of cigarettes, an ashtray and miscellaneous office supplies. He stubs out a cigarette, avoids opening any more of the mail on the table and nervously fiddles with some paperclips as Joan speaks.)

Joan: (speaking from offstage) This is Arthur Halliday. He lost his job as Worldcom’s CFO on December 10th. His girlfriend Jennifer broke up with him on the 11th. His wife Erica left him on the 12th and took his Lexus. His accountant Dave was arrested on the 13th. His lawyer Gordy committed suicide on the 14th.

Arthur is under investigation for embezzlement and insider trading. He is more than three hundred thousand dollars debt. He owes more than two thousand dollars in unpaid parking tickets alone…

Yesterday, the big men came and took all his worldly goods. All they left was this table and and a few kitchen appliances.

The SubZero Freezer (spotlight), the DeLonghi Espresso machine (spotlight), and the Garland Gas Stove (spotlight). Arthur knows that tomorrow, they’ll cut the gas off too…

After considering his options, Arthur has finally made up his mind.

(Arthur gets up, deliberately goes over to the stove. He turns on the gas, opens the door, kneels down and puts his head inside. After a long beat, Joan steps onto the stage.)

Joan: Arthur. Please take your head out of the oven.

(Arthur starts violently and bashes his head on the roof of the oven, before swearing, standing up, rubbing his aching head, and looking incredulously at Joan.)

Arthur: Who… Who… Who are you lady? How’d you get in here?

Joan: Please, sit down. It’s important that you listen to me closely Arthur – literally a matter of life and death.

Arthur:  But I… Who are you?

Joan: My name is Joan, I’m a librarian. You obviously need help, and I’m here to help you.

Arthur: (sitting down a little woozily) Help?

Joan: Yes, Arthur. Help. You were trying to end your pain and suffering by putting your head in the oven. It’s important that you understand that’s not the right thing to do.

While it’s true that more than one million people will try to end their own lives this year,

(on a roll now, she turns toward the audience in a statistical reverie)

Most will not succeed, and some will live on – in even greater agony than before.

While the US has suicide rates far below those in Asia, those rates invariably grow in bad economic times. The loss of a loved one, employment, or honor.

Arthur: (still holding his aching head, as he cuts her off) Lady! Why are you wasting my time with all these statistics? I just don’t care! I’m over it.

Joan: (patiently) You’d like to be “over it” Arthur. But until you hear me out, your chances aren’t good. A lot of people try to end their lives each year – More than you’d think. But so many of them, like you, forget the importance of pain.

Arthur: Pain?

Joan: Yes, pain.

Arthur: I’m not forgetting pain lady. I’ve got enough pain for a family of four.

Joan: And your mental anguish only increases your likelihood of making a critical mistake.  I refer to physical pain, Arthur, physical pain. It’s crucial at moments of transition – In matters of life and death. You knew that when you were a newborn, you’ve just forgotten over time.

My sisters (admiring) who swerve into oncoming traffic , or throw themselves off cliffs, they understand.  But we souls who fear the pain– (self conscious) we who research obscure toxins, venoms and  asphyxia – we who take “the coward’s way out” – never truly get out Arthur. We have to stay where we were, where we are– forever. With the shame and horror of our shattered lives always around us. Without sufficient pain, we never transcend. We never move on. I don’t want that to happen to you Arthur. I’ve watched over this household far too long to watch you make that mistake.

Arthur: Jesus… You’re serious about this? You mean you’re a…

(Joan nods self-consciously)

Arthur: (panicky) Jesus…   oh, Jesus! I gotta think this through. (Arthur pulls out a cigarette.)   Got a match?

(Joan smiles wryly, pulling out a match. As she reaches out to light his cigarette there’s an immediate blackout and an earthshaking ka-boom)