P.O.'d

Every so often, you may find yourself in a state of pure inner peace and contentment. This is unnatural to anyone who is not deeply disturbed or my cat. Fortunately, there is a remedy. I speak, of course, of a visit to my neighborhood post office.

Take last Tuesday for example. I woke up feeling like a shiny new penny.*  This is not my natural state; my natural state is one of perpetual, knuckle-popping aggravation at mankind and fellow subway riders alike. So I went to the post office to set myself straight. I knew my needs would be met, for the postal clerks are tireless in their efforts to bathe your day in enmity. They take no breaks except to eat their young.

You too might do well to pay a visit if, like me, you find yourself out of sync. So here's a handy-dandy guide to the experience. You're welcome.

A VISITOR'S GUIDE TO MY LOCAL P.O., LOCATED IN AN UNSPECIFIED

METROPOLITAN BOROUGH THAT, TO PROTECT ITS OTHERWISE STERLING REPUTATION, WE SHALL CALL "THE GRONX" (NOT ITS REAL NAME) 

Step 1. First, you shall join a line of 56,000,000,000,000 wretched, defeated customers who have been waiting in line since the Crusades, which would have been preferable. Every so often, people's body parts fossilize or turn to goodge. Some individuals have turned altogether to flesh puddles with bifocals floating around in them, but BY GOLLY THEY ARE GOING TO WAIT IN LINE UNTIL CALLED. And so are you, because that is the kind of spunky New Yorker you are, goddammit.

Step 2. While still spunky (a period lasting 22 seconds), you entertain yourself by dreaming up creative ways to kill those ahead of you.

Step 3.  Meanwhile, you observe there are twelve service windows, two of which are staffed by snarling, hate-crazed, froth-spewing beasts ready to impale you on their digi-pens at a moment's notice. Even the courtesy sign says so ("PLEASE WAIT TO BE CALLED, OR THE FROTH-SPEWING BEAST BEHIND THE WINDOW WILL IMPALE YOU ON HER DIGI-PEN").

Step 4. Now it is your turn to approach the window. Genuflecting and offering up your firstborn without even being asked, you move one nanometer closer to the window, whereupon the cashier, in a voice that could vaporize Russia, utters the traditional federal pleasantry: "YOUGETBACKINLINE!!!"

Step 5. You are formally called to the window.

Step 6. That was a daydream. You are still waiting while the cashier counts her skin cells.

Step 7. Meanwhile -- anyone in the Gronx may feel free to back me up on this -- additional people, meaning people who weren't even in line until now, appear around you. Apparently these individuals have been belched forth from the walls. Naturally all of them get called to the window before you.

Step 8. Finally you really are called up to the window, and as it is your lucky day, the postmistress decides to go easy on you by not incinerating you with a single glance. 

Step 9. The two of you lock gazes in a death battle. Her bloodshot, sideways eyes dare you to carry out your transaction; yours say, Bring it on, baby. Just as she prepares to electrocute you telekinetically, Pokémon-style, you make the bold, unprecedented move of actually whipping out your wallet. That's right. You're gonna complete your transaction and you're not backing down. Whoa-ho-HOA! Betcha didn't see THAT one coming, now, U.S. Postal Harpy, didja? Do your WORST! BOO-yah!

Step 10. Only momentarily stunned, your opponent quickly regroups, retaliating with one swift, hostile gesture that means you must open the postal sale window. You accept the challenge; there's no stopping now. You open your window. She gives you the Death Look that means close it now or else. You do so, whereupon she opens the corresponding window on her side. Out of sheer spite and bravado, you open yours again. She slams hers down, a warning to quit playing with the big girls now or else. But you just slam yours down again. So she slams hers down again. And on you two go, SLAM, SLAM, SLAM, SLAM, back and forth, until finally you two are slamming to the exact rhythm of "Mars, Bringer of War" from The Planets. This slam-a-rama could go on all night.

Step 11. At last, you are done. She let you off easy when she realized you had not, technically speaking, brought anything to mail, having accidentally left it on your kitchen table. But such details are minor to you, the victor of the day, because your opponent did not win. Visibly shaken by the experience, she eats only half a child for lunch.

Step 12. And finally, secure in the glory of a mission accomplished, you wend your way home. Sure, you may not have actually mailed anything; but you have done the impossible in emerging with all your original extremities. So go home, pamper yourself, and rest assured of a job well done! Take the rest of the day to kick back and luxuriate. It will be ages before you realize you forgot your wallet.

 

* Which is to say, round and brown with Abraham Lincoln on my front.

A Tale of Two Fringes, Part 1: San Diego Edition

For those who don't know (and I assume there are a few members of the Amazonian Pirahã tribe who don't know), my musical Aisle Six recently made it into two Fringe Festivals.

 Q. Are you saying "French" or "Fringe"?  
A. Yes.

Q. Okay, so what is the "Fringe"?  
A. I'm glad you asked. The term "Fringe" comes from the Latin fringum (first use, year XIII), which can be used two ways (not at once, and not while pregnant or nursing). One of its uses was to indicate bodily harm, as in, "I hear Grumio the serf got a boo-boo on his fringum." The other meaning was, "Theater that will one day be performed on the Lower East Side, though God only knows why you'd want to go there, since it's the year XIII and there are no decent tacquerias." This is the meaning of Fringe that we preserve today. Plus now we have decent tacquerias.

Actually, the first of my two Fringes took place not on the Lower East Side, but rather in San Diego, California, which has had good tacquerias since the Precambrian Era. This is pretty darned impressive when you consider there weren't even any humans yet.*

The San Diego Fringe Festival was new to its city** this summer, joining the ranks of other cherished San Diego traditions, most notably:

 1. The Comic-Con, an annual event during which the San Diego Convention Center emits clouds of ecstatic nerd testosterone so powerful their fumes fell bison in Yellowstone, and
2. The yuk-a-minute gag of airplanes flying so low they routinely land on your head and kill you. This is a practical joke by the fun-loving San Diego-based air personnel, intended to liven up the "laid-back" atmosphere, and/or cull the herd.

But in all seriousness, the first thing you notice in San Diego, in between ducking and covering, is the kindness. San Diegans, as a general rule, are gifted with a warmheartedness so sincere, so profound, that it can only be caused by large quantities of drugs.

No! Just kidding.*** My point is, whatever the cause, San Diegans tend to be full of happy, positive energy. You take the first read-through of my play. I wish you could have been a fly on the wall. I appeared on Skype from Maine, while the rest gathered in a room in San Diego, alternating between reading and dissolving in laughter. It was the most fun read-through I've ever done - and not just because I never had to leave my bed.

So - as I ask myself upon any unexpected event, good or bad - what the heck happened? These people didn't already know each other, weren't friends seeking to have a good time around friends. The norm among strangers is diffidence and tightness - especially when those strangers are asked to do an awkwardly soul-bearing thing like read a play aloud. Yet instead, every single one of my San Diego actors came in ready to rock and roll, as if absorbing the positive energy from each other, then expelling it with interest. I'd never seen anything like it, but I hope I will again.

What's more, it continued like that. From the first rehearsal to the last performance, the whole production experience was filled with such intense, heartfelt positivity that it could only have been fueled by drugs.

No! Sorry. Only joking.**** Didn't mean that. Whatever the reason, the cast took on the play as their very own and made it soar. They provided Aisle Six with the kick-start it needed, the launching pad for its future success wherever it goes. And I can't thank them enough.

I think theatrical experiences like mine at the San Diego Fringe come along only once in a blue moon. I've had maybe one other like it, where the cast came in with open minds, fitting together, bouncing off one another's personalities and individual energies, totally in tune with each other and the piece. What this does is elevate the piece, giving it new and often unexpected life, raising the bar for every production to come. There's no greater gift this cast could have given Aisle Six. There's no greater gift they could have given me.

Except, of course, for some of their drugs.




* Though as you can imagine, the service was lousy.
** San Diego.
*** Maybe.
**** I think.

Tumblin' in the Wind

Hey hey, everyone! I made a Tumblr for my musical. Check it out here: http://adventuresofaislesix.tumblr.com/

Aisle Six at the Fringe... and the Fringe... and the Fringe.

Hello, all.

With apologies for all the dust circulating on this here chunk o' blogosphere these past months, I hereby present ... one of the very reasons for said dust:

That's right. My musical Aisle Six has been accepted to not one, but *three* Fringe festivals: Portland, ME; San Diego, CA; and New York City.

On which note, I would appreciate immensely if you'd take a moment to consider my Indiegogo fundraising campaign, as seen below. I would like nothing better than to be able to compensate my cast and crew for their time and talent, among other things (see link).

Many, many thanks - and clean-up in Aisle Six.

A Popeless Case

Image via Middle Ages for Kids

As part of my ongoing effort to provide you, the public, with the latest hard-hitting world news, I want to draw your attention to two recent items. First, on Feb. 9, a man left his estate to two forgotten heartthrob actors from the '70s. Then, on Feb. 11, the pope resigned.

Don't try to tell ME these are unconnected.

Let's go back and examine these events in more detail. First, consider the man - the late Ray Fulk, 71, of Lincoln, Illinois - who willed his estate to the actors. This is a highly suspicious event if ever there was one. It would be one thing if the actors were still-beloved stars of bygone days, but these were actors so forgotten they don't even remember their own selves. The only possible explanation is that the deceased selected his beneficiaries based solely on degree of comical hair, with bonus points for each undone shirt button, and extra credit if a gleaming chest is involved.*

Obviously this is very troubling, because think about it, what have forgotten heartthrobs from the seventies done for YOU lately? When was the last time Jeff Conaway, from Taxi, shoveled your driveway? The eleventh of NEVER, that's when, and he's never going to, either, a fact hardly excused by the fact that he is dead. Honestly, you would think the late Ray Fulk would at least have left his worldly goods to a more promising heir, such as his tapeworm.

This event was so troubling that - you guessed it - it caused the pope to quit.

You can see how this would happen. I mean, put yourself in the Pope's shoes** for a moment. Here you are, the leader of the global Catholic Church, just minding your own holy business - namely, rearranging your holy Netflix queue while picking your holy nose - when all of a sudden, the news comes to you, via your right-hand man,*** that the late Ray Fulk, 71, of Lincoln, Illinois, has left all his riches to twerpy actors who once - and I don't care if this was just a phase - had mullets.

"Consarn it!" you would say, in Latin.**** "I've stuck it out through wars in Afghanistan and Iraq; I've sat tight while mankind butchered mankind the world over; I kept on going through the whole Lance Armstrong thing, but only in a godless world would this kind of [UNPOPELY WORD REDACTED] go down."

To which I say - in the language of the Vatican - darn tootin'. After all, there is an old saying that goes: "The day that the actions of Ray Fulk, 71, of Lincoln, Illinois, make you question your role as a major spiritual leader, maybe you had better stop being a major spiritual leader."

Fortunately, Pope Benedict XVI (not his real name, speaking of the highly suspicious)***** has other bright career prospects ahead of him. Sources close to the Vatican indicate he was last seen flopped on his bed enthusiastically reading a big pile of Amway training pamphlets.

Naturally, the pope cites "health concerns" as the reason for his resignation, but now just who is going to believe that? Just because he is a 956-year-old man doesn't mean we have to buy this flagrant balderdash. This makes me wonder how the last pope to resign (six hundred years ago, when Benedict was a mere young pup of 356) handled his early exit. Two weeks' notice, is my guess. They had more class back then. They also had pet dinosaurs.

Nevertheless, the world goes on. You and your friends will go about your business; Ray Fulk of Lincoln, Illinois will continue being dead; and Pope "Benedict" may well soon appear at your door to sell you cleaning products. Meanwhile, pretty soon we will get a new pope, which is like getting a new doggy except not interesting. No one can say just who that will be, although I can think of two actors recently back in the limelight who may want to submit their headshots.

* Preferably emitting little cartoon sparkles going, quote, "PINGGG."

** Needless to say, these are Air Jordans.

*** Guido.

**** "E pluribus unum!"

***** His real name is Pope Benedict XVI Henderson. He shortened it, like Beyoncé.

I Can't Get No Satisfaction

So I hate to be the one to break it to you, but it seems our job market is poor. Barely a day goes by you don't see a headline like this:

EMPLOYMENT RATE REACHES ALL-TIME LOW

SINCE DAYS OF OUR SINGLE-CELLED ANCESTORS

[Your Name], Personally, Will Be Forced to Eat Own Fingers for Sustenance

Naturally this has me concerned. Not because of the lack of jobs, but because I fear that if this state of affairs persists, our society will lose track of something fundamental. We will lose track of the fact that jobs suck.

I think we can all agree that job hatred has long been the backbone of workplace culture. If you don't believe me, you can test out my claim via the following scientific experiment: first, walk into a familiar establishment, which we shall call T.J. Marshall's Lots Mart Store Place ("Crap for Less - Crap for You"). Now, study the employees, and you will notice a universal trait: they are all named Kayla. Is this strictly necessary? 

But never mind. I have strayed from my original point, which is this: they are all sullen and surly and consumed by job hatred violent enough to cause severe weather damage in Galveston, Texas (and you are located in Maine). If you dare to ask them a question, such as where to find the stationery,* they will leap forth roaring, hyena-style, in a concerted effort to eat your forearm whole. Assuming you escape unscathed and make no further moves toward the employee, s/he** will then calmly retreat to her own quiet corner, growling softly, to resume munching on her wildebeest carcass. 

And now we are facing the very real possibility, with the winnowing of the job market, that job hatred may itself die out. I don't know about you, but I don't want to live in that world, and I don't want my children to know it either.*** There are precious few things we can count on in this world, aside from surly employees, infomercials for things only the severely troubled would ever purchase, and Dunkin' Donuts. These are our national security blankets, our collective snuggle bears. It would be a massive rip in the fabric of our society were we to lose any one of them.

But I'm afraid the scarcer jobs become, the rosier and more romanticized our perceptions of them, until finally we long for them with the same sort of passionate yearning normally associated with hot burnin' monkey love, or sweet potato fries.

As far as I can see, there is but one solution to this problem: overcompensation, in the form of zealous job satisfaction. Before I go any further, let me clarify my position: I am sitting on the blue chair in the living room with one leg up and the other down. Now that we've cleared that up, I want to make clear that I am actually in favor of job satisfaction. I don't believe you should actually go around hating what you do, so much as I believe it's an integral part of workplace culture, like the water cooler in the hall that goes BLURP BLURP BLURP and the oft-opaque but viciously stated item of gossip about a co-worker ("OHMYGOD, DID YOU HEAR BETTY? SHE LIKE THINKS SHE'S ALL THAT").

Nonetheless, job satisfaction might be the way to go. Since this is on my mind lately, I've been going around taking notes, in hopes that I might improve the situation by sharing them with you, my public. Here they are. You're welcome.

1. You would probably do well to start finding mundane things unbearably exciting. There's a conductor on the Orange Line in Boston who seems to have this down pat. The other morning, he was announcing each station as if it was more exciting than Space Mountain and sexier than lust itself. Here is what he sounded like (I have done my best to transcribe accurately): "Lllllladies and gentlemen ... coming up .... our next stop ... DOWWWWWWWWN ... TOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWN ... KERRRRRRRRRRRRRRR-ROSSINGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!" Needless to say, this visibly cheered up the passengers, who were made to look upon arrival at Downtown Crossing as a major event in the history of the cosmos, at least until .05 seconds after they stepped off the train. I didn't stay on much longer myself, but I assume the conductor kept topping himself with each stop, until with his announcement of Forest Hills he made a multiple orgasm seem like a tetanus booster.

2. This is one I came up with myself. If you work in the post office, which has got to be one of the most grueling and unappealing jobs on Earth, especially if you are dealing with customers like me ("Don't you think that "Media Mail" stamp might be a tad sub-par? Maybe you should stick some clear tape over it so as to prevent further smearing"), you should feel free to "let loose" every so often. One good way would be to come to work one day (I suggest this be a summer day) wearing nothing but postage stamps covering every nanometer of your body, then run around the P.O. roaring at top volume: "I ... am ... STAMP-MAN!!! For JUSTICE!! For LIBERTY!! FOREVER!!!"**** I guarantee you will experience job satisfaction from that moment till the last breath you take at Bellevue.

Well, that's all I got so far. I hope I've done my part toward stabilizing our workplace culture even in these trying economic times. I know I was concerned.

* Wouldn't you like to know.

** I know you are wondering, and yes, the males are named Kayla too.

*** Fortunately, they're not born, which pretty much takes care of that.

**** Hahaha! See what I did there? "Forever"? Stamps? ... Never mind.

Singing Puppets in Gotham...

Happy news: in April, I'll be performing in a musical in The New York Children's Theater Festival! It's called "Cheater, Cheater, Pumpkin Eater" and it is performed, of course, by puppets.

Here is the Kickstarter page (I'm playing the yellow girlie, though not in this video). If there are those among you with a buck or two to donate to puppet theatre, we'd all be much obliged.

Yay!

http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/295219485/cheater-cheater-pumpkin-eater