Desperate Times Short Play Series Presents: I'VE NEVER HIT A WOMAN, BUT I COULD SURE STRANGLE A GIRL

(Author's Note: I should start by clarifying for my readers - both of them - that this is all free prose fiction with a dash of truthiness.)  

Strange Days - The webmaster is gonna have a field day cleaning this shit up.  Poor Garbage Men.  Oh well - they always do a bang-up job regardless of the volume of waste.  I hate to say it, but I'm gonna have to pollute the web with more shitty writing to sublimate my pretentious impulses. 

                     I'VE NEVER HIT A WOMAN, BUT I COULD SURE STRANGLE A GIRL

(LIGHTS UP on a stark industrial complex looking white-tile bathroom with steel trim walls.  No windows except for a 4x4 black steel frame, allowing dusk to shine in on the room.  A brunette girl, no younger that nineteen, is chained to the wall.  She wears what was once a cocktail dress, that, after months of rape and torture, has devolved into rags.  She cries.   She bleeds profusely.  She is gagged with blank staff paper.  Two men enter adorned with political rally buttons and flags.  The girl goes unnoticed.)


                                                                  HIM
... I thought he was a radical.

                                                                  HIM
No.  He's just loud and headstrong.

                                                                  HIM
Ah cocksure.

                                                                  HIM
Yes, sure-cockness can often take the guise of a new radical, when in fact the man standing in front of you is no longer a man, but an old hat.

                                                                 HIM
I like old hats.

                                                                 HIM
They fit comfortably on one's head.

                                                                 HIM
They do.

                                                                 HIM
But they must be replaced.

                                                                 HIM
Why?

                                                                 HIM
Because change is essential.

                                                                 HIM
But I like my old hat.

                                                                 HIM
I like your old hat too.

                                                                HIM
Thank you.

                                                                HIM
It's very nice.

                                                               HIM
Thank you.

                                                               HIM
Yes.

                                                              HIM
I got it at the ballpark in Aut-Three.

                                                              HIM
Aut-Three.  Good season.

                                                              HIM
Great season.  The Sticks against the Brooms.

                                                              HIM
Ah yes.  The brooms were up three games to none.

                                                              HIM
They couldn't sweep.

                                                              HIM
Oh, come now.

                                                            HIM
You handed it to me.

                                                             HIM
I did, didn't I.

                                                             HIM
Yes.  It was more like an invitation engraved in Platinum.

                                                             HIM
Still - you must change hats.  It doesn't suit a gentleman to be caught in the same cap year after year after year.

                                                             HIM
I like my old hat.

                                                              HIM
So do I.   You must change with the times my dear boy.

                                                              HIM
But you do not wear a hat.

                                                               HIM
No.  No I do not care for hats.

                                                              HIM
But you just said I should replace my old hat.  If you are not a fan of hats, then why tell me to replace my old one.

                                                              HIM
It's not that I'm not a fan of hats persay.   I'm simply not a hat wearer myself.

                                                               HIM
Oh.

                                                                HIM
You like your hat.

                                                               HIM
I do.

                                                               HIM
It makes you happy?

                                                               HIM
It does.

                                                               HIM
Then you should continue to wear one.

                                                               HIM
But,

                                                               HIM
But you should find one that suits you.  This one is worn out.

                                                               HIM
It's comfortable.

                                                              HIM
That is why you must take it off.  And put on a new one.  (HE hands HIM a shiny new top hat)

                                                               HIM
I rather like this new hat.
            
                                                              HIM
Have you tried on others?

                                                               HIM
Yes.

                                                              HIM
And you still like this one?

                                                               HIM
Yes.  Very much so.

                                                             HIM
Then I think this is the hat for you.

                                                              HIM
I believe it is. (HE lights them both a cigarette, as HE is occupied with the long wonderful process of admiring his hat.  Suddenly the girl's cries become audible.  The hat wearer goes over to the girl and efficiently strangles her to death.)


                                                             HIM
Quiet! (SHE goes limp.  THEY smile.)
 
                                                      [BLACKOUT]
 
                     the end



   




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Poem/Talkin Old Man Jealousy Blues

Preface:

There is a time in the course of one's existence, when it becomes impossible to cling to the ideals we cherished in our formative years.  When it becomes easier to see beyond the pale of tomorrow, but harder to deal with what tomorrow means.

Poem:

This person is quite sad
He can't recall the times they had
He'd rather brood and moan and cry
Than look his soul straight in the eye - And question his existence.
No, he'd rather stew and act on pretense

Suffocating, soul sucking, constricting snake
Unable to satisfy his one time mate -
He wraps his arms, He numbs to grip -
yet through his fingers her soul does slip

He can't see the fire in the rear view mirror
There's a house burning down on the side of the road.
He doesn't pull over, but drives faster, hoping to catch up with her.
He's overwhelmed by thoughts of what he Should do,
Instead of what he Could do.

When you lose everything, you gain perspective.

  _________________________________________________________________________________

Talkin' Old Man Jealousy Blues

Old man jealousy workin' for the likes of he
get him down and tie him up - wrap his face - his soul his stuck
Send him to the doctor please - anesthetize his soul decree -
changin' up his mantra - see - yer nothin' to society

just a waste of carbon

just a waste of fuel oil

Old man jealousy talkin' bout the anarchy
wrestlin' in your soul better stop and slow the road
Love sick, love hate, love yourself and then negate
Regret - upset yourself into - forget - slug me, slug him - yer only losin' when you win

what a waste of energy

what a waste of conviction.

Young man - got down - stole a woman from his crown
stead of bein' grateful for the freedom in his soul -
got down upset - tried to free it on my head
Can't please, can't win, only way to live is sin.

what a queer way a thinkin'

what a stranger to danger

Sendin' him some solace now - I'll buy the farm I'll buy the cow
If it makes you happy, I'll the magic beans ya seed
Woman - changes - un-predictin' strangeness -
short prose - fiction - only way i know to win

Just lettin' my soul out

Just lettin' my heart out



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Tune Up #1

(Let me preface this post by saying that I'm playing Roger in REnT up at TriArts Playhouse this month)

Fourth of July. 1pm. 2011. 

"I'd rather be, rather be in rehearsal right now, baby" - Joe Iconis

I've kicked the numbness and the doctors and the squawking boxes of noise that dictate my choices - cuz hey baby - In the end - there ain't nothin' left to believe in but your own abilities.
I'm done anesthetizing myself with a little blue pill.  This sensitive aesthete is ready to to break down your walls.  All i want is to feel.  I'm out for something more than the left side of my head.

The dollar signs in your eyes don't interest me - Kick me out of your house.  I'll be alright.  There ain't nothin' in that set list for me Mr. Wizard.  There ain't nothin' there - and there ain't never gonna be.  That's alright with me - cuz I've got my newfound sense of cosmic interconnectedness -  a living soul with a breathing heart that feels deeply - that loves deeply - that hurts deeply - and rebounds greatly.

All my love to you baby - I've cast off my ectoplasm of doubt - traded in my skin for leather.  Nobody knows how to ride anymore.  Deep-pocketed humans wear cowboy hats & pose for pictures next to horses in their tight Bushwick blue jeans, faking the rest of us into interest.

There's a way to exist outside of the rehearsal room... outside of the song process in my head... I know there is... but besides heading to the Bronx, I haven't found it yet.







I suppose we'll get there soon... get to that place of comfortable existence - where truth is not something to be feared; but is a function of humanity.

------------------Following the path of least resistance hasn't worked for me thus far.  I've had to harness my confrontational nature and cast off some of my righteous indignation for the sake of art.  usually it's the other way around... But sometimes, in the room, I find myself questioning my function.

Are we artists?  Is it pretentious to think of oneself as an artist?  I'm a writer, an actor, a ........ I assume other people's roles.  But am I an artist?  Let's face it - we're entertainers; at the core of our art - our craft - our work - is the fact that what we do is for the benefit of others.  We would be selfish to think that the visceral feeling of the artists on stage or in your stereo or your page is more important or meaningful than the response of our audience.  We entertain - we distract people from the mundane, the meaningless and the physical manifestation of the fear of death. 

And yet - the true artist works for no one but himself - The artist's work is creation - He does not create for money - He does not create even for love - The true artist creates because he HAS to - because the alternative is far too tragic, And because he will die if he doesn't. 

Yet - as entertainers; I've always liked to think that we could have, oh, just a modicum of ambition and hope that through our art, we could change the world. It takes a man with a keen intellect, and an even deeper wealth of love to create art that not only entertains, but changes the world.  Example:

HE got it.  This man put his art above all else.   Creating was second only to breathing - and at times, even breath fell by the wayside in favor of his art.

Larson was modest enough to recognize that he was an entertainer; brazen enough to believe that his brand of entertainment could change the world; and wise enough to know that money is not the be all and end all.

Who cares if he didn't make a dime off his show?  It sucks, but that's not a tragedy.  Not living to get his Pulitzer or Tony; also not a tragedy.  The tragedy is that he never got to see his work come to life on Broadway.  The tragedy, is that his life was aborted, and his child had to be delivered prematurely.  The tragedy, is a father never getting to meet his child...

However, in the midst of sorrow, his death took place in the shadow of new life.  Larson gave his life to protect and nourish his child in utero.  He did not feel this sacrifice a vain or an empty one.  And we will not debate his profound wisdom now.   (thanks Jack B. Sowards)

Everyone who loves his show becomes his child's foster parents - We have all had a small hand in raising Her.  If there's any creative justice in the afterlife, Jon is looking down on his teenager smiling.


no edits, no spell-checks, no read thru,

No so Desperate Times.

p.s. come see the show.


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