Carter David - new song for a two year old boy

Hey.

So, here's the silliest thing I've ever written.

And I wrote The Stinky Toe Sandwich Song .

It's for CD, my two year old nephew.

Here ya go.

LYRICS

Chorus

Carter David
Carter David
I'll see you Christmas time
you'll be dancing
I'll be strumming
wick away the rime
just a little while
I'll be on my way
it's such crime
we're apart think and living
til the next season's giving returns

First Verse

You're a big boy now
with a brother and a sister
on their way
you're a big boy now
just like mickey you're a leader
help them play

CHORUS

Second Verse

You're a big boy now
Making tinkle in the potty
going number two
you're a big boy now
know your mother and your father
they are proud of you

CHORUS

Bridge

(a bunch of gibberish)

CHORUS X2

The Acceptance Speech

Hey.

So, Ghost On a Stick won (tied for) one award tonight:  Outstanding Performance in a Solo Show.

Here's a longer version of the speech I would have given (if the option to give speeches wasn't cut due to time constraints)

Funny, no matter how many times I end up in this situation, I always end up feeling like the homeschooled kid stepping out on the dance floor of a really fancy prom.
               
But here I am.

I'd like to thank the Planet Connections staff for once again offering untold support and assistance in their dedication to making selfless, ethical theatre.

I'd like to thank the spirit of the festivity itself, as it's given me both commercial success and deep, lasting friendships which I never thought possible in just living here a few short years.

I'd like to thank the seventy donors, friends, family and strangers, who believed in me. Really took a hard look and gave me three thousand dollars to make this show come to life. I can no longer say, in my darkest moments, that I have no worth.  The free market, she sings sweetly.  And may that trust, that kindness, grow and spread forth over the rest of my creative days.  May they feel their contributions are a wise and desirable purchase.

I'd like to thank my director, Megan Jeannette Smith. She broke it open, found the love story inside this tale of mental illness and despair. Made the work theatrical.  She's become a dear friend, and I am fiercely proud of the work she's done on this fair show.

I'd like to thank Lauren Bremen and Kortney Barber for their work in lighting/projections and sound design.  They are worth far, far more than what I could pay them, and their ability to work with limited equipment and funds to capture the mood and the frailty of the story was a blessing.

I'd like to thank Fanboy Design for their engaging, iconic work on the website and postcard.  I'd also like to thank Mark Kinch for his breathtaking photography which summons up the world of the play in just a moment.

I'd like to thank Kristen Penner and Lorelei Mackenzie for their counsel and kinship. Dinners spent with them learning the nuts and bolts of how to make a PCTF show successful and fully funded.  Couldn't ask for better teachers and more nurturing friends.

I'd like to thank all those who offered their time and efforts to house management for free during the show.

I'd like to thank her, she who, despite my arrogance in shutting off the door to my heart and stubbornly believing that vulnerability and dating were over in my life, surprised me and awakened that desire once more. Our connection collapsed, me being me and all. But that pulsating loss was kerosene for those sleepless nights, driving me to push further and further as a producer, playwright, and actor.  I see her now, and I still marvel at her being.  She feels rich and familiar, and I hope she'll have me as a friend.

I'd like to thank A.J Ditty, who, after years of just giving up on the play and stuffing it into a floppy disk, convinced me to pull it out and send him a copy.  His response, his decency, his friendship gave me a second wind.

I'd like to thank Tess Suchoff for reviewing future drafts and offering an outsider's point of view.

I'd like to thank one of my oldest friends, Bobby Lux, for living this show's truthful experiences with me, for reading drafts and offering his wise advice.  For helping to promote the show, and for always being in my corner. He's my pocket aces that will never get cracked.

I'd like to thank my mother, brother, and sister, who shake their heads sometimes at the silly, intense things I do, but still champion them.   They're a wonderful family.

Lastly, I'd like to thank the memory of my late father, almost a year since his passing.  He reminds me every single bleeding day to stop thinking about making things, stop talking about making things, and make them. Make them over and over again.  Help others make things.  Stop wasting time and  (to paraphrase Hemingway) make a living out of your death.  I miss you so much, dad.  I'm doing the best I can, and I'm lonely and I'm beaten down and death is always on my mind. But I keep on making things.  Like you taught me.  I've always been an odd one.  Heart of a poet, face of a prison guard.  But through this world of theatre, I'm home.

Let's go out there and keep making things, together.

Thank you.

Happy Pants

Hey.

Let me tell you another story.

College.  My freshman year, and I was cast in my first play on campus. It was a forgettable dramedy about a high school teacher who takes a classroom hostage until the authorities give into his demands.  My role was Dean, the nerdy freshman who served as a perpetual source of scorn and derision amongst the other students.

(Seventeen years later, and I still remember his name.  That's creepy.)

Had maybe five lines. But here was the one which bought me a small amount of fame at school.

Act One: The students stop harassing Dean long enough to take a look at his clothes and ask him why he's wearing such ugly apparel.

He says:

"These are my happy pants. They make me happy."

That's all it was. A terrible series of words which made no sense. It comes out of nowhere and is never mentioned again.

But I'm crazy.  I'm a crazy person. I see those rambling letters all staggered in a row, and I want to make something out of them. I get the director to dye me a pair of sweatpants one size too small a color between purple and puce. Then I tie about seventeen keys on a loop onto the drawstring. Lastly, I pitch Dean's voice somewhere around the tone used by Roger Rabbit.

So, by the time the show opens, the exchange looks something like this:

STUDENT
Why are you wearing such ugly pants?

DEAN
(to dazzle)
These?  Are my happy pants!
(to proclaim)
(shakes drawstring)
JINGLE JINGLE JINGLE JINGLE JINGLE
(beams)
(to confide)
They make me happeeee.

And people, they howled with laughter.  Seriously. My stoic giant of an acting teacher, Paul Backer, cackled like a madman. It was the first time I ever saw him like something I did.  Not in a reserved, arms folded, stare-like-a-grim-ferryman way he always had.  Free and open laughter. And I don't know why.  It was really, really dumb. Super dumb.

The show ended. After that, I wanted to be taken seriously as an actor.  This was a serious business, and I wanted to develop a reputation as someone with skill and gravity.  Not a fat, sloppy fool. I did monologues from ANTIGONE, my chin quavering with righteous, unceasing rage while other classmates were doing pieces from TV or film.  I scowled to hide my dirty, misshapen teeth. Saved up cash and bought contacts so I'd look a wee more presentable.

God, I had so many turtlenecks, too.

I'M

 NOT

KIDDING

After several years in college being a super-serious actor and taking roles in dark, crazy, experimental shows (along with a few high-profile musicals and mainstage shows on campus and taking part in the Edinburgh Fringe Festival with some mad, wonderful people), I signed up to take Paul Backer's acting class as a senior. I was determined this time to earn his respect and somber appreciation.  I was no longer the freshman who bawled in front of him and twenty other students, being unable to kiss my scene partner because (at eighteen and a half) it was the first time I had ever kissed a girl.  My eyes no longer glossed over his reams and reams of worksheets outlining acting theory and preparation. I understood now how to use these dry, esoteric tools, make them precise and engaging.

The first few weeks were like a tug of war. Still wasn't making any real progress.  Still felt awkward and flustered in front of him. Choice after choice was refuted, met with silence. Finally, one day, he stood up, and said: "Jara, why do you have to be so serious all the time? Whatever happened to Happy Pants?  Be him."

So I did.  I took lighter, more humorous choices in class. Last show in college, I signed up to play an anthropomorphic Indian dog in a friend's play. No lines, just barks and crazy physical comedy.  A far cry from my serious, craft-minded ego.

And I've been here in the real world for thirteen years now.  While my default emotional core could best be described as "wounded, autistic bear" , I get paid to be Happy Pants.  Weird, fat, comic types, looming large with grotesque physicality.  Spitting, semi-clothed, occasionally drunk beasts. Animals and little boys which make you laugh and laugh and laugh.

But I'm not a funny person at all.

Not even close.

I'm a high-functioning depressive.

My dreams nowadays fixate around counting down the months until my student loans are paid off and I'm finally able to parse together a savings account. 

And this year, I finally got a chance to show who I am. The version of me from the past, and its echoes in my character today. I wrote, produced and performed GHOST ON A STICK.  And it terrified me to my core. Every single time. That monster. That intense, savage, broken little man. All of that, displayed so openly.  Without my usual parlor tricks.

I'm glad it got to exist. I'm glad theatre can still challenge me and force me to be present and clear.

I'm also glad that I'm making some peace with my happy pants side, too.  If you're in New York City, you can see me in doing Off-Broadway children's theatre on the weekends:  Piggy Nation The Musical . It's fervent, silly, engaging work.

As John Gardner once wrote in GRENDEL, balance is everything.

New Song (Rachel, My Child) - for Ashley Mayhew

Hey.

Now that Ghost On a Stick has wrapped, I'm using the time to do more writing and songwriting.

Over the next few months, I'll post songs completed for top GOAS donors.

Today's song is for a dear friend of mine, Ashley Mayhew, about his daughter.

LYRICS

first verse

the moon shivers
and the light
rends us bare

i'm by the bed
i end the story
stroke your hair

chorus

rachel my child
how you've grown
rachel my child
my flesh and bone

second verse
i remember when your mother
came to my room
we stared like statues
and love so tidy
swept up the gloom

chorus

bridge
and i know that there will come a day
when you'll be wise and on your own
your childhood now a memory
your dreams the seeds which you have sown
and i'll come visit you
but damn if i won't try
to tuck you in
my kin
my rachel
rachel my child

third verse
the dawn breaks
and you giggle
jump in our bed
we hold you close
get you bathed and dressed
get you fed

chorus

Special Thanks and Patrons to Ghost On A Stick Indiegogo campaign

Hey.

I just wanted to once again offer my intense gratitude for the people below who gave their support to fully fund GHOST ON A STICK.  Just three weeks until the show opens!

Tickets can be purchased HERE:

SPECIAL THANKS

Sascha Lorren

Gary Lizardo

Jonathan Pearson

Andy Hungerford

Diane Hubbell

Reggie De Leon

Lisa Kim

Hannah Barudin

Emily Billig

Paul Backer

Tyson Turrou

Ryan McCurdy

Winnie Lok

Nancy Chandler

Shaun Peknic

Dylan Kenin

AJ Ditty

Jenn Litfin

Kathryn Albert

Emily Travis

PATRONS

Meredyth Kenney

Stacy Keele

Alan Corcoran

Jennifer Moraca

Bobby Lux

Lizvette Chavez

Zachary Locklin

Rosa Belerique

Logan Sparks

Erinn Koch

Joe Hogan

James Cobb

Shaun Gallant

Ashley Mayhew

Melissa Qualle

Paulajean Eagleman

Robert Heintz

Jelina Seibert

Kelli Hines

Karen Lotko

Beatriz Jones

Joseph Lankheet

Jasmine Khong

Kelly Brinker

Anna Romero

Rockford Sansom

Lewis Crouse

Louis Berlin

Bryn Carter

Zadkiel Bachiller

Joni Ernst

Carlos Acosta

Len Moors

Karlene Mills

Mageina Tovah

Ashlee Brown

Julia O’ Brien

Jessica O’Hara Baker

Douglas Clayton

Rita Gurrola

Elspeth Carden

Jeric Jones

Valerie Macaluso

Jody Pierce

Allison Kueberth

Anne Delfin Schnirch

Gregory Cohen

Shannon Fillion

Tonja Gilson

David Patrick Ford

Think About It - first draft of new song

Hey.

So, I'm hard at work on Ghost On a Stick.

Check us out on Facebook:

facebook/ghostonastick

Twitter:

@GhostOnStick

and of course, our super amazing website (thanks to Fanboy Design)

www.ghostonastick.net

And, like always, whenever I'm super stressed, new songs tend to pop in my head and demand attention.

Tried to put this one off, but it wouldn't shut up.  So, I set some time aside, let it tell me how it wanted to sound, and whipped up a first draft.

Take a listen!

Lyrics

first verse
she said she'll think about it
you've made your feelings known
and now you think about it
cards on the table

sure
you're scared
shudder with senescence
you're
so tense
but it's rarely presence
now it's months to wait
let time abate it all

pre-chorus
she's got a poker soul
you've got game
like candyland
but then she smiles wide
you see a glimmer
and you understand

chorus
good things might come to those who wait
just be simple
keep your head on straight
step lightly
with an even gait
while manhattan spins
i'll be gracious, gentle grins

second verse
she said she'll think about it
and that is fine by me
i sit here think about it
damn
the norm
let's defy convention
I'm
not nice
I'm just paying attention
she's not a rebound girl
and work, it overwhelms

pre-chorus and chorus

bridge
i know  - don't expect a thing
but won't deny what comes
no motives made
just want some moments
by your side
we'll never stop being busy
don't want to hide, being busy
just try me
i'll try you
tell me you'll think about it

third verse prechorus and chorus
(same as first)

Bowling with Dad

Hey.

So I'm talking to you, dad. It's lane four and I'm wearing rented, tight-pinching shoes.

I'm surrounded by actors. I love actors. One on one, intense, unyielding discussions over dinner. Watching them work. But put more than four of us together in a room and it's like a methadone clinic. Addicts being addicts. Loud, boorish choruses of our shadowed selves that can grate.  Or, in my current situation, anxious, itchy, sullen types who grow paranoid based on the slightest unsettling stimuli.

Not judging.
I switch between these modes all the time.

And we're bowling. I always forget, until the moment I'm walking down a lane with nine pounds of sluggish stubbornness, why I don't bowl.  You tried your best, dad.  Held my bony hand inside your weathered paw, offered a shy smile, reminded me to point my thumb and my wrist straight, follow through, pelvis out.  It just didn't take, like all other sports. Naturally, I gave up and and went back to my favorite activities: daydreaming about being in love, singing made up songs to myself, and reading.

It's the third frame.  I've got a score of 6 at the moment. And you know me, dad. I'm not half-assing it. I don't half-ass anything. I'm taking my time, hearing your voice in my head, trying to follow the steps. And it just doesn't work. I'm eight again, and I have no skills and everyone else at this party are in love and happy and ripe with promise and I'm just a fat weird poor brown kid from modesto who can't roll a ball straight.

First ball down the lane. I stare down the pins, and find myself pleading with you: C'mon, dad.  Help me out here. Don't let me further embarrass you.  Summon up some wind. Something.  An earthquake, maybe. Just strike down these ten soldiers rising up against me.

And I roll.

The bowling ball shoots steady and fast down the middle for a few feet, then wildly skips to the right, lapping at the gutter.

Ten pins still stand.

My head drops. And then a friend spies me, cheers me on.

Even though you died over seven months ago, dad, I can hear you sigh. It's an orchestral sigh. You sigh because you know that this friend, with the holes in her stockings and a grin that shoulders a river of hurt, this friend is another silly crush of mine.  Unobtainable.  You sigh because you've seen it before and there's nothing you can do to save me from my foolishness. It's not my path, relationships and all.

While I wait for the ball to return to me, I apologize for my terrible bowling, mutter: "You know, I'm the only kid in my family who never won a bowling trophy".

I wedge my fingers into the misshapen holes, lift the mass, and walk down the lane again.

But just as I lean back to release the ball, she says:

I'll make you a trophy.

Dad, my wires crossed, and I almost sat down on the ground. I turned my head, choked back a sob, and disguised it as a laugh. Tossed the ball and knocked one pin down, head swimming.

I'm 34 years old, dad. Same age you were with three kids. Something like that shouldn't unravel me. You dealt with floods and children who almost died and children who were mislabeled as autistic and incurable. I'm a potted plant.

My role in improving this human experiment has been minimal at best. I need to give more people trophies.   I need to stop wanting them so much from others.  And if I'm given a trophy, I need to be grateful. Not glum out and wish it was bigger, or more prestigious, or a friendship trophy instead of a boyfriend trophy.  Just give thanks. 

I hope you're well, dad.

Love you...