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...

My first Indiegogo fundraising campaign - for Ghost On a Stick

Hey.

So, this started today:

http://igg.me/at/Ghostonastick

So excited and terrified. My first Indiegogo fundraising campaign, and it's for the world premiere of my one man show, GHOST ON A STICK.  Please take a look the amazing work at the site, and please donate and share with your friends!

Thoughts on Ghost on a Stick

Hey.

Started pre-production work on my one man show:  GHOST ON A STICK.  One of my tasks was to come up with a nice, short summary of the play for the festival.

That meant rereading the script.  Since I last revised it in January 2012, I hadn't read it. Sent it to tons of people hoping to stir up interest or get it produced somewhere. But over a year had gone by and I avoided looking over the work.

Why?  Didn't want to get my hopes up and revise it another time unless there was a specific goal in sight, I suppose.  But the real reason is that this play frightens the hell out of me. Being a semi-autobiographical account, there's some raw, embarrassing truth on those pages. 

So I read the script. Bawled like a baby. Identified some of the clumsier moments, and expressed disbelief with how wickedly the last third unfolds.

And days passed.  Today, I checked in and tried to figure out why I'd been feeling so shitty yesterday and today. Shut down. Unable to focus or summon the will to do any self care.  Wasn't until I dragged myself outside to go walk in the forest that it finally made sense.

It's a weight of overpowering shame and guilt.

At the time most of the events in Ghost happened, this was me:

I was poor as hell. Felt immensely ugly. Ate unbuttered toast and water for every meal at home for a year. Looking back on 2000-2010, I see how much of a selfish, abusive monster I was.  And it sickens me.  So much time wasted. An acting career stalled by fear and self-doubt.  Thousands of people treated like garbage.  People I loved that I let down in small, irreparable ways.

Like to say that, with a decade behind me, that I wouldn't be so callous now, that I wouldn't treat a job as a license to hurt complete strangers because my life was spiraling out of control. That I'd be a healthy, welcome part of a relationship. But I really don't know if that's true. Since then, I haven't had a relationship last longer than a month and a half.   Today, I strain so hard to be a decent person even when I don't feel like it, but it feels like a rotting mask about to cast off at any time.

And with the news that Ghost is going to be a living thing with a world premiere and a production staff and people to watch it, new levels of fear and shame emerge.  Who the fuck do I think I am to steal together parts of my life and my friends and loved ones and throw it out there for people to see?  How arrogant and selfish am I to go out and beg the world to help me finance this story?  Who really wants to see me and this play anyway?

Finding solid answers to those questions will be my project these next few months.   

 The heart of Ghost On a Stick is this:   We each want to believe, so fervently, in a sense of control and recognizable order. It's what keeps us from screaming and screaming with the realization that we shall one day cease. Yet, there's always that singular moment for each person where it's clear that the construct we've made in no way matches up with the commonplace horror of what we eventually experience.  A healthy person learns to redouble their kindness and appreciate what pockets of love they receive.  Or, in the case of this story, they can become savage, sharpen their skills and enjoy how well they can torture people, burning themselves out with the misguided belief that work will set them free.

 Somewhere in that summary is a powerful, essential piece of theatre.  Got four months and crew of wonderful people to find it.