Mulligan Stew - First Draft of New Song

Hey.

This new song for the musical is super silly, but sweet.

In the hobo musical, Gilly is singing it to a puppet named Mortimer Montgomery (who's the stereotypical hobo, sooty-faced, bindle-wearing, etc)  Mortimer just spent the prior scene showing off all of the misconceptions about hobo culture and giving out bad advice in general.  Gilly uses this song to gently set him straight about what it means to be a hobo.

Here we go!

LYRICS

first verse

in the jungle evening descending
stirring up the embers intending
to brew
mul mulligan stew
get a can some water for boiling
bos will soon appear ripe for toiling
its true
mul mulligan stew
tween me and you
mul mulligan stew

chorus
meal of the moment
to stave off the torment
of life on the rails
its no other
sipping and smiling
with strangers beguiling
whove lived through the worst
sister brother

second verse

if youve got a carrot then share it
pinch of salt and bread go and tear it
to chew
with mulligan stew
pepper and potatoes for flavor
chicken in the mix breathe and savor
the hue
mul mulligan stew

chorus

third verse

staring at the moon washing dishes
only thing we own stock in wishes
we few
tasted mulligan stew
when a bo can give what theyre keeping
have it all combined see the reaping
ensue
thats mulligan stew
tween me and you
mul mulligan stew

chorus

mul mulligan stew

King of the Hoboes - first draft of a new song

Hey.

At the heart of it, an artist is an obsessive.

Some people can parse and place aside an idea or emotion, get to enjoying the flittering now. Find lovers, cultivate caring and mutually healthy relationships. Eke out contentment and be satisfied.

But an artist, their knuckles torn, their breath ragged, they grab onto these small ideas.  Revisit them again and again. Edit a poem sixty times. Sing seven seconds of a new song they're writing on a loop just to themselves for hours in a dank apartment, matted with mold from a broken ceiling and a burst pipe from the room upstairs. Switch up the tone, the lift of a word, auditioning a synonym.

The mold is scrubbed, the paint dries. It's acrid and it burns in the folds of the throat. Still singing, still alone. Coming to the moment where the song finally makes the musical concrete and active. Not a gimmick. But a honest elegy about losing not just a mentor and father figure, but a culture. A subset of society now bandied about in modern association as a joke.

This is a venerable sickness.

Here's the rough draft of the song.

lyrics

first verse
barefoot and twenty
not a nickel to my name
chicago winter out for blood
king of the hoboes
good ole james how
crying in a jungle
from the dark he called me close
asked me for my story
lent an ear
king of the hoboes
good ole james how

chorus
god he was clever
he was so damn clever
when i begged for change he shook his head
took off the boot he wore and gave them to me
with a smile and a piece of bread

second verse
at the hobo college
where i learned to read and write
james saw the hope i once forgot
king of the hoboes
good ole james how
saw us bos as people
this forgotten little tribe
travelled round the country
spreading joy
king of the hoboes
good ole james how

chorus
god he was simple
he was so damn simple
left a half a million to be free
the way he saw it
werent no point in having riches
coming by so easily

third verse
five days ago
in the middle of the night
he caught the westbound made his peace
king of the hoboes
good ole james how
lord you never made another man so loving kind
and now hes gone his body free
king of the hoboes
good ole james how

chorus
theyve got a service taking place this evening
volunteered to speak they want me mum
dont want your kind around
youre a blemish on his nature
just another filthy bum

fourth verse
and here im singing
bout a man who shaped the world
but you didnt know him
not one bit
king of the hoboes
good ole james how
all you are is hungry
no kinship in your eyes
getting by on getting yours alone
king of the hoboes
good ole james how

chorus
oh god im foolish
see im so damn foolish
trying to keep the culture still alive
if theres someone out there who will share our story
see the hobo spirit thrive

fifth verse
well ive got nothing
but this weathered old guitar
and a homely face to tell my tale
king of the hoboes
good ole james how
all of us have moments
we can ease each others pain
shoulder up the wounded
sing and grin
king of the hoboes
good ole james how

chorus
god he was clever
he was so damn clever
when i begged for change he shook his head
took off the boots he wore and gave them to me
with a smile and a piece of bread

The Mayor of Inwood- song for a three legged poodle

Hey.

Here's a song for a dear friend of mine:

That's my brother, his wife, and their two dogs: Sissy and Peter.  From the day I moved to New York City until they they day they moved west, Peter was a delight.  Full of warmth and joy. Did my heart a kindness when I needed it the most.

Peter has such spark and vitality, even with his disability. Ended up nicknaming him "The Mayor of Inwood", in honor of the neighborhood where my brother and I lived.  And, through my brother's family, I really opened myself up for the first time to revel in and foster pride in a community.

Inwood's not an easy neighborhood to love.  It's out of the way and a mix of economic diversity. Organic restaurants coupled with greasy spoon diners. A sprawling little forest, a Dutch farmhouse overlooking a busy city street. Gentrification's getting its hooks into the locale, but for now, it's got a quirky, earnest charm.

Here's a love letter to this stretch of land.

lyrics

first verse

first day that i came to town
i was a broken down mess
only dress a frown
didn't even have a guess to address the noun
holding up my worry
peter saw i was ill at ease
with a smile and a wag
he was fit to please
led me all around the city
with a happy little wheeze
what a public servant

prechorus
staying alive on this island
surely
isnt a spectator sport
keeping wise
creative ties will guide you
tether your fear to a port

chorus
i miss the mayor of inwood
three legged poodle
his heart could soothe my soul
i miss the mayor of inwood
city changes
love does a dreamer good

second verse
peter plays with the deputy
shes a pretty little mix
shes a jack a bee
see her sigh at peters tricks
shes a prissy little sissy
theyre a good team
took em down to homers run
in the middle of the forest
where the dogs have fun
peter picks a little fight
that he never would have won
with a great dane

prechorus II
peter and sissy
have the tools i covet
style  bravado
done right
steady grace
the will to chase with a fast pace
whims of the world with delight

CHORUS

third verse
been a year since they moved away
california bound hounds
and im sad to say
that the neighborhoods heart fell apart
in a rough way
plain and simple
still at night when i close my eyes
i hear that old familiar whine and those eager cries
from a mayor whose term was a great surprise
thank you peter

prechorus
staying alive on this island
surely
isnt a spectator sport
keeping wise
creative ties will guide you
tether your fear to a port

CHORUS

The Wooden Tie - One Year Later -

Hey.

There's a wooden tie hanging on my wall.

Here's the story.

My father held at least forty-seven jobs in his lifetime, never really picking up roots in one particular career.

A month ago, I was checking my email, and noticed that he mailed me some of his writing projects about nine years ago.  Called the email "Just Some Junk To Read", in his true self-deprecating way. I remember reading and discussing his autobiographical accounts. Just didn't realize I still had the copies.

Here's a summation, in his own words, of the the work which shaped him:

1. Helping my grandfather milk cows  (age 8)
2. Moving lawns for a real estate salesman (12)
3. Started own business selling bags of candy (age 13)
4. Sorting old pennies (14)
5. Running the gas station and the sporting goods counter at the Buckhorn Lodge (age 14)
6. Running a switchboard for an old folks home (age 15)
7. Printers Apprentice  (age 15)
8. Making Donuts (age 16)
9. Started window washing business (age 17)
10. Dishwasher for a Chinese Restaurant (age 17)
11. Houseman for Del Monte Lodge at Pebble beach (18)
12. Window washer for Holiday Inn in Carmel (age 18)
13. Waiter for a Restaurant on the Wharf in Monterey (age 19)
14. Gas station attendant in Cupertino (age 20)
15. US Navy (age 20) He served stateside for two years.
16. Short order cook at EM club (age 21)
17. Gas station attendant in Monterey (age 24)
18. Store clerk for Proximity Devices (age 26)
19. Expediter for Schlage lock (age 26)
20. Warehouse supervisor for Atari (age 27) This was right when the Atari 2600 (called the VCS until 1982) came out.
21. Warehouse Manager for Atari (age 28) I was born this year.
22. Distribution Manager for Warner Brothers (age 29) Atari had been sold to Warner Brothers in 1976, so this was a lateral move.
23. Started own wood working business (age 29)
24. Shipping supervisor HH Robertson (age 30)
25. Material control Supervisor HH Robertson (age 31) Sister born this year.
26. Computer Supervisor for Gallo Warehouse (age 32)
27. Delivered Chronicle newspaper (age 32)
28. Sold at flea markets (age 33) Brother born this year.
29. Janitor and floor man (age 34)
30. Delivered newspapers (age 35)
31. Assembled bulk candy machines and placed them (age 36)
32. Contract Focus programmer for a risk management company (age 38)
33. Sold at flea markets (age 38)
34. Contract Focus programmer for Martin Construction (age 38)
35. Delivered newspapers (age 38)
36. Team lead programmer at Quantel Business Systems (age 39)
37. Warehouse man for Modesto School District (age 40)
38. Delivered newspapers (age 41)
39. Started used bike business at home (age 42)
40. Sold at flea markets (age 43)
41. Started a store front for used bike business (age 44)
42. Contract Focus programmer for UCSF (age 46)
43. Contract Focus programmer for Charles Schwab (age 48)
44. Contract Focus programmer for Coke in Atlanta (age 50)
45. Contract Focus programmer for Clorox in Oakland (age 50)
46. Started Ebay business (age 51)
47. Crystal programmer for Yosemite Farm Credit (age 52)

 

 On one of his programming jobs, a middle manager ordered my father to dress more formally.

In response, my father headed to the garage. He loved his woodworking time. As a boy, I'd creep into his space, lie flat on the matted clothes which soaked up the floor, and quietly watch him work.

He made several dozen wooden ties over the next few weeks. Wore them to work until management gave up and let him dress as he pleased.

He tried to sell them (along with other handicrafts) when money was tight, but they were just too pretty and weird for anyone to purchase in the flea markets we attended, wedged in between the live chickens and the bootleg VHS tape salesmen.

The weekend after my father died, my brother and sister traveled to Oregon.  Found a cache of the ties tucked in a shed, forgotten by time.

And, a few weeks later, at his rehearsal dinner, my brother offered them as wedding gifts.

Look at them.

There's a precision and a clean, simple beauty to these. He always made things so well, with his two hands.

I look at it constantly. Swinging softly on a hook.  This talisman.

Gonna log off and listen to "Cosmic Love" forty times in a row.

Just like last year.

Love you, Dad.

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.