 Proposed design for official show shirt for our production of Hamlet. (Click image for larger version in new window.) |
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Before we left for our Christmas break, Mike Brocki asked me to design a show shirt for our production. I was glad to oblige and Mike likes the design I rendered. (His actual words were, "Holy crap. It's PERFECT.") Now it needs to pass muster with Peggy Taphorn, Rick St. Peter and probably several other members of the Temple staff before we can take orders from the cast and send the job to the screen printer.
In a 12/22 NY Times article titled "A highly evolved propensity for deceit," Natalie Angier reminds us that we're hard-wired not only to tell lies, but to believe them. This latter I assume is the non-adaptive side effect of our very adaptive ability to visualize consequences. Many hold that "overactive imaginations" (and exactly where do we draw the line on that one, anyway?) account for everything from spiritualism to altruism, a point of view which, while intellectually attractive, holds no intuitive appeal whatsoever. How convenient for me that I make my living in theater and advertising.
 Polonius' bedroom at the James House, stately living for the actor in Sanford, NC. (Click images for larger versions in new window.) |
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
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 My last meal at the Coffee Underground in Greenville prior to departing for Sanford on December 15. (Click images for larger versions in new window.)
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Tuesday, December 16, 2008
The nine-member cast of Temple Theatre's production of Hamlet convened for first read-through last night with our director (Rick St. Peter) and SM (Judy Long) in attendance at the black box space adjacent to Temple's auditorium. A brief pep talk by Producing Artistic Director Peggy Taphorn followed and my first impression of us is that we're a compatible and talented bunch of folks. The set being designed and built in place by Cyburbia Productions of Fairfax, VA is a time-non-specific "retro modern" creation that will feature both still and video projections. A silent movie, subtitles and all, will serve as the play wherein Hamlet catches the conscience of the king. Word has it that this show will be the costliest of Temple's 25th anniversary season.
The James House actors' quarters is as I remember it, a rambling but cozy two-story example of the "catalog homes" sold by Sears between 1908 and 1940. My second-floor room, the same one I had when I did Fantasticks here almost two years ago, is probably the most private in the building and the wi-fi signal coming from downstairs is strong. So far, so good. We'll have a capacity crowd by week's end, though, when the current show's cast returns from break for the last leg of their run, so that may prove to be a test of grace under fire, Fortunately, I rise and retire so early that I'm almost a third shift unto myself.
Sanford is a sleepy place. There's little for an urban boy to do here but hang out at the local coffee shop, study lines and read. But since that's pretty much all I do no matter where I am, there's no culture shock to speak of. Of course, I'll miss familair faces and places, but they're only four hours away and will welcome me when I return. There's great comfort in that.
 The spirit of Christmas past. (Click for larger version in new window.) |
Friday, December 12, 2008
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Speaking as the son of two alcoholics, may God rest their oft-troubled souls, I can assure you that alcohol has no mind of its own. It loosens filters and relaxes governors, allowing those "possessed" by it to more freely speak their own minds. Their own minds. In some cases, what's released is funny and affectionate. In other cases not. But it's all there all the time, whatever it may be, even when the bottle is on the shelf.
In our other headlines ...
The business cards arrived this week and look great!Hamlet line memorization is nearly done. Did some YouTube research on film versions of the Gravedigger scene, but after watching the versions involving Lawrence Olivier, Nicol Williamson, Kenneth Branagh, Mel Gibson, Kevin Kline and even Steve Martin (LA Story), I'm sorry to say that I found no inspiration. Drove my car today for the first time since December 5. Won't be grilling steaks tomorrow night with my friend Peter because he's come down with a cold. Poor Peter. Poor me. Alas, poor Rocky. He was a fellow of infinite friskiness. (Click for larger version in new window.) |
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Fortunately (for my sanity, if not my wallet), the design requests have tapered off this week, which leaves me time to study lines. Would that they were in English, but they're not. They're in Shakespearean, which, while it bears a striking resemblance to English, is something apart. Here's a minor example: "And these few precepts in thy memory see thou character." Character? Is that a transitive verb? What exactly happens to something when you character it? Oh sure, taken in context, the word might mean "keep," as in "these few precepts in thy memory see thou keep." But that's not what it means. Scroll down to the twenty-fifth definition of the word at dictionary.com and you'll find that one of its two archaic meanings is "to engrave, inscribe." Shakespeare's plays are rife with this kind of flapdoodle. Every third or fourth thought expressed requires contextual inference, if not outright translation.
My character could say, "And these few precepts in thy memory see thou cantaloupe" or "see thou gleptify" or "fropterize" and still expect to be understood in context. My complaint isn't that 21st century audiences can't follow the broad arc of a Shakespearean plot. My complaint is that the language makes so many of the details of the journey a bewildering dumb show for the vast majority of our patrons. How is that good for them or good for theater? I'd really like to know.
Peace and love to our director, Rick St. Peter, for trimming the play to roughly half its original length. And please understand that I'm happy to perform in plays that I'd avoid like the plague as a playgoer. In this as in so many aspects of my life, I'm a hypocrite.
 Take Kay Drive past the transformer station in Easley to a place called Tiny Town. And be amazed. (Click images for larger versions in new window.) |
Saturday, December 6, 2008
ns of holiday cheer ever conceived. Each Christmas for 30 years or more, an Easley woman has showcased her collection of well-worn toys - dolls and plastic miniatures for the most part - inside a quarter acre of chest-high huts placed in ranks around her front yard, strung with lights and left to the mercy of the elements. There's a fire pit and a live Santa and a steady stream of visitors. No admission is charged. It's a gift ... to the neighborhood and to the world.
In Tiny Town, nativity scenes of every description are scattered throughout a landscape dominated by the aristocracy of Chrismas commercialized - Ronald McDonald, Charlie Brown, Snow White, Ken, Frosty, Barbie and a hundred others. It occurred to me that the person responsible might be practicing a kind of voodoo, trying to effect broad social change by marrying sacred and secular elements in poses of forced friendship. (It's more likely, of course, that she's just a crazy old lady with no money and terrible taste, but let that go ...)
Some of the huts house tableaus - a Barbie wedding, for example - but most of the toys are packed and stacked like inventory, basking in the eerie incandescent glow. The air of decay and the impression of benign insanity reminded this visitor of how strangely inspirational the corrosive influence of materialism can be. Which is why I've chosen to think of Tiny Town, not as the ungodly aggregation it seemed at first, but as a pearl grown inside this oyster of a woman at the bottom of the Christmas Sea.
 A mask-making career cut short. (Click images for larger versions in new window.) |
Monday, December 1, 2008
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Update: I just googled Celastic and it seems that the ban has been lifted. Now all I need is a scene shop and I'm good to go.
Memory implantsSunday, November 30, 2008
I didn't acquire a taste for country music until I was well into my 30's. I guess it took me that long to realize that I'd never be a member of the Rat Pack and had missed membership in the Woodstock generation by about 10 years. Mainly, though, it took me that long to come to grips with the fact that I'd been raised in Sumter, South Carolina and permanently imprinted there by the big hair, Vitalis, sweet tea and biscuits that I'd spent the first half of my life disdaining ...
I Will Always Love YouHe Stopped Loving Her TodayWhite LightninOde to Billy JoeMay the Circle Be Unbroken
Playing cardsSaturday, November 29, 2008
Last week I sat through a half-hour interview for a freelance graphic designer slot now open at a small marketing agency here in Greenville. I didn't catch the name of the lady conducting the interview or even the name of her agency, but I lose no points for that because she wasn't talking to me. I was overhearing the interview from my table in the Red Room at the Coffee Underground and gathered that the agency is looking for a designer with writing ability who sometimes might serve as creative director on a per-project basis. In other words, they're looking for me. So why, you might ask, didn't I write my name and email address on a slip of paper and hand it to her? Two reasons: 1.) I think that scribbling contact information on scraps of paper is graceless, and 2.) I do have a few compassionate bones left in my body. The young man being interviewed was so quiet and awkward that I couldn't bring myself to sucker punch him, which any contact with the agency lady in his presence inevitably would have been. I decided that my best and only course of action was to follow them out of the restaurant, wait for them to part ways, then approach her out of sight of him to hand her a business card, saying "I couldn't help overhearing your conversation and I think I might be what you're looking for." But, owing to nothing more than laziness, I haven't had a freelance card in years, which is why the agency lady and the prospective designer escaped unaware of my existence. Hedging against future missed opportunities, though, I designed and ordered a quantity of 250 cards yesterday, which at my current rate of need should last me until the apocalypse. (Click image for larger version in new window.)
Thanking you, I remain.Thursday, November 27, 2008
Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year's Eve are three strange days for me.
Imagine yourself at a party. You're having a reasonably good time, moving from conversation to conversation, nothing much unusual going on. Then, all of a sudden and all at once, the party splits up into small groups that move from the main area into various rooms around the house, closing the doors behind them. You continue to munch crackers and cheeseball while reading a magazine. A few minutes later, everybody comes back out of their rooms and the party resumes as if nothing unusual has happened. Except everybody looks tired and they smell like turkey.
Maybe later today I'll go for a walk downtown to enjoy the eerie silence. Christmas morning is great for that, too.
For I am a Pirate King!
Monday, November 23, 2008
My script and contract for Hamlet are supposed to arrive today or tomorrow, which means I'll soon be memorizing lines. The idea is to be off-book by first read on December 15 in Sanford. I've also been informed by one of my print clients that things are about to get "crazy," which means I'll soon be laying out out many pages.
So I'm a pirate who don't do anything right now, keeping my powder dry, my sail furled. Of course, I'd be gravitating toward inactivity even if I weren't on the brink of a busy spate, but in that case I'd be calling myself a leisure pig. Not a pirate, but a pig. Pig, pirate, whatever. Contextual hair-splitting. Soon I'll be very busy. Right now, I'm not.
Spent an extremely nice day visiting with my friend Peter in Tryon this weekend. I sleep well in his basement bedroom, which I think has something to do with the room being set into the side of a hill, essentially underground. Sleeping in the cold embrace of the Earth Mother, I suppose. Physically cold, spiritually soothing.
My plan to attend a performance of The Mikado yesterday at Converse College fell through owing entirely to my own intertia. (More pig behavior.) I just didn't feel like going. Read instead. It's just as well, too, since I hear the production was abysmal, which is surprising when you consider that Converse is known for the quality of its music department. Maybe it should be known for the quality of its marketing department, instead.
 Janet Kile, Tim Brosnan and Georges the French Lop rabbit ... in happier times. (Click for larger version in new window.) |
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
A couple of weeks ago, Google handed me a Skirt! magazine questionnaire completed by my ex in October 2007 shortly after I'd relocated from Columbia to Greenville. I'd just bought her share of the Wheat Street house we'd owned jointly since 1999, a transaction which was, for us, the equivalent of signing divorce papers. Some of her answers to the Skirt! questionnaire hurt my eyes a bit, but to be honest, they could have come from either of us ...
The one item that has changed my life: Bill of sale for my half of a house.The best thing I ever won: My freedom.The worst idea I’ve ever had: Staying quite as long as I did with my significant other.Well ... ouch, of course. But I can't blame her. And I don't. I'd spent the last chunk of the relationship wishing it would end and very likely playing every passive-aggressive trick in the book in an attempt to get her to do my dirty work for me, breakup-wise. I was performing at Dollywood, unhappy with Pigeon Forge and complaining to her by email about the lack of passion in our lives, when she picked up the gun I'd been nudging toward her and shot me right between the eyes. In retrospect, I can see that it was a clear-cut case of assisted suicide ... so thank you, Janet, for putting us out of our misery. And please accept my apologies for the delay. (To read the entire Skirt! interview, click here.)
 I returned this year from Chattanooga with a vase and a bronze statue. Here's the vase. (Click for larger version in new window.) |
Saturday, November 15, 2008
If you've visited with them in their homes, you can't have failed to notice that Catholics, even recovering Catholics, have an aversion to undecorated surfaces. And so it is with me. Decades removed from active duty as I am, my love of embellishment remains strong. Same way with incense. In fact, owing perhaps to six years of parochial school, the urge to layer embellishments is frequently irresistable. The vase in the picture here returned with me from a trip I took to Chattanooga earlier this year. It sat looking the way it does in the picture for only a month before I was compelled to put a bleached nutria skull on top of it, my mother's ashes inside it and hang a vintage "Do Not Disturb" sign from its neck. We also have a weakness for symbolism.
Taking the burden of proof too lightly
Friday, November14, 2008
Alternet.org ran an article recently about Georgia Republican Senator Saxby Chambliss (whose name totally kicks ass) in which he's quoted as referring to white people as "we." He's white, so the quote is offered as an example of what I gather are many racially charged statements he's made over the years. Now for all I know, Chambliss is a racist and his otherwise uninteresting reference to white voters in Georgia as "we" might have been a glimpse of his dark side, but is this really something we want to enter into evidence? The assumption that racism underlies first person plural references to race made by any person not "of color" is just plain silly! I'm white, more or less, and God help me, I do sometimes use the word "we" when referring to people of my own race. Not with any particular pride, but as a matter of clarity. Chambliss and all true racists aside, how does doing so differ from using the same word in non-racial contexts? I can say "we Catholics" or "we Southerners" without fear of rebuke, but if I say "we white people," I'm testing the envelope. All the while, similarly self-referential statements made by people of other races are tolerated. Nay, celebrated. Is there a statute of limitations on this kind of hypocrisy? The burden of proof is and should be on Chambliss' accusers. And referring to people of his own race as "we," like preferring white chicken meat over dark, is weak evidence of racism. I offer no opinion of the man's personality or politics, just of this most recent indictment. And I'm not impressed by the prosecution's case.
Epilogue: Here's the whole quote: "There was a high percentage of minority vote, and I am tickled to death that as many Georgians as did examined their right to vote. That's what make our election process the envy of the whole free world, but we weren't able to get enough of our folks out on Election Day." A friend of mine suggested, perhaps with tongue in cheek, that Chambliss could have been referring to "we Republicans" or even "we Republican whites," rather than "we genetically superior whites." But he's an evil bastard, regardless, I suppose.
 3431 Wheat Street, shortly after landscaping in 2002. (Click for larger version in new window.) |
Thursday, November13, 2008
Buren Martin and I took his cargo van to Columbia today intending to transfer all my woodworking equipment from the little shop behind the Wheat Street house to the theater he's building in Inman. But it was a rainy day and we realized pretty quickly that a second trip would be necessary, so we grabbed only the things that were easy to grab and left. In February, the next time both our schedules will permit, we'll return with a trailer in tow, the object being to clean out the building entirely. Driving into Columbia on Elmwood Avenue, I noticed both how familiar the city is to me and how it no longer feels like home. Not at all. And I've been thinking about that. The two places I've lived most of my life - Sumter and Columbia, totaling 45 years - are no more nostalgically charged for me than my last meal ... which was a cinnamon roll and a cup of coffee, by the way ... quite tasty.
In advertising, the word "sticky" is used to describe copy and images that aren't easily forgotten. The places I've lived lack such stickiness. And since Greenville has yet to become a home "where the heart is," I have no place like home at the moment. But no matter. Life, as I've been saying frequently of late, is good. Maybe my concept of home has broadened. Or maybe it's receded to the point that it really is a thing locked up inside wherever my chest cavity happens to be at the moment. (Click image for larger version in new window.)
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Wednesday, November 12, 2008
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A new-ish print design client, St. Francis Foundation, tossed me a few very enjoyable small projects this week - two invitations that needed immediate turnaround. They both went to the printer today and should be mailed by Monday. Zippity whippity. (Click images for larger versions in new window.)
Degrees of separationSunday, November 9, 2008
However trippingly the title Six Degrees of Separation may fall from the tongue, the concept it refers to has little basis in the reality of professional theater. Few working actors are more than two or three degress of separation from any other actor, director or technician and the industry average probably is something more along the lines of 1.5. For example ... Knowing that Peggy Taphorn, the new artistic director of Temple Theatre in Sanford, NC, is a friend of my friend Peter Saputo, in whose mountain home I've passed many a carefree hour, I was aware of her proximity to me in the network when I drove to Temple today to audition for Rick St. Peter, the Artistic Director of Actors Guild of Lexington. He's the man Peggy has jobbed in to direct Temple's upcoming production of Hamlet. My score improved unexpectedly, though, when it came to light that Rick knows my friend BJ Koonce! BJ is Executive Director of Centre Stage where I played Ben Hecht in Moonlight and Magnolias two seasons ago. I found out today that when our show closed, it was Rick St. Peter to whom BJ shipped all of our hardest to find props (fake bananas and wads of peanuts, mostly) for him to use in his own production of Moonlight at Actors Guild. Pictured above is Edwin Booth as Hamlet, circa 1870, contemplating what a piece of work he is.
 The Purple Onion Cafe in Saluda serves a tasty goat cheese salad. |
Friday, November 7, 2008
I drove up to Saluda today to eat lunch at The Purple Onion and buy yet another Greg Hessel candlestick from Heartwood gallery. The highlight of the trip, though, with all due respect to my goat cheese salad and Mr. Hessel's hammered copper, was the drive itself. Bright gold and crimson canopies set against an azure sky, so beautiful at some bends in the road as to seem almost unreal.
And in a rare moment of activism ...Thursday, November 6, 2008
Those who know me well know that I'm not a joiner or a mover or a shaker. I don't contribute to causes, especially not political causes. I prefer to be left to my own devices and tend to grant others the same courtesy. But today I wrote a letter to a government official, something I hadn't done since I wrote to Nixon hoping to get a reply on presidential letterhead. (Which worked, by the way, but that's another story.) The letter I wrote today was to Barack Obama asking him to end our government's absurd silence regarding UFOs. This is my contribution to the "Million Fax on Washington" that Stephen Bassett (X-Conference, Paradigm Research) is promoting, the idea of it being to get all of us who say we want disclosure to put our printers where our mouths are. I've always wanted to have an FBI file, and may have one already, but this letter should remove any doubt. (Click image to download the letter in PDF file format.)
 Nubian goats are friendly, but they'll try to eat your pants. (Click for larger version in new window.) |
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
For several days now, I've been thinking of and referring to this as "Goat Day" because I've been planning to go to Split Creek Farms in nearby Pendleton to see the herd of Nubian goats they milk for their highly regarded cheese. The farm is a handful of small, wooden buildings set between two livestock fields. One of the buildings houses a retail store - just a room the size of a bedroom, really - where I bought a couple of hunks of cheese. Living cheek-by-jowl with the Split Creek goats are pot-bellied pigs, French lop rabbits, guinea hens, donkeys and big, friendly dogs that roam around protecting the livestock from aggressive visitors. Like bobcats. And people. An elderly goat named Savannah stood stock-still in front of the store today trying not to fall asleep. I know very little about goats, so I was surprised to find out that when they cough, hiccup or bleat, they sound remarkably human. But then, so did the pot-bellied pigs. Maybe the place is enchanted. Oh, and Obama is ahead 174 to 100 as I write this.
 The Georgia Aquarium features beluga whales in a six million gallon tank. (Click for larger version in new window.) |
Saturday, November 1, 2008
After a very tasty steak sandwich lunch, a tour of the Georgia Aquarium and dinner at a restaurant in Buckhead called Brio, I settled into my seat at the fabulous Fox Theatre for a sold-out performance of the national tour of Wicked. An hour later, I was on my way home. The slick, lavish production served to remind me that I don't have a taste for spectacle, that I prefer small shows in small venues, human entertainment on a human scale. Natural spectacles, even unnaturally confined natural spectacles, are a different matter. The beluga whales at the aquarium were lovely to watch, as were the whale sharks and the giant groupers and the jellies. But Wicked was too much ... and too little. I suspect that the packed and highly appreciative house consisted for the most part of folks desensitized by pop culture. I believe we come out of the womb hard-wired to appreciate the art of storytelling, but Hollywood has leveraged our instincts against us, using them to sell us ever more flamboyant products as gateway drugs to ever less meaningful cultural experiences. Wicked was a ravishingly beautiful zombie. It's soul, like the soul of so much of what passes for entertainment these days, was dead.
 Unknown Hinson in concert at Ashville's Gray Eagle, October 31, 2008. (Click for larger version in new window.) |
Friday, October 31, 2008
Months ago, I happened upon a series of Youtube clips of a performer who goes by the name of Unknown Hinson, billing himself as the "King of Country Western Troubadours." Think Conway Twitty as Dracula playing Eddie Van Halen ... in no particular order. A friend and I drove up to Asheville's Gray Eagle today to catch Hinson's Halloween concert, highlighted by such cult classics as Fish Camp Womern and I Can't Believe You're Pregnant Again. It was a distinct kick to see Hinson in person, but an hour of his guitar virtuosity and bizarre schtick were sufficient, so we headed home after the first set, pleased to have shared airspace with the man whose videos had made such a vivid impression. The concert was preceded by an excellent meal at a Mediterrannean restaurant and a stop-off at the drum circle that materializes downtown like Brigadoon according to a timetable I've yet to figure out. I spoke with a woman named Colis, who seemed to be in charge, but she credited a man named Larry with organizing the event. She also dismissed my questions about drum circle protocol, procedure and hierarchy. The spirit moves whom the spirit moves in the way the spirit moves them. End of story.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
If you're out there listening, Hewlett-Packard, I was most impressed with your customer service this week. When the Geek Squad at Best Buy told me my hard drive had failed, I called HP and the next day (today) I received a replacement hard drive, sent free of charge. So what began on Monday with a total system lockup, may end on Friday with a freshly installed operating system on a brand new- and slightly larger - hard drive. (HP threw in a recovery disk free of charge, by the way.) Meanwhile, I've been living off of an external hard drive, a four-year-old desktop and a laptop "loaner" ( one I was pretty sure I'd return when I bought it). Trips to Best Buy, data transfer, software installation, credit card charges. How much of my life, I wonder, have I spent dealing with this sort of stuff?
 The 2008 Honda Civic EX, back home at The Lofts. |
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Now I know what it's like to drive almost 1,000 miles in a day. That's how far it is from Bar Harbor, Maine to Christiansburg, VA, which is where I arrived at around 10 p.m. on October 26 en route to Greenville. Got up the next morning and made excellent time until I was about 18 miles above Charlotte, NC on I-77. Traffic jam. But the 2008 Honda Civic EX is a sufficiently sweet ride to make traffic jams bearable. And when the interstate is clear and the breeze is blowing through the sun roof on a bright, cool day in the mountains, the American love affair with cars begins to make sense. Great handling, great sound system and ... no kidding ... 40 mpg. Which is why I sneer at the hybrid car ads that make such a big deal of 45 mpg. Where's the national network of hydrogen fuel stations and the mandate that all new cars be hydrogen-powered by 2015? I guess in the same storage facility with the Tesla coils and whatever they harvested from Roswell.
Now it's time to send American Express a big honking check to cover the cost of 10 days away from home plus recovery from the hard drive crash that occurred yesterday.
 The view from Cadillac Mountain in Acadia National Park. It's the highest point along the north Atlantic seaboard. (Click any image in this blog entry for larger version in new window.) |
Saturday, October 25, 2008
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 Mid-Smekday at Schoodic Point in Acadia National Park. (Click any image in this blog entry for larger version in new window.) |
Friday, October 24, 2008
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Now seems as good a time as any to mention that there are no fewer South-facing Union soldier statues in New England than there are North-facing Confederate soldier statues in the Bible Belt. Today I saw two, one erected in 1897, the other in 1912. I wonder if there ever will be another war as widely and grandly memorialized as the Civil War? It must have been beyond anything we can imagine today. (Images in this blog entry are clickable for larger versions.)
 View from the deck of the friendship schooner "Alice". (Click any image in this blog entry for larger version in new window.) |
Thursday, October 23, 2008
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Karl let me and the two doctoral students who sailed with us hoist the sails, after which he tied them off. Then he gave us hot cocoa with brie and crackers and apples. I declined his offer of gloves, thinking I wouldn't need them, but two hours in the wind on the water made my hands so cold I couldn't even sign Karl's guest register afterward.
All this was preceded by breakfast (smoked salmon and caper omelette) at Two Cats again, followed by espresso at the Opera House. Lunch was clam chowder and cranberry juice at the Drydock Cafe & Inn in Northeast Harbor. Dinner at Guinness & Porcelli's was beer battered haddock.
The Bass Harbor lighthouse, my first foray of the day, was a disappointment. Just a squat white cylinder at the end of a short path. Blah. The Bear Island lighthouse, on the other hand, looks the way a lighthouse is supposed to look, perched proudly atop a rocky cliff. But because it's on a tiny island that isn't open to the public, the closest most people can get to it is a sail-by in a boat.
Exhausted after my day on the high seas. It's good to be back at the Villager and in bed.
 A box of mums grows at the foot of the Bar Harbor Inn pier on this cold, blustery day. (Click any image in this blog entry for larger version in new window.) |
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
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Probably the homliest building in town is Reel Pizza Cinerama at the far end of Bar Harbor's central park. It's where I watched the 5:30 showing of Flash of Genius while eating a couple of slices of pizza. Here's how it works at Cinerama: 1.) Buy a $6 ticket, 2.) Order and pay for pizza and take a number, 3.) Go find a sofa or a chair, 4.) Watch bingo board for number, 5.) Go get pizza when number lights up, 6.) Eat pizza while watching movie.
The pizza might be ready before the movie starts or it might not. If not, no problem. Just watch the board for your number. An hour later, the movie stops and the lights come up. Intermission. 5 minutes to stretch or chat or order another slice.
Today was a good day for indoor activities ... coffee and reading, blogging and movie watching and resting. And print design, too. Tomorrow, I'll head down to Bass Harbor to see the lighthouse.
Random reasons why Bar Harbor rules:
A fog horn rattles the windows each night at 9. It's like the voice of God.There's a store downtown called the Hemporium. The harbor is well-defended by cannons.(Images in this blog entry are clickable for larger versions.)
 The Opera House internet cafe in Bar Harbor, Maine. (Click any image in this blog entry for larger version in new window.) |
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
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The sun was down by the time I'd driven the short distance from Otter Cove back to Bar Harbor, eaten a salmon filet at Rupunini and strolled on to the Opera House. Yes, Internet access at the Opera House costs $10/hour. So what? It's a quasi-honor system anyway and the only music they play is opera! All Internet cafes should play only opera and there should be a licensing board empowered to enforce this requirement. The Opera House decor is early Ivy League frat house, heavily influenced by the National Park Cabin school of design. Old desks and chairs, some upholstered. Dozens of computer stations of various ages and capacities. Rugs on the parquet floor and exposed beams above tacky little lamps and walls crammed with framed everything frameable. And the Opera House serves espresso in little paper cups, which is one more reason that my love for this place is almost more than I can bear. Owing to Otter Cove, the Opera House, the Villager Motel, Two Cats and two straight days of clement weather, Bar Harbor is now my preferred long-range adventure destination on the Eastern Seaboard. So I've decided to stay here all week.
 This angel presides over the Grove Cemetery on Highway 1 in Belfast, Maine. (Click any image in this blog entry for larger version in new window.) |
Monday, October 20, 2008
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 The remains of a $50 baked stuffed lobster, my first meal of the Coffee House tour of New England. (Click any image in this blog entry for larger version in new window.) |
Sunday, October 19, 2008
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 This, I'm afraid, is what many people think of when they hear the word "extraterrestrial." Thank you Hollywood, Philip Klass, Gary Tuchman and all corporate media drones. |
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Been thinking lately about the much-debated ET hypothesis (ETH) and remembering how I came to be so invested in the debate. My first exposure to what I'd call serious ufology, albeit the questionable fringe of it, occurred in the mid-90's when I read Whitley Strieber's Communion. A decade later, I flew to NY to attend two Intruders Foundation seminars, one in October of 2004 and another in May of 2005. Socializing at these events with the likes of Budd Hopkins, Leslie Kean, Stanton Friedman and Bruce Maccabee humanized the phenomenon for this casual bystander, as did discussing abduction stories with Linda Cortille on Hopkin's rooftop terrace in Soho after the 2004 seminar. I became convinced of the sincerity of the researchers and, a year later, listening to the very sober eye-witness accounts offered by members of the pilots' panel at the 2005 X-Conference, I became more convinced than not of the the reality of the phenomenon itself. Discerning spurious information has been a challenge all along the way, but my natural cynicism serves me well. Or maybe not. While I no longer believe in one god, the father almighty, maker of heaven and earth, of all things visible and invisible, neither do I discount stories about little green men. Bless me, father, for I have sinned.
Monday, October 13, 2008
I managed to end my day yesterday doing something I always regret afterward ... holding forth. At a coffee bar with three friends, I broached and then more or less pounded my two favorite truth embargo topics: 911 and the ET hypothesis. Both at once. I showed "all my crazy," as one friend puts it, which is seldom a good idea. Time will tell if the documentary links I emailed to those in attendance will be clicked, if the videos will be watched and if the conversation will continue. I rather doubt it. Meanwhile, I'll spend the next day or so digesting the toxins that get released into my bloodstream whenever I grandstand. Argh.
 The official T-shirt of the 2009 X-Conference (Click for PDF proof) |
Sunday, October 12, 2008
One great thing about having friends, especially if you're a hermit, is they make you get out and do stuff. That's been the case for me this past week. Coffee in Anderson with a refugee from a rained out rehearsal; a beautiful drive up to Asheville to see "Religulous," listen to a drum circle and eat fish; a blues concert (Mac Arnold) downtown on a lovely, breezy afternoon; and another trip to Anderson today to see a play. One more exciting development ... It looks like I'm designing the official 2009 X-Conference T-shirt. Stephen Bassett, who runs the conference, and I have been corresponding about this in recent days. He's approved the design and wants shirts for his staff and now is trying to decide how many to have made. If the project goes off as intended, it should cover the cost of attending the 2009 conference for me and my two X-Con companions.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
So it looks like Juneau, Alaska isn't a place I'll be visiting in the very near future, but that's OK. There's always Nova Scotia. It's only a 3-hour ferry ride from Bar Harbor, Maine and Bar Harbor is only a two-day drive from Greenville. Peak leaf season is about to get into full swing in New England, however, which means there will be at least one reason to stay stateside (and therefore not get as far as Nova Scotia), but it's good to have a goal.
40-something
Friday, October 3, 2008
Yesterday, walking in to town, I could see my breath. And the extended forecast promises highs in the 70s and lows in the 40s ... yes, 40s! After a few hours spent at the Underground, I walked down to Falls Park to continue reading my unexpectedly autographed copy of The Postman by David Brin. Time well spent.
 The Victorians knew how to decorate for Christmas. |
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Departing a "position," even one of only 18 months, leaves a bit of a hole in the swamp of one's existence ... both financially and socially. As luck might have it, though, work requests from my freelance clients already have compensated for the loss of the first month of regular income. Good enough for now. Interestingly, I seem to be entering a period of heightened social interaction, as well. This isn't something I could have predicted, but now that I'm in the midst of it, I'm going to attribute it to my own increased availability and a huge decrease in job-related stress/distraction. An almost complete elimination of it, in fact. More good signs: Yesterday I bought groceries and cooked for the first time in months ... an apple pie and a pot of chicken bog. Now I'm thinking it might be nice to find a little Christmas tree in a month or so. O Tannenbaum.
 Tinsmith at Old Sturbridge Village circa mid-1990's |
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Three straight days of morning temps in the mid-50s have come as a welcome reminder that autumn is imminent. I've opened the big curtains in the condo for the first time in a couple of months now that the summer sun is no longer shooting daggers at me through the 10-foot windows behind them. Maybe I'll buy groceries soon. Cool weather inspires cooking ... and memories of New England. I had the good fortune to travel the northeastern corner of the country several times during the last decade of the last millenium and the cumulative effect of those travels has been lasting. At right is a photo I shot for a travel piece I wrote back in my newspaper days. It's of a tinsmith at Old Sturbridge Village in Massachusetts.
Friday, September 19, 2008
I resigned from Centre Stage at staff meeting this week, a move that was somewhat overdue, and now I'm on my own to a degree unprecedented. No formal ties to anything or anybody. No bridge, no net, no prospects, no plans. My friends here remain my friends, of course, so that helps, and I do enjoy the freedom. Still, there's a certain anxiety. The last time I left a gig that had become a job was 1999. I'd been working at an ad agency and had just bought a house. On the other hand, I was nine years into a relationship that was destined to last for another eight years. Being part of a couple makes risk seem less risky and, while I'm not risk-averse, I'm not a gambler, either. Not by nature.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Lately I've been having great difficulty figuring out what my motivation is. I've never cared much about a character's back story, knowing what he had for breakfast and all that, but I do like to make sense of lines and blocking because I can't convey something I don't understand myself. Right now, though, I'm confused. The stage directions indicate that my character, a self-indulgent hedonist, is supposed to start hitting himself on the head with his own hammer, dare I say his creative hammer, sometimes to the point of drawing blood, but it offers no justification for this. Granted, several of the other characters in the play have been dragging crosses around on their backs, smiling bravely, but self-abuse is completely inconsistent with everything my character has said and done up to now. Now I guess he'll be killed or exiled or something. Or maybe he'll just leave. Odd man out, so to speak. Bam, bam.
 The Muse and me after several weeks in the Painted Desert. |
Thursday, September 11, 2008
As I was telling a friend recently, arts administration is a young person's game. I've worked harder in the last several weeks than at any time in recent memory. In fact, the last time my nose was pressed this hard to the grindstone, I was artistic director of a small touring theater company in the early 90's ... more arts administration, coincidentally enough. But the season brochure is put to bed, the television interviews are lined up for the season, the first show's print ads and billboards are designed and placed and, perhaps most important of all, I now have a marketing checklist I can use for future shows. Anyway, I'm a bit fried right now. I need to build up my reserves for a little while. Feeling dry. The Muse doesn't care, though. She got what she wanted. She always does.
 Self-portrait of the Artist operating in a fiscal vacuum. |
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Sitting outside a television studio this morning waiting for the producer to cue our playwright-in-residence for her interview, I crept up on one of my favorite soapboxes. (No, not actor pay.) The playwright was talking about an artist colony where she goes to write plays. I made, but didn't press, the point that theater producers should be featured guest lecturers at such conclaves because playwrights, presumably, write plays to be produced, not studied in playwrighting classes. I didn't get any argument, but I didn't get an enthusiastic endorsement, either. Judging from the themes and casting requirements cited by the people who read the hundreds of plays submitted each year for our New Play Festival, the artist colony folks would object to the notion that they should be listening to their audiences, rather than the other way around. Sigh.
Ride!Tuesday, August 26, 2008
The season graphics photo shoot went swimmingly well last Friday. No matter how much planning is involved, there's still a certain amount of suspense, but everybody showed up and most showed up early and the photographer was, as always, excellent to work with. Now the season brochure is starting to come together. It's going to be a magazine-size (and style) piece, eight pages long, saddle-stitched and the title of the "magazine" will be "Ride!" This springboards off the season's marketing theme, which is "Wanna take a ride?" Our development director cut an extremely sweet deal with a printer, so we're having the piece printed at below cost in exchange for certain valuable considerations. Bottom line: "Ride!" will be a season brochure the likes of which this town has never seen.
 Yes, he's wearing a funny hat, but does the hat make him fun? |
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
I've been saying for some time now that live theater's chances of long-term survival will be greatly enhanced by jumping off the art/culture bandwagon and onto the entertainment and nightlife bandwagon, post-haste. Theaters need to stop promising to "challenge" and "enlighten" and start promising a good time. We need to call the concession stand "the bar" and tone down - way down - the appeal to higher sensibilities. At Centre Stage, our campaign theme last year was simply this: "Fun!" Our 2008-2009 theme is "Wanna take a ride?" and our spokemodel is a good-looking fun-looking cowboy. Back in Shakespeare's day, theater was entertainment. Somewhere along the line, however, theater became Shakespeare while entertainment became other things. And that's where we are today. What say we stop taking ourselves so damn seriously? This just in, folks: theater really is fun. No kidding. Fall-off-the-log-easy fun. That's the message we need to convey. That and only that. Once patrons are in the door, they'll either realize that our art form (yes, art form) has deeper appeal or they won't, but whether they realize this is immaterial. Academic theaters and those with huge endowments can "educate" their audiences all they like, but those that exist outside the vacuum fare much better by letting their audiences educate them. Similarly, actors who take pains to distinguish what they do from entertainment need to get over themselves ... and get day jobs ... conducting tours of historic buildings.
Why Tim should work in Alaska: Reason #1
Saturday, August 16, 2008
The prospect of going to Juneau, remote though it is, nevertheless hold a surprising amount of appeal. Even though the person I emailed at Perseverence Theatre asking how auditions are handled has yet to reply. In over a week. Ken tells me she's extremely busy right now, but a whole week? Just to acknowledge receipt of an email? This bodes ill, I'm afraid, but I'll keep knocking for a while. Hell, with very little makeup, I could pass for an Inuit tribesman any day of the week. That should count for something.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Something is going to happen. That's the title of a poem by Robert Penn Warren. About a lifetime ago, I performed that poem for schoolkids all up and down the eastern seaboarad ... over and over and over ... cafetoriums and multi-purpose rooms and gymnasiums. ... Something is bound to happen on a day like today, so the poem goes. I feel like that sometimes. Like I'm on the verge of something. Like something's up ahead, just around the bend. Like something is going to happen. The poem reminds us that our lives are full of happenings, many of them quite small or quite subtle. But that's not what I'm talking about. The thing I'm sensing, or anticipating, isn't small or subtle.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
 I saw this movie when it first came out in the early 70s and it scarred me for life. |
Half a show, a walk and some coffee
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Some friends and I went out of town today for an afternoon of theater. My curiosity satisfied, I took a walk at intermission and failed to make it back in time for the second act. Instead I toured the town peeking in shop windows and reading inscriptions. I found a time capsule slated for exhumation in 2032. Those things creep me out. The coffee bar nearby was a welcome surprise, even with the contemporary Christian music played there just loud enough to make it impossible to ignore. It should be noted that I leave shows at intermission far more often than I stay and it should be further noted that I mean no offense. I left Christian Slater's production of Side Man on Broadway and routinely walk out on movies. I suspend disbelief with difficulty and it's hardest for me to do so at a live performance. Apologies, Christian. If you call again, I promise to pick up.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
I spent last night at a friend's house in Tryon, NC and woke up this morning to the welcome embrace of 60-degree weather. How long has it been since I sat outside on a cool morning, drinking a cup of coffee and reading a book? Hundreds of years, by my count.
There's a professional theater in Juneau, Alaska called Perseverance Theatre where the new tech director is a guy named Ken Poston. I've known Ken for 30 years or so and when he called me a few days ago to say he'd moved to Alaska, I felt a twinge of wanderlust. I may be one-quarter Hispanic, but I'm three-quarters northern European and I yearn for cooler temperatures. Yes, February in Juneau might be more of a good thing than would be ideal, but August in Juneau might be just what the doctor ordered.
 Chris White in the trailer for Tomfoolery. |
Friday, August 8, 2008
OK, the promo trailer for Tomfoolery is done and, thanks to TVP Studios, it's a very satisfying realization of the storyboard. The email blast we issued yesterday announcing the trailer's appearance on YouTube is getting twice the click-through rate of any blast issued since we began tracking clicks six months ago. So that's good. The positive review will help, too. As will the well-placed billboards. And the big ad in Link. Now we need buzz and that's so hard to predict or influence in any organized way. Next stop: 2008 New Play Festival.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Another 10-hour work day, only this one was 12 hours long. And it doesn't help to know that some of my colleagues work 14, 15 and 16-hour days. There's just too damn much to do and not enough time to do it at the level to which we'd like our patrons to become accustomed. Such is the price of excellence, I guess. Still, I wish it were possible to enjoy the ride a bit more.
 I wouldn't own one of these things on a bet, but I think they're cute as hell. |
Monday, August 4, 2008
It's that time of year ... 10-hour days. But I shouldn't whine. Some of our actors have 14-hour days that flow directly from day jobs into rehearsals. Fortunately, I haven't had to do anything like that in about a decade because it's been roughly that long since I last had a 9-to-5 job. There's uncertainty in freelancing, but I wouldn't trade its freedom for all the health insurance, 401-K contributions and stock options in the world. Maybe I'll be singing a different tune in 20 or 30 years when I'm too old to work and broke besides, but dammit, life should be spoken in the present tense. (The pug in the picture has been leashed to the light pole beside him. That's why he looks so sad. He wants to be free ... or at least a more attractive dog ... or wearing a more flattering sweater.)
My great adventureSaturday, August 2, 2008
I packed my toiletry bag and three books this morning, leaving the laptop behind, and headed northwest. The plan was to land in Saluda, read for a while, then drive to either Brevard or Bryson City, the latter because I'd seen at weather.com that the overnight low on Sunday is predicted to be 59. Heading up 25 from Furman, though, I saw a sign that said "Brevard 38," so I decided to eliminate Saluda from the itinerary and go directly to Brevard. Unfortunately, that was the last sign I saw for my intended destination. I passed Table Rock, then Walhalla (which name always reminds me of Wagner's ring cycle and Brunhilde and Wotan and that crowd), Westminister, Seneca and Clemson, all of which were mute on the subject of Brevard. So I decided to call it a day. Looking at a map now, I see that the turnoff to Ceasar's Head I avoided shortly after the Brevard turnoff was the road to Brevard. By driving past it, I missed the mountains altogether. And 3 hours and 120 miles later, I'm back in the bat cave. Maybe I'll try again tomorrow with a map.
The relative anonymity of artFriday, August 1, 2008
Tonight, Centre Stage will unveil an exhibit of watercolors by Lynn Greer. Lynn is an artist of some local reknown, but how recognizable is her name outside the community of artists and die-hard supporters of the arts? For that matter, how recognizable is the name Centre Stage? It's at moments like these that I sometimes reflect on how insulated the arts community can be, how like the good people of Whoville we are, blithely unaware of our relative anonymity in the broader social context. If you were to ask 100 random people what a particular local artist's medium is or where a particular local theater is located, I suspect the answers would be rather humbling.
Problem solved.Thursday, July 31, 2008
Don Koonce of Ferncreek Creative fought the good fight for an ad I designed for one of his clients today. It looked briefly like the ad, which we were putting together on a squeaky tight deadline, was going to get sucked into the Black Hole of Revision, but he gave it a mighty tug and now it's safely in the printer's hands. (OK, maybe printers hands aren't particularly safe all the time, but ...)
Concept, shoot supervision, copy and layout by the author.
Millinery justiceTuesday, July 29, 2008
So what's the deal with women getting to wear hats indoors? Can they wear any kind of hat? Hard hat? Top hat? Or does it have to be something decorative, as might be designed by a milliner? I guess the rule, if you can call it a rule, is that a woman is free to wear a fried egg on her head, call it a hat, and proceed in that manner to the restaurant or the concert or the dance. But don't get me wrong. It's not that I want to wear hats indoors.Rather, I'd like to have the option of doing so. For the sake of fairness.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
I just received a press release from Paradigm Research Group, the organization that hosts the annual X-Conference in Gaithersburg, MD, informing me that Apollo astronaut Edgar Mitchell has folks in the UK all aflutter. He was being interviewed yesterday on Kerrang! Radio which broadcasts from London when the conversation turned to ufology. Mitchell stated plainly that the human race is being engaged by intelligent life from other planets, a fact that he says our government has been covering up for at least 60 years. The host nearly had a stroke, but it should be noted that Mitchell said nothing he hasn't been saying for over a decade. Here's the meat of the interview.
Children of the damnedSunday, July 20, 2008
As often happens, I was tempted today to speak harshly to a couple of upper crustacean parents about their parenting skills. Or maybe it's their social skills that were lacking. I'd been sitting in the Port City Java across from where I live enjoying my refill and my book when the door opened and in walked a bunch of well-groomed people, some of whom were adult size and some of whom weren't. The smaller ones began running in circles around the partition wall, giggling and chirping as children will do, while their guardians talked happily among themselves. I've long believed that parenthood causes certain pain receptors in the human brain to atrophy, making it difficult for parents to understand that their children are impossible for other people to ignore. But I was about ready to leave anyway, so rather than confront the offenders (the big ones, not the little ones), I walked to the end of the island where they were doctoring their coffee and pointedly poured mine into the trash chute there. As I walked away, it was gratifying to hear one of the women trying to quiet one of the children. Maybe she'd gotten the message. (Or maybe she'd correctly identified me as a childless grump.)
Ticket to ride
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Our new ad campaign came into existence today at David Crosby's studio. Dain Smith, a Millie Lewis model, posed in clothes he provided himself with a Stetson borrowed from Greenville Little Theater and an old leather suitcase borrowed from prop storage. The first iteration of the "Ride" campaign involved only the suitcase and I never really liked it. Thanks to David, Dain and Millie Lewis, however, we have a series of campaign images that really pop. Look for ads in upcoming issues of "G," "Talk," The Yellow Pages and more.
Concept, shoot supervision, copy and layout by the author.
 Tim Brosnan and Buren Martin in the 1999 Workshop Theatre (Columbia, SC) production of "The Woman In Black." |
The more-or-less first show I ever wrote is being performed at a retirement community in Greenville this August 15. It's a variation on a 45-minute adaptation of The Ransom of Red Chief that I set to music in 1992 and calledThe Ransom. Its first incarnation was a school tour built around 4 professional actors who'd train student performers at each host school to play the scores of secondary roles that made the product so attractive to sponsors. Since that time, the touring company owner, Buren Martin, has reworked the script into something he can perform with his wife and two young children. The August 15 venue is called Rolling Green Village. I'll probably go. Pictured are Buren and me in a 1999 production of "The Woman In Black" produced by Workshop Theatre in Columbia, SC.
JK in Italia
Friday, June 20, 2008
Janet is back in Italy, this time for over a month. She's working as a stitcher for what I think is an opera company of either relatively young or student musicians. Could have that wrong. I wonder when it will stop seeming strange that this person I lived with for 17 years is completely and irretrievably gone. Reading the occasional blogspot entry she posts about her travels reminds me of what it was like the first time (pre-breakup) I realized that she was being pulled across the ocean by mysterious forces. It seemed religious at the time, but now ... I don't know. Maybe she'd met somebody. I ever so dimly suspected it and probably just suppressed the suspicion, but at this distance ... It's all good somehow. Strange.
No blade of grassSunday, June 8, 2008
This is the first year in over twenty that I won't have a yard to care for. It's somewhat comforting to know that I at least own a yard in Columbia, even if I have no contact with it. The garden at the Wheat Street house had become a major preoccupation of mine over the course of the seven years I lived there. I even ordered plants by mail ... irises especially. All Germanic. Big, fat, fragrant blooms in a rainbow of colors. Pictured here is an iris variety called "Throb." Love the name. I pay a man named Frank Rose (real name) to maintain the garden for me now. I miss the colors and the fragrances, but not the labor. No siree.