Writing about the Festival so much sends me back to previous years there, back when things were Right, and we were in the Four Points Sheraton. Posh rooms, quality service, full access to a gym, pool and jacuzzi. This story starts there, the Jacuzzi. I just discovered Jacuzzi was a brand-name for hot tubs, but like both Kleenex and Band-Aid, have become the commonly used nouns for these products. Anyways.
Carlos was in the hot tub with us once. And instead of just sitting across from the other strangers in the tub, not looking at them or speaking to them, and engaging in mild low conversation with each other as we relax in the hot bubble streams...we did not that. We met Carlos and his lady friend Heather.
Carlos was an Irene Ryan candidate who’s scene I had seen. Quite a good actor, he stood a bit under six foot five, long black dreads, African American, and very muscular. He was from the Boston area, close to where Justice Train was, so they chatted up about that for a bit. We told him we were from Maine and his only comment on it was “I keep hearing you’ve got better weed up there than we do.” Which made us all laugh with that awkward breaking the ice with common ground material, in this case adolescent drug use. So we chummed about that for a bit before departing.
Carlos went on to the Semi-Finals, and then the Finals. He had some quality material he delivered with excellence. He had my bet, and was way better than the two fellows that actually won. After the Finals, there was a Dance.
Now. I must preface. There was.. Ireland. A girl. I had been crushing on her for a bit now and things were sort of happening about it at the Festival. We had a bit of history. You get the picture. She, Ireland, was there, at the dance, out of sight. Not out of mind.
Meself, Justice Train, Whitesnake and maybe some others were too, but it was really lame. Not anywhere near as cool as this year. We were kind of talking about things had been going with Ireland before Justice Train mentioned, “well hey buddy, things might not get better, some cowboy is moving in on your ranch,” or something kind of clever like that. I, confused, turned, to see Carlos dancing with Ireland. Dirty dancing. “Grinding.” Totally gross and inappropriate.
Ireland made eye contact with me, and her eyes essentially said “Help Help Help Help Help.”
Some men would have done nothing. Some men would have left. Some men would have let this stunning sexy pinnacle of male potential simply dance with the lady and sweep her off her feet. Some men would then go drink himself into a stupor over not taking a chance and doing something about it, soaking in his defeat and self-loathing. Normally, I would have been that man. But.
I am not that man. I did something.
I walked right on over to the dancing pair, Ireland’s eyes beamed, and I put my hand out on Carlos’ shoulder. He looked up to me.
“Hey Carlos, look... I’m sorry, but I’ve got to step in right here.”
This made him laugh out loud, flashing rows of white perfect teeth. I despised those teeth. Ireland laughed too, but I was keeping focus on Carlos, gauging exactly how he’d react to this. Bow down and walk away? Just say “No” and keep dancing while staring straight into my eyes with an intensity that could potentially combust my person? Suckerpunch me in the face? These are the decisions other people make that shape your life forever.
Instead:
He laughed, put his hand on my shoulder, but looked at Ireland and said, “You know what I like? I like how he said ‘Carlos, I’m sorry’ but I have to step in.”
Ireland and I both nervously laughed. But he said “Okay, man, peace,” and faded away. A wash of relief fell over me and then it was just me and Ireland standing there, semi-awkwardly, to a heavy hip hop beat. So we started dancing, with nervous laughter.
WHAM! Hand on my arm, I swivel and there’s Carlos with a grip on me. I look at him, eyebrows up, adrenaline rushing up and down me so fast I think he might have smelled it. Or maybe that was something else...
“Hey, man,” he said, smile still wide. “I’m sorry but I have to step in...” and he started laughing again.
I laughed with him right away and maybe a bit too loud and sort of said things like “yeah, man, yeah, funny, ha ha, yeah,” then turned away, and with Ireland, walked right out of that dance.
He appeared to be joking. Maybe he was testing to see if I was joking. Maybe he really wanted to step back in and steal her from me. I will never know his intentions. All I know is in a later conversation with Ireland that the whole encounter was quite awesome and she really appreciated it. Things with her didn’t end up working out due to the history unfortunately catching up to me and a truly poor decision on my part. I wasn't very cool. It’s a huge regret of mine. We’re still friends though, not as good as before, but still friends, years later down the road.
But on that one night, I was cooler than Carlos.
Showing posts with label the Festival. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the Festival. Show all posts
2.04.2008
The Festival. Goodbye.
The next morning came too soon.
Exhausted, bedraggled, weathered, we rose. We packed our things.
Packing to leave for the festival, I managed all of my clothes, towels, laptop, adapters, and chargers into my one large yellow Yadeng backpack of much fame. It was at max capacity when we left, and now, packing to go, I found I had acquired a few more items during the course of this excursion. Namely:
The scene was surreal as I exited the Super 8. All of the maids, chamberlains, housekeeping staff were sitting together outside clucking to each other like Spanish/American chickens and smoking cigarettes. They chuckled at me as I past.
I left before Bones and Whitesnake, since they'd piled all of their luggage on a luggage roller thing and we wouldn't have fit in the elevator together. So I had to wait by Whitesnake's car. The doors were locked. Superlame.
Joelle and Other Travis went out to their car, and began loading the trunk.
But wait! A window was cracked, so I set down my bag, bathrobe, laptop and soda box and snaked my hand through down the handle. I made a joke to myself about taking up a career in grand theft auto as I clicked the handle up and the door open.
ERR ERR ERR his horn exploded. Fuck. God fucking damn it. Car alarm.
At first the maids were worried, thinking I was trying to steal this car, but when they saw the shame on my face as I opened my cell and speed-dialed Whitesnake, they all just laughed and laughed. The alarm kept going. Faces appeared in windows, looking out at the embarassment of a human being in the parking lot. Whitesnake didn't pick up the phone. I was running out of options.
One of the pretty girls from Connecticut, who looked like Rachel Weisz but sexier, came out and went to a car nearby, she saw it was me the alarm was about and giggled at my expression. Then the alarm went off.
The surreal quiet of the Super 8 lot had been broken, but the mood was still there. All of the Connecticut folks emptied out and headed to their cars, all of us with far too little sleep. Weisz came over and showed me a banana that was completely dark brown she had taken from her car and held it before her like a little child showing his parents something interesting he'd found.
"Oh....wow." Was really all I could think to say.
"It's from last month."
"Oh. Wow." I said very differently than the first time.
But that was that, not even a parting "hey maybe add me on facebook." The rest just waved as they walked to their cars. Not even a "hey dude i would like you to have sex with all my female friends." Not even a "hey we only just met but i love you lets get married and have sex every day till we cant anymore." But you know, whatever. I'm better living single anyways. Good riddance.
We packed the car, gave the crappy motel our crappy motel key cards. Walking out the door for the last time, I shouted back in "Good-Bye, Super 8." It did not say good bye back.
And we drove away from Leominster, Massachusetts. Forever.
[on a truly personal note, the radio came up with a poignant soundtrack for the return trip, starting with "We Belong" by Pat Benatar, then stereotypically but appropriately "Good Riddance" by Green Day, and just from when we pulled off the turnpike into Portland right up until the moment we parked in front of Payson St... "Glycerine," by Bush.]
Exhausted, bedraggled, weathered, we rose. We packed our things.
Packing to leave for the festival, I managed all of my clothes, towels, laptop, adapters, and chargers into my one large yellow Yadeng backpack of much fame. It was at max capacity when we left, and now, packing to go, I found I had acquired a few more items during the course of this excursion. Namely:
- Two glasses
- The badass bathrobe
- A large checkers set, with a quilt for the playing board
- Two boxes of granola bars
- A plastic container of meat
- A plastic container of cheese
- Bread
- All of the Reverend's food (he departed a day early)
- and the empty bottles...
The scene was surreal as I exited the Super 8. All of the maids, chamberlains, housekeeping staff were sitting together outside clucking to each other like Spanish/American chickens and smoking cigarettes. They chuckled at me as I past.
I left before Bones and Whitesnake, since they'd piled all of their luggage on a luggage roller thing and we wouldn't have fit in the elevator together. So I had to wait by Whitesnake's car. The doors were locked. Superlame.
Joelle and Other Travis went out to their car, and began loading the trunk.
But wait! A window was cracked, so I set down my bag, bathrobe, laptop and soda box and snaked my hand through down the handle. I made a joke to myself about taking up a career in grand theft auto as I clicked the handle up and the door open.
ERR ERR ERR his horn exploded. Fuck. God fucking damn it. Car alarm.
At first the maids were worried, thinking I was trying to steal this car, but when they saw the shame on my face as I opened my cell and speed-dialed Whitesnake, they all just laughed and laughed. The alarm kept going. Faces appeared in windows, looking out at the embarassment of a human being in the parking lot. Whitesnake didn't pick up the phone. I was running out of options.
One of the pretty girls from Connecticut, who looked like Rachel Weisz but sexier, came out and went to a car nearby, she saw it was me the alarm was about and giggled at my expression. Then the alarm went off.
The surreal quiet of the Super 8 lot had been broken, but the mood was still there. All of the Connecticut folks emptied out and headed to their cars, all of us with far too little sleep. Weisz came over and showed me a banana that was completely dark brown she had taken from her car and held it before her like a little child showing his parents something interesting he'd found.
"Oh....wow." Was really all I could think to say.
"It's from last month."
"Oh. Wow." I said very differently than the first time.
But that was that, not even a parting "hey maybe add me on facebook." The rest just waved as they walked to their cars. Not even a "hey dude i would like you to have sex with all my female friends." Not even a "hey we only just met but i love you lets get married and have sex every day till we cant anymore." But you know, whatever. I'm better living single anyways. Good riddance.
We packed the car, gave the crappy motel our crappy motel key cards. Walking out the door for the last time, I shouted back in "Good-Bye, Super 8." It did not say good bye back.
And we drove away from Leominster, Massachusetts. Forever.
[on a truly personal note, the radio came up with a poignant soundtrack for the return trip, starting with "We Belong" by Pat Benatar, then stereotypically but appropriately "Good Riddance" by Green Day, and just from when we pulled off the turnpike into Portland right up until the moment we parked in front of Payson St... "Glycerine," by Bush.]
The Festival. The Final Night.
It was the final night of the Festival. The Finals. My friend Speckman was in the Finals, he did very well. After an hour break, we watch the 10 Minute Plays that had gone on. There was a large Awards Ceremony after. Some folks from my school won Awards. It was very Happy, but when we returned to the Super 8 Motel...we were very sad. It was a difficult morose to describe. There was a still a night to be had, but we knew it was the last one. A dance was scheduled to go on right after, in celebration, but we were in no hurry. Stuff was on our minds. We fell back on simple activities, to take our minds off this. Beer.
Our stocks had depleted, and it was time to kill off what was left. Looking over the amount of beer and amount of us, we feared the night would not last long. Bones and I made a run for the Liquor Market across the street, but arrived seven minutes past Eleven, their closing time. Further saddened, we returned, and funneled down the rest of the Blue Ribbon. I wanted to go to the dance, to revive our spirits and add some adventure outside of the Super 8 to spice up our last night in this ugly, ugly place. Justice Train wasn’t down, neither was NFC, but I found a similar interest in adventure in Bones.
Bones had met a Pretty Goth Girl, who wasn’t really goth, just played one in Columbinus, and had left his sunglasses in her room. She was at the Dance and had his sunglasses there. So feeling a bit tipsy, we once again crossed the busy Mass street to the Sheraton for the last time.
And Thank God we did. Pretty Goth Girl was right through the doors, and Bones went up to her with some coaxing. I located another group of friends from my school who were breaking it on down to some tunes. Typical school dance material: whatever hip-hop is popular at the time, Love Shack, Pour Some Sugar on Me, yadda yadda yadda. I shook my groove thang with them for a fair bit, as well some other people from the Festival I’d met, before I came across the Nine Parts of Desire kids from the night before.. They recognized me, and I relearned all their names.
“What are you doing after?” this one girl asked.
“Drinking heavily?” I postured.
This was their goal as well. I neglected to mention our lack of booze, but it was irrelevant at this point. I noticed Bones dancing with Pretty Goth Girl, and this pleased me as I was sure it was pleasing him. I learned Empathy was one of my strong points this week. As well as my Libido. The Pretty Lady from the Elevator a few nights before was at the dance, and I watched her leave, and decided to maaaaaybe see what my friends were up to at the Super 8 before partying with these kids. So I peaced right on out.
Called up Justice Train, said he and NFC were tired and headed on their way out but could use a GNB. I didn’t know exactly what he meant. He meant good night bowl. I complied. After the sess, I roamed the first floor but could not hear my friends. The dance was going on much longer than scheduled so I traveled around some rooms before I heard their partying through the door (I had forgotten their room).
Apparently they breed beautiful people in Connecticut, and they all go to Central Connecticut State University. This room was full of beautiful people. Not just the girls from the dance, but the dudes playing beer bong. They were all fashion magazine worthy, but strangely familiar, with nice friendly eyes that looked at me and talked to me with an invested interest. I felt like each one of them looked like someone I knew, just glossed, prettier and richer. They were definitely rich. They had an odd way of looking at you, and talking to you. Could just be my libido at play but it appeared every one of them was hinting slightly at hitting on me. Maybe they were just tired of each other, I don’t know, but they were very down with Bones and I. I mean, we’re pretty men, but I just found their sole communicating with me flattering.
One dude, looking like Arj Barker, asked us to play. We accepted, and played this dude who looked David Love Joy and his partner, dude who looked like Nick Cyr. Except Lovejoy was a bit more of a jock, and Cyr was way more of a douchebag. Think the most smarmy shit-eatting talkative douchebag and put him in Nick Cyr’s body. Lovejoy broke down some of the rules for us while Douchebag Cyr corrected him and they debated over technicalities. They played oldschool with beer in the cups instead of water. My lack of drink was solved the more I lost.
Pretend with me for a moment, that Penelope Cruz was a real person, somebody you could meet. Stunning, gorgeous, but real, there, in front of you. Now double them. Twins. These two twins of realistic Penelope Cruz look-a-likes sitting there in front of you. And they’re talking to you. With an interest.
I had found Heaven on the first floor of the Super 8 Motel.
Another girl, looking a bit more like Michelle Rodriguez, with less attitude, touched my chin at one point during conversation. I asked her why and she said I had a very nice defined face, and I looked like someone she knew. I asked if it was her boyfriend, which made her laugh a lot and kind of slap my chest.
“Why? What if I was like ‘Oh my god,” she leaned in close to me with these eyes...damn those eyes. “‘You look just like my boyfriend’ What would you do?”
“I’d...” think of words think of words “ be...a bad man.” This made her laugh even more and told me she used to be a bad girl that “didn’t draw lines.” She then asked me how I was a bad man, and I could have gone into it, but the topic changed as the game went on.
They kept getting phone calls from the front desk, right down the hall, telling them(us) to be quiet. This happened about three times before there were some knocks on the door. The loud bad kinds of knocks. The closest guy went over and peeked through, and turned around pale as a sheet. “It’s the fucking cops” he mouthwhispered. Douchebag said “Shut up” but the look this guy gave back was like “No, you shut up. That’s the cops.”
In every situation like I’ve been in, people either run to hide all the booze or run to hide themselves. Here, different story. No one moved, except Lovejoy and Douchebag, behind the corner, out of view. Douchebag said “Hide the beers” to no one. I wasn’t closest but I couldn’t move all the glass bottles lined up on the table without the clinking that would tell the cops exactly what I was doing. The two owners of the room just sat there, motionless with fear.
“Someone open the door” was also whispered. No one moved, except this one blonde chick. Bones was standing at the end of the table closest to the door, he widened his stance to try and block as much of the table as possible. This blond chick went down the hallway to the door. About to open it.
I’ve narrowly escaped the police many times, by either fractions of a second or just by turning, fleeing and eventually exiting out a window. But I didn’t want to do that this time, with all these beautiful nice people. I’m of legal drinking age. I wasn’t too drunk. I did have two eighths of grass on me, with a bowl, but these guys couldn’t search me. I moved in between Bones and the Blonde. I widened my chest. Game time. She opened the door.
Tweedle-Cop-Dee and Tweedle-Cop-Dum stood on the other side, both fat, both police, both with hats saying in big white letters “POLICE.” They were leaning into the doorframe, ready for action.
“This the party room, huh?” Dee didn’t really ask. “What’s the deal, you bother this guy (motioning down the hall) three times already. It’s early in the morning...”
It was 4:05 in the morning.
Douchebag then decided to make his appearance, wheedling around the corner: “Hey, hey, we’re really sorry, yeah, we’re disbanding right now. This girl here is sober, she’s driving people home.”
“Well where are you going?” Cop Dee interrogated, Cop Dum just stood there looking big fat and menacing.
“Oh...I’m, I’m staying here...” he trailed off, dodging the fact he was staying in the room. He slipped back around the corner.
“We’re disbanding,” Blonde girl affirmed.
“Really? So if I have to come back here in ten, twenty minutes, what then, huh?!” Cop Dee postulated.
“Look.” I spoke up, my voice a deeper register than usual. “You basically just scared the shit out of us and we’re all leaving now.”
Cop Dee liked this, sp he and his butt buddy marched off down the hall.
Douchebag was at the door, watched them leave, shut it quickly, turned directly to me and shook my hand. Expecting a thanks, instead I received:
“Hey, I hate to kick you out, but yeah. Peace.”
I was fine with that, said goodbye and nice to meet you to Lovejoy and all the pretty, pretty girls who in my own mind I totally impressed with my honest bravado in the face of the Man. It hurt to leave them like that. So Bones and I left, no beer, no tail, but not in jail. And that was okay with us.
Our last night of the Festival was memorable. And that was all we could have asked for. Besides more beer.
Our stocks had depleted, and it was time to kill off what was left. Looking over the amount of beer and amount of us, we feared the night would not last long. Bones and I made a run for the Liquor Market across the street, but arrived seven minutes past Eleven, their closing time. Further saddened, we returned, and funneled down the rest of the Blue Ribbon. I wanted to go to the dance, to revive our spirits and add some adventure outside of the Super 8 to spice up our last night in this ugly, ugly place. Justice Train wasn’t down, neither was NFC, but I found a similar interest in adventure in Bones.
Bones had met a Pretty Goth Girl, who wasn’t really goth, just played one in Columbinus, and had left his sunglasses in her room. She was at the Dance and had his sunglasses there. So feeling a bit tipsy, we once again crossed the busy Mass street to the Sheraton for the last time.
And Thank God we did. Pretty Goth Girl was right through the doors, and Bones went up to her with some coaxing. I located another group of friends from my school who were breaking it on down to some tunes. Typical school dance material: whatever hip-hop is popular at the time, Love Shack, Pour Some Sugar on Me, yadda yadda yadda. I shook my groove thang with them for a fair bit, as well some other people from the Festival I’d met, before I came across the Nine Parts of Desire kids from the night before.. They recognized me, and I relearned all their names.
“What are you doing after?” this one girl asked.
“Drinking heavily?” I postured.
This was their goal as well. I neglected to mention our lack of booze, but it was irrelevant at this point. I noticed Bones dancing with Pretty Goth Girl, and this pleased me as I was sure it was pleasing him. I learned Empathy was one of my strong points this week. As well as my Libido. The Pretty Lady from the Elevator a few nights before was at the dance, and I watched her leave, and decided to maaaaaybe see what my friends were up to at the Super 8 before partying with these kids. So I peaced right on out.
Called up Justice Train, said he and NFC were tired and headed on their way out but could use a GNB. I didn’t know exactly what he meant. He meant good night bowl. I complied. After the sess, I roamed the first floor but could not hear my friends. The dance was going on much longer than scheduled so I traveled around some rooms before I heard their partying through the door (I had forgotten their room).
Apparently they breed beautiful people in Connecticut, and they all go to Central Connecticut State University. This room was full of beautiful people. Not just the girls from the dance, but the dudes playing beer bong. They were all fashion magazine worthy, but strangely familiar, with nice friendly eyes that looked at me and talked to me with an invested interest. I felt like each one of them looked like someone I knew, just glossed, prettier and richer. They were definitely rich. They had an odd way of looking at you, and talking to you. Could just be my libido at play but it appeared every one of them was hinting slightly at hitting on me. Maybe they were just tired of each other, I don’t know, but they were very down with Bones and I. I mean, we’re pretty men, but I just found their sole communicating with me flattering.
One dude, looking like Arj Barker, asked us to play. We accepted, and played this dude who looked David Love Joy and his partner, dude who looked like Nick Cyr. Except Lovejoy was a bit more of a jock, and Cyr was way more of a douchebag. Think the most smarmy shit-eatting talkative douchebag and put him in Nick Cyr’s body. Lovejoy broke down some of the rules for us while Douchebag Cyr corrected him and they debated over technicalities. They played oldschool with beer in the cups instead of water. My lack of drink was solved the more I lost.
Pretend with me for a moment, that Penelope Cruz was a real person, somebody you could meet. Stunning, gorgeous, but real, there, in front of you. Now double them. Twins. These two twins of realistic Penelope Cruz look-a-likes sitting there in front of you. And they’re talking to you. With an interest.
I had found Heaven on the first floor of the Super 8 Motel.
Another girl, looking a bit more like Michelle Rodriguez, with less attitude, touched my chin at one point during conversation. I asked her why and she said I had a very nice defined face, and I looked like someone she knew. I asked if it was her boyfriend, which made her laugh a lot and kind of slap my chest.
“Why? What if I was like ‘Oh my god,” she leaned in close to me with these eyes...damn those eyes. “‘You look just like my boyfriend’ What would you do?”
“I’d...” think of words think of words “ be...a bad man.” This made her laugh even more and told me she used to be a bad girl that “didn’t draw lines.” She then asked me how I was a bad man, and I could have gone into it, but the topic changed as the game went on.
They kept getting phone calls from the front desk, right down the hall, telling them(us) to be quiet. This happened about three times before there were some knocks on the door. The loud bad kinds of knocks. The closest guy went over and peeked through, and turned around pale as a sheet. “It’s the fucking cops” he mouthwhispered. Douchebag said “Shut up” but the look this guy gave back was like “No, you shut up. That’s the cops.”
In every situation like I’ve been in, people either run to hide all the booze or run to hide themselves. Here, different story. No one moved, except Lovejoy and Douchebag, behind the corner, out of view. Douchebag said “Hide the beers” to no one. I wasn’t closest but I couldn’t move all the glass bottles lined up on the table without the clinking that would tell the cops exactly what I was doing. The two owners of the room just sat there, motionless with fear.
“Someone open the door” was also whispered. No one moved, except this one blonde chick. Bones was standing at the end of the table closest to the door, he widened his stance to try and block as much of the table as possible. This blond chick went down the hallway to the door. About to open it.
I’ve narrowly escaped the police many times, by either fractions of a second or just by turning, fleeing and eventually exiting out a window. But I didn’t want to do that this time, with all these beautiful nice people. I’m of legal drinking age. I wasn’t too drunk. I did have two eighths of grass on me, with a bowl, but these guys couldn’t search me. I moved in between Bones and the Blonde. I widened my chest. Game time. She opened the door.
Tweedle-Cop-Dee and Tweedle-Cop-Dum stood on the other side, both fat, both police, both with hats saying in big white letters “POLICE.” They were leaning into the doorframe, ready for action.
“This the party room, huh?” Dee didn’t really ask. “What’s the deal, you bother this guy (motioning down the hall) three times already. It’s early in the morning...”
It was 4:05 in the morning.
Douchebag then decided to make his appearance, wheedling around the corner: “Hey, hey, we’re really sorry, yeah, we’re disbanding right now. This girl here is sober, she’s driving people home.”
“Well where are you going?” Cop Dee interrogated, Cop Dum just stood there looking big fat and menacing.
“Oh...I’m, I’m staying here...” he trailed off, dodging the fact he was staying in the room. He slipped back around the corner.
“We’re disbanding,” Blonde girl affirmed.
“Really? So if I have to come back here in ten, twenty minutes, what then, huh?!” Cop Dee postulated.
“Look.” I spoke up, my voice a deeper register than usual. “You basically just scared the shit out of us and we’re all leaving now.”
Cop Dee liked this, sp he and his butt buddy marched off down the hall.
Douchebag was at the door, watched them leave, shut it quickly, turned directly to me and shook my hand. Expecting a thanks, instead I received:
“Hey, I hate to kick you out, but yeah. Peace.”
I was fine with that, said goodbye and nice to meet you to Lovejoy and all the pretty, pretty girls who in my own mind I totally impressed with my honest bravado in the face of the Man. It hurt to leave them like that. So Bones and I left, no beer, no tail, but not in jail. And that was okay with us.
Our last night of the Festival was memorable. And that was all we could have asked for. Besides more beer.
The Festival. Antigone.
Antigone.
Probably the finest example of how sometimes the classics just don’t translate into our modern day and age. I do not deny the importance of Sophocles, Euripides or Aeschylus’s work, giving performance the legs it needed to develop into what theatre is today, but these guys are not on my Top 8 Myspace Friends. (side note: Aristophanes is on my Top 8, right beside Homer, but not before him).
Maybe I’m biased. I was truly exhausted when I went in to see this, and I fell asleep basically whenever anybody talked for longer than seven minutes. They could not hold my consciousness. The actors shouted their lines, indicating with grand gestures of their arms. I could tell the scene was dramatic because their faces looked about to cry, or full of rage. The Chorus had something going for them, a uniform group of women in masks that actively told the story as well as interacted with the characters in it, but they too were also boring, and sang at points where I know the text called for it, but really did not come across making any sense.
The only other masked character was Tiresias, the blind prophet. It was a superb mask, very creepy and twisted with a speakerphone shaped mouth, so we could hear every cryptic word. But a mask? No other major character is in a mask. This did not fit.
But truly, what do you care what I thought. I kept falling asleep.
At one point, I was startled awake by a noise. The actors were having a quiet moment of dramatics, I think Antigone slowly exiting stage right, heading towards her death sentence. Whitesnake began laughing at me.
I had farted.
And it had not been muffled or concealed at all. I do not know at what amplitude the release reached, but it certainly caused a fair amount of amusement and embarrassment before I started paying attention to the play again and consequently nodded off.
Probably the finest example of how sometimes the classics just don’t translate into our modern day and age. I do not deny the importance of Sophocles, Euripides or Aeschylus’s work, giving performance the legs it needed to develop into what theatre is today, but these guys are not on my Top 8 Myspace Friends. (side note: Aristophanes is on my Top 8, right beside Homer, but not before him).
Maybe I’m biased. I was truly exhausted when I went in to see this, and I fell asleep basically whenever anybody talked for longer than seven minutes. They could not hold my consciousness. The actors shouted their lines, indicating with grand gestures of their arms. I could tell the scene was dramatic because their faces looked about to cry, or full of rage. The Chorus had something going for them, a uniform group of women in masks that actively told the story as well as interacted with the characters in it, but they too were also boring, and sang at points where I know the text called for it, but really did not come across making any sense.
The only other masked character was Tiresias, the blind prophet. It was a superb mask, very creepy and twisted with a speakerphone shaped mouth, so we could hear every cryptic word. But a mask? No other major character is in a mask. This did not fit.
But truly, what do you care what I thought. I kept falling asleep.
At one point, I was startled awake by a noise. The actors were having a quiet moment of dramatics, I think Antigone slowly exiting stage right, heading towards her death sentence. Whitesnake began laughing at me.
I had farted.
And it had not been muffled or concealed at all. I do not know at what amplitude the release reached, but it certainly caused a fair amount of amusement and embarrassment before I started paying attention to the play again and consequently nodded off.
2.02.2008
The Festival. Night Three.
All right, definitely not really getting to this enough to try and pull some sort of live-streaming-feed investigative gonzo journalist. Dr. Thompson was truly a unique man with extraordinary fortitude and stamina in his essays, articles and novels. I have not found this stamina yet. Saw the debut of Lot's Wife version 2.0 by Travis Grant, it is so strange how a piece can move from locations and casts and still hold the same effects, the same intensity. I saw Antigone. It did not keep me awake. Nathan made it to the Final Rounds, which start in approximately two hours.
We found this room full of the cast of Nine Parts of Desire, and I apologized for not seeing it but they were not offended. They asked about our scene and we said we knew we had no chance in Hell of moving on, but this sparked their curiosity. Why? Was it bad? This one girl, I recognized from going on to the Finals last year. Very thin and tall, with short cropped hair, played the Devil in her second scene. She asked what our scene was.
"The Real Deal" by Ethan Renard, I explained. She'd never heard of him. I said that's because he's me. This piqued their interest.
"What's it about?"'
"Um. Facebook." Their curiosity peaked. So they asked us to show them.
Whitesnake and I had a brief moment of deliberation without words and decided to go for it.
TC
Hello, my name is Travis Curran, this is my partner, Whitesnake, and today we'll be doing a scene from The Real Deal, by Ethan Renard.
WS
So how you holding up, man?
TC
Oh, I'm not holding on to anything anymore, I'm free falling in a void of worry and confusion.
BILL
Come on, it's not that bad.
TOM (starts pacing)
Not bad? How is this not bad? It certainly isn't good, and if it's not good, what else could it be?
BILL
It's not the end of the world. You're just being nervous.
TOM
Pssh, if I am one thing and one thing only it is totally not nervous.
BILL
You're nervous.
TOM
I'm not nervous.
BILL
You're pacing.
TOM (stops)
I'm not pacing.
BILL
...well, you were.
TOM
Well, I'm not anymore! (BILL gives him a look)
Allright, I'm nervous. But with good reason, right? If she were pulling this shit with you, you'd be pretty nervous too, right?
BILL
Absolutely. It could happen to anybody. It happens to everyone at one point or another.
TOM
But it happened to me this time. Why does this shit always have to happen to me??
BILL
Dude, get that shit out of here. You've just got to man up and face it. She changed your Facebook status to Complicated.
TOM
What does that even mean? What's so complicated about it? She didn't ask me if she could change it, I don't think it's Complicated, but here she goes, announcing to the whole Internet, Hey Everybody! We're having relationship problems! Problems I don't even know about!
BILL
Chicks are like that man, you don't know there's a problem until it's too late.
TOM
There's nothing I can do about it. It's all over the Feed. People have already started asking me what's wrong and I don't know what to tell them.
BILL
What I think the problem here is a lack of communication. When's the last time you talked to her?
TOM
Like, two weeks ago.
BILL
Have you messaged her on Facebook?
TOM
Only once, with no response.
BILL
Hmm. Posted anything on her Wall?
TOM
Nope.
BILL
Poked her?
TOM
A long time ago, she never poked back.
BILL
Emailed her?
TOM
She never checks it.
BILL
AIM?
TOM
Nope.
BILL
Livejournal.
TOM
Nope.
BILL
MySpace?
TOM
Oh, hell no.
Long Pause.
BILL
Have you tried calling her?
TOM
Ehh...no. I'm...not so good...with phones.
BILL (scolding)
Dude.
TOM
What?
BILL
Dude.
TOM
What?
BILL
Dude.
TOM
What?
BILL
Just fucking call her.
TOM
No.
BILL
Hey man, listen. Chicks love getting called. They expect to be called. They expect to be called so much that when you don't call them, they will not call you until you call them, and That's probably why she's upset right now.
TOM
You think?
BILL
I know.
TOM
Maybe I'll just text her.
BILL
Tom! No.
Thank you.
It was pretty funny, they liked it. They asked if we wanted to play some beer pong they'd set up with the motel table and we accepted, but we never did. They invited us back down tomorrow night, we said sure thing.
The Johnnie Walker is finished, as well as the Wild Turkey. Their souls, the vapor of these spirits, slowly drift up, up and away from the not-so-cold stairwell, fading into the thick Leominster, Massachusetts air. An offering to our patron.
We found this room full of the cast of Nine Parts of Desire, and I apologized for not seeing it but they were not offended. They asked about our scene and we said we knew we had no chance in Hell of moving on, but this sparked their curiosity. Why? Was it bad? This one girl, I recognized from going on to the Finals last year. Very thin and tall, with short cropped hair, played the Devil in her second scene. She asked what our scene was.
"The Real Deal" by Ethan Renard, I explained. She'd never heard of him. I said that's because he's me. This piqued their interest.
"What's it about?"'
"Um. Facebook." Their curiosity peaked. So they asked us to show them.
Whitesnake and I had a brief moment of deliberation without words and decided to go for it.
TC
Hello, my name is Travis Curran, this is my partner, Whitesnake, and today we'll be doing a scene from The Real Deal, by Ethan Renard.
WS
So how you holding up, man?
TC
Oh, I'm not holding on to anything anymore, I'm free falling in a void of worry and confusion.
BILL
Come on, it's not that bad.
TOM (starts pacing)
Not bad? How is this not bad? It certainly isn't good, and if it's not good, what else could it be?
BILL
It's not the end of the world. You're just being nervous.
TOM
Pssh, if I am one thing and one thing only it is totally not nervous.
BILL
You're nervous.
TOM
I'm not nervous.
BILL
You're pacing.
TOM (stops)
I'm not pacing.
BILL
...well, you were.
TOM
Well, I'm not anymore! (BILL gives him a look)
Allright, I'm nervous. But with good reason, right? If she were pulling this shit with you, you'd be pretty nervous too, right?
BILL
Absolutely. It could happen to anybody. It happens to everyone at one point or another.
TOM
But it happened to me this time. Why does this shit always have to happen to me??
BILL
Dude, get that shit out of here. You've just got to man up and face it. She changed your Facebook status to Complicated.
TOM
What does that even mean? What's so complicated about it? She didn't ask me if she could change it, I don't think it's Complicated, but here she goes, announcing to the whole Internet, Hey Everybody! We're having relationship problems! Problems I don't even know about!
BILL
Chicks are like that man, you don't know there's a problem until it's too late.
TOM
There's nothing I can do about it. It's all over the Feed. People have already started asking me what's wrong and I don't know what to tell them.
BILL
What I think the problem here is a lack of communication. When's the last time you talked to her?
TOM
Like, two weeks ago.
BILL
Have you messaged her on Facebook?
TOM
Only once, with no response.
BILL
Hmm. Posted anything on her Wall?
TOM
Nope.
BILL
Poked her?
TOM
A long time ago, she never poked back.
BILL
Emailed her?
TOM
She never checks it.
BILL
AIM?
TOM
Nope.
BILL
Livejournal.
TOM
Nope.
BILL
MySpace?
TOM
Oh, hell no.
Long Pause.
BILL
Have you tried calling her?
TOM
Ehh...no. I'm...not so good...with phones.
BILL (scolding)
Dude.
TOM
What?
BILL
Dude.
TOM
What?
BILL
Dude.
TOM
What?
BILL
Just fucking call her.
TOM
No.
BILL
Hey man, listen. Chicks love getting called. They expect to be called. They expect to be called so much that when you don't call them, they will not call you until you call them, and That's probably why she's upset right now.
TOM
You think?
BILL
I know.
TOM
Maybe I'll just text her.
BILL
Tom! No.
Thank you.
It was pretty funny, they liked it. They asked if we wanted to play some beer pong they'd set up with the motel table and we accepted, but we never did. They invited us back down tomorrow night, we said sure thing.
The Johnnie Walker is finished, as well as the Wild Turkey. Their souls, the vapor of these spirits, slowly drift up, up and away from the not-so-cold stairwell, fading into the thick Leominster, Massachusetts air. An offering to our patron.
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