Just Wrought

Recovering playwright, once won a STRANGER Genius Award for theater. Now writing a bloated novel about… G-d help me! Theatre.

  • Once Again the Times Skims Seattle’s Surface and Gets it Wrong

    Once Again the Times Skims Seattle’s Surface and Gets it Wrong

    I promised myself and you, gentle readers, that Just Wrought was moving on from being a Seattle theatre bitch blog, so I am asking you to help a homey out and chime in below in the comments section to educate The New York Times and Intiman’s Artistic Director, Andrew Russell, about why his statement in that paper’s recent article on the Intiman’s Summer Festival is so woefully ignorant. The condescending carpet-bagging quote in question: “Few theaters in Seattle have ambitious summer shows.” 

    Here, I’ll prime the pump: every summer Balagan Theatre develops a brand new, original locally grown children’s show and puts it on free in Seattle parks. I had the immense pleasure of participating in the 2011 offering, King Arthur and the Knights of the Playground.

    That’s just one example pulled from the myriad of amazing ambitious work getting done here each summer. Now you add one.

    And seriously, New York Times, if you want to know what’s happening in Seattle, get on a plane and get out here.  Your breezy phone interviews with Big House wannabe auteurs just don’t cut it anymore. And if your shrinking budget doesn’t allow for that sort of quality reportage, then do us a favor and STFU about Seattle theatre, ‘cuz ya know what? We don’t care what you think.

    I’m am striking the above paragraph out, as it is based on my eroneous assumption. The fact is, the Times reporter did fly out to research this story. (Thank you, Brendan Kiley, for setting me straight.)  I could wish that Mr. Healy had taken the time to investigate how rich and ambitious the Seattle theatre scene really is in the Summer (and every other season), but you know what they say about wishing.

  • Falling Behind on Sandbox Radio Live

    Falling Behind on Sandbox Radio Live

    I am here to assuage your guilt for falling behind on Sandbox Radio Live, because the sad fact is I too have been slacking. Of course, in my defense, I have caught every single show live in the theatre, just as you can and should catch the upcoming Episode 9: The Naked Truth  on Monday, July 29 at West of Lenin in Fremont (tickets available here). I also usually listen to the podcast recording of each show as soon as it comes out. This time, however, between SOAPFest and vacation, I only got around to it yesterday. It’s brilliant; stocked full of goodies like:

    • Susan Corzatte, my recent SOAPFest cast-mate, reading poems by Dorothy Parker.
    • Another episode of “Cousin Katie” by Scot Augustson (featuring special guests Cliff Mass and Nancy Pearl! Favorite book recommendation: “Try The Pussy Brushers of Bristol”.)
    • Another all new super-fun, super-hard-rocking blues original from Charles Leggett. Listen to the tart, exquisite interactions of lead and back-up singers.
    • Then of course there’s my latest Markheim episode. Read along with the script below the fold. (Didge has joined the Seattle Super Hero scene, and Markheim’s realizing that the renegade clockwork’s more complex that he first thought.)

    Chuck Leggett IS Markheim photo by John Ulman

    • And absolutely do not miss, my very favorite of all these favorites, Wayne Rawley’s blast from everyone’s middle school past, “Portable 5 & the First Day of the Rest of Our Lives”.

    Give the podcast a listen!

    Get your tix for the upcoming live show!

    And get caught up on the amazing original awesome sauce that is Sandbox Radio Live!

    (more…)

  • Local TV Gives Local Theatre a Glance

    I have not been on television since my brief, ill-fated appearance  on Romper Room in Baltimore, circa 1972. Miss Sally was asking the circle of kids what their favorite drink was and when she got to me, I said, “Whiskey”. Even Mr. Do-Bee looked shocked. (In my defense, my dad had once given me a sip and I wasn’t as horrified by the taste as everyone expected me to be.) When the broadcast was done, my mom yanked me out of WBAL’s studio so fast I thought she was going to dislocate my shoulder. Oddly, I was not asked back.

    Happily, last week I made my triumphant return, along with Amy Love, to talk about Sandbox One-Act Play Festival (or SOAPFest, as the kids are calling it.) The festival opens tomorrow night and runs for only this weekend.  It features brand new plays by  Scot Augustson, Emily Conberre, Elizabeth Heffron and myself , presented by some of Seattle’s very best directors, designers, technicians and actors.

    Now that Amy and I are tv stars, tickets to the three night run are unlikely to last long.  I recommend getting some while the getting is good. (Order tickets here.)

    And if you’re wracking your brain for a gift to bring to celebrate these world premieres, just remember: whiskey’s still my favorite drink

  • Damned Fugue

    DAMNED FUGUE
    by
    Paul Mullin

    Characters:
        SOMEONE– A man
        SOMEONE ELSE– A man
        SOMEONE DIFFERENT– A woman
        SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT– A woman

    SOMEONE:  This is a shotgun.

    SOMEONE ELSE:  You are a hero.

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  She is heroin.

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  That is the story.

         (beat)

    SOMEONE:  This is a shotgun.

    EVERYONE ELSE:  — kissed.

    SOMEONE ELSE:  You are a hero.

    EVERYONE ELSE:  — missed.

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  She is heroin.

    EVERYONE ELSE:  –blissed.

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  That is the story.

    EVERYONE ELSE:  –sold.

        (beat)

    SOMEONE ELSE:  This is a twelve-gauge pump-action sawed-off.

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  You are the owner/operator.

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  She is somewhere else.

    SOMEONE:  That is the bottom line.

         (beat)

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  This is–

    EVERYONE ELSE:  Life.

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  You are–

    EVERYONE ELSE:  Life.

    SOMEONE:  She is–

    EVERYONE ELSE:  Life.

    SOMEONE ELSE:  That was–

    EVERYONE ELSE:  Life.

         (beat)

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  This is a–

    SOMEONE ELSE:  Hero–

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  Harrowing–

    SOMEONE:  Shotgun–

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  Life she blessed you with.

    SOMEONE:  You are a–

    SOMEONE ELSE:  Sawed-off–

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  Heroin–

    SOMEONE ELSE:  Pumping–

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  Missed-gauge–

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  Operator–

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  Somewhere else.

    SOMEONE ELSE:  She owner-sold–

    SOMEONE:  Bottom-line story.

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  This is–

    SOMEONE:  Do you?

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  You are–

    SOMEONE ELSE:  Do you sing?

    SOMEONE:  She is–

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  do you sing now?

    SOMEONE ELSE:  That was–

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  Do you sing now in the shower?

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  Life.

    SOMEONE (overlapping):  Life.

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT (overlapping):  Life.

    SOMEONE ELSE (overlapping):  Life.

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  Do you sing now in the shower of blood foamed bone and brain–

    SOMEONE ELSE:  Heavy metal rain crashing up through your cranium–

    SOMEONE:  Shattered–

    SOMEONE ELSE:  Cranium through down crashing rain metal heavy–

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  Brain and bone foamed blood shower now sing!  You do.

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  Now you do, do you?

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  This–

    SOMEONE:  You–

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  She–

    SOMEONE ELSE:  Was–

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  Is–

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  Are–

    SOMEONE ELSE:  Is–

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  Was–

    SOMEONE:  Shotgun–

    SOMEONE ELSE:  Hero–

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  Heroin–

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  Story.

         (Rest.)

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  Go….  Baby, go!

         (Beat.)

    SOMEONE:  The writer was thinking of play he wanted to write called “The Septarchy” the day the window fell on him.

    SOMEONE ELSE:  “Septarchy”.

    SOMEONE:  “Rule of Seven.”

    SOMEONE ELSE:  All day he was figuring significances of the number seven.

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  But there were four horseman riding out of Harlem.  Four project buildings in the skyline to the north which seemed to stand out for him.

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  Darker somehow.

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  Riding in a row, same height, same features.

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  He kept seeing them in the February wind mist like grim relentless riders.  Not really moving, mind you–

    SOMEONE ELSE:  But closing in… as he went from vacant apartment to vacant apartment, popping out seventy-five pounds of framed glass from the sliding window tracks, mop squeegee swiping clockwork, then popping it back in.

    SOMEONE:  They jammed.

    SOMEONE ELSE:  All the time.

    SOMEONE:  All day.

    SOMEONE ELSE:  Relentless.

    SOMEONE:  Who fitted these fucking windows?

    SOMEONE ELSE:  They’re the worst.  Every fucking frame misaligned.

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  No lunch but a slice and a can of coke.

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  Up all nights working a graveyard as hotel porter.

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  Aunt who’s a nun coming to see his play about abortion and dreams about nuns in lace lingerie–red, of course, bright blood red.

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  Oxygen.

    SOMEONE:  Couldn’t get them back in without help sometimes.  Had to ask Big Al, the Puerto Rican super’s assistant who followed him keying him into the apartments, to help muscle them back in sometimes.

    SOMEONE ELSE:  He thought about it.

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  “What does that mean?”

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  “Four riders into seven.”

    SOMEONE:  Four-thirty.

    SOMEONE ELSE:  Last apartment.

    SOMEONE:  Breeze through the living room.

    SOMEONE ELSE:  On to the bedroom.

    SOMEONE:  Clean the inside glass.

    SOMEONE ELSE:  Then do the outside lean work.

    SOMEONE:  Saving the bitch pop-out for last.

    SOMEONE ELSE:  Pop it out.

    SOMEONE:  Clean it.

    SOMEONE ELSE:  Pop it in….  Pop it in!…  Pop the bitch in, fucker!   Don’t get weak.  Don’t let the arms go.  You fucker, you lose this window you’re fucked, y’hear?  You’re fucked.

    SOMEONE:  Get it in.

    SOMEONE ELSE:  Shit.

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  The writer props it up on the ledge, and walks to the door to call Al in to help him.  He walks back towards the window.

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  There’s a gust.

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  There’s a crash.

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  There’s glass everywhere.

    SOMEONE ELSE:  Great, you broke the fucking window.  That’s got to be a hundred bucks easy.

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  Al’s freaking.

    SOMEONE:  Al, why are you freaking?… What?

    SOMEONE ELSE:  Oh shit, I’m bleading.

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  Dark.

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  Vein blood?
        Al’s freaking.

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  Al…

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  Al…

    SOMEONE ELSE:  Al!… 

    SOMEONE:  Get me to a hospital.

    SOMEONE ELSE:  Al.

    SOMEONE:  We got to find out how bad I’m cut.

    SOMEONE ELSE:  Take it easy.  It’s all right.  You got to get me to a hospital.  I don’t know where I’m cut

    SOMEONE:  Could be bad, Al.  So I don’t want to lose too much, you know?  Got to stay in.

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  Can’t go out.

    SOMEONE ELSE:  So just get me to a hospital.  Okay?

    (Rest.
    Someone comes center and kneels.  Someone Different stands over him from behind.  Someone Else approaches one side of the audience while Someone Else Different approaches the opposite side.)

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  Ever wonder how to get the taste of dying out of your mouth?

    SOMEONE ELSE:  Oh, come on.  Everybody dies.  All the time.

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  Did you get that?  That’s an important point.  Everybody dies all the time.

    SOMEONE ELSE:  Don’t deny it.  You just did it.

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  And you… just now.  What just went away in your eyes?

    SOMEONE ELSE:  It happens.

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  All the time.

    SOMEONE ELSE:  Want to know how to get the taste of dying out of your mouth?  Okay.  I figured it out.  Take the barrel and point it at your face.

    (Someone Different takes Someone’s chin in her hand and lifts his face.  On the next line, she puts her mouth to his.)

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  Now put your mouth to it.  And… yeah… explore.  It’s got a shape.  It’s got a flavor.

    SOMEONE ELSE:  Now run a hand down the length.

    (She finds his zipper.)

    SOMEONE ELSE:  Now wait a second.

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  Take it easy.

    SOMEONE ELSE:  No need to rush it.  It’s all there in your hands and in your mouth.

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  The shape.

    SOMEONE ELSE:  The flavor.

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  The trigger.

    SOMEONE ELSE:  The last thing anyone truly experiences.

    (Rest.
    Everyone returns to their original places.)

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  Baby, go.  You’re on.

    (Rest.)

    SOMEONE ELSE:  When the doctor pressed the needle of lidocaine into the writer’s face was the only real pain he felt from the shattered glass.

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  Like bliss.

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  Like heroin, he sucked the pain in.

    SOMEONE ELSE:  It felt so good… real… like hell.

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  Feel it.

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  You feel it.

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  You’re alive.

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  You’re alive.

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  You feel it.

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  You wouldn’t if you weren’t.

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  A bargain.

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  Bliss.

    SOMEONE:  His then future wife now soon to be Ex told the writer later–

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  That after the she got the phone call from his boss saying he’d been in a window cleaning accident–

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  She sat in the dark apartment for an hour and did nothing.

    SOMEONE:  The writer wondered what took her so long getting to the hospital only twenty blocks away.

    SOMEONE ELSE:  Years later the writer would have a really bad reaction to some really strong pot and had to be rushed to the hospital.

    SOMEONE:  Thought he was dying insane.

    SOMEONE ELSE:  Praying to himself.

    SOMEONE (repeating underneath the following lines):  Be the hero of this….  Be the hero of this….  Be the hero of this….

    SOMEONE ELSE:  But the words twisted, deteriorated.

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT (sotto voce at first, then gradually crescendoing to dominate Someone’s chant):  Be thee here or this?…  Be thee here or this?…  Be thee here or this?…

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  The writer’s wife stood for a moment on the back porch of their triplex wondering if she should go along in the ambulance.

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  After all what could she do to help?

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  Everyone dies alone.

    (Rest.
    Someone Different steps forward.)

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  Go….  Baby, go….  You’re on, baby.  Go.

    (Someone steps forward.)

    SOMEONE:   Why?

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  Why?…  Baby.

    SOMEONE:  I don’t love it.

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  What?

    SOMEONE:  The roar.  It just roars… all the time.  And I don’t love it.

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  Baby.

    SOMEONE:  I’m out there singing about gang rape; I’m out there singing about dying–“Polly Wanna Cracker”.  And they got their lighters lit like it’s fucking “Freebird”.

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  They don’t get it.

    SOMEONE:  Right.

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  That’s why you’re singing, right?

    SOMEONE:  What?

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:   So why’d you become a rock star, asshole?  Isn’t that what this is about?  Jamming your fingers into narrow cherry minds?  You wanna preach to the converted, go write little self-important plays and put ‘em on in fringe theatres downtown somewhere….  But baby, you got to go now… you’re up.

    (Someone steps forward.
    Beat.
    Someone steps back.  Then both Someone and Someone Different step back to join the other two.
    Rest.)

    SOMEONE:  This is a shotgun.

    SOMEONE ELSE:  You are a hero.

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  She is heroin.

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  That is the story.

    (beat)

    SOMEONE:  This is a shotgun.

    EVERYONE ELSE:  — kissed.

    SOMEONE ELSE:  You are a hero.

    EVERYONE ELSE:  — missed.

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  She is heroin.

    EVERYONE ELSE:  –blissed.

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  That is the story.

    EVERYONE ELSE:  –sold.

    (beat)

    SOMEONE ELSE:  This is a twelve-gauge pump-action sawed-off.

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  You are the owner/operator.

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  She is somewhere else.

    SOMEONE:  That is the bottom line.

    (beat)

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  This is–

    EVERYONE ELSE:  Life.

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  You are–

    EVERYONE ELSE:  Life.

    SOMEONE:  She is–

    EVERYONE ELSE:  Life.

    SOMEONE ELSE:  That was–

    EVERYONE ELSE:  Life.

    (beat)

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  This is a–

    SOMEONE ELSE:  Hero–

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  Harrowing–

    SOMEONE:  Shotgun–

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  She blessed you with.

    SOMEONE:  You are a–

    SOMEONE ELSE:  Sawed-off–

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  Heroin–

    SOMEONE ELSE:  Pumping–

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  Missed-gauge–

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  Operator–

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  Somewhere else.

    SOMEONE ELSE:  She owner-sold–

    SOMEONE:  Bottom-line story.

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  This is–

    SOMEONE:  Do you?

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  You are–

    SOMEONE ELSE:  Do you sing?

    SOMEONE:  She is–

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  do you sing now?

    SOMEONE ELSE:  That was–

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  Do you sing now in the shower?

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  Life.

    SOMEONE (overlapping):  Life.

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT (overlapping):  Life.

    SOMEONE ELSE (overlapping):  Life.

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  Do you sing now in the shower of blood foamed bone and brain–

    SOMEONE ELSE:  Heavy metal rain crashing up through your cranium–

    SOMEONE:  Shattered–

    SOMEONE ELSE:  Cranium through down crashing rain metal heavy–

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  Brain and bone foamed blood shower now sing!  You do.

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  Now you do, do you?

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  This–

    SOMEONE:  You–

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  She–

    SOMEONE ELSE:  Was–

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  Is–

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  Are–

    SOMEONE ELSE:  Is–

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  Was–

    SOMEONE:  Shotgun–

    SOMEONE ELSE:  Hero–

    SOMEONE DIFFERENT:  Heroin–

    SOMEONE ELSE DIFFERENT:  Story.

    (End of play.)

  • You can ask for compassion, but your best bet to get it is to give it.

  • September 13, 2001

    September 13, 2001

    8:57 am

    Sitting here in Bryant Park. First time back in Manhattan since the tragedy. It feels good to be here. Just to feel it still here under my feet. To see the Empire State standing tall to the South (in spite of a harrowing bomb threat last night. Heather said then exactly what I was thinking: “I don’t know if I could take it if that goes down as well.”

    Been reeling through my brain trying to think of what I can do to be of some use. Oh to be of use! The best I can come up with— it struck me this morning— is to switch gears and start thinking about my most ethereal idea of all, The Good Ship Manhattan.

    9:51 am

    Sitting on one of the benches at 51st and 6th. Things seem lighter and quieter than usual as far as foot traffic goes in this part of the city. People seem stern for the most part. And whatever conversations I do overhear are all, without exception, related to the attack….

    10:56 am

    Waiting for the library to open. It must be at 11 ‘cuz so many people are standing outside. I just wanna return Typee.

    Went by H’s office just a few minutes ago since I couldn’t reach her by phone. The day’s going normally hectic busy for her and she says she’s vaguely offended by that.

    1:28 pm

    Heather’s building got a bomb scare serious enough apparently to result in the authorities shutting down the building until further notice, at least until Monday.

    Air still has a slight taint of acrid smoke that was so strong this morning that it woke me up, poisoned my dreams.

    Still no access to internet from home. Got a glance at my emails from Heather’s desk at work, but was only able to reply to DSP. Might try the Woodside library today later or tomorrow.

    5:51 pm

    Had a run in with some adolescent boys at the library this afternoon that I’m not terribly proud of but, given the frustration I was feeling after trying to deal with my huge backlog of email, seems inevitable. They were back-sassing an older lady librarian who had asked them to leave. I told them, among other things, that they should shut up and do as she says, and that given what’s going on, it was time for them to start acting like citizens. Silly, I know, but it inspired me to come home and write an open letter to community organizations (schools, fire houses, police stations,) offering whatever services I can….

    9:59 pm

    Guess we all have to ride this terrible wave for as long as it holds us under.

    Caring for each other is the beginning and undoubtedly the end.

  • The possibilities that theatre offers are as limitless as its disappointments are relentless.

  • I am gradually disguising myself as an old man.

  • The rain writes Hebrew on the concrete stairs.

  • The blessing/curse of art—and the law of life—is that we cannot know whom we touch, whom we improve. We do our best. With luck, others inherit it.