Pondering A Decision Here.

I’ve been a playwright for something like, umm, almost 40 years now. (But you know that. If you cross my blog path on any sort of regular basis, I talk about this stuff all the time.)

And – by my own standards – I’ve had a decent career. With the exception of one play (which I’ve never offered to anyone) all my work has been produced. Somewhere. I’ve had plays produced as far west as Palm Springs, California, as far east as Pittsburgh, and a whole bunch of places in between. The best compliment I received was in being informed that one of my plays had been pirated and produced without my knowledge in Cincinnati, Ohio. (Wow. Somebody thought enough of one of my plays to steal it. How ‘bout that?!)

I never had a play produced on or off Broadway. This was never something that held any interest to me at all. At a time when I needed it, I had an agent (in Florida!) and made a respectable second income.

I enjoy writing plays. I’ve had a smattering of experience as a drama critic, and recently I’ve co-authored a book, and even more tentatively I’ve submitted articles to a handful of magazines. And a dear and talented friend has made overtures about the two of us working together to write a movie. And I just might. (Other than this, she seems quite sane,)

But I’m most comfortable writing plays. A play is the only form of literature that does NOT go through an editor. I like that. I like placing words on paper and having someone immediately recite them back to me. I like giving a concept to a group of performers, and watching (sometimes in amazement) as that concept is expanded.

I’ve purposely avoided what most people would consider success in this career, because that usually means stress, deadlines, antagonism, and all the other pressures that appear to define and repress creativity by today’s standards.

And I was happy. Write a play, send it somewhere. That was the pattern. And I’ve been lucky. Word of mouth has meant that SOMETHING of mine has constantly been on somebody’s schedule ever since I started writing.

But lately I’ve been a member of a couple of writing groups, and several people I admire are in the process of taking, what for me, would have been the next step. I wished them well. I was still not convinced this could or should be the next step for me – if, indeed, I was even looking for a next step.

And yesterday, while I was trying to find the synopsis of a play I’d never heard of, I came across a website listing maybe a hundred agents specializing in playwrights. Intrigued, I discovered I more than qualify to be considered as a client.

So-o-o … suddenly … I’m considering sending something to a bunch of suit types. Do I really want to do this? I’ve given you all my reasons for NOT doing this in the past. What do you think? Should I pick an agent with many clients? Or should I pick an agent with only one or two clients? (My agent in Florida only had three clients, including myself. She worked like a mad woman on my behalf.)

I know, I know, ultimately it’s my decision. But this is a new think for me, and I’d appreciate some thoughts.


JB

And how was your day?

More Words

Because of the vast number of request I’ve received, here are the translations of more Fargoeese words that you are forced to copy in blog comment boxes.

LIDEON, MEXILIDEON, and FRIGEON. These are musical terms – actually modes of music.

LIDEON is by far the most popular (hence the song, “I’m In The Mode For Love.”)

MEXILIDEON only applies if the performer has consumed copious amounts of tequila
before performing, and can still somehow remember which end of the horn to blow
into.

FRIGEON is a music mode, but can also apply to the performer if he or she is
basically anti-social.

FRIGEON also can apply to any region of North America where ice can be found naturally in mid summer. It is possible to say, therefore, that “a Frigeon may be playing frigeon in the Frigeon.” (Unless, of course, the person is playing “in the gloaming,” in which case he or she would likely be wearing a skirt, standing in a field of clover, and blowing on a bagpipe.)

A bagpipe always reminds me of someone holding a cat under one arm, with the cat’s tail in his or her mouth … and biting on it.

But that’s just my opinion.

LAPLANDER. This is a close friend or relative that you haven’t seen for at least a year. (Unless, of course, this person is actually an anti social musician from Lapland, in which case he or she would be – ta da … Frigeon!

(And you thought high school Latin was rough!)

And finally, there are those individuals who look at us, shake their heads, and wonder how we managed to survive for the past roughly two hundred years or so. These people are called CANADIANS.

JB

And how was your day?

Words I Never Knew

I’ll bet you’ve done this. You read a post on someone’s blog, and want to leave a comment. But before you can actually contribute anything in the comment section, you have to copy down a handful of strange looking letters into a little box.

Have you done that?

AND … I’ll bet you thought all those letters were just, uh, letters. Right? And maybe you thought they were just random, or something like that. Right?

Wrong!

What you possibly might not know is that all this blog business actually began in North Dakota, and so it naturally follows that the words you never thought existed, actually are parts of normal conversation in the almost mythical land of … Fargo. (And if you’ve seen the movie, you’ll know exactly what I’m talking about.)

Anyway …

In the spirit of open communication, I’ve assembled some of the more common words used in the Fargoeese dialect, with the thought that they might be of use to those few individuals who actually desire to have a vocabulary larger than twenty words …

MURFLEC: (From the word “genuflect”. When you bend over, this is the length of time it takes you to straighten up, once you past the age of fifty. At age sixty, it’s GERFEN MURFLEX. At seventy, it’s DU GERFEN MURFLEX. At eighty, it’s … well, when someone there reaches eighty, I’m sure they’ll think of the right prefix.

SURGLOR: This is a medical term, indicating how long it takes for your mind to register when you wake up in the morning and realize you should have been at work thirty minutes ago. FARFLEG is when you are standing in the bathroom and realize you’ve just brushed your teeth with Ivy Ease, and DEVMERG is when your mate wants to know why you’re running around like a crazy person on Saturday morning.

GRRDEEPER is the driver who cuts in front of you and then is forced to slam on his brakes.

There’s even a term for those individuals who fill out the little comment boxes. These are SHEEEPFLIPPERS, and you really don’t want this word translated …

So … wasn’t this educational? The next time you wonder what word you’ve just copied, send it along, and I’ll be happy to translate for you.

JB

And how was your day?

These Are A Few Of My Favorite Sings ...

In THE BOYS FROM SYRACUSE, Rogers & Hart wrote,

“Sing for your supper and you’ll get breakfast. Songbirds are well fed …”

I like that. Most of the singers I enjoy fall into the category of “songbirds.” That is, they can actually SING, and express positive personality while doing it. (In other words, anyone I consider good is either old or dead.)

In a previous post, I said I enjoy both Paul Simon and Carly Simon. What I didn’t explain was that I like Paul as a songwriter (he’s an okay singer.)

Carly Simon, on the other had, is a singer with all kinds of personality. Whether you like her or not, it’s difficult not to watch her when she sings.

I liked Reba McEntire even before she did ANNIE GET YOUR GUN on Broadway. She does “cute and charming” better than just about anybody I know.

I first became aware of Linda Ronstadt when she did THE PIRATES OF PENZANCE in New York’s central park. I’ve enjoyed seeing pictures of her over the years. She’s never going to be a great beauty, and the more they try to “glamorize” her, the more clown-like she looks. She likes singing back-up more than leads, and her favorite music was written before she was born. How can you not love somebody like that?

One of my favorite singers is Pam Dawber from the old MORK & MINDY TV series. I saw her in a production of MY FAIR LADY, and she was every bit as good as Julie Andrews – and that’s saying something.

Rounding out my favorite female singers are;

Edith Piaf, and

Patti LuPone. Pure raw command and power, both.

In men, one of my favorite singers is Mandy Patinkin, Patti LuPone’s co-star in EVITA. The man can sing anything, and chooses Broadway tunes that are both obscure and difficult.

I also like Michael Crawford, who starred in THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA. He was also featured in the movie HELLO DOLLY.

Do you get the feeling I like Broadway singers?

Well, I like Willie Nelson, so there! I don’t know why I like Willie Nelson, but I do. He’s one of those people who got better looking as he aged. He’s now 110, and tolerable. But as a singer, he sells sad songs wonderfully well.

I like Sting. He’s been touring lately as a balladeer, and that’s been quite nice.

And finally, I like Theodore Bikel (speaking of balladeers). He had a growing popularity in the U.S., before he moved permanently to Israel. Their gain. Our loss. (I saw him do the lead in FIDDLER ON THE ROOF. He was incredible.)

Those are singers who come to my mind with no great effort. I know I’ve missed a few. So … do you think I have any taste at all?

JB

In a Paul Simon mood ...

It's evening.

I've comfortably on my sofa, listening to a new song by Paul Simon.

The song is mellow and relaxed. This is a good thing, because at the moment I feel mellow and relaxed.

I've been a fan of Paul Simon ever since he released his Graceland album. I liked the Graceland Album, and the copy I have looks just like this one.

I also like Carly Simon, but that's another story altogether.

JB

And how was your day?

A Reverie

The play I directed has one more weekend of performances. Friday Saturday Sunday and then it’s over. Gone forever.

I like to think that even something as quicksilver as a live presentation never actually expires – that somewhere in the great ether the performances of this play will continue to exist. Perhaps contained within some ubiquitous 4th dimensional equivalent of a television set I can see it again, if I can only figure out how to tune in the correct channel.

No no. There are some plays I’ve directed that a God of true mercy has allowed to fade into a so well deserved oblivion – being far more a product of vanity than any real or perceived talent.

Some plays live better in memory. Maybe most plays. (Okay. All plays.) After a number of years and lies they take on a patina that hides imperfections. They become benchmarks, icons, and, like the mighty H.M.S. Titanic, the romance of the image becomes far more desirable than the rusted relic itself.

Still and yet there was something different about this one.

I joined the company late. This was a first for me. I wasn’t, in fact, scheduled to direct it at all. The director hired for the production literally dropped out at the last minute, and I was asked to take the job two hours before the first rehearsal was scheduled to begin. (Fortunately I had directed the play once before – years ago, and had wisely kept all my notes.) (You could also read this as “I never throw anything away.” See? I TOLD you …)

I remember going to that first rehearsal, and being introduced to the cast and the Stage Manager. There we were, seven cast members and two crew, pieces of a puzzle in anticipation of assembly.

In retrospect I will admit to being lucky. The cast was – is – both collectively and individually talented. The play was – is – BLITHE SPIRIT, by Noel Coward. And, although it was considered sparkling repartee when it was written in 1940, today it can appear to be formidably long and wordy. The performers captured it perfectly, with no seeming great effort whatsoever. They uncovered the style, even the nuances of a form of comedy that no longer exists. I was impressed. More than that, the presentation often gave me shivers. I was observing living breathing history.

As I have mentioned in previous posts, even the setting seemed to take on a life and charm. It was a basic box set, with walls and floor painted white. Yet, when it was completed, it seemed less a utilitarian theatre setting and more like an artwork, quite capable of standing alone. Every time I found an excuse to be on that stage I felt like I was in the middle of a Maxfield Parrish painting. I never tired of being there.

In retrospect, then, this effort has been the main focus of my life for the better part of two months. And now it’s almost finished.

Perhaps I’m looking for closure of a sort. No pictures here, no bells, no whistles. Just words, a reminder to myself that I haven’t seriously written anything in quite a while. People who are dear to me, who have seen the show - they are reminders that I led quite a different life two months ago, and – if somewhat impatiently – it’s waiting for me to catch up.

And I shall. There’s a mountain of work waiting for me. And I’m looking forward to it.

Except …

In another town not terribly far from here another theatre company has added ON GOLDEN POND to their schedule, and are starting their director search.

I’ve always wanted to direct that show.

It couldn’t hurt anything to just send them a resume.

I mean … you know …


We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounded with a sleep.

JB


And how was your day?

Sorry I haven't been with you ...

For the past week I have been really unwell.

But I'm getting better.

Theatre Settings as Art

Okay. So – you know – I’m directing this production of Blithe Spirit, a comedy by British playwright Noel Coward.

(And it’s going well, by the way. I’m working with very talented people who aren’t constantly falling over their own egos. Do you know how rare that is? Trust me. It’s rare.)

Anyway …

A play – any play, needs a setting, a location. In our case, it’s the British equivalent of an American family room, slightly off the main drag of the house. On one wall is a fireplace. On the opposite wall are French doors overlooking the moors. Directly at the back of the room is a large doorway, leading to other parts of the house.

Ya with me so far?

Here’s what the set looked like when the walls were first set in place on the stage. Eventually everything would be painted white – the walls, the fireplace, the French doors, even the floor. (It’s my set. I can paint it any color I want.)

I took some flack about the color, actually. “Nobody paints a set white,” I was told. “Nobody paints a FLOOR white.”

But I did.

Here’s the fireplace, right after it was constructed, and before it was painted and decorated.

Here it is, finished.

The mantle and fluted front is routed and carved Styrofoam. Nobody is going to dance on them. (Yes. I know. The candle is broken. It's part of the story, okay? Gimme a break.)

On the other side of the stage is where the French doors will go.

And here they are. Opened …

… and closed. Above the doors is …

a stained glass transom, constructed just for our set. We spared no expense. Sort of. (Our extravagance actually cost less than twenty bucks – eleven dollars for the Plexiglas, and eight dollars and change for the translucent paint.)

Here’s our hallway

.

What you see as the wall is actually blanket-like material, stretched over a frame. I found a roll of the stuff in the attic of the theatre. Nobody knows how it got there. Nobody will remember where it went.

And this is the finished set. I like it.

If this was a room in a real house, I could be quite happy here.


And how was your day?

JB

Blithe Spirit

In 1820, Percy Bysshe Shelley began his poem ODE TO A SKYLARK with the words “Hail to thee, blithe Spirit! Bird thou never wert!” A hundred and twenty years later prolific playwright Noel Coward would turn Shelley’s opening verse into a comedy that would be in production – somewhere – constantly, for the next 77 years.

Interestingly, Shelley wrote his poem while on a visit to Italy. He and his wife Mary had returned from an evening walk, where they had been serenaded by an actual skylark. Coward wrote his play while huddling in a tunnel. He was being serenaded by Germans dropping actual bombs over his head.

So what’s my involvement in all this? First of all, I owe it to Noel Coward. I directed a production of BLITHE SPIRIT in 1973, and it was a bad presentation. Bad. Everything that could go wrong with a show, did. It was so bad, it was funny for all the wrong reasons. How bad was it? During the middle of our Act I, Noel Coward died - literally. I have no idea how he knew what we were doing to his play, but for the past 35 years I’ve felt like I’ve owed Sir Noel a good show, and I always pay what I owe.

And next, I owe the theatre where the play is being produced. I had been hired to direct a play there about a dozen years ago, and was forced to back out of my contract because of personal problems. Now I was asked to replace a director who dropped out at the last possible moment.

Pay back. Here I could kill two birds with one stone. Uh … let me rephrase that …

It is now a dozen hours later, and the stage set has been roughed in. It doesn’t look like it here, but it’s going to be a good set. With a good cast. In a good show.

Hey Noel! I want my marker back!

oh. And, uh, this picture? It's an art deco elevator button from a 1932 movie. What does it have to do with Blithe Spirit? Nothing. Nothing at all. I just liked the picture.

And how was your day?

JB

A Craving For Power

So … okay … there was this hurricane down in Texas. It made a mess in Galveston, and flooded Houston … Hurricane “Ike.” Maybe you heard about it.

Okay, that’s in Texas, ya know? Texas. Wa-a-a-y down there on the map. On a child’s puzzle, Texas was always an easy piece to find, because it’s big. And it’s easy to know where it goes, because IT’S WAY DOWN THERE!

So … then … so … how could a hurricane from Texas knock out the power in my house? I mean, I’m HALF A COUNTRY AWAY from this thing!

It couldn’t, ya know? Couldn’t possibly reach me. Couldn’t. NOT NOT NOT! Are you listening to me in the weather bureau? NOT NOT NOT!

In the future, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your storms where they’re supposed to be, thank you very much. I’d appreciate that. I would.

Anyway. The power went out a week ago, Sunday evening at 6:05pm. It didn’t come back on until this past Saturday. I’m not sure what time it came back on, because my clocks are electric, and I DIDN’T HAVE ANY POWER!

(In the desire for full disclosure, I must admit that my power did come back on last Wednesday. In the middle of the night I was awakened by my downstairs TV screaming at me to buy a vacuum cleaner shaped like a large ball. I know it was a large ball because I had just managed to stumble down stairs and was reaching for the kill switch when the power again went off, leaving me in a pitch black room and mood. I concluded that this whole episode was the electric company’s attempt at dark humor …)

So … what can you do for a week with no electricity?

Well, you can watch food spoil. That’s always fun. You can wander, zombie-like, around the neighborhood. You can shave by flashlight (By the way, that’s not NEARLY as romantic as everyone says it is.) You can become re-acquainted with radio, reminding you why you stopped listening to it in the first place.

You can talk to people on your cell phone (for awhile. Until it needs to be re-charged. Another illusion demolished. I always thought the cell phone fairy came around in the middle of the night and took care of stuff like that. Guess not.)
On the other hand, I was surprised by how many people genuinely care about me – wanted to be sure I had hot water, a place to wash clothes, and meals that didn’t automatically come with French fries. To those of you who knew and called and cared, thank you. I love you very much.

On the OTHER hand, I had plenty to keep me busy. Every day I would type on the revisions for the play Julie Morrison and I have written. (Of course I didn’t have any POWER to the computer, but just punching away at the dead keys made me feel a little better.)

And then there’s the acting class I’m supposed to start teaching this week – gotta get everything ready. Gotta print all the forms that are stored in my computer, and … ohthat’sright … great googely woogely …

Oh. And I’m directing a production of Blithe Spirit for a local theatre company. I received a call last Monday, asking me if I would/could replace a director who was forced to drop out. Since I wasn’t doing anything except running into things in the darkness, I readily agreed – something to occupy my mind.

“When do rehearsals start,” I inquired. “When is the first one?”

“In about two hours,” came the sheepish reply.

Okay …

The power came back on a little over a day ago. No more quiet, no more naps in the afternoon. No more casual walks around the neighborhood. No more instant communication with every disaster in the world. No more –

Hm-m-m.

Maybe I should think about this some more.

Hm-m-m.

And how was your day?

JB

Maybe I'll Run For President

So … maybe I’ll run for President.

I could do that.

Secretly, I’ve always wanted to be President ever since I learned that in the White House there’s a chef on duty 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Think about it. If I wanted a hot fudge Sundae at 3:30 in the morning, it’s only a phone call away.

“Say, George, are there any Secret Service down there?” (If I was the President, I would know that Secret Service always hang around the kitchen.)

“Good, good,” I’d continue. “I’d like a hot fudge Sundae, George. Would you send someone up with one? Thank you so much. Oh, and … George, are you still there?” (I knew he would be.) “Would you make it the way the day chef does? You know, I like the hot fudge at 81 degrees, not that tepid 75 degrees that you sent up for me last time. Will you do that for me? Thank you very much.”

I hang up, satisfied. Yesterday I ordered a limburger and onion sandwich on Moravian
Olive bread and tomorrow I’ll likely order a ham sandwich slathered in Yak butter.

But tonight I’ll be happy with my hot fudge Sundae. Being President is a good thing.

Oh – and if I wanted to go somewhere? Would you believe this – I have my VERY OWN airplane. (Sort of) No waiting in lines. No luggage to check in. Good snacks, and they don’t cost extra. And I could smoke if I wanted to. (I don’t smoke, but I could if I wanted to.) In fact I wouldn’t even bother to fly anywhere. We could just taxi the big thing around town. Who’s gonna stop me? I’m the president.

And see – now I know what you are thinking. What kind of President would I be? Well, I’ll tell you. I’d be a great President. I have a secret. I’d go into the White House and hide for 4 years. I wouldn’t go out, I wouldn’t answer the phone – nothing. So how would that make me a great President? I’ll tell ya. Truthfully, at the end of 4 years the country would be no better off than it was when I took office. BUT … on the other hand, by doing nothing, the country would be no worse than it was before I became President. So how about that, huh? Think about it. How many other Presidents can make that claim, huh? Hm-m-m. Maybe I’ll use that as my campaign slogan – “No worse than we were before.” (Hey. Don’t scoff at the idea. It worked for Eisenhower.)

Now here’s the REAL secret. The important thing is not BEING President. What’s important is having BEEN President. Where else can you work for 4 years and then retire on a government pension? With full medical? And the Secret Service is still there, in case you need a babysitter or a hot fudge Sundae in the middle of the night. And people will actually pay you good money to come speak at the PTA or Little League banquet.

And here’s the best part. What are the qualifications to become President? Would you believe it, THERE AREN’T ANY! None. Zip. All you really need is an obnoxious campaign manager and a plastic flag pin to wear in your lapel. Works for me. I have the pin, and I know lots of obnoxious people.

Oh. That reminds me – I need a Vice President. So … you doin’ anything for the next few years? The way I see it, you will do even less than I do, and it’s SUPPOSED to be that way. And maybe … maybe maybe maybe … if you do the job well (and don’t shoot anybody while you’re in office), then you could be the NEXT President.

Wouldn’t that be fun?

So think about it. I think we still have a month or two. And if you need incentive, think hot fudge Sundae. I have it on very good authority that Sundaes consumed while in office are not fattening.

JB

My Uncle Jack

Did I ever tell ya ‘bout my Uncle Jack?

No?

Well …

(Did you catch the inflection in “well”? The inflection that says have a seat ‘cause this is gonna be good and take awhile?)

If you didn’t … do, because it is and will.

So here’s Uncle Jack – or at least the way he looked when one of the Disney artists sketched him. I always thought he looked very continental in this drawing. He thought he looked like a 1930’s Chicago gangster. And since I knew he’d lived a few years in Chicago, I would suspect he knew what he was talking about. But I don’t know that for a fact.

Uncle Jack had been a merchant seaman. I think. He told me that he had once climbed a mountain in the Himalayas. I was told that at one time he had been employed as a rodeo clown. At another time he had managed a New York modeling agency (briefly. It was owned by another relative, and Jack could have inherited it if he had liked the business. He didn’t.) He did own a few Texas oil wells, and knew by first name every man who worked for him.

And there are a whole SLEW of stories about the things Jack did for a living, and I believe all of them. For one thing, I never knew my uncle to lie (or brag, for that matter.) Most of the things I knew about him I learned from other people. Jack always had an abiding interest in a great variety of occupations and social activities, and tried “hands on” to as many of them as he could.

I not only found his life fascinating, but only later in life did I realize how much I had emulated it.

When I knew Uncle Jack he owned a real estate agency in Pasadena California. He was a truly gentle human being, open and soft spoken. Men felt very comfortable around him, and women … well, he outlived three wives.

I never met anyone who didn’t like him.

And the feeling was mutual. Jack loved people – all types and sizes. The picture above shows the corner of Hollywood and Vine in Hollywood, California. Uncle Jack lived in the building you see in the background. From the corner window at the 2nd floor level, Uncle Jack could comfortably sit in his living room and watch humanity traipse back and forth in front of him. (And I knew this to be a fact; I distinctly remember sitting there with him while we watched a quite attractive young lady in a bikini leading a purple French poodle down Vine Street at three in the morning. At another time we were sitting there when we heard a resounding “crash.” Looking out the window I saw what looked like a cannon ball imbedded in the side of a truck. Looking up Hollywood boulevard, we saw a man bowling in the middle of the street.)

Jack was involved with the movie business at the time. He didn’t participate in any way – he had absolutely no use for actors. But since he headed a most successful real estate agency, I think a number of producers wanted very much to be his friend.

Jack’s real friends were artists and still photographers, He was on such good terms that a few were so comfortable that they would simply walk in without even bothering to knock. (I personally found this a little unnerving, but Uncle Jack seemed to take pride in this lack of pretense regarding formality, so we never talked about it.) On one such occasion we were sitting there when the door opened and a – creature – whisked past me. Whoever (or whatever) it was headed straight for the bathroom, leaving a pungent odor in it’s wake. Jack and I looked at each other. Even for him this was something new.

A moment later we heard the shower running. Another moment passed, and a man entered that Uncle Jack obviously knew. This man also went into the bathroom, dropped off a large bag, and returned to the living room. Jack and the man talked for about twenty minutes before the bathroom door opened …

… and out stepped Sandra Dee. She had been shooting still pictures in the desert, and had stopped at Uncle Jack’s for a quick shower because she “smelled like a horse.” They left, to meet with the press in order to promote the movie she had just completed.

According to my Aunt, this sort of thing happened all the time.

I was in a movie shooting in a remote location the day Uncle Jack died. I didn’t even know about it until after the funeral. His ashes had been scattered over a park he loved and helped create. The day I went there it rained – hard. My uncle was reminding me of how he felt about actors.

It’s interesting, I think, about how profoundly you are influenced by some people and are unaware of it until years later. That’s how it was with Uncle Jack. I often wish I could talk to him one more time.

I guess if there’s a moral here, it’s that you should appreciate people when you have ‘em.

And how was your day?

JB

Expose Yourself To Art

… with apologies to Julie Morrison.


Whenever I hear the term “Expose Yourself To Art,” I think of the above photograph. It was taken in or about the early 1980’s, and at the time I thought it was clever.

I would have likely forgotten the picure, but later I learned that the man in the photo was the mayor of Portland, Oregon, and he was promoting a local arts festival. (I admired his creative imagination. I admired his dedication. At the same time, I wondered if he was re-elected.)

Did the idea work? Ya might say so. 28 years later the poster is still being sold along with other festival promotional pictures.

So ... what does that tell you?

JB

Romeo And Juliet

I found this drawing in the bottom of a drawer the other day. It's the front elevation sketch for a production of "Romeo And Juliet." Out of 36 pages of blueprints and architectural detail notes, this sketch is the only thing that remains.

There was this contest, you see. A theatre was going to produce the play, and ran an open set design competition. First prize was a cash award and, of course, the winning design would become the actual set built for the production.

So ... I entered the contest. And I won. (Seems like a long time ago. Come to think of it, it WAS a long time ago. I think Juliet was still alive at the time.)

Anyway. I'd love to show you some photos of the completed set. Only ... there aren't any. I won the contest but they used another design for the actual set.

Not fair. Just because my set would have been 60 feet wide and 40 feet high, they said it was too large to fit on their stage. I told 'em to get a bigger stage, but - you know how it is - some people just have to be picky ...

On the other hand, I did get the money. There was that.

And ... I decided to share the drawing with you. I'd like somebody to see it, and I can't think of anyone better.

JB