Listening to: “The State I Am In” – Belle & Sebastian

So my one-act play, Thanksgiving, has officially been rejected by two theater conferences. I know, I know, only two. “But say, my friend,” you’ll say [you general you], “Tons of brilliant writers get rejected 30 gazijabillion times before they get accepted. And they’ve all gone on to have fabulously successful careers and dive in pools full of champagne and gigolos!”

“First of all, You,” I’ll reply, “A gazijabillion is not a real number, so I don’t trust your rational judgment outright.” *Takes drag from metaphorical cigarette* “Second of all, You, it is true that tons of brilliant writers get rejected a lot. But tons upon tons upon eons of pretty crappy writers get rejected a lot, too. The brilliant ones and the crappy ones have both got giant balls for continuing to submit their rejected stuff. But how do you know till you’ve been accepted if you’re shitty or a miracle? Or, worse, just totally mediocre? You see, You, how difficult it can be?” *Takes drag from non-metaphorical joint*

The point of that diatribe being, I don’t think I have the stones to keep on submitting Thanksgiving. It might be time to put my little Durangy baby to rest. ‘Course, this is the same thing I did a few years ago when my short story, Jellyfish, got rejected by two literary magazines. Two seems to be my magic number, eh?

And by magic, I mean poop.

Oh, moose balls. Time to pick myself up by the thong straps, or whatever.

Advertisements

Listening to: “All I Want is You” – Barry Louis Polisar

I hate politics. I don’t like having to pay attention to them, because it’s 95% sleight-of-hand and bullshit. It’s a bad, boring variety show put on by a bunch of egomaniacs mad for power.

Or, in the words of the ireppressable Douglas Adams: “Anyone who is capable of getting themselves made President should on no account be allowed to do the job.”

But with dear, aw-shucks Edwards out of the race, I’m not really sure who to vote for. Last primary around I was for Dean all the way. That guy is the tits. This time… I don’t know. I can’t seem to find a brief, unbiased account of where Hil and Barack each stand on the issues. This is the closest I could find. I mean, how can you compare and contrast properly when it’s all spin and rhetoric?

But who knows. What kind of universe is it anyway where the Pats can lose the Super Bowl? *Sigh*

Oh well, Tom Brady’s ass is still hotter than all the Giants’ asses put together.

I submitted my one-act play “Thanksgiving” to that playwriting conference in Alaska. I spent two days tweaking the hell out of it, since I wrote it two years ago. I’ll find out in March whether I get accepted. Fingers crossed, kids.

Last night I dreamt that they published “Thanksgiving” in this snazzy hardcover version without telling me. I didn’t know till I came to get it signed by the author and realized that I was supposed to be doing the signing. They had retooled it to be about Jesse James. I think they even called it “Jesse James,” even though it has nothing to do with Jesse James. I tried to tell them, but they said they made the changes for my own good and that I should be happy they took the time to fix it for me. Then they put on a production of it in the basement of a community center, with the entire cast in wheelchairs. It had nothing to do with the original story.

Gotta dig those anxiety dreams.

This post was really the opposite of cohesive.

Oooh, ooh. One more thing. Go see Juno. It is the best ever.

Listening to: “Adventures Close to Home” – The Raincoats

Ah, my dear goitery little blog. My little dancing-ground for getting my writing muscle pumping when it won’t go on its own. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, considering I’ve been writing my guts out all week. Ugh. I don’t know if I can keep up at this pace–4 or 5 plays a week, articles for all of them, plus DVD and CD reviews and a preview piece here and there; plus fielding 6 conference calls with writers in cities all over the fucking country, then amassing all their blurbs and editing them and… christ.

Lately, I think the universe is trying to tell me something. This week, I’ve run into a ridiculous amount of people from my past. I mean, who’d figure on my old GeVa Summer Academy teacher showing up in a touring production of Spamalot? Or my old fight director in the crowd at The Misanthrope after party. Or my college acting professor emailing me out of the blue. Or running into half the ol’ grad acting program at The Little Dog Laughed.

Small world, or small theater world?

I was talking to Meron about how I’d always wanted to get a staged reading of this one-act play I wrote in college, and he told me about this thing called the Last Frontier Theatre Conference. A bunch of playwrights shooting the shit and getting their new works read….. in the Alaskan wilderness! During the summer solstice, when the sun’s out 24/7!

So I figure, what the hell. I’ll submit Thanksgiving and see if they bite. Everyone loves pterodactyls and incest, right? And Alaska…gawd. That would be the hotness. Well, the coldness. The frozen wilderness, and mooses, and playwrights!

*busts out Eskimo gear*

K, ’nuff ranting for now. More coffee, and more writing. Pinter isn’t gonna deconstruct himself, after all.

Well, actually–he probably would. Maybe I’ll just let him do that.