I wrote this letter-to-the-editor to the OC Metro in 2004 in response to an article on Paul Folino's fund-raising endeavors to benefit the South Coast Repertory Theatre.
The letter, in retrospect, was probably too snarky and certainly too bitchy. But the point was (and is) valid.
Theatres like the SCR will survive. They have the support of the community bigwigs who will always give to "The Arts" because they want to appear cultured and refined, even when they're not.
But the struggling small theatrical entities will always remain under your basic OC billionaire's radar. I'm talking about the theatres that operate out of storefronts in the inner city. Theatres where the members of the company work for no pay.
These are the ones who take the risks and carry on for the love of the art. But nothing is forever. And sadly, when one of them gives up the ghost, nobody seems to notice, or care.
We have maybe eleven theatres that do live stage in the OC. We used to have twelve, but the Rude Guerrilla just shut its doors. The landlord raised the rent and...well, you get the picture.
It happens. It's too bad when it does. I'll miss it. RIP, RG.
This evening, we had a reading on the South Coast Rep's Nicholas Studio stage. We did ten pieces, including my short play, Missing. It went well. A lot of laughs, which is what I intended. I got my actors, Michelle Margolis and Joe Baufar, to sign my program.
Louise.........Female, early thirties, scruffy Martin..................Male, late thirties, scruffy
(A December morning. Downtown Fargo. Cold & crisp. We're in the parking lot of a blown-up 7-Eleven. Yellow "Police Line - Keep Out" tape. Inside the police tape, LOUISE in grubby clothes, a Christmas stocking cap slightly askew on her head. Shes picking up bits of debris, examining each bit, then depositing same in a garbage bag. A pouch hangs from her belt. She hums Jingle Bells. Her humming is slow and somber. MARTIN enters, stops at the tape, sees her, looks surprised. She senses him. She stops, straightens up, turns)
LOUISE:
Well well. Marty Dean.
MARTIN:
Louise, you're alive! Thank God you're alive.
LOUISE:
Course I'm alive. Why wouldn't I be?
MARTIN:
Terrible thing. Terrible. You should consider yourself very, very lucky.
LOUISE:
Yup. That's me. Lucky Louise. Lucky Louise, despite I never won a MegaBucks jackpot. Never even won a piddly little Daily Scratcher.
MARTIN:
I meant you're lucky to be.
LOUISE:
I know what you meant, Marty.
MARTIN:
Eyewitness News said it was a first. First 7-Eleven explosion ever in Fargo. First 7-Eleven explosion anywhere in North Dakota for that matter.
LOUISE:
Give you something else that'll be a first. This'll be the first Christmas for me without a job.
MARTIN:
Abdul's not giving you your job back?
LOUISE:
It only blew up two days ago. Seeing as how we got ten days till Christmas, I just don't see the store standing tall in time for a visit from Santa.
MARTIN:
But he did promise you your job back.
LOUISE:
Hasn't been discussed, Marty.
MARTIN:
That's wrong. That is very wrong. He shouldda reassured you right away. You're a key person, valued employee. You know where all the stuff is.
LOUISE:
Which is really useful. What with all the stuff scattered in the parking lot.
MARTIN:
Speaking of that. I saw on Eyewitness News where Abdul said he was looking for volunteers to help clean up.
LOUISE:
So?
MARTIN:
So here I am. Volunteering. You know what the commercial says. Like a good neighbor.
LOUISE:
Well, neighbor, you're a day late and a dollar short. Abdul's cleanup was yesterday.
MARTIN:
Yesterday? So how come you still got a mess?
LOUISE:
We got a mess 'cause not many neighbors showed up.
MARTIN:
How could that be? Abdul's got thousands of customers.
LOUISE:
Hundreds, not thousands. Stop exaggerating. Okay. Telling you this 'cause you're a regular. Some people don't like Abdul 'cause of his name.
MARTIN:
I like it. His name, I mean.
LOUISE:
Seems you're in the minority. Some people connect Abdul to the World Trade Center. One lady said, "How do we know he wasn't making bombs back there? Maybe the explosion was a bomb that went off by accident."
MARTIN:
That's ridiculous! He wasn't making bombs. Was he?
LOUISE:
'Course not. It's people assuming stuff about Abdul. Assuming, because of his name, he's got crazy ideas.
MARTIN:
Where is he anyway?
LOUISE:
Missing.
MARTIN:
You mean like dead?
LOUISE:
I mean like missing. He came here just after, looked around, said he needed help. Then he skedaddled. Personally, I think he's lying low till the dust clears.
MARTIN:
That's desertion. Leaving the scene of. Or something.
LOUISE:
Don't be so quick to throw stones. If your RV blew up and set cars on fire or knocked down a power line, wouldn't you make yourself scarce?
MARTIN:
Guess I would.
LOUISE:
Trust cops to be cops. Abdul's doing the right thing. You can always come in later, say you had a concussion and wandered in the woods till your memory came back.
MARTIN:
Well, anyway, glad nothing bad happened to you.
(She makes like she's getting ready to go back to work picking up debris. He doesn't move)
LOUISE:
Look, I gotta do some stuff now.
MARTIN:
Not stopping you.
LOUISE:
I don't like if you're just gonna stare.
MARTIN:
Don't like me staring? So what about all those 2 ams? Saying I shouldda stayed away?
LOUISE:
Now don't get upset.
MARTIN:
Don't get upset. I was there for you 'cause I thought you were lonely. Running a 7-Eleven in the wee hours is lonely work. Thought you'd appreciate the company. (She starts picking up debris)
LOUISE:
Fact is, you were doing it for hot dogs. You wake up with the 1 am munchies. Show up at my counter at 2. Customer walks in, I turn my back, another hot dog's missing. With you, it's all about hot dogs.
MARTIN:
Got me wrong. You think everyone works an angle.
LOUISE:
Don't know anyone else's angle, but I sure know yours.
MARTIN:
More to life than hot dogs, Louise. I been a lot of places, seen a lot of stuff. One thing I know. Karma's gonna get you. Bad thoughts about other people will rebound unto yourself. That's straight outta Buddha.
LOUISE:
Don't curse me, Marty. Don't like being cursed.
MARTIN:
(Sees her slip an object into her pouch) What was that you just did?
LOUISE:
What?
MARTIN:
You picked up something, slipped it into her pouch.
LOUISE:
No.
MARTIN:
I saw you.
LOUISE:
You're imagining things.
MARTIN:
I'm telling you, I saw you.
LOUISE:
(Holds pouch behind her back) Not saying this again. There's nothing in the bag.
MARTIN:
(Ducks under police tape, approaches her) Well. Then I guess you won't mind holding it out front, turning it upside down and shaking it out.
LOUISE:
Why are you pushing this, Marty?
MARTIN:
(Trying to see behind her) I think I got you pegged.
LOUISE:
(Backs away, blocks his view) Pegged? What's pegged?
MARTIN:
Way I see it is, you want to work out here by yourself cause there's something of value here. See, when you try to fool Ole Marty, you open a big can of corn.
LOUISE:
Marty, I thought we were friends.
MARTIN:
Starting to wonder what you mean by friends. Yessiree, there's something of value here. I can smell it.
LOUISE:
Marty, you don't talk to a friend like that.
MARTIN:
Friend wouldn't tell a friend to stop staring.
LOUISE:
You're. You're right.
MARTIN:
Friend wouldn't begrudge a friend a few hot dogs.
LOUISE:
You're right. You're right again.
MARTIN:
So what is it? Cash money? Bundle of twenties?
LOUISE:
Marty. It's not what you think.
MARTIN:
Cash. Gotta be cash. Safe blew up. Big roll of Franklins missing in action. Hundred dollar bills.
I think I do. On the one hand, there's this mysterious explosion. Maybe a threat to the planet. And then there's your suspicious post-explosion activity. Maybe it's just an unfortunate event. Maybe not. But either way, here you are, Abdul's Girl Friday. And you're not here for your health. You know something. See, I can put B and C together and get D. D as in deal. So now, friend, what's the deal?
LOUISE:
The deal is, you are crazy! You're nuts.
MARTIN:
Calling me nuts. Look at you. Trying to rip Abdul off. You don't want him knowing. Nosirree. You don't want me telling the Feds and them talking to Abdul. Haven't you been reading the paper? Those Muslims'll cut your head off for looking at them crosseyed.
LOUISE:
You got it all wrong.
MARTIN:
Just give me half. And my lips are sealed.
LOUISE:
So what if it's half of nothing?
MARTIN:
Come on. You're talking to a friend.
LOUISE:
You know what? All those hot dogs gone to your brain.
MARTIN:
Bottom line is, I'm not going away. Now give.
LOUISE:
(Silence. Finally...) Okay. All right. You win.
MARTIN:
Hot dog! Now you're talking.
(LOUISE squats down, MARTIN squats down)
LOUISE:
(Holds up unopened pouch) I want your word this an absolute secret.
MARTIN:
Unlike some people I could name, my word is gold.
LOUISE:
You ready?
MARTIN:
Let her rip. (She takes the pouch and empties it. A plop sound is heard. MARTIN springs up) Jiminy Crickets! (He turns his back, looks over his shoulder) Jiminy Holy Cow Crickets! (Looks again. Stamps his foot) That's a hand! That's a human hand you got there!
LOUISE:
Said it wasn't what you thought.
MARTIN:
Yeah but. But what about the cash? Where's my half?
LOUISE:
There is no cash. (Puts hand back in pouch. Stands) Remember you promised. You're keeping this a secret.
MARTIN:
What about the cops? What if they come around?
LOUISE:
Why would they talk to you?
MARTIN:
Just say they did. What do I say?
LOUISE:
Say you were asleep. Which is true most of the time.
MARTIN:
So uh. So is it? Is that a real hand?
LOUISE:
Think I go around planting fake hands?
MARTIN:
I just meant, if it's a real hand, I'd think you'd be scared.
LOUISE:
Think I'm not scared?
MARTIN:
I don't like seeing you scared. You better not be scared. You're not scared. Are you?
(A scared look briefly crosses her face)
LOUISE:
Thing is, stuff's been going on. Abdul's had a lot on his mind lately.
MARTIN:
I do admit noticing him in the store less often.
LOUISE:
He's seeing a Mexican girl.
MARTIN:
Oh, you mean the one who.
LOUISE:
Yeah, her. She's Pentecostal. He's serious about her. He's been going to prayer meetings.
MARTIN:
You know what they say. God works in mysterious ways.
LOUISE:
Yeah, mysterious. Real mysterious.
(Silence. They stare at the ground. Then...)
LOUISE:
Well, shoot, guess I better ditch this hand someplace.
MARTIN:
You gonna throw it away?
LOUISE:
That's the plan, Stan.
MARTIN:
Can I have it?
LOUISE:
What are you going to do with it?
MARTIN:
Dry it. Wear it off my belt.
LOUISE:
It was Abdul's uncle's hand. You cant wear his uncle's hand off your belt.
MARTIN:
His uncle? The old guy with the snuff and the tin can and the shawl? I thought he went back to.
LOUISE:
He kind of did.
MARTIN:
Yeah?
LOUISE:
And he kind of didn't.
MARTIN:
Yeah?
LOUISE:
Know how you always mean to finish a job? You say Tomorrow, but when tomorrow comes, the pile's even higher? It was around six>. Uncle Abdulla was sitting by the magazines spitting tobacco into a can. It was Friday 'cause the Mexicans were cashing paychecks and buying beer. I saw Uncle Abdulla wasn't moving but I couldn't do anything because I was alone and the line was out the door. Abdul never works Fridays and Alice went home sick. Anyway, Abdul comes in at midnight to count cash and I tell him his uncle hasn't moved in four hours. So he puts a hand in front of the old guy's mouth, shakes his head and drags him into the freezer and says, "I'll take care of it tomorrow."
MARTIN:
What if he wasn't dead?
LOUISE:
We were pretty sure he was. Next day was Saturday which was the opening of trout season. All these guys were in and out buying beer and ice. The beer and ice trucks were coming and going. So Abdul just wraps uncle in plastic and pushes him behind the ice cream.
MARTIN:
You had a dead body behind the ice cream?!?
LOUISE:
It's not like it was smelling up the freezer. It was wrapped in plastic, okay? But he kind of forgot about it. Out of sight, out of mind. Sometimes I'd get the willies late at night when I was alone. And I'd mention it to Abdul. And he'd say, "Yeah yeah." Reflecting on it now, I don't think Abdul and his uncle were all that close.
MARTIN:
Wasn't anyone back in the old country saying anything?
LOUISE:
His wife'd call. Abdul would say, "He's in Detroit." Abdul likes Detroit. So whenever she called and it was me who'd answer, I'd say, "He's in Detroit." And she'd say, "Okay." Detroit was okay. For a while. But lately, there've been a lot of phone calls. Different people. They wouldn't talk to me. They wanted Abdul or nobody. But Abdul wasn't taking phone calls anymore.
MARTIN:
Oh geez. I don't like this at all.
LOUISE:
So last Friday, he shows up.
MARTIN:
You said Abdul never comes in on Friday!
LOUISE:
Came this time. Early morning. Said he had a funeral arranged. So we put the body in the car.
MARTIN:
Don't you have to thaw it out first?
LOUISE:
How the heck would I know? Think I'm a funeral director? Anyway, I didn't ask. Glad it was gone. Dead body behind the ice cream? Giving me the heebee-jeebies. Later, Abdul calls. All agitated. Says the hand's missing. I'm thinking, it must've snapped off while we were lugging Uncle Abdulla to the car.
MARTIN:
Oh yeah. Frozen solid. It'll snap right off. I read about a man in a cabin in Canada in a blizzard. He went outside to take a leak and.
LOUISE:
Anyway! I told him I'd look. And he's screaming, "Hurry! Please!" And I said, "Okay okay!" Except, I'd been snacking on hotdogs and chili all night.
MARTIN:
Oh yeah, love that 7-Eleven chili.
LOUISE:
And I kind of was doing the Aztec two-step?
MARTIN:
I know what you mean. Loosens you up.
LOUISE:
And I always go next door to Burger King.
MARTIN:
See, I could never understand that. The 7-Eleven bathroom seems fine to me.
LOUISE:
You don't see it like I do. Uncle Abdulla could never hit the mark. He was a sprayer. All over the place. And after he bought it, I kept thinking, A dead man took his dumps on this hopper.
MARTIN:
Oh right. Yeah. Never thought of that.
LOUISE:
They always got ten kids working at Burger King. Bathroom's immaculate. You could eat a whopper off the tile, it's that clean. So I posted the 'Back in 15 minutes' sign, went over there with the new Cosmo. I took a flashlight so I could hunt for the hand on the way back. I'm sitting there reading about Barbara Walters interviewing Paris Hilton when suddenly. Ka-Boom! Cops and firemen on the scene all night and all the next day. First chance I got to look for it was today.
(Long silence. Then......)
MARTIN:
You don't think Abdul planted a bomb, do you?
LOUISE:
Marty, listen. Abdul's the best. He wouldn't hurt me. He's given me three raises in the last two years.
MARTIN:
People change. On the one hand, you got this nice guy who gives you raises. On the other hand, you got a man who tosses his uncle's body into the freezer without as much as a how do you do.
LOUISE:
I do admit, the freezer thing is a potential character flaw. You know, a funny thing?
MARTIN:
What?
LOUISE:
He was gonna have free hot dogs on Christmas Eve.
MARTIN:
Get out!
LOUISE:
Her idea. Pentecostals take Christmas real serious.
MARTIN:
Christmas hot dogs. I surely do like that concept.
LOUISE:
Ain't gonna happen.
MARTIN:
Too bad. Had my mouth set. He gonna rebuild?
LOUISE:
Maybe, maybe not. What he is doing is learning Spanish.
MARTIN:
They speak Spanish in Mexico, don't they?
LOUISE:
Imagine they do. Abdul's good at languages.
MARTIN:
I hear you. He speaks English bettern me. I heard him rip off "influential" and "ornithologist" like a champ.
LOUISE:
Face it. The man's in love. When you're in love, you already got one foot halfway out the door.
MARTIN:
They could be halfway to Mexico by now. (Long silence. Then......) Ever read of the pioneers? Folks who settled the west?
LOUISE:
Little.
MARTIN:
What I learned was, they kept moving. They'd stop somewhere, work a piece of land. Then someone'd come by on their way further out. And they'd get all antsy and move on. I guess they were scared they'd miss out. There's that scared word.
LOUISE:
Bet they were never scared by a 7-Eleven blowing up.
MARTIN:
They had wild Indians and range wars and the Hole-In-The-Wall gang. Scared balances out.
LOUISE:
Well, there's no frontier anymore. Its all settled.
MARTIN:
There's Alaska. They call it, the last frontier.
LOUISE:
I dont know anybody in Alaska.
MARTIN:
Who did you know when you came to Fargo?
LOUISE:
No one.
MARTIN:
Duh!
LOUISE:
Maybe I should leave a note.
MARTIN:
No no no. No notes.
LOUISE:
But. But just saying Abdul's still around and he comes looking for me?
MARTIN:
When he doesn't find you, he'll say you're missing.
LOUISE:
They better have Lotto up there. I like to play a dollar a day. It's something I do.
MARTIN:
They got Mega Millions, Spinnits, CASHola, Pick 6, scratchers. They got oil money falling off the trees. Odds are easy. There's winners up the ying yang. How about we play together? Play five dollars a day?
LOUISE:
Maybe I could be Lucky Louise after all.
MARTIN:
Or Lucky someone else. Tell you what. While were driving up, we'll think up some new names.
LOUISE:
Claudia. There was this girl at school and her name was Claudia. I always liked Claudia.
(He starts to exit. He turns and beckons)
MARTIN:
We got ten days to Christmas. Five days of hard driving, we'll be there. Should take you a day or two to find work. Then it'll be like any other year in your life. Working at Christmas. And you know what it'll say on your name tag? "Hi, I'm Claudia."
(She takes the pouch and slings it as far as she can. Fade to black)
Okay. It's official. The reading is a "go" for next Monday. Here's the email...
We're gonna have snacks and programs and I get to invite eight people. More on that in a minute. The eight people, I mean.
For the program, they want a bio, so I stuck in some stuff about being a "Fed" and about being the great-grandson of Hans Christian Andersen.
They asked for a pic. They said "be creative." So I sent them a pic of me when I was one-year-old in a stroller at the Miyake house.
Now, regarding the eight people...
I used to belong to an Orange County writers' group. We'd meet in the back room of a library and read our plays out loud. Sometimes the people from the local theatres (Rude Guerrilla, The Chance, etc) would come and we'd always ask them about producing our plays and they'd always say "send 'em along." We did but nothing ever happened.
One time when I was in a South Coast Repertory playwrighting class, Jennifer Kiger, the Literary Manager there, came in and spoke to us. Someone asked her if the SCR was a good place to send our plays. "Oh yes," She said with a perfectly straight face. "We're always looking for plays by Orange County writers." She told us to "send them along."
After she left, one writer in the class, a good ole boy who'd been around the block a few times, leaned across the table, grinned and said, "That girl's got a bucket with a hole in it. It'd be easier growin' barley and hops in a Florida swamp than gettin' the SCR to do one of your plays."
He was right.
You know the story of Sodom & Gomorrah. God tells Abraham he's about to rain fire and brimstone on the two cities because of their consummate wickedness. Abraham argues with him (he has kinfolk living in Sodom). He "jews him down," as they used to say, and he gets the Big Guy to agree to spare the cities if ten righteous men can be found living there.
Stay with me. This is going somewhere.
So I sent out emails to every theatre in the OC, excluding the community theatres and dinner theatres which do only musicals and light comedy. Here's the list....
Grove Theater Center The Chance Theater The Hunger Artists Theater Rogue Artists Ensemble Theatre Out STAGEStheatre Rude Guerrilla Laguna Playhouse South Coast Repertory California State Long Beach Theatre Arts UC Irvine Drama Department Fullerton College Theatre Arts Cal State Fullerton Department of Theatre
Here's the email I sent them...
A polite, not-too-formal "please come" missive, don't you think? Informative, but not wordy. Striking just the right balance. Neither too fawning nor too arch.
Oh yeah. One last thing. I struck a bargain with the Theatre God. If even one of the above deigns to make an appearance at my reading, He will not rain fire and brimstone on the next Shakespeare-By-The-Sea production and, as a bonus incentive, He will forgive the South Coast Rep for not apologizing for naming a stage after a slumlord's wife...
Any playwright worth his salt has scads of letters from theatres telling him "Thank you but no." Theatres never tell you why. No surprise there. Even when they say yes, they never say why. It's easy to hate them.
There's a little voice deep within me whispering, "The reason they never say why is they haven't a clue. And what is worse, they know they haven't a clue and they're too chickenshit to stand up and admit it." I smile. I nod. The little voice is suddenly my friend, telling me what I want to hear.
As for those theatre bastards, I imagine them writing "yes" and "no" and "perhaps" on a stairway and tossing the scripts in the air with maniacal glee. Yes, that's it. I spend months doing what I do and they spend minutes, nay seconds, doing what they do. Whatever. Bottom line is, the nice ones promise to keep your manuscript on file. The asswipes don't tell you shit. And the asswipes always outnumber the nice ones.
I belong to an Internet Group called Playwrightbinge. It's a good group. It encompasses writers at every level of experience. We have writers there who've scripted 30 or 40 plays and have had hundreds of productions and have seen it all. We have writers who are just starting out and joined the binge to get advice and encouragement.
But regardless of where you are professionally, one thing EVERYONE discusses is turndowns. As in, "I just got a turndown from so-and-so." No matter who you are, you never get used to it.
The number of turndowns is increasing. Because the number of opportunities out there are decreasing. Just do the math and you'll see. It's a bad time to be a playwright. It's also a bad time to be a theatre. Theatres are closing. And those that aren't closing are experiencing tighter budgets. Add to that the fact that audiences are getting older and dying off. And those not busy dying off aren't spending much time reading plays. No one reads anymore. No one cares.
Back in the day, a playwright was an honored person. Everyone knew who the great playwrights were. My great-grandfather, Hans Christian Andersen, was a playwright as well as a storyteller and he was famous all over the world. But now, it's different. You might be the greatest playwright in the USA and no one will know who you are. Or care. Case in point. Israel Horovitz spoke at the Long Beach Playhouse in 2001 and only twenty people showed up. In 2005, Noah Haidle spoke to a gathering in Orange County. A gathering of four people. I could go on but what's the point?
Nevertheless, regardless of the times, you keep your turndowns. They're your whip lashes. Your prison chains. Your gulag. Your proof that you do what you say you do.
*************************************
So what does a turndown look like? What does a turndown say? Let's take five at random.
Here's one that says, you were all sooo good and it was really, really hard to choose...
This one says, so many worthy plays, so few slots...
Here's one that says, we were intrigued (I've come to hate that word), but we'll pass....
Here's my favorite. This one says my play came in second or third or fourth behind a play about a jarhead in tights. Don't ask...
Last but far from least is the turndown I received from the theatre where I religiously went each week for playwrighting classes and when I submitted something, they treated me like a stepchild to the point of misspelling my name. You'd think, after five years of having my stuff read on the SCR Nicholas Stage, I'd at least get a "Way to try, Dale" letter, but no. The asswipes...
*******************************
There was a Seinfeld episode where Jerry goes to a heckler's jobsite and boos her at her desk so she'd know how it felt. It was a cool concept. How about turning the tables on a theatre that sends you a turndown letter? Guess what? I did it.
I received a turndown from Stageworks Hudson for the play, "The Bridge at No Gun Ri." The Literary Manager said the work was "intense" and "intriguing" but not quite the right fit for them. Okay. Only one minor issue. Hardly worth mentioning. I did not write "The Bridge at No Gun Ri."
Before I was a playwright, I was a property manager. I was the Section Chief of the Property Management Unit in the FDIC Houston Consolidated Office. Which means I ramrodded the unit that handled all the foreclosure properties for the failed banks we took over in East Texas. We did the appraising, inspecting, leasing, evicting. We paid the taxes, collected the rents, cut the grass, unstopped the toilets, you name it.
And with all that, the one thing I know is, when a tenant vacates the property in good condition, you refund him his security deposit. It's not law. But it's custom. It's what decent people do. Decent people who live by the Golden Rule.
Fast forward ten years. Imagine my surprise when I got a measly sixty buck refund on my $1,300 security deposit. I thought this must be a mistake, a big snafu. But no. It was real, And the more I looked into it, the more I understood that my sixty dollar refund was just one small cog in a huge machine the sole purpose of which was to make George Argyros a billionaire.
So who the fuck is George Argyros? Well, for one, he's a billionaire Orange Countian. That's bad. What is worse, he's a billionaire Orange Countian whose principal obsession is erecting monuments to himself. Here's one of them. An interior view of the Argyros Forum on the Chapman University campus.
He's also a slumlord. Which is how he made his billions. According to the Orange County Register, he owns about 4,500 rental units in the OC, including the apartment I lived in in 2000 - 2001. 4,500 is a bunch.
He's a bad slumlord (are there good slumlords?). Bad enough his tenants sued him for ripping them off, but the Powers That Be gave him a slap on the wrist. That's another thing about George. He's politically connected. A few years back, he was your Ambassador to Spain, mainly because he raised $30 Million for George W. Bush. Whatever. Here's the news article about the settlement of the tenants suit along with a suggestion that George's political clout may have weakened the plantiffs' case.
Back in the day, when you were getting ready to move out, you cleaned the house. You vacuumed, scrubbed, buffed, scoured and burnished. Because you wanted a nice reference from your landlord ("Oh yes, they were ideal tenants. Everything was neat as a pin.") and because you wanted your deposit back. But with George, that went by the board. It didn't matter how you left the unit. He had this team of illegals working at below-Burger King wages who'd go in after you left and hold a white tornado (That's military talk for "major cleanup"). All so he could manufacture a cleaning bill that mysteriously amounted to 95% of your security deposit, leaving you with sixty dollars in chump change and a note not to spend it all in one place. As a former property manager, I looked at this, gave a low whistle, and said, "Motherfuck, you are good!" Then, of course, I resolved to get even.
***********************
A great philosopher once said, "If you stick it up their ass, they's the ones gettin' their hands dirty pullin' it out." Well, I'm not that aggressive. I live by the maxim, every dog has his day. So, like a good ole Jeff Foxworthy redneck coondog, I parked my carcass and waited with one ear cocked until George erected another Argyros monument. And soon enough, there it was. The Julianne Argyros Stage at the South Coast Repertory Theatre.
Question. Should a theatre be in the business of accepting gifts from a slumlord? Thus did the fact of the Julianne Argyros Stage present the SCR with its gravest moral dilemma of the early 21st century. The SCR Board pondered the question for maybe three minutes, tops. It took the local OC lefties another four minutes to come around. Joel Beers in the OC Weekly wondered aloud whether the South Coast Rep was selling its soul to the devil for the price of a new stage. After two paragraphs of obligatory PC blathering, he guessed not. But that wasn't the end of it. No siree. In the words of Brother Bluto, nothing is over until we decide it is.
,
