EGO-BOOSTER NUMBER 7...

Good news! Dead Angel will have a five-week run at the Whitefire out in the San Fernando Valley. Here's the straight skinny from the Whitefire website and the Dramatists Guild online newsletter:








DEAD ANGEL - a short one-act play

EGO-BOOSTER NUMBER 6...

Just got an email from John Lant, the head honcho at Write Act Repertory. Attached to the email were scans of the postcard front and back for the upcoming one-act fest. Looks pretty damn good, doncha think?






Oh, and by the way, here's my actress. She emailed me, told me she really likes my play. I love it when they say they like my play. Don't ever tell people flattery doesn't work. 'Cause it does...




Opening night is June 26th. Write it down...

DEAD ANGEL - a play about two cheaters and what happens when one cheater drops dead in the act of...

EGO-BOOSTER NUMBER 5

In some of my previous posts, I mentioned that I once worked for the US government. That's right. I was a Fed. And working for the government is mostly boring work. Dull. Really, really dull. Dull workspaces, dull people, dull assignments. Don't let anyone tell you different.

But occasionally, very occasionally, something interesting happens. And if you're lucky enough to be there, it leaves a mark.

Here's my "something interesting." One of my colleagues was cheating on his wife. He and this woman (who, by the way, was cheating on her husband) would spend nights in a hotel room whenever they happened to be "on the road" together.

One night, sometime in the wee hours, she died. Or to put it another way, the next morning he woke up. And she didn't.

Hey, it happens. You just hope it doesn't happen to you.

And now for the mark it left. I decided to write a one-act play (without naming names, of course) on the subject of cheating, deception, betrayal, death. And, oh yes, honesty. Got to have honesty in there. Add a dollop of fantasy. Toss in a sprig of whimsy for good measure. And voilà!

I call it Dead Angel. And it will be produced by Write Act up in Hollywood in June and July...





DEAD ANGEL - a short one-act play

Publish at Scribd or explore others: Screenplays & Plays Creative Writing comedy hotel

UNFORTUNATELY, WE WILL BE ABLE TO USE YOUR WORK...

In an earlier post on this blog, I presented examples of various turn-down letters I've received from theatres over the years.

But the one I got this week tops them all. It was a form-letter email that hilariously left out the crucial telling adverb "not," as in "we will not be using your play."



Maybe I should show up for the reading. On second thought, no.

WHERE GONDOLIERS DELIVER PIZZA TO YOUR BOAT SLIP.....

The reading went well. Lovely audience. Wonderful actors. David Gold, Sonja Berggren, Erin Henriques, Pete Taylor, Paul Major. They brought my little play to life. Gave it bones, flesh and blood.

And the venue. We were in the neatest part of Long Beach. Naples. It's an island. Here's a satellite pic:



Every house in Naples backs up to a canal. Everyone in Naples has a boat.

I wanna live in Naples. I wanna live where gondoliers deliver pizza right to the slip...



Sigh.....

**************************

Oh yeah, the play. Here's the cover of the program. Understated. Though I do like that they put my name in bold type.



They asked me to write 5 questions for the audience to ponder. They told me to be serious. After all, this is a sophisticated group, most of whom have advanced degrees in theatre and the performing arts. We're talking crème de la crème here. Not the sort to be trifled with...

I GOT A TURNDOWN LETTER FROM.....

Turndowns. Turndowns. Turndowns.

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."

That was my opening. Take a letter, Maria.

Damn, that felt good!

ABOUT A DOG

Years ago, I wrote a short Christmas play for a playwrights group I used to belong to. Every Christmas season, the group put on a holiday festival at the Chance Theater in Anaheim Hills to raise money. So I decided to put my dog Becky in my play as a character. That's Becky in the picture...





Becky's English is pretty limited, so I gave her a non-speaking role. In fact, her character was never to be seen on stage, but only spoken of. Someone later told me that my Becky play would make a good full-length. So, in 2003, I wrote it, and the full-length, entitled A Better Place, made the 2004 O'Neill short list. Not bad, huh?





Anyway, here's the ten-minute. It's called A Dog's Christmas and it was a joy to write...

A DOG'S CHRISTMAS

Cast of Characters

Ali………………Bitch, confrontational, overweight
Artie…………Pug, impressionable, leads with his mouth
Brick…………Akita, tough guy but not a leader
Cyril…………Russian Wolfhound, a thinker, an artist

(Midnight. Animal Shelter. The humans are
all asleep. Four dogs, ARTIE, ALI, BRICK and CYRIL, sitting down to play cards)

ARTIE:

Dja hear about Becky?

BRICK:

Yeah.

ARTIE:

It sucks! It just sucks!

ALI:

What about Becky?

ARTIE:

I tell ya. Chicks get all the breaks.

ALI:

Oh yeah. Lucky us. We get all the breaks.

ARTIE:

It sucks! I mean, it just sucks!

ALI:

I’ll give you sucks. Try nursing seven pups.

CYRIL:

Wha? What’s all this about Becky?

BRICK:

Cyr. I already told you about Becky.

ALI:

It’s no big deal, Cyr. Just some type-A males venting about you know what.

BRICK:

Hey, shut up, Ali.

ALI:

Ooooh, struck a nerve.

ARTIE:

Tell ya, you can’t win. The fix is on. Game over, man.

CYRIL:

No, Brick. I don’t think you told me.

BRICK:

Cyr. I toldja about Becky. I know I did.

CYRIL:

You did? Well. Hmmm. I suppose if you say you did, you did. Guess I just wasn’t listening.

BRICK:

You never listen. Gotta open your ears, big guy.

ALI:

Cut!

ARTIE:

Cut!
(Long silence)
Cut!

BRICK:

Uh Cyr. They want you should cut the cards.

CYRIL:

What? Oh. Yes. Sorry, Artie.

ALI:

Geez, Cyril.

CYRIL:

I really am sorry.

ARTIE:

Willya just hurry up and cut?
(Cyril cuts. Artie grabs the deck and
shuffles and deals. As he shuffles and
deals, ARTIE speaks the following to
no one in particular)
That was a nice kid. A real nice little kid. With a pretty mom. They both had real nice smiles. I wouldda been so. Well shit. What am I thinking?

(They play cards as they talk)

Cyril:

Of whom are we speaking?

ARTIE:

Becky. Who the hell you think we’re talking about?

ALI:

Always blaming the female. Cherchez La Femme.

BRICK:

So the mom and the little kid. Did they stop and look at you?

ARTIE:

They make ‘em look at everybody. Just a formality.

BRICK:

Well, what happened?

ARTIE:

What happened? You wanna know what happened? I’ll tell you what happened! They were passing my cage and I went to my sit position just like I practiced a million times. You know, butt down, head up, eyes alert. I could tell the little boy was impressed. I even tilted my head so I could give him a really intelligent smile. And then you know what Becky does? She wiggles her tush. Jumps around going “Yap, yap, yap” Crouches down on all fours. Rolls over. And her tongue is goin’ a thousand miles a minute. You can’t compete with that! I tell you. Chicks get all the breaks.

BRICK:

Artie. Don’t get upset.

ALI:

It is such a double standard in this place. We’re supposed to be attractive, but when a male wants to strut his stuff, we’re supposed to back away and be invisible. Where’s the justice?

ARTIE:

All I’m asking is a chance.

BRICK:

Didja hear? He’s not asking much, Ali. Just a chance.

ARTIE:

I would be the best dog you ever had. I know I would. Just give me the chance. Please take me home. I will make you happy. I’m Artie. Try me. Please.

BRICK:

Relax, Artie. Take it easy.

CYRIL:

It’s true. Being the dog at someone’s house is a wonderfully unique experience. It was like that for me when I lived with Miss Rosa. What a wonderful woman.

ARTIE:

You see? You see? Even Cyril had a shot. What is wrong with me? What is wrong with this picture?

CYRIL:

Did I say something wrong?

ALI:

Naw. Artie’s a pug. Pugs always whine.

BRICK:

(Stage whisper to CYRIL & ALI)
Listen! Will you two watch it!? Artie’s got five days and if he doesn’t find a home, they’re gonna.
(Pantomimes execution by hanging)
So be nice to him.

(ALI & CYRIL blink, look frightened)

ARTIE:

Hey, Cyril!

CYRIL:

(Making the effort to sound especially
nice. ALI flashes a big smile)
Yes, Artie.

ARTIE:

Just for the record. How dja hook up with Miss Rosa?

BRICK:

Artie. Would you please just relax?

ARTIE:

I am relaxed.

BRICK:

I don’t want you getting upset.

ARTIE:

What are you talking about? I am relaxed, dammit! Very relaxed! Extremely relaxed! I’m just trying to understand some stuff, OK? Just trying to get some clarification.

BRICK:

You’re pissed. I know when you’re.

ARTIE:

I am not pissed!

BRICK:

Yes, you are!

ARTIE:

Hey! Don’t try and psychoanalyze me, OK? Cyril, willya tell me about Miss Rosa? Please.

BRICK:

Don’t tell him, Cyril. It’ll upset him.

ARTIE:

C’mon Cyr. Talk to your buddy Artie.

ALI:

I thought this was a friendly card game. Anyone wanna play cards?

BRICK:

(Growls threateningly)
Cyril.

ARTIE:

Now Brick, you’re starting to piss me off.

CYRIL:

(Getting flustered and nervous)
Brick. What do you want me to do?

BRICK:

Shit! I give up! Just go ahead and do what you damn well want.

ALI:

Don’t you just love how decisive males are? So hands on, take charge?

ARTIE:

Yeah, why doncha butt out, Brick?

BRICK:

OK, screw it then.

ARTIE:

Yeah, just screw it, dumbass.

BRICK:

Right. Screw it.

CYRIL:

Brick. I’m really don’t want you to be mad at me. I didn’t mean.

BRICK:

It’s OK!

CYRIL:

You’re certain.

BRICK:

I said it was OK!

ALI:

Didntja hear him say it was OK? It’s OK. Sheesh!

CYRIL:

OK. Uh, Artie. So what exactly did you want to know?

ARTIE:

I wanna know all the details. And the details behind the details. Like. Where’d Miss Rosa find you?

CYRIL:

Oh, ha ha. It was more like me finding her.

ARTIE:

Say what?

CYRIL:

To put it succinctly, I walked into her yard.

ARTIE:

Walked in? Walked in from where?

BRICK:

His owners dumped him out in the sticks.

CYRIL:

Yes. Sad to say. One day they wanted me. The next day they didn’t.

ARTIE:

Wait a minute. Are you talking about Miss Rosa? I thought you said.

BRICK:

No. Artie. This was before Miss Rosa.

ALI:

(Indicates CYRIL)
Brick. It’s Cyril’s story. Okay?

BRICK:

Well screw it. Everybody’s dumpin’ on me. Guess I’ll just shut up.

ARTIE:

Good plan, asshole.

CYRIL:

It was a young couple. No children. Dual income, no kids. DINKs. And they were away all day.

ARTIE:

They left you alone?

CYRIL:

They’d come back at night. They fought all the time and the woman would drink and kick me.

ARTIE:

You shouldda bit the bitch!

CYRIL:

That’s not my style. To make a long story short, New Year’s Day they were both home. They put me in the car and we went for a ride out on the country roads and.

BRICK:

And they threw him out of the car.

ALI:

(Shivers)
That happened to me, too.

CYRIL:

Brick, it wasn’t exactly like that!

BRICK:

All right, not exactly. They didn’t throw him out. They pushed him out. Then they drove off.

ARTIE:

They did this on New Year’s Day?

CYRIL:

Right after the Rose Bowl.

ALI:

My owners did it to me on Labor Day. I was pregnant.

ARTIE:

The maggots!

CYRIL:

I started walking and I came to a house. And there were chickens in the yard and two skinny cats who hissed at me and a big tom turkey and there was Miss Rosa tossing seeds to the chickens and the turkey. And she turned to me and she said, “Happy New Year, big fella. You look hungry.”

ARTIE:

Awright!

CYRIL:

I wasn’t hungry but I smiled and nodded. She went inside and came back out with the biggest soup bone I ever saw in my life.

ARTIE:

Oh man!

CYRIL:

She never cursed me. She never kicked me. She never scolded me. She always said, “Good boy. Good dog.”

ALI:

My female intuition is kicking in.
(Takes a hanky, dabs her eyes)
I know this is gonna have a sad ending.

ARTIE:

Hey! You wanna put a sock in it? So what happened next?

CYRIL:

One morning I woke up early. I heard the cats in the kitchen. I knew something wasn’t right. I walked in and I saw her there on the floor. The cats already knew she was gone. They were hissing and growling. I told them I was sorry. They rubbed against me and told me they were sorry too. That was the only time those cats ever spoke to me.

BRICK:

Fuckin’ cats!

ALI:

(Sobbing)
That is so sad.

CYRIL:

One of Miss Rosa’s sons came to the house around noon and they took her away.

ARTIE:

I’m sorry, Cyr.

ALI:

(Sobbing)
That is so sad.

CYRIL:

She was a saint. I loved her.
(Tears well up)
She was a saint.

(Long reflective silence. ALI continues to quietly sob)

ARTIE:

Cyr?

CYRIL:

Yes, Artie.

ARTIE:

A good woman like Miss Rosa. Good to dogs. Good to cats. Good to birds.

BRICK:

Fuckin’ birds!

ARTIE:

Do you think she’s you know. Somewhere? Out there?

CYRIL:

Artie. I have no doubt she’s up there looking down on us right now.

ARTIE:

Really?

CYRIL:

I believe a virtuous life is rewarded.

ARTIE:

Wow. So. So. Are you including uh. You know. Dogs in this?

CYRIL:

There are virtuous dogs. Just like there are virtuous humans. And virtuous cows.

BRICK:

Fuckin’ cows!

ARTIE:

Cyril.

CYRIL:

Yes, Artie.

ARTIE:

Do you think?

CYRIL:

You’re a good dog, Artie. You’re a shoo-in.

The End

DAN ACRE'S DIRTY LAUNDRY

Dan Acre got a production of his hilarious play, "Wasted." Except it's not "Wasted" anymore. It's "Dirty Laundry." The theater people made him change the title. Because of the drug and alcohol connotations. Go figure. Dan's a true artist. He writes, he versifies, he critiques, he pontificates, he carouses, he regales, he consumes. He's even been known to doodle. Here's a self-portrait:



As for Dirty Laundry, it's the touching story of a boy and his dog.... No, actually, it's about four marginal characters, Uncle Roy, Dort, Jimbo & Smith living in a kind of group house. They pool their Social Security and Veterans' Benefits for booze and hookers. As the first scene opens, Denice the Hooker is getting ready to do her thing when, out of the blue, Uncle Roy's nephew Kenny shows up to upset the apple cart....

KENNY: Does she live here too?

SMITH: No, Kenny.

UNCLE ROY: Oh man.

DENICE: I ain't doing no kid, if that's what you're thinking.

DORT: He's only going to watch. No harm in that.

DENICE: No. The kid's got to leave, or else I will.

UNCLE ROY: Alright. Kenny, go wait outside in the yard.

KENNY: What are you going to do?

JIMBO: Nothing. Go outside.

DENICE: No. He'll be looking through the window. He needs to go, go.

KENNY: Come on. What's the big secret?

JIMBO: Jeez, you're dumb. She's a whore. Now go away and come back in an hour.

DENICE: I don't like being called that. Don't call me that.

DORT: Don't call her that, Jimbo.

KENNY: You're really a whore?

DENICE: That's it. See you later.

(Denice tosses the envelope back onto the counter and exits.)

JIMBO: Wait! You're not a whore!

DORT: Yes she is.

JIMBO: Roy, do something!

UNCLE ROY: What can I do?

(Jimbo runs to the door.)

JIMBO: Denice! Come back! Come on, baby!

SMITH: She's gone.

KENNY: She got mad when you called her a whore.

JIMBO: God damn it!

DORT: Jimbo wants to marry her.

JIMBO: I do not.

SMITH: Next month, Jimbo.

JIMBO: What if she doesn't come back?

UNCLE ROY: She'll come back. Next month.

JIMBO: But what if she doesn't?

DORT: Yeah. She might not, Jimbo. Ever. You'll never have a woman again.

UNCLE ROY: We'll find another one if we have to.

KENNY: Was she really a whore?

DORT: What do you think?

JIMBO: The kid bugged her. Made her leave.

KENNY: I didn't know.

JIMBO: We told you to leave and you wouldn't. You scared her off.

KENNY: She didn't look scared. Who was she going to do it with?

SMITH: It's alright, Jimbo. Let's just have a drink.

DORT: All of us.

KENNY: Really? She'd let you?

DORT: Yeah. We share everything. Like a commune. We're communists. She would have screwed you, too, if we gave her enough money.

KENNY: Really? I wouldn't screw her.

JIMBO: Why not?

KENNY: She's a whore.

DORT: Are you crazy? A whore's the perfect woman. She leaves when you're done with her, and she doesn't ask for alimony.

(Uncle Roy picks up the envelope.)

UNCLE ROY: Uh oh!

JIMBO: What?

UNCLE ROY: She took the money.

JIMBO: Oh that bitch! Oh god damn it!

SMITH: Jesus Christ.

DORT: I guess she won't be coming back.
(Sings)
I tried to love you,
But you stole all my money,
Yodel-aye-he-heee-heee-hoooo.
(Stops singing)
Hey, that's a good lyric! Quick, Jimbo, find one of your crayons and write that down.

JIMBO: Roy, how could you let this happen!

UNCLE ROY: That was booze money, too.

SMITH: Not again!

(Smith goes to the kitchen and looks through the cupboards.)

JIMBO: We're broke?

UNCLE ROY: Almost. You guys said "Let's get Denice tonight, Roy." I tried to tell you.

DORT: Ain't no woman worth being sober over. Shit.

JIMBO: It's the kid's fault.

KENNY: I didn't do it!

DORT: Yeah you did.

SMITH: Almost out of food, too.

JIMBO: Roy, what's with him anyway? What's he doing here?

DORT: He's a queer, Jimbo.

KENNY: I am not.

DORT: He's gonna touch your scrotum when you're sleeping.

JIMBO: He better not!

(Smith goes through the house, trying to straighten up the mess.)

UNCLE ROY: Come on, come on. Who needs another beer? Jimbo, you good?

JIMBO: Yeah. But it ain't right, Roy.

UNCLE ROY: Let it go. Kenny, what are you doing here? Are you in trouble?

JIMBO: He just might be queer. Said he wouldn't want to screw a girl. I can't see why he wouldn't want to. Any normal kid would.

DORT: Yep. The kid's a queer, Jimbo. Because of you.

JIMBO: That's bullshit, Dort.

KENNY: Well, I'm not in trouble, really. I was driving to Florida when I ran out of gas. And I'm not a queer.

DORT: You've got a car? Jimbo, he's got a car!

JIMBO: We need a car.






"Dirty Laundry," developed in Cecilia Fannon's class at the South Coast Repertory Practicum, will play at Stages Theatre in Fullerton, from July 11 to August 16.

STAGEStheatre
400 E Commonwealth Ave.
Fullerton Ca. 92832
714-525-4484
Stagesoc@stagesoc.org

Nine Ten - a 9/11 play by Dale Andersen

MAYBE MOHAMMED WILL GO TO CHICAGO...

Ahhhh. Another nice ego-booster out of the blue. This time from the n.u.f.a.n. ensemble. They're out of Chicago. They hold a lively playwrighting competition every year. And look who made the semi-finalist list this year. Little ole Dale!



I've been really busy lately trying to shake off my writer's block and get my screenplay done. Haven't thought much about Mohammed's Moon. I wrote it in 2005-6 for the South Coast Repertory Practicum and we had a nice reading of it on the Nicholas Stage. My teacher, the playwright Cecilia Fannon, said of it:



You know? The way I see it, it doesn't matter if it never again gets read or produced. The good opinion of Cecilia Fannon is enough. And that she read it not once but twice. That's the ultimate compliment.

PANNDORA COMES CALLING

Another nice ego-booster.

Panndora Productions (which is ramrodded by two brilliant ladies, Sonja Berggren & Karen Wray) emailed me.



Looks like they might do The Best Years Of Her Life in July.

What would be really cool is if they decided to produce it. They did such a great job with Three Tall Women. And my play was inspired by the Albee play.

One can hope!