The Plan

I was at the 99¢ Store on Lincoln (get used to it, I’m po’) when I suddenly realized that everyone around me was speaking French. We’re talking about a fairly large number of people here - say fifteen or so. The cashier, the customers, the children begging for toys and mercury-laced candy. Even the crazy guy standing behind me and muttering to himself was muttering in French, although in his case I could tell that he didn’t REALLY speak French. This relieved me somewhat, since it implied that he was an American crazy person who was really making an effort to stand out, as opposed to a French crazy person who was just really lost.
I can’t say with 100% certainty that this really happened; even now it seems more and more dreamlike. But I’m pretty sure. Maybe there’s some French enclave out there that I knew nothing about.

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There’s nothing quite so disappointing as the realization that the people you work with get their casual conversation from sitcoms and things their parents used to say.

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I have a show coming up which I’ll say more about shortly, in addition to a few other things - not least of which is the song with Darrell, which I hope to finish up soon once Dancing with the Bad Man starts up. All of the music in the show is his.

As I’ve mentioned before, I’m experiencing an effect similar to the superpower that makes you notice every car on the road that is the same model as yours: everywhere I go I see Car People.

I know I’m not the only person doing this by choice, but I still sort of feel like I’m one of a very few taking the approach I’m taking. I still would like to look like a more-or-less normal kind of guy when I’m not in the car, and I’d like to be as unobtrusive as possible when I am. When I meet others like me, we’ll probably form a gang. A club, at least.

I’ve been trying to define the various types of Car People, mainly for fun, but partly because defining groups makes hatred easier. Bonus! In the interest of fairness, I’ll start with myself.

The Wannabe Kerouacs

The Wannabe longs for adventure and discovery and an escape from the chilling prospect of a life of servitude to some company he has no stake in, but isn’t quite committed enough to do something genuinely risky and adventurous, like take off alone for a year in India.

Actually, I can’t even really claim Wannabe status. I’m still working for the same things I always was, I’m just more focused. I haven’t dropped out of anything except a lease. Still, there is intent here. On that note, to my well-meaning friends who say things like “just come crash on my couch until you find a place”: Stop. You’re missing the point. The fact that I am often unable to articulate the point in no way excuses you.

The Goddamned Idiots
It’s important to me to look (and be) as clean as possible throughout this whole project. Not so the Goddamned Idiots. If I give the impression of a guy with a lot of crap in his backseat, these guys remind you of some sort of vermin. If the world of Mad Max ever comes to be, these people will be the ones that the mohawk guys eat. I have seen a man climb out of a car that was so full of garbage that there was an imprint of his body in the junk surrounding the driver’s seat. Picture the safety foam in Demolition Man. I’ve seen car windows plastered with newspapers from towns that are now officially Historic Ghost Towns. I don’t know if they can’t help it or just don’t care, but these are the guys who pull in nuisance calls and screw everything up.

The Pros

If I saw this as anything other than a temporary project, these would the people I would aspire to be. The distinguishing characteristic of the Pros is that they have really nice RVs. Size doesn’t matter here, upkeep does. I don’t have any demographic data on the Pros, but I’ll tell you this: if you see a decent RV in a supermarket parking lot late of an evening, Pros live there.

The Hippies

I imagine that Hippies only show up in certain specialized areas, since the merciless pummeling of hippies is legal in many parts of the nation. In Los Angeles, the Hippies live in beach parking lots. Mainly Venice, but some in Santa Monica. They ride bikes and barbecue all day, then have dirty hairy orgies in their Technicolor Dreambuses all night. The Hippies are surprisingly rude.

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There are other types out there, but these are the only ones I’ve identified thus far. Nate keeps bugging me to get a camera, and when I do I’ll add photographic examples of the types listed here.

• I tend to get irritated by the smug, pseudo-clever attitude that leads to the idiot/awesome dichotomy. It goes like this: somebody tries something nutty, and if they succeed then they’re awesome. If they die, they’re an idiot. That’s stupid. The end result shouldn’t be taken as an indicator of the person and their intention when they make the attempt. It buys into the whole idea that the point of life is to avoid death as long as possible, which is also stupid. Sometimes (like with Steve Irwin), people will make the argument that it’s idiotic if you have kids. Listen: bad things happen to parents all the time. Kids too, for that matter. That can’t be a reason to not do things. I bring this up because I talk to a lot of people who don’t listen. I can explain what I’m doing, and the fact that it’s a choice, until I’m blue in the face. They can see that I’m happier, healthier and busier - and they don’t get it. I know that if I get mugged or murdered, these people will be the ones saying “Well, he shouldn’t have been in his car.” Let me spell it out: If you think that, you are retarded. I know what I’m on about, and I know that bad things can happen. If a bad thing happens to me, know that this was still the right thing for me to do.
• On Saturday, I attempted Yoga for the first time in something like five years, through Carla and her friend Crystal. I had a conversation with Erica about it beforehand. Her take is that people in Hollywood do yoga because they want to be Madonna. I said it’s just one more thing to do at the gym. Well, this wasn’t Madonna yoga, but it sure as hell wasn’t gym yoga. I signed up with Bally’s on Friday and have been hitting it with an intensity I hope lasts, and nothing (NOTHING) I could do there comes close to how grueling the yoga session was. I can’t exactly say if I liked it or not, but I would do it again in a heartbeat.

• Auditions for Westward Expansion were yesterday. This is the Alliance show that will follow Dancing With the Bad Man, which opens next weekend. Westward is another original piece, written and directed by Cecil Castelleucci - who is linked on the sidebar. The audition was fun; a lot of new members came out, and the format was such that they got to meet each other and see each other work, which can only be good for the company. Also, I felt like I did pretty well, and that’s the really important thing. Me me me.
• The next time that fawn shows up, I may need to use a knife.

I’ve been thinking about love a lot lately, possibly because I’m in the enviable position of not currently being in it. Equally likely is that I’m starting to obsess about it because I live in a car and don’t have the first clue what I’d do with it if I had it.

Unfortunately, I’m almost in love all the time. I spend a lot of time in the company of awesome woman, because I myself am also awesome. Being almost in love generally isn’t a problem, but it requires maintenance. It’s a lot like herpes. The key thing to watch for is love sneaking up on you when you’re weak.

In the car, the weak times are at night if I’m not quite tired enough to sleep, and those liminal half-asleep places I find myself in over and over. These are the times when love comes tapping at my window like a sparrow, or a parking enforcement officer. Sometimes, when it’s really desperate, my mind does a little tour of women I’m attracted to but with whom any attempt at anything would be an extremely bad idea. Crossing-the-streams bad. Not bad in a legal sense, but in just about every other, including electromagnetic. My mind is a whore.

My technique for dealing with love when it sneaks up is pretty simple, but difficult to describe correctly, so consider this description metaphorical. Actually, go ahead and consider it to be delicately yet intricately metaphorical, full of subtle beauty and strong lines. That’s probably the way to go.

When love sees me in quiet repose in my Toyota, and pads over softly like an innocent fawn, when love looks at me with ancient eyes full of promise and hope and a little pain and offers it all to me, I grab that fucker by the throat and beat the everloving shit out of it. I beat it like there’s candy inside. I beat it like it kicked my dog, and then I send it out into the street broken and bloody and stupid. That’s love.

As a rule, I like being in love - I just don’t think I can do it right now. It’d be like trying to drive a car that’s being rebuilt. The transmission is still hanging in the tree. Maybe it’s been so long that I’m a little intimated by it. Maybe I just want to make sure it’s right. Maybe not, maybe I just want to fuck it up a few times really quick.

Sex is another matter entirely. There’s no reason sex should give me so much trouble. I mean, I know several people - stupid, stupid ugly people - who have all the sex they want. This is why prostitution should be legal: I would like to remember what it’s like to touch a woman, and somewhere out there a mother needs to buy her baby formula. That sounds like a win-win to me.

The Horse Lady was there right at 6, making fun of my house as expected. Oh, and it was a Horse Dude.

I can’t begin to describe how confused I am right now.

I’ve been involved in this long-running battle of wills with the DMV over the registration on my car. Originally it was almost entirely my fault, but a combination of hundreds of dollars in fines and unimaginable stupidity on their part left me feeling pretty self-righteous about the whole thing. Well, as self-righteous as one can be when one knows one doesn’t have any power and a giant bureaucracy keeps threatening to take one’s car, which also happens to be one’s home.

The whole thing took over a year and a half, and after a year they can pretty much swipe the car whenever they feel like it. The details are unimportant. At least, the corporeal details are - I asked my soul to describe the experience in it’s own words. Here’s what it gave me:

‘Since I’m eternal, it pretty much felt like one really long visit to me, as opposed to several thousand over eighteen months. It actually started pretty smoothly - I really like those little monitors they have that tell you when it’s your turn, and those little butcher number slips you get, and the pleasant lady telling you who’s next. It’s nice.

So I’m sitting there reading Good Omens, and finally they call my number. I go up to the counter, and things start getting bad really fast. The guy is basically screaming at me from the start: ‘Where’s the title? Where’s the FUCKING TITLE?!?!?!’ I said I didn’t know; that last I’d heard the DMV had it and didn’t know where it was.

“Are you blaming the DMV?”

“No, I’m not blaming you - I’m saying I sent it in to you and I can’t know what happened once you got it.”

“That sounds like blame to me.”

“Fine, I’m blaming the DMV.”

“ONE FOR MAE!!!!!”

That last bit wasn’t really directed at me, it was aimed at the entire building. All the DMV people said “MAE” with one voice as the poor saps on my side of the counter started wailing. This didn’t sound good.

I was grabbed by a Clive Barker version of the Ink n’ Paint bouncer from Who Framed Roger Rabbit and hustled into a little room. I didn’t even know the DMV had little rooms. The creature rumbled “wait for Mae,” and left me alone.

About three hours later, I heard the door open and a rather pleasant voice said “Hi, I’m Mae. How can I help you?” I’m not sure what I expected, but it wasn’t what I saw. At least she was clean.

Mae

So I tell Mae the whole story and she starts asking me questions. Lots and lots of questions. They started out pretty normal (What year is the car?), became strange (How many babies could you fit in the carburetor?), and ended up just plain inappropriate for the DMV(If it happened while you were camping, does it still count as gay?)

Finally I asked her if all these questions were relevant, and she said we’d move on to the practical test. This involved playing that stupid slappy hand game. I had to get her three times in a row or else she wouldn’t let me leave.

She was wicked fast. AND, she had super bony hands. I finally got her, but it took half a day and I was covered in blood. When I won, I let out the softest of relieved sighs, and she instantly punched me in the jaw. I came to on the beach, covered in raw human sewage. I didn’t get my registration.’

Today wasn’t like that. I told the guy my story, he brought up my record, and made a scowly face. This broke my heart, until he said it wasn’t me and something about ‘who did that?’ Next thing I knew, he was handing me my card and sticker. You know how people in movies say ‘get outta here, before I change my mind’? He didn’t, but I actually ran across the parking lot to avoid that very outcome.

If nothing else, my soul is at peace. For a while.

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Horse Lady

Everybody knows I love video games, and I sort of broke down a little bit and traded in most of my stuff for a little handheld to take the edge of the loneliness on those quiet nights when you dicks don’t call. I got a DS since it’s a little cheaper, and you can’t really cry with Mario around.

I’m not ready to stary writing reviews here, so this isn’t one. One of the games I picked up is Animal Crossing: Wild World, a handheld version of a game I had for the Gamecube. It’s a little hard to describe to non-gamers, mainly because you guys don’t really understand how complex these things are (and are expected to be by gamers.) Essentially, in Animal Crossing, you’re a guy in a town where everybody else is some sort of anthropomorphic beast. You have your little house which you decorate, and you garden and run errands for people and have little contests and design clothes and all sorts of goofy little things. You don’t win - it doesn’t work that way.

One of the weird (but, for us, relevant) aspects of the game is that it’s real time. If you play for an hour, an hour has passed in the game - the same hour, like from 2:15 to 3:15. If you quit and play again the next day, a day has passed in game. If you don’t play for a month, all your flowers die. Really.

So your little animal friends come around and talk to you and so on. Here’s where the thing’s been messing with me today. I was playing around while lounging at a park, and the Horse Lady (they have names, but I’m not even good with real people names) came over and said she wanted to visit my house. I said sure, come on over. She said she had to get ready, so when should she visit? I said five minutes. Then it got weird.

HL: “Come on, this is special, I need to get dressed.”

Me: “15 minutes.”

HL: “It’s not like we do this every day.”

Me: “6 o’ clock.”

HL: “Sounds good! Don’t forget!”

As I sit here typing, it’s 5:15. I have to turn on the game in 40 minutes or so or the Horse Lady will be upset. Do you understand what I’m saying? If you want to call me, don’t do it at 5:45, because I have to go wait at my FICTIONAL FUCKING HOUSE for the FICTIONAL FUCKING HORSE LADY to come by and laugh at my wallpaper.

You know the worst part? The worst part is that this is exponentially better than my actual social life. Some people have dry spells, but not me. I have the sort of droughts where the townspeople move on because they don’t think it will ever rain again, and wonder if God is angry because they stopped setting people on fire. I do dry runs at priesthood.

I would be over the moon if I knew a Horse Lady was stopping by later. Real Horse Ladies won’t give me the time of day. You can imagine how I do with primates.

Actual conversation from a convenience store this afternoon: 

Old Lady: (referring to whatever random beef jerky-type snack I was buying*) What flavor is ‘Original’? 

Me: I guess I’ll find out. 

Old Lady: (reading label) ‘Sausage with pork and chicken.’ What else could you ask for? 

Me: I imagine they all taste pretty much the same by the time they reach the stick.  Guy Behind Me: Heh, yeah, they all come out of the same grinder. 

Me: Sure, throw in somebody’s thumb, a little rat…. 

GBM: Some cockroaches! 

Me: Yeah.  GBM: If we get a Mexican mayor, we’ll all be eating like that anyway, so might as well get started early! 

Me: Unh. 

Beyond a sort of general ‘the seas will run red with blood’ sort of racism, I’m not entirely sure what his point was. 

*Incidentally, I REALLY hate people talking about my food either right before or as I eat it. Major pet peeve. I don’t need your commentary on something I’m about to put in my mouth unless it’s attached to you, and even then simple directions will suffice.   ****************************************** 

I spend a lot of time out and about, as it were, and I’m getting really tired of the guys who Have Something To Say, and need to say it randomly and at 125 decibels. They’re all over, although, like seagulls, they’re concentrated in areas with a lot of foot traffic (i.e., the Promenade, Venice Beach, etc.) I realize that many of these people have legitimate mental and/or emotional conditions, so I’ll attempt to be sensitive to that. I really need these guys to shut the hell up. I think that part of the reason it bugs me personally so much is that I like to argue and debate, so there’s always a little part of me that wants to respond in kind, which could never end well.  Crazy Guy: Somebody stole my legs!  Me: That’s ridiculous!

Or, even worse:

Me: Oh yeah? Show me the stitches!

Sane behavior shouldn’t be defined as simply the point where insane behavior ends. It would be kind of nice if people who knew what they were talking about started doing the same thing. For example, it would be pretty cool to see someone leap out at a bunch of tourists on Broadway and 3rd and yell “A free market economy is healthier when certain noncompetitive practices are legislated against, as in the penalizing of the artificial creation of high barriers to entry to protect a monopoly! Yargh!”

The ones who make me angry are the ones who scream racist stuff into the world. Again, I know this behavior is the result of real problems, but what can I say? I’m only human, and it pisses me off. When I hear “You stupid [insert epithet here] You stay away from me!”, what I want to say, in the dark pit of my soul, is: “Listen - nobody cares about you. I’ve called the county to remove things like you, and they came fast. Shut. Up.” But I don’t.

I don’t because, at the end of the day, it isn’t their fault, it’s ours. I know it would be mean (albeit funny) to respond like I suggested above, but it’s not exactly compassionate for everybody to just walk on by and pretend the person isn’t there and isn’t in serious trouble.

At the end of the day, I have no idea what the solution is here.

I never really got into it. If I cared enough to place blame, part of it would lie with a high school English teacher who seemed to think that anything that wasn’t a metaphor or a simile wasn’t an ‘image’, and part of it with my insistence on writing in free verse. I had this rather immature attitude that if I wasn’t writing in free verse, I wasn’t truly exploring the artistic landscape within me. Or some such bullshit.

I was reading Neil Gaiman’s Smoke and Mirrors yesterday; it’s so interesting thus far that I’ve barely made it out of the introductory materials. He has a piece in there called ‘Vampire Sestina’ which, in addition to being a lovely little read, introduced me to the poetic form of the sestina. I may have heard of them or seen them before, but if so I paid them very little attention. Almost all of this information is from The Making of a Poem: A Norton Anthology of Poetic Forms.
The rules of the sestina are insane: 39 lines. 6 stanzas of 6 lines each. One 3 line envoi at the end. So far, so good.

They are unrhymed. Originally they were all written in iambic pentameter, but modern poets seem to take that as they will (sestinas were also meant to be sung, so there you go.) Now it gets tricky.

The words that end the six lines of the first stanza are the words that are going to end every other line in the poem, but in a very specific order.

Standard poetry labeling, more or less: we’ll label the lines of the first stanza 1A through 6A. The second stanza will be 1B through 6B. NOW:

The last word of line 6A must also be the last word of line 1B. The last word of 1A will be the last word of 2B, and from there we continue through the six. Every stanza takes from the preceding stanza in that last line-first line arrangement, then proceeds down. This gets played with quite a bit these days as well.
This really appeals to me. It feels more musical than free verse, and it has a certain logic-puzzle appeal. Sudoku with tears and violins. So I wrote one.

I wrote this last night over maybe two hours. I think you can sort of see me learning the form over the first few stanzas, but I’m still pretty happy with it as a first effort.

I’d point out that it isn’t based on me, but everyone who knows me knows that my singleness is borne of ineptitude and fear. And now I live in my car, so, you know, wedding bells ain’t a-pealin’.

A Bachelor’s Sestina

I think to measure me by what I love
Or don’t unfair, but just this once I’ll play
Your game. To say that I can be alone
Is not to say I’m not often afraid
I’ll wait until there’s one final door free
And out the corner of my eye I’ll see it close.

Is it a crime to hold a woman close?
Does mimicry make mockery of love?
If I can’t help but hear sweet music play,
When she is near why must I hear alone?
Why does wedded bliss make men afraid?
A lion’s mind, once caged, is never free!

The hours of the single men are free;
Their friendships never fray, their bonds stay close.
As versed as any in the games of love,
They only lack a field on which to play.
And if they find they’re forced to play alone,
They gain the strength to play when Dick’s afraid.

Never again shall I live afraid
To wake to find my true love’s set me free!
You’ll never hear a shuttered heart slam closed.
You’ll quickly learn so many kinds of love.
Hold tight, my dear, and let the music play!
Those who dance this close don’t sleep alone!

It’s not my fault old women die alone.
Perhaps, a bit, that fathers sleep afraid.
Does virtue held by shackles make one free?
Are values learned in fear ever kept close?
Those who at home are taught the least of love
Are those who, once of age, most want to play….

The game’s afoot! Come, let the players play!
For though it may be true we die alone,
And always in our hearts, a part’s afraid,
Know living as we choose is living free!
And though we may not always be so close,
We’ll always have a memory of love.

Those who would live free must live alone,
And those who would seek love must live afraid,
So those who wish to play hold their hands close.

My acting class was cancelled today for various reasons, which meant that Richard and I were finally able to meet up again and think musically for the first time in a very long while. For those who don’t know, he and I had been working together for a while and then just sort of dropped things, as often happens. We’ve finally started to correct that mistake.

We met up at the park at the corner of Palms and Sawtelle - I really need to learn the name of that thing, especially since I spend so much time there - and headed up the PCH. We didn’t head very far; we were just looking for a stretch of beach less crowded than Venice or Santa Monica where we could pull out the guitar and just sing with the ocean for a while.

We ended up at Will Rogers State Beach, which is kind of ugly compared to every other beach in the vicinity. Still, it was more than enough for our purposes. We left the car with a valet and walked down the stairs to the beach. This is when we first saw the problem.

We didn’t really do anything about it at first. I guess we wanted to make sure it wasn’t a non-issue before we called the cavalry, but I sort of knew we would eventually.

We chose a couple of rocks that weren’t entirely bathed in fresh gull guano and got to work. The ease with which we fell into harmonies and rhythms that we hadn’t practiced in a year or so was reassuring. “In My Head” is one of my favorite songs (of mine) and it still works just as well as a duet. “Blue” is still strong, but needs some re-working, so we polished “Keep Getting Better” to give us two to take into an open mic situation. We’re going to try to sign up for something tomorrow night, and if we figure it out in time I’ll post it here.

We stayed for maybe an hour, and then it was time to do something about the problem. The problem consisted of a number of items around a large rock on the beach. A plastic bag, which I eventually opened to find a Koran, an empty DVD case and a USB connector cable. A number of photographs, all of the same woman. A few pieces of clothing which we didn’t examine closely enough to identify. A cane. Several prescription medicine bottles. Receipts for same.

I don’t think of myself as someone who jumps to outlandish conclusions, but it looked bad. We decided to find a park ranger or something since, even if nothing awful had happened, eight or ten bottles of meds don’t exactly reinforce the family atmosphere the Parks and Rec department is looking to maintain. We ended up talking to the staff at the restaurant at the top of the stairs, since they were prettier.

Richard took them down to the ’site’ while I emptied the sand from my shoes. When he came back, he said that they were going to find the lifeguard on duty and report it, but that they thought it was nothing. That was Richard’s first impression as well. They may well have been right.

But I don’t think so.

There were two things about the scene that are still bothering me. The first was the cane: it was well-worn, and it was resting upright against the rock. When I say worn, I mean it - tape on the foot, a worn patch where the hand would go - the thing had seen some use. It was resting against the rock; it hadn’t been dropped or tossed, it had been rested. It looked abandoned. But you can’t have a cane that’s well-worn AND abandoned, all things being equal. The fact that it’s worn is strong evidence against the user being able to abandon it. At least, not without the use of another cane.

The other thing that’s sticking with me is the medicine bottles. I didn’t count them all, but let’s say they were eight. That’s a lot of medicine to lose, and it doesn’t imply good health. They were big bottles, twice as long as what I think of as the standard size. They were dated 9-8-06. And one of them was open.

There were little white round pills all over the place. I didn’t read the labels on the bottles; I guess I felt like I was being intrusive enough as it was. But I have this hunch that if I were to look up the one drug that had been opened and spilled, it would turn out to be a sedative or a pain reliever.

Maybe the guy was senile or confused and just walked away and left his stuff there. Maybe he got mugged. Maybe he was just a block or two away playing with his dogs. Everybody else thought it was nothing.

But I saw the pills. The pills and the photos and the cane. I know all about Occam’s Razor, but Occam refers only to simplicity, not to pleasantness - and my explanation is as simple as any other. I think the guy decided to go swimming one last time.

But it would be nice to be wrong.

———————————————————————

I had called the pharmacy on the labels, but they didn’t have much advice to offer. Once the staff said they’d find the lifeguard, we left it in their hands. Who knows if that was right. The name on the bottles was Arnell Bell. I put that here with no expectations. It just seems like the right thing to do.

One of the things that I hoped for from all this was that my increased mobility and freedom from my own inertia would allow me to respond more quickly to things and to experience things that I might have otherwise missed out on. It seems to be working.

Last night, through a combination of scheduling mishaps and misanthropic furniture, I attended the LA Stage Alliance’s informational meeting regarding their Free Night of Theatre 2006.

The basic idea is pretty neat: get a whole mess of theaters and companies to donate seats for shows on the same day (ideally; it’s sort of centered on October 19th, but there will be some spillage beyond that) and have one central location for promotion and logistical support.

The idea that American theatre is dead or dying is pretty widespread. It’s a bit overstated; it’s been in the state it’s in for a while and it’s still around. It’s not like it’s going any lower than it is.

But there are some interesting things on the wind. It seems as though we may have an extremely strong chance, perhaps not to restore American Theatre to the glory it never really had, but to at least remind everybody that we’re here. There’s the incredible (and I mean that in the most sincere way) 365 project, spearheaded by Susan-Lori Parks, and now there’s the Free Night of Theatre.

The program is halfway through a testing and growth phase, so it looks like we won’t see the full-on national juggernought version until next year. Still, with heavy promotion and strong results from last year’s even smaller version, this looks like it could be really successful.

As for me, just being out and part of the biz was pretty cool. I met some really cool people from Theatre East who told me about an upcoming original piece they’ll be presenting called “They’re Not Zombies!” which they seemed pretty excited about. Between their obvious enthusiasm and the presence of the word ‘zombies’, I’m looking forward to the show.

An Ark rep was there, and that was fine - although my polite nod was dismissed pretty quickly, which is ridiculous considering the actual events of the Incident, so the hell with politeness.

It was just nice to feel involved, and to pretend I knew what the hell I was doing. In graditude for the opportunity, I say: Royana, I’m glad you cracked your head open, and I mean that in the nicest possible way.

LA Stage Alliance: Free Night of Theatre 2006

Theatre East