The Plan

Photo by Zach Behrens

The LAist has been covering 365 plays/365 days in Los Angeles from the beginning. I don’t know if they’re the only ones covering it, but they’re certainly doing the best job. The photo above comes from their article covering the Black Dahlia’s performance on 1/20/07.

Of the eight pieces, two were directed by Obi Ndefo, the guy who directed Week 5 for the Alliance. He is The Real Deal. The LAist’s article lays out the scene at the Dahlia pretty cleanly. I hadn’t intended to be in a 365 since experimental theatre isn’t really my thing, but this was quick and dirty and a whole bunch of fun. Bonus: Susan-Lori Parks came. I said ‘thank you for doing this.’

That’s me with the pretty pretty wings.

I write this knowing that Megan is currently in much more dire car trouble than I am. Always be aware of perspective.

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I am the all-time undisputed King of Flat Tires. I’ve mentioned it before, and there isn’t much more I can say about it. Not only have I gone through approximately 30,000 tires over the last few years, but I’ve lost them in every way imaginable: blowouts, nails, slow leaks, you name it. Last night’s offender was a nail.

I had noticed the nail a while ago, but had elected to let it be on the ‘it’s-worse-if-you-take-the-knife-out-of-his-chest’ theory. It was actually successful for quite a while, but over the last week the tire had developed a slow leak, which turned into a plain ol’ leak sometime yesterday.

I complained about the tire to Adam during the rather strained but ultimately rewarding final tech/dress rehearsal for 365 (more about that later.) He had a spare can of Fix-a-Flat or some related product which he lent me to shore up the leaky bastard. I popped that sucker on there, filled the tire, and went on my merry way.

This is probably a good time to mention that I have never had a can of Fix-a-Flat do what I wanted, or even what it was supposed to.

I got a few exits down the 134 West when I heard the familiar sound of an unhappy tire. This one had the standard ‘whump-whump-whump,’ plus an element of banshee-like wail which I hadn’t heard before. I took the Woodman exit, which placed me in an area I am completely unfamiliar with (although everything in LA is near something familiar.) The tire was flat and covered in fixit juice.

The first thing I did was call Mr. Adam Legg. I wasn’t really expecting him to do anything, I just wanted to make sure somebody knew what was up, and I’d already been whining to him about the tire. He suggested I call Robert or Royana and see if they were still at the theatre. I was reluctant to do that since, even though it was past midnight on a Sunday, I really hoped to find a solution that would get me over the hill.

I carry an air compressor with me; I’m required to as King of Flat Tires. I hooked it up and quickly found the hole. It turned out that I had simply lost the nail - there was no sidewall tear or other major damage, just one small hole. I could cover it with my thumb and enjoy the illusion of a tire that was sound.

Then the ridiculous idea came to me. A while back, I had picked up a little DS accessory pack to get the thumb stylus (which I have since lost.) it came with three additional stylus….es. I wondered if I couldn’t jam one of those in the hole and essentially just replace the nail. I know it was stupid, but I really wanted to get back to my turf.

I shoved the stylus into the hole and tamped it down with my foot. It stayed. I fired up the compressor and filled the tire to something less than the optimum pressure. The stylus failed to shoot out of the tire. I called Adam again so that someone could explain what had happened to the coroner. And I drove.

On Adam’s advice, I planned to take Ventura to Sepulveda. I got maybe half a mile before I heard the whump-whump-whump of failure. I checked the tire and saw that the stylus had been shoved inside by the pressure of the road (the head on these things is slightly offset, so that it’s flush with one side of the shaft.) I sighed.

But I still had more sty….les.

For attempt #2, I used the sidewalk and a lighter to grind and melt the head into a flattened roundish shape. I was attempting to model it into a plasticky nail, hoping that the new broad head would hold the thing against the tire without getting sucked in. I filled the tire again. I drove again.

And it fucking worked.

This is clearly a temporary solution, and I can just barely afford to get a $30 used tire, but I’d like to see if I can’t get to Friday without friction taking away my little toy. I have my doubts.

But I also have a few more styli.

Westward Expansion opened on Friday and seems to be going over well. One of the things that drew me to the Alliance in the first place was the quality of the people there. I’m not exactly the Old Man of Los Angeles Theatre, but I’ve been around enough to know that far too many companies are either vanity projects for one giant ego, giant balls of bickering or some other ugly little collection of neuroses (that’s what ACTORS are supposed to be.)

I say this so you know that when I say I love being with this cast, you will hopefully take it as something other than ‘what people always say.’ I don’t always say those things, but I really like these people.

I like the show, too, although I always have trouble discerning the ‘read’ - I’m pretty happy with the work I’m doing, everybody else is doing a good job, and Cecil’s a hell of a writer. The first review should come out this week or next, for what it’s worth. All in all, I expect this show to do well, artistically and otherwise.

Go see it. Right now. Well, not RIGHT now, but, you know, soon.

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I spent a good portion of Sunday at the Southern California Regional Bikram Yoga Championship, essentially by accident. Fun fact: Bikram is a dude.

I went along with Carla after rehearsal, in the interest of doing something I hadn’t done before. I need to get this out of the way right now, lest it give me a tumor: nothing in the world - nothing - can smell as bad as a giant room devoted to Bikram yoga. I don’t care how bad your bipedal snow cow smells, inside or out, this is worse. Apparently, they heat the room to 105 degrees for Bikram, which is oriented more towards strength and flexibility than other yogic disciplines. The room could probably hold, oh, 18,000 people. that’s 18,000 people bending and sweating in 105 degree heat. Hence the smell.

When I wasn’t wondering if my nose would shut down before I went into shock, I was admiring the competition. It works like so: each hopeful gets three minutes to perform seven poses (five compulsory, two they choose themselves.) The question of ‘competitive yoga’ was dealt with by explaining that, even though there were other people up there, it was still really about competing with one’s self. All I know is that the only pose I could have complete was the Rabbit, which could just as easily have been called the ‘Nap.’

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