“Don’t overestimate the decency of the human race.” - H. L. Mencken

“Ms. Johnson, aren’t you just a little concerned about Darla Lynn?”  The sheriff’s officer leaned-in slightly, finding himself suddenly surrounded by Carolynn’s cigarette smoke cloud.

Carolynn finished exhaling some smoke, laid her cigarette in the ash tray, methodically picked up her cup of coffee from the table, took a sip, placed the cup back down on the table, inhaled, looked at the sheriff’s officer, and said, “Ryan, stop calling me Ms. Johnson.”

Ryan’s patience was reaching the end.  He felt his blood boil, and his temples felt hot.  His upper lip curled a little.  “Carolynn, I know you’re basically a good person.”  Ryan suddenly began speaking with uncharacteristic clarity and conviction.  “It is NOT NORMAL for a mother not to have concern for the fact that her daughter is missing!  Carolynn, she’s barely fifteen!”

Carolynn glared at the sheriff’s officer and leaned back slightly in her chair.  “If I wasn’t worried about her, why did I call yer office?”

“DAYS LATER, Carolynn… DAYS LATER!”  Ryan stood up.  “You called nearly a week after she didn’t come home from school!”

“I know why she didn’t come home.”  All expression left Carolynn’s face.  “She missed her period.”

“What?”  Both the sheriff’s officer and the counselor said the same word at the same time.

“She missed her period.”

“Carolynn, do you believe your daughter to be pregnant?”  The counselor spoke with a percussive accuracy.

“Yes… I… b’lieve… she’s…. pregnant.”  Carolynn mocked her.  “That’s why she didn’t come home in the first place.  The school called me and said she went home early that day ’cause she thowed up.  Since she wasn’t at home, I knew she run away with that Harley character.”

The sheriff’s officer recomposed himself and took a breath.  “Carolynn, we’ve already spoken with Harland Baskin.  He told us he hasn’t seen her since before she went missing, and we believe him.”

Carolynn put out her cigarette.  “He’s lyin’.”

“Carolynn, you are one cold woman.  Ms. Dixon, are you ready to leave?”

“Officer, may I ask just one more question of Ms. Johnson?

“Go right ahead, Ms. Dixon.”

The counselor turned to Carolynn and smiled.  “Carolynn, earlier you said that you didn’t know if your daughter and Harland Baskin were intimate.  Now you talk about it as though it were a foregone conclusion that he has gotten her pregnant.  Do you…”

Carolynn interrupted.  “Are you callin’ me a liar?”

The counselor paused, then smiled, then looked at the sheriff’s officer.  “Officer, I’m ready if you are.”

“Let’s go.  Carolynn, we’ll be in touch.”

*  *  *

The counselor and the sheriff’s officer got out of the patrol car and walked towards the sheriff’s station. “Officer, what are your thoughts on this?”

“I think Carolynn is still the coldest, meanest, most selfish bitch ever ta walk the face of this earth, and I do NOT believe she gives a damn what happens ta Darla Lynn Storm er Jesus Christ hisself, as long as she can have her damn coffee ‘n cigarettes ever day.”

“I think you’re right, officer.”  The counselor shook her head.  “She appears completely detached from her daughter, and unconcerned.”

“I don’t think that Harland knocked Darlynn up, neither.  He’s a good kid, and I think he’s still a virgin.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m gonna find Darlynn.”

The counselor nodded her head, took a pause, then asked,  “So, what’s next then?”

“We gotta find out who got Darlynn knocked up.” 

*  *  *

Darlynn awoke to the sound of the bus door opening and a rush of cold air.  “Darlynn?  Git up, Darlynn, It’s Deannie.”

“Hey, Deannie!  I been awake for a hour already.”  She lied.  “What’r you doin’ here so early?”

“Darlynn, I’m sorry I couldn’t be here yesterday fur thanksgivin’.  I brought some turkey an’ cornbread stuffin’ an’ some sweet potato pie for ya!”  Nadine carried two grocery bags, completely loaded with food, and completely tattered from the long walk from home.  “Damn, I’m tired from carryin’ these bags!”

“Turkey fur breakfast?  Deannie, yer crazy!”  Darlynn laughed for the first time that Deannie can remember in months.

“Well, yeah, fur breakfast!”  Deannie laughed with Darlynn, and the girls tore into day-after-Thanksgiving breakfast.

Tune in agin next week, y’all.

Perhaps the political landscape has changed in the two years since the play premiered.  Perhaps not.  How would we truly know?  What really happens to people in positions of power has been the subject of debate for centuries.  This little play ambitiously attempts to profile a potentially lame-duck president vacillating between simply giving up because of waning numbers in the polls and running for re-election, while navigating through (and occasionally yielding to) the visceral temptations inherent to his high position; all contained in an hour and a half (including an intermission).

The Wednesday, June 9 performance was well-attended; surprisingly to a crowd that was, shall we say, predominately senior.  (For a Mamet play, I would have expected a generally younger crowd of mostly college-aged adults.)   Observing the audience reaction, my friend and I discussed the possibility that many in the audience did not get some of the better political barbs (that, or they simply did not react to them for some reason).  There is always the possibility that Mamet is simply lost on some audiences.  The play itself feels as though it could be set in any post industrial revolution decade, while remaining sufficiently true and relevant.  Some of the hot-button issues are quite contemporary but could easily be plugged-in to 50 years in the past.  Change hairstyles and clothing, and you could almost set the play in the 1950s.  Change the backdrop and it may be directly relevant to some countries in the developing world 50 years from now.

Michael Edwards, a stage actor with an impressive resume, plays President Charles Smith, our anti-hero.  He looks the part, acts the part, and has the appropriate presence.  His comedic timing is great!  Nevermind that he blew a line or two during the performance… he recovered well and completely, and most in the audience likely did not notice.  (The actor seemed to be distracted that evening but it did not significantly affect his character portrayal.)  Good bit of casting and good execution.

Wayne LeGette plays Archer Brown, the President’s Chief Aide.  Flawless and believable.  The humor in his portrayal feels, appropriately, almost accidental.

Sarah Gavitt plays Clarice Bernstein, the President’s trusted speechwriter.  Her portrayal was oddly reminiscent of Peggy Cass as Agnes Gooch in the movie “Auntie Mame.”  She’s a kick!

Christopher Rutherford plays the representative of, what we can summarize for the benefit of brevity as, the “turkey lobby.”  His portrayal aptly fits the requirements for the role:  Awkward, paranoid, agitated, righteously indignant, and easily intimidated.  The type of character who really only exists in theater but fun.

Giles Davies has the unpleasant task of performing the ill-conceived role of a stereotypical Native American,  in absurd costume no less, reminiscent of The Lone Ranger series from the 1950s.  I was uncomfortable from the moment he appeared onstage until the end of the play.  Such a role normally calls for an actor to appreciate the absurdity of such a stereotypical character and give an equally broad caricature performance.  Although his costume is appropriate (buckskin, moccasins, beads, and a feathered hat), his portrayal is simply too reserved for the character to work.  For the record, my perspective is not necessarily the actor’s fault.  I fully understand what the character represents in the context of the play but I regret that Mamet resorted to potentially-insulting  cultural stereotypes to convey his message.  I kept expecting the character to break into a rain dance or issue a war cry.  (Wait… he did issue a war cry!)  The actor is fine in the role but, to me, it was just uncomfortably not funny; a little like watching an ancient movie with Al Jolson performing in blackface.  Some things are just wrong, and there is no way for the actor to win in this instance.

Lots of F-bombs in the dialog, and many adult situations.  Consider keeping the kids and the overly-sensitive at home.

American Stage did an admirable job with this production, elegant in its simplicity.  With the exception of the last scene with the absurd portrayal of the “Indian,” I even enjoyed the play itself!

November plays all during June and into July in St. Petersburg.  Do not be confused.  Simply go to the American Stage website at http://americanstage.org for more information.

“Schizophrenia is a successful attempt not to adapt to pseudo-social realities.” - R. D. Laing

Darlynn awoke in her pile of blankets, freshly washed the day before by Nadine.  She was hungry.  Breakfast consisted of Spam and cold corn from a can, which was brought the day before by Nadine.  Nadine had become Darlynn’s source for all things from companionship to sustenance. 

Darlynn spoke out loud to herself.  “What day is it?”  Thursday.  The last Thursday in November.  Thanksgiving.

Nadine would not visit today.  Her father scheduled Thanksgiving dinner and invited his friends, his brother, and a few of Nadine’s cousins.  Nadine would be expected to assist with preparations and clean-up, and wouldn’t be able to break away to spend time with Darlynn.  Darlynn couldn’t be invited to Nadine’s for dinner, of course.  This would be Darlynn’s first Thanksgiving alone.

The Internet wouldn’t be available for five more years, not to mention the fact that Darlynn had never seen a home computer up close.  Cellular phones were not yet broadly available.  With no television, no telephone, no other connection to the outside world, Darlynn was truly alone.  Her only window on the world, a portable radio, had been shattered to bits by Dirk’s head only a few days before.  “Darlynn, I’ll gitcha a new one as soon as I can,” Dirk had promised.  The new radio had not yet materialized.

A slight wind blew outside.  Clouds gathered.  After finishing her Spam and corn, Darlynn drifted off to sleep.  She dreamed about the child growing inside her womb.  What would he or she would be like?  What kind of life would her child have?  What did the future hold?  These questions plagued her and haunted her dreams.  After her canned meal, Darlynn drifted off to sleep, then later awoke to the sound of rain falling on the metal roof of the school bus.  Absent external stimuli, her thoughts ran wild.  She thought of her mother, her older sister, and the intellectually-challenged younger brother she only knew briefly before he was placed in foster care.  She thought of Dirk.  “He’s a jerk,” she thought to herself silently.  “Dirk the Jerk.”  She giggled to herself quietly at the coining of the phrase.  Although deeply disappointed in Nadine for being unwittingly taken by Dirk, Darlynn did not harbor any resentment towards Nadine.  Nadine was innocent.

Time crept by in the absence of activity, giving way to thoughts of suicide for Darlynn.  She desperately clung to the hope that things would improve… that she would wake up and find herself back in her warm bed at home without a baby growing in her abdomen.  If she were to kill herself, how would she do it?  Slit her wrist?  She didn’t even have a knife sharp enough to cut meat, let alone her wrist.  No buildings to jump out of.  No poisons to ingest.  Nothing.  No choice but to allow life to continue.

What time was it?  The ancient wind-up alarm clock displayed 3:00 in the afternoon.  Then 7:00 in the evening.  Then 9:30.  Then 11:00 at night.  Dark, except for light from the two bluish mercury vapor lights illuminating the bus yard.  The now dented space heater clicked and hummed, keeping Darlynn’s living space on wheels warmer than the outside, although still not exactly warm.

Now 11:05.  Darlynn drifted back to sleep, and dreams of the past filled her sleep.  Her mother… the smell of cigarettes and burnt coffee in the morning… her sister who was always there to look out for her, even when her mother was too preoccupied with life to care… school and her friends there… biscuits and gravy… her soft, comfortable bed… childhood.  She woke up.  “Damn… it’s going to be 1990 in just over a month.  What will the 1990s be like?” she though to herself.

*   *   *

Tuesday, June 1, 2010.  The day after Memorial day, flags still flapping in the stiff breeze of the trailer park, now quiet at dawn, except for the occasional car starting for a neighbor to leave for work.  Then, quiet was suddenly broken.  “God… damn… it… to… hell… where… the… fuck… are… my… fucking… CIGARETTES???”  Each word rang out clearly and individually, as if William Shatner himself was giving a poetry reading.  Darlynn stood in the living room of Nadine’s mobile home, naked, eyes puffy and red, her body slightly hunched over, her hair a rat’s nest, and sweat pouring off her her face.  It was barely dawn.  “Who the hell took my last pack ‘a cigarettes, goddamnit?”

“Darlynn, what’s going on?  Do you realize it’s only 5:30 in the morning?”  Nadine’s voice was froggy from being awakened but her question was asked as sweetly and politely as she could muster so early in the morning.  Her teeth were still in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, and the trim on her fuzzy robe, partially unstitched, was dragging on the ground like a feather boa.  “Darlynn, how come yer yellin’?  And how come ya ain’t got no clothes awn?”

Darlynn’s eyes were stormy and black; the effect intensified by runny mascara and maybe a slight black eye.  “God damn it to HELL, Nadine, your fucking little brat took my cigarettes again!”

“Darlynn, HE AIN’T EVEN HERE!  What are you talking about, woman?”

“Well then who the fuck took ‘em?”

“Darlynn, it weren’t me.”  Nadine looked around the living room.  “Where’s Harley?”

Darlynn’s eyes became darker and more sinister looking as she glared at Nadine.  “God damn it, Nadine, yer aways blamin’ Harland for EVERTHIN’!  It ain’t always his fault, you know!”

“Darlynn, what’r y’all talkin’ about?”

Suddenly, Darlynn charged at Nadine, knocking her against the thin wall of the trailer.  Nadine’s back broke through the wall, and both women landed backwards on the floor of Nadine’s bedroom.  “Nadine, why are you so hateful?”  Darlynn commenced an angry rant as she straddled Nadine and began choking her.  “Nadine, I know you always hated me!  Why do you hate me?  Why do you do this to me?”

A knock at the door startled Darlynn, and she abruptly stopped choking Nadine and looked at her own hands.  She then looked at Nadine, who was now passed out on the floor.

“Yes?”  Darlynn called out to the person at the front door.

“Police.”

“Fuck,” Darlynn muttered under her breath.  “Just a minute!” she shouted cheerfully at the door.  Darlynn grabbed Nadine’s jaw and shook it.  Suddenly, Darlynn decided to speak in a low voice, almost a whisper.  “Deanie, you gotta wake up, it’s the po-lice.”  No response.  “Fuck.”

Darlynn stood up and caught herself in the mirror on Nadine’s bedroom vanity.  The mirror was cracked diagonally from corner to corner, adding to the effect.  And no clothes.  “Fuck!“

Another knock at the door.  “Police!”

“Jist a minit!”  Darlynn tried to sound as polite as possible.  She wondered if the door was locked.

The next moment, the door flew open and two police officers were in the living room.  Seeing Nadine prostrate on the floor, the broken wall, and Darlynn, naked and ridiculously disheveled, both officers simultaneously drew their weapons.  Conveniently, Darlynn managed to pass out in a heap on the floor.

Click here for Chapter 15.

Knowing Disney’s reputed litigious nature, I’m almost afraid to say ANYTHING for fear of lawsuit.  Well, since I don’t have any money for them to take from me anyway, here we go:  Of course, growing up in the 1960s, I must have seen the movie starring Julie Andrews a half-dozen times in my childhood (although I have never seen the movie in adulthood).  All that, combined with me being a middle-aged man, nearly made me decide not to go.  Bolstered by my neighbor’s willingness to go along for the show, I put my trepidations aside and went. 

I attended the Media Night premier on May 21.  In short, I’m very glad I did. 

After seeing the stage show (It truly is a stage show and not a play), I had to absorb the experience for a day before deciding upon how to approach a review.  It was simultaneously precisely what I expected, and nothing at all what I thought it would be.

The obvious:  Disney.  Anyone who has ever gone to a Disney theme park knows Disney’s propensity for overdoing everything, yet overdoing everything expensively and well.  Mary Poppins was no exception to this Disney rule.  From the first two notes of the overture, we knew it was going to be entertaining.  An amber spotlight shone on the head and arms of the conductor in the orchestra pit (maybe the credited Music Director, James Dodgson?  Not sure because there was no Conductor credit for the performance).  The conductor enthusiastically gestured and flailed his arms over his head and exuded aerobic energy throughout the performance, conducting the unseen orchestra (cleverly concealed under black netting) while also providing timing cues to the actor/singers onstage.  The conductor was a show of his own!  Thing is, it was impossible to know what was live orchestra and what was prerecorded.  This both disturbed and impressed me.  It sounded like everything was performed from the orchestra pit but, knowing Disney, the clever black netting probably concealed secret speakers and a combination of animatronic music droids and indentured slaves from third-world countries who had musical talent.  That was mean, sorry…  Please don’t sue me.

One thing really did disappoint me:  The sound support for the actors.  Discretely hidden head microphones (I couldn’t see a single one of them) allowed the actors’ voices to be amplified and heard more clearly.  Great idea, poor execution.  In a very un-Disney manner, the dialog was thin and tinny, and that coupled with the artificial British accents of the actors, made it completely impossible to understand half the dialog.  I hope they are able to fix this problem for future performances.

The persistent sound problem was the only real problem I noticed throughout the entire evening.  It was like attending a ride at a Disney theme park, with the uncomfortable, ill-padded seats at the Straz Center instead of the comfortable strap-in seats in a flight simulator. 

Complex lighting effects dazzled, moving stage sets and elements impressed and distracted, costumes wowed, actors periodically flew around in the air or walked upside-down around the stage aperture (no kidding), marble statues came to life and sang while pirouetting through ballet steps, and things happened so quickly and seamlessly that they almost seemed impossible. 

The performers were generally outstanding, not only delivering their lines convincingly but singing and dancing and truly putting on a Broadway-style show for laid-back Tampa Bay dwellers.  In the six years I have been attending various shows in Tampa Bay, I have never witnessed such an elaborate and slick production.  Bravo Disney!

Even the children in the audience were, for the most part, struck silent.  Personally, I enjoyed the new take on the old story.  All of the familiar songs were there, complete with modern choreography, new arrangements, some updated and slightly more adult lyrics.  There were many new songs, all in-character with the story, and many excellent excuses for people to dance and be joyful.  I smiled throughout the entire performance.

Gavin Lee as Bert was brilliant.  His modest baritone voice and homey demeanor were ideal to the role.  He also dances (that’s what they originally said about Fred Astaire). 

Blythe Wilson was outstanding as Winifred banks, and was quite distracting because she looks, moves, and sounds like Julie Andrews.  My neighbor kept saying, “They should have cast her as Mary Poppins.”  She brought a little color to an otherwise beige role.  Honestly, the only reason that can see for not casting her as Mary Poppins is that she appears to be a mezzo and the actress who played Mary Poppins, Caroline Sheen, appears to be a soprano.  That is all I will say about Caroline Sheen, except that I understand it seems both expedient and challenging to have a famous uncle.

Stand-outs in the performance included Q. Smith as Mrs. Corry, who was just delightful, and Ellen Harvey (!) as Miss Andrew.  I believe Ellen Harvey was simultaneously channeling Margaret Hamilton (Wicked Witch of the West in the 1939 film “The Wizard of Oz”) and Agnes Morehead (Endora in the 1960s television series “Bewitched”).  Her brief role made the entire audience laugh and cheer, and she truly stole Act II!  I predict that we will see Ellen Harvey in major stage roles very soon.

Being Media Night, the audience was peppered with minor local luminaries from the news media.  My neighbor would point and say, “Look, it’s…” while people glared at her and I winced.  There was even an after-party but, since it was past my bedtime, I decided just to go home after the performance. 

After the intermission, I switched seats with my neighbor.  The fidgety child from down the row of seats had been moved by his father to sit next to me, and the ill-padded seat I was originally in had so wracked my back that I knew I wouldn’t be able to sit through another hour… and I don’t even have back problems normally!  After the seat sawp, I sat next to a self-important humorless man in a wool suit who, when I jokingly attempted to negotiate elbow position on the armrest, brusquely replied, “I don’t care what you do.”  I quietly thought to myself, “Jerk.”  The man resembeled Garrison Keillor but was notably much less genial than I would hope Mr. Keillor would be.  Sadly, I’ve found this rude, humorless tone to be typical of Tampa audiences at many events I’ve attended, with the notable exception of opera performances, where audience members have all been smiling, friendly, happy and quite genial.  Hmmm…  Maybe it’s just me. 

Incidentally, the jerk ended up hogging the entire armrest.  Anyway…

There were brilliant and impressive effects, gloriously dazzling lighting, amazing moving sets, catchy songs, fun dialog (what could be understood through the fake accents over the bad sound support), and wonders and joys from beginning to end. 

I really should have gone to the cast party.  Please don’t hold it against me that I decided to go home instead.

Mary Poppins will run through June 6 at the Straz Center (formerly the Tampa Bay Performing Arts Center) in Tampa.  For more information, visit their website at http://tbpac.org. 

Whereas I normally attend the Friday night performance at the Straz Center for the Performing Arts in Tampa (formerly the Tampa Bay Performing Arts Center), I elected to attend the Saturday performance at the Mahaffey Theater in St. Petersburg.  I love the Mahaffey, and it’s closer to my home, so I thought I’d forego the opportunity to promote the Orchestra’s weekend program with preference to my own convenience… just this once.

The evening began with Charles Ives’ “The Unanswered Question.”  Having drawn the connection between Glass and Ives, I cannot resist but chuckle about a snippet from a PBS promo I saw a few months ago, where someone (forgive my not remembering who it was), described Philip Glass’ music as, “Knock-knock…  Who’s there?  Knock-knock…  Who’s there?  Philip Glass.”  Hearing Ives’ “The Unanswered Question,” it is easy to hear the influence Ives had on Glass.  (Perhaps the unanswered question is the one that Philip Glass has spent his musical career trying to answer via an ongoing knock-knock joke.)  Actually, I’m somewhat of a Philip Glass fan, a Philip Glass fan, a Philip Glass fan, a Philip Glass fan.  (I always thought the vinyl LP I had was skipping but apparently it’s what Glass intended).

I’ll now turn off the fan and return to the subject:  Ives “The Unanswered Question.”  I absolutely love the insightful “program notes” description provided by Richard E. Rodda (which can be found here).  The onstage configuration of the orchestra was significantly changed for the Ives piece, situating the four flutes at the front of the stage to the audience’s left in manner described by the woman sitting next to me as a “discussion group.”  The violins were left standing at the back of the stage behind them.  Violas and cellos were also physically rearranged, and the effect was appropriate to the music.  The orchestra handled the piece masterfully, and the flute section, central to the piece, was impressive as always.  Brief but excellent, the piece was over as soon as it got underway.  Ok, so Glass did not adopt Ives’ pension for brevity.  Why am I talking about Philip Glass again?  A knock at the door… is it Glass?  No, the door is made of wood… but the window is made of glass… you know, the window into the soul, which is the essence of the Ives piece.  Confused now?  Sorry.

The quiet of the Ives piece was constantly interrupted by rude coughs and other bodily noises coming from the audience.  Why do people choose the opportunity of a quiet passage or a quiet orchestral piece to expectorate phlegm or release flatulence or sniff or drop the anvil they’re holding in their lap?  PLEASE:  If you must cough-up a lung or drop your metal hairpiece on the floor, do it during the LOUDEST musical passage where others in the audience are less likely to be disturbed by it!  If you cannot keep from coughing or farting or making other bodily sounds for the duration of a musical concert, STAY HOME.  SHEESH!

Sorry, too much coffee this morning.

Anyway, the next piece of music on the program was Bela Bartok’s “Music for Strings, Percussion, and Celesta.”  The orchestra quickly reorganized themselves into a slightly more traditional arrangement, then commenced to play with such depth and insight that you could almost feel that you were having a conversation with Bartok himself.   Errors tend to stand out, even in impressionistic music, and errors were evident here.  They were largely insignificant yet their sheer number was out of character for a professional orchestra, especially for a piece that is not particularly technically challenging.  I noticed that a few of these errors coincided with conductor Sanderling’s enthusiastic page-turns during passages requiring accurate synchronization of the various orchestral parts.  Respectfully, I suggest that Mr. Sanderling could have benefited from a page-turner for this piece.

Prior to the intermission, the audience was told that the next item in the program, Dvorak’s Symphony Number 9 in E minor, “From The New World” (a.k.a. Dvorak’s New World Symphony) would be recorded.  The intermission was scheduled to be longer than normal, so I elected to have a vodka; a Ketel-One citroen on the rocks.  The bartender poured me an impressive portion, which I finished just as they called five minutes.  The quantity of vodka was sufficient to cause me to explain to someone that a celesta was a plucked keyboard instrument.  (Fortunately, a moment of thought and embarrassment allowed me to recant that and properly describe the instrument, possibly regaining a modicum of credibility in the process.)

Stefan Sanderling politely and eloquently asked the audience to hold their bodily noises for the duration of the piece so that the recording would be clear.  Of course, immediately upon the piece beginning, a woman in the middle of the orchestra section broke out in a plague cough, and I believe she may have simultaneously passed gas as well… really!  The audience tried unsuccessfully to contain a chuckle or two, and everyone began shifting in their seats like kindergarten students, so conductor Sanderling STOPPED the orchestra!  HE STOPPED THEM!  A Mulligan! The audience muttered amongst themselves, again like kindergarten students after the teacher said she would not restart the music until everyone calmed down, then the orchestra restarted from the beginning. 

Something I’ve learned about our Florida Orchestra:  They do not recover well from errors.  Once an error is made, it seems as though confidence is lost and more errors follow.  I believe that this was the case with the Mulligan called by Sanderling.

Despite evidence that the orchestra was well-rehearsed and confident, the brass section commenced their now-infamous blunders and timing errors.  I believe this likely ruined their recording effort, and the entire orchestra seemed to deteriorate after the errors.  Sad.  I actually felt bad for the orchestra, in the same way that one feels bad for the home team when they lose a game.  Some young students seated near me muttered, “Those were some major mistakes.”  Ouch. 

Although I will not be able to attend the Sunday performance at Carol Morsani Hall in Clearwater, I wish I could do so to provide the home team a chance to redeem themselves. 

Is that a knock I hear, or is it Glass breaking?

The 2009-2010 season ends in May.  Go to http://floridaorchestra.org for program information, and for insight into the 2010-2011 season.

No one wrote tragic opera like Puccini.  No one.  Ok, Wagner had bellowing athletic tragic goddesses who hurled themselves on flames for love, and Donizetti had his impish tragic heroines who were misled and marked by love… but Puccini seemed to understand cruelty and emotion… and in La Rondine, the one who’s left weeping on the stage in this drama is the charming hero.

I do not speak Italian.  I’ve watched enough subtitled movies to understand some simple phrases, but you could tell me that I’m standing on a land mine in Italian, and I’d smile politely and say, “Grazie,” thinking you were paying me a compliment (I’m just like that).  The only way I can get through an Italian opera is to pre-read any of the many excellent librettos (operatic synopses) online.  When I searched for librettos for La Rondine (which means the swallow in Italian by the way), I found few.  Strange.  I also looked through my archives for arias from La Rondine.  None.  I began to think that maybe my archives weren’t as complete as I had thought, and looked online for MP3s of arias from La Rondine.  Ok, there are a few but they’re all really expensive.  Why?  The answer was provided in the Center Bill provided by the Straz Center (formerly the Tampa Bay Performing Arts Center before a major contributor conceitedly named it after himself to garner undue attention… don’t places usually get named after someone after they die?).  Anyway… in the Program Notes, written by Gene Cropsey, we come to understand that the opera fell into disfavor in the 1920s because Puccini employed modern (for the time) orchestral motifs and mechanisms into a classic opera form.  How dare he!

My lack of Italian proved a problem during Act I.  The super-titles were going along just fine, providing an excellent translation… then they stopped.  Not only did they stop but a blue screen from the video projector, far larger than the size of the super-title screen, spilled across the stage, and a message saying “No Signal” was accompanied by a digital clock that began counting down from four minutes.  Suddenly, focus was completely drawn away from the brilliant performance onstage while the audience wondered, “What happens when the four minutes elapse and we reach 0:00?”  There were guffaws, one of which came from me, and non-Italian speaking patrons like me were totally lost… but rapidly we all realized it did not matter.  The music, provided by the Opera Tampa Orchestra, was flawless and breathtaking.  I found myself completely mesmerized and moved by the music; not only Puccini’s writing but the execution of the music by the orchestra under the direction of the brilliant Anton Coppola.  Coppola, the uncle of director Francis Ford Coppola, is now in his 90s and still a brilliant conductor.  Wow.

I sat two seats away from a woman who was talking about Anton Coppola knowingly… maybe she was his wife, or daughter, or assistant… I do not know.  I loved the insight that she gave one of her friends seated behind her that Coppola likes Grey Goose vodka with a twist of lime after a performance.  I thought to myself, “That sounds good!”  (No, Grey Goose is NOT a sponsor but please make them aware them that I can be plied with good vodka.)  I sincerely hope I am able to enjoy good vodka into my 90s!

Anyway, back to my review:  Suffice it to say that I was simply overwhelmed.  Completely.  Aside from technical difficulties with the super-titles, which were fixed fairly rapidly, there were no problems evident.  That, coming from someone as overtly critical as I am, says a great deal.

Part of my sensory overload came from my unfamiliarity with the work.  I am quite certain that the majority of the patrons there on Friday night, most of them well over sixty and way overdressed (or was I just woefully dressed-down?) had likely never heard this opera in their lifetime.  It is an opera I would like to become more familiar with, and I intend to download one of those expensive MP3s and study it further.  All of the singers could have sung all of the wrong words and hit all the wrong notes and I wouldn’t know.  But whatever they did sing and whatever notes they did hit were brilliant and beautiful and brought forth emotion.  Rochelle Bard, in the key role of Magda de Civry, was beautiful and charming and sang beautifully.  Her voice, although not yet developed in tone sufficiently to be considered excellent, is certainly not far from that mark.  Diana McVey, as Lizette (the maid), was sweet and funny and animated and also sang beautifully.  She was well-cast in the role, and I have no doubt we will hear much more from her.  Bruce Reed, as Prunier (the poet), was quite good, and in good voice.  Gerard Powers as Rugero (the interloper) sang masterfully and wore a wonderful toupee.  His acting in the final scene truly was excellent.  Marc Schnaible, as Rambaldo (the rich guy) really didn’t have much substance to work with in the opera but played an excellent singing mannequin, which was really what was required.  (I would have liked to hear more of his voice, actually).

Act II took place in a restaurant (or cabaret or public house)… a bawdy place with drink and food and can-can dancers and students.  The Opera Tampa Chorus had a chance to chime-in, and the staging was actually quite brilliant.  The backdrops for all scenes were a combination of simple physical set elements with digitally-projected backgrounds that were simply wonderful.  The Oceanside projected for Act III was so good that it caused members of the audience to gasp when the curtain opened.  I am suddenly a big fan of “virtual sets.”  I thumbed through the Center Bill to find out who was responsible for the excellent virtual sets, and couldn’t find a credit.  They deserve much credit.

What can I say… I found the entire evening to be completely entertaining and inspiring.  Why were there so few young people in the audience?  Why was the entire audience elderly, perfumed, hair-spray coiffed and poorly overdressed?  Anyone with an ear would enjoy such a performance, which should not be missed.  Opera doesn’t have to be a dress-up event of pretension and pomp any more than an art gallery opening needs to be an opportunity for people to impress each other.  The reputation of opera should not dictate who attends.  This opera should interest you, and it is an experience that is appropriate for everyone who has an appreciation for music.  Interested?  Put on something, buy a ticket, and watch… and listen.  Be overwhelmed.

Puccini’s La Rondine will be performed again on Sunday, April 25 at Carol Morsani Hall at the Straz Center (Tampa Bay Performing Arts Center) in Tampa.  Click HERE for the Opera Tampa website, ticketing, and further information.

As part of their regular American Stage In The Park series, American Stage premiered their production of the 1968 Broadway play “Hair.”  Looking at the play from a perspective of 42 years gone, and as one who was a young child in that era, I personally realize that the dreamy ideals of the youth of any generation are easily dashed by harsh reality.  That really is what Hair has come to represent in the modern day.  It is an intriguing snapshot of a time of unprecedented prosperity of the middle class, and rapid social and economic advancement for the marginalized in our country.  The prosperity allowed a generation to explore social conscience, mind-altering substances, sexuality, irresponsibility, ecology, and the encroachment of new technologies.  Arguable along political lines, we have legislatively lost as many individual rights and freedoms as were gained during the late-1960s.  We have embraced technologies that did not even seem possible during the time of Hair.  We have experienced new psychotropic drugs (now legally provided by prescription) and new wars, and wonders unimaginable.  Most who were open participants in the “hippy” movement of the psychedelic period would not admit today that they were, and even seem ashamed of it.  Watching Hair provides a good perspective of where we’ve been while making us very aware of where we are. 

Ok; I’ll admit it, I’m getting old.  Yes, I was actually on this Earth when Hair premiered on Broadway, although I was way too young to attend then.  I did, however, hear many of the songs from the play on the radio, and I think the songs from the play will ring familiar, even with younger viewers, since most of the biggest hits from the play have worked their way into the fabric of our general culture.

Taken directly from the American Stage website:  Contains mature language and themes, and partial nudity.  Aside from imprinting that warning on hand-painted psychedelic placards at the entry point to Demen’s Landing Park, I don’t know how much clearer this fact could have been.  Anyone even remotely familiar with the play knows that there is language, there are explicit sexual references, and there is partial nudity.  Hair would not be Hair without these elements.  Despite this fact, people brought young children to the performance, and one couple, visibly embarrassed, left in a huff just a few minutes into the first act. 

A live band onstage (and a particularly good one) provided the music.  American Stage did a fairly good job with the set and backdrop, although I think it could have been more freaky-psychedelic in keeping with the era.  We’ll call it a beiged-down psychedelic theme.  Perhaps there are too many heavy metals or dangerous chemicals in the original fluorescent paint for them to be allowed in modern times.  (Wouldn’t that be ironic, considering the new focus on ecology in that era?) 

The costumes were convincing; somewhere between 60’s psychedelic and The Mommas & The Papas.  (You have the Internet, look them up.)  The atmosphere was believably late-60s (from what I remember of that time as a child), and yet had an updated modern feel to the theme, which I believe may have been intentional.

Instead of concentrating on the individual players and their respective parts (all of which were good), I will step back and provide an overview of the performance.  We cannot expect a local production to have a Broadway presentation, especially considering that the play was performed outside in a park.  They knew their lines, they seemed to know their queues, they sang fine (for the most part), and were believable in their roles.  The costumes were great.  It was a Happening, man!  I loved it.

American Stage took a couple of excellent risks in putting this play on.  With so many performers onstage, it’s already difficult to assure that they’ll be heard by the entire audience; immediately, a technical challenge.  Although there were some problems in some parts of the preview performance on Wednesday, April 21 (including some closed mics during actors’ lines and some off-key singing, likely due to the performers being unable to hear themselves adequately), American Stage pulled off the sound part of the production fairly admirably, and I’m certain that there will be improvements in ensuing performances.  The lighting design was quite good, especially considering that it was done for an outdoor venue.  I applaud their achievement there.  The multi-level staging was simple but effective. 

I have a major admission:  One thing that often precludes my attendance to events is the fact that I feel bad leaving my dogs at home by themselves.  I was very excited that I would be allowed to bring them along on the Dog-Friendly Night, Wednesday.  I went to Wal-Mart and bought a new folding chair especially for the event.  I packed an old wool U.S. Military issue horse blanket, poop bags (which it turns out I didn’t need), and my two enormous dogs (a fila brasileiro and a rottweiler) into my 1988 Chevy Van, which I call the “Scooby-Do Mystery Wagon” (look it up), and arrived a little early to find parking.  Only a little concerned that the 3-hour maximum on the meters would be inadequate, I parked two or three blocks away and fed $3 in coins into the meter.  Doing so, I saved between $2 and $7 compared to the parking lots, and avoided potential problems in unloading the dogs.  I proceeded to the venue.

Carrying a folding chair, a horse blanket, and plastic bag from the Goodwill Thrift Store (which, in turn, was full of poop bags) while trying to deal with two very large dogs, duly excited by new and unfamiliar surroundings, is challenging.  The larger of my dogs is very well-trained but stubbornly decided she was going to act-up a little, and only having two hands myself, I blocked her pulling with the folding chair while verbally trying to control her and chiding her bad behavior.  Passers-by glared at me as if I was a little insane, and they were likely correct for the most part.

I staked out a spot next to the walking path, laid out the horse blanket for the dogs, folded out the chair, and planted my butt a few minutes before the beginning of the show.  Some people asked about my dogs, and complemented them, and commented on my shirt (which said “I hear voices… and they don’t like you“).  Some of the attendees were friendly, some seemed a little constipated, and some were downright weird like me.  During the intermission between acts, I walked the dogs around hoping they’d find a place to pee (which they did not), and was met with hostile little dogs led by the constipated looking people.  (How can people be huffy and acrimonious while watching a play about the Psychadelic Era?).  A few people with friendly dogs approached, and mutual sniffs occurred (between the dogs, not the people).  For the most part, all the dogs were well-behaved with only a few barkers and brawlers in the bunch.  To my knowledge, no blood was shed and no one seemed terribly distracted by the dogs.

A very nice group of people sitting in front of me introduced themselves and talked about my dogs and offered mint chocolate brownies during Intermission.  They were a joy to speak with, and improved my evening.  A few other people smiled and said hello, and seemed to be in keeping with the friendly, open tone you’d expect of attendees of an outdoor performance.

At one point after the beginning of the second act (during a particularly quiet passage), I was loudly approached by a very drunk man who loudly asked questions about my dogs.  He was having difficulty with his balance, and when he attempted to bend down to pet the largest of my two dogs, he completely lost his balance and fell onto me and the largest of my two dogs.  I did my best to quietly control the situation but ended up loudly asserting, “It’s time for you to go now.”  The man left and my personal audience drama was over.  I thought to myself, “Where is Security?”  I think that the venue should have a visible security presence, and I saw none.  This is a concern.

While my dogs were calmly laying on the gray horse blanked as I watched the show, a couple walked by with a beautiful little fuzzy dog of some kind, who suddenly barked and snapped at my big dog.  The couple dragged their dog away and apologized.  A few minutes later, a woman with an expression like she had been sucking on a lemon was dragged across the lawn by her hunting breed dog, who was intent on investigating my dogs.  With his handler unable to control his movements, the dog, who acted as though he had had too much caffeine, rapidly approached and ran right up to my big dog, who promptly snapped at his nose and growled.  “Sorry,” I told the sour-faced young woman as she forcibly dragged her uncontrollable dog away, now with an even more sour and incredulous expression on her face.

The audience, the dogs, the helicopters, the airplanes, people’s cell phones, one or two passing park vehicles,  and random other activity proved to be distractions and minor annoyances… but they did not detract from the joy of the evening.

What a completely entertaining evening!  FAR preferable to staying at home and watching PBS or a Netflix movie.  It was definitely worth it, man.

HAIR!  ran through May 16, 2010.  Go to the American Stage Web Page for tickets and information on present shows.

“The nature of men and women–their essential nature–is so vile and despicable that if you were to portray a person as he really is, no one would believe you.” - W. Somerset Maugham

“Mr. McNiven, I will additionally stipulate that as a condition of your probation, you will be required to fulfill a State-sanctioned drug intervention and rehabilitation program, as proscribed under North Carolina Statute…” the judge went on as Dirk sat in a hospital wheelchair, trying to comprehend all that he was being told.  “…request of your public defender, medical bills will be underwritten by the State of North Carolina, as your hospitalization occurred during the time you were in custody.  I see that you will require surgery for your heart condition…”  The judge thumbed through paperwork.  “[...Gonorrhea?]” the judge whispered.  “Mr. Dalton, I see that apparently your heart condition was brought on by chronic Gonorrhea?”  The judge peered over his reading glasses at Dirk as he whispered.

“Sir honor, that’s wut they tole me at the hospital.  And it’s Dalton McNiven.  I’m Dalton McNiven.”

The judge couldn’t help but snicker slightly.  “Mr. McDalton, the State of North Carolina will underwrite your hospital expenses during the time you are officially in custody.  Mr. Dalton, you are released from custody, effective immediately.  All future hospitalization expenses will be your responsibility.”

“But, sir honor, I ain’t got insurance.”

“Mr. McDalton, that is not a matter for this court.”  The judge banged his gavel.  “Your documentation will be sent to the hospital.  Bailiff, please assist this gentleman to the court entrance.”

“The court entrance?  How do I git my stuff back?  How am I gonna git all the way back ta the hospital?”

“Oh, wait… that reminds me… regarding your mobile home.  You will need to fill out the necessary forms to have your mobile home returned to you.  The bailiff will have those forms sent to the hospital as well, then you’ll need to take them up to the DEA field office in Raleigh, where your mobile home is being stored, and they will let you take possession of your mobile home once you pay the impound and storage fees.”

“Wait… since when does the DEA got my trailer?  When did they take it?  What happen ta my girlfriend who was livin’ in it with me?”

“Bailff, thank you.”  The judge waved his hand, and with that, a police officer began wheeling Dirk in his wheel chair out of the courtroom towards the hallway. 

Dirk’s public defender approached him.  “Mr. McGovern, please wait in the hallway and I’ll be out to talk with you after my next case.  I’ll see what I can arrange for you to get back to the hospital.  Officer, would you mind just wheeling him out to the hallway?”

“No problem.”  Before Dirk could say anything, he found himself sitting in his wheelchair in the hallway next to a man, likely younger than he was, with no teeth and an IV.

Several minutes later, the young man with no teeth was halfway through his story.  “So, when he found out he was gonna die of it, he done had hisself cryologically froze, and they’s gon’ unfreeze him agin later when they’s got a cure…”

“Mr. McGovern, we need to speak.  Excuse me… sir.”  Dirk’s public defender abruptly wheeled him away from the toothless man with the IV.

“It’s McNiven.  Dalton McNiven.”

“That’s fine.  I was able to convince the judge to waive the requirement for another court appearance, and the court will accept your hospital time as time served… but I couldn’t do anything about your hospital expenses.  I heard you say you had no insurance, is that right?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“Ok.  Well, that’s fine.  Congress is working on that insurance thing now.  There will be a hospital transport arriving in a few minutes to take you back to the hospital.  I wish you the best of luck, Mr. McGovern.” 

Dirk found himself wheeled out to the sidewalk in front of the courthouse by the public defender.  He was provided with a blanket to keep him warm while he awaited the hospital transport.  The blanket was scratchy gray wool, and had “U.S.A.” in large letters, imprinted on it in black ink.  A great deal of time passed, and the air again became cold as the sun set.  Dirk wondered how many more hours it would take for the hospital transport to arrive.  He drifted off to sleep in his wheelchair.

*  *  *

Nadine entered her trailer with two bags of groceries and some unopened mail, finding Darlynn and Harley sitting together on the couch.  One of darlynn’s breasts were exposed.  On the television, the talking head of a newscaster silently mouthed the news.  The cheap digital converter box had difficulty receiving the distant television station, and periodically a colorful mosaic of tiles would display, resembling large electronic confetti.  The television sound was muted but a distinct hum inexplicably emanated from the old set.  With the misadjusted set exaggerating colors, the effect was somewhat like an impressionist painting.  “So, Darlynn, Harley, have y’all heard anything from Dirk?” 

“Wut?”  Darlynn’s eyes were bright red, and her mouth didn’t close all the way.  She lifted her arm in slow motion… then returned it to Harley’s knee.  Harley was passed out.

“I said, where’s the flyin’ purple space thing, Darlynn?”

“Huh?”

“Darlynn… is that all y’all do now… git high all day?”

“Um… we did stuff, Deanie.  We cleaned yer kitchen.”  Darlynn again lifted her hand from Harley’s knee and pointed towards the kitchen.  It was spotless.

“Wow!”  Nadine couldn’t believe her eyes.  “Darlynn, is Harley ok?”

“Huh?”

“I said, is Harley ok?”

Still operating in slow motion, Darlynn turned her head to look at Harley.  “Harland?”  She stuck her finger in his mouth, and he swatted her hand away without opening his eyes.  “Yeah, he’s ok.”

“Where’s Kit?”

“Ya mean Kit?  Yer kid?”

“Yes, Darlynn, Kit… my kid.  Where is he?”

“He ain’t here.”

“Where did he go?”

“He ain’t come home?”  Darlynn’s phrasing of the statement made it sound like a question.

“He ain’t come home?  It’s near dark!”  Nadine’s face took on a concerned expression.

“I dunno, Deanie.  I ain’t seen ‘im.”

“Well, have y’all heard anything at all from Dirk?  I mean, it’s been three ‘r four weeks, now.  I’d thought they’d bail ‘im er somethin by now.”

There was a long pause before Darlynn said, “Dirk?” 

“Yeah, you know, Dirk… your other boyfriend… the one y’all lived with who got arrested; the other one who got arrested.  Geez, Darlynn, do you see a pattern here?”

“I ain’t heard from Dirk since he got arrested, Deanie.”

“Y’all ain’t serious, is ya?”

“Idunno, Deanie, he ain’t called ner nuthin’.”  Darlynn closed her eyes.

“Um… Darlynn, where’s yer cell phone?”

“On the table over there, chargin’.”

“Didn’t y’all tell me they turned it awf ’cause y’all didn’t pay it?”

“Yeah, I guess they did.  It don’t work.”

“Well, since mine’s turn’t awf too, jist how is Dirk s’posed ta reach y’all?”

Darlynn paused for an unnaturally long period of time.  “Fuck if I know, Deannie.”

“Well, Darlynn, did anybody hear from ‘im yet?”

“Yeah, Toby came by this mornin’.  Drove up in a C’maro he said he jist bought fir Dirk.  He tole me he done wrecked Dirk’s other one an’ tole me he’s sorry an’ shit.  I think he musta talked ta Dirk at the jail er somethin’.”

“Did he say how Dirk’s doin’?  Anybody even know where Dirk is?”

Darlynn pondered the question momentarily.  “No.”

Click here for Chapter 14

“Home life as we understand it is no more natural to us than a cage is natural to a cockatoo.” - George Bernard Shaw

“Git up, Darlynn, don’t just lay there with all them blankets over yer head!  I got Dalton here!” 

Darlynn’s voice emerged, muffled, from beneath the pile of old blankets.  “What’r y’all doin here?  Nadine, an jist why did ya bring HIM here?”

“I’m sorry, sweetie… Darlynn, this is Dalton… the guy who took me out ta dinner last night!  He said he knows you!”

Darlynn emerged from under the pile of blankets… her long hair was tangled around her head, and her eyes looked up at Nadine and Dirk with an expression that spoke volumes.  “What did you jist say ta me, Nadine?”

“Darlynn, this is Dalton, the guy who took me out ta dinner last night!”

“Hi, Darlynn,” Dirk said sheepishly.

Suddenly and without warning, like a coiled rattlesnake, Darlynn leapt from beneath the pile of blankets, pushing Dirk backwards towards the electric space heater.  Dirk fell backwards over the heater, his head landing on a radio sitting on the floor of the school bus.  The radio broke into a hundred pieces of metal-trimmed plastic and component parts.  A shard of clear plastic from the radio dial flew towards Darlynn.  Landing upside-down on the floor in front of her, it read “MA.”  Darlynn scurried over to Dirk and straddled him, grabbing him by the lapel of his faux-fur lined blue denim jacket.  “What the hell are you doin’ here with my Deanie?  Are you doin’ it ta her now too?” 

[As a carry-over from the sexual revolution of the 1970s, in 1989 the phrase "doin' it" had broad sexual connotations which no longer exist.]

Nadine, eyes wide and mouth agape, sat down on the pile of old blankets.  “Darlynn, now I want y’all ta tell me… did you and Dalton have… sex?”  The look on Nadine’s face was thoroughly innocent and shocked.  “Darlynn, now you tell me girl, did y’all have sex with him?”

Darlynn, still straddling Dirk, turned around to look at Nadine, in a motion which flipped her hair back around her shoulders.  “Nadine, I told ya that Dirk was the one got me pregnant!”

“Darlynn, you made a mistake… this is DALTON.  Dalton McNiven!”

“Ya dumb skinny bitch, Dalton is Dirk’s real first name!  Dirk is his nickname, dummy!”

“Don’t talk to me like that, Darlynn… it’s ain’t nice, ’specially considerin’ what I done for ya!”  Nadine looked down and began to cry real tears.  She sniffled, then raised her head back up.  She then pointed with her index finger towards where Dirk was still lying on the floor of the bus.  “Darlynn, he ain’t movin’.”

“Wut?”  Darlynn turned back around and looked at Dirk.

“Darlynn, is that…. blood?”  A tiny stream of blood became visible, flowing ever-so-slowly across the dirty, non-level floor of the bus.  Nadine abruptly collapsed onto the soft pile of old blankets.

Darlynn stood up and looked at her hands.  “Oh my gawd… I’m a murderer, jist like on TV!”  Darlynn looked at back Nadine, now quietly passed-out on the soft pile of blankets.  The metal space heater had automatically turned off when it was tipped over during Dirk’s fall, so Darlynn turned it back upright and it came clicking back to life, the buzzing noise of its little fan cutting the sudden silence.  She looked back over at Dirk.  He groaned and reached behind his head.

“Goddamn what happin?”  Dirk sat upright.  “How did I git here on the floor?”

“Ya fell over the heater, Dirk.  What the hell are you doing here??”

“Goddamn, I’m bleedin’!”  Dirk stared at the spot of blood on his hand.

“Here.”  Darlynn handed him a towel that was mostly clean.  “Now tell me what the hell yer doin’ here, Dirk, and what the hell is goin’ on b’tween y’all.”

“When we was talkin’ this mornin’, Nadine toll me she knew where you was… and that you’s likely preg… expectin’.  I wanted ta see ya and talk, and I didn’t know how else ta git Nadine ta tell me where y’all was.”

“So ya did it to her jist ta find out where I was?  Yer a…”

“Darlynn, she hadn’t told me she knew ya ’til AFTER we…”

“Wut??”  Darlynn’s eyebrows were fully raised.

“It’s not like that, Darlynn…”

A faint voice came forth.  “Dalton, you told me you LOVED me!”  Nadine had revived and now sat upright.  “Dalton, you told me that I was special to you!  Y’all said I was the one!  You told me that you was my man!”  Nadine again began to well up with tears.

“Damn it, Nadine, y’all better not a let this heartless redneck stick his thang in you!”

“We made love, Darlynn… it was special… really special.”  Nadine began sobbing.

“OH MY GOD!”  Darlynn was suddenly speechless.  “Dirk, yer evil!  FUCK!”  Darlynn covered her mouth with both her hands after unwittingly issuing the profanity.

“So, whose bus is this?”  Dirk smiled at both girls.

*  *  *

“Now, why did y’all wait so long before ya called us?  You said she’s been missin’ now for purt’ near a week.”  The sheriff’s officer did not look up from his notepad as he questioned Carolynn.

Carolynn wrinkled her face like a prune.  “God damn it, what the hell is this?  My daughter is missin’ and yer askin’ why I didn’t call ya SOONER?  How the hell am I s’posed to know she’s missin’?  I work, ya know.  Alot a hours.  I sometimes don’t git back here ’til real late.  What… am I s’posed ta have Z.S.P. er something?”  She ritualistically took a sip of her reheated coffee, apparently to underline her salient point.

The social worker, sitting at the dinette table next to the sheriff’s officer across from Carolynn, leaned forward and spoke in a clear but sympathetic tone.  Her speech was precise and without discernable accent.  “Mrs. Storm, we understand that you are significantly distraught over your daughter’s disappearance.  This officer is merely attempting to understand the circumstances under which your daughter went missing, and how this may have occurred.  The information you provide will assist him in ascertaining the best course of action to pursue in his search.”

The leathery skin on Carolynn’s face belied her young age.  The ravages of cigarettes, alcohol, self-imposed poor nutrition, and a life of anger and deception aged her beyond her years.  She painted her face in a clown-like manner using available cosmetics, in an attempt to conceal the ravages of self-abuse.  This only made her appear as a caricature, and her inner ugliness continued to shine through.  Her brow now wrinkled further, cracking the surface of her dried heavy make-up.  She took a puff of her cigarette, then exhaled a cloud of smoke.  “First off, I can’t unnerstand half of what you jist said, may’am.”  Puffs of smoke emerged from her mouth and nose as she spoke.  “Second, I ain’t Mrs. Storm no more.  I gone back ta my maiden name, Johnson last year when I done de-vorced that cheatin’ asshole.  Third,” Carolynn placed the palms of her hands down on the table in front of her, her cigarette now strategically upright between her index and middle finger, “MY GODDAMN DAUGHTER IS MISSIN’!  Now, YOU tell ME what the hell yer gonna do about it!”  She raised her hand and flicked an ash into the ashtray, then took another ritualistic sip of reheated coffee. 

The sheriff’s officer reached his hands forward across the table closer to Carolynn.  “Now, Ms. Storm… sorry, Miss Johnson, we need ta git certain facts so’s we can figger out what happin!”

Carolynn abruptly extinguished her cigarette butt in the ashtray.  “GOD DAMN IT TA HELL, Ryan.  Hell, I knowed ya when y’all was jist a kid an’ we used ta steal candy t’gether at the Piggly Wiggly after you ‘n yer fam’ly first moved up here from Oklahoma.  Don’t you dare ‘Ms.’ me, Ryan… y’all KNOW Darlynn, and you KNOW she’s always been trouble fur me.  Hell, I thank she done missed a period even.  I bet she got her self knocked up by that punk Harley she’s been hangin’ out with.”  She continued poking the cigarette butt into the ashtray, despite the fact that it was now long extinguished.

“Ms. Johnson, may I call you Carolynn?”  The social worker effected a saccharine smile. 

“Yes.”  Carolynn got up and walked toward the coffee pot to refill her cup.

“Carolynn, you mentioned that Darla Lynn has been seeing a boy named Harley?  Can you tell me more about this boy, and perhaps provide some insight into the nature of their relationship?”  The social worker used hand gestures to emphasize specific words.

“Wut?”  Carolynn’s expression turned to a sarcastic grimace as she walked back to the table with her refilled cup and sat down.  Cigarette smoke swirled around her as she moved, visible in the light from the dinette fixture.

“Carolynn, wut she’s tryin’ to ask you is… was they… I mean, ya know… was they?”

“You mean was they doin’ it?”  Carolynn posed the question an inflection which specifically suggested euphamism.

“Yes, Carolynn, were they… sexually intimate?”  The social worker now looked entirely serious.

“Hell, Darlynn’s fifteen.  How the hell am I s’posed ta know what the hell she does when she’s ain’t here?”  Carolynn removed a fresh cigarette from the pack in front of her and lit it.

Click HERE for Chapter 13!

A retro-looking pink haired woman (Barbara, played by Summer Hohnenkamp Jenkins) stands on the landing above them and periodically throws one of the switches, causing the characters to jerk around then resume their action.  It turns out that the man, who is a biologist, has predicted (based on the activity of fish) that a great cataclysm is about to occur.  He had placed an ad on Craiglist trying to lure a woman into his subterranean vault, in order to propagate the species.  He doesn’t say that, though.  What he does say is that he’s looking for is an “intensely significant coupling… sex to change the course of the world.”  Jo says, “I thought that just meant that you were really good.”  She is horrified at the thought of having babies.  “I am not some experiment.  Babies bother me philosophically.”  “You don’t want eggs from this basket,” she asserts, pointing in the direction of her stomach.  “They’re cracked.  I’m not meant to be a creator of spawn.”

Occasionally, Barbara (the pink haired woman) makes comments.  It took me awhile to figure out that this was some kind of far future museum exhibit, portraying the final days of the last people remaining on Earth before a great cataclysm, and that Barbara is, in fact, descended from the fish in Jules’ tank.  The playwright, Peter Sinn Nachtreib, has a knack for writing contemporary-sounding dialogue and there are some funny moments in the play.  When Jo finds out that Jules is a virgin, she comments, “Why?  There are thousands of men out there with low standards.”  There is also a funny reference to Verizon’s reception after the world has ended, and various other pop asides.

I like the idea of the play within a play, and a story within a story, but as much as the premise of the show seems promising, it really doesn’t go anywhere.  The characters just become more and more annoying, acting in ways that human beings would never act, and the museum docent only gives us vague clues as to what’s going on.  There isn’t much character development supplied by the author.  I think the story would have been more effective if the fact that the characters were part of an exhibit in a museum had been a surprise to the audience at some point, and if the characters actually learned something about themselves during the course of the play.

Bohnenkamp-Jenkins is right-on as the quirky, retro-looking tour guide with the hot pink beehive hairdo.  She is cheery in a manic sort of way, and seems just right for the part.  Granted, this is a metafiction sci-fi play, but  Director Kari Goetz chose to have Holcom and Rae act in such a stylized way that it approaches over-acting.  They put an amazing amount of energy into their parts, though, both physical and emotional.

Goetz’s stage directions excel in the quick action and fierce pitching and tossing of actors.  The physicality of the production is demanding, and Holcom and Rae prove extremely agile, banging against walls and furniture, jumping all over the set and each other.  Scenic and Lighting Designer Brian Smallheer created a two-tiered set that fit the action of the play well, and David Jenkins provided a zippy soundtrack.

If you like quirky comedies, Boom may be just the thing for you.

Boom will be playing Mar. 11-28, Thu.-Sat. 8pm, Sun. 4pm - Tickets: $24.50 - Shimberg Playhouse, David A. Straz Center for the Performing Arts