Chin Up, Eyes Forward

The great miraculous bell of translucent ice is suspended in mid-air.
It rings to announce endings and beginnings. And it rings because there is fresh promise and wonder in the skies.
Its clear tones resound in the placid silence of the winter day, and echo long into the silver-blue serenity of night.
The bell can only be seen at the turning of the year, when the days wind down into nothing, and get ready to march out again.
When you hear the bell, you feel a tug at your heart.
It is your immortal inspiration. – Vera Nazarian

Not sure where I got this from; it was probably leftover detritus from a way-too late-night red-eyed Internet session. But I stuck it into a file I keep for things that plink my cerebrum in a certain way. Yeah, it’s melodramatic and a wee tad new-agey, but it reflects the feeling I’m having about now, that autumn is once again coming, the world is again going into hibernation, and the Carnegie Deli is finally closing after a gazillion years. Funny how you never think of things until you know you’re gonna miss them. Funny how you know you’re going to miss certain things anyway.

Sandwiches literally several inches high. Where do you see that anymore?

Change. Always comes with some cost. Always inevitable. Always unavoidable. It’s the one true expectation: no matter what you do, strive for, dream about, it will change. Get used to everything—everything—being temporary.

I prefer to look at it as Tom Stoppard put it in one of my favoritest ever plays, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, in a much leaner way: “Look on every exit as being an entrance somewhere else.”

(And try not to trip over the threshold. It's so inelegant.)

It’s the White Privilege, Stupid.

So I'm in my tavern of choice, shooting a few games of pool with an acquaintance. There's a huge crowd filling the rest of the place, and I mean wall-to-wall. As I scan the Joneses and Millers I noticed one... wait, two, no, three . . . six (?) . . . nine (!) uniformed officers of the law present. Fully armed, too, I may needlessly add I have an uneasy awareness of guns. I do not have a great respect for people in general. I fully believe that our biggest flaw as “thinking, reasoning” human beings is that we habitually create things we cannot control.

(By the way, I'm white.)

Never been particularly comfortable with armed people nearby. I have this nagging, worrisome micro-phobia about possessors of weapons of possible mass destruction: their capability, outlook, judgment, and plain old personal attitude problems.

Today's soireé turns out to be a retirement party. Another moment's thought and rationality and rationalization kick in and I shrug it off. And I ignore the plethora of armed men nearby. Because, of course, I can. 

And then I see my buddy (let's call him “Mike”) at the bar, squeezing in to grab a beer. The bartender gives him a big smile, shakes his hand (Mike is a regular and, in ineffable Willy Loman style, well-liked), and hands him a pint. Mike sips, eases languidly back against the bar, casually eye-sweeps the crowd. Once across, once back. Then his eyes narrow, hand stops in mid glass-raise, and his body tightens. He stiffens because he realizes he's the only African-American man in a bar full of partying cops, cop families, and cop-shop staff.

My game's done (six ball undid me), so I pack the cues away, shuffle over and snag the seat next to him. A quick “Hey buddy, whazzup?” and we settle in, facing the bar, eyes away from the gendarmes and entourage.

I know this guy for a few years; he's on one of my pool teams, always been easy to get along with, excellent sense of humor, and has a lovely, kind heart. So, yeah, I've seen him pissed off because he's playing like shit one night or maybe he had a shitty day selling Hondas. Mostly I've seen him cheerful, joking, and suavely flirtatious. But I have never seen him like this: truly and sincerely frightened. And not just frightened; part of what his face is saying is the knowledge that this is now a day gone really bad.

We have an African-American man (the only one in the whole entire bar) amidst a raucously white--and armed--party. Seriously: what could go wrong?

Spoiler: nothing did go wrong. We hung out while he drank his beer, talked casually about how his job sucked, spent some time on the somewhat back and forth of the local weather, and of course the way some of our cohort shoot pool. And all the while there was this bigass shadow over his head, and you could see it in his face the whole time: ONE black guy in a white cop bar.

At one point, after a change-of-topic silence, he turns to me. “Ever walk into one of your top ten nightmares?”

I can see the effect this situation is having on him. I can't know it intimately cuz I, purely by benefit of my skin color, can do almost anything in this bar and probably walk out on my own steam. I've seen the numerous videos of black men and boys (and women and girls) beaten and/or killed by white cops. By virtue of genetic roulette I'm safe and sound, completely without the daily onus of being a walking, shopping, breathing, talking, running, driving target. His face is telling me different things, but the craziest of all is the look that (I think) says “I'm fucking tired of feeling this way. I'm fucking sick of being scared. I'm fucking had it with having to have this possibility hanging over me every minute of my life.”

Maybe the cops in this bar are the good ones. Who knows? I'd like to think so. Our small city is a very forward, progressive town. Hell, our mayor wants to provide our town addicts with a safe place to shoot up instead of having them OD in a playground. But then again, wait . . . two years ago the police used heavy duty military equipment to raze a family home with a depressed guy inside, all because they were trying to serve him a summons he didn’t want to accept. In his own home. The guy, terrorized, committed suicide. African American boys have been accosted and beaten by our local cops; a lesbian, hands cuffed behind her, was deliberately jostled around in the back seat of a cop car. She had not committed a crime.

Cell phone cameras capture more and more instances of police act in over-the-top ways. I just rewatched the video of the Chicago cops shooting black teen Laquan McDonald 16 times.

So maybe we're both a little justified in being suspicious and uneasy.

The guy I was playing pool with is a cop. Good guy, from what I can tell. Don't know him all that well. Good shooter, plays fair. Dunno what he'd do if it came down to having to either protect Mike or side with The Brethren. (White cop, by the way.)

That's the thing: who knows? I'm not black, nor am I a cop. I have no inside info on either camp. I'm a middle-aged white dude whose most deadly brush with the law was wearing a set of handcuffs and having some over-the-top bravado screamed into my ears because of a nickel bag in Ewen Park. I don't put myself in daily danger because my job requires that I possibly go up against dangerous criminals. I don't have to worry about getting home in one piece . . . simply because I have white skin.

But I do know we need to change some economic and sociological bedrock issues before we can stand behind some of the things our jingoistic schoolbook rhetoric claims to already have in this country . . . like equal protection. Because hard-working, honest, law-abiding people should not have that look on their faces when all they want is a fucking beer and some downtime.

Shorter of Breath and One Day Closer.

David Bowie died a few days ago. Didn't know him personally, and never saw him in concert. Liked a lot of his music.
 

Lou Reed passed away last year. Didn't know him personally, and never saw him in concert. Liked a lot of his music.

Both deaths made me stop and reflect significantly. Since my early teens I have recognized musicians and the releases of their singles and albums as life milestones. Music has always been important to me. It said things my heart knew but I couldn’t articulate. It sang about aches and dreams—and sometimes even the cheesiest of lyrics managed to sum up what I was feeling as a nascent adult. (In those days I was soooo melodramatic.)

In a previous blog I ran through how many rock concerts I've attended. Playing an album/cassette/CD/8-track over and over, bopping my head ceaselessly to the beat is one thing, but it's about as personal as . . . Okay, it’s not personal. Watching the real deal, the actual artist, perform live has always been the clincher. When you have played Aqualung about 73 kajillion times and you finally get to see Jethro Tull on stage, up close and for realsies, it is a totally different, mindblowing experience. And if this is repeated with Physical Graffiti, Dark Side of the Moon, Tapestries, Brain Salad Surgery, and about sixty other albums and the artists who made them, well, it starts to become your own personal game with life: Who else can I manage to see before it's too late?

I’m not talking about seeing Paul McCartney before he becomes living-challenged and joins the choir invisible (or I do). This is about watching our lifelong popular icons, one by one, cast off the Muu-Muu of Life and jump on the Jitney to Forever.

Keith Moon and John Bonham, both faves of mine, became room temperature waaaay back, when I was still but a lad of hormonally-crazed teenagement. Shockers both, indeed, but neither's too-early passing caused me any serious metaphysical reflection at the time. And likewise I was too young to be shaken by the deaths of Mama Cass, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, or Jim Morrison. Never even heard of Phil Ochs. I'd have to say the first “holy shit” moment was John Lennon.

My Dad, steady and loving though he was, was not exactly the most socially progressive guy in New York City. On more than one occasion in the late ’60s and early ’70s I'd heard words such as “long-haired faggots,” “pinkos,” and other such colorful Archie Bunkerisms escape his lips.

So when he put the paper down in front of me that December morning and I read “John Lennon Slain Here,” my heart skipped a beat. Almost as stunning was Dad’s concerned, “Are you okay? I know you were a fan of his.” I'd heard him disparage Lennon more than a few times for his “love-in,” hair, drug use, supposed lack of personal hygiene, etc, but this concern was unusual.

It was the first time I had the glimmer that beautiful things in life really do come to an end. Lennon? Fucking gone? At age 20, having been raised in the relative metaphysical and philosophical safety of a middle-class urban neighborhood, I still had the idea that Shit's Just Gonna Go On Forever. Party on, Wayne.

Those in the lawyering profession have some terms they like to use, among them “slippery slope” and “parade of horribles.” Let X happen and then A, B, G, V, and an endless and unpreventable parade of horrible things will follow. (Lawyers also show their briefs to each other in chambers, but that's just something my immature mind finds titter-worthy.)

How had my parents felt watching the icons they’d lived alongside for 50 years, the staples of their popular culture, check out of the Heartbeat Hotel and grab a seat on the Flatline Express? Probably a little more isolated, a little more aware that we're getting to the narrower end of the Christmas Tree of Life and This Grand Parade of Kodak Moments Most Definitely Rounds the Final Street Corner.

Bowie was only 69, a relatively young man. His creativity and boldness to go where no rock musician had gone before never waned. But, on the other hand, the Stones are all in their 70s and still pumping it out.

In the meantime we said goodbye to Cory Wells, John Entwistle, Stevie Ray Vaughn, Warren Zevon, Joe Strummer, Natalie Cole, Isaac Hayes, Lemmy, Chris Squire, B. B. King, Ben E. King, Joe Cocker, Joey Ramone, and myriad other music icons of my own era.

Who the hell is gonna go next? One gets a chill looking through the list of reunion tours featuring one-hit wonders with bad hair replacements Dodge Dart-ing their ways across the Great Plains over the past 20 years. Or even more remarkable: The Who, minus one half of the original lineup, still crabbily windmilling around stadiums everywhere. “I hope I die before I get old”? Screw that. Party on, Garth.

I'll tell you this: When Keith Richards, who’s outlived all the above mentioned plus Michael Jackson, Elvis Presley, Jerry Garcia, Johnny Winter, Ray Manzarek, Davy Jones and Frank Zappa finally goes, it will definitely all be over.

(Added note: as if this week wasn't morbid enough, we also mourn the passing of someone else way too young to have his too-solid flesh melted, thawed, and resolved into a dew: Alan Rickman. Not an album producing musician, but nonetheless a true rock star in his own profession.)

(Added note #2. January 18, 2016. As if all this wasn't enough... Glenn Frey of the Eagles moved on. Age 67.)

Company

There's a reason it's called a “Company.”

Company n.

1. a number of individuals assembled or associated together; group of people.

2. companionship; fellowship; association.

3. a number of persons united or incorporated for joint action, especially for business: a publishing company; a theatre company.

The middle word in #2 is critical: fellowship. In theatre companies, well, at least the theatre companies I inhabit, fellowship is paramount. I bring this up because of a recent incident in a newly forming company producing its very first production. One actor was given (poor) direction by someone other than the director (a fellow actor and coproducer). When he demurred, for valid reasons (he was not comfortable with the suggestion), he was then set upon not only by the non-director but by three other actors. In essence, he was shamed and bullied. And the inexperienced director stood by and let this abuse happen.

My first urge, perhaps because I'm male, half-Italian, and a Leo, is to get all up in y'all faces about protocol, respect, and professionalism. And who knows? Maybe I will later. But for now I’ll take a breath and concentrate on another element of a good theatre company: safety.

When I direct or teach playwriting or stage directing, I make a non-negotiable rule on the first day that the rehearsal room, classroom, or studio we use is a safe zone. At no time will any student disrespect, belittle, or coerce any other student for any reason. Of course, the teacher is equally bound by this rule. I stress this emphatically. And I enforce it. Or I would, if I'd ever had to. I've never had to.

Classrooms and rehearsal rooms must be places where artists can feel free to take risks, try unsure choices, and explore the boundaries of their craft. One cannot do this with consistent expectations of success. Students, actors, and writers fail. Face it, everybody fails.

In our over-protective world where kids get trophies for showing up and are told they are each very special, we diminish the possibility of reaching new heights. The farther you stretch, the farther you fall when (if) it all goes kerflooie. It's a law of nature. But if you don't stretch, you never achieve. Risk is an inherent factor in some things. Fear is part of creative work.

Therefore, when members of my class or company take a chance, they know that they are in a cohort that will be there to sympathize, critique constructively, and respect their chance-taking. They are in a safe zone. Because only in a safe zone can you genuinely make unsafe choices. We are there for each other all the time.

This is one reason why cast parties can be full of tears. Over time you build close relationships with your cast and crew mates. You've depended on them, cheered them, and enjoyed every minute onstage and in rehearsal with them. Because they had your back and you had theirs.

So when this is transgressed, as it sometimes is, my hackles stiffen and my canines grow longer. I've seen directors who run their shows with harsh words, disrespecting actors and crew, treating the entire company with disdain. Personally, I'm too old to put up with that kind of self-indulgent, megalomaniacal horseshit. No role is that good to pass up. But I'm more experienced and much less unsure of myself these days; in younger days I might have been the abused.

So when I heard of this instance within a new company with which I had become associated, I was taken aback. It wasn't so much the instigator's actions that appalled me, but the fact that others allowed it without objecting. (To the actor who was victim of this abuse but chose to not follow the improperly given and, as it turned out, somewhat childish direction, I give all kudos; he did not knuckle under to the pressure from his fellow cast members. More on him in a minute.)

In every pack there is an alpha. And this alpha was part of a new company that had had no experience in running a production. The thrill of being in the driver’s seat overwhelmed them, and being young and without supervision, they ran amok.

It is a strict rule in theatre companies that no one but the director gives direction to any actor at any time. To have a producer override the director shows disrespect for both director and actors and sows the seeds of anarchy. A company that is not secure cannot produce good work. Everyone needs to agree upon and follow protocols. And when an actor says, “No, I do not feel comfortable with that direction,” that must be respected. There are ways of working direction out and coming to an agreement. When an actor tells me that she’s not comfortable with something I’m asking of her, I back off simply for two reasons: the actor may instinctually know the direction is not a good one for her character, and even if she pursued it, her lack of faith in the proposal would more than likely result in a half-hearted attempt that failed, wasting valuable rehearsal time.

I always talk about these instances with my actors. There comes a time, late in the rehearsal period, when they have to know better than I what's best for Willy Loman. Why put a particular actor in a role if not to have that actor particularly bring it to life?

Back to safety. Not all of us are on Broadway or a tour or in a big regional. Many of us do this for the sheer joy of it in a community setting. I can't overstress the need for safety in the rehearsal room and classroom. These writers and actors put their egos and asses on the line, and regardless of success, they must be in a place where they are ready to do so again. They must be among allies who will respect their instincts and choices, whether they be good ones or not.

Back to the actor in this situation: He and some others came to me later. Understandably, he was severely upset, not just because he was an object of shame and group derision but because this disrespect came from people he had worked with in acting class for several semesters (not mine) and had thought of as friends he could trust and depend on.

This young actor learned a very hard lesson. The one positive element is that now he knows how to behave in a similar situation, knows his rights as an actor, and knows what protocols need to be observed. He'll do much better work, be more self-assured, and be able to invest in his cohort more effectively from now on simply by knowing how to react should a similar situation arise.

We go through some hard and painful lessons in this journey. Taken unawares, it's difficult to step in, play Parent, and shut down the session, especially when you have never had to do so before. This is one instance I wish hadn't happened. But now we have an actor who can be aware they he has to look out for his fellow company members, and perhaps help them become equally respectful and supportive. Can you ask for anyone better to work with?

To Feed or Not to Feed. That is the Question.

I hate giving line readings.

Here's my mindset: When I cast a certain actor I do so because of a dozen different things: detected affinity/correctness for the role, the promise of them bringing something unusual and/or new to the part, physical appropriateness/gender (although I'm not a stickler on these points), and just plain old heat-of-the-moment WTF. (I go with instinct sometimes; it pays off more than it doesn't.)

So when I put YOU in the role, I do so because I think you are exactly who should be in it. I like who you are, what you say, how you say it, whatever discernible affinity you may show for the role in a short audition, and I balance that with whatever knowledge I have, if any, of your previous experience. If I've seen you before, it helps. If I've worked with you before, even better (usually).

So, with YOU in the role, I expect several things. I expect you to know the script backwards and forwards. I expect you to read it for continuity, wholeness, and grasp the scope of your character's (and other characters, too) journey. What would thrill me to no end is if you took the script and noted every single thing in it that pertained to your character. Honestly, I fully expect you to do the research. What I hope for is that you will unlock the script's mysteries on your own.

So. Line readings. Theoretically an actor should walk in having most, if not all of the answers. I say “should” and this depends on several things. Is the actor of an age to have the life experience needed to portray the role with truthfulness, or did some college professor decide to put the high school prom king and queen in “The Gin Game”? Does the actor have the specific knowledge of, say Jewish arc welders in Lithuania in the 1930s, needed to fully inform the character? Is it a Becket play?

I write this as a director. It is not my job to tell you how to do each and every line. That, dear actor, is your responsibility. You are the one who will portray Hamlet or whoever up on that stage and you need to have the story arc down solid.

I know this makes me sound as if I believe that all the responsibility of script work is on the actor. Not true in the least. While I do expect my actors to work, do the research, and come into the rehearsal ready to make it happen, experiment, and change my life forever with their brilliance, I fully realize there will be times that certain lines and beats will just be difficult to get. It happens a lot. And, while I loathe forcing the actor to do something not of his or her own invention and thereby limiting his or her ability to mold the part to fit his or her interpretation, I will do it when necessary.

As an actor of some limited ability, I have asked for line readings myself. Case in point: In David Mamet's American Buffalo, when Teach enters the junk shop for the first time he mutters “Fuckin' Ruthie” a number of times. We did the show 12 times, and each time I entered I tried it a different way. Not one of them felt right. The script made it clear what Teach's intent was, but I was never able to put down a reasonable interpretation to my satisfaction. My director left it to me to figure it out. (Bastard.)

When one of my actors asks me for a line reading, or I feel that their reading of a certain line is off the mark, I usually throw one of several requests at them:

“Try hitting the first noun in that line. It's her name and I think you need to accentuate how you feel about her right there”;

“Give the verb more inflection. It shows that you're shocked at the method Claudius used to accomplish his goals”;

“Which part of that line is the part with the real bite? The intro or the prepositional phrase? I think it might be the prep phrase, which shows the absurdity of the current situation.”

Giving the actor an explanation of the line's function is always better than saying “Do it this way: To/be/or NOT!!!!! to/be; ThatistheQUESSSSS...tion.”

And yet, for all my qualms of doing the actor's job for them, limiting the actor's ownership of a role, etc, I have from time to time seen line readings reveal the answer to actors who, only when they hear the line read with intent, are able to grasp the function and meaning of it.

In this case, the ends justify the means. What matters is a true and consistent portrayal of a part, and if lines have to be demonstrated, then so be it. I used to completely abhor line readings as cheating and taking the easy way out, but now I understand that not every project comes to fruition perfectly, and if the end result is what is best for the production and the audience believes the performance to be consistent and true, then I say do what needs to be done by opening night. Audience will never know the difference, anyway.

Its All Moot, Ya Know.

Okay, at the very first my reaction was “Really? What the hell is the point of asking, anyway?” Then I ruminated on it, cuddling the idea until it gained weight. Out of all the questions/subjects in human history, this is probably the thorniest. To wit: Do you think about death? And, if so, what are your thoughts? And how do you, as a playwright, treat your characters who die?

The question was asked by a playwright. God knows what spurred him on to dump this onto Facebook, but he did. And, of course, it being Facebook, folks responded. Mostly serious, nearly all earnest. I think there was one who responded with tongue mischievously planted within cheek.

I sound dismissive. I, like most self-aware, sentient beings, understand death to be inevitable. (It's actually the very last thing on my bucket list.) It's gonna happen. Only questions are when and how.

Having come pretty close to sharing a hot fudge sundae with Death on several occasions, I think I have a passing familiarity. When I was a kid, I had asthma bad enough to close my airways down far enough keep me in an oxygen tent for two weeks. The doctor who did my tonsils when I was five fucked it up big time and I was ambulanced back in to Lenox Hill Hospital toot-fucking-sweet to stem some kind of out of control infection. (Because of my childhood proclivity to contract all sorts of stupid medical ailments, Lenox Hill became my home away from home and I knew all of the nurses in pediatrics by name.)

I had five concussions by the time I was eleven. (And NO, it was not from physical abuse. I was a first-class klutz. I once fell off the damn doctor's exam table when I was five and landed square on the noggin. These are the days before litigation became as commonplace as therapy.)

Three bouts of pneumonia by the time I was eight. When I was nine I contracted viral meningitis. I was in hospitals so much I came to think of them as normal places for any kid to be. To this day I find them soothing and safe. My parents heard from doctors more than once not to plan on keeping the college fund open. Nurses, who kept me from being frightened, who stayed up with me and played games with me and made sure I was okay and sat with me when my Mom and Dad weren't there . . . they are the noblest humans on the planet; they are my goddesses of goddesses.

Moving on. I was almost decapitated on the number one train. My appendix burst right before the surgery. A giggling four year old girl tossed a live mortar at me one sunny day in Baghdad. My wife and I were hit by lightning in Quebec.

Any one of these could have led to a greasy end. How do I feel about death? Like I've cheated it a few times. Like there's a big bill accruing. Like whoever is eventually gonna collect is deliberately fucking with me.

So when someone asks how I feel about killing off my characters, I respond with curiosity. I mean, how should I feel?

I've expounded to those within earshot any number of times about being a playwright and playing God by creating virtual life forms on the page. Characters with feelings, pasts, motivations, fears, loves, etc, whatever resembles real soul-possessing humanity as closely as possible. Because that's what we do: we create viable souls. To me, in my head, my characters are real. They exist. In reality, they do not. Thank you, Dr. Phil, but I know the difference.

And should I have occasion to end their literary corporeal existence, I do so with what I hope is good reason. Death is, simply, a truthful functionality. They die because that is what is supposed to happen. All things die. They die because they are meant to. I can only hope they die at the right time and for the right reason.

To me, Death is not a convenient device, it is a logical end to a character. It is not used to be efficient, to remove a body from a stage, to lean down a production. It is used because that device of death for that character-soul is an integral part of the whole (plot). That death, as every death should, resonates throughout the work and creates ripples in the plot that others now have to deal with.

Again I come back to a topic all too familiar when dramaturging a work: what, as opposed to the playwright's own particular desires and wishes, serves the play itself? More than a few times I have had to seriously reflect on what I'm scribbling down: is it my wish as “a playwright with desire and ideas” that it should happen THIS WAY or is it the play itself's dictation that X should bite the big one? Most of the time I know, deep down, behind the initial surprise, that it's right because I have that feeling of logical completion. Only once have I been perturbed by the play telling me of the need for a character to shuffle off this mortal coil, and it took this path:

Discovery: Oh fuck. Really?

Denial: Oh, fuck no. Not you. Dude. I like you.

Anger: Fuck this shit!

Bargaining: Oh fuck, can I rewrite . . .?

Depression: Oh fuck. The rewrite's bullshit. I hate this writing thing. I'm no good. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!!!

Acceptance: Ohhhh . . . fuck!! Wait a minute . . . this works!!!

So I guess my answer to the question of how I think about my characters who are no more, who have ceased to be, whose metabolic processes are now yeah yeah yeah is simply:

This is your job. You are dead. Since you are dead in one of my plays, you'll probably still have lines. You'll have a really creepy makeup job. This is theatre, remember. Dead people on stage are pretty cool. Think about it: from Hamlet senior to the Woman in Black, you're the character who most likely lucked out, cuz you get to provide the spine chills and the bad dreams. You're dead, yes, but you're lucky.

The author Terry Pratchett passed away last week. I'd read all of his books at least twice each. His characterization of Death was the personification of the Grim Reaper: cloak, hood, skeleton, scythe. SPOKE IN ALL CAPS. Classic freaky anthropomorphication a la Dickens and many others. And yet this Death had a large part of humanity within him, although he didn't quite know it. He did his job ruthlessly and efficiently, yes. He took whomever was next on his list and cut them loose from life as we know it with dutiful precision. He was, for the vehicle that moved you on, rather non-threatening. He had a sense of humor. And a profound sense of sympathy.

What do I think about Death? I hope Pratchett was right.

Live a Little

You know the look. It's the look that people get when they’re processing what you've just said and they have come up against a huge disconnect in logic.

It's the look I get when I tell people that Ithaca Fringe Festival acts are selected by lottery.

It's kind of funny, actually. These good folks immediately have the concept of “What? You just let anybody in?” Then they weigh that against the prototypical no-miss business model that lives vaguely in their heads and there you go: cosmic stalemate. You can't equate letting “anybody” in with having a successful festival.

I mean... what if... what if... the acts suck?

Good question. I could regale you with tales of horror-stricken audienceship as I ingested a musical based on Arthur Miller's The Crucible. (It must have sounded good on paper.) Or a tale of mind-numbing boredom at yet another interminable interpretive dance performance that must have been choreographed by a four-year-old whose main theme was “I have a load in my pants. And it's on fire.”

These things happen. I can say, based on the number of fringe festival shows I've seen, that the percentage of “did-NOT-suck” to “mind-blowingly brilliant” shows far outweighs the number of craptastic crimes against theatrical humanity. I've rarely been disappointed at a fringe show.

Bear in mind the mitigating factors: fringe shows are usually cheap (Ithaca Fringe $10/pop, cheaper if you buy multishow passes); short (about an hour); and plentiful (the Edinburgh Fringe, granddaddy of them all, has some 12 billion; we have eight this year). So what if you attend something as off-mainstream as Hemorrhoids Through the Ages? You at least have a helluva story to tell later. (Honestly, what would you rather listen to, the story that starts with “This show was so good,” or “OMG you cannot believe how bad... how horrifically godawful this show was...”?)

“But,” these folks ask, “you don't at least choose which ones to pick from?” Nope. I don't. I'm the producing artistic director (yes, a three-word title), and even though I wield supreme executive power over this festival, I do NOT jury the entries. Why should I?

They struggle with this, doubting that we'll have a decent lineup. I get it. It's scary when you think of business plans and success. I'm not saying I don't wish fervently for every show chosen to be brilliant and to sell out, but I have to go with the essence of the fringe itself. I have to go with taking chances. I'm probably my own worst enemy. I don't ask “Is it any good?” I ask “Should I see this?”

I'm a playwright. I send my work out to prospective theatres and contests frequently. 99% of the time I never get a response. .05% of the time I get the usual rejection: “It was the toughest choice of our lives, but after sacrificing half of our children and reading their entrails in the dust,” (I'm paraphrasing) “we eventually went with the sock-puppet version of Dick Cheney's Puberty...” I am no stranger to rejection.

So, when I first envisioned the Ithaca Fringe Festival, I fully intended to vet the submissions and throw out the obvious crap. Then, when I attended the US Association of Fringe Festivals conference in Portland, Maine, I was waylaid after dinner by three representatives of three different fringe festival organizations who impressed upon me the very nature of a “fringe.”

“Look,” one said, “the idea of a fringe is anything but safety.”

“Absolutely correct,” another fringe rep concurred, “this is not comfy seats and Appletinis. This is the shit, the good stuff the real theatres can't gamble on even though they may want to and thereby won't invest in.”

“Exactly,” said the third. “You are performing a goodly artistic service by refusing to deny struggling artists a chance to have their work shown to the world. You know how many artists out there will never get a chance to be heard, to be seen, to express the fruits of their souls?”

“Besides,” they said (yes, all three in perfect three-part harmony), “who are you to be the be-all and end-all of artistic taste? What makes you qualified to say what's good and what ain't?”

I had to admit, later on as I surveyed their arguments, they had a very valid point. How many times had I walked out of a theatre performance with more than a few complaints: The plot made no sense; the show was redeemed only by stellar acting; the ending was a feel-good copout that betrayed everything that had come before it. Or the show raised a series of important and timely social issues and did not fully or legitimately explore them. The show had no characters I cared about. The show did not say anything. On and on.

And yet . . . others liked these shows. Liked them enough to produce them for three weeks, five nights a week, in a 99-seat house. So maybe I have a twisted sense of artistic value. I loathe almost anything Hollywood produces, thinking it high fructose corn syrup for the mind. I do have high standards, and I expect all playwrights and producers to as well. Yes, I fully admit my opinion is not everyone’s. You'd be amazed what Perennial Favorites I think are crap. I think most “classic plays” taught in high schools and colleges should be frozen and time-locked until 2246. Bring in the new stuff, start working with the plays that reflect what's going on these days. Be contemporary, be relevant. Be dangerous.

A fringe festival is where some of the best the new stuff shows up. The experimental . . . offbeat . . . non-formulaic. A fringe is where theatrical adventure comes into its own, where what's left of America's theatre scene finds spiritual and intellectual rejuvenation. It takes chances, as it should.

So no. We don't vet. We don't judge. We take your (small) application fees, throw your scripts into a revolving hopper, and pick. This year we'll pick eight. I don't know how good they will be. But I’ll wager most of them will be terrific. And I hope you come out and see them, support the creative arts, and have some fun. And don't worry if the acts aren't the best thing since Phantom. Ask yourself if they are acts you should see.