(News Flash: Jeffrey Stanley’s BONEYARDS reincarnates in Philly this June at the Art Church of West Philadelphia as part of the 2015 SoLow Fest. Tickets and full details here.)
This posting is a promised addendum to my 3/14/15 visit to Bachelors Grove Cemetery, a brief stopover during my Amtrak Writers Residency trip across the US. To read about my witch encounter and see my Bachelors Grove Cemetery slideshow read the full entry here. (If you’re looking for the Hotel Colorado ghost photos and EVP session they’re here).
Now for the audio I recorded live from my P-SB7 spirit box at the Fulton family grave. As usual I have slowed it down but maintained the original pitch, boosted the volume and applied a little noise reduction. I stress again, as I’ve done here in the past and in my Washington Post story on this subject, that I remain agnostic about the existence of ghosts, and also view the spirit box as a form of surrealist art; an aural version of the old Exquisite Corpse game created by the Surrealists. That said, a transcript and my interpretation follow: (continue reading…)
This morning while hurtling across western Pennsylvania I enjoyed my final Amtrak breakfast. I sat next to a uniformed Amtrak police officer en route to a meeting at our final stop on the Capitol Limited, Washington, DC. From there I’ll take a two-hour ride to Philadelphia on the Amtrak Acela Express and be home in time for dinner.
Across from us sat two elderly women from Pittsburgh and Baltimore. The officer had spent 26 years on the Chicago police force before retiring into a much less stressful “second career” working for Amtrak.
After a few minutes of instinctively probing their names, destinations, life stories, I sprung it on them that I’m a (continue reading…)
A chilly, snowy, slushy day in the Windy City. Awoke to falling snow and a forecast that had increased to 3 to 6 inches.
Another 10-mile run along Lake Michigan was out of the question so I ran 10 miles on a treadmill in my hotel’s fitness room. That might seem like a desperate act but after a 2 and half days of being sedentary on a train I had to sweat out some toxins and burn off the crazy.
Got up with the rooster crow — or in Amtrakspeak the ear-blasting 6am breakfast call — to see off the Warren-Powells who hopped off in Osceola, IA at 7:40am. I then wrote until an early lunchtime (the last meal aboard my beloved California Zephyr before it concluded its run in Chicago) during which I met a pair of retired micro-brewers, Wendy and Don Littlefield. The better half is completing her first novel, a murder mystery that I look forward to reading. They also hipped me to Philly Inquirer food writer Craig LaBan, whom I should have known about as I’m now a Philadelphian, but I didn’t. Now I do. We also talked about our shared appreciation for August Wilson and the fact that they’ll be seeing Two Trains Running in Chicago soon. This was the second time on this trip that August Wilson came up.
I spent my final few hours aboard the Zephyr (continue reading…)
The Ides of March
It was many, many years ago that I began my career as a Dramatic Author; and a hard and bitter-fought beginning I can well remember that it was. I was inexperienced, shy, and foolish; without money, without influence. I knew not a single soul connected even in the most distant way with the theatrical world. I knew no one to advise me or give me a hint. For years I danced in impotent frenzy around the high strong walls that guard the city of Dramatic Art. I ran my head against the stones, I tore myself against the spiky gates, I soused myself in the dirty moat, I screamed and cursed, and blubbed. At last, I climbed over and got in… I enumerate the difficulties that beset me only to show to the struggling young besiegers of today how, with the aid of pig-headed obstinacy, sublime conceit, thick skin, and a genius for nagging and boring and worrying human people’s lives out of them, it is possible to force even so strongly guarded a portal as the stage door of the present century.
- Jerome K. Jerome, British satirical playwright, 1888
Today’s a traveling day. I got up early and wrote for awhile, then spent the remainder of this brisk, sunny morning running 10 miles along Chicago‘s Lake Shore Drive (continue reading…)
Full story here (and EVP session) on my visit to the US’ supposedly most haunted place in March, 2015. Album here. Please give it a few moments to load as it’s 19 pictures.
I visited the most haunted place in the US and bumped into a witch. The witch bumped into a crazy writer.
I got up before dawn to sit in the observatory car and work on LITTLE ROCK while watching twilight brighten gray flat farmland becoming suburbs as we pulled into Waterloo, Indiana. Later I moved to the cafe car for breakfast and wound up sitting across from fellow passenger Mark Wyatt, a grass roots activist who runs the 2000-member strong Iowa Bicycle Coalition, on a return trip from DC where he was “lobbying Congress.” Why didn’t he just fly there? “I don’t enjoy flying and I’ve come to enjoy train travel. It’s easy, it’s comfortable, and I can write three grants along the way.” He and his organization have come up with some novel ways of increasing bicycle appreciation and awareness in Iowa, including the annual bacon ride, where cyclists make stops along the way to enjoy BLTs, bacon chocolate sundaes and bacon (continue reading…)
Surely you’ve heard by now that international theatre legend Ellen Stewart died last week on 1/13/11 at the age of 91. By the time I got to New York in the late 1980s LaMama Experimental Theatre Club, which she founded, was already legendary.
I was thrilled to be a footnote in LaMama’s history years later in 2002 when a short play I wrote, a weak pastiche of a Broadway musical called “The Monkey of Oz,” was performed there as a part of a larger evening.
Then there’s my Uncle Joey, a wise and aged actor from back in the day who has often spoken to me about being there “at the beginning” as one of Ellen’s regular ensemble of actors who were fixtures there and at its immediate predecessor Caffe Cino. He also happened by Caffe Cino on the morning of March 30, 1967, the day that Joe Cino had gruesomely hacked himself up with a kitchen knife, and he saw the blood-spattered floor shortly after Joe had been rushed to the hospital. Joe’s suicide attempt was successful — he died a few days later. Uncle Joey recounted how two years later in 1969 a play by Donald L. Brooks was produced about Joe Cino called Superfreak: The Death of Joe Cino, which depicted his suicide in all its gore. This upset some of Cino’s associates and led them to organize a boycott of the show. Ellen Stewart also joined the boycott and banned Brooks and the entire cast and crew from ever having their work produced at LaMama again. In Uncle Joey’s eyes this was the only black mark in Ellen’s career, because, he says, she never actually went to see Superfreak herself. He considered it a powerful and meaningful show. He tried explaining that to Ellen, but she just smiled and walked away.
Still, he remained a loyal and unshakable Ellen fan. A few years ago when an article about Ellen winning (yet another) prize appeared in The New York Times, Uncle Joey pulled from his obsessive, personal LaMama archive a similar article written many years earlier. The articles make terrific companion pieces and nicely sum up LaMama. I photocopied the two articles onto a single sheet and still use it today as a handout when I include theatre history as a component of my playwriting classes at New York University.
The first article is from the Village Voice, 1969, written by theatre critic Jerry Tallmer, the man who coined the term Off-Off Broadway in a 1960 Voice article. The Voice also gave the first Obie award in 1965.
The second article is from the Times, 9/21/2007; no author given.
I quote liberally from them now:
CLOSEUP column by Jerry Tallmer
And From the Wings…
So now it is eight years and maybe 300 new plays presented by Cafe LaMama, and a new Off-Off-Broadway home at 74A E. 4th St. with two theaters stacked one above the other, the cement still wet on opening night, and Ellen Stewart recognized around the world as mama to a whole new generation of playwrights.
“My biddies,” she calls them, urging that every single one be named so that no feelings are hurt. That being impossible, we will just say she has started on their way “at least 100 playwrights, maybe 150″ of every conceivable variety, some of whom are already up in the big time.
Ellen Stewart doesn’t like much to talk in any detail about herself or the past. These facts do emerge:
She was born in Alexandria, La., “and spent my life in Chicago.” She is a handsome woman of enormous class and style and joy of life, and her speech is geechee – “Zthees is Cafe La Mama, dedicated to zthee playwright” — coming down to her by way of the Negro slaves along the Ogeechee River in Georgia who were her ancestors.
“I didn’t come from a hard-life kind of thing,” says Ellen, whose mother was a schoolteacher. “I went to Arkansas State College in Pine Bluff, and after college I didn’t even teach school, which is what I was supposed to do. Shall we say, I drifted around, so to speak? The truth is,” charmingly put — “I was kind of pretty, you know.”
And she became a mother. Her son, Larry Hovell, used to be a teacher and now works in advertising in Chicago. His is the father of her granddaughter, Sorata Ellen, 2.
“Oh,” says Grandmother Ellen. “I can give you one job. I worked in electronics. I went to Western Electric and I was too dumb to do anything in electronics so they put me in school at the Illinois Institute of Technology.”
It was around that time that a doctor told her “that I had some brains and that I would have more trouble, like a stroke, if I didn’t use them.”
So, in 1950, wanting to become a fashion designer, she flipped a coin. “Heads I go to San Francisco, tails to New York. Blacks couldn’t go to fashion school in Chicago.” It came up tails and New York. She landed a job in the powder room at Saks Fifth; three months later they made her an executive designer. Seven years later she went off into freelance designing, the means by which she still supports herself with lines of playwear for Victor and Joseph Bijou of University Place.
It was in 1961 that she started to fulfill a lifelong dream by opening the first Cafe La Mama in a tiny basement on E. 9th St. She had in mind for her first playwright her foster-brother Fred Lights, who is today a stage manager for NBC. Subsequently driven from pillar to post by every form of city and union officialdom, she survived it all, moving, going on, moving, going on, at last receiving a big Rockefeller grant ($65,000) and a bigger Ford grant ($139,000) which have made this last move to E. 4th St. possible.
If lots of previously unknown people have been helped by Ellen, lots of people have helped her, not least Tom O’Horgan, the director who started with Ellen and who now has contributed $10,000 to LaMama out of his proceeds from “Hair,” and Jules Weiss, a retired builder “who has helped me in everything,” most particularly the renovation at the new building which is an old building going back to when it was put up for a German music society in 1863.
La MaMa Founder Wins Prize
Ellen Stewart, founder and artistic director of the LaMama Experimental Theatre Club in the East Village, joined the Israeli pianist and conductor Daniel Barenboim and the Swiss architects Jacques Herzog and Pierre de Meruon as winners yesterday of the $125,000 Praemium Imperiale arts awards…Given by the Japan Arts Association and announced at the Japanese Cultural Center in Paris, the accolades [are] for lifetime achievement in the arts in categories not covered by the Nobel Prizes…In a telephone interview from Italy, where she is working, Ms. Stewart, 87, who created her Off Off Broadway theater club nearly 46 years ago and has been its director ever since, said of the prize: “It caught me by great surprise. Although America doesn’t realize it, we are kind of known just about everywhere in the world.”
[images via caffecino.wordpress.com and playbill.com]
The cool kids in the programming department at amazon.com have come up with a unique way for authors whose works are available on the Kindle to share their opening pages, so here’s an excerpt from Tesla’s Letters. You don’t need to own a Kindle to view it. This new app for reading Kindle-formatted books right in your browser without owning a Kindle is, understandably, a marketing tool to get you to want to buy a real Kindle and download the whole book. And that’s okay. It’s only a Kindle, and they’re cool.
A word to the wise — *do not* buy a hard copy of Tesla’s Letters from one of the resellers on amazon.com or barnesandnoble.com listing it for exhorbitant amounts like $43.00, $100, etc. There are some unscrupulous jackasses operating through those websites trying to rip you off. You can buy this script directly from Samuel French or download the Kindle version from amazon.com for just $7.50, and at a similar price in Euros from amazon.co.uk. Enjoy.
If you’re not familiar with the play, it’s a semiautobiographical wartime drama set in the late 1990s Balkans with unfortunately (continue reading…)