When last we chatted about writing, I was trying to finish the play “Stacks.” It’s now been finished, rewritten, and sent to a very good trusted reader. I got some fantastic notes from him and the next rewrite is imminent.
In the meantime, another idea that had wormed into my consciousness (months before Fake Preznit Drumpfuck was barfed onto our nation by droves of drooling right-wing morons) took hold. I imagined that a right-wing doomsday prepper nutcase is proven right, and just before the bombs fall, gets his family and the neighbor couple tucked safely into the underground bunker he built into his backyard.
It’s all downhill from there. Continue reading
The wife and I are latecomers to the Good Doctor. Various mentions from friends like Zen, Davida, and Cat, had left me for years intrigued about the series. Knowing, however, that it has been going on since sometime in the 18th century (no, not really, but for a *really* long time) made ever getting into it seem daunting. Continue reading
I’m white. I’m white-bread, Western European, privileged as they come. My Irish heritage provides me this small sliver of oppression I might be tempted to cling to.
But come on.
I’m white as fuck.
All the characters in everything I write are super-white too. I make an attempt not to racialize any of my characters. I would like to think that an all-black cast could pick up one of my plays and still put on the same show. Continue reading
Very slow, in fact.
I was perusing some of my previous articles looking for something I thought I’d written about the table read of my play “It’s Not Love on My Part.” Alas, it seems I only thought I’d written it. Or perhaps I dreamed it?
I write so infrequently on this blog because I’m usually kvetching about my religious background and the scars I bear (/s) from the experience. Poor me, etc.
In searching back through this site, I found that the only mention of my play was in the Welcome post introducing this blog, or at least its move to WordPress. Continue reading
I ran across this in my twitter feed yesterday:
For my love of writing, I tend to follow back authors who follow me. It’s just decent to do so. Many of them are self-published, especially on Amazon. I sympathize with their plight and their aim. Get their books published and be a writer only someday.
But this sentiment I cannot abide. I’m sorry. Continue reading
So there I am, brushing my teeth. My sink is right next to the oversized luxury tub that my wife uses like, what, maybe once a year?
So I glance into it and what do I see? A spider. Every now and then a spider finds his or her way into the tub. A nice blank area free of competitors, ripe for the taking. That’s how it looks. But what the spider soon learns is that, somehow, their little sticky feet don’t work on the ceramic surface of the tub. They can’t climb up, no matter what they do. Continue reading
My job takes me all over central California as well as a bit of the south. Two places I pass by nearly every week are the Salinas Valley State Prison and the Coalinga State Hospital.
The prison in Soledad harbors some of California’s most violent and recidivist criminals, many of them members of prison gangs such as La Eme, Nuestra Familia, Aryan Brotherhood, and their street-level offshoots. Coalinga State Hospital inters some 800 plus of the state’s most violent sex offenders, held indefinitely under treatment under Jessica’s Law.
I’m always severely fascinated by those facilities as I drive by. It’s hard for me to keep my eyes on the road because I stare at the towers, the razor wire topped fences, the tiny window-slits, the isolated landscape. Continue reading