RED - A Play about Marc Rothko

RED - A play about Marc Rothko.

Dear Hank;

Jan 28, 2012

Went to see “RED” a play about Marc Rothko.

I’ve written about Rothko earlier this year. He’s the guy that painted those big rectangular dark canvases with two rectangles lying horizontal on the painting. I wrote about how I never “got” Rothko, never understood him, never saw what the big deal is about him, that is until I saw his work from the Texas Chapel that were hung in the tower Gallery of the East Wing of The National Gallery of Art in Washington DC. I got him because I sat and looked at those paintings for half and hour. As my eyes adjusted I began to see the dark subtle vibrancy of the canvases: all different, but all similar.

The play is a two hander between Rothko and an assistant. It talks about art. It’s meaning and Rothko’s place in it. Rothko wanted to do monumental works that would be timeless. He didn’t want to do decorative pieces, or pieces that were made to hang over someone’s mantel; he wanted his works to be looked at and contemplated. He wanted to show the flow back and forth between vibrancy and control. He wanted to strike a balance between the opposing forces, knowing all the while that he’d never get it right, but he hoped to come close.

The play touched on his frustrations, how he wanted to be accepted, yet hated everyone and everything that did accept him. He railed against what he considered kitsch that was being sold in the galleries and art houses.

He fought his inner demons; he challenged his young apprentice to think.

This was heavy and heady stuff. this was not a light fluff play. This was a play that wanted to make you think, make you feel, make you examine who you are and what you stand for. It challenged you if you were willing to accept the challenge.

At one point he’s complaining about the word “fine.”

The monologue went something like this, “How are you? Fine. How’s the weather? Fine. Do you like the art? It’s fine. Everything is fine...”

He went on to say everything couldn’t be fine.

When the play is over and we are leaving the theater; we hadn’t even made it out the door (and the Red Barn Theater is a small 100 seat theater) someone was asked what they thought of the play. The response?

“It was nice.”

Egads, did they sleep through the show?

B

The Graveyard - part I

This is based on:
http://www.placehacking.co.uk/2011/12/15/military-infiltration-boneyard/

It’s hard to say when this all started, but I can tell you this – drugs were involved. We were near Victorville, which is near Barstow, which is where Hunter S. Thompson was when he first saw the bats in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, the opening scene of the book. The bats were not real in the sense that there were not huge creatures swooping down on Thompson’s car as he drove to Las Vegas, but rather a drug induced illusion brought about by a mixture of illegal hallucinogenic and other mind/body altering remedies (remedies - would that be the right word?).
In celebration of the fact that we were close by, maybe within 500 miles, Hank thought it a swell idea to ingest “a little something” as he called it. I was not keen on the idea. We had been driving non-stop for fourteen or sixteen hours all in a frantic rush to “get there.” I had failed to ascertain exactly where “there” was or why we had to hurry to arrive. I was however content to drive, switching on and off with Hank, the difference in our driving styles is the difference between a long slow rolling blues tune and a jack hammered heavy metal screech band anthem of mayhem. I liked to settle in to a rhythm, set the cruise control and move a few miles an hour over the speed limit through the passing countryside. Hank on the other hand felt it imperative to reach the horizon at light speed. I was sure he was going to grab the sun visor and rip it off its stanchion as he “used the force” to make the jump to hyper-space.
Hank had reached in his pocket and pulled out a small metal canister. The kind you might keep breath mints in. It was round and crimped around the edges. When he depressed the domed top in the middle the thing clicked and sprang open. There were several round blue pellet shaped pills in it. He took one out rolled it between his thumb and forefinger and popped it in his mouth.
“Ah,” was all he said.
Moments later he was beside me on the bench seat of the boat of a junker car we had purchased in Indiana when his truck had run into a "problem," as he put it. I’d call it a phone pole, which allegedly happened to dodge a squirrel the size of a Mac truck. I had somehow failed to see this animal even though I was sitting in the passenger seat and watching the road the whole time.
Riding shotgun with Hank can be a bit chaotic at times.

I had hoped to get a little shuteye before it was my turn to take over, but when Hank is running on adrenaline, which is most of the time, life takes on a series of jarring movements interspersed with staccato comments.
“Son of … Did you see that? What’s wrong with people? … Look at that idiot…”
With each comment came a cutting of the wheel to one side or the other, possibly with a jamming on of the brakes or a quick violent punch on the accelerator. The affect was to keep my head and body in a constant state of externally induced spastic motions, which when you are trying to sleep, is not the most helpful thing. When I could take no more I'd yell at Hank. “My turn.”
To which he’d reply, “What? I just got started.”
“Yeah, I know. But I can’t take it. At least not now.”
He’d promise to be good so I could rest. This would last for 15 or 20 minutes then the vehicle would jerk to one side or the other – either I’d hit my head against the side brace of the car or I’d find my body plummeting toward the gap between us. Needless to say, whatever near state of sleep my body had been in, it was no longer. After that happens enough times your body is in a wary state and fails to trust that you are going to go to sleep. Once we were in the high country and the road straightened out the jarring lurches came less frequently and I had actually been able to get some rest.
I was halfway through my shift as driver when Hank swallowed that blue pill. The next thing I knew he had slid across the bench seat and was close enough to me to be my date in a remake of an old hot rod movie. He pinched my nose shut and said, “Here, take this.”
I opened my mouth and to say, “No.”
But he popped the little pill in my mouth and then, taking his hand off my nose, which was a good thing; besides not being able to breathe I could only see the road’s center stripe through my left eye, the rest of my view being blocked by Hank’s arm. He held my jaw shut by squeezing down on the top of my head and pushing up from the bottom of my jaw.
“Let it dissolve in your mouth Bryce-baby.”
Hum humming batard I tried to say, "You fucking bastard," but with your mouth clamped shut things don’t go as planned. I relaxed into it What could go wrong?
We had been riding beside a chain link fence for miles. Every so often there was a U.S. Government shield on it with a warning about trespassing.
“Here, pull over,” Hank said releasing my head.
“What?”
“Pull over. This is a good spot.”
I was feeling a little light headed from whatever he had given me, not to mention tired. It seemed like a swell idea to pull over and rest.
There was a slight dip in the road. A gulley ran out from the fence and under the road.
“This is perfect,” said Hank.
I had switched off the car and closed my eyes, “Yeah, perfect. Good night.”
“Not yet cowboy, there's something I want to show you. Come on.”
He had gotten out of the car was looking at the bottom of the fence near the gulley. I had a bad feeling about this.

Do You Know What This Is?

Do you know what this is?
Dear Hank,




It’s my ticket to ride. It came in the mail yesterday. It shows I’m a man of means. I’m important. No longer do I have to go around drunkenly imitating Marlon Brando in On the Waterfront (“I could have been somebody.”) Now, I am somebody. I’m a Chase Sapphire - Preferred.
No longer do I have to hold up a credit card (or Driver’s License) and ask, “Do you know who I am?”
This card is so exclusive, so incredibly secure that no number appear on it’s face. There’s not even a magnetic strip on the back. It must use an integrated chip and laser hooked up to a satellite system and banks of computers, or something like that; I don’t understand it completely, but, best of all, it doesn’t even have my real name on the card! Talk about security. I think just to be safe I better get a library card with my “new” name on it. I might even use that to get a driver’s license ID and then a passport. 
I’ll have to work on not saying, “What?” when the clerk says, “Mr. Walden.”
I’ll have to get used to saying “Walden, Don.”
I wish Carol was still working at Ace. I’d love to try whipping it out on her.
Imagine...
“What’s this?”
“It’s my Chase Sapphire Preferred.”
“Preferred what?”
“Card. Preferred card.”
“That’s not your name.”
“Shhh, It’s my new identity.
“What?”
“Exactly, they give me a secret identity for making purchases. It’s for security.”
“How come on the back it says, This is not a valid card. VOID.”
“I think that’s an acronym for Very Own ID - VOID.”
“Well, I think you better show me your very own credit card.”
“You mean you won’t accept my new Sapphire Preferred?”
“No, Honey. And if I were you ... never mind.”

Gotta go,

Bryce

Shows I'd like to see

Dear Hank,

As you know I’m a big proponent of more real violence on TV. I’m tired of these namby pamby violent shows. I want the real thing. In the past I’ve suggested having a real psycho path as a contestant in any of the “elimination” shows. Imagine the headline “Who will survive?” - takes on a whole new meaning.

But now I’ve hit on another splendid idea. But before I go there let me follow up on an earlier post about entertainment, the one about Kim Kardasian marrying the fat kid now running North Korea, Kim Jung-Un. If we play our cards right I think we could get a slew of programs done over there. How? It’s easy. Tell the execs that the labor costs are zero or near zero and that you don’t have to feed people on the set that will cut expenses drastically. And then we could get Congress to give tax breaks to anyone producing a show over there. Hopefully, all the reality shows would go: Survivor, Fear Factor, and The Real House Wives of anywhere and everywhere. I’d also push for a “Real House Wives of Pyongyang.” That could be fun.*

But this is all old stuff. Now on to my new idea. You know on many of these “elimination” shows where they get rid of someone every week they have a really pretty woman tell the contestant that they’re sorry but whatever they were doing “just didn’t work for them” so “please pack your crap and get the fuck out.” All this said with a sympathetic look in the sexy woman’s face. Then there’s a retrospective shot as the person cries, bucks up and leaves through the swinging door.

I think the leaving should be changed a little. I think the sexy woman should come out dressed in dominatrix leathers and she should tell the startled contestant that they fucked up and now they’re going to be whipped. Maybe, there are three contestants on the potential chopping block and the they grab the poor slob, along with the remaining contestants (???) (or those already kicked off and whipped) and they hold the person down while Miss. Sexy whips the loser. It would be great if they said irrational spiteful things to the person as they held them down. Maybe, throw in a few Police like “occupy” kicks to the body. Then imagine the after interview with the person sitting there with a black eye, bandaged, maybe having an arm in a sling crying, “I didn’t think my muffins were that dry. They should have taken Tamika her aioli had way too much salt!” sniff.
Ah well, they don’t ask me. All I can do is suggest.

B

Here’s the fascinating strategy of all this. Imagine if XYZ announced they were going to North Korea and RST did too then maybe the rest of the lemmings would follow. XYZ could pull out and not tell anyone, leaving the rest over there. I think a few dropped hints of there being “spies” in the group would be enough to insure that we’d never have to worry about seeing any of those shows again. Talk about eliminating the competition.

The Two Kims

Dear Hank,

Stop what you are doing and sit down. I have a fantastic idea. Not only will it make millions - billions, maybe. It will go a long way to world peace and decreasing tensions around the world.

I saw a headline in Google that referred to a headline in The Kansas City Star, which started with the words Those crazy Kims. Naturally, I was interested because I’m a big follower of Kim Kardasian. The Kansas City Star article refrred to a headline in The Onion which started with “Kim Jong-Un ...”

I thought Oh, those Kims!

That’s when it hit me. My Eureka moment, my ah-ha, my gestalt, my genius idea.

The Kims could unite!

Kim Kardashian could wed Kim Jong-Un.

What a wedding!

What a reality show!

It’s perfect. Look, the old man was, let’s face it - too old for her (and he had a thing for Swedish models.) But Un (Is that what you call him? Un? Hey, no disrespect, I’m just not sure, maybe, Jung-Un or JU for short. I wonder if his school mates called him Jew? Probably, doesn’t matter if he didn’t like it they’d be all dead by now.)

Ok, so picture this Kim K. marries Kim J. in a ceremony fit for a what? Military dictatorship that starves it’s country into total compliance? No matter, there would literally be a reviewing stand with one million people going by paying their respects - and that just the military! They’d probably also march a few peasants by as well.

After the “unbelievable” wedding and show there would be the day to day life show. The “Keeping Up” show and what a reality! (I don’t often use exclamation marks but this is an exception and, I admit, I’m going a little crazy with them. I’d say, “Sorry” if I was, but I’m not, because I’m soooo excited about this idea.)

So either in the wedding, preferably the wedding, but it could be in the follow up reality show series the Kardasians could haul lots of their friends and paparazzi dregs over to North Korea; along, with any number of has been and second rate or unknown “stars” of shows you’ve never known. Maybe, they could even get some of the late night pitch people and auction show celebrities to come. They might be able to get young Un to allow South Korean stars to participate in their show, thus opening the gates to better relations between the two countries, calming tensions and who knows maybe Meta-World Peace would come over.

Then once they get a toe hold in the country they could start bringing over other shows. Imagine, what the North Koreans could do with a show called Fear Factor? Or Survivor?

Even an old time show like Truth or Consequences could be redone. Can you imagine the consequences? Wow.

Okay, wait a minute, let’s be real. We gotta be practical. Would this really work? What do we know about Kim Jong-Un? Well, from the pictures we know one thing; he’s fat. Which is quite an achievement in a country that’s starving. In fact, he’s probably the only “over fleshy” North Korean you’ve ever seen. What about Kim Kardasian is she a little - how do you say, “abundant”? in the flesh department? Natch.

Also, the Kardasians have a thing for people whose names, first or last, start with “K.”
You think in KOREA you could find a few names that begin with “K”? Huh?

Yeah, sure you would.

Okay, once the Kardasians are ensconced over there we’d start to see the shows where they’d show us their homes. We could get the make-over shows going. You know, redo houses, Un’s hair and clothing, etc. Wouldn’t you like to see Carson Kressley wiping old Un into shape with some fabulous flambe print pants and a ruffle shirt?

Then we’d talk them into fast food. Look, if you’re starving and have no food to eat fast food is the next best thing.

You’d have MaKdonald’s (Look, the state would run the place and both Kims would insist on at least one “K” in the name), Kendy’s (this would eliminate the embarrassing attempt to pronounce the “W” in Wendy’s), etc. etc. etc. We’d need a high end mall for Kim K to go shopping in with her mom and sisters.

And the parties, imagine the parties.

Let’s say things didn’t work out. Say after 3 days, or 17, or 59 the Kardashians said, “Hey, we’re tired of this gig. Time to move on.”

That might piss old (young) Un off. He might send them to a “re-education” facility where they could contemplate - uh - whatever they like. And that would be a pity, we might never see them again. Well, maybe they’d show a picture of them for the press. Or perhaps a short movie where they confessed their “crimes.”

Hey look you heard it here first.

Gotta go,

The ‘B” man