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Journey's
End Journey's
end in lovers' meeting Journey's end in lovers' meeting Journey's end in lovers' meeting
Journey's end in lovers' meeting Visit
Dennis' Blog at: Rent
Shadowbox Live by Rick Brown I witnessed
a Broadway touring company’s performance of Rent
at the Ohio Theater several years ago. I came away from the show
feeling somewhat empty emotionally. The small cast and sparse staging
made the Ohio feel existentially vast; the desperation of the characters
seemed all the more desperate. The garbled sing song dialogue and
the way too loud (even for me) rock score combined with
the seriousness of a tragic 90’s AIDS related storyline, created
an emotional abyss that would startle Friedrich Nietzsche. And as the troupe
has done so many times in the past, the piece has been reworked
in ways that not only suits their talents well, but also makes Rent
their own. The Rent Band, led by guitarist Matthew Hahn,
is the heart and soulful infrastructure here, guiding the actors,
singers and dancers skillfully with such subtle yet disciplined
nuance most will not notice. With guitarist Dante Wehe (No Yvonne
and I do not have a son, though he would be a great one to have.)
Erik Rau on drums, Eric Flores on Bass, Thomas Young on keyboards,
and a myriad of percussionists, the score of Rent is both
respected yet interpreted in ways that bring out the best in the
vocals. Hurry and see this! Rent only runs Sundays at 2 p.m. and 7 p.m. through April 17th. For more information please go to: http://www.shadowboxlive.org/shows/rent Splits
in the Snow It was just a huge broccoli stem. But it had to go. Not in the disposal. And the food scrap cans on the mud porch were full. Better to just run it out to the backyard compost bins. It would only be an Ohio winter minute. Living here all my life I should have known better. Mattered not that I was in pajamas … house shoes. My neighbors see me a lot in my Pajama Boy garb. Wintertime equates to Pajama Boy sightings in my neck of the woods. No large deal I thought. Stroll out … open lid … dispose of big green stem … close lid … stroll back in. The first 60% of my plan was flawless.
As I turned to go back into the warmth of the house my right foot
… ever so gracefully … began sliding forward in the
newly fallen snow. My left foot however, stayed put. The trunk of
my body …followed by my head … went lower and lower
at a perfect 90-degree angle towards the earth. An experience that
at once was both speed of light yet seemingly slow motion. Hmmm
Hmmm # 23 Perhaps
Camus
I
have
Hmmm # 25 On St. Patrick’s Day
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Join Naked Sunfish on Facebook  Rick's book, Best Bites is available at: Lulu.com & Amazon.com  Elephant in the Room Raconteur Theater Club Diversity Columbus. Ohio by Rick Brown
 Magical Evening by Morris Jackson  Siesta
Key #2
by Daniel Eley The
Tommy Castro Band by Rick Brown Having
never been to the Vonn Jazz & Blues I was immediately
taken by the place. With its red and black décor, heavy
drapes, big chandeliers and zebra skinned lobby chairs it
hinted at New Orleans … part dinner club … part
brothel. The food was good. The service was good. The music
proved to be incredible. |
 by Sue Olcott Click Here The
Non Fiction Theater of the Truly Mundane Rolling
Rock Scene: an Irish Pub in Gloucester, Massachusetts. A long, well stocked bar stretches across the back of the stage with several tables directly in front of the bar. About 15 patrons sit scattered at the tables conversing and quietly sipping drinks, mostly bottled beers. At the end of the bar, stage right, 2 very drunk older men sit facing each other. They are engaged in a heated argument. It is summer, 1978 and a few people are dressed casually in 70’s attire. Most of the men are in casual working class, fishermen garb. Behind the bar is a portly, bald Irish bartender wearing a white apron. Sitting at the bar far stage left, is a passed out man with his head between his arms, face on the bar. Twenty-somethings Rick, Yvonne and her younger brother Rod enter stage right. Drunken
man #1 (in very slurred speech) – No you cannot! Rick, Yvonne and Rod are standing close by in awe of their argument. Drunken
man #2 – FUCK THAT! Only takes me like a fucking MINUTE
and a HALF!! Irish
bartender (gruffly) – What’ll ya have? Suddenly
the man sitting next to Rick who had been passed out, jerks up,
struggling to hold his head up. Curtain Cast: Rick,
Yvonne and Rod – their 20s selves traffic
sounds star
tonight,
the traffic i
need to sit now because it will Real me out,
Popcorn I was trying to write, nothing specific, just trying to get some words down on the page, something to start with, so I went and made some popcorn. Well, actually, the laundry was dry, so I went to the basement, folded and hung it, moved the wet clothes into the dryer, and then carried the clean laundry upstairs and put it away. I’ve noticed that putting one load of laundry away at a time is less discouraging than letting it all pile up, the stuff on the top of the basket nearly teetering out, smashing the things at the bottom and then there’s so much laundry to put away. All at once. It’s discouraging. So I put the laundry away, and then it was time for popcorn. And then writing. I measured the popcorn into a paper bag with a ¼ measuring cup. Then I looked at the handful kernels left in the package and--what the hell--added those too. The popcorn is old, purchased during my last Popcorn Phase, and I’m just starting a new Popcorn Phase. So there’s a lot of duds. That’s how I rationalized the extra ¼ cup. I fold the bag closed and put it in the microwave for 90 seconds. I learned the popcorn-in-a-paper bag trick from Mark Bittman’s book Food Matters. That way you can have quick popcorn without the nasty chemical stuff. I need to buy more paper bags. When the popcorn is done, I take the bag out of the microwave, dump the contents, both popped and unpopped, into a bowl, then mist it with olive oil, give the bowl’s contents a shake, mist, shake, mist. I grind pepper, shake, sprinkle salt, shake, and am satisfied. Almost. On the way out of the kitchen I grab the seasoned salt. I walk back upstairs, and as I reach the last step, I change my grip on the bowl so I’m holding it by the bottom, and then I drop it. The bottom, warmed by its contents, is surprisingly hot. The bowl falls to the floor, sending popcorn and kernels shooting down the stairs. The seasoned salt rolls to the lowest spot in the hallway, the corner next to our bedroom door. I stand for a moment in disbelief. The house is silent. The dog is snoring in the next room. There was a time when he would’ve rushed out to the hallway and gobbled all the popcorn he could get, probably taking care of most of the kernels too. Now he just sleeps on; he’s getting old. A few pieces are left in the bowl. Not moving yet, I eat them. Then I step away from the sea of popcorn and kernels. I notice there are kernels caught in the decorative folds on my shoes. I take off my shoes and shake them out. Several unpopped kernels rattle on the wood floor. I go into the spare room and get the vacuum cleaner. As I roll the vacuum cleaner by his bed, the dog wakes up, and stiff with arthritic joints, goes out into the hallway. I wonder if I’ll have to prevent him from excitedly eating his way up and down the stairs. But no. He surveys the popcorn mess tiredly, as if to say “What have you done now?” then trots wearily to his bed in another room. I plug the vacuum in and start methodically in the hallway, pulling up popcorn detritus with the hose. I accidentally turn the vent side of the vacuum toward the stairs, long enough to send a drift of popcorn down to the first landing. After that, I vacuum awkwardly, moving the bulky machine down the stairs, with the vent away from the popcorn, clearing an area before I put the vacuum on it. Occasionally popped corn stops up the end of the hose temporarily, creating a hydrangea-like bloom on the end of the nozzle. I reach the bottom landing and start working my way back up, capturing stray kernels as I go. I wonder how many kernels I will pick up, here and there, in the coming week. I put the vacuum away and take the bowl downstairs. I open a new container of popcorn. These kernels are much bigger than those in the first batch. This is Orville Redenbacher corn; the kernels are the size of pencil erasers. The previous package was an Amish-grown popping corn, and in Mennonite fashion, the kernels were modestly-sized. I put a quarter-cup of kernels into a paper bag, then add a little more. I fold the bag and put it in the microwave. I check the laundry. It’s not dry yet. I take the bag out of the microwave, dump the contents, both popped and unpopped, into a bowl, then grab our olive oil spray, mist, give the bowl’s contents a shake, mist, shake, mist. I grind pepper, shake, sprinkle salt, shake, done. I walk back upstairs. On my way through the hall, I pick up the seasoned salt, which is still lying near the bedroom door. The dog has settled on the carpet in the spare room. I sit on the couch, eat a few pieces, and read the paragraph I wrote forty minutes ago. A piece of popcorn drops on the floor. I pick it up and toss it to the dog. It lands two feet in front of him. The dog startles, then spies the popcorn. He stares at it with a pained expression. He feels obligated to eat it, but he’ll have to move to do it. I feel guilty for introducing this dilemma. I remember Fritz as a puppy, when we first got him, bouncing around our apartment, snuggling on the couch. We let him on the furniture, before we bought new furniture, our own furniture. Before we started caring about the cleanliness of the house. Fritz gingerly stands, then walks stiffly to the popcorn and eats it. He looks around, wondering what to do next, then walks to his bed, the one he started the afternoon in, and folds himself into it. In the basement, the dryer buzzes. I think about the young woman, the young man, the puppy, the apartment, and the house. And then I go downstairs to get the laundry, picking up a popcorn kernel as I go. |
