REJECTED!

Well, kids, it looks like I've been rejected in my attempts to get my play "King of the Mountain" published ... twice. A few months ago, angry and disappointed in my lack of productivity (when am I not) and hankering for the good ol' days, I brushed of my gem of a play and sent it off to a few journals ranging from Alaska and Canada to a few in the Northeast. And slowly the rejection letters have been delivered at my door. Actually, the journal in Alaska responded promptly. I ripped open the return envelope, read the polite stock rejection note, and taped it to my wall. And just the other day, I received another. Ripped, read, taped all over again. I have space on my wall for both acceptance and rejection letters, but I've obviously given more space to the latter. Oh, and I think a festival rejected the play a month or so ago. So I go that going for me. Time to send it out again. (Actually, I should write something else.) T-Dexxx out.

The Finish.

This was it. Such a long process, and yet it came down to a very quick week, and three even quicker nights.

I preceded the final show with an afternoon stroll through the Village with my family. Nice. And then it was a sprint back to Jersey to “suit up”, grab John, and then dash back into the city to do this thing one last time.

Now, there was a bit of controversy with my family attending the show: my sister is rather young (elementary school age), and I use a lot of profanity in the show (a needless amount for someone who never uses it in conversation. What was I trying to do, give Mamet a run for his money? I mean, I used the word “peloton” 16 times, but the f-word, and variations thereof, was apparently my favorite word, coming in with over 35 appearances.) I was adamant that she see the play along with the rest of the fam. Why should she miss out on a trip to NYC because of a few words her brother chose to use in his play—the whole reason for the trip in the first place? I don’t actually use them, and no one does at home…so what’s the risk of this one-time exposure? It’s art godammit! Alas, when everyone took their seats—I again a nervous wreck in the corner—she sat right there in the house next to Tim. Now, little did I know the affect her bored presence would have on the foul-mouthed inner monologue of one Max Richter pedaling right in front of her. Apparently, Ryan was hesitant to swear when he could plainly see a little girl in the house. I had an inkling this was going on during the show, and should have seen it coming beforehand, but I didn’t. One more lesson in producing.

Some minor hitches, but the final show presented things superbly.

And just like that, we grabbed our gear—bike, trainer, et al.—and stepped out into a rainy spring New York evening. I parted ways with my family, reluctantly, to attend a cast party of sorts—food, camaraderie, and high spirits in Hell’s Kitchen, once again.

And on Friday, May 1, 2009—11 weeks after its selection for the NY Amazing play festival, 85 days after I mailed my little play—King of the Mountain closed its first run.

The Second Show--Up Another Swtichback

Aside from Ryan dropping two non-essential paragraphs (they should probably be cut anyways), and a smaller house than opening, we avoided the sophomore slump and ran a near-perfect show. It had energy and confidence; it really came into its own, not that I had the opportunity to watch my show. Actually, I could look away from the board and script to watch Max speed toward Roubaix, toss a fig Newton across stage, or scramble off stage to squat behind an RV. But I was rather focused on the script, the base material, the framework for which I was responsible and remained irrevocable attached, though I hardly recognized the words as my own and could only on rare occasions recall ever writing a particular phrase or passage; there it was in my hands, yet so distant—replaced (for the better) with the living, breathing performance. And that, after all, was what I’d actually envisioned.

So, we nailed it. And off into another night of celebration.

(Admittedly, I’d become rather enamored with the idea of banging out an hour show every night, to be followed by skulking around bars, friends and strangers buying me drinks as I talked on and on about my play. Yes, Hemingway…or Fitzgerald, or Kerouac. That's the life: a strung-out, washed-up alcoholic writer by 25. Hmm…actually, let’s hold off on that “career path” for now.)

Opening Night, or Taking on L'Alpe

I had only slept a few hours the night before, like three or something. Otherwise, I laid awake on my back, basking in what cool breeze drifted in through my window, contemplating how far I had traveled and, of course, the remaining road ahead.

I woke up nervous, my stomach a nauseas knot. As a distraction, I plunged into stroller parking, my job, which had become nothing more than a time-killer between sleep and working on the play. But, to no avail. I remained a nervous wreck into mid-day, and believe it or not, constantly being asked “Are you nervous?” didn’t relieve the stress either.

I raced home. Between work and the play, I needed to finish sound with John, shower, and don my suit. My grandparents and aunts arrived during these frantic hours, though I hardly had time to hang out with them. Soon enough, John and I—a veritable urban Johnny Cash—set out for the City and a date with destiny.

Things did not start out well. Ryan, John, and I worked on tech (mostly running the more complex transitions) until Ken, the artistic director and acting house manager, anxiously insisted that we open the house. And so we did. In the meantime, I had to deal with the incoming friends and family, getting comps for ModSquad and springing their postcards on Ken, running to the bathroom, consulting with Mary and Mandy, and trying not to crack up as I waited out the tense 20 minutes in my “booth.” I may have seemed composed as nearly forty people entered the house—that’s right, we sold out and had to put a row of chairs on the floor—but it was my own act for that night, kinda like playing the part of a producer or stage manager. Mandy gave a curtain speech, and we were off.

An hour later, Queen’s “Bicycle Race” could barely be heard over the applause, as Ryan bowed and I unashamedly beamed. Well, there you have it. No, it wasn’t perfect, but damn—we pulled it off. The next day’s show, surely, would be better—in fact, opening night had been only our second run in the space. The packed house cleared onto 42^nd Street, and after a few cursory photos, we--friends, cast, crew—celebrated the victory in Hell’s Kitchen. One night down, two to go.

Dress.

I had not felt a similar level of stress and pressure as the 48 hours preceding opening since school—since last spring to be exact. Specifically, I recall those frantic days I lost in May as I worked towards graduation, final exam/papers, and the final draft of my history thesis. Days and nights bled together (although I did have the slightest respite to watch Manchester United win the Champions League over Chelsea Repeat champs?) And I even worked all of graduation day on my footnotes and bibliography before running all over campus to print the worthless 100-pg tome and turn it in only hours before commencement. Good times. But now I was dealing with creative, focused pressure—a project I truly cared about, one I had poured myself into, a labor of love.

At dress we immediately picked up right where we’d left off the night before: as John fiddled with levels, Mary, Ryan, and I set the handful of light cues—my fingers flitting over the sliders while scribbling haphazard notes-the show in a sense. Seven-thirty approached, so we rigged up the booth, set Ryan on his way with a performance piece pedaling pre-show, and ran the whole thing. Oh, and to capture the height of my dramatic career, Tim filmed his first viewing of the play. Actually, this was everyone’s first glimpse of the play with all the elements in place.

Simply, it was not a train wreck. We ran it without stopping, and hit the finish with a minute to spare before Ken brought in the next group. That didn’t mean we still wouldn’t have work to do in the few minutes before opening the house the next evening. But we struck our equipment, and convened on a windy corner to go over our final set of notes. John had pages of things to tweak, and Mary had a few notes as well, but nothing I really hadn’t noticed as I scrambled around the booth like a multi-armed Hindu deity . I had found a way to keep the show flowing, and that gave me a bit of confidence for doing it for real. But there was work to do the next day. And so we broke the huddle, and drifted our separate ways into a sleepless night.

Tech.

Ah, tech rehearsal, our first time in the space. Now, tech rehearsal is a frenetic, aggravating affair for any production—even under the best conditions. You establish an agenda and certain goals, and you try to meet them as you steadily plod through cues and glitches long into the night, and hope to arrive on the other side with the performance’s technical components (roughly) in place. Now, we had only 2.5 hours to do all that. Granted, my show’s eight lighting cues did not require the grandest of Broadway plots, with follow spots, catwalks, ladders, grids, gels, and a programmable board. We could do everything we needed with what was available, and in a couple minutes at that. Thus, lighting was sacrificed for the sake of sound.

Though perhaps both light and sound are frosting on the cake of this production, the lights are but a thin, superficial top layer to make the cake presentable, while John’s sound was the embedded middle layer—an essential aspect holding the entire thing together with a rich consistency, if less visibly. But then again, there were the voiceovers, which brought the sound to the fore and injected bursts of variety. Perhaps they are the strawberries, or ornate icing flowers, or something made from marzipan? Or would that be the costume, or splash of water? Never mind. All this cake talk is only making me hungry. Speaking of which, wasn’t I supposed to get a congratulatory cake? You know, with something like this written on it:

1.“King of the Mountain”

2. Tom Decker

3. Congratulations

4. Startlingly young talent

Well, I guess I can’t eat my show and have my cake too.

As John puts it, he anticipated working with the moderate sound system the theatre actually had. But the phrasing of the description the theatre provided made him excitedly prepare for a more extensive high-quality system, you know, something with a mixer. So, he schlepped his portable sound shop across the continent. And walking into the theatre on Monday only confirmed his original assumptions.

And so, for a solid 2.5 hours we worked: John, checking levels, building and tweaking cues; me, scribbling said cues into my script—the “book” for running the show; Mary, consulting on mood and blocking; Tim, stapling programs and snapping photographs; and Ryan, pedaling as always, while adjusting to the Lilliputian scale of the stage. The size of the space seemingly shocked everyone but me, who was impressed with the fair approximation of the stage dimensions Ryan’s living room served.

Allow me to share a rare glimpse of KOTM coming to life:

And soon enough, the next show was at the door and we rushed out into Times Square. More work to do the next night.

Opening Night!

If you're not aware, tonight is opening. Be there. I'm nervous/excited--but strangely confident.

(And yes, I'm aware that I have not posted on tech or dress rehearsal. Obviously, I'm a tad busy. I'll write a re-cap when I get around to it.)