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.)

Sunday, Bloody (hot) Sunday

For the pre-show weekend, we in the NYC area endured summer-like heat (see: April, the cruelest month). I wandered around a dank, humid apartment, or sometimes the scorching Jersey City streets themselves. And John holed up in his office/studio/bedroom, headphones blocking out the world (there’s really not much going on out there), and got to work.

At some point Saturday, Walter appeared for his voice over re-takes (what a pro). And that afternoon it seems I accomplished nothing more than holding his microphone.Sunday was our first rehearsal throwing both our new bike system and John’s sound into the mix. And it was also the first of six nights in a row working on this play. Fun fun. Actually, I don’t think I’d rather be doing anything else.

“A hot weekend, eh?” mused the MTA, stroking its anthropomorphic chin. “Well, yes, of course the trains should run slower, and let’s really make it seem like those puny commuters are riding through hell itself.” And thus John and I took our slow, sweltering journey to Harlem.

Eventually we arrived, and immediately attempted to make clean recordings of Ryan’s voiceovers using John’s incomparable sound equipment, all while Harlem blared. Needless to say, we ended up standing in the hallway, Ryan speaking toward his bedroom door as I held the microphone, arm tiring (it required all my concentration not to screw this up, being my only job—I had been reduced to a human mic stand, a Mojo if you will). While the “bonk” section’s voiceover out of context (or even in) left something to be desired, we had a solid track for the epic interior monologue—one of my favorite parts.

We joined the patiently—and quietly—waiting Mary for a run-thru of sorts. With Tim’s amp providing the sound--the voiceovers were clear, but the distortion cube did not adequately convey John’s subtle tones—we added a new element to the performance. I annotated my script with cues and learned the mechanics of the sound program, while we listened to the show slowly but surely come together. Things were cobblestone-rough at times, but no one expected the first tech runs to be as smooth as the velodrome. And though Ryan pedaled on the new bike concerned the new trainer wouldn’t provide the sweat-inducing resistance of the bruiser he’d been riding for weeks, the fluid trainer is nowhere near as loud or annoying as its predecessor—and the racing bike looks pretty sweet. We finished up too late for serious notes, but the real work came in the space itself.

Changing Bikes in Mid-race

Writer & Actor with the new bike on stage

Simply, Thursday—less than a week from opening night—was a good day for this production.

1)John, Mandy’s sound designer friend I had courted in the early days of production, arrived from L.A. ready to get to work.

2)When Ryan took our much-maligned old Schwinn took to a Harlem bike shop, the owner not only removed the old pedal, but installed a set of new pedals gratis. And in fact, they began discussing sponsorship, and yes, potentially a new racing bike and quieter trainer for use in our show. If we could pull this off, it would be huge.

Shortly after receiving Ryan’s excited text message, I met John for lunch. I caught him up to speed on the production as we leisurely ate delicious Cuban food. Voice recordings and rehearsals, you know, the stuff plays and blogs are made of. Eventually, Mandy and coffee arrived, and the afternoon drifted toward our fateful meeting at ModSquad Cycles.

At five sharp, the production team assembled, Ryan of course having pedaled down from his apartment in full kit. At the door to his delightful shop, owner Oye Carr greeted us. Ryan had already done much of the explanation, and Oye was glad to meet the rest of the team. To me, he asked why I had written about the Tour. I explained that while not a cyclist, I’ve fallen in love with the Belle of Cycling. To his rapt audience, he told us stories of watching and riding alongside the Tour. And then he disappeared to retrieve a suitable bike from the basement.

As we waited among the elite racing machines lining the walls, Mary and Ryan feverishly conceptualized how this project could continue. Dumbfounded, I listened to them strategize workshops and open nights and performances during the Tour itself and culling a sport audience and a few potential backers. And I immediately thanked them for being on the team, with their NY theatre experience and contacts I sorely lack.

Soon enough, Oye was back with a bike. Though it had a gleaming red body, we selected a black bicycle with red handle bars—the signature of the Lanterne Rouge. As we left his shop, we assured Oye he’d have our grateful thanks, an ad in the program, as many tickets as he’d like, and a shout-out on the blog.

Check’em out: http://www.modsquadcycles.com/ (I’ve stopped by several bike shops in the city, and this is one of the nicest.)

Coming off this major victory, we plunged into rehearsal, at last with the full team in attendance—and John pulling double-duty as our first audience member. And so, Ryan ran through the entire show, with me on book and playing the recordings from my computer. We worked through lighting changes and bike movements. John contributed his insightful thoughts on the sound components, the final element missing from the performance, as Mary and Ryan talked out the finer points of emphasis and tone.

Among the conclusions we arrived at: we could not use the current magnetic trainer for the show—it’s just too loud, and I would have to run lights and sound. While the first point meant we’d need to really persuade Oye to loan us his fluid trainer—or acquire one by other means—I have mixed feelings about the second. I take comfort in the idea of having control of my own show’s technical aspects—I not only know the script well-enough to nail the sound cues, but trust myself more than anyone else (except for Mandy) not screw things up. And yet, I feel the burden of responsibility for getting things right, and a sense of reluctance—I just want to hide in the back and watch my own show, not for taking notes or anything (as far as I’m concerned, it’s done when it hits the stage), but to marvel at how far we’ve come, to watch my friends and family, and to see the story I’ve longed to tell come to life. But, I can do all that from the booth I guess, sleeves rolled, punching the buttons, in sync with the performance itself.

After our productive creative discussions, Mary put Ryan back on the bike to work the first half. And at some point, I leaned back on the couch, forgot about the script on my lap, and felt the worry and dread just drain away. I thought, “Things will work out. We have something of a show. A very good one.”

Coda: As I tried to track down a fluid trainer stand on Friday afternoon, Ryan picked up the bicycle from ModSquad and returned for the trainer. He promptly sent me a pic of “our baby”, and John replied to our news: “America! F**k yeah!”

... And into the Final Week

Remember when I said I would be peeling off the front as writer, and perhaps our bike woes were behind us? Well, it seems I spoke too soon.

Rehearsal on Tuesday began with one last adjustment to the bike: removing the old pedals, and replacing them with new (old) clip pedals from Pete. With little effort, I swapped the right pedal. The ease of this procedure, stands in perfect contrast to the epic struggle which began when I approached the left pedal. I had loosened the first with little difficulty and installed the clip pedal in only a minute or so. Attempting to repeat this on the other side would consume at least half an hour. Allow me to cut to those final, futile minutes of exasperating effort: me, or Ryan, with our foot on the pedal in question, a gloved hand clutching a towel-wrapped wrench pulling on the Gordian knot of pedals, while Ryan, or me, held down the bike, the brake, and the rear wheel to provide resistance and perhaps achieve the necessary torque. Sweat, curses, and WD-40 filled the air. Fine. So be it. Let’s rehearse.

Well, not so fast. First, I put on my writer’s hat (Good God no, I don’t actually have a writer’s hat—that’d be ridiculous; but I do have a writer’s shirt, desk, chair, mug, and glasses, and Pandora station—anything to get the words on the page.), and we got to work editing the middle section of the play—the least coherent and most difficult for Ryan to memorize. Thankfully, Mary had mentioned we might address this section, so I came prepared with cuts to be made and my personal interpretation. And then we dissected the scene, trimmed the unnecessary bits, focused it, and moved on. I’ll admit, in a rather disconnected play, this was the most disconnected section. Max Richter bonks hard, and grapples with the combination of a failing body and mind, so I tried to convey his increasing exhaustion and pain, and his deflating sense of reality and confidence. Thus, I let his stream of conscious meander wildly over the floodplain. While I may be able to fill in the jumps and gaps, I need to consider the experience of the audience. I can’t afford to lose them for any amount of time, in any part of the play—especially as things come crashing down in agony and unchecked synaptic wandering for Max.

And so we ran through the play, re-writes and all, with Ryan on the bike—sans one clip pedal. And slowly, various issues and concerns piled up in my head. And slowly, I began to freak out. Not of course in any way discernible to my team, but I became seriously worried. I had lists and notes, but somehow when they went from the page to my brain, the tasks and concerns swelled to a numbing, overwhelming haze. So on a Harlem street corner, I tried to compose myself. Music, and a long train ride home certainly helped me chill, but I still felt nervous—there was too much left uncertain, and would it come together?

Oh, yes, I forgot to mention, that afternoon I recorded the voiceovers for the British cycling commentators, Phil & Paul with Ryan’s delightful friends.

And the following evening, I went to Harlem for a recording of Ryan’s inter-personal monologue. That was Wednesday night, exactly one week from opening.

Catching up...

So, it looks like I haven’t posted in awhile. Hmm…maybe because I’ve been out there actually doing the stuff I write about rather than writing about it. Hmm? Ever think of that? Maybe you can just back off. Well, not too far…someone has to check in on this every once in awhile.

And since it has been a long time, and since I’m in the midst of the crazy—not the cusp, but right there up to my elbows in it—and since I tend to freak out and stress about nothing and everything, there’s the chance this could descend into that most corrupted and degenerate of blog posts: the cathartic rant. Let’s not go there.

Well, let’s go all the way back to one week ago. I actually stopped in on rehearsal that afternoon, with the intention of installing the clip pedals I received from Pete. Yes, the bike and its curse once more reared its ugly head. Ryan and I broke out the pedals and tried them out with his shoe cleats. No go. So for the remainder of rehearsal, as Ryan spun on normal pedals, I frantically toiled with the mechanics of these small, well-worn, grimy pedals. And allow me to reiterate: I have no clue I’m doing. For all I know, I was making things worse. And so I stopped by the bike shop on the way home. Immediately, the guy clipped in the shoe (yes, I carried around Ryan’s shoes). So, they worked the whole time? Or, maybe I did fix them. And when he tried the other, several pieces just kind of fell out. The dude scooped them up, and took them to the back. He returned a minute with his diagnosis: something bent, and that side wouldn’t ever work again. So I had ¾ working pedals. Okay. And that night, I put the broken half together in my vain attempt to fix it. And I realized that a piece was missing altogether. On the bike shop floor, in Ryan’s apartment, or missing the entire time—who knows? So, I taped it up, and we’ll use it as is. Oh, don’t worry, the pedals will be back to haunt me.

And then came the weekend. Sunday, yes, Sunday I uh…ran around the area gathering voices for the play. First, I went out to Queens to get a German accent for the part of Eddy, the team manager. And thanks to Brad, a friend of Ryan, I now have a steely Teutonic voice offering little help to his hapless rider. Ah, the sympathies of the Germans. And as it turns out, I was able to get our dear friend/neighbor Walter to lend his dulcet tones in imitation of Bob Roll, as the character Bobke. (Note: this role is an homage to Mr. Roll, and is not intended to be a parody. But, do feel free to laugh.) Oh, and I think I made up a draft of the show’s program (pogrom?) that night. Yeah, that happened I think.

Monday was Manhattan Rep’s theatre viewing night. As it turns out, I was the only one who could be there. Well, Ryan was there for the first five minutes—long enough, however, to be slightly shocked by the ridiculously small space we’d inherit a week from then. “Intimate” is one way of describing it, but “performing in a living room with 30 people” might be more accurate. As I tossed back pinot and cookies, the artistic director gave us a tour (really, you just kind of stand in the middle and look around—no walking necessary), demonstrated the lights and sound, and gave us a run-down of their rules and procedures (his standard spiel rife with anecdotes). Nothing really new or unexpected. The sound system is nice, and I confirmed that the light plot will be sufficient for what we’re doing. Oh, good news: the bike will live at the theatre for the entire week of the show. Huzzah!

I’m sure I worked on something else that night. Well, whatever it was, it’s lost in the vapors of my mind.

Peeling off the Front

So it’s come to the stage where I begin to relinquish creative control of this endeavor. By no means am I receding, fading to the background where only my random outbursts and shouts of protest will carry over the din of the epic project I’ve set in motion. But as far as the script and dramaturgy are concerned, my role as playwright is no longer necessary to rehearsal. Thus it is fitting that Mary and Ryan will only be able to rehearse this week in the morning—which of course I will be unable to attend due to my unwavering devotion to my life’s work: strollers. No, wait. It’s all about the Hamiltons, baby.

But, yes, while I put my duties to the performance on the back burner, I must crank up the heat as producer—and keep my eye on the big picture. And before I rehash my thoughts on the idea of creative control and the collaborative nature of theatre as an art, I shall refer you to my earlier posts. But, at this current stage, these sentiments seem never more apt.

Last night’s rehearsal began with Ryan and I fiddling with the technicalities of effective voice recording (with coverage of Paris-Roubaix—the “Hell of the North”—playing in the background, of course.) We seem to have worked out the kinks for a section of the script where he will actually converse with himself. However, we did not record the full thing—but we’ve laid the groundwork.

Soon Mary arrived, and we enjoyed a little wine and Easter candy while Ryan pedaled. We (like I’m actually doing any work at these things besides reading voiceover lines) pushed toward the end and actually ran through the final sections of the play—among these my favorite passages, and the most personal. And there we have it. I changed a word or two, shared my thoughts on transitions, and took a few notes. And now, it’s not even necessary that I do all that this week.

Directing, memorizing, blocking, finding nuances and motivation…not my thing. Riding at the head of the echelon, I wound up the tempo, cutting through the wind of inertia, and gave this stampeding project momentum. Now, I’ve peeled off so that others may come to the fore and carry on the labor. But this is team; the burden of the effort will be shared; we will cycle through, taking our turn and carrying it up to the finish.

(is it just me, or did these posts used to be a lot funnier? what happened?)

Setting the Tempo: 2nd Week of Rehearsal

On Sunday evening, the team met at Mary’s studio across from a sun-drenched Central Park meadow. Spring, April, and the show are all here in earnest.

Though brief, it was a night of discovery, notably: 1) the costume fits, and 2) yes, they do have TV studios in children’s hospitals. Actually, the best insight came during a moment of dual conversations (Mandy and I brainstorming on the one hand, and Mary and Ryan working lines on the other). Hard to believe though it may be, we actually conceptualized a way for the moving the bike around stage—without the contraption in sight. Ryan worked the flashback/monologue section, which Mary decided ought to be acted off the bike. Although I only wrote one section to be off the bike (and this not being it), I really have no qualms with this blocking choice. It’s effective, and it serves the moment and the entire piece better; and this, once again, is why I am not directing it.

But I am the producer, and that means the labor and leg-work. So Ryan has greater access to the bicycle, we’ve moved it and rehearsals to his Harlem apartment.

On Tuesday, I schlepped the Schwinn from Jersey City via PATH and MTA. An ordinary person, would have faced no difficulties, but I am destined for circumstances to align against me. No, it didn’t rain or anything like that, but I did miss three consecutive trains: while struggling through the turnstile, as I was about to enter a car, and when one train just flew by the platform altogether. But I made it, and the next night traveled with the trainer stand.

Ah, that is another issue that we’ve resolved. The resistance the trainer provides is just not enough to accurately simulate the gradient of L’Alpe d’Huez. The bike’s in the highest gear, but Ryan still has to act much of the resistance. One solution was getting a new trainer, which is not cheap. And anyone familiar with this web-blog will say “Hey T-Dexxx, don’t you have a rather puny operating budget?” Yes, my astute reader, you are correct. So, we will work with what we have. And that entails cranking up the contact between the roller and tire, and perhaps rigging up the brakes.

And on Thursday, we rehearsed again, in Harlem this time, and once again with the bike. My script revisions are mostly in place, and Ryan and Mary have worked through about half the play. But more work lies ahead. The list ebbs and flows, as I diligently cross off items only to add new ones. We’re hitting our stride and looking to peak at the right moment.

Sweet Threads

Today the costume arrived, courtesy of Pete--and Allen Bedford of Guy’s Bicycles Racing. Check’em out:

http://www.guysracing.org/index.shtml

And check out my show’s hot costume:

April the Second & Rehearsal the Second

Ah, April—you know what they say. And if you don’t, I’m sure you’re better off.

Regardless, it is the month of my play. The very month. April. Now. Less than 4 weeks until opening night.

This evening we moved on to working the next section of the play, in which Max muses on his role as a domestique, confronts his dearth of fluids, and combats hostile spectators. As much as our focus is on just progressing through the script, we are also trying to pin down the emotional core of each segment and focus on making each part its own entity with its particular intent and effect. Meanwhile, we’re also contemplating staging; for instance, how to splash Max with water from the front row, or how to effectively present Max’s entrance during the opening voice overs.

In other news, the NY Amazing Play Festival is legitimately on the Manhattan Repertory Theatre website. Our graphic is the first, and obviously the best. Check it out!

http://www.manhattanrep.com/page7/page7.html

Soaring into the Mountains: The First Rehearsal

Well, let me be succinct. To do so, allow me to quote one of the most verbose people I know: “He was the third-happiest I’ve ever seen him.” The first- and second-happiest times remain a mystery.

Basically, I enjoyed our first rehearsal with the bike much more than I expected. As we neared the end of the session, and my role as the voiceover actor finished, I could only marvel at the fact that Mary, Ryan, and I were actually doing this, that what I had envisioned back in August was actually on its way to becoming reality. What a moment, a lot of work ahead, but a good feeling.

We worked on the first few pages of the script, a crucial section not only because it’s rife with voiceovers, but since it is the introduction of the concept and character to the audience. Yes, the audience—a new factor of the production, and Mary keenly takes it into consideration. How will this read? How do we convey this? What is the driving focus of this moment? What does the audience need to know? And thankfully, Ryan has these pages memorized, so they can really begin to work out some answers.

Oh, and the bike, always the bike. Ryan for the first time worked with the key prop, and in a sense, the only other actor on stage. It’s not exactly perfect, but I have a better idea of how to get it show-ready. And speaking of which, courtesy of Pete and his cycling club, a new matching cycling kit is on its way. Needless to say, I’m excited.

Labeling postcards: enough said.

A week ago 250 postcards bearing my logo arrived at our humble abode. (I told you it would look hot on a postcard.) Intentionally, their backsides are blank so they can be reused for the later productions of KOTM (yeah, if that happens, I do not call “producer”). So, it was our task Monday night to label them with the show details in order to begin our publicity blitz. I picked up labels on my lunch break, and enlisted Mandy for a fun-filled night. Yeah, something like that. Mandy (I am so grateful for this) formatted the text, and spent hours attending to the various mishaps and errors (many many I assure you, more than I would have thought) which plagued the printing of said labels. And I, meanwhile, tried my best to stick them on the postcards.

Well, I’ll let the photographic evidence tell the story.

Two laptops, two printers, and one mess of crap.

Again, the results (note: we chose not to focus on the neat stack of labeled postcards—what’s funny/frustrating about that?)

Uhh…funny story: apparently, I placed the very first label upside down. And Mandy was quick to capture my reaction. Classic.