Bigezbear

Consideration

2012-01-22T09:44:00.000-06:00

I received three kind gestures this week.

Someone I did not know sent me a script to read. When I hesitantly wrote him back and asked who he might be, he told me he was someone who had visited New Orleans in the past and had actually seen some theatre piece I had done and liked it. Liked it well enough to entrust one of his works to me for my consideration.

A few days later, someone I did know wrote me to ask if I might be interested in working on a production he was scheduling for this summer.

Then, to prove that these things come in threes, a third person contacted me to ask if I would read a few scripts for an upcoming one-man show he was thinking of doing and help him decide which would be the best script for him to produce. He sent one over and then wondered if another project might be better-suited to his talent and physicality. We batted the two possibilities back and forth between us.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered on the local Social Medias that I had agreed to direct him in the soon-to-be-announced production - an acknowledgment I don't recall making ... yet.

I should be tickled by such alacrity.

What really tickles me is that I understand his backer plans to pay me a scrumptious sum of money to work with him, and being paid to mount a show sure beats going into debt to do one.

It just goes to show, you can never guess the places from whence healing kindnesses may spring. I'm very grateful to these folks.

Takin' a Stand

2012-01-20T09:03:00.000-06:00

I'm sorry if I seem to have abandoned you, but lately I haven't been stricken with a strong desire to write anything here. I've been a bit down in the dumps, you see, and I don't like leaving downer posts stuck up on these virtual Bigezbear walls. They make people who care about me worry, and they turn off the rest of the people who stumble onto me and decide, why bother?

The world is too much with me, and it's not a pretty world.

Ed What's-his-name, that old snake-oil conjurer who came down here after Hurricane Katrina and czared it over the recovery, has written a memoir to commemorate his contributions to the city's rebirth. It turns out to be fiction. No one in the local media, all of whom are pointing out the book's shortcomings, has ever even mentioned the name of the book. I looked it up. It's called My Storm. Not your storm, not ours, his. Now, just cause I told you the title doesn't mean I think you ought to go out and by the book. Don't. Hold onto your money - or spend it on food. Something important. Don't invest in somebody's lies.

And hey, what about those crazy Republicans, huh? They are presenting us with a glorious, greasy smorgasbord of all the available deadly sins - and then some. Liars, hypocrites, bigots, and devoutly Catholic whore-mongers ... Makes you proud to be an American!

I turn back closer to home and try to reach for a firm, steady hand, and what do I encounter but the occasional blogger who sees himself as Messiah to the young? He elaborates that, if you are indeed, young and pretty and willing to follow his lessons as to how to live your life and craft your works, he will lead you to the promised land. He doesn't say just where that promised land is, but what messiah ever did?

I want to scream!

But what's the point? Everybody is just following a dream, doing what they can to make their lives a little tolerable in this vale of tears even if it means destroying the souls of everybody else. The Big I is the ultimate reality. If what I see is with my own two eyes, if what I do is with my own two hands, if where I go is with my own two feet, the world is mine as I perceive it. And is there any other?

The archetypes have risen to the surface of our consciousness and run rampant 'cross the land.

Why fight it?

I have decided to release my own current archetype as well. Mr Natural. Henceforth, the world will be as I decide it to be.

You don't like it?

Snap! You've been evaporated.

You wish to question my dictates?

Snap! You've been evaporated.

You have a differing opinion?

Snap! Snap! Snap!

From now on, the grass is greener on my side of the fence, not yours.

It will only rain when the plants need watering or the car needs a wash.

The sun will shine until it gets in my eyes, then it will shade itself from me till I am ready to resume my tanning.

People will let me pass on the sidewalks, and drivers will brake when I start to cross the street.

Street musicians will only play show tunes from now on and graciously decline my offers of tips.

I am the Sage, the Magus, the Holder of All Knowledge. I am the Wizard and the Seer.

And, yes, I take big steps, so you'd better catch me while you can.

Fails

2012-01-05T06:17:00.000-06:00

Who was the person paid to decorate this doctor's examining room?

A topless skull and an illustrated textbook called Cutaneous Malignancy of the Head and Neck are not conducive to a feeling of well-being in the patient.

Fail.

* * *

So you think you're funny, and you've decided to write a humor blog.

You've already failed.

Twice.

* * *

Ted Haggard and Gary Busey swapping "wives" on television is neither newsworthy nor entertaining. It's gross. Like opening a door and catching your parents making out or watching the carnival side-show geek bite the head off a chicken.

Why would you even advertise any of that?

Fail.

* * *

Why did the news media treat the Iowa Caucus like it was, well, news? The only news there was whose faces it managed to wipe off the five-thirty newscasts.

Okay, partial fail.

* * *

Speaking of the news media, just who are they, anyway? Who are these people who decide what is or isn't news?

You look skeptical.

I have two words for you: Donald Trump.

In whose world does this man matter?

Fail, fail, fail.

* * *

Why are so many of your social network "friends" people you either don't know or wouldn't want to know or wouldn't want to be known to know in the real world?

And why do the most boring people post the most?

Fail.

* * *

Why are all crime victims attractive blond females?

And why hasn't this revelation caused a spike in the sale of darker hair coloring?

Fail.

* * *

Continuing along this vein of crime and victimology, if New Orleans crime victims are all criminals themselves, what does that say about the cop who recently got knifed by that twelve-year-old girl?

Big-time fail.

Auld Lang Syne

2011-12-31T00:00:00.000-06:00

Tonight, at the stroke of midnight, Bobby and I, both safe and warm at home, will raise a toast to one another and to life, to the birth of a new year with its unique possibilities, and to the passing of an old one.

2011 was, for me, a year of letting go, a time of shaking burdens off stooped shoulders and continuing the long walk down my own road with a lighter heart.

Clearing the clutter uncovers the simple solaces that life has left for us to find hidden behind the messes.

So tonight, as I clink my glass against the one in Bobby's hand, I will whisper with a smile, "Goodbye ... Hello."

A Final Farewell

2011-12-29T10:44:00.000-06:00

Ted Mahne, writing for the Times-Picayune, had kind words for my production of Hugging the Shoulder:

The brooding road trip of playwright Jerrod Bogard’s “Hugging the Shoulder” stayed with me for days, due largely to sublimely dark performances of Joe Seibert, Eli Grove and Liz Mills. The audience may have wanted to run away from watching a loved one slip into the spiral of addiction, but under Glenn Meche’s direction, none could turn away.

His kind words are are a sweet coda to a closed chapter.

Looking Back

2011-12-25T11:22:00.000-06:00

Tis the season of recollection. As the year that only yesterday seemed so young and hardy hobbles away on wobbly knees, one finds oneself in a reflective mood, longing to look back over the recent past and take stock, weigh the good and the bad, and organize one of those lists everybody seems to make this time of year. Although it may mean nothing more to a hack writer than a means to meet a deadline, I have spent days (days, I tell you!) assiduously searching for a few stories that recap some of the highlights of my 2011. Herewith they be, in no particular order other than by month and date, the best (?) of a pretty good year:

Thanks for stopping by. Do come again.

And happy holidays!

Flashes

2011-12-19T18:58:00.001-06:00

I was sitting on the edge of the bed this morning when I first noticed it. I was getting dressed, taking my time, and I noticed it. A flash of light. That was it, a sudden flash of light as my hand passed under a nearby lamp.

I paused in my dressing and studied the back of my right hand, but my aging eyes couldn't make out anything that should have sparkled in such a way as I had just seen.

I went back to pulling on my socks. Suddenly, I caught sight of it again. I stopped and passed my hand back and forth beneath the lamp, and then I saw it. There it was, that flash of light, a single white hair on the back of my hand.

It wasn't long. It wasn't thick. Yet it had seemed to me to flash like a slew of silver sequins under brilliant stage lights.

I'll mention this to you in private (it isn't the kind of gossip I'd normally drop out on the streets), but this little white hair isn't my first. No, not at all.

Through the years, I've handled all the others pretty efficiently and ruthlessly; a sharp yank of the tweezers for the one or two or a slathering of goopy hair-coloring gel (the kind they make for men) for the swath of white across my beard.

This one, though, is different. Or I am different now. For one thing, I can't quite seem to find it on the surface of my hand in order to grip it between my tiny tongs. For another, who cares? I'm just going to leave it where it lies, a single white curl on the back of my right hand, waiting patiently to be joined by a party of its white-haired friends.

Until the day that happens, every now and then, I'll pass my hand before me in the light and try to catch another glimpse of that startling flash of light that brings to mind the memory of a shard of summer lightning or a falling star or a firefly flittering through the dark.

The Relativity of Time

2011-12-14T10:25:00.003-06:00

This is a picture of me sitting in Dr. Elisabeth Rareshide's examining room this past Monday morning, looking - and feeling - a little ghostly. Outside, there is a heavy fog, swallowing the Superdome in the distance and the tall buildings around it.

This shot is pretty different from an earlier image I'd snapped on November 25th. Back then, I was feeling optimistic; and the 25th was a clear, crisp winter day, glowing in sunlight. It was the day she spoke encouragingly to me about my condition, while cautioning me that I was not yet out of the woods.

A week later, on Monday, December 5th, she saw me again. She would conclude this visit with the biopsy I had hoped she would have decided I didn't need to have done.

It was then my sense of time slowed down.

I've put aside most of the memories of what I felt or experienced between that day and the return visit when I would receive the results of my biopsy, but I have held on tight to some of the realizations that descended on me during those days.

The first thing I realized was something that surprised me. I discovered I was not as scared of dying as I thought I might have been. I figured, if there is a God, He would love me beyond my capacity to comprehend or deserve it, so there was no need to be afraid; and I reasoned, if there is no God, then there will only be a last, deep, dreamless sleep. Above all, there was the clarity that death is universal and comes to all life. Though birth might be seen as a matter of happenstance, death is inevitable.

On the other hand, I also regarded the possibility of my passing as the cruelest joke the cosmos could have played. Who would there be to look after Bob? Yes, he can be aggravating. Yes, there have been times when, for example, I might find myself following him on one of his courtyard-decorating excursions with a hammer in my hand, and I would think, It would be so easy ...

But isn't that what long-term love is all about?

I came to see my life in toto as a wasted thing, a series of missed opportunities, bad choices, unkind acts, unbearable losses. I'd like to believe this feeling is just one of those tricks the mind plays to prepare us for the eventuality of death, as if to say, "What's the point? There's nothing to be missed. Get on with it. Go."

I began to see the pictures I make as common, bland, with no beauty or meaning to anyone but me. The plays I had directed appeared just as colorless, dissipating in the fading memories of the very few people who had ever seen them, like the great buildings outside the window, vanishing into the fog. Everything I'd made appeared as insignificant and paltry as the person who had made them.

Nevertheless, I could still recall moments of inexpressible joy when it seemed as if something inside of me held stars in its hands.

I may have done nothing to change the world for the better, but how many people have?

I was no better, and perhaps not much worse, than anyone else.

Then it was Monday and time for my return.

This was the first visit when the doctor seemed to be busy. I wasn't called out of the waiting room as punctually as before. Once in the examining room, I had to wait a longer time for the doctor to appear.

I sat there alone, looking out over a fog-heavy landscape. It was noontime, but the haze had not cleared. It hung there like a reminder of uncertainty. I prayed a few prayers, asking only that I be able to handle the news with dignity.

Eventually, she came into the room.

Eventually, I heard her say what sounded like, "... not cancer."

I didn't cry.

When she was done with me, I left her office and stopped at a next-door Walgreen's to pick up some Christmas candy Bobby had asked me to buy.

I felt unheavy, perhaps even happy; my sense of time righted itself; and the fog all around me, I felt I could lean on its shoulder like a friend.

Hi Yo, Silver!

2011-12-12T16:08:00.000-06:00

Sorry.

Wrong horse.

I finally had my follow-up appointment with the oral surgeon today (you remember her: petite, blond, with ice-cold blue eyes?) to get the results of my biopsy.

The news was good.

I do not have cancer.

Say what?

I do not have cancer.

I do not have cancer. I do not have cancer. I do not have cancer. I do not have cancer. I do not have cancer. I do not have cancer. I do not have cancer. I do not have cancer. I do not have cancer. I do not have cancer. I do not have cancer. I do not have cancer. I do not have cancer. I do not have cancer. I do not have cancer. I do not have cancer. I do not have cancer. I do not have cancer. I do not have cancer. I do not have cancer. I do not have cancer. I do not have cancer. I do not have cancer. I do not have cancer. I do not have cancer. I do not have cancer. I do not have cancer. I do not have cancer. I do not have cancer.

No, no, no, no, no!

Can I get a witness?

Amen!

I do not have cancer.

Sho' 'nuff?

Sh' 'nuff!

Yes. In the words of the immortal Irene Cara, "I'm gonna life forever ... !"

Of course, I will have to consider giving up cigarettes.

But, looking on the bright side, giving up smoking will restore my singing voice.

I always had a lovely singing voice.

Very expressive, my singing voice.

I may not have ever sung accurately - any one can sing accurately - but I sang with wonderful expression. As far as the voice is concerned, sentiment is my forte.

Hell, I may even win a spot in a Le Petite Theatre chorus. Should Le Petite ever reopen. And ever accumulate enough funds to pay the royalties for a musical.

But then there's always karaoke!

Ole!

Notes toward a First Draft

2011-12-10T12:02:00.000-06:00

Coco Robicheaux's passing made me think some jumbled thoughts.

Unlike so many people, I never knew him. I used to stumble over him sitting at an outside table at Cafe Envie now and then when I was walking around the corner for one reason or another. I say I never knew him. Not being a New Orleanian, I never really even knew who he was. (Sorry about that, but I'm a man unaware.)

He struck me as a kind-faced, bright-eyed character. Another Quarter rat.

I almost met him once. He was sitting with someone I knew, with whom I had stopped to speak. He seemed eager to join the conversation, but the person I was talking to didn't introduce us, and I went away.

That person is the same one my friend Mark Folse wrote about in his piece about the unfortunate memorial and second-line in Coco's honor earlier this week, the one who dropped Coco's guitar.

* * *

I've decided I don't want a memorial service when I die.

Not that I can think of anyone who would want to throw me one.

I've been to a few, and they invariably escalate into world-class, competitive-mourning competitions. "So-and-so loved me more than he did anyone else here tonight."

I want a funeral, of course. I'd like to have "Simple Gifts" played. Maybe some show tunes. Something from Gypsy perhaps. No second-line for me, though. I had wanted one for my retirement party, but since I didn't get the party, the second-line was moot.

Not getting a retirement party is like dying and having your body go unclaimed and dumped in a potter's field.

* * *

Somebody once said about actors that there were two kinds: the kind that loved themselves in the art and the kind who loved the art in themselves. That's true of all the arts, although the performing arts are top heavy with the former.

Coco Robicheaux struck me as belonging to the latter class. He had an art, a spiritual thing, inside of him. He was humbled by it and obedient to it.

It's like the difference between a dog person and a cat person. A dog will love you unconditionally, adore you no matter who you are or what you do. A cat will keep you in your place.

* * *

For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground
And sing the blues ...

I'm Still Here

2011-12-05T16:54:00.001-06:00

I suppose I've been uncharacteristically quiet this past week. I had been looking forward to a seven-day stretch of nothing much to do; but, of course, you know what happens when you make that kind of plan. In this case, it turned into Christmas-decorating time.

Relax, I let Bobby live.

It's all done. The courtyard is festooned with lights and bows, candy canes and reindeer; and inside the apartment, the stockings are hung by the entrainment center with care. The tree has pride of place in the window where it sparkles with flashing lights and dancing ornaments.

And every bone in my body hurts.

I had another one of my doctor's appointments this morning and got a big surprise: a biopsy. Did you know they hurt after the painkiller wears off?

No, Thanks-giving

2011-11-25T09:19:00.001-06:00

Now that the day for giving thanks for all our blessings has passed, let's get back to reality, shall we? These are a few of the things to which I, for one, wish to say, "No, thanks."

With the Postal Service seemingly going under because nobody writes letters anymore, and the junk mail solicitors no longer able to support this once-proud federal (?) agency, why is most - nearly all - of my voluminous email junk?
Why do people who insist on "Friending" you on Facebook resolutely refuse to type a simple "Thank you" when you wish them a happy birthday, considering that the only reason you even know it's their birthday is because Facebook told you so?
Why did I wake up from a horrible nightmare this morning all about false friends and advantages taken? Really, now, isn't it time somebody took a deep breath, got a grip, and moved on?
Why, when all I want to do is feel sorry for myself and worry about that medical procedure I have to face today, do I have to make time to drive a certain somebody around town to look for a rug for the living room?
Why have I been cursed with the kind of body that requires a daily shower?
And why did I shave off most of my beard so I could have a fancy little goatee that doesn't really make my face look thinner? Now there's more skin I have to shave than I had to shave before, and I'm scarring here!

There's more where these came from, but I don't have enough time to dredge them up at the moment. Right now, I need to shower and shave and stop the bleeding in order to make myself presentable for a visit to my doctor's office so she (the said doctor) can dig into, and rip out a portion of, my flesh.

Lemme hear ya say it with me now, "No, thank you!"

Update:

The specialist examined me and decided that my infection is responding to the medication she prescribed. For this reason, she decided the time was premature for a biopsy. She will see me again when I have finished the regimen and decide then whether I am clean and fit to remain in polite society or in need of getting gutted. (She was personable today. She actually touched my right arm with both her hands and smiled as if it were a perfectly natural thing to do. Made me feel like a man.)

Being Thankful

2011-11-24T11:57:00.000-06:00

Thank you.

There's Good News and No News

2011-11-21T19:10:00.001-06:00

And no news is good news until proven otherwise, right?

Right.

I may have been nervous. Okay, I was scared. But I went. I went like I was supposed to, to this specialist who was going to examine that little thing we talked about in my last post.

Did I say, little? Little did I know what was going to be in store for me.

But let's stop and take a moment to rewind the clock so we can start this saga at the beginning, which, as it turns out, was late Sunday night.

Around nine o'clock, the phone rings, and I pick it up to hear a voice asking to speak to me. The voice is my doctor, my primary, the one who made this appointment for me, calling to give me a pep talk (and - I'm pretty certain - to make sure I'm planning on keeping my date with destiny). I find myself deeply touched that he would take the time to reach out to me with reassurances that everything will turn out all right. Of course, I'm also rattled that he would take the time to reach out to me with reassurances that everything will turn out all right. Should I be concerned? Worried? Should I be thinking of hopping in the car and escaping down one of our highways, hauling my ass ... where? Anywhere.

Of course, that's what I was thinking. "Escape" equals "denial" which trumps "discovery" which equals "no escape."

Oddly, I'm not the kind of person who has whatever it is it takes to run away. So I stayed and spent a fitful night, sleeping in snatches, mouthing a few prayers whenever I found myself awake. Prayers to my mom and dad, prayers to Saint Michael, to Saint Martin de Porres, who was my mother's favorite saint and who always answered her prayers. I figured I could count on mom (Dad always comes through for my more mundane problems).

When morning came, I stretched the hours as long as I could before showering and dressing. On the drive uptown, I prayed some more, making the kind of promises we make in desperate times, the kind we know we'll never be able to keep, but hope and believe we will when we make them. What the hell, though, I figure God is used to that and kind of expects it from us, but He still loves us all the same and will do what He can to help get us through - even if it turns out to be through the tunnel to the light.

But let's not go there.

Instead, let's go inside the specialist's office.

My doctor had told me the night before that Doctor R would be a tiny woman, blunt and to the point, neither flowery nor fluttery. He didn't tell me she would be a pretty woman, blonde with ice-cold azure eyes.

He also didn't tell me her personality would match the beige paint on the blank walls of her examination room.

She was a take-charge little woman. I hadn't been prepared for the extent of the examination she put me through. She peeped into my ears. She spread my nostrils and looked hard up my nose. She worked my neck like the Boston Strangler. She poked up and down and all around the inside of my mouth with both hands. If she'd been kind, it would have been like having thrilling sex, but she wasn't and neither was it.

When she was done with all that, she sprayed some stuff into my nose, told me to sniff it, and wait for her return.

When she finally came back into the room, it was with a machine connected to a tube. She proceeded to shove that tube up one nostril and then the other. She peered into my sinus cavities, swirled the tube around and up and plunged it down into my throat.

That done, she told me the good news. My lymph glands were fine. Nothing wrong with my sinuses. (Who was she kidding there? I have New Orleans sinuses. That ain't good.) The only problem seemed to be inside my mouth, and she wanted a biopsy. She scheduled that for Friday so I could have Thanksgiving dinner before I had to go on a diet of cool, bland food for a while.

I felt pretty good about the visit overall, and who would complain about a week or so of eating only ice cream?

I've decided, too, that, although she might not be a sweet and girly woman, Dr. R might be the kind of steel-backed person one would want to have fighting on one's side against a potential malignancy.

I also have a strong feeling that the biopsy will reveal nothing more than some years-old scar tissue from a long-forgotten, misplaced bite.

In fact, I'm willing to bet on it.

Come on, let's make a deal!

Are you listening, mom, dad ... St Michael, St Martin?

God?

The Road Taken

2011-11-20T13:09:00.001-06:00

Thanksgiving has never been a good holiday for me. Don't know why, but it rubs me the wrong way and does mean things to me.

Tomorrow I see a specialist.

I'm holding on with a tight grip to a certain reserve of bravado. I see myself as that old horse pulling the cart, and I can't drop now. There's still road up ahead. I can see it.

But I confess to a few fears, too.

It's probably nothing, or nothing much.

My imagination is my curse, and I tend to dramatize things out of all their rightful proportion.

We'll see.

If you're thinking of worrying about me, please don't. I'm a resourceful cuss.

But, hell, you already know that, don't you?

"wotthehell wotthehell"

2011-11-17T20:33:00.000-06:00

I just settled in to take a few moments of browsing before going back downstairs to watch The Mentalist (I have a weakness for smirky Australians playing Americans, although I have no idea why); and decided to take a glance at the Sitemeter stats for My Life in the Quarter.

I couldn't believe my eyes.

In one day alone, my traffic jumped to 438 Visits and 628 Page Views.

Please don't ask me what the difference is between "Visits" and "Page Views;" the official Sitemeter explanation doesn't make sense to me. I don't have that kind of brain.

And it's only 8:30. There are three-and-a-half hours to go before midnight.

I decided to see what my Google stats were for this same period of time, and they claimed I had 1,246 Pageviews today.

And, no, don't ask me to tell you the difference between Google's "Pageviews" and Sitemeter's "Visits" and "Page Views." It's all too much.

In fact, all of this is all too much.

Who are these people? Where are they coming from? Do they like my stuff, or are they laughing at me behind their hands?

This is scary.

You know how I get all nervous and breathy in crowds.

Right now, it feels like there's a mob outside my gate, and I imagine I can smell the sooty scent of torches and hear the rattle of pitchforks.

I AM NOT AN ANIMAL!

Update, Friday Morning:

OMG! The final Sitemeter tally was 515 Visits and 772 Page Views!

I am presently proceeding to an undisclosed location. Please do not try to find me.

And Speaking of Owning a Vehicle in the Quarter

2011-11-14T17:14:00.000-06:00

After last week's saga of vehicular vandalism and the city's opportunistic towing standards, I was pleased to hear the following story from a friend of mine who lives around the corner from me.

D (not his real name) woke up early on Saturday morning.

There were so many things he had to do before heading uptown for work. Besides his regular ablutions, deciding on the best togs for that day's work, there was also breakfast and the daily newspaper to fetch for himself and his friend who lived a few blocks away. He always checked in on his friend in the mornings before heading off to his job. His friend was getting on in years, you see, and D always wanted to make sure he did not want for anything he did not have.

This morning, he found his friend in fine fettle, and, after sharing a warm breakfast with the gentleman and leaving his newspaper behind, he set off for work.

He made his way home and climbed into his pickup truck. If you live in the French Quarter, you will know that, at a time like this, you will want to pause and consider what it is you are about to do, how you are going to go about doing it, and then getting up off your duff and making it happen.

D's first thought was, Where did I leave my pickup truck last night?

He started his engine, pulled out of his parking spot, and proceeded down the street, keeping a sharp eye out for his truck. Not on this block.

He took a left at the first corner. No luck.

Another left at the next block. Nothing.

A left again, then two blocks. The pickup was not in sight.

Where could I have left it? he wondered.

He took another turn, a right, then another right, another yet again, and down for three blocks more. The pickup truck was not to be found.

He scrambled in his left pants pocket for his cell phone. He dialed the New Orleans Police Department's Eighth District.

"Do you have any reports of a stolen pickup truck?" he asked.

"No, sir. Do you wish to file a report?"

"Well, I can't find my truck this morning. I've looked all over a four block radius, and it's nowhere in sight."

"Have you tried the auto pound? Call them first. I'll get you the number."

He called, but his truck was not there either.

Panic was setting in. His skin felt clammy, beads of sweat were budding on his forehead. He pulled over to the side of the street and tried to consider what next to do.

He looked at the time. It was getting late. He had to be at work soon. What to do? He sorted his priorities and decided work was paramount. He'd look for the truck again later in the day.

He took a deep breath and pulled out back into traffic and made his way out of the Quarter and far away uptown.

His day was hectic, and, always, there in the forefront of his mind, was the fear he'd never find his vehicle when day was done.

Did his insurance cover theft? He wasn't sure. He'd have to check. And why his truck? It wasn't new. It was, by all manner of measure, an old Mississippi heap, its tires caked with red clay, grime on the windshield around the wipers' curves. It was a part of him, however, a chapter of his own personal history, written in steel and chrome. A great sadness clouded his day.

Finally, when work was done, he gathered his strength about him, making himself ready to resume his search. Without thinking, he headed out to the employees' parking lot.

The sight hit him like a strong wind in his face. There, right there, was his pickup truck, dusty, and with all its dings and dents in place. His truck.

It was only then, right there, that he remembered, realized, just how he'd conducted his frantic search eight hours before.

He swore he would never tell a soul.

Well, maybe his friend, the elderly gentleman he looked in on every day. He'd enjoy the story. And D could trust him to keep his confidence and never repeat the tale.

Yes, that would be a pleasant saga to recount to his friend over the next morning's coffee and sausage.

He smiled to himself and felt a warm flush of pleasure in the knowledge that he had such a trustworthy friend.

Sorry, I Have Nothing to Say

2011-11-10T09:10:00.001-06:00

That's the phrase I always use to respond to people who ask me why I haven't written a book.

Why anybody would ask me why I haven't written a book is beyond me.

Why anybody would think I should write a book astounds me.

There are too many books out there already. Way more than there are good ones. Certainly too many to read or even worth reading. And I pretty much gave up reading books when I retired from my job with the State. Now that I'm no longer employed, I don't have the time.

That isn't to say I have lots of things to do. I don't. I just don't have the time to do them.

That probably doesn't make sense to you, and that's because you're younger than I am. Just wait. One day you'll wake up and realize, hey, didn't I just have my first cup of coffee so I could poop, and now you're telling me it's time to go to bed?! Believe me, when you reach September, you discover time passes before you knew it was coming at you.

Besides, about the only thing there is to do for people in my stage of life involves doctors. My own and my friends'.

And that can be a good thing.

It can be a good thing because you can tell your partner that you have to drive ... oh, let's say Eric ... to Ochsner's out on Jefferson Highway for his Coumadin appointment when what you're really doing is slipping off to see your own doctor because your dentist scared the hell out of you the month before by telling you he didn't like the look of that ...

Well, I really don't want to talk about that. It's probably nothing. That's what my doctor said before offering me antidepressants.

Why should I need antidepressants? I mean, okay, I broke down and cried in his office that one time, but that was several months ago. And, okay, things haven't really gotten any better, but what's so unusual about that in this day and age? And, yeah, I worry about money, and I'm angry a lot, and pretty sad most of the time ... but depressed?

I can handle depression. Depression is my natural state.

What the hell, I took the pills.

Now, I have stomach ache and diarrhea; but it's still early. My body has to adjust.

And why shouldn't I be depressed?

Bobby decided to go the insurance route with the broken rear-view mirror on the car (that's a $250 deductible), and since I cover the insurance while Bobby takes car of the car note, my insurance rate will probably rise.

We brought the car in on Monday, got it back Wednesday.

I have to day, the repair people did more than they were supposed to do (I hope nobody gets in trouble for me telling this little secret - if they do, I'll come back and delete this part). That was nice.

Might even be worth the raise in the rate.

Then yesterday, between noon and one, bringing Bobby back from his eye doctor's appointment, the only place I could find to park was on the 600 block of Barracks Street.

I got up early this morning to move it closer and found it gone.

Now, who steals a Scion?!

Right ... Not stolen. Towed.

It seems a movie or television crew of some sort was doing a bit of filming last night and had our baby towed. Not moved around the corner like they tell you they will do, but towed by the City.

I swear there were no signs posted when we parked the car.

The cab driver told us on the way to the auto pound that in Los Angeles, if they're going to film in somebody's neighborhood, they pay the residents for the inconvenience.

"The only reason they film on locations like here in New Orleans is so they can ride roughshod over the locals and screw 'em. Why, they were filming in my neighborhood once and told me I couldn't go to my own house. I ran over the cop who tried to stop me. They can't keep me away from my property. Sure, they arrested me, but I have my rights, goddammit."

We got the car back, of course. It only cost me $173. I guess it could have been a lot more had I decided to express my "rights".

Coming home, the only place I could find to park was on the 600 block of Barracks.

Hey, there were no signs posted.

Anyway, do you see what I mean when I tell you I have nothing to say?

My life is just a blah.

Woe Is Me

2011-11-03T09:51:00.001-05:00

I was born to carry the weight of the world on my shoulders. Don't try to tell me I'm not. It's part of my Catholic upbringing; and it's mine, all mine.

This is our car as I found it on Tuesday morning on the 500 block of Barracks Street where I'd left it over the Halloween weekend. I'd gotten up early to go move it for street cleaning and I came upon it broken, bruised, and bloodied by the night-goblins of the holiday. That's its little passenger-side mirror hanging by its sinews.

Bastards.

What did my little Scion ever do to you?

Of course, breaking the news to Bobby was unpleasant. You all think of Bobby as this happy-go-lucky fellow who's the life of the party. Nothing can get old Bobby down. Well, as the poet sings,

"Oh, no one knows
what goes
on behind closed doors."

In Bobby's eyes, I am the prime mover of all misfortunes that befall us. I am the cause of all rent increases. The electric bill jumped because I left the light on over the stove. It's my fault there are so many stop signs on the way to the doctor's office. Don't even get me started on what he says I had to do with Pearl Harbor, the Hundred Years War, and the Crucifixion of Jesus Christ!

It didn't even help when I pointed out that 15 or so people got shot overnight on Halloween. He just shot me one of his accusatory looks that said, "No thanks to you. I know who you are and what you're capable of."

He's been shooting me those looks ever since.

And I'm beginning to believe them.

So I broke down this morning and did a little research and found a repair shop that's gotten good reviews on Yelp - of all places. I called them up, the auto shop, and they said they could do the kind of repair we need.

Whenever he wakes up, I'll try to gauge his mood to see if it's safe to break the news to him. If you don't hear from me within a week, you'll know why. Please, call the police.

The police? Who am I kidding? Call Schoen.

The Horror

2011-10-31T12:08:00.002-05:00

Even a recluse has to leave the house every now and then. Last evening was no exception. So what if it was Halloween Eve? I needed cigarettes.

I collected the cash I would need, folded my arms into the hoody I'd be wearing to offset the chill outside, and hooked my gate keys to the belt loop above my left hip. I took the old scarf I keep hanging by the door and wrapped it around that part of my face that is now misshapen into the horror that frightens children and sends them scurrying to the arms of their parents who scoop them up in turn and rush away from me in fright.

Outside I had to cross the length of the patio to reach the gate that would deposit me onto old Decatur Street. Within only seconds, my ear could hear the swift swoosh of curtains being drawn inside my nearest neighbor's apartment. Ahead of me and to my right, in the laundry room, another neighbor sensed my presence and froze, unable to move till I had passed.

Soon I reached the gate and peered out onto the street. Couples and small groups of merrymakers dashed about, huddled against the cold wind scattering loose flotsam down the sidewalks in the darkening gloom.

I stepped outside and hugged the walls till I could reach my destination. It was only a few yards away, now a few feet, inches, inches, and I was there.

The doors were hung wide open like welcoming arms. Inside was bright and raucous with shoppers merrily examining the sundries of the tiny tobacconist's shop. The lady clerks danced from customer to customer, festooned in motley, their faces painted to hint at harmless Halloween horrors.

I slumped over to a far side of the shop to wait until one of them might free herself from the crowd to wait on me.

I stood there in that corner a few moments, believing myself to be unnoticed, before I felt the hand. That hand. Behind me, a young man - just yesterday a boy - had crept up stealthily. In his right hand, he carried an old guitar. In his left, he had entwined a corner of my scarf between his fingers. I sensed the weight of it, his hand. And then the jerk. I felt the cold air sting my face where just before the scarf had lain against my skin. I saw the faces of the customers turn to me at the sound of the young man's gasp. His, you see, had been the first eyes there to light upon my visage.

Before me, what I beheld was the terror in those other eyes, the eyes of the ladies of the shop, as they caught sight of my disfigurement. The image of their fright seared into my brain like acid poured upon the artist's metal plate before it is inked and pressed against the paper.

"'I'a'ettes!" I cried, piteously. "'I'a'ettes, p'ease."

I held out my cash in trembling hands.

The clownfaced lady clerk reached behind her and counted out several packets of the cigarettes I craved. She tossed them in my direction. I laid the dollar bills on the counter, collected the discarded packs, and made to leave. The crowd swept back, affording me a pathway to the street.

Back in the windy lane, I scuttled home, a broken spider hurtling forward its despised body, hoping to outrace the rushing feet behind it, the booted feet intent on stamping out its life.

Oh, the horror!

Embracing the Present and/or the Future

2011-10-29T17:57:00.001-05:00

Yesterday, I took my second - or maybe third - step into the twenty-first century. I signed up on Twitter. Or did I sign up for Twitter? Or did I join Twitter? I don't know, and that bothers me.

Why it should bother me, I don't know. I'll work on that.

I'll work on that the same way I'm working on overcoming my amplifying shyness or my encompassing reclusiveness. Which is to say, I'll get around to it.

In the meantime, I am now free to express my thoughts for all the world to see in only 140 characters or less any time or any place they may occur to me.

As you may have guessed, I've been waiting for them. So far, nothing. Zip.

I'm kind of nervous about putting something out there that somebody might find fault with and get upset with me about. I mean, just a couple of weeks ago, I shared a post on Google+ only to have someone in one of my circles yell at me for sharing it since that person had his own Google+ and could post it himself if he wanted to.

Can you blame for being a little skittish?

I don't won't to be littering somebody's virtual landscape with dumb banalities even if they are only 140 characters or less - and mine, all mine.

For this reason, I'm studying the tweets that other twats are twitting to get some insight into the ins and outs of this brave new world. Here's a random sampling of some of the revelations being laid bare by a few of those in whose footsteps I am following:

The Juicy of the Day is a True Brees, a burger stuffed with -- you guessed it -- Mac and cheese. Will I Get it?
Snow
I just woke up. My head is pounding. My toilet is filled with gold! What just happened?
Nobody to pick their rotting fruit! Whoops!Which is it GOP, moats,military,& electric fences or Tomatoes,Brussel sprouts,& Beans? You pick!
A bit more, perhaps, of that Japanese word I can't remember that means a protrusion of the middle finger? Meh... ;-)
My dearest, most darlingest, twaterers, Thank you for all your birthday wishes!!! 27 is such a lovely age to be. I love you all!..

There's a definite learning curve here.

The Interview, Part 4

2011-10-22T09:44:00.000-05:00

TQ: So you wound up in New Orleans. Why?

ME: If you have to ask that question, you would never understand the answer. The allure of New Orleans for me was the allure of theatre - that's true; but I never realized how theatrically saturated it would turn out to be - and in ways I never imagined. I would say that, while New Orleans is a theatrical city, it is not a theatre town.

TQ: How so?

ME: Well, look around you. Nearly everyone in the city considers himself or herself to be a "character," an "icon." It seems whenever a person walks out of his house and onto the street, he is presenting himself as a "character" to be reckoned with, the central player in his own improvisation. You and everyone else are supporting players in his performance piece. But - and this is the big "but" - you and everyone else are also the central characters in your own scenarios. It's unbelievably complex. Now, what happens if your "character" is one who makes theatre? How do you appeal to these people, how do you get them to plop their butts in a seat and endure the duration of your construct while putting their own on a back burner? That's hard. (In fact, I recently attended a performance where certain "characters" in the audience actually threatened to usurp the performance they were ostensibly there to see, stepping out to buy drinks or pee then returning during the action, or adlibbing responses to the dialogue.) I've had a little - just a little - success with literary types and people who are into the visual arts; but practically none with theatre people. They've pretty much ignored what I do.

TQ: That's unfortunate.

ME: Do you think so? I'm not so sure. Remember, we're all "characters" doing our own thing. I have ideas, they have theirs. Mine are just better. That's a joke. Don't print it.

TQ: If you say so. You used the phrase, "makes theatre." Obviously, now, you're assuming the role of director rather than actor. When did that shift occur?

ME: Well, I guess I always wanted to direct. [Laughing] No, that's not how it was. I just began to not enjoy acting as much as I had in the past. It bean to bore me. Then, of course, my job started to take over my life. It was demanding more of my attention and my time. The acting just fell to the side.

TQ: What job was this?

ME: My job at the Unemployment Office. That job was always meant to be temporary, you know, something to keep a roof over my head and food in my belly until I got my break and became a "real" actor. Imagine my surprise when I realized I loved my job. I loved it. You would think it would be a depressing place to work, the Unemployment Office, but it never was. It was joyous. Everything I ever learned, I learned at the Unemployment Office. Or, everything I ever learned was either reinforced or jettisoned while working there.

TQ: What kind of things did you learn there?

ME: I'll mention two. The first thing I learned was to listen. Everyone has his own secret language, a language that underlies any cultural or class difference. If you listen long enough and patiently enough, you begin to learn that language, and you can begin to comprehend that person's real need and point him in the right direction to fix his situation. The trouble most of us encountered was that we learned the basics of the law over the years, and we tried to fit each person into one hole or another which seemed to fit his situation. The problem with that way of thinking is that no person is a peg, and there is only one "hole" that is particular to him in that one particular circumstance. You learn that by listening. The second thing I learned was when I began to advance and started supervising and managing; and that was that the workers under you are actually capable of performing their jobs. They won't necessarily - or even usually - do it the way you would do it. They will develop their own ways of doing a task. That can be off putting at first because you believe you can see flaws in their process. But their way is just as valid as the way you once found to do the same task for yourself. I'll tell you a little story. When I first had been promoted to the Manager's job at the West Jefferson Job Center, I took myself up to the reception desk early one morning to observe how the staff handled the first rush of the day. It was chaos. I started issuing directives to do this and not that. The usual stuff. Then I happened to catch the look in my assistant manager's face as she stood next to me. The look was full of pity, and it stopped me in mid-breath. What that look was saying to me was, "We know our jobs, and we can get this done. Learn our language now." I shut up and walked away. I began to manage that office from a supportive, rather than a directorial, position. That was my graduation. That was the day I was handed my diploma in Direction.

TQ: I'm not sure I follow you ...

ME: Then you haven't been listening.

Can't Argue with That

2011-10-17T10:02:00.000-05:00

Bobby hasn't been feeling well the past few days.

What am I saying? He's been sick as a wormy pup for the last five days, unable to keep any food in his gut, spewing it up just minutes after eating it. Nothing stayed down, not ice cream, not Jello, not spinach (his call!), not even water. His gullet has been like a two-way street.

Naturally, I worry. This has happened in the past, and he's ended up cradled in a bed at Touro for treatment of dehydration.

In last night's darkest hours, he's sitting up, puking into one of the little barf bags he snitched from his last hospital stay. I'm hovering over him, saying things like, "Do you want me to take you to the Emergency Room?"

"Not yet. I'll let you know when I'm really sick ... Unh!"

"Okay, but is there anything I can get you?"

"Cold rag."

"Got it. Here."

"I'll go to my doctor in the morning. Let him check me into the hospital if he thinks that's where I need to be."

"But I worry, Bobby ... "

"You worry! You don't think I worry? I worry. I worry about you! Look at yourself. You're big as a house. Unh-HUNH!"

I think to myself, He's getting better.

Now morning has broken. It's nearing ten, and so far, he's holding down the vanilla creme-filled cookies he made me go out to buy him at dawn's early light.

And I could use a drink.

Night

2011-10-15T20:04:00.000-05:00

I've begun to dread the onset of nighttime, the surrender of the light to the long, long hours of dark and endless boredom.

There will be time enough for that further down the road, oh, please, much further down the road. Not yet. Not now.

Solitude's a lonely cell to lock oneself into, even when one has the key to spring the lock. There comes a time when the prisoner, left alone with the door to his cell wide open, will sit as ordered and not move, not leave, not run away to reach the light of morning, but sit and sit and sit the hours away.

Nighttime is a lonesome place, as dark and empty as a time-stopped, moonless midnight.

The Interview, Part 3

2011-10-09T17:37:00.001-05:00

TQ: Where did you attend college?

ME: I went to the University of Southwestern Louisiana. Now it's called the University of Louisiana at Lafayette. I may have wanted to go to a professional theatre school or some other college with a reputation, there was no money or means to get my hands on either of those, so I woke up early each morning and caught a little yellow school bus that carried us locals down the road (Highway 90) from Crowley through Rayne, then Scott and, finally, to the campus where we all dispersed until late afternoon, when we would all reassemble for the trek back to our little towns. Except, of course, for me when I was in a play and had to rehearse at night. Then I would catch a Greyhound bus back to Crowley where my my dad would meet me at the station and sometimes come up onto the bus to wake me up and carry me home.

TQ: Those were the good old days ...

ME: They were miserable. I never got enough sleep. I did manage to get my studying in on the buss though. I was always able to do that, shut out the outside noise and concentrate. Not anymore. I get distracted now.

TQ: What was the theatre program like?

ME: I didn't like it at the time. I wanted to fill my head with art and theory and process. I wanted an esoteric high. Instead, we were constantly being taught how to enter and exit, how to project our voices, how to walk and stand and sit in a chair. None of which you do onstage the same way you would do it in your own bedroom. Thank God for the campus library. I continued to read a lot and got my highs in the stacks.

TQ: Sounds like a smothering experience. How did you cope?

ME: Looking back on it now, I think it was the best kind of education I could have gotten. The kind of education that seems to be missing nowadays. (I sound like an old fart. Have I become an old fart?) Remember I could still run to the library and get high whenever I felt like I was suffocating. The fact is, everybody needs discipline. Everyone needs a grounding in technique. You've got to know how to properly do something. You can't paint unless you know how to hold a brush and pass it over a canvas. Try it. It's not as easy as it sounds. You can't dance Giselle if you haven't spent the better part of your life in ballet class. I go to plays today, and what I see onstage is formless. What I should be hearing is inaudible - or incomprehensible because the actors have never made friends with their consonants. Believing you can empathize with a role does not make you able to communicate it to an audience. I don't know what it is that's kept me from yelling, "Sing out, Louise," in the middle of a performance. That's typically the kind of thing I would do.

TQ: You'd find yourself canned.

ME: I'd probably get a round of applause. You'd be surprised how often people will remark after a performance, "I couldn't make out half of what they were saying;" or how rarely they will say, "I could hear every word." They say it with a sense of wonder, like it's something odd. Well, it shouldn't be. Anyway, my college experience was drudgery. Which was what I needed. Art takes time, and that's something the young don't have.

TQ: That's very perceptive.

ME: Really?

TQ: Yes. Yes, it is. What were some of the plays you did in college?

ME: The first play I got into was Mother Courage and Her Children. I played Eilif. Brecht. Can you imagine? Our first blocking rehearsal, our director, who would become the head of the department a year later, told me to enter from stage right and cross to Courage. I asked him something really stupid like, "What's my motivation?" And he started screaming at me that my motivation was to do whatever the hell he told me to do, goddammit! I never opened my mouth in rehearsal again. I learned to figure those things out for myself (a good lesson for a future director: know motivations and be willing to listen to your actors). I was lucky, though, because most of the cast were upperclassmen who'd already asked their stupid questions before I'd asked mine and had gotten the same kind of response. So they took me under their wings and looked out for me after that. But I never auditioned for any other play directed by this guy.

TQ: Sad ...

ME: No, funny. I mean, how more stereotypical and stupid could I have been? But it happened, and it passed. The next play I remember doing was Royal Gambit, a play of ideas using Henry VIII and his wives as metaphors - or something like that. The main reason I remember it was because there was a senior theatre major at USL who was fat and had grown a beard to make him look like he was Henry. Everyone assumed the part was his, but I auditioned for it and got it. I reveled in winning it. I was a blockhead of insensitivity. I think these were the only two plays I did as a Freshman. I became choosy. I didn't live to be in every play. I saw classmates jump at every chance to get up onstage, but I was different. I thought that was kind of unnatural. Between classes and rehearsals, there was little time for anything else, like living a life. I remember thinking how some of the people who jumped from show to show didn't seem to be developing depth but were, rather, developing shtick. You see this all the time. Ready-made performances. It's easier than starting at the beginning.

TQ: What do you mean by "starting at the beginning?"

ME: I mean starting blank. Putting aside things you've done in past performances and starting over from scratch. Each role becomes a new life that develops the way we do as we grow. You start off being conscious of sitting in a playpen, let's say. You look out at all the strange things around you. What can those things be for and what do they mean? The urge for adventure becomes an irresistible force, and you start to crawl, then walk. Falling doesn't stop you. Knocks on the head - that hurt - don't stop you. You start a role from a passive place. Maybe it's like observing nature. You don't impose yourself on it, you let it happen while you observe it, you make assessments, and you learn from that. That enough metaphor for you? I didn't do a lot of plays in college, but I did the good ones. That was where I realized I had a capacity for learning and the ability to absorb what I had learned and make it a part of who and what I was. Two different things, the first one useful, the second one an uncommon gift.