Playwrights and Writing…

My first play was published in 1991.  23 years ago.

What?!?

My fifteenth play will be published this year with number sixteen to follow.

My plays are performed throughout the world.  Translated and published in foreign languages.  Off-Broadway production.  A film adaptation.  Awards.

I work with playwrights of all levels.  Well, we work together.  I am not an expert.  Who is?  And my having worked in all facets of the theatre has helped my work as a playwright enormously.

Each playwright has a different process.  None is strictly right or strictly wrong.  It’s very personal and “whatever works for you.”  Some playwrights spend years on a script.  I cannot work that way.  I like to get it done and into the marketplace.  And some playwrights make the process a great deal more difficult than it needs to be.  And some make getting their work produced much more difficult by not taking heed as to what producers, director and actors are looking for.

Broadway isn’t the end all and be all.  Some plays on Broadway open and close before they officially open and are never heard of again.  My work is NOT Broadway.  I know that.  I also know my first script published 23 years ago is still one of the most produced scripts in the general market in the country.  And that is because having produced, directed and acted prior to writing, I knew what each of these wanted.

I am constantly amazed by playwrights who insist on writing scripts which will never be produced, simply because they do not take the economics of the producing theatre and film into consideration. I read lots of scripts.  Lots of them.  Most of which will never see the lights of a theatre rise on them.  For several reasons.  Sometimes they just aren’t any good.  But there are other reasons somewhat good scripts will never be produced.

What kind of scripts are these?  These are scripts which are riddled with profanity.  Or sex.  Or violence.  Or technical and casting requirements which render a production impossible.   I read a script which required a dead dog on stage.  Another required a scene with 50 background actors.  And when you suggest a playwright make adjustments one of two things is going to happen.  One, they are going to listen and make the needed changes.  Or, two – they are going to feel their artistic integrity is insulted, insist you are treading on their “art”, and refuse to make the changes.

Well, thank you very much for submitting, but we shall pass.  Yes.  I know it’s the greatest script ever written.  But…we shall pass.

Most playwrights I have encountered do not write with an audience in mind.  This is a mistake.  As a writer of any kind, you have to know your demographic. Are you writing for a young audience?  Are you writing for a broader audience base?

And if you are writing a comedy, make certain the comedy is accessible by a large audience.  A script with a series of inside jokes or “oh, look how clever I am”, will flop.

After all, everyone gets Neil Simon.

So here are a few pointers about who wants what…

PRODUCERS:

Producers want a good script which is going to be inexpensive to produce, but generate an audience and bottom line, money.  Yes it’s art.  But it’s also business.  Minimum outlay for maximum income.  This isn’t a compromise.  It’s smart and good business.  And just because something is inexpensive to produce does not mean it’s of inferior quality.  I have produced plays for less than $100 and a short film for less than $50.  The plays went on to tour and be published.  The film was featured at the New York International Film Festival in Los Angeles.  What makes a good play?  Characters with heart and a story.  I write comedy.  Better yet – farce.  The plots are thin, but the characters are real, and that is the key to my work’s success.  You can have a terrific plot, but if your characters fail to jump off the page, it’s a waste.

Economics are important in the theatre.  If the first page of a script lists five acts, 35 scenes and a cast of 75, the producer will not continue to read.  The thought which immediately goes through their mind is “What?  I can’t produce that.  It’s going to be too expensive.”  My advice?  Write a two act script.  Minimum costumes changes.  Avoid a period piece, if possible.  One unit set.  Other locations to be simply suggested.  More female than male characters.  Small cast.

DIRECTORS:

Good story.  Good characters.

ACTORS:

Good story.  Good characters.

AUDIENCE:

Good story.  Good characters.

Write from the heart.  A play must have action.  It cannot be a bunch of  people standing around talking.  What is at stake?  In the creation stage, what is the “What if?” element.  Comedy must be character motivated, and not a series of jokes.  Is there a  beginning, middle and end?  Is there a journey of the character?  Does the character start at one place at the beginning of the script and end someplace else by the end?

See.

That was easy.

Now go write.

 

2014: The Year of Renewal

 

Ah…those New Year’s Resolutions.  Written with vim and verve.  Enthusiasm and commitment.  Piss and vinegar.

No.  I literally write mine in piss and vinegar.  No ball point pen for me.  I’m old school.  A traditionalist.

So as Father Time completes his 2013 run and Baby New Year opens 2014, my New Year’s Resolutions, though challenging, are as follows:

1. Return Oprah’s wok.

2. I will not tell the same story at every get together.

3. I will do less laundry and use more deodorant.

4. I will try to figure out why I *really* need nine e-mail addresses.

5. I will balance my checkbook. (On my nose.)

6. Start buying lottery tickets at a luckier store.

7. Remember to brush teeth with bristly end of toothbrush.

8. Don’t eat medicine just because it looks like candy.

9. I will spend less money on buying useless stuff like this new DVD Rewinder I had ordered for Christmas.

10. I will never again take a sleeping pill and a laxative on the same night.

11. I will stop saying,” Ooh, that feels nice” whenever the security guys frisk me at airports.

12. I promise to stick to these resolutions for more than a week (even though I never do).

Wish me luck.  I, like George Michael, have faith.

I have never been much of a New Year’s celebrant.  To me New Year’s seemshough thousands of people desperately trying to have a good time.  Most do.  And most lose their shoes.  For me New Year’s is a race to see if I can actually stay up until midnight, a race I lose more often than not.  And this year was no exception.  I was in bed by 11.30 pm.  “Just another half hour, Mark!  You can do it!”, said One Direction’s Harry Styles.

 

Alas, I could not hold not.  Every New Year’s Eve, this is what I envision the evening to be akin to..(and yes, I know I spelled victrola wrong…)…

 

And this is my reality…

 

Fortunately my good friend and stone-around-my-neck, Justin Timberlake, does not judge.

Although JTs sense of humor is flagging.  The other day I asked him if we could swing by Target so I can return a gift.  “Sure”, he said in a falsetto.  Upon our arrival at the Customer Service desk the CS representative asked if she could help…”Yes, please.  We’re bringing sexy back.”

JT rolled his eyes and sighed.

I do have goals for the New Year, and they are two fold.  I have found as one grows older, (I turn 50 this month), one’s priorities shift.  I literally purchased a bleaching cream for the suddenly appearing dark spots on my skin.  I have never been hung up on age.  It is what it is.  Might as well embrace and enjoy.  With bleaching cream in tow.  My goals this year, and from each year hereafter are more in regards to personal development.

I have always been a very happy person.  Thanks to my parents who taught me happiness is a choice.  Not a result. Certainly there are things which give us temporary happiness, but to have an inner contentment, peace and joy regardless of your circumstances is a wonderful gift.  I cannot always control my circumstances, but I can control my attitude.  Oh, what a wonderful truth.  So as 2014 begins, so do I and share the following 20 things to let go of in order to reach unlimited happiness…

1. Let go of all thoughts that don’t make you feel empowered and strong.

2. Let go of feeling guilty for doing what you truly want to do.

3. Let go of the fear of the unknown; take one small step and watch the path reveal itself.

4. Let go of regrets; at one point in your life, that “whatever” was exactly what you wanted.

5. Let go of worrying; worrying is like praying for what you don’t want.

6. Let go of blaming anyone for anything; be accountable for your own life. If you don’t like something, you have two choices, accept it or change it.

7. Let go of thinking you are damaged; you matter, and the world needs you just as you are.

8. Let go of thinking your dreams are not important; always follow your heart.

9. Let go of being the “go-to person” for everyone, all the time; stop blowing yourself off and take care of yourself first … because you matter.

10. Let go of thinking everyone else is happier, more successful or better off than you. You are right where you need to be. Your journey is unfolding perfectly for you.

11. Let go of thinking there’s a right and wrong way to do things or to see the world. Enjoy the contrast and celebrate the diversity and richness of life.

12. Let go of cheating on your future with your past. It’s time to move on and tell a new story.

13. Let go of thinking you are not where you should be. You are right where you need to be to get to where you want to go, so start asking yourself where you want to go.

14. Let go of anger toward ex lovers and family. We all deserve happiness and love; just because it is over doesn’t mean the love was wrong.

15. Let go of the need to do more and be more; for today, you’ve done the best you can, and that’s enough.

16. Let go of thinking you have to know how to make it happen; we learn the way on the way.

17. Let go of your money woes — make a plan to pay off debt and focus on your abundance.

18. Let go of trying to save or change people. Everyone has her own path, and the best thing you can do is work on yourself and stop focusing on others.

19. Let go of trying to fit in and be accepted by everyone. Your uniqueness is what makes you outstanding.

20. Let go of self-hate. You are not the shape of your body or the number on the scale. Who you are matters, and the world needs you as you are. Celebrate you!

And finally, I created a “goal wall” for 2014.  This serves as a visual reminder and encouragement and provides accountability.  It’s a challenging wall, and an exciting one.  And I look forward to marking each challenge off as achieved and posting my final tally this time next year.

Meanwhile, Justin and I have work to do..

Happy New Year!

 

Caught in the Crossfire.

In December, I believe, of last year I received a message from a friend who teaches film making at a local university, and they were looking for actors for a project.  Student films are a great training ground.  Not only for the film makers, but also for actors.  And although there usually isn’t pay involved, an actor can get some good reel out of it.

The question posed to me was:  “We are looking for an older actor…oh, say 40’s, to play the role of the evil head of drone operations for Afghanistan.  Do you know of anyone?”

Uh.  Yeah.  I do.  Me.

And thus began my journey in the film Crossfire produced by the John Brown University Film Department under the exquisite leadership of Steve Snediker.

Why do a student film?, you may ask.  Well, for several reasons.

1.  I loved the script.

2.  I enjoy playing evil.

3.  I enjoy film making.

4.  I was available.

5.  They wanted me.

6.  These are outstanding young film makers.

7.  The opportunity to get some good reel of my being evil.

8.  There’s a very good chance I may be working for these film makers someday.

9.  I wanted to.

There are some actors who may look down on being in student films.  Well, they shouldn’t.  But it also depends upon the students.  The department.

The film students at JBU are, simply put, excellent.  They are heads above more professional than several professional sets I have worked on.  They are organized.  Respectful.  Know precisely what they are doing.  And are good film makers.  I have admired their work several times before, and was thrilled to be a part of this project.

I do feel, however, some of the crew on the set found my personality a bit much.  To one crew member I said after their being very standoffish…”I make you nervous, don’t I?”  “Yeah.  You do.”

Okay.  Whatevs.  Let’s shoot.

 

In this film I play the role of Paul Greaves, an evil guy who uses his power and position for personal revenge.

Delicious.

The actress playing the protagonist, the ethereal Emily Barden, was a total and complete trouper.  In once scene I had to slap her.  I asked the director/screenwriter, the very talented David Amonsen, if we were going to cheat the shot.  “No,” he said.  “I want a full on slap.”

Which freaked me out.  My sweet niece, like Emily, is 21.  So everytime I slapped Emily, it was as though I was slapping my niece and it terrified me.  The slap took several takes.  And at one point Emily had tears welling up.  It was time to stop the slap.

There’s a lot to be said for cheating certain shots.

The cinematographer, John Owen?  So professional.  And so, so, so good.  I cannot wait to see his work in the in the final product.

The shoot lasted about a month with my being called for a total of seven days.  And was a joy.  Being surrounded by the film makers of tomorrow who are doing it today, was very exciting.  They are doing and going to do great things.  And several of us actors in the region have had the privilege of working with them.  Jules Taylor, Kenn Woodard, Justin & Virginia Scheuer, Bill Rogers…

I am proud to be a part of this film and proud of myself for not “helping” the director, which can be my tendency.  By “helping” I mean offering bits of advice…

“Shouldn’t that light be on the right?” (TRANSLATION:  Move the light to the right.)

“Don’t we want to get a reverse shot?”  (TRANSLATION:  We need a reverse shot.)

“Do we have enough coverage?”  (TRANSLATION:  We don’t have enough coverage.)

No.  I kept my mouth shut.  And soon learned everything I was thinking needing to be taken care of, but not voicing, was being taken care of without my having to voice it.

Keep your mouth shut, Mark.  You don’t know everything.  These guys know what they are doing.  Be patient.  And keep your mouth shut.

And I did.

 

Yes, they are excellent film makers, but one can only be as excellent as the leadership, and that’s where these students hit the jackpot.  Steve Snediker is exceptional.  He loves film making.  He loves his students.  A perfect storm.

And he’s a really, really, really nice guy with high standards with no compromises.

Just my kinda guy.

If, as an actor, you have an opportunity to work with the JBU film program…do it.  Don’t hesitate.

If, as an audience member, you have an opportunity to see a film produced by the JBU film program…do it.  Don’t hesitate.

It’s a win-win.

Sweet Emily. Pre-slap.

 

Gordon Family Tree. A True Family.

This week was a very special one.  But, let’s face it…most of my weeks are.  But this one was extra special.

Last October I had the complete joy to be a part of a truly wonderful project – Gordon Family Tree.  This feature film was produced by Purpose Pictures and spear headed by Ryan and Jennica Schwartzman.

I have been on other sets.  In other films.  I always enjoy the work, but the atmosphere from set to set can be markedly different.  Some sets are all business and no nonsense where the actor is a head on a body expected to know lines and hit marks.  Others are so laid back and disorganized, one wonders how anything is getting done.

But this one.  This GFT set.  This one was extraordinary.

Ryan and Jennica have a passion.  A passion for film making.  A passion for telling a story.  A passion for people.  Each passion very honest, very real and true.  They love what they do and they love the people involved.

And they are extraordinarily professional.  As was the entire team.  Marc Hampson, the director.  Danny Brown, cinematographer.  Darlene, costumer…and on down the line.

Film making is hard work.  For everyone involved.  And at any given moment a myriad of things can go wrong.  Frustration and discouragement can set in…if you allow it.  What is important is one’s attitude.  And the attitude on the set of GFT was nothing but encouraging, supportive and positive.

Quite a difference from other sets I have worked on.

As an actor when you walk onto a set the first day, there’s a quick evaluation.  One gets a feeling.  A sense of what the experience is going to be.  Immediately on set for this project I felt at home.  At ease.  Loved.  Myself and several other actors involved have agreed we were spoiled.  Not in a “May I get you a cup of coffee, Miss Ross?” (Although we were very well taken care of.)  No.  We were spoiled by the love.  The camaraderie.  The mutual support.  This was a family creating a film about a family.

Just.  So.  Wonderful.

And since then working on other projects, the phrase which runs constantly in my mind is…”Well, it’s okay.  Lovely.  But it’s no Gordon Family Tree.”  The bar has been set high.  And I am so thankful and thrilled to have been a part of the process.

The premiere this week was thrilling.  It’s always fun and nerve racking to see yourself on the silver screen.  A delightful combination.  And I still get a chill when I see my name in the opening credits.  But what made this particular premiere so memorable is we were each sharing a common experience and seeing the fruits of so many labors.  We were with our friends.  Our family.  Seeing so many of our friends on the screen doing such good, good work.  The pride of looking around and seeing your fellow actors, most I have known for a decade and are my local family, sitting next to me and around me.  Then glancing up and seeing them on the screen.

Wow.

The film itself is simply beautiful.  A man’s journey to find himself in the most beautiful way.  Several times during the premiere I got a lump in my throat.  And a few tears.  Due to the combination of the film itself being so touching, (no spoilers here), and being surrounded by my dear and sweet friends – old and new…my parents were my dates and I was so proud to share this with them.  Hearing my father, when he saw an actor on screen, turn and whisper to my mother, “We saw them in the lobby.”  And just an overall sense of awe and wonder I was a part of this.

Me.

And I am so thankful.  Thankful and grateful for Jennica.  Ryan.  Marc.  Darlene.  Janice.  Jules.  Julie.  Warren.  Bill.  Laura.  Cassie.  Patrick.  Jocelyn.  Jason.  Kenn.  Kristin.  So many more.

Just thankful.

Can we do it all again?

Pretty please?

The Playwright. A bit of advice…

My first play was published in 1991.  22 years ago.

What?!?

My fourteenth was published this year.

My plays are performed throughout the world.  Translated and published in foreign languages.  Off-Broadway production.  A film adaptation.  Awards.

And I work with playwrights of all levels.  Well, we work together.  I am not an expert.  Who is?  And my having worked in all facets of the theatre has helped my work as a playwright enormously.

Each playwright has a different process.  None is strictly right or strictly wrong.  It’s very personal and “whatever works for you.”  Some playwrights spend years on a script.  I cannot work that way.  I like to get it done and into the marketplace.  And some playwrights make the process a great deal more difficult than it needs to be.  And some make getting their work produced much more difficult by not taking heed as to what producers, director and actors are looking for.

Broadway isn’t the end all and be all.  Some plays on Broadway open and close before they officially open and are never heard of again.  My work is NOT Broadway.  I know that.  I also know my first script published 22 years ago is still one of the most produced scripts in the general market in the country.  And that is because having produced, directed and acted prior to writing, I knew what each of these wanted.

PRODUCERS:

Producers want a good script which is going to be inexpensive to produce, but generate an audience and bottom line, money.  Yes it’s art.  But it’s also business.  Minimum outlay for maximum income.  This isn’t a compromise.  It’s smart and good business.  And just because something is inexpensive to produce does not mean it’s of inferior quality.  I have produced plays for less than $100 and a short film for less than $50.  The plays went on to tour and be published.  The film was featured at the New York International Film Festival in Los Angeles.  What makes a good play?  Characters with heart and a story.  I write comedy.  Better yet – farce.  The plots are thin, but the characters are real, and that is the key to my work’s success.  You can have a terrific plot, but if your characters fail to jump off the page, it’s a waste.

Economics are important in the theatre.  If the first page of a script lists five acts, 35 scenes and a cast of 75, the producer will not continue to read.  The thought which immediately goes through their mind is “What?  I can’t produce that.  It’s going to be too expensive.”  My advice?  Write a two act script.  Minimum costumes changes.  Avoid a period piece, if possible.  One unit set.  Other locations to be simply suggested.  More female than male characters.  Small cast.

DIRECTORS:

Good story.  Good characters.

ACTORS:

Good story.  Good characters.

AUDIENCE:

Good story.  Good characters.

See.

That was easy.

Now go write.

 

 

 

 

Audition Advice…Please Heed

I cast a lot of actors.

A lot.

All sizes.  All ages.  All types.

I am also an actor.  So while I am casting, I am also actively auditioning and working.  This gives me the advantage of working on both sides of the table.  And I love both sides.  And because I have an understanding of the casting process, I am better at auditions.  And because I understand the casting process from an actor’s perspective, I am better at casting.

I love to audition.  My time to shine.  A lot of actors dread it.  But not this cowboy.  The reason actors dread auditioning is they feel they are being judged.  Ugh.  Judged.  I hate that word.  It sounds so judgmental.  I prefer the word “considered”.  When I call an actor in for an audition and tell them they are being considered for a role, it’s an immediate confidence builder.  And in casting, we love confidence.  Not cockiness or conceit.  There is a big difference.  One is reassuring.  The other is a big turn off.

In seeing so many actors, I am dismayed how many damage their opportunities without knowing it.  So…here are a few tips to guard against doing just that.

The first thing all actors need to know is the casting director and/or director is on your side.  We want you to be good.  We want you to be great.  It makes our job infinitely easier.

BEFORE THE AUDITION:

Do your research.  In casting the roles are made public along with a description.  Make certain there is something for you.  And know your type.  I am a small guy.  I will never be a leading man or the center for the football team.  But I play a great nerd, fop, someone who is dying of something, addicted to something or is quietly evil.  So those are the type of roles I go for and I work.  I see actors who are in their 30’s going for the young 20’s roles.  And that let’s us know the actor has no idea who they are as an actor.  And that is a turn off.

Prepare your audition.  So many actors “wing it” with disastrous results.  Does the audition ask for two contrasting monologues?  (And please do not use a monologue from a movie.  Or from monologue books which do not come from published plays.)  Stay within the time limit given, if not under.  We have a lot of people to see so don’t put us behind.  And if you go over, that sends the message you didn’t prepare.  Time yourself again and again.  Then again.

If you are reading from a side which you have received ahead of time, study it.  Do not memorize it.  We don’t expect or want that.  It’s not about the words.  It’s about the heart.  Do bring your side with you.  Highlight your lines.  Make notes in the margins if needed.  Do not bury your face in the script.  Make certain in the reading your are connecting with your scene partner.  Which may be a reader, invisible partner or the camera.  We need to see and feel you are talking TO someone.

Make certain your resume is in an easy to read and professional format.  Always bring a few head shots and resumes.  I do not care if you have worked with the director fifteen times, always present yourself professionally.  A big turn off for me is when I call in an actor I know personally.  And they do not bring a head shot.  Or a resume.  And on the audition sheet where it asks for experience they scribble “you know.”  Well, yes, I do know.  But this is a professional situation.  So be professional.

Do not list grade school credits on your resume.  Do you know why we want your resume?  We want to see the types of roles you have played.  Where you have worked and with whom you have worked.  Because if after your audition we want to call you back, we may give one of these directors to call and ask what you were like to work with.  We are calling you back.  We know you can act.  Now we want to know how your are to work with.  If there are two actors who give equal reads, but we find out actor #2 is difficult and actor #1 is a joy to work with, we are going with actor #1.  Every time.

If you are above the age of ten, leave off you played Flower #4 in your elementary school spring pageant.  It is irrelevant.  The ONLY exception to this is if you played Annie in “Annie” when you were twelve and it was directed by a well known director.  And I mean nationally and internationally known.  If you were directed by Steven Spielberg, we want to know that.  Do not list dates on your resume.  It dates you.  And is irrelevant.

Of course, do not lie on your resume.  You will be discovered and it will be extremely damaging.  The world of entertainment is very, very, very small.  Everyone knows someone who knows someone who knows you.  I recently was working with a casting director whom I had never met and is based in another country.   However he knew someone who knew me.  It’s a very small world.

It’s a good policy to always be honest and transparent.  Not just in this type of work, but in life in general.  You can never go wrong being honest and transparent.

Do not rest on your resume laurels.  I have met actors who have impressive resumes and an attitude.  An attitude of they are doing us a favor by auditioning.  Well.  No.  That’s not how this works.  Some actors don’t feel as though they have to “work” for the role because of their previous experience.  Yeah. You do.  Meryl Streep continues to have to audition.  Really.

I have seen actors with great resumes who completely blow an audition.  I have seen actors with no credits nail an audition.

In the end it doesn’t matter what you have done before for the most part.  We do like working with actors who know their way around a set or stage.  But it’s not a total deal breaker.  Directors aren’t there to teach actors how to act.  That’s your job.  We are there to shape your interpretation.

What matters is what you are able to bring to the table the moment of the audition.  And that should be honesty and heart in the character.

Do not be late.  Do not blow off an audition.  If you are going to be late – call.  Do not blow off an audition.  We are calling YOU in to read.  If you blow it off and just don’t show up, we are not likely to call you again.  If you have a scheduled audition and are unable to attend-call.  Things happen.  We understand.  You do not have to go into detail.  In fact, please don’t.

Training is very important.  Some actors think they are “trained” because they took a two hour acting for camera class.  They are not trained.  Professionally trained actors spend years working on their craft.  They carry degrees in theatre.  BA’s, BFA’s, MA’s and MFA’s.  And putting a trained actor against an untrained one is so uncomfortable and unfair.  Now, you don’t have to have a degree in acting to be considered trained.  And honestly, some are so natural they don’t have to have training at all before their audition.  But training will follow.  Oh, will it.

If you consider yourself and model/actor, leave the modelling credits off the resume.  It’s difficult to take an actor auditioning for “The Glass Menagerie” seriously who has listed on their resume they won a runway modelling contest.  In the modelling world this would have significance.  So know which credits are going to help you when.  And which won’t.

AT THE AUDITION:

Arrive early.  Look nice.  Smile.  Be nice to EVERYONE.  

When you are called in to the audition and the casting director and/or director asks you how you are, we except to hear something short and pleasant.  “I’m great, thank you!  Excited to be here!’

That’s what we expect to hear…something along those lines.  You’d be stunned how many give  too much, and sometimes very personal,  information.  And that’s a turn off.  What it says to us is that actor is drama waiting to happen.  And we do not have the time or patience to cast actors who cause drama anywhere but onstage.

We do not want to hear about how bad traffic was.  How you had a cold last week and it may affect your audition.  We don’t want to hear how you won Mister Thong 1985…it’s all irrelevant and sends up a red flag.  We want to know you are nice, professional and fun to work with without having to ask.  Show us.  But be sincere.  We can spot a suck up and panderer one hundred and twenty miles away.

Sometimes a casting director/director will ask “Why do you want to work on this project?”  Be very careful how you answer.  Let’s say the script is about someone who died a violent death.  If the actors says something akin to “I want to be a part of this project because I relate to the character because my father died a violent death…’, which the actor then describes in detail, that tells us drama is going to ensue.  A better answer is “I want to be a part of this project because I would enjoy the challenge of developing such a complex character.”

Do not play your audition to the casting director/director.  It freaks us out.  Play facing the casting director/director placing your eye line to your invisible partner just above our head.  That way we can see your face.  Playing directly to us eye to eye, freaks us out because we feel we have to react to you speaking to us instead of being able to listen to your audition.  Some auditions will be taped, and in this case ask if you should play to the camera.  When in doubt, ask questions.

If you have an agent, great.  You still gotta prove yourself.  I have met with actors who think saying “I have an agent” is a magic phrase.  It isn’t.  Honestly, I have met actors with agents who are just not good actors.  Or at least weren’t good at the audition.  Which makes us think “How did this person get an agent?” and “What kind of agent would sign them without being familiar with their work, and if they are familiar with their work and this is the example of it  – yikes.”  Again.  Professional training is SO important.

What are we looking for?  We are looking for actors who are friendly, easy to work with, professional and who create characters who are honest and have heart.  That’s what it’s all about.  Don’t try too hard.  Don’t try to impress.  It’s all about honesty and heart.  Play the subtext.  If you don’t know what subtext is, this is where the training comes into place.  Make strong choices and if you are given a direction by the casting director/director, take it.  I have seen actors who have been asked to give three different choices on the reading of a line, and they give the same reading each time.  This is a huge red flag the actor isn’t listening and isn’t able to take direction.

Next.

You should enjoy your audition.  Which really isn’t an audition, but an opportunity for you to perform.

So do it.

Tales From The South

About Tales

“‘Tales From the South’ is a radio show created and produced byPaula Martin Morell, who is also the show’s host, in conjuction with Temenos Publishing Company. The show is presented byThe Argenta Arts Foundation with additional support provided byAY Magazine, The North Little Rock Visitors’ Bureau, andWilliam F. Laman Public Library.  The show is taped live on Tuesday nights at Starving Artist Cafe’ in the Argenta Arts District of North Little Rock, Arkansas. We offer dinner and a show, and shows are $5 admission and open to the public. The night is a cross between a house concert and a reading/show, with incredible food and great company. Tickets must be purchased before the show, as shows are usually standing-room only.”

No tall tales!

“‘Tales from the South'” is a showcase of writers reading their own true stories. While the show itself is unrehearsed, the literary memoirs have been worked on for weeks leading up to the readings. Stories range from funny to touching, from everyday occurances to life-altering tragedies.”

 

“Tales from the South” is uniquely Southern, in that while we don’t require that stories are set in the South (though a majority are), writers must be either originally from the South or live here currently, and the distinct Southern art of storytelling rich in language, detail, and voice is alive in all of them.  Contributors are from all walks of life and include professional writers as well as those who have never been published.”

MY TURN TO TELL MY TALE

In late October of this year, my dear and funny friend, Taylor Kidd, mentioned a radio show on NPR, “Tales From The South”.  I was vaguely familiar with the program, although I had never listened to an episode.  I think I knew they accepted submissions and recall thinking at some point prior to that day, “I need to submit.”

But I never did.

Until Taylor encouraged me to do so.

Why hadn’t I before?  I have no idea.  It wasn’t out of fear of rejection, as I have a thick skin and know my abilities.  I think I simply kept forgetting about it.

Fortunately I had been, (and still am), working on a book entitled “Mister Fancy Pants”.  An observational humor book along the lines of so many observational humor books.  A collection of stories about travels, friends, family, living and life.  Just things I find funny or interesting.  Several people had read what I had written thus far and the one chapter which struck a chord in so many was the one entitled “The Son of Miss Sharon”.

The chapter is the story of how I discovered, quite by accident when I was 15 years old, my mother had been when I was one year old, Miss Sharon on television’s children’s educational program Romper Room.  The chapter is actually posted in one of my earlier blog entries entitled “The Son of Miss Sharon”.  Check it out.

I thought this might make an interesting submission, so I shaped it up a bit making certain I was within the required word count and electronically submitted the story on a Monday.

The very next day I was booked for the Tin Roof Series of Tales From The South.

“The first Tuesday of each month, we feature a well-known Southerner for a special show we call the ‘Tin Roof Project.’“

I was thrilled.  For several reasons.  First, obviously it’s an honor to be booked on Tales From The South, an internationally syndicated show.  And two, to be booked on the special Tin Roof series – a bonus!

But most importantly, I was thrilled my parents would be in the audience for the taping.  I would be given the privilege of honoring them.  And that was, well, thrilling.

My taping was scheduled for December 4th with an air date of January 3rd, 2013.  The taping took place at the wonderful and ambient Starving Artist Cafe.  Such a beautiful platform for artists.  Great atmosphere, food and service.  Located in the equally wonderful Argenta Arts District in North Little Rock, Arkansas, I was to arrive at 4 pm.  It’s about a three hour drive from where I live in Fayetteville and since I wouldn’t be done with the taping until 8.30 pm, I didn’t want to drive back that late at night alone.  So I made a plan to spend the night – UNTIL I saw hotel prices.

The Hampton Inn?  $109 a night.

What?   Do they now have gold taps?

Of course there were cheaper hotels which one could rent by the hour.

NO thanks.

So I reconciled myself to the fact I would have to drive back after the taping.

Ugh.

THEN, I get an email from the producers telling me if I planned to spend the night, they would put me up complimentary, (FREE), at the every-so-lovely Robinwood Bed and Breakfast.

The Robinwood Bed & Breakfast.

 

 

Another score!

So I excitedly packed my little overnight bag courtesy of Louis Vuitton and headed for Little Rock with audio book at the ready.

I enjoy driving.   I enjoy driving by myself.  I enjoy driving by myself while listening to an audio book.

I arrived in Little Rock around 3.30pm and having printed off directions to the B&B, I navigated my way through strange territory and eventually became lost as I missed an all-too-important hidden turn off.  Thank goodness for GPS and maps as I entered in my current position and destination and quickly found my way after that.

Oh, the B&B was heaven.  Such wonderful hosts and the quest count that night, including myself, was…two.

Perfect.

I was led to my room where I discovered a jacuzzi tub, plush bathrobes, snack & drink bar and a bed so soft and delightful that it was not to be believed.

So I took a quick nap before leaving for the taping.

 

 

A quick nap and snack before heading out for the taping.

 

 

And to my immense disappointment when I asked my hostesses if the house was haunted, she said no.

Pooh.

 

 

The interior of The Starving Artist Cafe. Home of Tales From the South.

 

 

I arrive at The Starving Artist Cafe just as my parents are arriving.

And I am SO excited to be sharing this with them.  Which can, admittedly, be difficult to tell at times.  Sometimes when I get too excited…too overwhelmed, I pull back.  I become very quiet.  Where others might be jumping up and down in excited energy, I tend to take a moment and a deep breath.  In a sense I want to sit back and observe as I don’t want to get so caught up in the moments that I forget the moments.  I want to soak it all in.  All the details.

And as my parents become older…well, I can’t bear to think about, let alone write about that, but you know what I am thinking…

As we walk up to the cafe I notice my name on the sandwich board on the sidewalk.

I take a picture.

We then are escorted to our table – front and center, where I find a lovely note and (BONUS), a Tales From The South T-shirt.  I am all about a gift basket.  AND my meal was free.

I felt like Kate Middleton.

We have a terrific server, Andy, whom I later find out from his networking email he sent to me is a musician and is interested in breaking into musical theatre.  Have I any advice?

I order a steak, which was DELISH!

During dinner a fantastic band plays.  Bluegrass-style, which I adore.

And there is a bit of dancing by the patrons.  One man is on the dance floor cutting a proverbial rug.  And then announces he’s 91 years old.

Ninety-one!

 

 

 

 

Then the band finished their set and the show began.

Paula Martin Morell, the show’s producer and host, gave me a tremendous introduction.  And it was tremendous because I wrote it myself.  As requested.

If you have ever listened to the show, you know Paula mentions the set, which are a series of painted doors – which are, fabulous.

And for sale.

“And please welcome Mark Landon Smith…”

To applause and a few whistles, which I assume were directed as my posterior, I made my way up to the stage.

 

 

 

 

I do not get nervous when performing.

I get excited.

And this was an ideal situation.  I felt very comfortable.  Very at home.  My parents were there.  There was a good energy in the room.  And I had my script in front of me.  So there is nothing left to chance.

So I began my story.  Which you can read, as mentioned earlier in this post, in an post posted earlier.

The audience was with me every step of the way.  Laughing when they should.  Being moved when they were.  And being there, soaking in the moment, reading a story about my beloved mother, I became emotional.  A bit teary.  I had to take a moment.  Stop.  Continue.

It.  Was.  Magical.

 

 

On stage for Tales From The South.

 

 

I was proud.

Proud of my parents.  Proud of my heritage.  Proud of being of the South.  Proud of the story I had to tell.

And very thankful.

At the end of the reading there was loud applause and whistles of appreciation.  A short break was taken as a Q&A from the host and audience followed.

The host forwarded questions for me to review/approve before I arrived, which I of course did.  Who am I to censor the questions of a host?  They were far from invasive.

As we ended the hosts questions and opened it up to the audience, I became momentarily afraid no one would care to ask anything.  But  was wrong.  The audience was fascinated with the fact Miss Sharon, a television icon whom they remembered from and had an impact upon their childhood, was there among them.

My mother felt like a rock star.  Because she is.

At the end of the evening audience members introduced themselves to my parents, which was thrilling to watch and I was pooped.

 

 

 

 

It really was a perfect evening and over by 8.30 pm.

Perfect.

I thanked the host and our server.

Earlier in the evening they had an audience giveaway.  The winner of which was Jean Kerst.  A name I recognized.  I glanced over at the table and saw a large family sitting together and locked eyes with one of the menfolk.  A moment of recognition.

“Paul?  Paul Kerst?”

An old friend of mine from high school I had not seen since 1982.  He and his family live in Conway and discovering I was being featured, drove in with his family to celebrate his wife’s 50th birthday evening.  What a treat.  We spoke for a bit and had a picture taken.

What a small world.

My parents and I said our goodbyes in the parking lot and I would see them in two and a half weeks for Christmas.  Hugs.  Thank yous and as they pulled away, a few tears from myself.

Now all I wanted to do was to get back to the Robinwood, pop open a Coke and soak in that jacuzzi tub.

Which.  I.  Did.

And watched television and slept soundly.

The next morning I hit the jacuzzi one more time before heading down for breakfast.

 

 

Post morning jacuzzi time.

 

 

A yummy breakfast and visiting with the B&B owners and playing with their dogs completed my morning before departing.  And saying goodbye and thank you and what a beautiful Christmas tree and what a treat this was and I will tell everyone about your wonderful place, I left.

And driving home I finished my audio book and arriving back in Fayetteville before noon, went straight to work at the theatre.

And that is my tale of Tales From The South.

You should try it sometime.

It’s delightful.

Halloween. Uh. Yeah.

In 1974 my mother volunteered to participate in the Nettleton Elementary School Fall Carnival.  I was in the fourth grade and thrilled.  Her role in the festivities was that of the Fortune Teller.  And now looking back I realize she stunk at it.  Otherwise she would’ve been able to foretell the forthcoming “D” I was to receive on my report card in Math a few short weeks later.

My mother was like a white Miss Cleo.

From what I remember there was a tent.

Or perhaps a classroom made to look like a tent.

And within, behindst a small table sporting a multi-colored cloth and a tired looking crystal ball, sat my beautiful 35 year old mother.  Dressed as a gypsy.  She told my fortune, (no mention made of the “D”…faker),  and I was off.  Off to play a serious game of chance under the guise of “Pick Up Ducks”.

If you don’t know what one does in a mean game of “Pick Up Ducks”, you “Pick Up Ducks”.. There are a series of plastic ducks in a kiddie pool and you pick one up.  You turn it over.  On the bottom written in smeared not-so-water proof ink is your prize.  You then hand your duck to the nearby toothless carny, and claim your treasure.

I am not, by nature, a gambling man.  But I was feeling good.  Lady Luck, I felt, was on my side.

And it was Halloween.  All bets were off for this cowboy.

Afterwards, I went “Fishing”.  A game where a sheet is hung.  On one side are a series of fishing poles on the end of which are clothes pins.  One would “cast” a fishing pole over the sheet and on the other side a small paper bag containing a myriad of treats would be attached to the clothes pin and you would “reel her in”.

As I recall my small paper bag of treats included a ring in the shape of a spider.

Score,

I love jewelry.

I recall a cake walk where I cheated to win a chocolate cake.   I don’t recall exactly how I cheated, however after my success with “Pick Up Ducks” and “Fishing”, I considered myself unassailable.

There was a bake sale.  A white elephant sale.  The obligatory haunted house where a bowl of grapes were used to represent eyeballs and cooked spaghetti were intestines.

A I groped these foods I felt as though I was being dirty at The Olive Garden.

Needless to say, but I shall, my fourth grade Halloween Fall Carnival was off the hook.

Once home I complimented my mother on her fortune telling skills and how pretty she looked as a gypsy.

Which isn’t something gypsies hear too often.

“Oh.  That wasn’t me,” she replied.

What the…?!?

Of course it was her.  She knew it.  I knew it.  She denied it.  I was scarred for life.

Oh, Halloween.  You minx.

As a young lad when choosing a costume for Halloween I always wanted to be a witch.  Always.  And one Halloween – I can still picture this – I was about five or six years old and my parents had purchased one of those store Halloween costumes with the flimsy tunic and cheap mask, in the form of a witch.  We had large sliding glass doors in our dining room which led out to a deck, and in passing enroute to some trick or treating mayhem, I caught my reflection in the sliding glass doors, let out a high pitched scream and scared the crap out of myself.  So much so I refused to go trick or treating.

I do not enjoy dressing up for Halloween.  Which people think is odd as I am in the theatre.  “What?!?  You don’t want to dress as Eve with a delicately placed leaf, or in your case, a palm frond?  I thought you’d LOVE to dress up.”

Sorry.

No.

No.  I work in the theatre.  I dress up all the time.  So no thank you.  I shall pass on the sexy Little Red Riding Hood ensemble.  Even at 25% off.

However this Halloween was great fun.  But not for reasons one might think.  There were no costumes involved.  No midnight madness,  Just friends.

Halloween 2012 began last night.  I attended with friends an intimate showing of The Shining sponsored by The Big Picture House.  A scary film which I never thought was scary which takes place in a remote hotel.  And we were watching the film IN a hotel.  Creepy.

And popcorn and wine were served.

Score.

I go with my great friends Mike, Julie, Jules, Taylor and Leilani.  And several other wonderful people are there too.  Morgan, Erika, Rodney, Kelly, Haley, Lauren…a fun group.

Julie and I be scared!

Now let’s see…The Shining.

Too long.  Too slow.  Too confusing.

I glanced over at one point in the direction of Mike, Julie and Jules.

All asleep.

We loved the experience.  We just like to be in bed by 7.45pm.

I think all movies, regardless of genre, should be 45 minutes long  tops…

…and animated.

Seriously.

Taylor and I after The Shining watch party.

So now it’s officially Halloween, October 31st – which I forgot about until I was in Sam’s Club and all of the employees were en costume.

Earlier at work I am doing some marketing, and I happenstance upon a notice for Trick or Treat on the Square.  This is an annual event, one which completely escaped my mind, where 4,000 kids show up and Trick or Treat around Fayetteville Square and local businesses and non-profits set up booths to give out candy and information.  It’s a perfect fit for promoting Arts Live.

Candy and theatre?  Heck yeah.

Luckily I secure a spot at the last minute, thanks to the help of the Fayetteville Visitors Bureau.

So I go to the aforementioned Sam’s Club to purchase candy.  And I purchase one bag.

One.

I’m an idiot.

With 4,000 kids coming I would’ve been better purchasing five loaves and two fish.  I could’ve made that last with a bit of divine intervention.

The event starts at 3 and by 3.45 I am running low on treats.  By 4 I am completely out and by 4.05 I am getting desperate.  Fortunately another table manned by the Mayor’s office, came to my rescue and offered me some of their treats.

Lesson learned.

4,000 ghouls and goblins line Fayetteville Square for a treat!

Afterwards I am home and quite honestly am not expecting any trick or treaters.  So I didn’t purchase any treats to give out.

I cook dinner.  Clean up.  Doing laundry.  Washing dishes.  Listening to NPR.

Y’know.  Living.

Off the hook.

Then at 8.15pm there is a knock on my door.  And I am thinking it’s a friend dropping by to borrow an egg or two, perhaps a cup of sugar.

Bandaids?

Because who in their right mind takes kids out to trick or treat door-to-door at 8.15 in the pm?

I open my door and before me are five little ghouls and goblins of various races and hues.

And I have nothing to give them.

Literally.  Nothing.  Zero.  Zilch.  Nada.

I borrow a bit of time.

“Give me just one minute to see what I have.”

I don’t want to disappoint the little darlings.

And their chaperone with the cigarette dangling out of her clenched teeth looks as though she will accept any excuse to cut me.

And I tear through my rather pathetic pantry.

And this is what I find.

And this is what I give them.

I tell them it’s chocolate milk mix.

And they were okay with that.

After they departed I became suddenly paranoid I’d have an army of late night trick or treaters and desperately searched for more treats.

Fortunately I found this…

I’ll tell them they’re Jolly Ranchers with a kick.

Happy Halloween…

The Funny All Around…

As a writer a question asked of me a great deal is “Where do you get your ideas?”

I am surrounded by ideas.

Have you ever been to Walmart around midnight?  If not – go.  It is a parade of ideas free for the taking.

Life is all around us and if you take a moment, take a deep breathe and take it all in, you will find a plethora of interesting things which have stories behind them which are begging to be told.

Several years ago when I first moved to Fayetteville, Arkansas I happened to pick up the Sunday edition of one of the area newspapers.  And while casually flipping through, I found this:

There are so many things to love about this picture.  The smiling and resplendent bride in white.  The reluctant bridegroom sporting a work shirt complete with pen in pocket.  Their respective names.  A Justice of the Peace AND a Pastor officiating.  And the coup?  The final line of the notice.

“After a weeding trip to the monster truck rally in Springdale, the couple is at home in Rogers.”

The old adage “you cannot make this stuff up” applies here.

As a writer I see a story.  How did these two meet?  And how did they come to this moment?  And for corn’s sake why are they proud they are honeymooning at the monster truck rally?!?  There is definitely a story to be told and this picture – this one picture – led to a series of plays about the small town of “Dupont, Mississippi”, a film short and a television special.

Small town newspapers are the best for ideas.  Especially ones published weekly.

The above article appeared in a small regional publication known for its “cutting journalism”.  Once again I was visiting this wee li’l hamlet, and picked up the paper and discovered the headline above:

“Baby Jesus, missing again”.

The article details an annual scourge visited upon this sleepy town every Christmas season when a band of hoodlums from a neighboring state steal the Baby Jesus from the town’s life-size nativity displayed in the park.  But on this particular year additional vandalism was perpetrated:  “We also regret to report there was a decapitated fiberglass cow found at the scene.”

And that line worked its way into another script of mine.

Wanna make people laugh?  Cry?  Hold up a mirror to life.

I was sleepy. Don’t judge.

And there are those who give you a creative gift without realizing.  People who are simply being themselves, loud and proud and no apologies.  The Honey Boo-Boos of the world who help me make a living by being who they are.

And I thank them.

Okay.  Don’t turn on me and don’t think me to be morbid or uncaring.

Here goes…

A few years ago I was at a funeral.  I won’t say where or for whom, but it was a family member who was dearly loved and had been ill for quite some time.  The family gathered at the funeral home for the service, and as I looked around I noticed a series of small rooms surrounding the chapel.  Antechambers.  And having read almost every Nancy Drew novel, I felt compelled to investigate.

My sleuthing revealed these antechambers were in reality traps where personnel would corner the bereaved and sell them souvenir crap of their dead loved one.

I was appalled.

I was fascinated.

I took a brochure.

Have you ever heard of Thumbies Fingerprint Cremation Jewelry?

No?  Well you have now.

Thumbies Fingerprint Creation Jewelry is precisely what it says on the tin.

From the website:

Thumbies & Fingerprint Memorial Jewelry gives families and friends the unique opportunity to immortalize the fingerprint of their loved one in a precision-embossed precious-metal charm. The fingerprint can be incorporated into a number of styles of memorial jewelry including pendants, tie-tacks and cufflinks.

My favorite Thumbie merchandise offered?  The cigarette lighter.

The Thumbie cigarette lighter. Remember your loved one by glancing at their fingerprint embossed in gold every time you light up a doobie.

Look them up.

http://www.funeral-urn.com/thumbies-memorial-jewelry.aspx

Morbid?  Yes.

Funny?  Absolutely.

Later during the service while the organ music is playing solemnly, I glance around and something caught my eye.

A most exquisite pair of cankles.

And this gave me an idea.  A “Cankles Christmas Calendar” with each month featuring a different pair of cankles.

I pursued this idea with camera to tow in my attempt to catch the cankle in its natural habitat.  But when I discovered it was difficult to take these pictures under cover and unobserved, I abandoned the project.

As I valued my life.

Unintentional funny envelops us.

Several years ago I was driving home for Thanksgiving and as I passed through the tiny town of Weiner, Arkansas (population 714), I was compelled to pull over and pick up the weekly local newspaper.

And the headline reads, I kid you NOT; hand to God…”

“Flu Shots Given In Weiner.”

Ouch.

I’ll just be sick.  Thank you.

I find life funny.  Fun.

And look around, and I am certain you will do the same.

Oh, and I always laugh at myself first.  I am fully aware of my own personal ridiculousness, foibles, shortcomings, idiosyncrasies and contradictions.

And laugh.

And speaking of ridiculous – see the gallery below…

Decorating for Christmas in Amagon, Arkansas. The only decoration in town.

Happy Easter.

With ‘glow in the dark’ hands.

This album never fails to kick the party into high gear.

Because let’s face it. Hello Kitty just tastes better when slow cooked for eight hours.

Whoever thought of this outside my neighborhood market…well played.

Kinda pointless. Yet festive.

Mister Fancy Pants Chapter Four: “Mi Nombre Es Marcos…”

Mi Nombre Is Marcos

My fellow Spanish students in Spain circa 1980. I am on the right. Squinting. With feathered hair.

In 1980, at the age of 15, I went to Spain on a school trip sponsored by my Spanish class. I had been studying Spanish since the 8th grade. Perhaps “studying” is too strong of a word. I had been “taking” Spanish since the 8th grade. I was now in the 10th and after three years of Spanish considered myself fluent, as long as all I had to say was “Where is the bathroom?”, “What time does the ballet begin” and “May I return this book?” – phrases which aren’t going to be exactly helpful in touring the Spanish countryside unless I need to pee, have tickets to Swan Lake or standing on the steps of a library.

I adored my Spanish teacher, Mrs. Morris. She was just great. (I would write “great” in Spanish, if I could remember the word for it. I think it’s “grande”, which I think also means “big”. But I don’t want to write “Mrs. Morris was ‘big'” as that would infer she was fat, which she wasn’t. Hippy, perhaps, but not fat.) Mrs. Morris liked me, too. I would go as far to say I was her favorite. She may disagree, but that’s irrelevant, because this is my story.

The picture on the cover of the travel company brochure showed a group of ravishingly beautiful students and of all shapes, sizes, sexes and hues smiling broadly with their perfectly aligned, white teeth, their arms around each other internationally laughing. I would now be one of them. After a bit of dental work.

There were five us students traveling with two chaperones. We were joining a touring group comprised of similar, but hopefully more fluent, students from across the country. We were booked on an all-inclusive educational 7-day touring program, the price of which included transportation, meals, accommodations and, most importantly, a vinyl travel bag with the company logo screen printed across the front. This all-important travel bag set us a part from other travelers. It was a status symbol. It screamed “We are young. We are different. We are smart. We are worldly. So there.”

Being an educational excursion, I learned many things. I learned how very little Spanish I actually knew when a fellow student had to literally translate the two word phrase “second floor.” Second floor? I think the words “second” and “floor” are the first and second words in the Welcome To First Year Spanish textbook. A couple of years later when I went to college, and after having taken six years of Spanish prior, I took the foreign language proficiency test hoping to opt out of having to take a foreign language. I failed brilliantly and ended up in first year Spanish. (“Second? “Floor?”). I switched to French.

I learned I didn’t give two hoots for Spanish architecture or art. I was 15. What did I care Roman aqueducts constructed 2,000 years prior were still in use? El Greco? Who? All I wanted was a good taco.

I learned there is roommate hierarchy. The two other males on the trip were jocks. I wasn’t. I was second to last chair trumpet in the band. I was in choir. I played the piano. I was crafty. I ate lunch alone a great deal of the time. For some reason the jocks didn’t want me rooming with them. They didn’t say so. Not outright. But when we would gather in the hotel lobby of that particular day’s all-inclusive accommodation and the tour director would read whom would be rooming with whom that night and their names were called as roomies, there would be lots of high fives with a chorus of “YEAH, MAN!!”

I made a friend on the trip. A girl. We became very close very fast. One lovely Spanish evening we were sitting in the courtyard of our hotel and she was drinking sangria. This struck me as odd as she was underage. But then again we were in Spain where the legal drinking age is birth. We were chatting and laughing and she suddenly turns to me and slurs “You’re funny.” Whether she was being sincere or whether it was the sangria talking, it was a compliment. It was a moment of validation. And something my awkward be-pimpled self needed to hear. We made a forever promise to write each other and keep in touch. A promise forgotten the moment we boarded our respective planes home.

I learned how not to pack. It was my first trip abroad. I packed like it was 1936 and I was boarding the Queen Mary for a six month Capitals of Europe tour and rest cure. All that was missing were a team of porters, a mountain of Louis Vuitton steamer trunks and my leading two greyhounds on a leash. My father at the time owned a travel agency for which I worked a few hours a week after school. The manager loaned me her suitcase. “It’s perfect,” she said. It was green. It was heavy empty. It was enormous. And I lugged that coffin throughout the ancient cities of Spain.

Toward the end of our Tour de Spain, we took an overnight train from Madrid to the Costa Del Sol. Boarding the train we were given compartment numbers. Once again names were read, compartment mates assigned, more high fives and “YEAH, MAN!!” I was given my compartment number and with a heave-hoe pushed, pulled, kicked and dragged my ridiculous twelve ton suitcase down the narrow passageway of the train car bumping into walls, Spainards and almost causing the train to derail.

After a great deal of effort I arrived at my assigned compartment where I would be spending the night racing through the Spanish countryside enroute to the southern resort playground known as The Coast of the Sun. Once again, I was given a room to myself. “This”, I thought, “is nice.” It has never bothered me to be alone. I am quite comfortable and more than happy to go to a movie by myself. Have dinner by myself. I think of it as I’m dating myself, which is nice but I always end up paying for everything. And I enjoy traveling by myself. One afternoon several years ago my mother called to inquire what I was doing that weekend. I replied with the nonchalance of an over worked hooker, “I’m going to Paris, France this weekend.”

And that was the truth. I was. I found a killer airfare and hopped a plane for a long weekend in Paris with a 12-hour layover in Amsterdam, getting two countries for the price of one. Alone. Some would consider this pathetic and would illicit the sympathetic observation, “Oh, ze poor boys have to go to ze Paree alonze.” (In my mind the sympathetic observation would be made with a French accent.) But, several years prior I took a cruise with five friends and we all stayed in the same stateroom. Believe me, that’s a vacation video you do not want to see. I learned my lesson then about choosing traveling companions wisely. Oh…the train.

As I slid the compartment door aside and with all the strength I could muster, lunging that damned suitcase in, I discovered I was not alone. Sitting quietly and staring back at me blankly were four very Spanish, and very Catholic nuns. These nun were serious. They weren’t playing around. They were full-out “How Do You Solve A Problem Like Maria?” nuns. Tunics, scapular, wimples. The whole nine yards. Smiling politely I took the remaining available seat. And as the train steadily clicketdly-clacked along the Spanish rails, the nuns quatro smiled politely back at me. And I at them. After a prolonged and uncomfortable silence I attempted conversation.

“Donde esta el bano y a que hora comienza el ballet y puedo devolver este libro?” (“Where is the bathroom and what time does the ballet start and may I return this book?”)

We arrived at our hotel the next morning on the beautiful Costa Del Sol with my roommate assignment being a short blonde lad from Atlanta. As I paid the bellhop a few pesos to wrestle with my suitcase, I could hear the slap of high fives and “YEAH, MAN!!” ringing in my ears as once again the jocks were sleeping together. My assigned roommate was nice enough. Very short and very blonde. I called him “Blidget”. Not to his face, though. The nuns would never approve. And although Blidget was small, he seemed feisty. Like a badger. And you do not want to antagonize a badger. Accompanying Blidget on this trip was his breast friend. She had very curly hair, was always singing “Maybe” from the Broadway musical Annie and had huge hooters. She hooked up with one of the jocks from our group. The same jock who later got a girl knocked up at our high school.

I learned women on the pristine beaches of Spain can opt to tan topless. Whilst beach combing one afternoon, I snuck a picture of a senorita sunning sans support. She was lying on her back so you’ll have to trust me she was female. I think.

Our last evening in Spain we went dancing at a local disco. I always loved to dance. In kindergarten my favorite day was Friday because it was dance day, and I especially loved Square Dance Friday. Who wouldn’t? Before dance time we had color time. One Friday I was coloring a picture of Superman rather hurridly as my six year old heart was pounding in anticipation of dance time. In my rush, I colored outside the lines which was a big and unspoken no-no. Why? It’s my freakin’ picture. But as a punishment I had to miss dance time. AND it was Square Dance Friday. I was devastated. But looking back I shouldn’t be surprised. Our teacher was a real nut job. One day she took our entire kindergarten class down the street to watch a house burn to the ground. This was an educational field trip. And the snack time menu was always animal crackers and cocktail sauce. Seriously. But I digress…

Our last evening in Spain we went to a local disco. You are already aware of my penchant for The Dance. My freshman year in high school we had a choice of taking Physical Education or Disco Dance Lessons. I choose Disco Dance Lessons and excelled at The Hustle and The Roller Coaster and The Bump. I was rather unsucessful with the whole Physical Education thing. Especially when we played Dodge Ball. Dodge Ball, for those of you who have never suffered through its humiliation, is a game. There are two teams. The object is to hit each other with a basketball. If you are hit, you are out. If you catch the basketball being thrown at you, the throwee is out. If you are the last person on your team to still be in and you catch the final basketball, your team wins. There was the excrutiating ritual of the two most popular kids being chosen as team captains and they, in turn, would select the members of their teams, and I was consistently chosen last. Dodge Ball for me was the perfect opportunity to fake an asthma attack and get to sit out. ACTING! However, one P.E. afternoon when I did play it was down to me and a final person on the opposing team. All eyes were on us. I had to pee. The opposing team member, who outweighed me by 100 pounds, locked eyes with me, self-assuredly sneered then threw the basketball at me with all of his strength, marking his kill.

I caught it. He was out. My team won. The gymcafetorium erupted in cheers as my team mates raced toward me and lifted me on their shoulders. It was like being in a parade. But I digress…

Spain. Disco. Coke. I made my way to the dance floor because the chart topper of the moment, Funkytown, was playing and the muse of The Dance beckoned and I must answer. After putting my hitherto learned disco dance skills to practice I returned to my table to find my Coke waiting, as ordered, and a business sized card. On the card were two neon colored entertwined figures with the words “Club Sexo”. And even I, with my limited knowledge of Spanish, knew what the word “club” meant. The card had written on it “Usted esta invitado a Club Sexo”. I turned to a fellow student for a translation . Through their giggles I was told I had been invited to Club Sex. I had received my first international party invitation. I felt very fancy. What will I wear? Is an RSVP required? Do I need to bring nachos? I was savvy enough to know this was just a marketing tool. Everyone in our touring group had received the same invitation. Spain is very free loving, apparently. And no one took it seriously, except for the two jocks who could be seen in the corner turning the card over and over in their hands, while giving each other high fives with a chorus of “YEAH, MAN!!”

One of the chaperones was the mother of one of the students. A short, squat overbearing woman with gigantic breats and a 1950’s hairdo. She whined a great deal of the time. Her husband wore a 1950’s Elvis Presley hairstyle and gold wide rimmed glasses. He’d never look you in the eye. I don’t trust a person who doesn’t look you in the eye. Very shifty in my book. This couple had a chicken farm. Their daughter, who was on the trip, was very sweet and their son served as a White House Page and wrote a scandalous article for the school newspaper about members of the football team abusing Primatene Mist. We had flown all the previous day and night. Madrid to New York then a red eye to Atlanta and one final leg to Memphis. We were pooped. Friends and relatives greeted us at the airport. There were hugs and kisses and reunion tears. Except for this couple. There weren’t any endearing exchanges. Nary a hug nor a welcome home peck on the cheek. No mention of being missed or how was your trip. The first thing out of this man’s mouth to his returning wife was..]

“We had a heat wave and half the chickens died.”

Ole!