A weekend in Bennington is good for what ails you. We went to celebrate the birthdays and just hang out with my daughter some. It was a very nice weekend (rain and traffic on the way up there not withstanding). Did zero writing but that's ok. It comes when it comes and I didn't really expect to get much done in the way or writing while I was up there. It would be a lovely place for a retreat, but in this instance that isn't what I was there for. It was just a good time.
I did print the new thing I've been working on to see how it flowed. It really has had a strange gestation: it began as just writing to get myself back in the habit of writing, so it was just autobiographical stories about my fear of snakes and heights; then that morphed into memories of a very colorful friend that I had while in college and then, as I mentioned in my last post, I had this 'ah-ha' moment of who is telling these stories. I wasn't sure if it would hold together at all, but it wasn't horrible. Smooth the transitions some perhaps, get the character of the character telling the story more into it . . . but it's a start, that's for sure.
So I'm gonna just let it sit and ripen a bit. Then come back to it with a more critical eye.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Thursday, September 22, 2011
As often happens . . .
I was sitting in the audience listening to some folks reading a piece at the Woodstock Fringe Playwrights Unit the other night when an image hit me that sort of clicked the gears into place for my new solo piece; nothing that had anything to do with the piece being read, just I was sitting there and an image entered my head of who was telling the story (something of a derelict) and where (a bench or a low wall). Also that he was stoned or getting that way. Maybe sunglasses . . . so I went back to it this morning with the idea of working that in and wrote a couple of pages. Don't know where it'll go now, but it's nice to have some sort of frame of reference. Before it was just reminiscing about a colorful friend from a particulary wacky part of my life . . . now it may be a story. We'll see.
The same thing happened last spring with 'Like a Sack of Potatoes'. I was sitting there listening to a piece, might have been one of Norman Marshall's monologues, and I got an image in my head of a barn ... and somebody falling from the rafters. The opening line might have come to me right then too, but I'm not sure about that: Fell out of the sky like a sack of potatoes. I did spend a fair amount of time in tobacco barns when I was a kid so it was a powerful image, I could smell the smell and see the dust rise from the dirt floor ... and all I had to do was figure out who was falling and why. That part of it came together pretty quickly.
It's not like I'm bored by the piece I'm listening to, or that my mind is wandering . . . maybe it's something about being in a creative space that makes the receptors more . . . receptive . . . I don't know, but when stuff like that happens, I pay attention.
Oh, and I took the first three scenes of Dead Authors as well. It went very well. I loved hearing the play again, it's been sitting there gathering dust for so long; good feedback too. I'll take more in next time, see if it holds up. Bette went with me for the first time, liked it enough to go back. She read the lead, which was written for her. People responded to the play and to her very well . . .
The same thing happened last spring with 'Like a Sack of Potatoes'. I was sitting there listening to a piece, might have been one of Norman Marshall's monologues, and I got an image in my head of a barn ... and somebody falling from the rafters. The opening line might have come to me right then too, but I'm not sure about that: Fell out of the sky like a sack of potatoes. I did spend a fair amount of time in tobacco barns when I was a kid so it was a powerful image, I could smell the smell and see the dust rise from the dirt floor ... and all I had to do was figure out who was falling and why. That part of it came together pretty quickly.
It's not like I'm bored by the piece I'm listening to, or that my mind is wandering . . . maybe it's something about being in a creative space that makes the receptors more . . . receptive . . . I don't know, but when stuff like that happens, I pay attention.
Oh, and I took the first three scenes of Dead Authors as well. It went very well. I loved hearing the play again, it's been sitting there gathering dust for so long; good feedback too. I'll take more in next time, see if it holds up. Bette went with me for the first time, liked it enough to go back. She read the lead, which was written for her. People responded to the play and to her very well . . .
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Writing/not writing
I'm still kind of treading water with the writing. I was on a roll with a new solo piece, but don't know what to do with it . . . it is mostly a bunch of memories about my dealings with a very memorable character I knew in college, so it's the kind of thing that might work well for the Fringe as if I can't use that as a laboratory what would be a better place?
For the time being I am letting it simmer for a while and I can go back to it with fresh eyes.
There was also a moment this summer when I was thinking of expanding the character of 'the world's oldest salesman' which is something that I created while at the Journal News for a competition . . . that was fun; so when I was feeling fallow this summer I did some writing on it . . . that may be another opportunity. We'll see. It was a cute idea and I loved the character, but a full piece of it? hmmm.
Speaking of the Fringe: tonight is the first meeting of the fall semester of the Woodstock Fringe Playwrights Unit. After dusting off Dead Authors to submit to the competition last week, I was sort of in the mood to hear that again, so I'm taking some pages in. Should be fun. It's hard to believe it's been eleven years since I've had a reading of it! The problem with writing is that you're always moving on to the next thing and the next thing after that and they whatever you are working on now demands the focus (as it should). So a wonderful piece (I think) like Dead Authors is shuffled off to the side. It's like an old friend. Nice when you see them again . . . only with plays they don't get gray and lose hair or gain weight . . . they stay as fresh as the day you stopped working on it.
It's amazing to think of what has gone down in the eleven years since I wrote the piece . . . my daughter was seven for one thing! Bette has her speech path practice. So many plays, and the whole solo thing . . . wow . . . I suppose that's one of the beautiful things about life: if you stay engaged and active, wonderful things can happen. If you stop . . . you stop.
For the time being I am letting it simmer for a while and I can go back to it with fresh eyes.
There was also a moment this summer when I was thinking of expanding the character of 'the world's oldest salesman' which is something that I created while at the Journal News for a competition . . . that was fun; so when I was feeling fallow this summer I did some writing on it . . . that may be another opportunity. We'll see. It was a cute idea and I loved the character, but a full piece of it? hmmm.
Speaking of the Fringe: tonight is the first meeting of the fall semester of the Woodstock Fringe Playwrights Unit. After dusting off Dead Authors to submit to the competition last week, I was sort of in the mood to hear that again, so I'm taking some pages in. Should be fun. It's hard to believe it's been eleven years since I've had a reading of it! The problem with writing is that you're always moving on to the next thing and the next thing after that and they whatever you are working on now demands the focus (as it should). So a wonderful piece (I think) like Dead Authors is shuffled off to the side. It's like an old friend. Nice when you see them again . . . only with plays they don't get gray and lose hair or gain weight . . . they stay as fresh as the day you stopped working on it.
It's amazing to think of what has gone down in the eleven years since I wrote the piece . . . my daughter was seven for one thing! Bette has her speech path practice. So many plays, and the whole solo thing . . . wow . . . I suppose that's one of the beautiful things about life: if you stay engaged and active, wonderful things can happen. If you stop . . . you stop.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Dead Authors redux
I spent some time yesterday away from writing and took the time to get my entry ready for a competition, a pretty nice one too, in Manhattan. My big quandry was which play to send. A hard decision. I have my newer stuff of course, not the solo stuff, the two handers (mostly) but somehow I figured that a competition by an acting studio, T. Schrieber Studio, might like the idea of many parts . . . for men and women. That was the ultimate decision maker for me.
I was tempted at first to send Damage Control, which is an edgy edgy piece, but it's two guys and a girl who never speaks. I thought of the miners pieces, specifically Where the Rain Never Falls, but it's two hander and the technical requirements would be daunting (I've convinced myself that the technical challenges were an element in Abingdon not moving forward with it); and I thought about my newest piece Not All That Much to Ask, but again two hander, older actors . . . so to make a long story short, I decided on Dead Authors.
Dead Authors has three nice parts for women, and three for men, and that doesn't take into consideration the four title characters. I also think the piece could benefit from a healthy dollop of development, which it has never had. A couple of readings, yes . . . and valuable feedback came from them, but as far as the kind of work Rain had or Damage Control, where you can really get in there and bust your knuckles a bit . . . no. So I picked a five page sample, and sent it off . . . and we'll see. It's a crap shoot to say the least, but aren't they all!
I also had an idea for a new play this morning. I was thinking about family and how it's all well and good, or at least we think it is, while we're all in the same place . . . but then it becomes something else when distance is involved . . . that would be one character who has moved away and comes back as he can; then there is another character who has stayed put and is pulled more and more into religion . . . and then there may be the parent with dementia . . . I don't know it's all ideas right now . . . but it's percolating in there. It may not end up being the title, but the motivating thought behind it is best stated perhaps by a line from a Neil Young song where he talks of an ancient civilization that was 'poisoned by protection'. I remember when I first heard that . . . it stuck with me and was something of a rallying cry for my ultimate move to NY.
I was tempted at first to send Damage Control, which is an edgy edgy piece, but it's two guys and a girl who never speaks. I thought of the miners pieces, specifically Where the Rain Never Falls, but it's two hander and the technical requirements would be daunting (I've convinced myself that the technical challenges were an element in Abingdon not moving forward with it); and I thought about my newest piece Not All That Much to Ask, but again two hander, older actors . . . so to make a long story short, I decided on Dead Authors.
Dead Authors has three nice parts for women, and three for men, and that doesn't take into consideration the four title characters. I also think the piece could benefit from a healthy dollop of development, which it has never had. A couple of readings, yes . . . and valuable feedback came from them, but as far as the kind of work Rain had or Damage Control, where you can really get in there and bust your knuckles a bit . . . no. So I picked a five page sample, and sent it off . . . and we'll see. It's a crap shoot to say the least, but aren't they all!
I also had an idea for a new play this morning. I was thinking about family and how it's all well and good, or at least we think it is, while we're all in the same place . . . but then it becomes something else when distance is involved . . . that would be one character who has moved away and comes back as he can; then there is another character who has stayed put and is pulled more and more into religion . . . and then there may be the parent with dementia . . . I don't know it's all ideas right now . . . but it's percolating in there. It may not end up being the title, but the motivating thought behind it is best stated perhaps by a line from a Neil Young song where he talks of an ancient civilization that was 'poisoned by protection'. I remember when I first heard that . . . it stuck with me and was something of a rallying cry for my ultimate move to NY.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
10th anniversay
I've done my best to avoid all the news and reporting on the tenth anniversary of 9/11. It means what it means to people and I don't think we need media saturation to tell us what to think. I have my own reflections. I was working in the city that day, as every day, and just like any other day I was walking to work from Grand Central. One unusual thing happened on the walk down Madison Avenue . . . a big passenger plane flew over, and pretty low too. I may have commented on how unusual that was, but thought nothing of it. Then as I got to 34th St. I saw a big cloud of smoke further downtown. I remember thinking that it was smoke from some building's incenerator. And when I got to work at 28th and Madison, the doorman at the building told me a plane had just flown into the World Trade Center. A little later I went to Madison Square park and looked downtown at the burning WTC . . . that would be the last time I saw them standing.
Work was pretty much called off that day, and for several days after. I walked to Grand Central and just missed the last train out of town. And later walked up to a friend's place on York Avenue on the upper east side. The stream of people walking out of town that day looked like something out of a refugee movie . . . thousands and thousands of people walking out of town because mass transit wasn't running. Every now and then the scream of a fighter jet patrolling the skies. It was very strange. And the feeling . . . inside . . . was something of a state of shock. Everyone I knew was safe and sound . . . but we all, or at least I, felt a little vulnerable that day. Finally, at about 5:30 the trains started running again and I took the subway to Grand Central and went home.
We were all very glad to see each other.
Work was pretty much called off that day, and for several days after. I walked to Grand Central and just missed the last train out of town. And later walked up to a friend's place on York Avenue on the upper east side. The stream of people walking out of town that day looked like something out of a refugee movie . . . thousands and thousands of people walking out of town because mass transit wasn't running. Every now and then the scream of a fighter jet patrolling the skies. It was very strange. And the feeling . . . inside . . . was something of a state of shock. Everyone I knew was safe and sound . . . but we all, or at least I, felt a little vulnerable that day. Finally, at about 5:30 the trains started running again and I took the subway to Grand Central and went home.
We were all very glad to see each other.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
On a roll
So still keeping the writing/blogging thing happening. This is three or four days in a row now and it's become kind of part of the plan for mornings, part of the secret is making sure to get the writing in before checking emails, because that can take you in an altogether different direction.
Yesterday is a good example . . . I did an hour of combined writing/blogging and then checked my Yahoo account . . . bingo! An answer from Steve Earle's manager to my question about sending plays: 'Absolutely, send them along and I'll get them to him!' And that sent me into a frenzy of locating or printing scripts, deciding whether to send just the miners plays or send one of them and my Emma Goldman play, so I decided on one of the miners plays and the Emma, so print them, punch holes, find report covers for them, write a cover letter then breakfast/shower/off to work. At work I decided to take Bette's advice and send the two miners plays and let Emma wait until/if he asks to see it. Home at lunch: walk the dog, find and print Where the Rain Never Falls', rewrite the cover letter, put them in an envelope and then, a quick sandwich and back to work. (why do we create such mania?) You might ask why the rush? Well, I know he has a couple of gigs in the city this week, so I figured if I could get them to the manager by Monday/Tuesday it would be a lot easier to get the scripts to SE.
It was a relief when it was all done, but it added a mild pinch of chaos to an otherwise mildly chaotic day at work (if not chaotic, then busy).
So the plays are off. Hope he likes them. Amazing how this has worked out. Just shows to go you . . . nice things can happen if you let them; open the door and sometimes something walks in.
Yesterday is a good example . . . I did an hour of combined writing/blogging and then checked my Yahoo account . . . bingo! An answer from Steve Earle's manager to my question about sending plays: 'Absolutely, send them along and I'll get them to him!' And that sent me into a frenzy of locating or printing scripts, deciding whether to send just the miners plays or send one of them and my Emma Goldman play, so I decided on one of the miners plays and the Emma, so print them, punch holes, find report covers for them, write a cover letter then breakfast/shower/off to work. At work I decided to take Bette's advice and send the two miners plays and let Emma wait until/if he asks to see it. Home at lunch: walk the dog, find and print Where the Rain Never Falls', rewrite the cover letter, put them in an envelope and then, a quick sandwich and back to work. (why do we create such mania?) You might ask why the rush? Well, I know he has a couple of gigs in the city this week, so I figured if I could get them to the manager by Monday/Tuesday it would be a lot easier to get the scripts to SE.
It was a relief when it was all done, but it added a mild pinch of chaos to an otherwise mildly chaotic day at work (if not chaotic, then busy).
So the plays are off. Hope he likes them. Amazing how this has worked out. Just shows to go you . . . nice things can happen if you let them; open the door and sometimes something walks in.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Poe-etry
Looks like Bette and I are gonna participate in a reading of Poe's poetry in Oct. Should be fun. We went and met the guy last night. He has an internet radio station here in Nyack and a little fifty seat theater. The Poe thing sounds like fun and the theater could be a good place to work on stuff potentially . . . we'll see how things develop.
Actually Bette and I did one of my earliest readings at that space. At the time it was called Main Street Arts. We read my play 'Last Request' there. That play is essentially a two hander in the first act and then a third character is introduced in Act 2. Anyway, we had a very nice turnout and had a great time there. A fun anecdote: the guy that played the third character, the ghost of my character's father as it happens, was an actor named Peter Demaio, he had actually had a career on Broadway for a while and understudied the guy in 'Same Time Next Year'. Anyway, I bumped into him as he was walking toward the theater that night and he had this gravelly voice and said 'I don't think I can read, listen to my voice'. I said, 'No you're perfect!' And he was! The cracked voice worked!
Back to Poe: I have to decide what poems I want to read. I'm leaning toward Annabelle Lee (pretty creepy), and another one, the name escapes me just now . . . but I'm leaning toward the dark stuff . . . because he did write some stuff that wasn't so dark . . . but since this is going to be around Halloween it's obvious that a trip to the dark side is in order!
Actually Bette and I did one of my earliest readings at that space. At the time it was called Main Street Arts. We read my play 'Last Request' there. That play is essentially a two hander in the first act and then a third character is introduced in Act 2. Anyway, we had a very nice turnout and had a great time there. A fun anecdote: the guy that played the third character, the ghost of my character's father as it happens, was an actor named Peter Demaio, he had actually had a career on Broadway for a while and understudied the guy in 'Same Time Next Year'. Anyway, I bumped into him as he was walking toward the theater that night and he had this gravelly voice and said 'I don't think I can read, listen to my voice'. I said, 'No you're perfect!' And he was! The cracked voice worked!
Back to Poe: I have to decide what poems I want to read. I'm leaning toward Annabelle Lee (pretty creepy), and another one, the name escapes me just now . . . but I'm leaning toward the dark stuff . . . because he did write some stuff that wasn't so dark . . . but since this is going to be around Halloween it's obvious that a trip to the dark side is in order!
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Catching up part 2
So there is more news to catch up on that I ran out of time for yesterday. The delayed presentation of Old Hickory is delayed again. This time because the renovations on the space haven't been completed and won't be in time . . . so delayed until further notice. That's a shame, I was looking forward to it. But I am committed to doing the piece in the city and reached out to Wallace to see what he thinks; I asked him about Theaterlab, where we rehearsed last year, and she suggested either that or perhaps Westbeth, where the playwrights unit meets.
I like that idea as well. I'd just like to have at least a few performances of the piece in the city . . .
And I'm working on new stuff. Reading a lot and getting inspired. Just finished All Quiet On the Western Front, which blew my mind! What a great story . . . also read Travels With Charley, a great Steinbeck work (but I have yet to read one of his novels that I didn't love). This stuff I find inspirational in important ways as a writer. It's people sitting down and trying bringing something into the consciousness of the world, in hopes it will make it a better place . . . nice work if you can get it.
So I have an idea for a new two hander, that sort of germinated from All Quiet, we'll see what happens with that, and I'm working on something that may or may not be a new solo piece . . . but I'm writing every day, and trying to reestablish the groove . . . it's easy to get out of the habit, and once out it's hard to get the discipline to keep after it, but you just have to turn away from distractions (in my case, I no longer check emails and then write, I write and then check emails . . . you'd be surprised what a differenc that makes!).
Even just a little bit every day sets the tone . . .
Looks like it's gonna be dueling writing groups again this fall, with both starting on the same day . . . as much as I like the one the meets in Nyack, Woodstock Fringe has been a game changer for me . . . can't walk away from that . . .
I like that idea as well. I'd just like to have at least a few performances of the piece in the city . . .
And I'm working on new stuff. Reading a lot and getting inspired. Just finished All Quiet On the Western Front, which blew my mind! What a great story . . . also read Travels With Charley, a great Steinbeck work (but I have yet to read one of his novels that I didn't love). This stuff I find inspirational in important ways as a writer. It's people sitting down and trying bringing something into the consciousness of the world, in hopes it will make it a better place . . . nice work if you can get it.
So I have an idea for a new two hander, that sort of germinated from All Quiet, we'll see what happens with that, and I'm working on something that may or may not be a new solo piece . . . but I'm writing every day, and trying to reestablish the groove . . . it's easy to get out of the habit, and once out it's hard to get the discipline to keep after it, but you just have to turn away from distractions (in my case, I no longer check emails and then write, I write and then check emails . . . you'd be surprised what a differenc that makes!).
Even just a little bit every day sets the tone . . .
Looks like it's gonna be dueling writing groups again this fall, with both starting on the same day . . . as much as I like the one the meets in Nyack, Woodstock Fringe has been a game changer for me . . . can't walk away from that . . .
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Long time gone
Ok so there is some catching up to do: I read my new solo piece, Like a Sack of Potatoes, at the Fringe this year. Nice turn out and everyone loved it. Felt very good. I treated it as a performance with script in hand so I took a mini set, chair, crate for a table, a few tomatoes for props. People loved it. Read it again a few nights later for some friends in their living room in Nyack . . . they raved as well. The one thing that may have been nice to add in Woodstock would have been a talk back at the end. Talking to some people after they really enjoyed hearing the root of some of the stuff in the play . . . but I still enjoyed the hell out of it. And . . . there was a sizable chunk of the audience that was there to see me! Based on seeing Old Hickory last year! One couple even went so far as to say they are 'fans'! I told them they better watch saying that kind of stuff in public . . . but self-deprication aside . . . it was an amazing feeling.
Bette and I went back up to Woodstock last weekend to see Steve Earle at the Bearsville Theater. I had never been to the venue before but it is now my favorite place to see shows. Nice vibe. Beautiful space. And 250 seats! Very intimate. Now, this may sound strange, especially in retrospect, and especially since I never mentioned this to a soul, but I always sort of hoped for/felt like I would get the opportunity to talk to SE some time and tell him how much his album (ok ok CD) The Mountain meant to me as I was writing my coal miner plays. I played it a lot and felt it was an important work and still do. I even . . . get this . . . thought of taking one of my plays with me . . .just in case . . . but I didn't. I was there to enjoy the show . . . and besides . . . shit like that doesn't happen. Does it? So. After the show (the amazing show)my wife and I make a bee line downstairs to the facilities before the drive home, and saw SE and his wife go into a door marked private (they were making tracks though, after a three hour show I'm sure the dressing room sounds pretty inviting) So I do my business and figure to wait for Bette, and I figured as good a place as any to wait is at the foot of the winding staircase that leads to the lobby . . . and oh . . . I was right outside the door marked 'private'. I was not stalking however. Just waiting for Bette. Out of the way. In hindsight it may seem like stalking but the fates are funny sometimes. How funny are they? Well, as I'm waiting there the door marked private opens and who should step through it but Steve Earle. He was looking for someone I think, but I didn't miss a beat: I went up to him and shook his hand, introduced myself and said that I'm a playwright and that his album was an inspiration while I was writing my plays. He could have turned and walked off, said 'Isn't that nice or some such' but he didn't he asked me the names of the plays (I almost blanked on one of them) and if they were produced . . . chatted for only a couple of seconds and then I basically excused myself with a 'I just wanted to tell you that' and the last thing he said was 'You're the best man'. I don't know what must have gone through Bette's mind when she came out of the facilities and saw me talking to himself, but I'll tell you what, I was pumped. It was one of those moments that mean so much and to not blow it was a huge relief . . . I can't imagine how it would feel if I had said what I said but it came out sounding like kissing-ass or gobbledygook or something. It was a very nice moment. I asked for nothing and expected nothing but the opportunity to say my piece.
Then, in the car Bette mentioned sending him a script . . . and I allowed as how that had crossed my mind . . . his agent is mentioned in his new album so I called him yesterday, and the guy answering the phone, after I explained that I met Steve and he seemed interested (well ok maybe that is embellishing a tad . . . as my friend Boyd Carr used to say via his cartoon character O. Hector Lee: Sometimes I call a spade a shovel). Anyhow, I asked if I could send an email and get the message to Steve that way, so he gave me the email address for the agent and I sent one; figuring maybe it would be something to read on the tour bus. Of course, I expect nothing to come of it, and if anything did it would just be introducing my work to an artist I respect. But that's enough in its way.
Bette and I went back up to Woodstock last weekend to see Steve Earle at the Bearsville Theater. I had never been to the venue before but it is now my favorite place to see shows. Nice vibe. Beautiful space. And 250 seats! Very intimate. Now, this may sound strange, especially in retrospect, and especially since I never mentioned this to a soul, but I always sort of hoped for/felt like I would get the opportunity to talk to SE some time and tell him how much his album (ok ok CD) The Mountain meant to me as I was writing my coal miner plays. I played it a lot and felt it was an important work and still do. I even . . . get this . . . thought of taking one of my plays with me . . .just in case . . . but I didn't. I was there to enjoy the show . . . and besides . . . shit like that doesn't happen. Does it? So. After the show (the amazing show)my wife and I make a bee line downstairs to the facilities before the drive home, and saw SE and his wife go into a door marked private (they were making tracks though, after a three hour show I'm sure the dressing room sounds pretty inviting) So I do my business and figure to wait for Bette, and I figured as good a place as any to wait is at the foot of the winding staircase that leads to the lobby . . . and oh . . . I was right outside the door marked 'private'. I was not stalking however. Just waiting for Bette. Out of the way. In hindsight it may seem like stalking but the fates are funny sometimes. How funny are they? Well, as I'm waiting there the door marked private opens and who should step through it but Steve Earle. He was looking for someone I think, but I didn't miss a beat: I went up to him and shook his hand, introduced myself and said that I'm a playwright and that his album was an inspiration while I was writing my plays. He could have turned and walked off, said 'Isn't that nice or some such' but he didn't he asked me the names of the plays (I almost blanked on one of them) and if they were produced . . . chatted for only a couple of seconds and then I basically excused myself with a 'I just wanted to tell you that' and the last thing he said was 'You're the best man'. I don't know what must have gone through Bette's mind when she came out of the facilities and saw me talking to himself, but I'll tell you what, I was pumped. It was one of those moments that mean so much and to not blow it was a huge relief . . . I can't imagine how it would feel if I had said what I said but it came out sounding like kissing-ass or gobbledygook or something. It was a very nice moment. I asked for nothing and expected nothing but the opportunity to say my piece.
Then, in the car Bette mentioned sending him a script . . . and I allowed as how that had crossed my mind . . . his agent is mentioned in his new album so I called him yesterday, and the guy answering the phone, after I explained that I met Steve and he seemed interested (well ok maybe that is embellishing a tad . . . as my friend Boyd Carr used to say via his cartoon character O. Hector Lee: Sometimes I call a spade a shovel). Anyhow, I asked if I could send an email and get the message to Steve that way, so he gave me the email address for the agent and I sent one; figuring maybe it would be something to read on the tour bus. Of course, I expect nothing to come of it, and if anything did it would just be introducing my work to an artist I respect. But that's enough in its way.
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