Down, down, down…

After apparently reaching the summit of Mt. Offensive in my last post (aided by my trusty Sherpa Satire), and also thinking that if I’m “shocking” in every single post then I’ll cease to be shocking anymore – this post will be a tad more subdued.  That’s right – subdued.  Let’s let that sink in for a moment.  (But I will go off on a tangent first in which I describe how much I enjoy using the same word twice in a row.  Such as “that that”, or like the above “let’s let”.  And yes I know it’s horrible grammar (probably), but I get a weird satisfaction from it, like I’m sure some sesquipedalians out there do from employing their particular vice.  Sometimes I feel like peregrinating up to their accommodations and defenestrating them.)

But back to being subdued.

Aww, doesn't it just make you want to take a de-worming tablet?

Serenity and calm.  Serenity and calm.  Interesting development with my play, namely that the Australian body set up to help support playwrights (at least I think that was the purpose, although given I know virtually nothing, that may be a very naive assumption to make), has currently suspended submissions for scripts.  Fan-*censored*-tastic.  Here’s a lovely quote for everyone:

NOTE: PostScript is currently not accepting new submissions.  We are currently processing a backlog of submissions and will not be accepting new submissions until further notice.  Please check this website for updates.  Submissions received to date will be processesd as normal.

Wonderful.  Here’s a link for people who are interested.  And yet this shouldn’t be particularly bad news – PostScript is just one program, there are surely more out there?  This would be true, except that half of the theatres that used to take submissions have redirected them to PostScript.  Three cheers for centralised submissions!

But I haven’t even finished writing my play yet, so I’m not allowed to whinge.  Let me get my needle and thread and sew my lips shut.  Has anyone got a straw I could borrow?  It needs to be a small one.

When the Rain Stops Falling, Carpentry Scene

I’m going to see When the Rain Stops Falling at the Opera House on Tuesday night, so that’s something to look forward to.  It’s not all doom and gloom here and Chez Epistemysics!  Nosiree, you’ll find each serving of doom and gloom comes with a generous dollop of a combination of euphoria, spontaneous orgasm, and freshly-baked-cookie-smell.  Speaking of euphoria – one wonders if there is an opposite to manic depression, such as manic optimism?

Anyways, if I’m lucky the rain will stop falling for a few moments so that I don’t have to make the ten metre dash to the Opera House through pouring rain – if anyone knows a way to get to the Playhouse without having to venture out from under cover, I’d be delighted to know.  Unlike when I saw Gatz.  That was an interesting exercise in hypothermia and gale-force winds.  I say “interesting”.  I mean “torturous”.  Imagine being ripped from under the warm covers of your bed in the morning, stripped of all your pyjamas, dumped unceremoniously (but let’s be honest, I don’t think there’s much of a chance of anyone ever being “dumped” ceremoniously) into an ice bath filled with honey instead of water, pulled out after 30 seconds, rolled around on the floor in gravel (such that it sticks to your body), then whacked by complete strangers with large paddles that push the gravel so that it makes indents in your skin, then taken outside, blasted with a hose, and then, to top it off, blasted with hot air that hurts because your body is so cold and can’t handle the heat.  Well, that’s not what it felt like that night at Gatz, but I just thought I’d get you to imagine the above scenario anyways.  Sweet dreams!  (Make sure you lock your bedroom door tonight…)

Oh, and contrary to what you may believe about the last post, I’m not racist.  In fact I’m so not racist that I plan on marrying an Asian girl and adopting children of various ethnicities (Indian, Ethiopian, Danish (the Danish are the silent victims of racism), and a Brazilian).  So there, take that Madonna!

Stoppard the Press!

I just finished reading Conversations with Stoppard by Mel Gussow.  That would be Tom Stoppard he’s referring to:

Tom Stoppard. Keep smoking, old man - one less fish in the playwright sea when you die of cancer!

I saw the Sydney Theatre Company’s production of Travesties recently (one of Stoppard’s plays) – thoroughly enjoyable, except for a person in the back row who laughed after virtually every single line, including the “this is a serious moment” lines.  Slightly annoying.  Although if you define the quality of the play by a laughter-to-money ratio, that back-row pest would come out on top.  The only major problem I had with the play was that it was very good – not leaving much room for a budding playwright to stick their theatrical foot through the stage door.  He is 71 though, so, assuming no accidents, I have quite a few more years than he does.  Oh, and the Romanian Tristan Tzara character (one of the founders of the Dada movement – that will be a post in itself later on), who was speaking with a French-cum-Romanian-cum-confused-memory accent (it will make sense if you know the play) let slip an Australian accent every now and then.  (“Oh, the horror!” you exclaim.  I know, I know.)  Not that I found it particularly undesirable, but I do like to nitpick.  And having never had head lice, I have to search for other ways…

(Criticising the actors is the easiest way to get into theatre, right?  I can’t help but feel there’s a fatal flaw somewhere.)

I recently read an article that David Williamson, a famous and renowned Australian playwright, had retired, leaving a huge hole in Australian theatre that would be hard to fill.  “Great!” I thought, “this is just the opportunity I need.  Finally there is some breathing room at the top!”  Cut to two months later and I hear on the radio that one of the presenters is going to see the “new Williamson play, Let the Sunshine.”  Needless to say, it seems some people don’t know when they’re not wanted, yes?  And needless to say, I will be going to see it, hoping that some of the genius will rub off on me (in a completely non-swine-flu-passing way).

What do I need?  I need to finish writing my play.  What else?  I need hope.  I decided to provide myself with some:

Willy Shakespeare - dead

Sammy Beckett - six feet under

Anton Chekhov - far, far away (but not in another galaxy)

Ha!  Let’s see you write from the grave!  What’s that?  Your bodies have been digested by worms?  What.  A.  *censored*.  Shame.

A tea party for dead writers in Hades – now there’s an idea for a play.

On a different note, I’ve committed myself to blogging for a few posts about nothing.  These posts are in the pipeline and will be coming to a computer screen near you soon!  (It takes awhile to get enough material to blog about nothing, you see.)