Cylon In The Library!

The gentleman I saw the other day was a late middle aged, shambolic wreck of a fellow. Tall, lean, and dressed in a filthy blue sweat shirt and jeans. His graying, dandruffy hair straggled down the back of his head and when he smiled his snaggle tooth glinted in the buzzing library fluorescent lighting. He hobbled about on a greasy crutch, which I noticed he was always using when in the library, like he was an elderly Tiny Tim.

“I used to be an actor,” the gentleman croaked. “You know that? Back in the day, I was a star.”

“You don’t say,” I smiled, politely, as, really one must.

“Yahh. I’ll show you. This was me!” He reached into his linty pocket and pulled out a dog-eared scrap of paper, folded many times over. With shaky fingers, he unfolded the paper, revealing the photograph of…. A Cylon from the 1970s.

“That’s me!” the gentleman cackled, pointing at the Toaster (though pedantic fans will point out that The Cylons weren’t called “toasters” until the new 2003 series). I looked fondly at the Cylon. Yes, the photo certainly showed the glittering, gold metallic carapace of one of the monsters from outer space. The great enemy of mankind!

What was less clear was whether the gentleman before me was the chap INSIDE the Cylon. For, as you must know, Cylons are totally metal robots, sealed from the tops of their heads to the bottom of their booties. And you could no more tell that this crazy old loon was inside the Cylon than you could say he wasn’t. He MIGHT have been the Cylon, of course.

After all, in a world where carpenters rise from the grave anything is possible. But, for all I know, anyone could be inside that metal costume. Nevertheless, I smiled and gushed, which appeared to be what the chap wanted. Really, I suppose it is possible the man could have been a Cylon, back in the day. Why not? Or he could have imagined it. In many ways, I think that it would be even sadder if the chap HAD been a 1970s Cylon and was now reduced to near-homelessness, hobbling around the library all day on a crutch. How the mighty have fallen! How we all fall! If he was truly a Cylon, he might have been the most important fellow I have ever met, though.

An Unkind Christmas Poem: Reprinted from My Former Blog, 12/23/2003.

"T'was the night before Christmas,

and all through The Novel,

Not a human was stirring,

Though many a-devil."


"Fat boy was sitting from me not too far,

Ogling boys and eating a Mallomar.

And the one legged fellow was there in a slump,

Waxing and polishing the tip of his stump."


"At a table nearby, a filthy man sung a tune --

only term for it, it was the call of the loon.

Outside, a hag screeched and more she did howl,

While inside a man picked the lice from his jowl."


"The clerk rolled his eyes, and sneered with a grin,

while outside all the groats split a bottle of gin.

When out in the parking lot, there arose such a clatter,

I got up from the counter, to see what was the matter!"


"When what to my wandering eyes should appear,

But a staggering drunk, filth-covered, ear to ear.

He wore a red suit, fur-covered, I think.

His Santa Claus hat could not hide his godawful stink."


"He weaved and he staggered, his shirt covered with sick.

Clear, he was a bum, dressed up as St. Nick.

He fell on his knees, whipped out hose for a piss.

And babbled and roared, on a meth-amphetamine kick."


"His eyes -- how unfocused! His breath -- oh, how fowl!

His face-veins all-busted, his mouth shrieked in a howl!

He had a broad face and a little round belly,

That shook when he cackled, like a bowl full of jelly."


"MOTHER FUCKER! TITTY SUCKER!

TWO BALLED BITCH FUCK YOU ALL!

COMMIES AND JEW BASTARDS AND SLUMLORDS SO SMALL!

His voice roared and it echoed, through the whole place,

As Santa fell forward, landing right on his face."


"The Novel clerk called 911 as the crowd cheered,

While for the bum Santa, it was just as he feared.

As a cop car pulled up, oh so black and white,

And a brute cop dragged him off, holding him tight."


"So, round the corner, the cop car a-flew,

With the bum Santa in back, trapped as its crew.

From the back seat of the car, his hands all in chains,

The bum Santa called out, curses falling like rains."


"GOD DAMN YOU ALL, YOU ARE ALL PILES OF SHIT.

HAPPY CHRISTMAS? LIKE HELL! GO ROT IN A PIT!"

Library Story: The Magic Sunglasses.

Today a patron came up to my desk in the library’s Computer Commons. He was a young Asian man, fairly stocky, and quite respectable-looking, except for the huge, opaque sunglasses that were covering his face. He had just used the library’s reservation system to make a reservation to use a computer, but he was displeased by where he’d been assigned.

“I was wondering,” the gentleman smiled, “whether I actually have to take that particular computer. Even though I have a reservation for computer 12, can I sit down at some other computer and use it instead?”

I assured him that he could, of course, do just as he pleased, and he was quite delighted.

“That’s terrific!” he noted. “You see, since I started wearing these polarized sunglasses, it becomes incredibly easy to see the future – and I can tell that this computer…” he pointed in the direction of computer 12, “has only 4 months left to it. So I would rather have a different computer!”

I showed him to another computer, though I admit I had to hold myself back from asking what he saw in my future. I mean, don’t you wish YOU had those polarized, future-seeing sunglasses?

BLACK LEATHER at the Unknown Theatre.

It blazes like a shining beacon of snowy whiteness in the dark, guiding wise men to its vicinity and keeping them enthralled by its glowing convex orbs for the entire holiday season! No, silly, I am not talking about the Christmas Star of Bethlehem – I’m talking about playwright Michael Sargent’s pasty naked bottom, which is on near omnipresent display in his latest opus of excess and debauch. The bottom in question may not be the Star of the Nativity, but it is sure the salient feature in Sargent’s plays, which are, frankly, as known for their frequent sightings of naked flesh as Pinter plays are known for pauses. And, while “Black Leather” is not overly rigorously plotted -- and occasionally seems to bear the imprimatur of having been written with haste -- the piece is as strikingly ferocious and morally ambivalent as to be almost archetypal “Sargent.” I suppose the play could best be called a sort of Manhattan Art World Roman A Clef, centering on the notorious life of hardcore photographer Robert “Krapplethorpe,” who’s known for taking lurid photos of his naked tricks performing sado masochistic sex with him. The play opens with Krapplethorpe (Sargent) hilariously tearing apart a business meeting involving his sugar daddy (Jan Munroe) and the hag art gallery director (Kathy Bell Denton) who wants to exhibit Krapplethorpe’s photos – but wishes he’d give her more of the shots of avocados and fewer of the ones of whips going into anuses. Yet, the play’s focus crystallizes during scene two, when Krapplethorpe ditches his sugar daddy to bring home a hot trick (Kevin Daniels) from the Mineshaft, who then proceeds to rigorously roger Krapplethorpe’s rump. Then, as both men snort cocaine and booze it up in the post-coital glow, Krapplethorpe orders the trick to head to a rival’s house and chop off his head. The rest of the play centers on Krapplethorpe’s subsequent terror (upon regaining his senses) that the trick has actually done such a reprehensible thing. Director Chris Covics’ staging intentionally skirts any attempts to depict the sleazy characters sentimentally – they exist in an atmosphere of moral vacuity, orbiting around nothing at all – but there’s also something unusually believable about them. Sargent’s Krapplethorpe is an appetite-driven, spoiled child, whose behavior reflects an entitled, inwardly vacant person that has managed to get away with everything his entire life. The show’s nudity is, of course, blatant and exploitative – but it’s also oddly germane to a story that suggests the human body is a ridiculous object and that recreational sex is itself a bestial, vaguely porcine function. You’ll want to see this show on a night when the actors have all had showers before going on, though.

CARNIVAL KNOWLEDGE at The Lex Theatre.

After watching playwright Naomi Grossman’s solo show about her travails in the Purgatorial limbo of dating and relationships, you will absolutely and categorically want to swear off men. And why not? There never was such a deplorable collection of miserable man-boys with commitment issues, immaturity, and hygiene lapses as the he-baboons that Miss Grossman courts and is courted by. Grossman’s tale is told as a monologue, placed within the context of a circus setting. The show opens with the heroine playing a whimsical game of “whack a mole,” albeit with the rodents being replaced by the jaw-unlatching collection of ginormous pink (and brown) dildoes. From there, Grossman discusses the veritable rogues gallery of dudes she has gone out with, including a lumpen Trader Joe stockboy, a hypercritical neurotic, a middle aged professional masseur with a magnormous shvance, and many more – all of whom probably had reason to regret their dalliances if they accepted their invitation to Opening Night of Grossman’s show. Director Richard Embardo’d Circus Staging, complete with crazy “freakshow” posters, a fortune teller table, and more, jazzes up Grossman’s narrative marvelously, adding color and a twisty sardonic context to the monologue. Yet, Grossman’s reliance on endless malebashing, while never actually offering any soul searching to analyze precisely why these are the men she’s attracted to, inevitably causes the piece to reduce to being little more than a one note stand up act. Still, Grossman herself is a vibrant, charismatic, and sexy protagonist, whose witty and ironic turn comes across as simultaneously sexy and world weary – a vivid embodiment of a survivor of the dating wars.

A Library Story from 2006.

Last week, a man threw a fit in the library’s computer commons and had to be escorted out by two security guards, ranting and raving all the while. You see, someone had stolen his library card while he was away from his computer station – and then, when he finally sat down to do his work, the reservation computer snatched the monitor away from him and assigned it to someone else. All very normal and unexceptional, but he blew a gasket.

He howled and snarled, insulted me personally, yelled and bawled, until I hit my panic button and summoned security, who tried to calm him down. The sight of Last week, a man threw a fit in the library’s computer commons and had to be escorted out by two security guards, ranting and raving all the while. You see, someone had stolen his library card while he was away from his computer station – and then, when he finally sat down to do his work, the reservation computer snatched the monitor away from him and assigned it to someone else. All very normal and unexceptional, but he blew a gasket.

He howled and snarled, insulted me personally, yelled and bawledthe uniformed security officers, whisking away this gentleman, who was, in his late 50s, I’d say, scarecrow tall and lean with a frazz of white hair on his crown, was something to remember.

It was a decidedly ignominious display, and I swear that if something like that ever happened to me, I would be far too ashamed to ever come back to Santa Monica, let alone to the library to use the computers again. Yet, there he was today, regular as clockwork, acting as though nothing had happened, which is, I suppose the only way to behave if you really HAVE to come back and use a computer.

At one point, he came up to me at my big wooden desk and gruffly apologized for his behavior. But, you see, he was justified: “My library card!” he grunted. “And then the computer thing. Dang, I was just angry!”

I told him that he comes to the computer commons every single day and that he should be aware of how things work there by now. His acknowledged this, but then noted, “But I was working on something so important! You see, I have this legal case…”

And then he fished out this gigantic document from his moth-eaten shoulder bag.
“You see, it’s about this conspiracy at the patent office. And I complained to the FBI and the CIA and there’s this COVER up. And so, I wrote this letter to President Bush…” He proffered a curled up scrap of maniac-paper, covered with crayon and coffee cup circles – “Warning him that he needs to be aware that the people around him are involved with a COVER up. And then the computers went down. Just like that! And so, of course, I was angry. Anyone would be!”

And he went on and on for a bit like that, until my eyes started to glaze and I gently smiled, noting, “Well, sir, there’s no line today. So you can go to any computer that’s available! Enjoy!”

It’s funny how I hear the most loopy stuff, almost six or seven times a day.

COMING HOME at the Fountain.

I think the first play I saw by Athol Fugard, the South African senior dean of playwriting, was “The Road to Mecca,” which I attended in a famous production, starring the playwright, at the Lyttleton when I was sixteen or something like that. At the time, the show’s philosophical and political elements were wasted on a bratty wretch such as myself. To a sixteen year old brat obsessed with Tom Baker-era Doctor Who and Star Trek, there was nothing less compelling than a stage filled with a dreary folks yakking it up bout the atrocities of Apartheid. I remember thinking, “Boy is this play BORING!” In fact, I believe that I thought the play was so boring, I stayed away from any Athol Fugard play for long after Apartheid fell in South Africa.
It is quite possible that, at 45, I am finally now old enough to appreciate Fugard, as this weekend, I found the Fountain Theater’s production of “Coming Home” to be an extraordinary moving work. The fall of Apartheid did for Fugard what the fall of the Soviet Communism did for John Le Carre: It essentially undercut much of what motivated the writers’ work. However, unlike Le Carre, Fugard has continued to write effectively about the cultural evolution of his home land. While the piece misses the anti-Apartheid furor of his earlier works, this play is a powerful meditation on mid-life disappointment, and on the notion that sometimes things don’t get better in the world: Sometimes things get worse.
Veronica (Deidre Henry) has returned to the small town shanty in which she was brought up by her loving grandfather Oupa (Adolphus Ward). As a girl, Veronica found her home incredibly stifling, and her dreams of becoming a chanteuse drove her to leave home for Johannesberg. However, like so many young girls adrift in the Big City, Veronica soon found herself pregnant and jobless, and was forced to turn to a life of prostitution to make ends meet. Penniless and hopeless, she contracted AIDS and returned, with her tail between her legs, to the shanty she swore she would never see again. She finds that her beloved grandfather has died – and that her only friend is slow witted childhood playmate Witboi (Thomas Silcott, entirely endearing), who has been taking care of the farm land and house in her grandfather’s name. Veronica’s young son (Timothy Taylor) is disgusted by the squalid home – and takes an immediate dislike to Witboi, whom he thinks is stupid. But Veronica has great incentive to make things work: She’s too poor to be allowed to receive any of the medications that could save her life and will die soon. Act Two takes place several years later, as the son, now 10, has been forced to grow up in a hurry as his mother’s health declines.
Director Stephen Sach helms a particularly powerful character-driven production whose intimacy is frequently incredibly haunting. Over the course of the story, we start to feel as though we are invested in these characters’ lives. And, when we see Henry’s Veronica in the first part of Act Two, bitter and resigned, and ferocious with a desperation to ensure the safety of her child after she’s gone, there’s something terrifically sad about the transition. Fugard utilizes visions and flashbacks to craft a haunting mood. A scene in which Henry launches into a rock song in which she appears to be the star she dreams of being is lit with glittering disco lights, which vanishes, along with her grandfather’s ghost, to show the grim world she actually lives in. And the final coda, which shows the woman dying while her writer son mystically bonds with his long dead grandfather, is beautifully executed, albeit hard to justify logically speaking. Moody, beautiful, and strangely despairing, the play’s clearly a text that could only be written by a mature writer who understands disappointment and loss: It’s the perfect antidote to LEGALLY BLONDE: THE MUSICAL, which, I have to tell you, I wouldn’t see with your eyes.