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Rehearsals for my play at Gremlin Theatre begin this evening. For a playwright, rehearsals are the beginning of a particular kind of hell. For an actor, rehearsals are sometimes the best experience of the play. Anything is possible in a rehearsal room. You don’t know the character yet. You start crawling in to the skin of another person and playing around – like Tom Hanks in Big, only better. For a playwright, there is very little to do now except worry about what needs to be fixed. When playwrights go to rehearsals, we wind up hiding in the corner somewhere, biting our nails or trying to keep our legs from jittering loudly while we watch the actors play around, discover, explore, stumble, experiment, etc. All the while, we’re wondering whether the reason that they can’t seem to say a particular line effectively is because, “I am the worst writer on the face ofthe planet! What was I thinking?!?!” Personally, neurotically, I wear hats to rehearsals so that I have something to hide under and, also, perhaps, as a disguise. If the actors can’t recognize me, then, I figure, they can’t blame me.

Other kinds of writers probably never experience this unique type of torture. Like all writers, the playwright has to confront critics who believe the writing isn’t up to par. Oddly, we sometimes confront those people live and in person as they are experiencing the work itself. In a room full of 100 people or more the odds are high that at least one person is going to despise whatever is happening. Really despise. Like, want to get revenge despise. Playwrights, theater people in general, invite all those people into the same room, join them in that room, then shut ourselves in together. (As I write these words, I suddenly realize what sadomasochists we must be. That’s a revelation that’s gonna smart.) The overarching torture of being a playwright is that, no matter how good or bad we are, we’re dependent on so many other people to put the words – and the world of the play those words create – out to the audience successfully. I confess this to you now, but trust me, you’ll never hear me say it again. It’s incredibly bad form, when someone criticizes your play, to point petulantly at the lighting designer and say, “It wasn’t my fault! It was her! Of course you can’t enjoy the lines when you can’t SEE the people saying them! You don’t understand! It wasn’t my fault! I swear!”

Of course, the reason I am a playwright is because I actually love actors and theater and the unique and dangerous energy in a roomfull of diverse people who have come together, live, in order to see a show and create a show. The best experiences I have ever had with any kind of art have always been in theaters where I felt as though I could quite precisely feel exactly what the character on stage was feeling. Watching an actor in Dario Fo’s We Won’t Pay! We Won’t Pay! reach slowly toward his chest, I could feel – even though I was 50 feet up in the most ridiculously steep theater seating in the world – I could literally feel the heartache that the character felt. In other situations, I’ve felt clarity or sensuality or anxiety or confusion. Fear, delight, desire, and tragedy. But more clear and transcendent in a way that I can’t comprehend in everyday life. I’ve felt – not often, but enough– that somehow the confusing and overwhelming chaotic truth of life has been distilled like crack cocaine into the very air around me. I’m not kidding. Like, the world in a bottle in my hand, in my lungs, in my blood and my brain. Universes of emotion and understanding that I could never experience in my day-to-day, moment-to-moment, who-walked-the-goddamned-dog-this-morning life. If I hadn’t felt that, then I’m confident I would have given up theater years ago – and probably been happier or, at least, more financially prosperous.

What am I saying? I guess . . . playwrights are like sadomasochistic, nail-biting crack addicts with shaky legs. O, and some of us like to wear silly hats.

Wait! Go see my play! Have I mentioned this yet? Seriously. Don’t take any of the above rambling as an indication that the play isn’t worth seeing. Getting you to see the play is the reason I’m writing this blog. Buy tickets. The reservation number is 651-228-7008. It’s called Everywhere Signs Fall, starring Tracey Maloney (incredible actress!), John Middleton (amazing actor!), and Paul Cram (I don’t really know his work yet, but he gave a heartbreaking audition, and he seems like a serious guy!). It runs from April 18 to May 11 at the Loading Dock Theater in St. Paul. It’s produced by Gremlin Theatre. And it’s directed by Leah Cooper, who I’d praise to high heaven for all her various talents, but she also happens to be my wife, so, you know, if I tell you too much about her charms, you might try to steal her from me. Yes, while you may think positively of her already because you may know that she used to run your favorite Minnesota Fringe Festival, I really need to keep her true brilliance secret, so that I can keep the competition manageable.

I think the content of the play is pretty phenomenal too. I really do. All playwrights do. We wouldn’t write the plays that we write unless we thought that they were going to blow your mind into the next time zone. At least, I hope we do. That’s why I write plays. I assume that’s why other people do too, because I know for a fact that they don’t do it for the money. I personally cherish the experience of having my mind blown, and I want to share it. I believe we all have a mind-blowing pleasure node in our brain. It may be buried deeply underneath the stare-at-the-internet-for-no-good-reason pleasure node or the television-is-shiney-too pleasure node, but it exists. I’m sure of it.

I’ll talk about the specifics of the play more in upcoming blog posts. I’ll introduce myself in some more concrete detail. And I’ll give more details of the odd stuff that happens in a rehearsal room. But seriously, call now – 651-228-7008. Make reservations.

Because while I love a good rant, I really wouldn’t be writing this blog if I didn’t hope that you, Rake reader, can be convinced to spend an evening with this play. I’d rather not have the personal attention really. I prefer to translate what I’m feeling and thinking in to actual, creative narratives that aren’t about me, serve you a good evening of entertainment, and, just maybe, blow your mind. Unless you have the Guthrie’s budget, howe
ver, its pretty hard to market theater. So I’m writing this blog, getting the word out. Because it isn’t really theater unless there are people in the audience for it. Not just a few people but a bunch of people. I don’t know what the precise number is, but somewhere over 50% capacity, the experience of the play changes completely for everyone involved, audience and performers. Have I mentioned the theater’s phone number? Why haven’t you made a reservation yet?
 
I really don’t blame you for missing all the other great, intimate productions that get produced on a monthly basis in the Twin Cities. How were you supposed to know which ones were good? And I bet you feel that there are few experiences worse than bad theater. You’re trapped. You can’t step over people to escape. You’re forced to laugh occasionally at some lame joke because you feel so bad for the actors who are standing 10 feet from you, live, and trying so hard. You start to wonder whether your watch has stopped – and the time-space continuum has been forever mangled right there during that insufferable show. Meanwhile, on stage, you know the playwright is lecturing at you about some news item that you were hoping to ignore until your monthly utility bills got paid and your goddamned dog got walked. You’d actually like to stick forks in your eyes in order to dull the pain of the play you’re watching and the experience you’re having. Bad television is never this bad.

But with great risk comes great reward. At least that’s what my fortune cookie said last week. And this play is great. At the very least I can promise you that I don’t lecture in my plays. I rarely write directly about current events. I think people are more important than issues. Or, at least, issues are subordinate to people. And the multitude of people in this world and how we all try to live in this world is enough fodder, the only real fodder, for the best art. I don’t need or want to whack you over the head with a metaphorical pedagogical baseball bat. If I did, I’d be a well-paid and infinitely useless political pundit.

Mostly, I just love the real spinning of real good yarns. Really, good, engaging, complex, active stories. – This is a great play. I’m not kidding. If you go, you will stroke the pleasure node in your brain that likes complex intellectual and emotional engagement. I’m telling you, so now you know. No excuses. Call for reservations right now 651-228-7008. It’s produced by Gremlin Theatre at the Loading Dock Theatre in St. Paul. It’ll be worth it.

Future blog posts will be more brief. Today’s verbose rambling is brought to you by my "first day of rehearsal" jitters.

BOOKS & AUTHORS
The Natural Wonders of Our State

Learn about the natural wonders of Minnesota and explore the human and environmental characteristics that define our home. Join University of Minnesota geography professors John Fraser Hart and Susy Svatek Ziegler this afternoon for a discussion of their new book, Landscapes of Minnesota: A Geography. Illustrated with hundreds of maps and color photographs, the book traces the development of the state’s natural environment through the lives and livelihoods of its people. Learn about "the growth and decline of Minnesota’s small towns, the expanding urban arc of the Twin Cities, and the surprising growth of a baby boomer retirement belt."

2 p.m., U of MN Bookstore, Coffman Memorial Union, 300 Washington Ave. S.E., Minneapolis; 612-626-0559; free.

WINE & DINE
The Legendary Wines of Piedmonte, Italy

Well-known as one of Italy’s great wine-growing regions, Piedmonte is home for two of the best reds in the world: Barolo and Barbaresco. But it also produces fantastic Barbera, Dolcetto, and Moscato. Join the Wine After Work crowd for an evening of legendary wines, and learn about the culture and food of Piedmonte, Italy.

5:30 – 7 p.m., W.A. Frost and Company, 374 Selby Ave., Saint Paul; 651-224-5715; $40.

FILM
Blackjack: 21

Anybody that gambles dreams of finding a way to beat the house. Sure, we’ve all heard of counting cards. But who among us has dared (or been able) to pull it off? Throughout the 1990s a group of math students from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, under the tutelage of a professor, took Vegas casinos for millions through the art of counting cards. Now director Robert Luketic has taken their story to the screen in 21, starring Jim Sturgess, Kate Bosworth, Kevin Spacey, and Laurence Fishborne. See an advanced screening tonight.

7:30 p.m., Oak Street Cinema, 309 Oak St. S.E., Minneapolis; 612-331-3134.

THEATER & PERFORMANCE
The Drowsy Chaperone

This is the last week for The Drowsy Chaperone, and I’m thinking a Tuesday trip to the Chapel sounds like a novel idea. "A totally original new musical within a comedy, The Drowsy Chaperone has ‘more laughs per minute than any new show on Broadway’ (WWCR-TV), the most Tony Awards® of any musical on Broadway, and the New York Drama Critics’ Circle and Drama Desk awards for Best Musical" How can you go wrong? Of course, last Satuday’s show included a real life wedding!

8 p.m., Ordway Center for the Performing Arts, 345 Washington St., Saint Paul; 651-224-4222; $25-$60.

MUSIC
Keston and Westdal

Today also marks the release of electronic duo Keston and Westdal’s latest album, One Day to Save All Life (ODTSAL). The album is clearly quite a bit different from their previous two, but the precision and the funky guiding beats let you know who you’re dealing with. "Westdal’s bass is beautifully morphed and Keston’s keys and digi work have stepped over the horizon with a definable expertise," writes Chris Lindsey, of Slackline Radio.