Meet Me At The Luau

This family I married into? I'll tell you one thing. They know how to throw a party.

Last month we made the pilgrimage to New Jersey to visit the good folks of The Compound for their annual celebration that is so much more than any family get-together you TRAVELMONKEYS readers can imagine.


The theme was LUAU, and there was everything that word conjures, and so much more.


Picture tiki huts and margarita machines, massive piles of pulled pork and about twenty other kinds of meat. Picture dogs wearing leis and women wearing flowers and men wearing pirate hats--because this year, the idea was that the luau was overtaken by pirates.


There's Uncle Dick, looking none-too-menacing. Arrrrr.


Now picture being greeted upon entry by a massive boat, decked out with an actual anchor and a wheel that really turns, and a massive black pirate sail--all built so that guests could have their pictures taken as a memento.


...and so that as the contents of the margarita machines dipped lower, they could re-enact their Titanic fantasies.


Now imagine that there is also a pool, for overheated guests and hyperactive kids.



And now imagine that there's an enormous treasure chest outside, and when opened, it reveals every kind of novelty ice cream bar you can imagine--even the ChocoTaco.


A live band? Of course.


Daring feats of strength? You bet.


An incredibly meticulous cake featuring three completely different layers, bedecked with a treasure chest made of chocolate and studded with gold? Oh, sure.


There were over 200 people there, many of whom I never even met, but all of whom knew Baci's name because he went from table to table, introducing himself and begging for scraps. The poor boy wasn't right for the next 48 hours, but now when he's yipping in his sleep, I know exactly what he's dreaming about.




I wish I had a group picture of all the folks who worked so hard to pull this epic event together--Martin, who built the ship and ice cream chest, Aunt Angela, who must have cooked and cleaned for a week straight, David, who was the sound engineer for the karaoke and live band and the go-to-guy for just about everything else, Connor and Amanda and Uncle Dick (all pictured in various shots above), who all gave enormously of their time and talents.


But being a director myself, I have to give special mention to Kris, who really was the mastermind behind the operation, overseeing this epic event from start to finish, and somehow managing to never lose her cool or forget to have fun.


We had a blast, and can only begin to image what the gang is going to come up with for next year's party. Whatever it is, and whenever it is, we'll do our best to aim our ship straight toward it so we don't miss out on the fun.

Things To Do In Bangor

First things first, stay at the Charles Inn, in the heart of downtown. Connie will set you up nicely, and if you've got a stowaway pug...


...he can play with Lacey, the resident Boston Terrier. (Can you spot her in the painting below?)


Staying downtown means you'll encounter statues and old cannons and neat walkways like this one.


It also means you can walk to important destinations like the Friar's Bakehouse.


This is not only one of the finest bakeries I've ever encountered (and home of the very best blueberry muffin I've ever had), but it's also run by two joyful friars who wear their full friar regalia (long brown robes) and who, being Franciscans, adore animals and so came out to administer cheese to Baci when he and I were waiting for Michael on the sidewalk.


Also, their whoopie pies are out of this world. (And if you haven't had a whoopie pie yet, you probably haven't been to Maine.)



Next, develop a new show, and workshop it with Penobscot Theatre as part of their Northern Writes Festival.

They did a beautiful job restoring the marquee of the old Bangor Opera House, and their staff is as wonderful and supportive as their audiences are.


Third, eat a lobster. Or two. The price of lobster is at an all-time low now, forcing lobstermen to sell their catch directly from the back of their trucks in some cases. I figure this is one tasty way to help spread the wealth.


(Note that the lack of proper utensils didn't scare us off. Turns out a hammer and pliers will do just fine.)


Fourth, see a Grange Hall musical.

We had to travel a good hour into the woods to see the Marsh River Theater's production of "Into the Woods," and we ate at Ralph's Cafe, where we were served by the mother of the musical director (and grandmother of three of the cast members).


It's amazing to experience the level of connection between the people in the audience and the people on stage--and then to watch all barriers dissolve during intermission, when the actors walked right out into the house and Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf waited in the concessions line right next to us. Meanwhile, Rapunzel was sipping Diet Coke through a straw.


And finally, see some family. (Note that this is easier to do if you married someone from Maine who happens to have a bunch of family in the Bangor area.) (Note also that by making this fifth I am not saying this is the lowest priority--I'm simply saving the best for last.)

A Poem for Father's Day

***


O my pa-pa

Our fathers have formed a poetry workshop.
They sit in a circle of disappointment over our fastballs
and wives. We thought they didn't read our stuff,
whole anthologies of poems that begin, My father never,
or those that end, and he was silent as a carp,
or those with middles which, if you think
of the right side as a sketch, look like a paunch
of beer and worry, but secretly, with flashlights
in the woods, they've read every word and noticed
that our nine happy poems have balloons and sex
and giraffes inside, but not one dad waving hello
from the top of a hill at dusk. Theirs
is the revenge school of poetry, with titles like
"My Yellow Sheet Lad" and "Given Your Mother's Taste
for Vodka, I'm Pretty Sure You're Not Mine."
They're not trying to make the poems better
so much as sharper or louder, more like a fishhook
or electrocution, as a group
they overcome their individual senilities,
their complete distaste for language, how cloying
it is, how like tears it can be, and remember
every mention of their long hours at the office
or how tired they were when they came home,
when they were dragged through the door
by their shadows. I don't know why it's so hard
to write a simple and kind poem to my father, who worked,
not like a dog, dogs sleep most of the day in a ball
of wanting to chase something, but like a man, a man
with seven kids and a house to feed, whose absence
was his presence, his present, the Cheerios,
the PF Flyers, who taught me things about trees,
that they're the most intricate version of standing up,
who built a grandfather clock with me so I would know
that time is a constructed thing, a passing, ticking fancy.
A bomb. A bomb that'll go off soon for him, for me,
and I notice in our fathers' poems a reciprocal dwelling
on absence, that they wonder why we disappeared
as soon as we got our licenses, why we wanted
the rocket cars, as if running away from them
to kiss girls who looked like mirrors of our mothers
wasn't fast enough, and it turns out they did
start to say something, to form the words hey
or stay, but we'd turned into a door full of sun,
into the burning leave, and were gone
before it came to them that it was all right
to shout, that they should have knocked us down
with a hand on our shoulders, that they too are mystified
by the distance men need in their love.

--Bob Hicok

Home Sweet Home

You may have noticed that TRAVELMONKEYS has been less active of late. That's because it's supposed to chronicle life on the road, and the husband and the dog and I have been home all spring long, soaking in the bohemian Brooklyn brownstone life.

All of that's about to end. Actually it's already over: I'm writing this from Washington D.C., leg one of our many-legged summer development tour as we whip our newest monologue into shape. But before I get into all that, I thought I'd take a moment to quickly chronicle what it is we spent our spring doing.

1. We saw lots of plays.


And while most of the performances took place in very fine theaters, pictured above was an afternoon of short plays staged in a beautiful Brooklyn backyard--made all the more beautiful by the fact that the plays were accompanied by a keg and barbecue.


2. We visited.


...with all the friends and colleagues we don't see when we're out of town. Facebook is great, but long meals over a shared bottle of wine are better. In the case of the photo above, we were visited by my aunt and uncle from Irving, Texas, who made time for a leisurely lunch at Frankie's.


3. We were Surprised.


Following the success of The Surprise at the Frigid Fest in February (Audience Choice Award), the folks at terraNOVA invited Martin and me to be a part of their annual solo performance festival, soloNOVA.

The New York Times came and had some nice things to say (including "deftly constructed" and "truly vivid"), and then the folks at DR2 and terraNOVA decided to recognize Martin as the "Breakthrough Performer of the Year"--kudos that came with the opportunity to perform The Surprise back-to-back with the first monologue he and I worked on, Wanderlust.

Now Martin is off taking both shows around the country and through Canada. You can follow his exploits through his website, and if you're in San Francisco, Toronto, Winnipeg, or Ontario, you should check him out when he comes to town.


4. We took Pilates.


(Ok, I'm using the royal "we" here.) I'd been curious about Pilates for a while, especially since my good friend Kyra opened up her own Pilates studio in Boerum Hill, but was never home for a long enough stretch to give it a go. Turns out Kyra is an amazing teacher, and under her watchful eye I learned a lot about my body and was able to develop a mat routine I can take on the road with me.


5. We wore sequins before noon.


Spring is the season of theater awards parties and benefits, which gave us plenty of excuses to get gussied up. The highlight was probably the Drama League luncheon, to which we were invited because If You See Something Say Something was nominated in two categories: "Distinguished Production" and "Distinguished Performance." Mike was seated on the dais with the likes of Angela Lansbury, Cynthia Nixon, Jeremy Irons, John Lithgow, Jane Alexander, Jane Fonda, Geoffrey Rush, David Hyde Pierce . . . and he got caught in a bear hug by Sir Elton John!


6. We ate a lot of bacon.


We decided to launch a new series called Mysteries of the Unexplained. The idea being that Mike takes some seemingly trivial element of our modern life and devotes a whole hour to it in a one-night-only, never-to-be-repeated affair. The idea also being that the material should be lighter and brighter than the stuff we've been doing in the full-length monologues. Hence, the topics of our first two shows:

In May, Facebook! (You can listen to the entire show here.)

And in June, Bacon! This show was particularly fun because the entire time that Mike was speaking from his desk, Obie-award winning actress Heidi Schreck was grilling bacon live onstage, building up an enormous pile that was then served to the audience at the show's conclusion.

You know what I discovered? People really like bacon.


7. We cleaned out the closet.


This was an exasperating affair, and again, I'm using the royal "we" because really, I did it all by myself--and to myself. You see, Mike was gone for the day and I thought I'd surprise him by giving the house a really thorough cleaning. But for some reason this involved opening the doors to the closet and thinking that I could just quickly bring a little order to the chaos. It was like a microcosm of Iraq: eight hours later, Mike walked through the door and the front room looked like what you see above.

But oh, if you could see inside the closet now! I threw away so many things . . . including the custom-made Starbucks cups the prop shop at Portland Center Stage built for us in 2005 for our run of 21 Dog Years and a do-it-yourself specimen kit sent to me in 2001 by folks at the University of Washington who hoped I'd continue to supply data for a study I'd signed up for while in college. Nope.


8. We administrated.


My landlady asked me if I liked being on the road so much. The truth is that while I really enjoyed our spring at home in Brooklyn, when we're not out working we're home doing all the administrative stuff that gets us the gigs the rest of the year. And when we're home, there's always more work to do, always more initiatives to be launched, always more closets to be cleaned. Generally speaking, home lacks the clarity and focus that I find when we're in another city, putting on a show.

So I'm glad that spring is over and summer is here. I'm glad to be living out of my suitcase again with 2 dresses, 4 shirts, 3 pairs of pants, 2 pairs of shoes. I've got my husband, my dog, my computer, my iPhone, and a brand-new show to launch on Monday. Hallelujah.

And when I have a moment, I'll update the side-bar with all the places we'll be going in 2009 and 2010. So many new cities! And a tour of the Yukon! Just think of all the TRAVELMONKEYS posts to come!

Preface

First, plain speech in the mother tongue.
Hearing it, you should be able to see
Apple trees, a river, the bend of a road,
As if in a flash of summer lightning.

And it should contain more than images.
It has been lured by singsong,
A daydream, melody. Defenseless,
It was bypassed by the sharp, dry world.

You often ask yourself why you feel shame
Whenever you look through a book of poetry.
As if the author, for reasons unclear to you,
Addressed the worse side of your nature,
Pushing aside thought, cheating thought.

Seasoned with jokes, clowning, satire,
Poetry still knows how to please.
Then its excellence is much admired.
But the grave combats where life is at stake
Are fought in prose. It was not always so.

And our regret has remained unconfessed.
Novels and essays serve but will not last.
One clear stanza can take more weight
Than a whole wagon of elaborate prose.

--Czeslaw Milosz

Elaborate Bacon

Elaborate Bacon! "Piece in heart, Fragrance in mouth." Yum!

This was taken on our recent trip to China.

Oh, no, wait.

Actually, I've never been to China. What I meant to write was that this was taken from Elyse Sewell's LiveJournal. If that name rings a bell, it's because she was one of the final two left standing on the first cycle of "America's Next Top Model," and the brightest woman ever to have been on that show.

Now she's in China modeling--or LadyPosing, as they call it there--and keeping us entertained with her many posts and pictures.

West Palm Beach

So M and I did a pair of shows in West Palm Beach, Florida, and some of you sent your grandparents and in-laws to come see us. Thank you!


I'm a fan of older people. I grew up in a home with three grandparents, and my grandmother and I were about as close as could be and I miss her terribly. In fact, if any of you readers have leads on good places to volunteer in NYC in providing company to the elderly, please send them my way.

This pleasant preamble has an obvious "but" coming, doesn't it? And here it is: But having an audience that consists solely of people over the age of 70 is . . . challenging. They don't hear as well, they're not as comfortable with Mike's sailor tongue, and it feels like they don't have the lung capacity to laugh as loudly.


In any event, we had some clue as to what the houses would be like, and we did our best to keep up a good attitude. And after both shows we had great conversations with folks in the lobby who really connected with the material. And the sun was shining and we stayed at a hotel with a pool, so really, what is there to complain about?


Also, our dear friend Nancy decided to fly out and visit with us since her mom and sister live nearby, so we got to spend time with an old friend, too.


It's all about gratitude, people. At least today it is. That's why I'm not going to talk about the old man who crawled to the door in the middle of the show saying loudly, "I DON'T WANT TO HEAR ABOUT BILL GATES."

Instead I'm going to mention the butterflies, dragonflies, and curly-tailed lizards who hung out at the pool with us (anybody know what these guys are called?).


And I'm not going to dwell on the audio technician whose neck I wanted to wring, because in the end, I got to leave. And I got paid. And I still have my youth. (While not actually being a youth who has to live in West Palm Beach.)


And I even have a bit of a tan. Which is a remarkable accomplishment for me.


In fact, I'm in such a good mood I'm not even going to make a self-deprecating comment about how this photo makes me simultaneously crave a drumstick and a pedicure. Uh-uh. My mama taught me that if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all.


So goodnight, WPB, land of neon and sun. And thanks for the head start on summer.

Terrific News!

The Surprise--the show I worked on in March with Martin Dockery and winner of the coveted Audience Choice award at the 2009 Frigid Fest--is being transferred to the DR2 Theatre at Union Square as part of this year's soloNOVA Festival.

From the press release:

After winning the Audience Choice award at this year’s FRIGID Fest, New York storyteller Martin Dockery will once again team with director Jean-Michele Gregory (How Theater Failed America, If You See Something Say Something) to present his latest autobiographical monologue, The Surprise, at the DR2 space from May 7-13 as part of this year’s soloNOVA festival.

A veteran of the New York storytelling scene and frequent performer on the stages of The Moth, The Liar Show, and Speakeasy, this is Dockery’s third full-length monologue. Set amidst the ruins, cities, and beaches of South-East Asia, The Surprise is the true and comic story of an uncertain girlfriend, an enigmatic father, and a most epic game of emotional chicken. Told with equal parts humor and heart, it is the tale of a family rife with secrets, and clueless as to how to reveal them.

“The Surprise is funny, warm, and entertaining…. A superlative storytelling show, one that offers plenty to laugh about, relate to, and ponder long after the storyteller has left the stage.” —NYTheatre.com

“Dockery is a master at weaving his own personal life into his family saga. Travels, girlfriends, ecstasies and disappointments are masterfully layered with his own brand of neurotic, self-effacing humor.”—NYTheatre-wire.com

Tickets are already on sale here and at the DR2 box office (it's that big theater in Union Square that's doing Fuerzabruta). Just five shows, so don't delay!

Colorado Springs

Sometimes, dear readers, our bookings take us to parts of the world we never thought we'd willingly go. This March, we found ourselves in Colorado Springs, a place I'd only ever thought of as the base of the more creepy aspects of the evangelical movement--Focus on the Family, the Ted Haggard debacle, and everything depicted in The Civilians' brilliant docu-drama "This Beautiful City."


Political, moral, and ethical leanings aside, I'm not a mountain person. We did a show in Denver last spring and I had a headache from the altitude the entire time. I grew up in Seattle, a city that is ringed by glorious mountains but whose altitude is decidedly sea-level. Every day I'd see the enormous cranes that line the Port of Seattle as I rode over the West Seattle Bridge. And today I live in Brooklyn, about half a mile from the Redhook waterfront, so when I look west I still see cranes. Though they are less spectacular than Seattle's, it's funny how comforting to me they were in my first few years here.


It took about 48 hours for M and me to adjust to the altitude in Colorado Springs, 24 hours for the pug. (Is it just me, or does he look grumpy?)


Just in time for our first performance. And that was the million dollar question, of course: How would the audiences be? The show we were doing has secular content, but how would they deal with M's sailor tongue? I took it as a bad sign that I had to chase away a pair of missionaries who came to our door our very first morning there.


But when I got to the theater and saw some posters still hanging for Urinetown, I felt better. An audience who can appreciate that wonderfully bizarre show could probably also deal with multiple narratives about corporate creep in our lives, even if those threads were peppered with expletives.

(My new favorite phrase to warn audiences: Not "obscene" or "profane" or "mature," because I don't actually feel that the language is obscene or profane or particularly mature. No, my new favorite way to describe it is "unrestricted," as in, "This production contains unrestricted language.")


It turned out that the theater who booked us knew what they were doing. The audiences were slightly older and quieter than we typically work with, but the houses were full and judging from the conversations we had with audience members afterward, they really seemed to enjoy the show, unrestricted language and all.

After our first night, an unexpected development: Blizzard! In the last week of March!


I'll come clean and say that the picture above wasn't taken by me and isn't even of Colorado--it's from a spring blizzard in Norway two years earlier. I found it online when I searched for images using the word "blizzard." (It's a great photo, isn't it? Click on it to go to the photographer's website.)

And why don't I have any photos of my own of the blizzard that was bad enough that we had to cancel one show and almost cancel another?

Because I was busy being my own stereotype. Yes, if Colorado Springs did their part by sending me Christian missionaries, then I played the part of the liberal coastal girl by insisting that we drive to the Whole Foods on the other side of town "before the weather gets bad" because I wanted the gluten-free crackers and hummus I knew Whole Foods would carry. Seriously.

Long story short: five minute drive there, hour and forty-five minute drive home. As my husband said to me later, "I really hope you enjoy that hummus."

And I did.


Almost as much as I enjoyed using our suddenly-free night to watch all the episodes in the final season of Battlestar Galactica back-to-back-to-back, for one of the most intense eight-hour viewing marathons I've ever had.


And things just got better from there. The weather improved and a show that had been canceled became uncanceled, so we only lost one of our five scheduled performances to the blizzard.

My friend Krista--who moved from Brooklyn to Denver several years ago and for whom I've been pining ever since--drove down from Denver with her boyfriend Micah. He's such a good guy even I had to concede that he might be worth leaving New York for.


And my father and his wife Kathy drove up from their home in Albuquerque and spent some time with us. We discovered some amazing Korean BBQ in an unlikely place--the best I've ever had--and enjoyed a leisurely breakfast at Adam's Mountain Cafe in scenic Manitou Springs.

Their visit really made this trip special. For Michael especially, who'd been away from home for three months solid, it was a lovely ending to a very long tour.

Not a Coca-Cola Family

This photo was missing from my L.A. roundup. It's a picture of my great uncle and great aunt, Jan and Victoria, whom I got to visit with while I was in the area. Uncle Jan is my grandmother's youngest brother, a mischievous guy with a twinkle in his eye and a whip-smart wife and daughter--also named Victoria, though the family gets away with calling her by her childhood nickname, Pepsi, and somehow she doesn't hate us all for it.

When I was in Washington D.C. in January, Pepsi and her husband James came out for Obama's inauguration and we all spent some time together. Pepsi told us stories about her father's wild days, when he drove across the country with a gun in his glove box "just in case."

And James, who is Korean, told a very funny story about picking Pepsi up for their first date. He said he knocked on her door but instead of Pepsi answering this old Polish guy appeared. James was sure he had the wrong address but the man invited him inside and urged him to sit down, so James sat on the couch and watched television with Pepsi's (Polish) father and (Filipino) mother until she was ready to go.


I didn't get to see James and Pepsi this time around because they were vacationing in Acapulco, but I had a nice lunch with her parents at a Chinese buffet with signs that read "ALL YOU CAN EAT! Only take what you will eat or we will charge you extra."

At the end of my visit, Uncle Jan loaded up a bag for me with four bottles of water, a six pack of miniature Baby Ruth candy bars, and one orange and one lemon from their own fruit trees. I protested that I would only be traveling half an hour by car, but they insisted I leave with provisions "just in case."

I'll tell you something: That lemon was delicious. I drizzled it over the green beans Mike and I had for dinner that night and sliced up the rest to flavor our water. I hope to make it out to Los Angeles again soon, and maybe next time we can all go fishing together.