Cocktails With Reality

Dada CommuteCocktails With Reality  … just another play in one part

Cast: Artie, Biff (the stiff), Cupid, Dada, Frank, Gaius, Hark (the angel), & Popcorn  

ACT I:

– Narrator:

Meanwhile, on the edge of a cafe rooftop …

-Popcorn:

Live and learn and become stubborn … because reality, sanity and fulfillment are neither found in Judeo-Christian work ethics, nor are they found in western or eastern pop-psychology cliche. They are only found in the pursuit of happiness and with self-actualization.

– Biff (the stiff):

What time is it?

– Hark (the angel):

God watches the clock but takes cares of him/her/it/___/self (ves).

– Biff (the stiff):

Time to get back to work.

– Popcorn:

The time is not ‘now’. It never was, relatively speaking. Live in the ‘now’ because there is no time like the present.

– Artie:

For the artist, time is not a commodity; it is both a resource and part and parcel of an energy-renewal cycle … so is money.

– Biff (the stiff):

I’m late, as usual. And, I’m getting shorter.

– Frank:

Life is less about ‘what you make of it’ and more about finding a balance between what you want and need to do … and what you can bring to the world to help and encourage others to do the same.

– Cupid:

Screw you! The fuck you know …

– Gaius:

I can be honest in telling you that I’ve made a mess out of my life trying in earnest ‘to do’ the right thing … and also in trying to do the ‘right thing’ by people who are more part of my problems than the solution.

– Popcorn:

The long and short of existence is not found in ‘making ends meet’. There is no ‘means’ in ‘the end’.

– Biff (the stiff):

Oh happy day! The end is nigh! Curses! I’m not sweating enough …

– Gaius:

Some people are brought into this world only to make others happy … but others would rather live in misery and dump on the ‘happy makers’. The tragedy: having the devalued existence of a clown that everyone kicks as he passes by. Fuck all you bastards! LOL.

– Artie:

There is nothing sadder in life than ‘wasted potential’.

– Dada:

Life is a dada commute. Time to transmute!

– Biff (the stiff):

Will someone please bury me?

– FINIS –

EPILOGUE:

– Hark (the angel):

What is it you don’t get? Life goes on until it doesn’t. FINIS.

– Dada:

Viva Dada! Roll the ‘take no’ credits. 

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Weed Whackers

PROLOGUE:

Herb: In the known universe there are beings that never quite question their existence. They wander wildly through the underbrush of society, slowly strangling the life out of all within their grasp, including themselves. It’s senseless. 

 

DIALOGUE:

Charlie: And so it begins, our journey … our wandering.

Ivy: I wonder … will we wander in vain? Is there a point to all this creeping about?

St. John: About our destiny,  yes. And, we must have faith in our function, our purpose, our very reason for being.

Charlie: Being that you know so much about life, the universe and everything, don’t you think it’s about time we questioned our existence and that which drives us?

Ivy: What drives us is life itself. Isn’t it? 

St. John: It is! Our very existence demands we kowtow and bow to the will of what we were born to do.

Charlie: Do tell! We are slaves to our wills then … or the wills of our nature … and after we do whatever it is we are supposed to do then what happens? What then?

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Chronically Yours: A Sick Chronicle Of Sorts

Overture:

Two siblings, living on opposite ends of a great pond, catch up over the phone. Ill tidings of assorted aches and pains are exchanged. Morbid moroseness, often misspelled as ‘morosity’, ensues. Based on a true story from the Intrasomatic Conspiracy files. Written for those who enjoy listening to other people’s conversations.

Disclaimer:

Warning! Not for the hypochondria oriented! Please consult your physician or psychoanalyst before reading any further.

——————————–

Gil: Hello? Are you there?

Jill: Hey!

Gil: Oh! I almost didn’t see you there. How are you? I’m crappy.

Jill: Crappy or crabby? (laughs)

Gil: No, not crabby. ‘Crappy’, with a capital ‘C’. Sorry, you just caught me at a bad time.

Jill: Sorry to hear that. What’s up?

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The Silence Of The Pews

Prologue:

Inebriated with thoughts of past indiscretions, a pedestrian, his given name ‘Durwood’, bumbles into a place of worship … on the eve of the winter solstice. Upon entering, he is met by a tall gent wearing a frock holding a just lit candle. The wax drips. The scents of bourbon, musk and Cornish hen float in the air.

—————————————————-

Durwood: My but it’s awfully quiet in here.

Scratch: ‘Tis true. So, did you come here to get blessed or what?

Durwood: (hands in pocket) Well, uh, I was thinking more along the lines of absolution.

Scratch: I see. Seeking salvation, eh? (jokingly) Do they even do that here any more?

Durwood: (laughs) Yeah, I, uh, don’t know. You see, it’s been awhile and um…

Scratch: Say no more. I understand perfectly. You know, they say it’s better to give than receive.

Durwood: Pardon?

Scratch: Well, you’re here for the “go forth and sin no more” part, right?

Durwood: (sheepishly) Look, um, this is a bit awkward …

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Eat The Rich: Socioeconomics 101

Los_horrores_de_la_guerra
Just Another Black Friday

Them that’s got, shall get
them that’s not, shall lose
so the Bible said, and it still is news
mama may have, and papa may have
God bless’ the child,
that’s got his own, that’s got his own
– Billie Holiday, (God Bless The Child)

It’s funny how we build thoughts into ideas, concepts into crusades, mole hills into mountains, and pet peeves into perversions. We preach, we scorn, we rave and we rant. We stand on our soap boxes and express our outrage, spitting bile and brimstone in indignation at the very core ideas we embraced long ago, even those that have become part and parcel of what we call ‘humanity’.

For example, this past week we once again had the displeasure of experiencing another Black Friday, an appalling and dehumanizing ritual of consumerism promoted by ‘Big Business’ in the name of the almighty dollar. I’m not sure when this much-anticipated annual display of commercial beastliness became popularized, but it’s certainly become just another symbol of the decline of American ‘values‘ … and I don’t mean the Republican kind. It’s a perverse version of the ‘running of the bulls’ in which the ‘tall and the small’ get to displace their sanity and civility in the name of lethal consumerism. This year’s theme, by the way, was pepper spray.

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Artful Dodgers In The Blogosphere Mist

Spare us your wisdom
and send us your cash.
A twenty or a fifty …
… or something like that.
– Send Us Your Money (Judd Jugmonger)

Bloggers make for interesting sorts. Many start out as artists with their ‘craft’ in mind, and end up as marketers with ‘sales’ on their minds. The transmogrification of this species usually follows this pattern: I think therefore I am. I am therefore I create. I’m hungry. In fact, I’m starving. So, I create therefore I sell.

Today I read a post on another blog about writing. Well, actually it was about marketing under the guise of writing because no one with any flair for ‘the creative’ really wants to be a salesman. It’s true, isn’t it? If so, why do there seem to be so many blogging ‘artful dodgers’ in the blogosphere?

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The Wooly Hallows: A Freudian Halloween

‘Tis now the very witching time of night,
When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out
Contagion to this world.

– William Shakespeare

No holiday conjures up as much existential angst and ‘parental control’ conflict in kids as Halloween does. Really. It’s no wonder many kids have issues with authority and ‘role confusion’.

In the days running up to the holiday, most kids dream of toting home the sugar encrusted spoils from a night of ‘trick or treating’. On the morning before the ‘hallowed eve’, some kids are also trying to figure out how they can smuggle into their bedrooms the stuff they know their parents will most likely confiscate.

Then there are the ‘safety’ talks …

  • “DON’T eat anything until I can check it.”
  • “DON’T cross the street.”
  • “DONT go into anyone’s house. STAY on the porch.”
  • “DON’T talk to strangers.”
  • “HOLD your baby brother’s hand!”

… and the requisite stern lectures about kooks putting razors in apples and rat poison in popcorn balls.

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