More Danger: Egoflog
The folks at Followspot, Portland’s theatre blog, did an interview with yours truly, in which I blather on about the art of motorcycle riding and how a Stratocaster whipped my ass, among other things:
If you get bored with my considered opinions, there’s a link to a groovy Hendrix video to liven up the interview.
Danger is My Business (or Always Check the Prop Table)
Actor slits his own throat as knife switch turns fiction into reality
An actor slit his throat on stage when the prop knife for his suicide scene turned out to be a real one.
Daniel Hoevels, 30, slumped over with blood pouring from his neck while the audience broke into applause at the “special effect”. Police are investigating whether the knife was a mistake or a murder plot. They are questioning the rest of the cast, and backstage hands with access to props; they will also carry out DNA tests.
Things went wrong at Vienna’s Burgtheater as Hoevels’ character went to “kill himself” in the final scene of Friedrich Schiller’s Mary Stuart, about Mary Queen of Scots, on Saturday night
It was only when he did not get up to take a bow that anyone realised something had gone wrong.
Though bleeding profusely, Hoevels survived because the knife missed the carotid artery as it sliced into his neck. Wolfgang Lenz, a doctor who treated him, said: “Just a little bit deeper and he would have been drowning in his own blood.”
One officer told Austrian TV news: “The rumours are wild, with some claiming that he was the victim of jealous rival.
“We don’t know anything for sure yet; we have to work through everyone.”
The knife was reportedly bought at a local shop; one possibility is that the props staff forgot to blunt its blade. “The knife even still had the price tag on it,” an investigator said.
After emergency treatment at a hospital, Hoevels declared that the show must go on, and returned to the stage on Sunday night with a bandage tied around his neck, ready to once again meet his mock demise.
What’s In It For Me Dept.
Amid the lightning and thunder of the Wall Street and Big Three bailouts, there hasn’t been much talk about Obama’s possible impact on the arts. I have heard Caroline Kennedy’s name bandied about as a possible NEA chairmain, but, by God, she’s getting some kind of job since just about everybody wants her for something.
Anyway, I ran across this bit on a piece about Obama’s economic sitmulus package that I thought was interesting:
Among the worst vestiges of the Clinton years was the linking of education spending to the nation’s technological advancement, downplaying the life-affirming, intrinsic value of culture. Since the Reagan Administration bulldozed federal arts and humanities funding, the nation’s entire cultural apparatus has become increasingly privatized.
Why shouldn’t the stimulus package fund arts groups and schools to hire at least 100,000 cultural workers? These workers can paint murals, teach art, dance, music, and theater, and provide the level of art support that existed in the United States from the New Deal through the Carter Administration.
The Obama transition team has already endorsed an ArtistCorp, though this appears separate from the stimulus package. But a Musicians National Service Initiative already exists, and could hire people with stimulus funds through its recently created MusicianCorp.
Hiring cultural workers would not only boost consumer purchasing power, but in doing so the Obama Administration would send a powerful message about the nation’s values. The United States should not be only about high-tech, infrastructure, and finance, and our cultural infrastructure deserves more than having its leaders honored annually at a Kennedy Center gala.
Big Rains
Good lord. I wrote a song. I knew buying a guitar was a dangerous idea.
Emaj
Wind in the leaves
Amaj
A few left on the trees
Dmaj Amaj Emaj
Waiting on the Big Rains
Emaj
New stars past the clouds
Amaj
The Hunter and Hound
Dmaj Amaj Emaj
Watching for the Big Rains
Emaj
Coming home in the dark
Amaj
And it’s just five o’clock
Dmaj Amaj Emaj
No escaping the Big Rains
Emin Gmaj
Goodbye to morn
Emin Gmaj
Goodbye to noon
Emin Amin
Goodbye to eve
Bmaj
See you in June
Emaj
Still there’s part of my soul
Amaj
Gray, quiet, and cold
Dmaj Amaj Emaj
At home in the Big Rains
Sketch: Coming Down
Sun coming up, clear and cold, illuminating the breath. Not waking; haven’t been to bed. House full of snoring friends. Sipping Cuervo from an almost empty bottle. Light down through the ridges, shaped into sawteeth by the treeline, shines through the fog rising from the orchard, the trees just barely green with new leaves. Cars parked haphazardly along the dirt road. A pickup on the front lawn, tire gouges in the wet turf. No other houses in sight, but a few columns of chimney smoke. Crows in the trees, still, one now and then hopping from an upper to lower branch.
Kelso must have really been wasted; he left his acoustic propped against a table covered with empties. It’s an effort to move, but pick it up by the neck. Heavy, it’s a substantial guitar. Try to remember a chord; all you can think of are A, D, and E–not very satisfying at this hour. Then you see chord boxes in your mind’s eye for A and E minor, strumming quietly, alternating between the two. Dylan’s “Senor” coming and going.
Sunday? Sunday. They will wake slowly, stumble into the kitchen, where the coffee’s brewing. A few will probably have to be roused. Then breakfast for those who can eat. Leave taking in the afternoon: hugs, smiles, a few tears. Then the last taillights bumping down the road and out of sight past the bend.
Finally, it’s just you and her, and the dirty dishes and pets wanting fed. Break out the vinyl, familiar cracks and hisses, and put on something you’ve heard so many times that you know the bass parts. Arms up to elbows in soapy water, your reflection in the window: a little less hair, a few more lines. In the background, the door to the office: stories, plays, poems impatiently waiting to be written.
Well. That’s hours away. Now, it’s just you and the sleepers, and the guitar, and the mistletoe in the oaks, and the spider webs lit with dew, and a squirrel running, stopping, then running furiously to disappear in tall grass.
Look up, and the red tail glides past a big cedar and vanishes into fog.
Gray Flannel Suits
So I’m doing research for a new play, and I thought I’d throw out a request for connections: that is, I’m looking to chat with someone who worked for Associated Press, UPI, or Reuters in the 1950s or early 60s, prefereably in San Francisco, or even someone who just lived in San Francisco during that time (particularly in North Beach). Just want to ask some general questions, and phone or e-mail works for me. So if you know a retiree, man or woman, who might be willing to share a few stories, please let me know, either here or via e-mail at: splatterson@mindspring.com
Thanks,
Steve
Happy Thanksgiving, Everyone
…a word from the wiseguy. And pass the stuffing.
[Video courtesy of Gus Van Sant via The Wonkette]
This just in…
…there is, indeed, really and truly…a God.
Ann Coulter Broke Her Jaw
Coda
One more note about the Oregon Book Awards, and then I’ll shut up and try to move on.
The night of the awards, my wife Deborah and I were sitting in the second row, a little to the right of the presenter, and next to Deborah sat a very charming older lady who was graciously excited about the evening, and who seemed to be pleased to know I’d been nominated. In front of me sat two of the other finalists–both good friends who I was very happy for–along with some other writer friends I hadn’t seen in some time–Jan Baross and Sharon Whitney. It all felt cozy and festive…and I was nervous as hell and completely convinced there was no way I was ever going to win.
So then Keith came out with a guitar, started doing my lines, and I became totally calm. I looked over at Deb and saw the comprehension wash over her. And what I thought was going to be terribly difficult–going up and speaking–wasn’t bad at all. (They had good monitors, and I felt my old radio voice coming back to me, which was kind of amusing since the play’s main character was a DJ and some of the background drew on my radio days. And I don’t know if it was the hall or they’d thrown a little reverb on the mike, but I got just enough slapback from where I was standing that I could hear a vague echo of what I was saying. Felt like I should have started singing “Mystery Train.”)
Afterwards, the older lady reached across Deb, took my hand, squeezed it, and gave me a megawatt smile. It was one of the nicest moments of a beautiful evening.
Later at the reception, I learned she was Dorothy Stafford, wife of the late poet William Stafford, whose work I dearly love and who took time to chat with me a reading in Northwest Portland years ago, when I’d first moved back to the Pacific Northwest after living in New York and New Orleans. It moves me now just to think of it. Mr. Stafford was Oregon class: real, sensitive, giving, and a writer who could crush and salve you with just a few lines. I remember coming away from that evening, some 18 years ago, and thinking: you know, it is kind of nice to be back–maybe this will work out.
Thanks for reminding me, Dorothy, of an Oregon we should never take for granted.
Steve Patterson's Splatterverse 