Last night, a dream of mine was fulfilled: I heard the current draft of “Bishop’s Eighteen Wives” read by my dream team. And they absofuckinglutely ruled.
And if that wasn’t enough, they stayed afterwards, and with great patience, explained to me the flaws and shortcomings of the script, and suggested ideas for fixing them.
For the record: the coolest type of people on earth are actors. They’ll do any goddamn thing you request of them, typically with no pay and no respect. Keite, Crystal, Sean B., Sean W., Clare, Charles, Alex, Anthony, Rob, Lisa, Mr. Fantastic, Shannon: you dominate the known universe.
True story: In sixteenth-century Bavaria, a tailor ingratiated himself into the Catholic Church and declared himself a bishop, God’s representative on earth. He promptly banished the men from the town and serially married the women.
“The Bishop’s Eighteen Wives” is a two-act roller coaster of ribaldry, religion, and revenge. It’s got thrilling swordplay, seduction of nuns and farm girls, a silent murderer, tavern fights, instant marriages, a poisoned needle, and several pieces of women’s undergarments. “The Bishop’s Eighteen Wives” is funny, philosophical, and very very sexy.
Table read, my place, tonight, 6:30 p.m. Wine and beer and pizza and sushi. If you’re one of the three people who read my blog, come on by.
Passion killer, you’re too much
You’re the only one I wanna touch
The fifteen-pack Sears Portrait Package includes a choice of predetermined backgrounds and props. Olan Mills lectures us: “Our photographer will take five poses using various backgrounds, props, and special effects. You will need a table like the one below which you can print out and bring to the studio.”
In either case, you are expected to encapsulate your most personal memories of your family with a predesigned, focus-tested Happy Meal menu of photos.
As Mr. Fantastic says, fuc dat.
Go invent your history. Go make your family photos something worth looking at.
Before Narita was home to a vast international airport, it was home to a shrine and a series of low-ceilinged tourist shops. This particular restaurant is hundreds of years old. Eel is in season here. It’s rich and fragrant, almost the consistency of butter. Call it unagi.
“Yellow lace,” Haba-san says to me, scarfing up a piece of unagi. Yoshimi, his new girlfriend, nods and smiles. “You know, in Japan we have only yellow lace, really.”
“I’m surprised,” I say. “In America, we have all colors of lace. Black, red, blue.”
Haba-san coughs on his unagi. “Blue lace?!” he grunts. “I don’t think you have blue lace there. You are laughing at me.”
Outside the door, two cats growl and grumble guttural threats at one another. A delicate old lady pads up, her slippers scuffing on the hot pavement, and she utters a syllable. The cats spring and scatter like water.
I consider trying to explain the word “catcalling” to Haba-san, but decide against it.
“Actually, we mostly have the white race in the United States,” I say. “Some black, some red, though.”
“Yah, I know,” said Haba-san. I wondered what he thought I thought.