EXACTLY.

A phenomenal article from Lawrence Wright was published this morning in The New Yorker Magazine.  There is a whole lot of awesome in this article, not the least of which is this:

At the meeting, Davis and I also discussed Hubbard’s war record. His voice filling with emotion, he said that, if it was true that Hubbard had not been injured, then “the injuries that he handled by the use of Dianetics procedures were never handled, because they were injuries that never existed; therefore, Dianetics is based on a lie; therefore, Scientology is based on a lie.” He concluded, “The fact of the matter is that Mr. Hubbard was a war hero.”

Hubbard was not injured in the way he claimed (lame and blind), the medical condition he had at the end of the war remained at least into the 1950s (duodenal ulcer) and Dianetics is based on a lie (it is NOT science.) 

Davis acknowledged that some of Hubbard’s medical records did not appear to corroborate Hubbard’s version of events.

Thanks for agreeing, Mr. Davis.  When you find your way out of the cult, I'd like to buy you a beer.

Read the entire article at The New Yorker online.

This Week's Maltin Prompt 

Okay, people. Here is this week's prompt, chosen at random from Leonard Maltin's 2011 Movie Guide:

Tyrone is officer suddenly in command of lifeboat holding survivors from sunken luxury liner. Tense, exciting study of people fighting to stay alive while exposed to savage seas and each other. 

Remember, there is only one rule: Write. For screenplays, play scripts, or short stories, let's keep it somewhere between two to five pages. Poets, songwriters, etc., do your thing. It doesn't have to have a beginning or an end. The important thing is to take this prompt and put words together.

When you're done, post the result as a comment below or post it anywhere and drop me a link!

This is a critical-free zone! We're just loosening up and stretching our writer muscles. So let's hop to it! The (entirely arbitrary) deadline is a little over 24 hours from now: midnight tomorrow night.

Get writing!

Group Maltin Cleanse

Here we go!  Chosen at random from Leonard Maltin’s 2011 Movie Guide

Twelve-year-old boy spending the summer in Maine with his too-busy father and stepmother forms a bond with an odd-seeming older lady who helps him unlock traumatic events in his life, and vice-versa.

This is only a prompt.  There is no wrong way to respond to it.  You may take it literally, or it may spark off some other idea.  The point is to take the first idea and pursue it over a couple of pages.

“First thought, best thought.” – Allen Ginsberg.

Be fearless, unrehearsed, and willing for whatever you write to be bad.  (It won’t be.)

For screenplays, play scripts and short stories, let’s shoot for two to five pages.

If your bag is poetry, songwriting or sermons, do what you do, but don’t feel like you have to start at the beginning or make it to the end.  This is only an exercise!  Stay loose.

Don't forget to post it somewhere and provide link below.

UPDATE:

Here's mine, three pages long! (Alfred becomes Alfie somewhere in the middle.)


EXT. LIBRARY - DAY

               FRED MARKS sits behind the wheel of his pristine BMW, the
               engine idling. Fred is almost as well-detailed as the car,
               in suit and tie. His son, ALFRED, 12 years-old, is opening
               and closing an ash tray.

                                          FRED
                              Please stop that.

                                          ALFRED
                              I want to go swimming.

                                          FRED
                              Alfie, I have to go to court.

                                          ALFRED
                              This is stupid! I should've just
                              stayed with mom. You won't let me
                              do anything.

               Fred impatiently checks his ridiculously expensive watch.

                                          FRED
                              I'm sorry about this, okay? It
                              will only take me a couple of
                              hours, in and out, and I'll be
                              right back here. Do you have your
                              stepmom's number?

                                          ALFRED
                              In my phone.

                                          FRED
                              So call if you have an emergency.
                              Come on, Alfie, we'll go watch a
                              movie tonight.

               Alfie lifts the handle and kicks the door open. Fred winces.

                                          FRED
                              Alfie!

               Alfie turns, staring daggers. Fred swallows his anger.

                                          ALFIE
                              What.

                                          FRED
                              Check out Robert Heinlein. I think
                              you'll like him.

               Alfie turns and walks away. Fred reaches over and closes the
               door, and drives off. Alfie turns back to watch him go.

                                          ALFIE
                              At least you're trying.

               Alfie rolls his eyes and walks into the library.

               INT. LIBRARY - DAY (CONTINUOUS)

               The library is old, high arched ceilings like a temple.
               Alfie looks up at a mural that must date from the Works
               Progress Administration: Epic, depicting boys and girls
               reading books and looking towards a bright, shining future
               full of rocket ships and skyscrapers.

               ELOISE, 60s, approaches as he's distracted.

                                          ELOISE
                              My father painted that.

               Alfie turns, startled.

                                          ALFIE
                              Cool.

                                          ELOISE
                              You're Fred Marks' son.

                                          ALFIE
                              I'm supposed to look for Robert
                              Heinlein. How do you know my dad?

               Sadness nibbles at the edges of Eloise. She sucks it up and
               smiles.

                                          ELOISE
                              Science Fiction. Follow me.

               Alfie follows. There's something not quite right about this
               lady, but she's pleasant enough.

               INT BOOKSTACKS - DAY (CONTINUOUS)

               Eloise is browsing through the bookstacks, looking for
               Heinlein.

                                          ALFIE
                              It's okay if I hang out? I'd
                              rather be swimming. But Dad was
                              called to court.

                                          ELOISE
                              Your father is very good at what
                              he does.

                                          ALFIE
                              I guess. How do you know him?

               Eloise pulls a book.

                                          ELOISE
                              Eureka! "Have Spacesuit, Will
                              Travel."

               She hands it to Alfie.

                                          ALFIE
                                     (incredulous)
                              What?

                                          ELOISE
                              My son's favorite.

                                          ALFIE
                              Dumb title. The picture isn't too
                              much better.

               The cover of the book is classic, pulp sci-fi. A man in a
               gleaming spacesuit is walking across a lunar landscape with
               a lemur-like alien draped over his shoulders.

                                          ELOISE
                              There's a comfy couch on the other
                              side of these bookshelves. You can
                              make yourself at home. My name is
                              Eloise if you need any more help.

               Eloise turns to go.

                                          ALFIE
                              Eloise? I asked you twice how you
                              knew my dad, and you ignored me
                              both times.

               She steels herself.

                                          ELOISE
                              He put my son in prison.

               Maintaining her composure, Eloise leaves. Alfie looks after
               her.

                                          ALFIE
                              I should have stayed with mom.

                                                                  FADE OUT.

                                                                    THE END
 

Maltin Cleanse Update

Here's what I'm going to do for the big, group Maltin Cleanse: I'm going to post a random plot summary just before midnight, Friday night. That way we'll all have Saturday to write some pages.

Remember: It doesn't have to be "good," it just has to be done.

The Maltin Cleanse 

I write a lot, but not nearly enough for what I hope to accomplish over the next five years.

I am out of shape.  Most of my writing over the past three years has been "as necessary" or "as mandated by circumstances beyond my control."  That's a bit like saying "I run only when chased."  I need to do something that will: 1) Flush out some bad writing in the short term and 2) put me back into the groove of writing everyday.

And so, I have started the Maltin Cleanse.

I've heard this sort of thing recommended before, but I couldn't point to where I've heard it.  Here's how it works:

I have a copy of Leonard Maltin's 2011 Movie Guide.  There are over 17,000 capsule reviews in this hefty paperback.  These capsule reviews include plot summaries for everything from Casablanca to Troll 2*.  It's pretty exhaustive.

Armed with this cinematic tome and a Scripped Pro account, I chose a title each day and write a two-to-five page script -- screenplay or stage play -- inspired by the plot summary.  I'm going alphabetical through the book.  At a rate of one per day, I would be done with this project in forty-seven years.  So the point is not to write a script for each entry, but rather to loosen up the chops and have a little fun.

How about this:  Next week, I will post one of those plot summaries here, and ask that YOU play along.  Write your own script based on the plot summary, post it somewhere, and either link to it in the comments or shoot me an email with the link.  I'll post my version as well.  Let's do the Maltin cleanse together!  What say you?

*(Upon further review, Troll 2 is not in the book!  Battlefield Earth is, though.)

A couple of additional points: This isn't about crafting a beginning, middle and end, it's about writing the first thing that comes to mind. It doesn't even have to be a script. It could just as easily be a short story or poem.

Also, although I'm going alphabetically, I may be skipping the endless "Abbott and Costello meet ..." movies.

My Top Ten Entertainment Experiences of 2010

For the past few years, I've published a list of my top entertainment experiences of the year.  Rather than indulge in a pseudo-objective list of top songs or movies or whatever, I decided to go completely subjective.

THE RULES:   

It's not enough for a source of entertainment to be "best."  This list is about the whole enchilada.  It's about the atmosphere, the company, the je ne se quoi that propels the reading of a book, the watching of a movie or play, etc. into the heights of something more.

In no particular (other than roughly chronological) order:

Burlesque Day at Disneyland

Burlesqueland is becoming the de facto Los Angeles burlesque festival, just as surely as the Los Angeles burlesque community has become my showbiz family.  Spending the day in the park after two days of kick ass burlesque shows -- easily the biggest, most attended burlesque event in Los Angeles -- and spending that day with such a talented and diverse group of people is like Christmas in March.

What does it look like when a bunch of burlesquers take over Disneyland?  Something like this.

John Mayer in Concert at Staples Center



Photo by Quinn Dombrowski



Pamela's eighth concert, my sixth and one of the three John Mayer concerts we went to in 2010.  We've gone to so many of these damn things, what set this one apart?  A couple of things.

First, Michael Franti and Spearhead opened.  Michael Franti blew me away.  He owned Staples Center, leaping from the stage and dancing through the crowd, bringing people onstage, leading mass sing-alongs.  You don't see rock stars doing that sort of thing.  Franti held the audience in the palm of his hand the entire time, and was incredibly gracious.

Second, I made a fellow concert-goer very happy.  This guy was walking down to his seats, beer in hand.  Some jerkwad managed to trip him.  They exchanged a few words, and the jerkwad refused to buy the guy a new beer.  Look, if you cause someone to spill their drink, you offer to buy them a new one.  That's just good manners.  I sat in my perch, this guy talking to his date, obviously distressed.  It distressed me and Pamela to see him distressed.  Unwilling to see a fellow human being (and beer lover) in distress, I bought the guy a new beer.  Bonus:  When I told the vendor what I was doing, he shook my hand and gave me a free beer.

The relief on that guys face when I handed him the beer; the instant dissolution of the bad vibes he was drowning in made the concert something more.

Theatre of One

I read about it in Stage Happenings: 

In the center of the New York City Theater District, acclaimed Broadway set designer Christine Jones will debut "Theatre for One," a four foot by nine foot portable theatre with one performer playing to one audience member. The uniquely intimate theatrical experience will be available to anyone on a first-come, first-served basis between May 14–23, 2010 in Times Square.

The dates coincided with a business trip, so I went!  I wrote about the experience on Mad Theatrics:

I got to the queue just in time to be shut out, but managed to talk my way into the final performance of the day. A poetry reading, I must confess I missed the first half of the performer's words. I was so struck by the intimacy and immediacy of the experience, I think I forgot how to breathe.

I may not remember the details of the poem, but I cannot forget the performer's eyes.

Fuxedos and Fish Circus at Hollywood Fringe

I reviewed it for LA Theatre Review (read the review here.)

Danny Shorago is an unbridled maniac onstage; an intense portrait of an artist making shit happen for himself offstage.  I admire Shorago in a way that borders on "man crush" but I really hate that idiom.  He's backed up by an incredible raft of musicians -- "Robot Vampire Wombat" is one of my favorite afternoon heading home from the day job jams.  Any opportunity to take in their non-sequitor musical nuttiness is reason enough to take in their show, but at Hollywood Fringe they sweetened the deal with Fish Circus.

Check out the bands and their music.  Catch them live, buy a cd, support what they're doing, etc.

What elevated this awesome concert to this list?  An exchange I had with one of the band members from Fish Circus when I bought their CD.  I don't remember how much it was, but it was an odd amount.  Let's just say it was $5, and all I had was a $10 bill.  I handed it to the band member, who looked down at the bill and back to me saying,  "I'll have to mail you the change." 

I kind of laughed.  "Don't worry about the change.  It's worth it."

"Thanks, dude!"  It made my night.   

Forbidden Zone: Live! From the Sixth Dimension

Marz Richards as Satan.

The review is here.  Not included in the review:  This was my Solsbury Hill. 

I resigned from Theatre Unleashed, the company I helped found, three months after watching this show.  In truth, I composed my letter of resignation that night.  It remained as an unsent draft until one argument too many finally pushed me off the fence.  At Sacred Fools I saw onstage everything I hoped to accomplish in theatre, and was sobered by the fact that the trajectory my company was on placed us far afield of ever hitting those goals.

It was a reality adjustment that I needed.  I didn't respond to it right away; I made a pitch to move my company back on track, but to no avail.  The life lesson to take away from my experience:  When you go into something with collaborators, make sure you want the same final product.  In the end, I discovered that I had honest-to-God "creative differences" with my fellow administrators, and so we diverged.  No harm, no foul, as they say.

If I ordered these lists from most important experience to least, this would be number one.  Forbidden Zone: Live! In the Sixth Dimension changed my life.

Little Big Planet and the PS3

I just wanted to play a neat looking video game.  I had no idea how thoroughly it would change my viewing habits.

How many DVDs have we watched since picking this baby up?  Any guesses?  Somewhere in the neighborhood of eight or nine.  How many movies and tv shows have we watched via NetFlix Instant?  I couldn't possibly say for sure.  It's an embarrassingly high number, whatever it is.

Sure, we watched stuff on Instant via our desktop computer before we got the PS3, but now it's like having cable on-demand.  Plus there is the actual on-demand service Sony offers through the Playstation Store.  That's how we watched Walking Dead, and how we're going to watch Dexter and Treme.

As for that neat little video game, Pamela and I have had countless hours of fun with our little sackpeople, playing through imaginative scenarios in both the standard game and levels created by other users.  It's like a carnival; endless possibilities and unknown adventures abound.

Police Halloween Carnival

Speaking of carnivals. 

Blinking incandescents, cheesy haunted houses and creaky rides, fried food and midway games galore -- all of it just a few blocks from our front door.  We went to this carnival twice; two cold, rainy October nights.  There is something visceral and immediate about a street carnival, something appetizing and satisfying about the sights and sounds, something warm to be found in the dark.  And walking hand-in-hand with your girl through such atmosphere?  Heaven.

Burlesque (the movie)

(Up front, let me say:  Yes, it is burlesque.)

Pamela and I joined a healthy contingent of the Los Angeles burlesque scene at LA Live to take in Steve Antin's ode to nightclubs, Burlesque.  This was after spending the early part of the day with many of the same people at Hobo Thanksgiving, a lunchtime potluck we through at Griffith Park, and was a perfect capper to the day.

Peepshow Menagerie: A Burlesque Christmas Carol

This is kind of a cheat, seeing as how I was in it.  But curiosity drove me to take a seat in the audience after my part at the beginning of the first act was through.  And by God, Chris Beyond and Patrick the Bank Robber really did it.  They wrote a burlesque play.  The striptease acts weaved into the storytelling, becoming an integral part of the story.  Usually an audience gets testy when there's too much talky-talky and not enough stripping, but the audience went along for the ride.

Chris and Scarlett Letter have been pushing the show in this direction from the beginning.  Most of the shows are scripted.  The potential for this sort of evening has been there all along.  I'm not ashamed to say it:  I got a bit misty seeing the potential play out onstage at Bordello. 

Have Tassels, Will Travel

Satan's Angel is a treasure.  Her one-woman show outlines her history as a burlesque performer, and is as frank and honest as she is in person.  She holds no punches, even against herself!  What made this even sweeter was being part of an audience composed of largely burlesque performers.

Okay, that's it.  Another year, another bunch of awesome experiences!  And as usual, I can't wait to see what the new year has in store.

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

Jennifer's Coffee Connection is closing up after 25 years of serving Studio City/North Hollywood.

I worked at Jennifer's some years back.  That's where I met Jimmy Zerda, actor, comedian, comic-strip writer.  At some point, I began drawing his strip and we had plans in the works to publish a book of these things.  Those plans ended in February of '06, when he took his life.

I haven't drawn Beanman since, but the closing of Jennifer's is a significant enough event to make me lift pen to paper again.  So above is the first new Beanman strip in nearly half a decade.

More info about Jennifer's may be found here.

Rest in peace, Jimmy.

Folly is the cloak of knavery.

-- William Blake, "Proverbs of Hell"

I'm a big fan of William Blake.  When Lili VonSchtupp approached me with the opportunity to host "The Cultured Ecdysiast III: A Night at the Library" as a dead writer, I jumped out of my skin at the chance to bring William Blake to the stage.

Note:  I look nothing like William Blake.

But a borrowed costume from burlesque buddy and habitual historical reenactor Phillip "Wolfgang" Dye, and I cut a pretty convincing figure nonetheless.

Red Snapper helped me out for the musical portion of my act.  Photos by Markus Alias.

I did a bit where I dissected "It’s My Life" by Jonathan Bon Jovi:

This ain't a song for the brokenhearted
No silent prayer for the faith departed
And I ain't gonna be just a face in the crowd
You're gonna hear my voice when I shout it out loud

It's my life
It's now or never
I ain't gonna live forever
I just wanna live while I'm alive

(It's my life)
My heart is like an open highway
Like Frankie said, "I did it my way"
I just wanna live while I'm alive
'Cause it's my life

... followed by a retelling in sonnet form as "‘Tis My Life" by Jonathan Bon Jovi, translated into English by William Blake (aka Mr. Snapper):

I shall not sing of loves long passed away
Of hearts long since entwined with cord untied
No prayers bequeathed for those who curse the day
A man from Galilee came forth and died
I shan’t be bowed, a simple human mere
No more to be one of a thronging mass
Let those who would confound me lend their ear
Voice made loud, a ringing trumpet blast
‘Tis my life, forever made anew
Before this corpus dies and turns to grey
My heart envelopes all, it courses true
As spoke the poet, “I did it my way”
Élan courses through ev’ry vein and bone
This one moment, this breath is mine alone

I was more prepared for this evening of hosting than ever before.  I wrote material; original jokes about the authors whose work was being embodied by the burlesque dancers that night.  I lived with the material for days, tweaking it, honing it, making it as good as possible for the big night.

On the night, I was super nervous.  Usually I wing it, but this time I knew exactly what I was going to do.  I had the luxury of gnawing over every syllable, wondering if any of it would play.

Play it did!  I had a blast, and the audience was with me.  Without a doubt, the best hosting I've ever done.

John Mayer on Playwriting

Ignore the tabloid bullshit for a moment, and listen to the words of a poet who knows how to reach the public-at-large:

Listening to Train play "Hey Soul Sister" from backstage. What a massive hit. Yea, it's on the radio pretty constantly, but a hit song is all about the way the crowd reacts to it. There's nothing like the reward of making the air swirl around thousands of people with one of your songs. Better than any of the spins or chart positions. I think people would write better songs if they aimed for the religious concert experience rather than the top 20. Train's now playing "Drops of Jupiter," a song that succeeds and succeeded at both, respectively.

The same could be said for playwriting: Aim for the religious experience, rather than "success." Keep it honest, keep it pure. Make a personal connection with the material -- intend to make it a personal experience for the audience. Getting back to something I quoted from Heinlein*, it's about intercourse with the audience; a sacred union.

[*Quoted in a Facebook note:  "Jubal shrugged. 'Abstract design is all right — for wall paper or linoleum. But art is the process of evoking pity and terror. What modern artists do is pseudo-intellectual masturbation. Creative art is intercourse, in which the artist renders emotional his audience. These laddies who won't deign to do that — or can't — lost the public.'"  From Stranger in a Strange Land.  My Facebook page as a playwright may be found here.]

A New Name, A New Direction

This blog started life as "The Felties."  In it, I hoped to chronicle the production of a puppet webseries called The Felties.  Along the way, I'd post my experiements in video production, mostly in the form of Disembodied Animal Head Theatre, and comments on entertainment in general.

The Felties fizzled.  I have most of the cast built (by the very talented Russ Walko) but they sit in a box, waiting for me to settle for what I can do vs. what I would like to do.

So I rebranded the blog, "In the Extreme," which was the title of my old newspaper column in High School.  I kept posting about whatever the hell struck my fancy.  And then I stopped blogging.  Well, I stopped blogging here.  I kept publishing notes on Facebook, and I've blogged quite a bit at Mad Theatrics, the sister blog to this one.

I am going to endeavor to get back up on the blogging horse.  September 30th will be my 5th anniversary here on Blogger.  Hence, the rededication to typing away into the ether, like a street preacher yelling through a megaphone at no-one in particular.

That's not quite true.  I know my parents read this, as a way to keep up with what I'm doing.  Scarlett Letter reads the blog.  I still get referrals from puppetry websites and blogs.  I imagine I get quite a few hits from people interested in Scientology -- mostly ex-Scientologists and fence-sitters who may have heard that I was declared a "Suppressive Person."  And for some strange reason, I get a bunch of hits from people looking for Picasso's stripped-down sketch of a bull:

(And just like that, I doubled my web traffic.)

If you follow my Facebook notes and other blog, you may see a bunch of double-postings here.  I apologize, but I'm going for a sort of "Andrew Moore clearinghouse."  Yes, I am that egotistical.  More to the point, I have that many irons in the fire.

And speaking of such things, I would like to end off with this short movie, shot with my pal Mike Delorenzo a week ago.  We did this for the "5 for 50" Film Festival held by Bagavagabonds.  That's ("5 minutes for $50.")  Enjoy!

Scientific Ologies‏

"A man should look for what is, and not for what he thinks should be."

-- Albert Einstein, scientist

They told me that L. Ron Hubbard was an engineer, and I believed it.  They told me he traveled extensively in the Far East, soaking up Eastern religion and philosophy like a Sham-Wow, and I believed it.  They told me that he took his Western, scientific training and applied it to Eastern philosophical thought and from this marriage of the Oriental and Occidental, Scientology was born.  And I believed it.  You gotta admit, that's a pretty compelling narrative.  It sounds right out of The Matrix or some such.  Unplugging from a computer download, Neo knows kung-fu.

(To my family:  This is going to be difficult for you to read.  I apologize wholeheartedly, but I am pretty much done with dishonesty in matters of the spirit.)

In college, I discovered the Tao Teh Ching and Buddhism.  My Old Testament professor (I went to a Presbyterian university) calmly and eloquently explained that the Books of Esther and Daniel are fictionalized history.  I read about the Gnostic gospels, and how the current New Testament line-up was crafted by men, not God.  I became a "Preterist" after studying the Book of Revelations and history.  I decided that Plotinus was probably right, best case scenario our consciousness emanates from the source of everything, and that's about all there is to God.  I stopped believing in a literal Hell.  I flirted briefly with atheism, and settled on something between agnosticism and deism; I assume there is a God.

Leaving college, trying to sort myself out vis a vis religion and matters of the spirit, it occurred to me that an honest attempt at sussing out the truth would involve a survey of world religions.  Perhaps applying scientific principles to the truths offered by Buddhism, Islam, Hinduism, Christianity, etc. figuring out what works, and going with that.

Enter L. Ron Hubbard, an American engineer and nuclear physicist whose extensive travels through the Far East led to a scientific approach to the spirit.  Or so they said.  As it turns out, he was neither an engineer nor a physicist, and his travels through the East were not nearly as extensive as he (and the Church) led us to believe.  One may say that, to borrow a phrase from Tom Cruise, Hubbard was glib.

So there you have, in a nutshell (emphasis on "nut"), what appealed to me so much about Dianetics and Scientology that I was willing to join the parade of fools.  There were other things:  I was attracted by the potential for losing psychological baggage (not that I have much) and increasing my potential as an artist.  (Laugh if you want, I really dig Travolta.  Been a fan my whole life, even through the dark days of "Look Who's Talking."  Back in 1997, when the wife and I first bought a copy of Dianetics, Travolta was in the middle of a career resurgence.)  Regardless, it was the science angle that really engaged me.

But is it science or faith?

From Geir Isene, an OT VIII, former member of the Church of Scientology: "It seems fanaticism feeds on hope and faith rather than experience and personal certainty. Maybe fanaticism is a substitute for real personal certainty."

Hurm.

A long quote from Haydn James, aka "T. Paine" from Scientology-Cult.com, an Independent Scientologist:

I have not one shred of doubt that Scientology is a religion, never have had. To me the evidence is clear and unequivocal. Though we may not talk about it often, faith is a very important element in Scientology.

In the lecture SELF-DETERMINISM ON THE DYNAMICS, dated 23 October 1951 LRH points out that the 8th Dynamic is actually faith, when he says:

“… Because the eighth dynamic is faith. It is not even knowledge, and it is certainly not ARC or understanding. It is faith; it is a static, and in a complete static there is no understanding. The individual is taught ‘You have to understand things in life,’ so he goes ahead and tries to understand the eighth dynamic. But you can’t understand the eighth—that is faith! You accept it. You don’t try to wonder about it.”

People may gain faith from life experiences, visiting with holy men and in other ways I am sure, but other than Scientology, I know of no actual technology that is capable or restoring, repairing or creating a resurgence of faith in an individual -- which provides incredible certainty that nothing can strike them down or a feeling that everything is absolutely going to be alright or any other way one may wish to describe it.

Uhhh ... faith is inconsistent with science. You don't have "faith" that a hypothesis or theory will hold out. You may suppose, based on experience, that such a thing may happen, but you don't take it on "faith" that a+b=c. You set up and conduct the experiment, and see what happens. If it turns out that a+b=d, well then. That's that. Reconfirm the results by duplicating the experiment, etc. "Faith" in the area of science leads to prejudice. It is inconsistent with certainty. (Perhaps this is semantic hair-splitting.)

I have had the "incredible certainty" James describes restored, repaired and created by everything from prayer to sex to socializing to going to the Getty Museum to reading a good book to playing with the dogs to holding my wife's hand. Experiencing life fully in the moment, in my experience, is what gives you that "incredible certainty." Even when my neck has been on the chopping block, I've found incredible courage and certainty in confronting the circumstances fully.

If that's all that Scientology has to offer, what's the point of paying $4,000 an intensive for something you can get for free with a library card or in the halls of the Getty? In the end, is the church a "Cargo Cult" with the trappings of science and a few neat parlor tricks that do little to actually clear someone? Is the most it can offer is a way to key you out and give you that "incredible certainty?" If so, that's fine. That's enough, actually. I could be a part of that church.

What I need from ANY church or religion is honesty, transparency, and a "true" commitment to being right -- not a false sense of "rightness" pasted over wrongness. What I find interesting is how the older I get the less I need religion. It seems extraneous and arbitrary. If THIS is what life is, and it's as awesome and wonderful and scary and exciting and horrible and glorious as THIS, why would I need anything else? It would take a lifetime to master life itself, without taking on ridiculous side-projects that, in the end, have no real bearing on my life. In short, why do I need international events, Friday night graduations, TMs and checksheets when an hour or two of burlesque does the job?

Because "An artist never cleared anyone," or so David Petit, the Commanding Officer of Celebrity Centre International once told me. Well, maybe that's just because no one ever went clear.

If I sound bitter, it's only because I get a bit grumpy when I wake up.

The Great Busking Experiment of 2010

II

(BTW - I'm following the free lessons on busking available through www.buskerworld.com.  These blog entries are using the lessons as a jumping-off point.)

Where does my confidence as a performer come from, and will that confidence exhibit itself once I'm on the sidewalk?

I think it may stem from a deep understanding that I have nothing to lose from performing.  Before embarking on some new adventure, I consider the best case and worst case scenarios.  I know full well that the worst and the best rarely--if ever-- happen.

I've gone up on lines, I've forgotten lyrics and chords in the middle of a song, I've been heckled.  I've run afoul of authority and I've said some things on the fly that I have regretted.  On the other hand, I've held an audience, I've nailed a song, and I've thrown in the exact right line at the exact right moment.

Knowing what can go wrong and what can go right allows a person to relax.  Tension is caused by the unknown.  It's the "fight or flight" instinct queuing up psychologically and physically, ready to send you into the thick of things or through the nearest window.  There's an observation a character makes in The Usual Suspects which is quite apt:

First day on the job, you know what I learned? How to spot a murderer. Let's say you arrest three guys for the same killing. You put them all in jail overnight. The next morning, whoever's sleeping is your man. You see, if you're guilty, you know you're caught, you get some rest, you let your guard down. 

Not to say that artists are murderers -- although I have killed in the past -- the point is when you know the stakes and know what cards you hold, you can let go of the "fight or flight" business and just let the flow happen.

The audience identifies with the performer onstage.  If the performer is relaxing into it, going great guns, so too will the audience relax and become enraptured by the performance.

I need to mine my busker friends for their experiences; the horror stories and the fish tales.

Happiness

My Dad bought me an accordion.

You see, I had an accordion-riffic week a couple of weeks ago.  Count Smokula hosted the Monday Night Tease:

Then I performed three nights of Victory Variety Hour's The Wrong Show at Hollywood Fringe Festival.  Also on the ticket, Renee Albert:

I finished off that week with Fish Circus:

And the Fuxedos playing together in concert at Hollywood Fringe Festival:

[Take my word for it.  They have an accordion in some of their songs.]

The last night of The Wrong Show, I asked Renee how the left hand works.  All those buttons -- DAUNTING!  She explained it to me briefly, and then asked, "Do you want to try it?"

Ha ha ha ... do I want to try it.

"ABSOLUTELY I DO!"

She helped me saddle up, and I was off to the races ... er, I was tentatively pushing buttons and working the billows. 

So I expressed my deep desire to get my grubby hands on an accordion over on Facebook.  Something along the lines of, "If anyone has an old accordion in the back of their closet, I'd happily trade for the unicycle in the back of mine!"  Dad started checking prices on eBay and gave me a call.  After an excruciating week of being outbid and losing a number of fine instruments, Dad finally won this beaut:

An Ambassador 120-button squeezebox, built in Italy.  The case was manufactured in Los Angeles, and the vintage lesson books that came along for the ride are stamped with a music shop address in Chula Vista.  Oh, and it sounds sweeeeeeet ...

There is a learning curve.  I took piano lessons when I was six years-old, and I have rudimentary knowledge when it comes to reading music (a combination of Mom teaching me to sight-read for singing as well as cello and trumpet lessons as a teen) but putting it all together is a bit vexing.  Never fear -- I will be up and running soon.  I told Mr. Buddy that I'll be ready to bring the accordion onstage in a month or two.

You remember Mr. Buddy, one half of Mssrs. Snapper & Buddy:

Last night, my second time to really pull the thing out of its case and practice, I figured out the left hand and right hand parts to "La Valse d'Amelie" and John Mayer's "Neon."  Now the challenge is to get those hands working together.  Pretty tough!

I'm very fortunate to have a very understanding and patient spouse.  She is very supportive of my musical pursuits, even if they sound like a whole lotta noise at first.  She's a peach!

So there you have it.  One more weapon in the arsenal of mirth, soon to be unleashed upon unsuspecting burlesque audiences across the Southland.

It's Lie

I think I just threw up in my mouth.

The majority of things listed in this very persuasive litany would be considered "PTS to the middle class" or "other fish to fry"  Seriously ... shiny cars?

"PTS to the middle class" means that your basic purpose as a spiritual being (i.e., being a Scientologist) has been thwarted by your urge to "keep up with the Joneses."  In other words, you're being too materialistic.  This phrase is used to justify onerous demands on members, ("Saving money for your retirement?  Don't be so PTS to the middle class!  Spend that money on your next intensive of auditing!") and the extreme asceticism required of org staff.  ("New clothes?  Don't be so PTS to the middle class!")

"Other fish to fry" means you should get with the program and stop wasting your time pursuing what you may actually be interested in.  For instance, when my wife and I took tap dance lessons in St. Louis, we were excoriated for having "other fish to fry."

Transcript:

"Its shiny cars, wistful eyes and roast beef for dinner.
Its questions and answers and 'I dont knows.'
Its finding true love and losing it and finding it all over again."

A more accurate version would be:

"It's keeping your old, beat-up car running, blurry eyes and skipping lunch to get your stats up.
It's questions, being sent to ethics and Qual until you stop asking them, and toeing the line.
It's finding true love, but suppressing your romantic urges for fear of doing lower conditions."

I fell for the PR bullshit back when I first cracked the spine on What is Scientology?  I believed the glossy pages and staged photographs.  I took the testimonials to heart.

I've been to the puppet show, and I've seen the fucking strings.  Don't believe the hype.

TARANTINO BURLESQUE!

I'm going wig shopping real soon.  The last wig I bought was this cheap "Biblical Character" wig and beard combo.  It's my go-to for when I play Manson:

Charlie reads poetry at Jim Martyka's Dead Beat Poet's Society, hosted by Write/Act Rep.

Brolesque Superstar-in-the-making Steak N. Shake debuts at Peepshow Menagerie

And Red has worn the beard as a terrorist:

Dizzy VonDamn! shows a little patriotism with the help of Red Snapper at Victory Variety Hour's The Wrong Show.

But I'm looking for something a little more sophisticated.  Something a little more ... Vincent Vega.

Red and Mr. Snapper give the Monday Night Tease audience a little Jack Rabbit Slim's action at The Quentin Tarantino Burlesque Film Festival.

When we first performed the act at The Quentin Tarantino Burlesque Film Festival, I wore a clip-on ponytail. My hair was long enough, it worked.  The second year my hair was too short, and I went without.  The number didn't really suffer for it, but Vincent Vega's silhouette is defined by his hair.  Am I right?

A fellow burlesque performer and professional wig-wrangler gave me the address of a wig store that should have what I'm looking for. You wouldn't believe how hard it is to find a men's black ponytail wig that doesn't look like complete shit.

Just one of the few commercially available men's black ponytail wigs.  They all pretty much look like this.

I mean, c'mon!

I've never gone serious wig shopping.  This will be a new experience for yours truly.  I'll be sure to blog about it.

More awesome Tarantino Burlesque Film Festival photos can be found on the Monday Night Tease website.

The Great Busking Experiment of 2010

George Burns did it.  So did the Flying Karamazov Brothers.  Penn & Teller, Steve Martin -- even W.C. Fields did it.  My homeboy, Cliff "Ukulele Ike" Edwards did it.  Busking.  It's a tradition as old as the bards and troubadours of yore.  The word "busk" comes from the Spanish word "buscar," to look for.  And indeed, I'm looking for something.

As you may know, I get paid to make funny and play my ukulele.

I feel that I've hit a certain plateau as a performer.  I'm not getting any better.  I do what I do, and people like it, but I feel I am capable of much more.

I know a guy who is a professor of math education at a very prestigious math college.  He recently went on sabbatical after becoming tenured.  Did he rest on his laurals? NO!  He took a teaching position at an inner-city high school.  That's right:  He bucked up and put himself in the thick of things.  Rubber meets the road time, for certain.  Boy howdy, was it tough!  An emotional roller coaster, as he tells it.  I respect this guy.  He didn't have to do it.  He didn't have anything to prove, except, perhaps, to himself.

I want to experience the oldest crucible there is for what it is I do.  I want to be made or broken by the street.  I want to hang 'em out there, put myself at risk, and earn it.  I desire the chaos of busking; the unpredictable.  I want to know I can be entertaining in the worst possible circumstances.  I want to make money from strangers--absolute and complete strangers--who didn't even know they wanted to be entertained by me.  I want to bring my talent and skill to the public at large and have my efforts recognized in the roughest way possible.

Assuming I survive the experience, and don't hang up my uke out of shame, I expect to emerge a stronger performer.  I expect a surge in confidence and ease on stage.  I expect to hone what I do to a fine point.  And yes, I expect to make some extra scratch.

I will journal my experiences here.  The beginning of this journey will consist of talking to buskers I know, getting a sense of how to go about doing this.  Yeah, yeah: take your uke out to a street corner and play.  Look, I believe in "know before you go."  A little preparation now should save me considerable trouble later.

This is going to be interesting.

I had to post this.


As you may recall, I publicly quit the Church of Scientology this year. (For those of you who read the preceding sentence and went, “WTF?!?” I’d encourage you to read the original post.)

Since nutting up and giving the Church of Putting the Beat Down on People a public kiss-off, I’ve had the pleasure of telling church employees what I really think about the organization they support with their sweat equity.

Recently, I received an email from “HAPI Pers Procurement.” Let me translate that into English for you: HAPI in this case does not refer to the Egyptian god of fertility and the Nile river. Instead, HAPI is the “Hubbard Academy of Personal Independence” in Edinburgh, Scotland. This is an “Advanced Org,” which means this is where one first begins to study Ron’s confidential material. “Pers Procurement” is short for “Personnel Procurement,” sort of the HR rep at a Scientology Organization. The person who signed the email is the “HCO Area Secretary.” “HCO” is short for Hubbard Communications Office, the section responsible for personnel, communication (letters, bulk mail, etc.) and ethics. This is the section I was second in charge of when I was on staff in St. Louis. The HCO Area Secretary, or “HAS” (Yes, they abbreviate abbreviations) is the boss.

How the hell did the boss of the HR department for an org in Scotland get my email address? I ask the HAS that very thing. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Here is an excerpt from Gillian’s email:

Dear Reader,

Have you ever been asked to join staff before? Perhaps you have been asked many times. Maybe you have thought about joining staff or have signed up already or have been on staff before. Wherever you stand on the subject, this letter is for you.

[…]

Overall, the staff member has the satisfaction of knowing they have made a real difference - that they are helping to put there what LRH always wanted - a saner planet.

Thank you for reading... If you would like to apply to become a Hubbard Academy staff member, please reply straight away!

Much Love

Gillian Brown
HCO Area Secretary
Hubbard Academy, Scotland

And my response:

Dear Gillian,

Thank you for taking the time to send me a blind, cold email. And points to you for guessing accurately my relationship to the email (i.e. "Reader.")

I have no idea how an org in Scotland of all places got ahold of my email address. Is it likely that the orgs are out-Admin on CF policy, and have been sharing lists like teenagers share mononucleosis germs? Given the state of the Church, I'd say that's more than likely.

Regarding your invite to change careers, I'd like to counter with such an offer myself.

Quit. Leave the Sea Org.

You've seen outpoints. I was Cope Off for two and a half years at St. Louis Org -- an idyllic Class V Org in the Midwest. If I have seen outpoints in how the church is run, I know you have. I've read the stories from credible witnesses (I recommend Jeff Hawkin's story) of physical and mental abuse at Int Base. I watched the Anderson Cooper series, and saw a journalist with better TRs than the Church's spokesperson expose the truth: The Church does not live up to its stated aims.

I'm not asking you to believe any of this. On the contrary, DON'T believe anything. Look, don't listen. But for God's sake, LOOK.

In the meantime, consider routing out of the Sea Org. Consider creating a life for yourself in an environment where the able truly can prosper. You will be surprised at just how much your work ethic and dedication to the task at hand will translate to great professional success in the much maligned "wog world." The perks: No one yelling obscenities at you, insisting you miss sleep to hit some arbitrary stat goal. No more suppressive targets on hare-brained programs. No more chicken-scratch paychecks. Merely the expectation that you do a good job, and the freedom to actually do it.

And by the way: The Bridge is available outside the church.

The next time you have one of THOSE Wednesday nights, when you know you're on the chopping block, and you find yourself compromising your integrity to push your stats up, think about this email. Freedom is yours, if you want it.

You're a Scot, for Christ's sake. Get your back up and throw off the tyranny of little men with little minds who bark orders from half a world away.

-- Andrew

PS - On the off chance some HCO terminal intercepts this email before it gets to its intended recipient, what I said above goes double for you. Are there no men in Scotland? Bring order, damn it.

I throw around a lot of Scientologese in this email, but I think you get the gist. (That’s right, I’m not defining jargon, thus endangering my reader with dreaded misunderstood words! Oooooooo. Per the tech, you should all start committing harmful acts towards me, thus justifying your urge to leave. Because that’s what happens when you go past a word you don’t understand. Also, you should be yawning.)
And the response I get from (ostensibly) the person in charge of the Hubbard COMMUNICATIONS Office? The person in charge of the Department of Inspections and Reports, the ethics top cop at the org? Brace yourselves:

Bugger off

And there you have it folks, one of the modern masters of communication.  The sad thing is, I don't doubt Gillian's sincerity and willingness to help others.  You don't put up with all the bullshit that comes along with the corporate climate of Scientology without having your heart in the right place.  I hope Gillian recalls my email during the inevitible "Dark Nights of the Soul" that come along when you're on org staff.

I Believe.

[I'm not sure where I was (mentally) when I wrote this draft, but it's been kicking around for a while. I don't want to delete it, so I'm going ahead and publishing it.]

I believe in shoestrings, in raw talent and bruised knuckles.

I believe in not having all the answers, but not letting that get in your way. I believe in opening things up, stripping things down, getting in way over your head and putting it all back together in the end.

I believe in working parts. I believe in functionality and utility, but not at the expense of style, which is just another word for whimsy. I believe that if it isn't beautiful when you're finished, it wasn't the right solution to begin with. I believe in elegance, but I also believe in getting the job done, by hook or by crook.

I believe in leaping before you look, trusting yourself, and reaching for higher ground. I believe in failure, in the power failure holds. I believe in picking yourself up, dusting yourself off, and starting all over again.

I believe in resilience, in the indomitable human spirit, in compassion and self-sacrifice. I believe in tolerance, but I believe in merit. I believe in teaching a man to fish, but giving a man a fish in a pinch. I believe in not being an idiot. I believe in trust but verify.

I believe that the most anyone can ask of you is your best.

I believe nothing gives a person the right to infect your space with their crazy.

I believe in liberty. I believe in the chaos 6.7 billion free individuals could potentially wreak.

I believe in "Soyez réalistes, demandez l'impossible!", in "Do I contradict myself?/Very well, then, I contradict myself;/(I am large—I contain multitudes.)" and in capax universi. I believe its all been done before, but that's no reason not to do it again.

I believe in time-binding, in standing on the shoulders of genius and reaching higher, in reading a good book or at least a trashy paperback.

I believe in taking the time to figure out what you believe, because if you don't, someone is bound to try and do it for you. And I believe that's pretty fucked.