I am currently involved in a production of the stage play, “Short Eyes” by Miguel Pinero. The play was written in the mid-‘70s while Mr. Pinero was incarcerated at New York’s Sing Sing prison. The play concerns a mild-mannered, white male who is thrust upon a predominately Black and Puerto Rican prison population after being accused of molesting a young girl. While it is not explicitly stated that he committed this particular crime, it is made clear that he is indeed a pedophile who has molested other young girls in the past. “Short Eyes” was awarded both the Drama Critics’ Circle Award and The Obie Award for Best Play in 1974. It was also nominated for a Tony award in 1975.
While the play deals with a very dark subject matter, it certainly has it lighter comedic moments as well. What I have found most interesting, however, is the manner of conversation in which I have engaged with friends and acquaintances who invariably ask, “How’s the play going?”
Typically, I have responded with the cursory – albeit socially acceptable – “Good. Yeah, you know, it’s fun. I’m having a good time with it.” This in turn elicits the similarly cursory yet socially acceptable response of, “That’s great. Good for you.” End of conversation.
With my colleagues in “the biz”, the conversation will also usually include the perfunctory moaning about the difficulties of doing theatre in Los Angeles that garners me the commiserating sympathetic attention I obviously seek.
I find myself, however, with those of whom I consider my more intimate confidants, confessing the additional revelation that while I enjoy performing the role of Mr. Nett and find my fellow cast members, director and stage manager to be delightful, I am not so sure that the play works. My explanation and the subsequent discussion – particularly with those who are familiar with the play – invokes the standard question of whether or not something written some thirty plus years ago can still be relevant today. Inevitably, we chalk it up to an absence of conflict since media sensationalism has rendered us emotionally impotent to even the most despicable acts of incongruence. Besides, we conclude, the play only really works if the audience is able to sympathize with this man – and how can one feel any such thing for an admitted child molester? He deserves to die. Right?
Though these conversations have gone in no further detail than this, my mind, as it so often will do when I have something that has been left undone or have consciously been mendacious – or simply because it feels the necessity to include me when wrestling its demons – wakes me in the middle of the night to set me straight. What occurred to me during this 2 am, self-directed diatribe was that “Short Eyes” does indeed work as a play and bears tremendous relevance today – not in spite of the reasons discussed above, but because of them.
In my epiphany, I realized the conversations I was having, no matter their depth or lack thereof, were the current modus operandi of a society that has become conditioned to ignore all but the most heinous atrocities – and even then our contemplative pause and subsequent change of behavior is only momentary at best. I’m not sure if this condition is a manifestation of a society that has “seen it all” and is thus bothered by little or a product of the “positive thinking” generation that renounces anything controversial and just presses on, but either way, the result is that we simply don’t stop and think about things anymore – at least not to the extent that matters of significance are given their due consideration. If we do think about such things, we rarely risk the repercussions of engaging in conversation about them.
True, the advent of social media has caused us all to become more attention deficient to the point where we have little time to focus on our own lives let alone circumstances that don’t directly affect us. However, when we begin the process of casually disregarding all that seemingly doesn’t concern us or is deemed negative or just too difficult or controversial – in other words, when we arrive at the conclusion of, “I don’t want to think about it” – we not only do ourselves a great disservice but tear at the very fabric on which our society stands.
This play is about a child molester, called “Short Eyes” by other inmates because he is considered the lowest form of prison life, and the abuse he suffers. This play is about whether or not the basic rights inherited by our birth are truly granted to all or if they come with qualifications. This play is about whether human dignity can be unconditional. This play is about a lot of things. But no matter one’s opinion of the above, this play is about us and our inalienable right to feel and think for ourselves. That is always relevant. I hope you will take the time to come see this show. More importantly, I hope you will think and talk about it as well.

“Short Eyes” by Miguel Pinero runs November 17, 2011 – December 11, 2011 at Los Angeles Theatre Center, 514 South Spring Street, Los Angeles, CA 90013. Presented by Urban Theatre Movement and and The Latino Theater Company. Thursday-Saturday @8pm; Sunday @7pm. For tickets and info: www.urbantheatremovement.com or www.thelatc.org. Phone: 866-811-4111

It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything because, frankly, I’ve been trying to get over the fact that the Yankees won the World Series.

I HATE THE YANKEES!

My dad was a Yankees fan.  Growing up, we watched all the Yankee games on TV.  My grandfather hated the Yankees too.  Something about not getting a tryout with their farm team or something.  Every time the Yankees would win, my grandfather, who couldn’t speak English, would swear in Italian, wave his arms wildly, spit on the TV and storm out of the room.  My father, deriving some sick pleasure out of this, would just laugh.  In fact, after my grandfather died, my father would take out an ad in the newspaper whenever the Yankees won the world series that said, Guess What, Poppy?  The Yankees Won the World Series!  That’s how demented he was.

My reason for hating the Yankees is more broad than my grandfather’s – and it’s not just because my father was a fan.  To me, the Yankees represent everything that’s wrong with this world.  They are the spoiled rich kid that whines if he doesn’t get his way.  They’re the 800 pound gorilla, the best money can buy, a monopoly. 

THE YANKEES ARE UN-AMERICAN!

This year, maybe more than ever though, I really wanted them to lose.  This was the year that pretty boy A-Rod somehow escaped a steroid controversy, a divorce and a fling with Madonna, completely unscathed.  I wanted them to lose if for nothing else, to wipe that smug look off his face.  His and Jeter’s.  Jeter’s always looking smug.  The douche-bag.

And I thought the fix was in.  I really thought we had our ace-in-the-hole.  The one weapon that would surely cripple the Yankees.  It wasn’t Ryan Howard or Chase Utley or any of the other Phillies.  It wasn’t the Yankee’s middle relief – or lack thereof.  No, one thing that would surely lead to the Yankee’s demise was: Kate Hudson.

Kate is one of these people for whom good fortune has always shined upon.  She lives in this utopian bliss, oblivious to any reality that there may be ill-will in the world.  She is so determined to remain in this fog that she apparently carries around a vile of Holy Water in the event she should encounter any negativity.

I don’t know Kate Hudson personally, but all I can say is, if I meet her, she’s going to need a garden hose!

I’ve always had the theory that this positive thinking stuff is over-rated.  It’s bullshit and usually counter-productive.  Case in point: Kate Hudson.

Where does all this good karma crap get her?  First of all, she ruins what was arguable the greatest rock and roll band to ever come along since the Rolling Stones.  Think about it: what have the Black Crowes done since Chris Robinson married Kate Hudson?  Nothing.  They get in a fight, the band is all but dismantled and they haven’t put out a decent album in years.  They’re just now get it back together and it’s been what, ten years?  And then there was that Howdy-Doody looking guy Kate started dated after here divorce.  What’s his name?  Oh yeah, Owen Wilson.  She had such a positive influence on him that he tried to kill himself.  Twice.

So I thought it was only a matter of time before the Yankees went down once A-Rod started seeing her.

But it didn’t happen.  The Yankees won the World Series – with Kate and her step-dad, Kurt Russell, giddily cheering them on from the stands.

Oh well, there’s always next year.  That’s why I went out and bought Norman Vincent Peal’s “The Power Of Positive Thinking”.  Who knows, maybe it will rub off on my Mets!

Chazz Palminteri is currently performing his terrific one-man show, “A Bronx Tale”, at the Venetian in Las Vegas.  This, of course, is the show he performed decades ago that got Robert DeNiro’s attention and led to the film by the same name – not to mention launching Chazz’s career.  I saw the more recent performance of this show that Chazz has been touring, both in New York and Los Angeles, and I highly recommend it – particularly if you can see it in Vegas.

Why particularly in Vegas?  Well, because the story Chazz tells is about his relationship with – what the audience can only assume is – a mob boss.  I say, “what the audience can only assume is a mob boss” due to the fact that there is never any mention of the mob – which is interesting in and of itself (more on that later) but particularly here, since the last time Vegas, Baby was actually Vegas, Baby was when the purported “mob” ran the place.

What you see in “A Bronx Tale” is a boy – Cologero or simply, ‘C’ – learning to be a man.  From his father, yes, but also and especially, from our “mob” boss – Sonny.  Sonny teaches C the value of community and how to conduct himself as a gentleman.  And whether they love him or fear him because of what he does, everyone – including C’s father – respects Sonny for the man he is.

The qualities that Sonny exhibits – and passes on to C – are rarely seen in today’s so-called men.  But that’s an entirely different diatribe.  My point is, that when Vegas was supposedly run by guys like Sonny it at least had class.  It was an adult playground where you could dress up, see a show, have a nice meal and do a little gambling.  Now it’s a poor excuse for Disneyland where flip-flop and t-shirt wearing parents drag their ragamuffin kids around at all hours of the night and day.  An interesting contradiction for Chazz’s show.

What happened?  Sadly, Corporate America took over.  And the same can be said for the Mob.

Now before I go any further, let’s get one thing straight:  according to yours truly, there is no such thing as the Mob or the Mafia or La Cosa Nostra or any of the other euphemisms used to describe an alleged group of predominantly Italian-Americans involved in “organized crime”.  Never was.  First of all, organized crime is somewhat oxymoronic, isn’t it?  But that’s beside the point.  Like Chazz Palminteri, I too grew up in a neighborhood that was heavily populated with those of my own ethnic heritage.  The reason there is no mention of the Mob in “A Bronx Tale” is because we never used that kind of terminology.  I should know.  My father – for lack of any other way of describing him that you may understand – knew people, was supposedly connected, whatever.  According to my mother, he was simply a good-for-nothing dago bastard, but that too is an entirely different story.  To the best of my knowledge and observations, there were no secret societies, no hierarchies, no bosses, under bosses, capos, etc…  There was never even talk of “This Thing of Ours”.  All that stuff was invented by Hollywood and the Government to sell tickets and justify some G-man’s salary.  But I digress.

What’s for sure is that if there ever was anything such as the Mob, it certainly doesn’t exist anymore.   For all the supposed indiscretions and illegalities that the Mob is reported to be involved with, what people fail to recognize is that its essential function was to provide security and protection.  If you didn’t have deep pockets or couldn’t speak English very well, the Mob was your insurance company.  And unlike premiums, you got something for your payola.  If there was every an accident or a need, there was always money, flowers or food generously donated by your local ghoomba.

But then, Corporate America took over and it all went downhill – just like Vegas.

Case in point:  A seventeen year old girl needs a liver transplant but her insurance company – Cigna – refuses to pay for it.  She dies.

Now the girl’s mother is obviously upset so she pays a visit to the Cigna headquarters in Philadelphia – where the CEO of the insurance company no doubt lives in a mansion on the mainline and sends his kids to Haverford thanks to all the premium payments this mother and others like her have paid.  Does the mother go there seeking money, retribution?  No, she goes simply asking for an apology.  What happens?  She gets heckled, flipped off and is summarily shown to the door by the capos, underbosses, soldiers and other ghoombas otherwise known as the Cigna employees.

All I can say is, this would have never happened in the neighborhood I grew up in.  Or where Chazz grew up either.  But like he says in the conclusion of his show, maybe this is just another Bronx Tale.

A woman tweeting about her miscarriage? A guy blackmailing a grieving father?

WHAT GIVES!!!!

Not exactly the subject matter I was going for in my inaugural blog, but I couldn’t control myself. Admittedly, the only thing that ties these two douche-bags (no pun intended) together is that they appeared in the headlines at similar times and thus simultaneously pissed me off.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m all for freedom of speech, a woman’s right, etc.. The subtle art of shameless self-promotion is not beneath me and God knows the things I’ve done to put food on the table.

BUT PLEASE!!!!

As to this dumb-ass woman who proudly professes on Twitter to be having a miscarriage during a board meeting – and relieved to be doing so because she will now avoid the 3 weeks’ wait and red tape of having an abortion in Wisconsin – all I can say is: you must have made your husband, not to mention your father, very, very proud.

This other prick is a real piece of work. Some paramedic in the Bahamas takes liberties with his position and threatens to expose John Travolta as being responsible for his own son’s death – if he does not pay him millions of dollars. I don’t know what they teach in Scientology, but John must have powers of tremendous restraint because if that was me,

I WOULD HAVE RUNG THAT PIECE-OF-SHIT’S NECK!!!!

In fact, maybe someone can point me in his direction. I’ve got a lot of steam to blow off…