Cracked Ice at PS122

I'm seen, briefly, in this brilliant new play by the infamous, adored, and heroic Jennifer Miller. Be there, or be there.

The world premiere of:

"CRACKED ICE
or THE JEWELS OF THE FORBIDDEN SKATES!"

A new play by Jennifer Miller
with additional text by Deb Margolin

In this glittering theatrical extravaganza, the infamous juggling duo, The Liberty Sisters, have been fleeced by an evil ponzi schemer. Sybil and Statua Liberty embark on a mad-cap tour of revenge...but they aren't the only ones after the greedy crook. Mistaken identities, missed opportunities, star crossed lovers and variety hall numbers all combine to bring East Village high camp back home. It's tragedy, it's farce, it's mystery, it's mayhem...it's "CRACKED ICE or JEWELS OF THE FORBIDDEN SKATES!!"

April 25-May 10
Performance Space 122 -- First Avenue and 9th Street, NYC

Wed-Sun at 8pm
With additional late show, Sat, May 9 at 11pm.

Special performance to benefit Circus AMOK! on Sunday, May 3 at 8pm.

Starring: Jennifer Miller, Ashley Brockington, Tanya Gagne, Lee Houck, Sally May, Adrienne Truscott, Carlton Ward, and Rae C. Wright. Music & Lyrics by Kenny Mellman. Design by Jonathan Berger. Set Paintings by Mila Geisler. Choreography by Faye Driscoll. With additional text for Bernie Madoff by Deb Margolin. Special surprise guest artists each night, including Scott Heron, Jennifer Monson, Novice Theory, Jenny Romaine, Cathy Weis and many more!

CLICK HERE FOR TICKETS TO REGULAR PERFORMANCES:
Use code "FF12" to buy single tickets for only $12
Use code "FF241" to buy two or more tickets for only $10 each!!!
(2 for $20, 5 for $50, and so on.)

TICKETS FOR BENEFIT PERFORMANCE:
Benefit performance tickets are ONLY AVAILABLE at the AMOK website. Tickets are $50, $75 or $100 and include a post-show reception with the cast and creative team, as well as exclusive AMOK schwag!

WUUFF / DIET SUV

Letter from Utah: Part 9 of 12

This post is part 9 in a series of 12. You can download the entire essay by clicking here, or you can read the serial installments as they appear.

We meet my friend, the writer Rob Williams*, in St. George, a town of nearly 70,000, where he is doing research for a novel. We check into the Super 8 Motel, and find a Thai restaurant down the road. Despite being so close to closing time, they seat us quickly and the food is warm and good—and the company is lovely. At some point during the meal, the restaurant staff begins to move all the chairs around into a circle, away from us, but still in earshot. Everyone sits, and someone—the manager? The owner?—starts to lecture the kitchen staff about sending entrées and appetizers out in the wrong order. Then he starts delivering a strange, rhetoric-rich speech on why working at this particular restaurant, with this particular crew, is important, character-building work. He asks everyone in the circle to talk about how this job has made them better people. “Well…” we hear one of the waitresses say, “I know I do not work here for the money, so it must be something bigger.” Her tone indicates that she does not know what that something might be. They start vacuuming around our feet. Point taken.

The next morning, after a hearty breakfast at the Bear Paw Café, and compulsory photographs of all of us in front of the big Bear Paw sign, the three of us drive up to Snow Canyon, a National Park where much of the “The Conqueror” was shot, a 1956 Howard Hughes-produced flop starring John Wayne as Genghis Khan.

We climb up onto the red sand dunes where mothers are playing with their children. “Can you feel the radiation?” Rob says.

In the early 1950s, the United States Government began aboveground nuclear testing in the Nevada desert, only about 130 miles west of St. George. One of the tests, the detonation of a thirty-two-kiloton monster known as “Dirty Harry,” would cause citizens in St. George to remark on the sudden appearance of an odd metallic taste in the air. (Residents of Three Mile Island would note the same mysterious tang on the wind.) Dick Powell, director of “The Conqueror,” died of cancer in 1963. John Wayne died of cancer in 1979. The film’s other stars, Agnes Moorhead and Pedro Armendariz, also died of cancer. By the mid 1980s, 91 of the 220 cast and crew members had developed some kind of cancer, and roughly half of those 91 had died. Lots of things come into play with something as unpredictable as cancer—John Wayne smoked five packs a day—but these are significant numbers. In the nearby town of La Verkin, farmers reported that after fallout wafted through their grazing fields, their goats, literally, turned blue. William Sleight, a longtime resident of St. George, wrote about the blasts in his diary:

May 19, 1953:
Beautiful morning. We left St. George at 4 a.m. for Las Vegas, Nevada. We were watching for the A-Bomb explosion on the desert north of Las Vegas. At 5 a.m., just dawn, we saw the flash which lit up the skies, a beautiful red, visible for hundreds of miles away. It was a beautiful sight, a hundred miles or more away from it….I drove for ten minutes, then stopped the car on the roadside, got out and soon after we heard the report of the blast. It rumbled as thunder, not quite the same as other blasts we have heard. This is the 9th in a series of ten, another next week. It makes me shudder when I think of what misery we may face when men start dropping these terrific bombs on our cities. Some fanatics are now clamoring for their use in Korea.

After we came back on Highway 91, we were stopped and a young man examined our car with an instrument to see if we had picked up any radioactive dust while traveling on the Highway. Found none so we missed a free car wash (which would have been appreciated). . . .

Returned to St. George in a high wind, which seems to always follow these explosions.

*Okay, here you are Rob. Are you fucking happy now?

Literary Queers Paint Town Pink, er, Purple, uh, I mean, Drunk

Rob & Ted, the editors of the shit-kickingest anthology, From Boys to Men, were in town over the weekend for (among other things) the Lambda Literary Awards, where the anthology was nominated. (We lost to Love, Bourbon Street, an anthology about Gays/New Orleans/Katrina, which is a good book to lose to, if you have to lose.)

Kip and I had planned to meet them for beers at the Dugout--which quickly turned into beers at the Dugout, followed by a walk/limpish gay run in the pouring rain to the Cowgirl Hall of Fame, where we had a shot of tequila, margaritas and a very un-weight-watchers-friendly dinner. I had the crackermeal catfish, which was fabulous. Plus a bit of the gluey (but still good) rice and the broccoli which served as the accompaniments.

Curtis was also there, who I know from my days long ago with Jason, and it was nice to spend some actual time with him--the last time I saw Curtis he was running through the Greenmarket to somewhere. Also with us was Vestal McIntyre, a writer also in From Boys to Men, and the author of You Are Not the One. Vestal instigated the tequila at The Cowgirl. But he is fabulous. And lovely, and funny, etc.

Then we ended up at The Eagle.

Ted wrote in his post about the evening, "We saw some amazing, somewhat unpleasant couplings," and I think that's the best way to describe what we witnessed. We also talked about some crazy-ass-shit that you might do if, say, given large amounts of cash. $10,000 kinds of things. There were other dollar amounts thrown around, other crazy ideas, but I have forgotten them. $10,000 might be a lot of money--but I'm not telling you what one would have to do to earn this money. (It might be less, in reality. How can one know such a thing?)

I so rarely "go out" anymore--what with my seventeen jobs and, oh yeah, that novel I'm trying to write--so this was especially awesome evening.

Some kind of night, right?

(PS - I stole the pics from Ted.)

Am I the Only One Finding This Hysterical?