Plays    <<------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<<


Bobbie & Evan: A Twisted Carol (with Beau Pritchard)   StageRight Dec 2014

Evening with Mark Twain                                         Tour

Voices                                                                          Cornish College of the Arts

A Rogue and Peasant Slave                                     Shakespeare Plus!

Death Strikes!                                                              New City/Prose and Poetry Society

The Stranger (1 Act version)                                       New City Playwrights Fest

                                                                                        Belltown Theatre Center NewWorks

Santa Clause vs. the Purple Ray of Death                New City Playwrights Fest.

Childhood, Life, Love, and Death                                New City Playwrights Fest

Straight Men                                                                  New City Playwright Fest.

Why Do Fools…                                                              Macha Monkey Workshop

Bobby in ’68                                                                    One Man Show/Workshop

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>>-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------->>    Books


Fabulous Fictioneers                                    Pop Culture Essays           PS Publishing: Fall 2018                 

Robert E. Howard and the Battle For Conan      Non-Fiction                TwoMorrows Pub: Summer 2018

 

"Bobby in '68", an excerpt:

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BOBBY: Poverty. This was an ‘issue’ that hides in plain sight. It was class, it was race and we couldn’t see it because it was right in front of us. It didn’t have students marching, it didn’t lead the Brinkely/Huntly report but it shaped more lives than the war, it killed as many futures as the Viet Cong.

It was the one thing I ever agreed with Lyndon about; poverty. It had to be fought, but it also had to be understood. Sending a bunch of well-meaning white people into black neighborhoods might make us feel better, but visible poverty is one thing, it was the deeper poverty we had to go after, it was a wound we had to heal. If they’d let us.

Mississippi. It was some of the worst poverty I’d ever seen, the kind that should have hung America’s head in permanent shame. We went outside of the towns, past the city centers and people wanting to hand me keys and plaques, as the poor were always away, hidden, off main roads, on the cheapest land, the kind of land no one would want except those that had no other choice. There were rows of dusty shacks… shacks is being generous. Clapboard, missing windows, missing doors, repaired with flattened tin cans, old signs, planks ripped from other houses that were so bad as to be completely unlivable. No running water, just a communal pipe sticking out of the ground that you had to let run for minutes until it cleared enough of mud and rust that you could drink it. It should have been boiled, but you can’t tell a thirsty child to wait while water boils and cools. There was a lot of sickness. You don’t talk about being sick when you’re poor, you don’t talk about expensive things like doctors, drugs, because you don’t talk about what you can’t have. It’s expensive to be poor. They pay a tax greater than any of our CEOs.

Kids sat outside in the dirt, hungry, rags barely covering the sores on their arms and legs. Stomach swollen from too little food, not too much.

            HE KNEELS DOWN TO TALK TO A YOUNG BOY

What did you have for breakfast?

Molasses.

What did you have dinner?

Molasses.

For lunch.

Don’t have no lunch.

The shacks were clean, the families kept them as clean as possible. The flies… The flies were terrible. They descended on you, clung to you, searched you like a hungry man; crawling into pockets, under clothes, into eyes and mouths. At one home I found the family listless with hunger, the children near catatonic.

No, you all wait outside, no pictures please. I’ll be fine, I have friends here.

The smallest boy had a stomach distended from hunger. A little girl just lay on the dirt floor, like a pile of rags, so sick, so weak from malnourishment she couldn’t even brush away the flies that nearly covered her. She just lay there… my god.

Honey? Hi…

BOBBY PICKS UP THE CHILD. HOLDS HER, SHOOS AWAY THE FLIES AND WHISPERS LOW TO HER. HE ROCKS SLOWLY BACK AND FORTH, SOFTLY SINGING.

My life has been wasted, it’s all been for nothing. Nothing…

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"Why Do Fools", an excerpt:

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IN THE BEGINNING: CONFUSION MEETS CHANCE

BOB STANDS CENTER, LOOKING OUT AS IF TRYING TO FIND SOMETHING, HE HOLDS A COUPLE BOOKS. BEAT. DEBBIE PASSES BY BEHIND. SHE STOPS AND SURVEYS THE STILL FORWARD LOOKING BOB. SHE REVERSES COURSE, PASSING WITHIN INCHES RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIM.

DEB: Oh, excuse me.

BOB: Uh, sure.

DEB WALKS TO THE SIDE OF THE STAGE, BOB, AFTER FOLLOWING HER WITH HIS EYES A BRIEF SECOND, LOOKS AWAY. DEBBIE HEADS BACKS PASSING BY AGAIN, BUMPING INTO HIM.

DEB: Oh, geeze, sorry!

BOB: Oops, that’s okay. Almost dropped my books.

DEB: Oh these books? (Debbie puts her hand on them)

BOB: Yeah, right.

            DEBBIE KNOCKS THE BOOKS FROM HIS HANDS. HE LOOKS AT HER, SHE LOOKS BACK.

BOB: (Puts out his hand) Bob.

DEB: I know. Debbie.

BOB: I know.

            PAUSE

DEB: You going to pick those up?

BOB: Maybe.

DEB: Want a ride home?

BOB: Maybe.

DEB: Car’s in the lot.

BOB: Orange, U of A sticker.

DEB: Maybe.

BOB: You going to pick these up?

            DEB WALKS OFF TOWARD THE LOT

BOB: Maybe not…

            BOB SCOOPS UP THE BOOKS, RUNS AFTER HER

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"The Final Problem of Sherlock Holmes", Excerpt:

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LIGHTS DIM. PROFESSOR MORIARTY ENTERS, STANDING CENTER IN A SPOT OF LIGHT.

MORIARTY: Enter.

            MORAN ENTERS. HE LOOKS AROUND HIM, NOT SURE OF WHAT OR WHOM HE SEES. MORIARTY DOESN’T LOOK AT HIM.

MORIARTY: Do you know who I am?

MORAN: I have heard of you.

MORIARTY: I am more rumor than legend, more fancy than fact. That is the way I prefer it.

MORAN: Then it is true…

MORIARTY: It is all true, it is all lies. Do you know why you are here?

MORAN: I can guess.

MORIARTY: Then please do so.

MORAN: You have need of my skills.

MORIARTY: True, and also incorrect.

MORAN: Sir?

MORIARTY: We have need of each other Colonel. I have need of your skill as a marksman to look after certain… assignments… both here and abroad.

MORAN: Ah yes, of course.

MORIARTY: Of course, and you have need of my services as well.

MORAN: Do I?

MORIARTY: Please Colonel, don’t embarrass yourself any further. You fled India ahead of desertion and fraud charges…

MORAN: Now see here. I…

MORIARTY: (Holding up his hand sharply) Stop. Do not lie; it sickens me. There have been several women who all have thought themselves to be Mrs. Colonel Sebastian Moran, there have been several men left holding worthless ‘investments’ and more who hold notes not worthy of the parchment they are written on. Your ill-gotten money you’ve lost to horses, cards and whores…

MORAN: Am I on trial?

MORIARTY: Even now you make your living by cheating others at chance, a living only able to keep up your front and club memberships and that not for long. You have disgraced and degenerated your skills of the hunt, of iron will and the sharpest eye in the British army.

            I am here to give them back to you.

MORAN: I am listening.

MORIARTY: You will be on a retainer, enough to keep you in style and in society where I will need you. You will live in a flat I have procured for in in Central London, with memberships in every club that I deem important to my cause. You will have an account to draw funds from, limitless. In exchange, I will make use of your organizing skills and your ability to inspire discipline in followers. And your marksmanship, most obviously your marksmanship. 

This is agreeable to you?

MORAN: If I say no?

MORIARTY: (TAKES OUT A NOTEBOOK, READS) I have already dealt with Sir Geoffrey Northing who held several of your worthless notes, with Lord Marbury who was spreading rumors of your inexplicable sharpness at cards, (he had an explanation, by the way), and one Miss Wilde. A delicate little thing who claimed to be with your child…

            These are a few of the problems I have already taken care of; a smallish demonstration. I would say you would be a ruined man, taken down by your own lusts and wantoness, within the month.

MORAN: I see.

MORIARTY: Do you? I offer interesting and challenging work, something you are lacking in this human jungle London; money to keep you amused and away from some of your baser desires, and safety. From the law, from your enemies, from yourself.

MORAN: I accept.

MORIARTY: A man of few words. I appreciate that, I am told it is a habit I should adopt. Of course, if you had not accepted.

            ROBINSON AND HIS GANG STEP OUT OF THE SHADOWS

MORAN: I see.

MORIARTY: So you say. (HE REACHES INSIDE HIS COAT, PULLS OUT A MASK) You will need this.

MORAN: A mask?

MORIARTY: Much of your value lies in your anonymity; unmasked you have no value to me. In this sanctum, with my minions, you will be masked.

MORAN: I am no man’s minion.

MORIARTY: Nor shall you be. My LAST lieutenant ran afoul of a man, a‘consulting’ detective and had to be… replaced. With you.

            MORAN PUTS ON THE MASK.

MORIARTY: I will inform you when you are needed. It will most likely be soon. Mister Robinson will see you out.

            MORAN EXITS WITH ROBINSON. MORIARTY AGAIN TAKES OUT HIS NOTEBOOK.

MORIARTY: Holmes, Sherlock. To be watched.

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