Saturday, August 6, 2011

A little progress report.

So I realized I don't have a list anywhere of all the plays I've completed so far. Some of these plays have been staged in one way or another. Some I'm wildly submitting to things at the moment. If any of them seem in any way interesting to you please give me a holla' at to read the full thing or just chat a bit.

Plastic People in Waiting
1 Act Play. 45 minutes. 6 F. 2 M.
Dr. Cohen’s secretary is dead. His office is a mess. Six zany characters vie for one last chance to meet the Dr before he jets off to Brazil. Who makes the cut?

The Face Of
1 Act Play. 45 minutes. 2 Females. 1 Male.
Borrowing a movie star’s face seemed like a great career move for Alice Whitaker. Unfortunately, even the prettiest faces have ugly stories.

In a Relationship
Solo Show/ Short. 25 minutes. 1 F.
Boy meets girl. Boy asks girl to be in a relationship. Girl internet stalks boy. It’s complicated.

Tell Tale Text
Short. 15 minutes. 1 F. 3 M.
A harrowing tale of a phone that wouldn’t silence and a man driven mad by the sound.

Friends & Monsters
Short. 10 minutes. 2 Lady Gaga Impersonators. Walk on Entourage.
Sometimes the things we want aren’t as simple as they appear. Drag can be deceiving.

Speed Dates with Imaginary Men
Short. 10 minutes. 1 F. 5 Males. (Actors can play more than one part.)
You know those guys that seem so great in all those romantic movies. See what happens when you go on a speed date with them.

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Very Bad Speed Dates

An excerpt from speed dates with imaginary men, a ten minute play told in five dates.

You went to jail?

Can’t avenge your father’s death without killing a man.

You killed a man?

Had to babycakes. It was a matter of honor. Look see this
here..this skull with the knife through it, it’s a die fighting.Look at it everyday in the john.

What does the snake mean?

Luke takes off his shirt to reveal a gigantic
back tattoo.

The rattler’s crawling through the barbwire to reach a
rose. See this writing there under my traps. It’s Japanese for every rose has its thorns.
It’s a reminder of Angela-

Did Angela die?

I wish. Snake woman betrayed me...during the war.

Which war?

The big one.

Friday, March 4, 2011

Here! Here!

So the time is play "Plastic People in Waiting" will soon hit the stage. If you haven't reserved tickets yet, please do call 646-329-6588. It'll make me like you a whole lot. Plus I've got seats to fill people.

So goes the elevator pitch:

Dr. Cohen's office is overbooked. His secretary is dead. And Betty, the temp, is left to pick up the pieces. Meanwhile an aging star, a precocious schoolgirl, a pageant mom and a peculiar therapist, all vie for a last nip and tuck with the Doctor before he jets off to Brazil. While they wait, tension builds, personalities clash, and secrets are revealed, ensuring that no one leaves this Doctor's visit unchanged.

Showtimes are: March 12 at 6, March 13 at 7 and March 17 at 6
At the Manhattan Repertory Theatre
303 West 42nd Street
City: New York, NY 10036

If you like a funny story with a dark twist, and lots of boob and vagina references, this play's for you! Check out the facebook event page for details on the cast.

Thursday, December 17, 2009

An excerpt from work intended to be longer

image via calvin hollywood

Other than killing her husband, Amy Schneider had never done a single, remarkable thing. She did however look pleasant in a black dress. Her dresses were never too low cut nor deceptively conservative, in fact, Amy did her best to not look too much like anything at all. Perhaps, it was part of the plan, this habit of hers, this tendency to be a side note in other people’s conversations.

The weeks following the shooting, Ari’s death was remarked on often and with a certain degree of understanding. Death had been wished upon Ari by postalworkers, coworkers, waiters and occasionally his dearest friends. He was just that sort of guy.

Ari worked in Public Relations for a prominent firm – though not an entirely well regarded one–and had made it his life’s work to destroy anyone who stood in his path. Amy, who did no work at all, did not interfere with Ari’s business. In fact, she knew not a thing about his dealings. As for the rest of them, they all knew Ari far too well.

--inspired by the pages of Gawker, at least a tad or so.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

Boris the deceased

The deceased was fat. His meaty rolls poured out of his knock off suit; a suit intended to make him look respectable for the evening. Boris’s flesh, however, was unused to such confined quarters.

In the past, these same rolls had hung happily over his velvet tracksuit pants or rested provocatively behind a sweat-stained wife-beater, but now they propelled forward, undeterred by his fancy collar. Hairy and obvious; the rolls were performing an act of posthumous rebellion against the whole decentness of the event.

Sitting in the funeral home, with the grey skies of Midwood looming overhead, the family gathered together to look upon him. Boris’s blubber was evident, in fact, it was commented on by every member of the tight-knit clan. Boris was dead and had put on fifteen pounds in the process of dying. There was no need to be polite about it. It was the truth.

The observations, which were uttered loudly between the hymns and prayers, weren’t mean spirited in nature. In fact, everyone was pretty jolly about the whole thing, a possible result of the vodka, drunk ceremoniously before the funeral. Vodka only indulged in, in honor of Boris, who loved the drink so. Vodka also partaken of in honor of Boris’s mother, his father, his brother, and his dog.

Boris’s dog , who was also fat, was also dead. Boris had wished to be buried in the same casket as Smirnoff, his furry companion, but alas they both could not fit in one final resting place.So, Smirnoff would be buried beside him in his own casket. Unfortunately, the only doggie sized casket available in the funeral home was a shocking shade of pink. Boris would most likely think the salmon colored casket was too effeminate for such a manly, and more so , such hairy a dog. But as we already said repeatedly: Boris was dead.

The ceremony proceeded on, with respects paid to both man and mutt. Everyone agreed that Boris’s wife cried gratuitously as the dog’s casket was closed. It was also agreed upon that she showed the proper restraint when Boris’s casket met the same fate.

After these short,sentimental moments, the rabbi said the usual things about Israel and goodness, perhaps, assuming that upon his death there too would be some goodness in the deceased. Then, Boris’s father, whose capacity for subtle observation was unmatched in the community, spoke.

“ He was not the smartest one, “ he began, ” Nor was he handsome or rich. He did not leave much behind for his destitute parents. He even took that shit machine of a dog with him.”
The rabbi stared down at his Torah, presumably hoping for some sort of godly intervention or perhaps overcome with emotion at such poignant words. The funeralgoers pondered this possibility for a moment. And then the moment passed.

Ivan continued, “ Boris was not kind, or funny, not very skilled with tools or the pen. He didn’t smell all that pleasant… But, one thing Boris did have was an appetite for life. No one could eat like him. No one could drink like him. And now that he’s gone, there’s finally some for the rest of us.”

On that note, most people clapped. One man sitting in the back row, burped his praise for the fine and true words. It took ten able-bodied men and one particularly stout woman to carry Boris’s casket away.

When the dirt was poured and the deed was done, the group met to drink, glad that they would all live another day to chat and honor, and mock and judge , the lives of others.

Monday, November 2, 2009

Playing with Unicorns

It’s been one week since he lost his corner office, his catered lunch and his quarterly bonus. And now, to top it off, he’d collect his first unemployment check. The pretending, he thinks, did it start last Friday, or had it started long ago?

On the train, he ponders this thought. Then, he ponders hot dogs. He sits motionless, as the R races toward Wall Street and then slivers back again. After three rides, Tom braves the outside. He eats two dogs, swallows his pride, and heads toward the unemployment office.

- An excerpt from a longer story