When was the last time you listened to Appalachian Spring? Well, what are you waiting for? It’s perfect for writing overdue thank you notes for your five-year-old’s birthday party right after returning from the Last Frontier Conference in Valdez, Alaska.

Standing in Valdez at midnight, you can see this:

or this:

or this:

or this:

In a word, the conference is summer camp for playwrights, with massive doses of theater and creative energy in a supportive community. It lasts nine days, every region in the country represented. It’s inspiring to meet people from small Alaskan towns totally dedicated to theater. Albee started it but is long gone; I’m told things are more open and democratic now. Dawson Moore, the current conference head, is a sweetheart.

Here’s my Lincoln, the tender and passionate Frank Collison, and his lovely spouse, Laura Gardner:

Here’s some friends I made:

Sweet dream. You know, I actually drank some whiskey.

The Dog Ear production of Cuts at the Road trundles on. Reviews are in. The upshot is, like all children of Lake Woebegon, I am above average. In point of fact, I am wry, absurdist and thought-provoking. And also, worth watching. These, my adjectives, are pretty much it, but let it be writ down, I am worth watching. I will demonstrate: Above, we see the lovely Ann Noble in a fratracidal moment that is nothing if not thought-provoking.

And here above is Ann with co-conspirator Mark Doerr in a moment that is the very definition of worth watching.

Ann and Mark are joined by Mara Marini in a worth watching and thought-provoking way.

Wryly, Mara interacts with Ann.

Here’s Ann’s final moment, in which, absurdly, she shares her love of books with the audience.

There you have it. As I am only barely beginning what I hope will be a productive run with critics, I will say that, in truth, I am grateful for the attention. Call me a dreamer, I did long for just a teensy bit of elaboration, such as perhaps to say that when a young girl’s father disappears from her life, a hole opens in her psyche into which wry, absurdist and thought-provoking things pour in. But no one said that. Well, I have said it. I am my own critic. But you knew that.

What a relief to get out of the fast lane. Conversation over dinner at Bruin Woods, the UCLA conference center at Lake Arrowhead, CA. They have alumni family weeks over the summer, alumni family holiday weekends in the fall:

What is it you do?

Me: I’m a playwright.

Oh. It’s a good living?

Me: Nobody makes a living writing plays. Maybe five people. Like, can you name five living playwrights?

Arthur Miller!

Me: Rightio.

Tenessee Williams!

Me: Right again.

What’s his name. The funny guy.

Me: Adam Rapp?

Yeah. The Odd Couple, right?

The place is so popular you have to win a lottery to get in. Literally. We took Graham over New Years. The big hit was this one clump of old snow that hadn’t melted–he called it his “mountain.”

The thing is, Lake Arrowhead, Playground to the Stars, is now a city in the sky: not one inch of lakefront undeveloped, as far as I could see, much of the forest that I remember decimated by the bark beetle.

Then:

Now:

It’s a shame, as I was planning to parlay some of my playwriting millions into a cottage on the lake. Now it’s back to square one.

Rehearsals for the Dog Ear production of Cuts at the Road proceed apace. My modest contribution, a ten minute perversion entitled Biblio, features three superb actors and a very smart director who said, “This play is confused on so many levels — and I really thank the playwright for that.” It is not often one finds a director willing to give credit where credit is due, and so I accept the honor on behalf of all playwrights everywhere. May I just add that confusion is a state of mind which to my mind matters little in the long run anyway? Yes–let me just add that and be done with it. Except to say that if you are reading this before April 21, 2007 you can see the confusion yourself by ordering a ticket here.

God save the Road Theatre.

I know, I know. It has been too long. I will not bore you with excuses. I merely pick up the thread. My old rule was blog once or twice a month. My new rule is do what you want. A picture is worth … something. Here is one of my mind, a screenshot of a folder on my desktop, the folder called “What’s Up.” There you have it, for better or worse. Now you are up to speed.

Graham, like many 4-year-olds, is into super heroes, his favorite being neither Superman nor Captain Marvel, but a pale imitation called Kewl Breeze, who peddles “airated” tennis shoes. We have a piece of advertising masquerading as a comic book — in which Kewl Breeze puts on his “airators” and battles the evil Blacktop, a golem made of hot tar who causes Kewl Breeze’s friends to have stinky feet — which if I have read to him once I have read 100 times.

“Wouldn’t you rather I read Hulk or X-Men?”

“No.”

He listens without a word, then when I’m done furrows his eyebrows. Half a minute goes by, then:

“How him alive?”

“Who, Kewl Breeze?”

“No. Blacktop.”

“Well, sometimes you can make a man out of stuff.”

“But how him alive?”

Should I tell him about the Golem of Prague? I elect for the Talmudic story of God breathing life through Adam’s nostrils.

He looks doubtful.

“It’s sort of like a robot. A robot is sort of alive.”

He’s still dubious. What I dread is going too far, which, when I do, always provokes the quick response, “What you talking about?”

“How are you alive?” I finally say.

This stops him. He cogitates a while, looks around the room meaningfully. We rest into the moment.

Then he says, “Tell about lizards.”