Get the Word Out

This year, Philippine International Aid is proud to present for the first time in the Bay Area, “The Romance of Magno Rubio,” the award-winning play about a Filipino immigrant worker who dreams of true love. The play with its original New York cast — Arthur Acuña, Bernardo Bernardo, Ramon de Ocampo, Jojo Gonzalez and Paolo Montalban — won 8 Obie awards. The tale is based on a short story by Carlos Bulosan and written by Lonnie Carter.

DATES: October 10 to 12
LOCATION: Skyline Theater in San Bruno, California.
TICKETS: $65 and $45. www.brownpapertickets.com

Please help get the word out to friends, relatives, students!

If you are interested in being a sponsor and/or advertising in the souvenir program, please contact Lisa Yuchengco c/o Philippine International Aid.

Why “Macbeth”?

Begin with a king (James, son of Mary, Queen of Scots) beset by terrors and fascinated by “the black arts.”

Add a “greeting ceremony” performed during this same king’s visit to St. John’s College, one that featured “three sibyls stepping forward as if from a wood.”

Throw in an accomplished and ambitious playwright.

Mix them together, and what do you get?

For the past two weeks, self has lived in the world of Stephen Greenblatt’s immensely moving Will in the World: How Shakespeare Became Shakespeare. On p. 351, Greenblatt writes: “Shakespeare was a professional risk taker. He wrote under pressure — judging from its unusual brevity, Macbeth was composed in a very short time — and he went where his imagination took him. If the cheerful sibyls of St. John’s became the weird sisters dancing around a cauldron bubbling with hideous contents . . . then Shakespeare was obliged to pursue the course. The alternative was to write the kind of play that would put James to sleep and send the thrill-seeking crowds to rival theatres.”

Following, the chant of the “weird sisters”:

Witches’ mummy, maw and gulf

Of the ravined salt-sea shark,

Root of hemlock digged i’ th’ dark,

Liver of blaspheming Jew,

Gall of goat, and slips of yew

Slivered in the moon’s eclipse,

Nose of Turk, and Tartar’s lips,

Finger of birth-strangled babe

Ditch-delivered by a drab

Calls, Surprises: Tuesday, 24 June 2008

Self went to bed at 3 a.m. Too many things on her mind: her students (in what will in all probability be her last class at xxxx community college, and whether that is a good or a bad thing self still can’t decide); son’s upcoming departure for Europe (in just three days!); Dearest Mum (who decided to go see self’s hairdresser yesterday, and then grilled poor Doris about what haircut she had given self — who, to be honest, hasn’t been there in six months. “Dear, she doesn’t remember you at all!” Dearest Mum cooed afterwards. “Not at all!”)

Son met Sacred Heart pal Kenny at Colonel Lee’s Mongolian Barbecue in Mountain View for dinner. When he returned, he reported that the place looked “completely different.” Apparently, it had undergone some kind of make-over. Which made self sad, for one of the reasons she loved eating there was that there were the exact same faded murals on the walls (of — presumably the Mongolian — steppes) as there had been since her graduate student days at Stanford.

Then, self went to bed, and at 2 a.m. there was a call from one of her brothers in Manila, trying to get Dearest Mum’s flight information so that they could pick her up from the airport, when she returns next week.

And this morning, bright and early, (7:30 a.m.) there was a call from Dearest Mum herself, talking breathlessly about a fantastic sale at Macy’s, which self thinks she ought to skip, for she spent too much over the weekend (On shoes, what else?)

And then self settles down on the couch to read her mail (She’s had only three-and-a-half hours sleep, eyes are like ping-pong balls), and here’s a newsletter from VCCA, announcing the installation of a new chef, one Rhonda Scovill, who seems to have a most wonderful attitude, declaring that: “The First Impression is one of” her most important ingredients; “every night is a catered event”; and, “It’s not just a meal. It’s not just dinner.”

She also has an assistant, a “sous chef” (that is exactly how it is described in the newsletter, dear blog readers) named Zane Burchett, “who grew up in the kitchen, working side by side with his mother.”

Excellent developments, self thinks!

And then, self almost can’t believe her eyes, for in the information on former residents, she sees that a book self just finished reading last month, John Singer Sargent and Madame X, has been turned into a play by VCCA fellow Rosary O’Neill. Self sincerely hopes this play eventually makes it to San Francisco.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.

Reading for the Day: Oh Cruel, Cruel World!

For the past few days, self has been immersed in reading a March 2008 Vanity Fair article on the director of “The Graduate,” Mike Nichols.

And here are a few of the things she has gleaned from the article thus far:

  • Mike Nichols got his start as a comedian.
  • He took pre-med at the University of Chicago (undoubtedly, a brain)
  • At 33, he directed Robert Redford and Elizabeth Ashley in the Broadway smash, “Barefoot in the Park.”

The above nugget leads self to google “Barefoot in the Park.” And lands her on this doozy of a review by The New York Times’ Ben Brantley, on a revival of aforementioned play, with Amanda Peet and Patrick Wilson playing the Elizabeth Ashley/ Robert Redford roles. This production apparently opened in 2006 and probably closed shortly after, as self doesn’t think anything could survive a review like the following. Self is quoting from the beginning of the article:

THE mistakes begin with the wallpaper. When the curtain rises on the torturous new revival of Neil Simon’s “Barefoot in the Park,” the play’s eager newlywed heroine (portrayed by Amanda Peet) is discovered applying, with laborious comic inefficiency, hypnotically striped paper to the walls of her first apartment. Not to put a damper on a young bride’s early adventures in decorating, but instead of gluing on wallpaper, shouldn’t she be slapping on paint? Then at least the audience would have the diversion of watching it dry.

OUCH!

Certainly, theatergoers deserve some form of incidental relief from the parching desert of a production that opened last night at the Cort Theater. Mr. Simon’s 1963 comedy, his first Broadway smash, was a valentine to his wife Joan and to the joyful tribulations of being young, untried and uninhibited in the big city. Yet for a work that celebrates the liberating force of spontaneity, this version doesn’t have one scene that feels organic, let alone impromptu.

The quip-packed dialogue that is Mr. Simon’s signature registers here with the animation and full-bodiedness of projected supertitles. As the current Broadway revival of “The Odd Couple” indicates, early Neil Simon retains its original freshness about as well as sushi. But as miscast and uneasy as this season’s “Odd Couple” is, it at least has the momentum that comes from honoring the Ping-Pong rhythms of bouncing zingers. “Barefoot” progresses with the stiff-legged, robotic gait of Boris Karloff as the Mummy.

Ouch, Ouch, triple OUCH!

Stop, Ben, STOP! You’re killing me!!

Just The Thing To Warm the Cockles of Self’s Heart On This (Already Very Depressing) Day

Okey-dokey, dear blog readers, this evening self is reading. And what else is there to read after a day when self had to suck up (bleeaaah) to the two clowns who’ve been running rough-shod over the female students in her class, who had the genius idea to beat self to it and complain to the Dean, who, being the munificent leader that he is (or imagines himself to be), took their side without listening to self and advised self to get a union rep to represent her — to repeat: on such a depressing day, what else is there to read but the dear old San Francisco Chronicle? (Whew! That was indeed quite a mouthful! See, now that self’s back is to the wall, she thinks she might actually get to finish writing that play! While grading student papers, yet! If self is lucky, perhaps she’ll even get to finish writing it before Dearest Mum lands on these shores, in the first week of June! But, once again, self digresses)

This is the headline (on p. 2 of the SF Chronicle) that has caught self’s attention:

TRIAGE PLAN DETAILS WHOM TO LET DIE DURING A PANDEMIC: Treatment Blueprint Gives Severely Hurt, Elderly Lower Priority

Hmmm, self is now extremely curious to see which group she falls into: the “savable” or the “unsavable”? And so she reads on.

Doctors know some patients needing lifesaving care won’t get it in a flu pandemic or other disaster. The gut-wrenching dilemma will be deciding whom to let die.

The suggested list was compiled by a task force whose members come from prestigious universities, medical groups, the military and government agencies. They include the Department of Homeland Security, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, and the Department of Health and Human Services.

And here, dear blog readers, are the list of the “expendables”:

    * People older than 85.
    * Those with severe trauma, which could include critical injuries from car crashes and shootings.
    * Severely burned patients older than 60.
    * Those with severe mental impairment, which could include advanced Alzheimer’s disease.
    * Those with a severe chronic disease, such as advanced heart failure, lung disease or poorly controlled diabetes.

Self sincerely hopes that the next pandemic comes before she turns 60.

But, even if she is 60, if she is not severely burned there is a chance — slim, but still a chance — that she will not be abandoned.

With self’s kind of luck, however, the pandemic will come the day after her 60th birthday, and she will indeed be severely burned.

Or, even if self is not severely burned, she might end up being evaluated by a novice physician who will mistake her not-so-severe burns for severe burns.

And so forth and so on.

The point self is trying to make, dear blog readers, is that self has the worst kind of luck, and if there is any way — no matter how far-fetched — for her to squeak into the “un-salvageable” group, she will no doubt find it.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.

A (Pinter-esque) Domestic Drama in Two Scenes

Today hubby was invited to a barbecue.

Where, self asked. Whereupon, the following conversation ensued:

SCENE I

Imagine: a living room. TV is going. Furniture rather indistinct because of wafting cigarette smoke.

Imagine: two characters, a husband and wife, both in middle age. Wife is very fetching. Reminds audience of older version of Vanessa Minillo. Husband has a paunch, is balding.

Hubby (in answer to self’s question): In Fremont.

Self: Who invited you?

Hubby: Just someone I know.

Self: Know from where?

Hubby: From my old company.

Self (incredulous): Your old company? Someone from there invited you? (Pause) Well, at least they still like you.

Hubby: (mumble mumble)

Self: What if your old boss shows up?

Hubby: He isn’t invited. Besides, he got fired.

Self (astonished): DON got fired?

Hubby (with relish): Yup.

Self: Well, maybe you didn’t have to quit after all.

(Silence)

Read the rest of this entry »

In the Gazebo: Starting with Play # 3

Self has decided that she’s going to start putting excerpts of her plays on this site. And she’ll start in reverse order: that is, she’ll start with the most recent one, the one that she started late yesterday.

It’s a bee-yoo-ti-ful day here in central Virginia. Self is in a white gazebo, staring at trees. There’s a constant humming and buzzing in the air. Last night, she sat out in the gazebo until late, until almost midnight. Debra and Gwen were sharing a beer and invited self to join them. Debra saw a shooting star. Self was very, very sleepy but words just came so trippingly off her tongue; now she doesn’t remember what she said. She didn’t actually get to sleep until 2 AM.

Sometimes, since self seldom sees anyone during the day, she daydreams that she is the doyenne of a grand mansion, that all the property she sees is hers, and that she has a whole raft of gardeners at her disposal. Maybe she’s an English Duchess. Or something. Which is — Self, wake up! You’re going overboard again, hoo-hoo!!

All right, back to reality: news from home is that son has heard about his housing assignment for next year, and he’s been assigned once again to Muir, the freshman Math & Sciences dorm. Which means that three of the four years son’s been at Cal Poly, he’ll have lived in this dorm. And self tells hubby that in the latest e-mail she received from her uncle in Daly City, she learned that one of her uncles in Manila, Pocholo the race car driver, has been diagnosed with malignant cancer. Which does make self sad but somehow, being here, she feels rather detached from the situation. That is, she has read all the letters back and forth from all the cousins and uncles and aunts, and dutifully responds that she’ll pray for him, but the truth is that our here she really feels sometimes as though she is floating, nothing seems to stick in her brain for long (other than books and plays, that is).

Without further ado, dear blog reader, Play # 3:

* * * *

NARRATOR: (Unfolding pages of a newspaper) Aside from the victory, the biggest news of the year was the development of the atom bomb. Having seen what they had wrought, scientists took pause and questioned the moral and ethical value of their work.

(Scrim lights up behind the NARRATOR, showing mushroom cloud over Hiroshima.)

At first, the public refused to share the alarm of the physicists. They had created this new force and in all probability would next tell the world how to control it – or so at least the general thinking went. The idolizing of science and the emergence of the laboratory worker into the status of a man of public affairs followed. Unfortunately, such blind trust was unfounded. No one could supply definite or even optimistic answers.

This was Manila, 1945.

(Image of Manila 1945 is projected on the scrim: ruined streets, rubble, smoke.)

NARRATOR: The films that were showing that year? The Lost Weekend. National Velvet. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Joan Crawford received the Oscar for Best Actress, for her role in Mildred Pierce.

Everywhere the Americans went, they sprayed the walls with the cryptic slogan: Kilroy was here. We didn’t know who Kilroy was. Every time we asked, the soldiers would laugh.

* * * *

Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.