tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-168206192011-07-25T07:37:19.692-04:00O, I have pass'd a miserable night, So full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams. I would not spend another such a night, Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days, So full of dismal terror was the time!the prisonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844219000117165214noreply@blogger.comBlogger251100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16820619.post-1147235468182811172006-05-10T00:30:00.000-04:002006-05-10T00:32:06.666-04:00

Boss (male, aggressive, working-class London accent) and Not Boss.Scene: A small office.NOTE: Boss is clearly out for blood today, ever since he came in at noon in a visibly foul mood.Lights up.Boss: Right. What you doing, then?Not Boss: Oh, I was just working on that info pack you told me to send out today.B: (suddenly apoplectic) WHAT?? Why you doing that, then? Did you finish the other

the prisonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844219000117165214noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16820619.post-1144977121261274302006-04-13T21:08:00.000-04:002006-04-13T21:12:01.280-04:00

Here’s how you can really get a keen lock on your progression away from everything and everybody. Your keen and inexorable unmooring. With this one horrible little turn of phrase, informally spoken and not actually meant, you can be ruined;“You should write a book.” Right? The worst, right? “Oh, my god. That’s crazy. That’s so funny. You should write a book.”“Hm,” you think. “Maybe I

the prisonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844219000117165214noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16820619.post-1144975854197034752006-04-13T20:49:00.000-04:002006-04-13T20:50:54.213-04:00

So, me and dad were in a plane. A small plane. A very small plane. The kind of plane you see pulling banners over the beach, or circling over MacArthur Airport. He was in the pilot’s seat. He was driving. We were on the ground, trying to take off. Just driving through back roads, trying to find a stretch of road long enough to take off.“Dad didn’t drive planes.”I know. I know. Just bear

the prisonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844219000117165214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16820619.post-1140593146848445432006-02-22T02:24:00.000-05:002006-02-22T02:47:43.290-05:00

In 1999, I had only just started touring the States with a theater collective, and was randily fucking my way across America. Embarassingly enough, I was 26 and had only just started fucking my way across America. This certainly made for some awkward encounters, particularly among the set of Americans who had already been fucking their way around since age 16, and didn’t give a crap that I was

the prisonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844219000117165214noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16820619.post-1138614863265129192006-01-30T04:42:00.000-05:002006-02-14T21:12:42.556-05:00

First, read Pat's review of [that play] here:http://www.[that website].com/#patNext, see her website (for context) here;http://www.patteproductions.comNow, read my e-mail to Pat, and tell me if I should send it or not. Probably not, but it felt good to write it. Please tell me I shouldn't send it, because I really want to!!My e-mail --hi patyou totally missed the mark on your review of that

the prisonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844219000117165214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16820619.post-1137053448938031792006-01-12T03:08:00.000-05:002006-01-12T03:10:48.960-05:00

A: I don’t think we’re understanding each other.B: I think I am understanding you, and I think this is bullshit.A: No. Listen. I’m trying to be honest. I’m trying to – you don’t get it.B: I get it. It’s bullshit. You’re evading your responsibility.A: Responsibility? What? No, no. Look, I’m not – I’m not evading. I’m trying to be honest about – I’m trying to get along with you.B:

the prisonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844219000117165214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16820619.post-1133167284807591602005-11-28T03:40:00.000-05:002005-11-28T20:35:33.490-05:00

I feel old. Not crazy old, but old enough.I mean, I’m not that old. But, Thanksgiving Night on Long Island, after the turkey is ‘et, I’m old enough to realize that the reason there’s no other people my age in the bar is because people my age are old. Or, rather, they are at home. Doing nice things. With their spouses and children. And their parents, who are really, very seriously

the prisonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844219000117165214noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16820619.post-1132693979047162162005-11-22T16:10:00.000-05:002005-11-22T16:12:59.063-05:00

This year, timed to butt cruelly up against Thanksgiving, our former class president is throwing a 15 year high school reunion at the local golf course/country club. What better time than Turkey Day to get together with people from a long forgotten era to compare achievements and male pattern baldness. Particularly when set against a backdrop of urbane, upper-middle class living. A country

the prisonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844219000117165214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16820619.post-1132338913814105112005-11-18T13:34:00.000-05:002006-05-20T23:06:21.333-04:00

For some reason, no matter how many technological advances arise to drive us further into creepy electronic solitude, the act of getting on a stage and playing pretend continues to bring us social misfits together all across this country. People still go to see plays. We still scrape together all of our resources to put them on. Foolish rich people and corporations still donate tons of money

the prisonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844219000117165214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16820619.post-1131481677573982922005-11-08T15:22:00.000-05:002005-11-21T16:09:41.523-05:00

Visiting Saint Louis was never a great life ambition, but finding myself there, being driven around by my host, the gregarious red-headed Chuck, I decided to give in and try to enjoy myself. I’d seen the arch on the way in. I’d seen the enormous Anheuser-Busch plant. I’d seen what there was to see in the way of a skyline. And now Chuck was driving me along a street lined with oaks and

the prisonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844219000117165214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16820619.post-1130283511680061722005-10-25T19:37:00.000-04:002005-10-25T19:38:31.683-04:00

A smooth voice filled the car and said, “Later this hour, we’re going to be speaking with Todd LeMarc of the Shakespeare Society who we’re proud to welcome to Anchorage. Book your tickets now by calling 555-ARTS. This is Rod Mayberry. You’re listening to KLAP, Anchorage, Alaska.” After a short silence and a quick burst of static, a low Smetana piece began to play, sounding like a mistake.Todd

the prisonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844219000117165214noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16820619.post-1130283467483707012005-10-25T19:36:00.000-04:002005-10-25T19:37:47.493-04:00

In the darkness, the bird-girl’s car crunched its way over the snow into the deserted parking garage, and she nosed it into a handicapped parking space.“We’re here,” she said.Todd put on his woolly hat, wrapped his scarf around his neck, and stepped out into the frigid air. The bird-girl watched him suiting up, then glanced at the 10 foot walk to the door of the office building, back at Todd,

the prisonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844219000117165214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16820619.post-1130089171129744222005-10-23T13:38:00.000-04:002005-10-23T13:39:31.136-04:00

//Past the end of my street, etched into the sky, are a pair of twin smokestacks. They are a nondescript dun color which easily and provocatively takes on whatever more vivid color the sky suggests. Sometimes, with a tooth-aching blue behind them, they are the sands of the Sahara, and leak the tiniest fraction of bone-white smoke. At others, they accept the oranges, yellows, greens, and

the prisonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844219000117165214noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16820619.post-1130088996994525582005-10-23T13:34:00.000-04:002005-10-23T13:36:37.003-04:00

//We are in a cab, me and Philip and Raj (the driver). Somehow we have extricated ourselves from the party. Of course, I was convinced that it was early, but, then, me and Freddy and Mark/Sam hadn’t arrived until late, and time is warping in on itself tonight. I think that it’s around 2, but, then, some people feel that that’s early, and it’s all really relative, and here I am with this

the prisonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844219000117165214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16820619.post-1130087709685850622005-10-23T13:13:00.000-04:002005-11-21T16:07:01.750-05:00

We were down South, in the state capital of, like, one of the Carolinas or Georgia or somewhere. We’d just been out in the Midwest for, like, ages, and I was glad to be somewhere a little bit more, I guess, distinct. I was in the mood to celebrate, so I checked on-line and found a street that had a bunch of gay bars. It’s weird in these towns, because you’re never sure how people respond to

the prisonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844219000117165214noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16820619.post-1129182475465625562005-10-13T01:46:00.000-04:002005-10-23T14:10:19.086-04:00

Justin stomped along Ninth Street toward the park. To anyone that watched him go, he would have seemed exceedingly annoyed with the world. And, funnily enough, he was. It was late in the summer, and blazingly hot, and his mother had kicked him out of their apartment for the afternoon.“I need the place to myself, Justin. Please. Go to the park for a few hours and leave me alone, why don’t you

the prisonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844219000117165214noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16820619.post-1129182377943070522005-10-13T01:40:00.000-04:002005-10-13T01:46:18.006-04:00

Joshua came out of the bathroom, tying an ankle-length silk bathrobe around his thin waist. He walked past the crumpled body splayed face down in the hallway, and snatched up the pack of cigarettes from the end table next to the bed. He lit a cigarette. It was both unfiltered and not his brand. With a shudder, he dragged on it, pulled his robe closer around himself, and exhaled a blue plume

the prisonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844219000117165214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16820619.post-1127437622657582912005-09-22T21:05:00.000-04:002005-09-22T21:08:26.953-04:00

My father retired this year after, I think it was 405 years as the librarian in a public high school on Long Island. He also retired from his second job as night librarian in the research library at a giant, science-oriented and bunker-like state university. Also on Long Island. To commemorate his retirement; he is now embarked on a three month solo motorcycle journey to Texas and back. There

the prisonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844219000117165214noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16820619.post-1127437503674986052005-09-22T20:43:00.000-04:002005-09-22T21:05:03.683-04:00

I will now confess that, on a handful of occasions, I have indeed solicited for sexual congress over the Internet, and then engaged in said sexual congress. This is not a very nice thing to do, and is probably not a very healthy thing to do but, well, what’s done is done. Also, I very well may do it again at some point. What can I do? A man has needs.I came very late to the whole on-line

the prisonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844219000117165214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16820619.post-1127318475023568212005-09-21T12:00:00.000-04:002005-09-21T12:01:15.030-04:00

I am attempting to write a play. I am not doing this primarily because I want to do so, but because somehow, through a series of events I’m now finding it difficult to “understand” or, in fact to “remember at all,” it is suddenly a big part of my job. In other words, terrifyingly enough, I am being paid to write a play. Presumably, this means that I actually have to do that.At this point, I

the prisonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844219000117165214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16820619.post-1127318433812311332005-09-21T11:50:00.000-04:002005-09-21T12:00:33.820-04:00

Against my better judgment, back in May of 2005, I went to the big old tacky midnight opening of the latest film in the “Star Wars” franchise at Manhattan’s Ziegfield Theatre, right around the corner from Carnegie Hall. I knew what I’d be getting myself into, but ultimately decided that, for myriad reasons, I needed to go anyway. Put concisely, I got pretty much what I expected. Modified by

the prisonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844219000117165214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16820619.post-1127196886300088902005-09-20T02:10:00.000-04:002005-09-20T02:14:46.306-04:00

I don’t really make many friends – people find me creepy, I think – but I made a really good one in Italy. We even keep in touch, sort of, with the Internet. If I’m honest, that doesn’t work too well but, either way, two years after we met, we are still in touch. I had an e-mail from her a few nights ago.As she reminded me in her e-mail, she is an Artist, in a way that really seemed possible

the prisonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844219000117165214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16820619.post-1127196603431197962005-09-20T02:08:00.000-04:002005-09-20T02:10:03.436-04:00

On my way back to my little prison in Brooklyn from another day full of anxiety and another evening full of disappointment in Manhattan, I passed a young Hipster petting one of the nasty and aggressive cats that live somewhere on my block. These cats are all lean and scary and the color of the crap at the bottom of an over-used ashtray. The Hipster was tall and skinny and, well, Hip.As I

the prisonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844219000117165214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16820619.post-1127196526166245242005-09-20T02:07:00.000-04:002005-09-20T02:08:46.166-04:00

Characters: Boss (male, aggressive, East London accent), and Not Boss.Scene: A “strategy meeting.”Lights up.B: You’re a stupid cunt.NB: No, I’m not.B: DON’T YOU GET CONFRONTATIONAL WITH ME!!NB: Sorry. I just thought –B: Fuck off. Right? Listen. That’s what your problem is. You don’t listen and you don’t communicate. That goes for all of you cunts. Right? All of you. This is for

the prisonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844219000117165214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16820619.post-1127196410483488932005-09-20T02:04:00.000-04:002005-09-20T02:06:50.490-04:00

On Saturday, I had a panic attack. I’d never had one before so, to be honest, I didn’t really know what was going on or quite what to do, the awareness of which, I now suspect, only exacerbated the attack itself.I’d been out with friends, smoking some pot and drinking too much the night before. It had been an arduous week in the employ of a psychotic, and I’d felt that I owed myself that

the prisonerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11844219000117165214noreply@blogger.com0