My dad is about forty minutes away on work-related travel. However, I'm not supposed to know this. He told my sister not to tell me because I would be angry with him. See, he just doesn't have time to see me or his grandson. I have two choices. I could call him and ask him what he's doing and wait for the lies to come tumbling out or I could call him and cuss him like the trifling S.O.B that he's showing himself to be. A third, more mature choice is to ignore it (and him). I mean, the man's been slighting me since time immemorial. But your girl's feeling spicy this morning (just had a toast with loads of butter and grape jelly, damn it!), so I may just wave the red blanket in front of the bull just to see if it shits.
My play is shaping up nicely. It takes place in the 1970s at a hedonistic disco club. One night, the club is raided, but the last four patrons- a housewife, a high school senior, a tranny entertainer and a Senator- refuse to leave. They barricade themselves inside because the disco means something special to each one of them and they aren't about to give it up that easily. This play is a total passion project. I love disco and I'm intrigued by the superficial frivolity offered by strangers in a dark club all dancing to the same beat. It's funny how people can be in the same room, doing essentially the same things and feel completely and utterly alone.
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