Some Statements: ● Black Kiss shocked me. I am not sure what I expected, but it sure wasn't this ultra-violent, supernatural, neo-noir, festival of misSome Statements: ● Black Kiss shocked me. I am not sure what I expected, but it sure wasn't this ultra-violent, supernatural, neo-noir, festival of misogyny and ugliness. ● Pretty amazing to have a transgendered sex worker as your "heroine" even today, let alone 1988. It's problematic to be sure (maybe even worthy of serious criticism; I'd even make the case that it is transphobic, especially today), but it's still a pretty serious leap for a Canadian comic book imprint like Vortex Comics to take in the heart of the AIDs epidemic. ● One of our characters, who shall remain nameless here, is brutally raped and ends up trying to protect the rapists from some furious anger because the character "enjoyed" it -- it is Black Kiss's lowest point. And that is saying something. ● The violence in Black Kiss is brutal, but mostly fuzzy and hard to make out in the black and white inking of the panels. Unlike a question I raise later, I appreciate Chaykin's restraint here. ●It's nearly impossible to like anyone in this graphic novel. ● We badly need more graphic novels containing graphic sexuality. Strip away the ugliness of Black Kiss and ramp up the truly erotic. Oh ... the pleasure that could be had.
A Bunch of Questions: ● If you're going to show genitalia in your graphic novel art, why not go hard (pun intended) and show that genitalia a little (or a lot) more graphically? ● Who in Hollywood is mad enough to make this into a film? Who on Earth would star in it? ● I wonder which serial killers of the '90s were influenced by these pages? ● Why hasn't there been a pulpy thriller with Cass Pollack, the jazz musician and last man standing, as an anti-hero? ● Is Black Kiss an underrated satirical masterpiece? Or is it a schlocky piece of trash?
Three Confessions: ● Howard Chaykin was intentionally pushing the boundaries, and he's reported to have been going for the darkest humour and most outrageous content right when "there was serious talk about trying to create a rating's system for comics, and [... he wrote] a book that would be appalling and offensive ... and funny," and I must admit that he conjured more than a laugh or two out of me in terribly inappropriate moments. ● I came to Black Kiss to be titillated, for some taboo arousal, and for the briefest of spells -- when Dagmar Laine's gender came to light and her relationship with Beverly Grove seemed more combative noirish than Mistress-Thrawl supernatural horror -- I was absolutely thrilled, then all hell broke loose, literally and figuratively, and I shifted into despair and a constant cringe. ● I actually liked this graphic novel, and I would love to see more things like this (even the ugly bits) in our puritanical present....more
Before now, the only Bret Easton Ellis I'd read was American Psycho. I've read it a couple of times and never been entertained by it, but the first tiBefore now, the only Bret Easton Ellis I'd read was American Psycho. I've read it a couple of times and never been entertained by it, but the first time I read it I was blown away, then I was blown away again by its brilliance, despite how difficult it is to digest. It is that literary indigestion that has kept me away from Ellis' other books until now, which is a shame because I think he may be one of the most important authors of the late-20th century USA.
Less Than Zero, Ellis' debut novel, is an experimental, fragmentary, fever dream of a book. It is populated by the disaffected, über-priveleged, abandoned, young "adults" of late '80s Beverly Hills. Some are seeking fame and fortune, some are seeking their next fix, some are seeking numbness, some are running away, some are drowning, all are on the edge of oblivion. They are the sort of rich filth I have almost never been able to empathize with. And when I read the things they did to one another, to others (people from outside their class and community) whom they gleefully victimized, and to themselves, my brain screamed at me that I should make no place for them here either.
But the wonder of Bret Easton Ellis' writing, for me at least, is that he overcomes my biases and makes me grieve for the three most damaged denizens of this corrupt Los Angeles: Clay, Julian and Blair. All while making me nearly physically sick at the scenes of depredation Ellis has conjured for them to move through.
Not as brilliant and not as graphic (though only marginally so) as American Psycho, Less than Zero remains a significant novel. Not quite great but damn close. And it cements Bret Easton Ellis as an important voice of a time and a people who continue to shape our present to often devastating effect. ...more
I read a list somewhere by somebody that mentioned the 10 best detectives in fiction. Travis McGee was on that list (my favourites, Beck / Kollberg, wI read a list somewhere by somebody that mentioned the 10 best detectives in fiction. Travis McGee was on that list (my favourites, Beck / Kollberg, were not), and after reading the quick explanation for McGee's inclusion, I thought he'd be worth a try, so I went online and ordered a copy of what I thought was the first book in the series. I guess I saw #11 as #1 -- it was very late, so let's pretend my fatigue was the problem -- and the first McGee book to fall into my hands was Dress Her in Indigo.
I started it the next morning in the shower, and only realized then that I had missed the first 10 novels. A misting of water had already stained the pages, though, so there was no turning back. I'd probably have done better to read The Deep Blue Good-by first, but I am not sure it would have improved my experience with Dress Her in Indigo. In some ways diving into the middle of the series when our main characters, McGee and his partner Meyer, are well and truly established felt comfortable. I never felt like I was being introduced to these men. They were already there, already fully formed, they thoroughly existed, and I just happened to be meeting them in the way the characters in Oaxaca, Mexico were doing. And I found myself having similar responses to the pair that those connected to their search for what had happened to 'Bix' Bowie -- the daughter of a rich friend of Meyer's -- were having, which meant mostly charmed by them and filled with confidence in their capabilities.
Turns out that Florida is their usual bailiwick, and that Mexico was a journey afield, but the pair slipped right into the rhythms of Vietnam-era Mexico, full of reasonable Mexicans just living their lives while expats from all over the world -- the Euro riche alongside drug addled and/or shady Yankee hippies -- converge to hide from their past lives or make their fortunes in the Mexican underbelly or exact savage vengeance on those who've wronged them.
Dress Her in Indigo is a cracking tale. I am sure the inevitable new edition will have a couple of trigger warnings attached, what with all the sex and violence and sexual violence and drug use and torture (did I mention the violence?), yet so long as they keep John D. MacDonald's words intact such a warning shouldn't stop the daring amongst you from enjoying the sun drenched noir that awaits you.
If only someone had cast Jeff Bridges as McGee and Saul Rubinek as Meyer back in the late-80s. Now that would have been a series of films to rival even the great noir streak of Bogie.
Anywho ... The Deep Blue Good-by is on its way, and I am keen to take the journey back from #1 to #11 just to see what I think about Dress Her in Indigo with all the information I should have had this time through. I hope I end up liking it even more. ...more
Shift was another strange reading experience for me, and I've been having a lot of those lately. The reason for my strangeness with this book is not uShift was another strange reading experience for me, and I've been having a lot of those lately. The reason for my strangeness with this book is not unique to Shift, however. I have happened to be reading a lot of prequels (and watching film prequels too), and I have to admit I really struggle with the form.
And so it turned out with HughHowey's Shift. I'd struggled throughout with the question of whether I really wanted to be reading the book or not, compounded with the thought that maybe Howey should never have even written this chapter of his tale, that maybe the events that preceded Wool should have stayed in Howey's mind, or as a jumble of notes in a file folder in his filing cabinet.
Prequels -- and even sequels -- take away one of the great joys of the creative experience for the reader. Because I think we all forget that thing Wolfgang Iser was trying to tell us about being a reader, that idea that the stars in the firmament are fixed but the person looking into the sky connects those stars with lines that provide shape. So the drive to monetize what came before and what comes after a truly creative series diminishes the imaginations that connect those stars. As I say, however, I struggle, because Howey, surely, doesn't want some other writer coming along when he is gone, and imagining a completely different set of precedents to Wool because some book company or family member or movie company wants to cash in with his brilliant tale. At least this way, with Shift, we get the authoritative events as Howey intended. We now know what happened to the world, we know who, how and why a Solo became, and now no one can take that or change that.
But I miss those days when there were only three Star Wars films and an entire afternoon on a bus then an LRT then on foot, then in a comic book store, then back on foot to the LRT and another bus could be filled with "what ifs?" that could only ever exist in our heads and in that space of a single day with no external record or fan fiction or potential to preclude anyone else's imaginings we could live our very only series of Star Wars prequels. That creativity was fierce and lovely and pure. I long for that creativity as a reader / viewer to come back. And I was enjoying something like that for a spell after putting Wool down.
Shift took that away. Yet here I am still giving Mr. Howey 4 stars, because I really enjoyed Shift and I am glad I read it -- even though it wasn't what I had imagined for myself. ...more
Delicious from beginning to end, from its Chocolate-Cream Soldier to its Soubrette, from its military buffoonery to its homefrontYummy, yummy satire.
Delicious from beginning to end, from its Chocolate-Cream Soldier to its Soubrette, from its military buffoonery to its homefront worshipfulness, George Bernard Shaw baked a perfect souffle of anti-war, anti-romance, anti-establishment.
It should be staged today, tomorrow and forever. ...more
This epistle from Sam to the Fundamentalist Yankee Christians started out so well. I came to it hoping to find new tools for talking to the theists inThis epistle from Sam to the Fundamentalist Yankee Christians started out so well. I came to it hoping to find new tools for talking to the theists in my life, new tools for coaxing them into hearing me rather than just yelling me down and attempting to shame my atheism, and though it started well and raised my hopes, Mr. Harris just couldn't help falling into belligerence and a touch of condescension that couldn't possibly sway any concreted hearts are steeled minds.
This letter definitely isn't for the atheists in Sam Harris' audience. But by the end it's clear that it is not for those on the extreme right fringes of American Christendom either. Sam Harris is really trying to reach those Liberal Christians who run the gamut from socially tolerant to fully socially accepting, to teach them that their stubborn clinging to Christianity actually facilitates the fringes of their faith, to try and get them to see that they don't need the scriptures of long dead sheep herders for their morals, their community, or their "spirituality," to try to get them to strangle out the outmoded beliefs that cause harm, even if their own version of those beliefs seem benevolent.
As an atheist I am all for what he's saying, but I am afraid that the way he says it isn't going to sway too many of the moderate Christians out there.
Yet there is a group to whom this letter would speak -- the deconverting. Those who find themselves earnestly turning away from religion need to read this letter. It will affirm their deconversion and give them tools to protect themselves from those who are trying to keep them in the flock. Had Harris addressed his letter the "Christian Deconverting" I would have given him more stars, but considering his stated target and what I see as a failure to communicate effectively to them I can only give him three, despite the fact that everything he said was spot on. ...more
Fake was a lovely little surprise while I was on Friday night extra-curricular shuttle duty. The dramatization of two key moments in the story of the Fake was a lovely little surprise while I was on Friday night extra-curricular shuttle duty. The dramatization of two key moments in the story of the infamous Piltdown Man (a skull found in 1912 by Charles Dawson that was reported to be the elusive "missing link"): its introduction to the world at large in the nineteen-teens, and its final repudiation as a hoax in the nineteen-fifties.
The play pretends it is about Piltdown Man and the ways in which hoaxes damage our trust in science, and, thereby, all of us (which is particularly relevant during our second year of COVID and the tidal wave of vaccine refusal), but, really, Fake is an excuse to bring together two dazzling historical figures -- Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Rebecca Eastman -- to present lucid and balanced debates about "belief," spiritualism, religion, spirituality, and atheism, to present a light criticism of monogamy (while not straying so far into condemnation of the practice as to ruffle the feathers of playwright [auhor:Eric Simonson]'s audience), and to gently suggest that we should stop worrying so much about where we came from (both religiously and scientifically) and where we are going (ditto), and maybe start worrying a little more about who we are where we are at in the present.
I listened to the full cast recording from L.A. Theatreworks, and the excellent performances of Simonson's marvelous dialogue have convinced me that this is a play I need to direct ... and soon.
How did it take me so long to find Fake? I don't know. It must have been a conspiracy to silence Simonson. Yeah ... that's it. I'll believe anything. ...more
I never thought that the cadences of David Mamet's dialogue would fail to dazzle me, nor that they would ever feel dated or false. There was a time whI never thought that the cadences of David Mamet's dialogue would fail to dazzle me, nor that they would ever feel dated or false. There was a time when the repetitions, the interjections, the interruptions felt like the most natural dialogue I had ever heard, and I longed to capture that in my own writing.
Listening to this L.A. Theatreworks performance of Mamet's American Buffalo dispelled Mamet's illusory magic for the first time. But why? Is it because the performances failed in some way? Is it because Mamet's language really is outdated? Is it because his language doesn't exist in our reality? Is it something else?
The only other thing I can imagine that might be the root of this failure is the possibility that the slavish devotion to every ellipsis, every double dash, and every syllable in Mamet's plays is starting to takes its toll on the natural flow of speaking. It strikes me that the attempt to capture the very cadences that once made Mamet great (and that, I think -- but this is a foggy memory that I can't be bothered to verify -- Mamet makes a requirement of staging his work) are at the root of the cadences falling apart. Leaving no room for actors and directors to play may make it more difficult for the performance of Mamet's work to remain natural. Just a theory.
I wish I knew the answer. Maybe it is just that American Buffalo is actually not as good as I remember. Maybe it was always just an average Mamet attempt. I think I need to go back to Speed the Plow and see how I feel after that....more
I imagine there are those who feel Gold Fame Citrus is experimental and love it for its experimentation. I am not one of those,
Gold Fame Citrus doesn'I imagine there are those who feel Gold Fame Citrus is experimental and love it for its experimentation. I am not one of those,
Gold Fame Citrus doesn't experiment. Not really. It does incorporate multiple narrative forms, but none of these forms is new and there is an arbitrariness to the way they are thrown together that feels more like a Cobb Salad than an artist casting off the past and creating something new and vital.
But that's okay because I love me a good Cobb Salad.
Here are the ingredients in Claire Vaye Watkins particularly tasty Cobb Salad: a linear novel (or perhaps novella if one were to strip away all the other forms she dabbles in); a bestiary / encyclopedia (perhaps fantasy, perhaps faux-reality); duelling parallel monologues (like a classic, fast talking '30s play); holy texts and sermons (real and imagined); satirical interjections (in the form of future television programming that mimic our television of now); interrogations and psychiatric records (suggesting continuities before and after Gold Fame Citrus begins and ends); free verse poems, prose poems, and maybe a dash of Dadaist poetry (stumbled upon? deliberate? hard to say); and sudden bursts of poetic prose that make Watkins' linear novel sing.
All together it is a delicious salad, but it is a salad that left me hungry. I didn't need more control or less play or any regression to something more formal, but I did need more. Gold Fame Citrus is not enough, not in its current form. It should be the first chapter -- or better yet a first draft -- of a lifetime work of world building and imagination.
If anything makes me sad about Gold Fame Citrus, it is that I cannot see Claire Vaye Watkins ever returning to what she has done here. Never. Actually, no. It doesn't make me sad; it makes me mad. In the confines of this book and the world Gold Fame Citrus offers is a masterwork that we will never see. And that fucking sucks. ...more
"The premise of this book is that is that Dahmer was a tragic figure, but that only applies up until the moment he kills." ~~ Derf Backderf, author o
"The premise of this book is that is that Dahmer was a tragic figure, but that only applies up until the moment he kills." ~~ Derf Backderf, author of My Friend Dahmer
Would it be truly awful to suggest that Dahmer remained a tragic figure even after he killed? Would it be worse to suggest that the very act of killing made him even more tragic? I am about to say that Jeffrey Dahmer was a tragic figure made even moreso by where he ended up, and I am guessing that saying so will bother many people who read this review. I also think that maybe, perhaps, Derf Backderf only wrote the words I began this review with because he feared just such a response to his own belief that Jeffrey Dahmer was a tragic figure.
So here goes: Jeffrey Dahmer was a tragic figure from the cradle to the grave. I do not idolize Dahmer (nor any other serial killer) as a hero or an anti-hero, but I am unable to close off my empathy for him, and I am thereby able to understand and feel sadness for what led him to that fateful, first killing (and all the killings that followed). In my serial killer dilettantism, I have come to the conclusion that evil doesn't exist (despite the fact that most true crime writers, pundits and criminologists would have us believe it is so), and that serial killers are made out of the context in which they are born. So it was with Jeffrey Dahmer, and Derf Backderf's My Friend Dahmer --despite what Backderf wants us to believe -- suggests just such a conclusion.
Dahmer was thrown into what the Last Podcast on the Left boys call the "Serial Killer Soup" (albeit to a far lesser extent than many of his killing brethren), a soup made up of mental illness, insufficient parenting, overwhelming isolation, addiction, fear, shame, and bullying (and Derf Backderf was one of Dahmer's bullies, although his book suggests the bullying was all in fun). It seems to me that if all of these things make a person tragic before they've murdered -- as Backderf clearly states -- that these things must make them tragic even after they take the life of another.
There were so many moments when Dahmer could have been saved from himself, could have been brought back from the precipice he would tumble over, and the fact that it never happened, that so many stood by blindly or actively contributed to his fall makes the tragedy more profound.
I am in no way suggesting that Dahmer shouldn't have been held responsible for what he did nor that he should be absolved of guilt (although that is what he himself sought when he was "born again" in prison). What I am saying, however, is that it is precisely the disdain that we have for people like Dahmer (rather than disdain for his actions) that makes people like Dahmer hide from the help that could save the lives they will destroy (including their own). Backderf suggests that the shame of feeling the feelings Dahmer felt kept him from telling anyone, from seeking help. Perhaps things might have been different if the thoughts themselves had not caused Dahmer such shame, if those thoughts had not driven him into isolation. Heck, he could have been an amazing writer of horror or true crime.
We'll never know if things could have turned out differently, but I hope that people in Dahmer's place, people just steps away from becoming killers, can find a way out of their isolation, a way beyond their shame, a way to healing. Lives will be saved if they can. And we will all be better for it.
Maybe, just maybe, we can help them by being brave enough to feel pity regardless of how much we hate their actions. ...more
I found the underlying core of What Lies in the Dark to be utterly fascinating, and it sparked a desire to be consumed in a conflagration of serial kiI found the underlying core of What Lies in the Dark to be utterly fascinating, and it sparked a desire to be consumed in a conflagration of serial killer intensity. C.M. Thompson throws herself at the reader as if on the attack, writing back and forth between present tense and present perfect tense, driving the immediacy of the even-numbered murders and all the peripheral damage they cause deep into our guts. It is a powerful choice, yet its power cannot last, so that by the time we are heading towards the inexorable denouement Thompson has lost our allegiance.
What Lies in the Dark is a book that makes me long for the days of strong, talented editors, and as an author who detests editors messing with my work that takes some doing, yet What Lies in the Dark needed direction, and Thompson needed additional drafts to find that direction. There are too many gaps that Thompson imagines are artistic and "challenging," but which turn out to be nothing other than obtuse and opaque.
For instance, who's side are we on? Thompson spends most of the novel setting up the idea that sides don't matter, and that wherever we come into the story -- killer, victim, cops -- we are not to be isolated or alienated, but then she ends it with a number of scenes that belie that underlying premise.
What I wouldn't give to write a stage adaptation of this book. It has some brilliant moments, it has a compelling core, and I feel a different approach could make the story fly. As a prose fiction, however, What Lies in the Dark is mostly middling. Regardless, C.M. Thompson shows real promise, and I will keep my eyes peeled for more books by the author in years to come....more
That took me much longer to read than it should have.
I promised a beautiful, intelligent, talented, University student of mine to read this book, hisThat took me much longer to read than it should have.
I promised a beautiful, intelligent, talented, University student of mine to read this book, his favourite book, as soon as I could, but it took me four years to get to the first page and almost six months to get through to the last page once I'd picked the book up.
Sorry about that, Will.
The former time span was my fault; the latter time span was Antal Szerb's -- or maybe I should say it is the fault of his protagonist.
But I will cut, for now, to how I feel since I have finished: I liked this book. It was beautifully written (even if I had to read it in translation), and I can see why Will loved this book and wanted me to read it; I liked it, but I couldn't love it. I know, also, that if I had read it when I was in my twenties or late teens, I would have adored this story.
It is the tale of a bourgeois native of Pest, visiting Italy on his honeymoon. Once there his nostalgic thirst for the past -- for the young people, the friends and lovers who promised meaning in his life -- conjures a mid-life crisis far before mid-life and drives him on a frantic, tiresome journey back to his starting point. It sounds like I don't like the book when I write it like that. But the truth is I do. What I don't like is the bourgeois native of Pest, and all of his bourgeois friends, and all of his bourgeois prejudices, and all of his bourgeois privilege, and all of his ugly bourgeois hate of Italian "proles," and all of his bourgeois stagnance.
Mihaly, for that's his name, drove me mental. I wanted to shake him to his senses. I wanted to punch him in the mouth. I wanted him to to be a better man.
But maybe I disliked him because I saw an uncomfortable level of myself in him. Is that what you saw, Will? It would make me sad if that is why you gave me this book. There are parts of me in Mihaly, but we are by no means the same.
Regardless, no matter what I felt about Mihaly -- or any of his friends and relations (hello, Rabbit) -- I am glad I read Journey by Moonlight. I only wish I had read it years ago. Maybe then Will and I could have had a coffee and talked about a book we both loved rather than me writing this middling review thousands of kilometres away from him....more
Reading The Plague during the COVID pandemic was not the best decision I’ve ever made, and not for the reason I think you may be thinking. If you wereReading The Plague during the COVID pandemic was not the best decision I’ve ever made, and not for the reason I think you may be thinking. If you were thinking that the undertaking must have been massively depressing, you’re not wrong (and it definitely slowed down my progress), but the sadness The Plague conjured wasn’t the reason I wish I had read Camus’ masterpiece years ago rather than during our first plague of the 21st century.
It was a poor decision because I will never be able to divorce my reading of The Plague from what it says about this time ... right now ... that we are all living through. Had I read The Plague before the pandemic, I would have brushed up against its allegory of Vichy France and set it aside because I would been absolutely captivated by the beauty in the book, the hope & glory that people find in life even when hope is dashed and we are forced to face how absurd our existence is in the face of the greater universe. I was able to see and feel the sombre beauty as I read The Plague during COVID -- my brain did see all the marvellous things Camus was doing -- but I was unable to engage with them intensely, wholeheartedly, completely, to immerse myself in their life affirming brilliance, to truly feel the way Camus intended me to feel.
Instead, I was watching a replay of all the stages we’ve been going through since January 9th, 2020. The Plague is a mirror to the pandemic. The quiet resolve of some, the mad stupidity of others, the selflessness and selfishness, the uniting of a community before it tears itself apart, the role of religion, of government, of force, of personal responsibility, of charity, of internal and external pressures, of isolation and the lack thereof, of denial and acceptance and fear and relief. All of the things make up The Plague, and reading The Plague during the pandemic was exhausting rather than exalting. But I will love it forever, even though it can never be the love that it might have been. It truly is one of the greatest books ever written. ...more
I always feel guilty when I give any Iain (M.) Banks novel less than four stars (I've given plenty of them five), and here I am --again -- feeling a lI always feel guilty when I give any Iain (M.) Banks novel less than four stars (I've given plenty of them five), and here I am --again -- feeling a little guilty about giving Whit only three.
I was trying to articulate my feelings about a couple of days ago, as I approached the end of the novel, and the best I could come up with was a mild disappointment with how Whit was making me feel in comparison to other novels by Banks. The Wasp Factory, Use of Weapons, Against a Dark Background, all these books left me wishing I had written them, they awed me a bit; Consider Phlebas, Dead Air, they gave me at least a moment of "Ppphhhttting" delight. I wanted one of these from Whit, and for much of the book I thought I was going to get at least a "Ppphhhttt!" The fact that I didn't left me underwhelmed.
That doesn't mean Whit isn't an excellent book. It is. It is a cracking read with, perhaps, one of my favourite Banks characters -- The Blessed Very Reverend Gaia-Marie Isis Saraswati Minerva Mirza Whit of Luskentyre, Beloved Elect of God III. But she just goes by Isis. And it is precisely because it is such a strong book that I found myself disappointed that it wasn't stronger.
I won't tell you anything else because despite the fact that I wasn't blown away by Whit, I recommend it highly. And I can't help wondering where the fuck the television series is of this. It is a wonder of inclusivity, and it could be made even more inclusive with minor tweaks that would do nothing to mess up Banks' intentions; it is perfectly suited to one series or two; it could easily expand beyond the confines of the book itself; and there are parts to fill every anglophile with joy. And I haven't even mentioned how much fun it would be to see Fusillada Debauch (I wonder why he didn't name a Culture ship Fusillada Debauch?) in something like live action....more
Where in the world are works like this today? Where are they being written? Where are they being performed? Would anyone want to read something like WWhere in the world are works like this today? Where are they being written? Where are they being performed? Would anyone want to read something like Waiting for Godot today -- or watch it onstage -- unless it were already a classic?
Surely there are avant garde theatres and playwrights still out there, but the work they do never achieves any recognition beyond the subcultures on the periphery, never finds it way into the mainstream, and those playwrights must necessarily toil in obscurity until their deaths or until they sell out and move to the centre.
I come away from this, my most recent dalliance with Waiting for Godot, with a thirst to head back out to those theatrical peripheries and find challenging work like Beckett's, but new work, work of our now; if only I were someone who could draw attention to such dramas and help drag others out to the peripheries with me....more
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