In 2008, I wrote and produced a play entitled “The Tearful Assassin”, which was, at worst, a passable episode of “Law and Order”, according to one critic, and, at best, a gripping thriller, according to another.  Either way, it was my first piece in which everyone gets to fail miserably.  The parents of a kidnapped girl blot out the pain of their missing child by making her into the subject of a how-to-grieve tome.  The police on the case are pulled off the case by said parents, who do not wish their new vocation interrupted.  The kidnapper dies a gruesome death.  Even the kidnapped girl, who escapes and makes it home, finds her transformation into a career for her parents more foreign than the basement in which she had been confined that she steals a few credit cards to fund the first leg of her new life in some undiscovered country (that’s Shakespearean code for “the future”, of course).

In what seems to me a mysterious burst, I have returned to this story to profile what this undiscovered country looks like to at least three of the characters in the first play.  The set-up, which has been in my head since 2009, has been consistent: the kidnapped girl, Angela, uses her mother’s credit cards until they are suspended and lands in a small hick town, where she assumes a new name and identity.  One of the police officers, John Fowler, has been suspended himself, having fought to stay on the kidnapped girl’s (now closed) case.  Angela’s mother, noting the use of her credit cards for some time before cutting them off, is now wracked with guilt about misdirecting her own energies to build a career on her daughter’s back.  The link: Angela’s guilt-ridden mother now hires the struggling John Fowler to track down the hiding Angela.

In David Mamet’s “Bambi v. Godzilla”, the author chides potential screenwriters and playwrights to eschew the exposition and get right into the action.  Although I consider myself reasonably adept at inserting a good “hook” in the first few minutes of any of my plays, I have always left room for characters to explain who they are and, obliquely, what they want, for the audience’s benefit.  For “The Tearful Assassin II” (which it will never be called), I chose for my opening scene, my opening moment, a backroom in a bar.  John Fowler has his gun on Angela, who has her own gun trained on her husband, whom she holds in a headlock.  The husband, we learn quickly, is unaware of Angela’s past – in fact, he keeps begging “Sandy” to lower her gun, when he’s not wondering aloud where she got one in the first place. 

I find this a delicious concept, with each character working off at least a pair of conflicting emotions, thus empowering them with the ability to double-cross anyone at anytime, potentially making the miserable situation far, far worse.  As exciting as I find the multi-layered concept, I am moderately troubled that I really have no clue on what each character really wants, nor where the play could possibly go.  In freehand, I have written about 20 pages, which would translate as about 40 pages of script, and the tension and one-upmanship is thrilling to write – in fact, the natural flow of games and gunshots are coming in real time, forcing me to employ so many abbreviations that no one could probably read any of it.  I am curious what will become of it.

In other playwrighting news, I have reached out to one of my favorite theaters to mount “The Observatory” in December 2010 (as my application for the Museum of Science and Industry was, sadly, rejected).  If “The Observatory” gets a green light, this will be the first time in a decade I will go into a project without close creative colleagues standing with me (as my closest, Kyle and Melissa, are California-bound and my most consistent partner since 2002, Robert, is busy being happy not doing theater).

About 30 days ago, I decided, for the first time, to deliberately start mending my dietary habits as well as re-toning my muscles.  I have not, and no doubt will not, make much of a fuss about it, as there’s nothing worse than the imagined sympathetic voices saying, “well, at least you tried” or, worse, “it’s what’s on the inside that counts”, should I miserably fail.

The reasons behind this decision were manifold:

1. The wife and I were given a Wii, and with that, a Wii Fitness Plus disc.  Thus, embarking on a health-oriented regimen seems logical.

2. I turned 45.

3. Christopher Hitchens suddenly got cancer, instilling in me a dread of mortality (or, at least, another layer of dread of mortality).

4. I got a haircut, which makes my head look slightly more globe-like than it does with normal hair.  I feel like I’m one zig-zagged sweater away from having a run-in with Lucy Van Pelt.

5. My weight is obsessed with plateaus.  For years, I was 145 pounds, then jumped up to 165 pounds, where I stayed for years, until I was suddenly 185 pounds, again for some time, until finally I have landed at 200-210 pounds.  Despite its slow-moving nature, I am not a fan of this bodily trend from Pro-Ana Boy to Michelan Man.

6. I wouldn’t say I dislike my body, but after a shower, I cannot help but look in a mirror and wonder aloud, “Really?”

7. My wife actually likes my body.  But she likes quite a few plus-sized celebrities (Jack Black, for instance) and her liking my body makes me involuntarily queasy.

8. Few women check me out.  I know this is a ridiculous motivation – and, as Number 3 above reveals, the best I could possibly hope for is hanging on to the near-sighted few that still do check me out – but a motivation nonetheless.

On Day One, I weighed in at 204.6 and I was determined to lose 10 pounds in the first 30 days.  My wife joined in as well, though she needn’t lose any weight at all.  In fact, I noticed that her weight gradually diminished, seemingly on its own, over the month; mine would spike and drop like a metabolic Dow Jones Industrial Average.  Yet, I focused on the more positive reasons of losing weight and toning up, and did 60- to 85-minute workouts each day or every other day.  Additionally, I walked a couple miles a day during the week.  I rearranged my diet to include less bread/meat/sugar and more nuts/seeds/yogurt.  This has made me unusually aware of more junky type of food, and I can smell a foot-long Quizno’s sandwich at 50 paces.   

But, yes, finally, at the end of the month, I had achieved a ten-pound weight loss, weighing in at exactly 194.2 pounds. 

And naturally, I’m irritated because my pants are all a little loose now.  It is curious that pants will stretch and expand a little as their owners do, but will not shrink and compress when their owners shrink themselves.  The sugary-sweet devil, who has been murmuring to me all this time while perched on my shoulder, suggests happily that I will no doubt blimp up a bit in time and the pants will fit me AND I’ll get to have breakfasts consisting of three to four bowls of Lucky Charms again.  It’s a reassuring voice, but I am wise enough to seek counsel from the angel on the other shoulder.  Unfortunately, the angel shrugged and said, “I got nothin’.”

So I have decided to ignore them both and set another 10-pound goal for myself over the next 30 days.  Wish me luck, in your own way.  If I do not blog about this again, don’t ask.

In order to fully convey my own position here, I have to disclose the following: when I heard the term ‘Ground Zero Mosque’, my first thought was ‘how dare they!’  Quickly on the heels of this notion were feelings of disdain, the indignation of being insulted, not to mention out-and-out pissed off.

Slowly, the facts revealed themselves to me through a series of articles, editorials and, most importantly, NY-based friends.

• It’s not a mosque, it’s a community center (“Park51”).
• It’s not at Ground Zero, nor can it be seen from Ground Zero.
• Park51 is to be built in a building that used to house a Burlington Coat Factory, but which has been abandoned for nearly a decade.
• Other buildings just as close or closer to Ground Zero as Park51 include: a place for off-track betting, McDonald’s, Burger King, Dunkin Donuts, a Vitamin Shoppe, and the famous New York Dolls Gentleman’s Club.
• The fellow behind Park51, Imam Feisal Abdul Rauf, is a noted advocate for religious tolerance and has been supported and funded by both the Bush and Obama Administrations to promote religious tolerance in potential “hot spots” all over the world.
• The same fellow was invited to and spoke at the memorial service for Daniel Pearl, the journalist who was executed by Islamic extremists in Pakistan.

Even as the facts came rolling in slowly, a few other ideas re-introduced themselves to me:

• The US is proud of its freedoms, including freedom of religion and expression, two things that are purposefully absent in intolerant and disrespectful countries.
• Osama bin Laden, who, as far as I know, is not investing in Park51, has gone on record numerous times advocating no tolerance of other beliefs, including any attempt at creating societies with co-existing belief systems. 

And, finally, from my fellow satirists, both known and unknown, came a series of joke articles that helped inch the proposition well into perspective.  The texts of these articles are, happily, neatly summed up in their titles:

• “Protest Over Mall to be Built Near Native American Hallowed Ground”
• “Furor Over Church to be Built Near Day-Care Center”
• “Outrage Over Plans to Build Library Next to Sarah Palin”

Taking all of the above in (and the above barely scratches the surface; see links below for more insightful information), there’s no way I could find myself in opposition to Park51.  Sure, I am not a fan of religion or its practices, but I am less a fan of censorship, xenophobia, bigotry and willful ignorance.

I look forward to my next sojourn to NYC when Park51 is complete.  I will no doubt want to go there, do some shopping and play some basketball.  And, kids, this is the most important bit: the terrorists won’t win.

Really good links:

“Taking Bin Laden’s Side” by Nicholas Kristof, New York Times [http://www.nytimes.com/2010/08/22/opinion/22kristof.html?src=me&ref=general]

“How FOX Betrayed Petraeus” by Frank Rich, New York Times [http://www.nytimes.com/2010/08/22/opinion/22rich.html]

“Three Reasons the Ground Zero Mosque Debate Makes No Sense”, by a writer for Cracked.com [mirror link: http://aznor99.wordpress.com/2010/08/20/three-reasons-the-ground-zero-mosque-debate-makes-no-sense/]

I am hosting the readthrough of “The Observatory” tonight and, in preparation, I wanted to jot down a couple of notes with which I could introduce the “mind” of the piece.  These notes conspired to become a full presetnation, which, because I like the thoughts contained, I offer below:

* * * * *

A strong case and a relatively weak song can be made for the cliché “there’s a thin line between love and hate.”  A stronger case – and yet, due to its complexities, no songs – can be made for the barely discernable line between right and wrong.

I put it to the artists, audience and world that what determines right and wrong is not a manufactured or created morality but rather a clock.  Time will tell an intelligent person when murder is righteous and when it is an abomination.  Time will inform the individual who sleeps with someone other than their spouse whether such an act is a massive error of judgment or a miracle of an awakened and passionate heart.

Time will pass judgment on a nation obsessed with domination, invading countless other, smaller nations, killing millions and rendering the survivors as little more than free and fully expendable labor.  Indeed, time has already told you, personally, whether the nation I just described was Nazi Germany or America.

Thus, it is merely our perception that determines right and wrong.  These determinations become part of our memory, collectively and individually.  Who doesn’t remember the phrase ‘all men are created equal’?  Who remembers with the same gusto that male African Americans were deemed to be 3/5^th of a man (presumably, black women fared worse than this)?  Who doesn’t think of the Pledge of Allegiance with some reverence?  Yet, in that same mental breath, who recalls the Pledge was written by Francis Bellamy, a socialist, for a newspaper designed to sell American flags to schools? 

Half of our history in this nation had slavery.  Three-quarters had active and public discrimination.  Two-thirds were populated by women who could not vote.  Who remembers this as part of their own perception of America?

With ‘The Observatory’, I try and eradicate the tiny line between good and bad and, as a result, go a long way towards erasing the line between the dynamic duo of most plays: the protagonist and antagonist.  Either of the leads in this play could be either, and indeed they are both.  It all depends on how you define right and wrong.  Hopefully, this will at least fit your definition of entertainment.

When not practicing my deepest and most sincere humility, I am wont to occasionally troll through the internet in search of ‘Vincent Truman.’  The results that pique my interest, however, rarely have anything to do with me; the gentleman with my same name who might be an Australian long distance runner or a retiring librarian are far more interesting than some stray blog or video that mentions the version of Vincent Truman that is me.  A couple of weeks ago, I found myself fascinated by finding among a list of entrants for a screenwriting competition a play by Andrew Thompson entitled, “The Early Retirement of Vincent Truman.”

It is not my practice to reach out to (other) authors, but occasionally I will give it a shot, either half-heartedly, in the case of Gina Welch (“In The Land of Believers”), or with a mind towards one day sharing a cup of tea, in the case of Kerry Cohen (“Loose Girl”).  However, so intrigued was I with the fact that there existed a screenplay in which a fictional version of myself – OK, I’m reaching, I realize this – was the victim of early retirement that I immediately sent an email to the screenwriting folks, explaining who I was and how my name was used in the title of one of the plays under consideration.  They graciously put me in touch with Andrew Thompson, my not-even-fictional biographer.  Andrew was very kind enough to send along to me a copy of “The Early Retirement of Vincent Truman” and I thought it fair to send a copy of “The Observatory” to him.  Note: this is a common practice for me, I confess; in exchange for Ms. Cohen’s autograph on my copy of “Loose Girl”, I sent her a copy of my cartoon book, “This Is My First Time So Please Be Brutal”, which I presume is propping up one quarter of an otherwise-slanted table in the Cohen household somewhere.

Reading “Retirement” has been a very fun experience for me, and not really because my name happens to be in the title.  Rather, I had the opportunity to read a new work without a critical eye or a thought of producing it or having to learn lines; it’s been sheer entertainment.  A mental Wii.  Since Andrew has requested some sort of feedback, I have read the screenplay with my red pen at hand – but confess I have only used it to write variations on “ha ha ha” in the margins.  It’s quite a funny piece of writing – the scene in which the titular character attempts to reclaim a tie his dead friend is to be cremated in had me in stitches (Andrew, if you’re reading this, I hope this doesn’t give too much away).

Speaking (ever so fleetingly) of Wii, the wife and I were presented with one for our collective birthdays by the wife’s mother.  This mantel of white accomplishment had to be accompanied by the other mantel of white accomplishment: the wide-screen television.  Since these two objects have invaded our home, I have taken to playing virtual tennis and the wife has taken to watching the first season of “Lost.”  I cringe at the idea of “Lost” as I cringed to the idea of “E.T.” all those years ago.  Anything that popular, so goes my logical and atheistic mind, cannot be good for you.

Tomorrow will mark the day of my readthrough/workshop for “The Observatory.”  Even more than getting live feedback for the play, I am thrilled for the opportunity to have so many people I respect and have worked with in attendance.  I am still in the “fun” phase of playwrighting; the eventual production will be the nightmare phase.  But that is for another day.