Abandon all Hope Ye who Enter here

I've been thinking a lot lately about hope. It seems to me that it is always absent in my life, either due to my innate cynicism or the pressures of the outside world. It's hard to have hope when you're constantly in competition with yourself, and everyone else for that matter. It seems we forget about the goal and concentrate only on the means. There's a line that was cut out of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly that was subsequently used as an episode title for Weeds: "If you work for a living, why do you kill yourself working?" It's simple (and quirky) enough to describe my predicament. I wish I could just lay back, watch the world go by and do as I please for the rest of time, but it's never possible. Responsibilities set in with age, dictated by the society in which we live; we must work, we must make money, we must be independent by depending on others. It all seems so pedestrian.

And, in spite of this, I constantly feel as if I'm setting myself up for failure. Instead of pursuing some career that is reliable or stable I chose to go into intensely competitive fields that feed on rewarding the "best" and disregarding the "rest". Initially, I chose to participate in "art" because it was what made me happy. It makes enough sense: do what makes you happy and you'll be happy. Not true. Any personal gratification I acheived through expressing myself has been tainted. It's all about profit and showing someone up and proving to the rest of the world that you have something. Perhaps creativity should not be a business, but nevertheless it is. Why is success only attainable through money?

I feel hopeless. I wish I could just be.

The Red Menace.

Yesterday I bit the bullet I had been facing for so long and registered myself with the New York State Communist Party. Difficult as it was, when I returned home that evening I found a package containing a shirt I ordered almost a month ago: tomato red with the word "Communist" silk screened on the chest. Providence or Coincidence?

Now, apparently, I am a communist. Or, at least, as much as one can be in a free market society. But what does this mean? Most people I've told have reacted with horror as if I am going to be brought up before the House Un-American Activities Committee, but the whole ordeal was hardly as unnerving as I had originally planned for. Three individuals from the party have already contacted me, welcoming me and telling me they were there if I had any questions. In fact, I'm supposed to arrange a formal meeting with someone later this week. It all seems perfectly normal. I guess we'll see.

Uncivil Disobedience

THEATER REVIEW|'GOD OF CARNAGE'

“Children consume and fracture our lives. Children drag us towards disaster, it’s unavoidable.” Michael says in Yasmina Reza’s brilliant new comedy. “Brilliant” is a word I despise, repeated ad nauseum and usually applied to all the wrong things, but there is no other word to describe “God of Carnage”. It was unequivocally the best play I have seen all season, and, to be perfectly blunt, the first play since Kushner’s “Angels in America” that has restored my faith in the theatre. Acerbic, thought provoking, and hilarious, it is all that the theatre is meant to be, and comfortably capitulates to the New York sensibility Broadway should provide.

Originally a French play, produced numerous times in Europe (including one in London starring Janet McTeer and Ralph Fiennes), “Le Dieu de Carnage” as it is called, was translated by Christopher Hampton into English. It tells the story of two bourgeoisie couples who arrange to have a civil meeting after one of their children assaults the other with a stick on the playground. The slick set design offers a cold, modern space suspended in emotion. Bright red walls that stretch up into the sky are revealed when a large white curtain decorated with a child’s crayon-rendered family portrait rises. An oblique, stone wall is in the background. The stage is flanked by two perfect crystal vases filled with white tulips (from the Korean Deli up the street, direct from Holland, $40 for Fifty). Lead by an all-star cast (Marcia Gay Harden, James Gandolfini, Jeff Daniels and Hope Davis) the material is never allowed to rest. Discussions turn to arguments, arguments turn to violence, violence turns to despair all in one tense, Albeesque afternoon.

An obvious devolution occurs with each character (although perhaps not as much with Alan, who is a prick to begin with) and their carefully manicured facades crumble when confronted with the realities of existence. Ms. Harden and Mr. Gandolfini in particular deftly transform on stage as the play progresses. Matthew Warchus’s direction is absolutely splendid; the blocking is obviously very calculated and deliberate but appears effortless, and the special effects (namely projectile vomiting on the part of Ms. Davis, another nod to Albee) are well handled and natural.

As Ms. Reza’s words entertain, they simultaneously subvert societal mores, the role of parents, and the relationships we all have. Her play is fabulous. That’s all. Nothing more.

GOD OF CARNAGE
By Yasmina Reza; translated by Christopher Hampton; directed by Matthew Warchus; sets and costumes by Mark Thompson; lighting by Hugh Vanstone; music by Gary Yershon; sound by Simon Baker/Christopher Cronin; production stage manager, Jill Cordle; production manager, Aurora Productions; general manager, STP/David Turner. Presented by Robert Fox, David Pugh and Dafydd Rogers, Stuart Thompson, the Shubert Organization, Scott Rudin, Jon B. Platt and the Weinstein Company. At the Bernard Jacobs Theater, 242 West 45th Street, Manhattan; (212) 239-6200. Through July 19. Running time: 1 hour 30 minutes.

WITH: Jeff Daniels (Alan), Hope Davis (Annette), James Gandolfini (Michael) and Marcia Gay Harden (Veronica).

Day in the Life

Morning: Overslept exactly three minutes due to retiring at 2:30am after caring for nervous dog.

Commute: Late train. Arrive in New York at 9:15 for 9:10 class.

Breakfast: Coffee and cigarette.

Class: Art History; discover Courbet and his Realist Manifesto (read.)

Break: Cigarette.

Lunch: Free peanut granola bar from guy on 29th.

Recent purchases: Weeds Season 4 on DVD; Tony Kushner's "A Bright Room Called Day". Both great. Both overpriced.

What's to come: Bio in a medium-security classroom. Work in a medium-security Writing Studio. I hope no one comes in.

What still holds true: I enjoy New York. We'll see when that dissipates.

Sister, Brother, Teacher, Mother.

Imagine having drinks with your teacher. Now, imagine having drinks with your mother. Now imagine the complete opposite of what you would expect.

It all started about a week ago. Finally finishing up with school, I was headed out for a celebratory lunch with the girls when our professor invited himself along. An odd twist on our plans, but, we went with it and had lunch at Bar 89 (and several other locations). Who knows, maybe it improved our grades. So, I did what any perfectly normal young man would do when going out with a man old enough to be his father: I drank. Three beers, two absinthe and a shot of tequila later I felt better than I had in a while. Alcohol cures all. And while no sex resulted from my inebriation, I realized something: here I was, plastered, hadn't paid for a thing, all in front of my teacher. It seemed wrong.

Flash forward to the next day of cocktails at the Algonquin. Too much drinking again, this time martinis, this time with my mother. She had begun to tell me about how she recently got in touch with an old college mate who now does the makeup for "All My Children". She relayed to me how they used to fawn after the same bisexual guy in school. My mother would even smoke to impress him (though she never inhaled). Again, aside from the nausea, dizziness and mediocre piece of theater we ended up seeing, I felt wrong.

Maybe it's just the onset of adulthood, realizing that everyone is more or less a rather complex person whose identity reaches far beyond your perception. But, nevertheless, it is alarming when the barriers break down, considering how much you thought you knew about a person, let alone your purported role models.

Philological Philanthropy

Theater Review|'The Philanthropist'

I am at a loss for words on this one; maybe because the play was light, maybe because I was drunk and slept through the last scene of the first act. In any event, Christopher Hampton's play about a 70's philology professor who's naivete is mistaken for animosity was cute. Not incredibly moving, intriguing, and at some times very callow (Hampton was only 23 when he wrote it, after all), the play managed to illicit a few laughs and smiles. Matthew Broderick was convincing enough, although at times he resorted to being too dry, perhaps mistaking the emotion for the callus simplicity needed for the role. 

Design-wise, the production was decent. The set was very, very tall (which seems to be a trademark of the American Airlines Theater) and minimal. It's saved, though by the illuminating letters across the top of walls, which aided in scene changes by spelling out one of the seven deadly sins (each character is supposed to represent one). The character Celia's costumes were very 60's London Mary Quant-esque, while Braham's multi-colored, bell bottom, three-piece suit was, while charming, a little more late 70's. 

In any event, I have no more to say about this production (mainly because last night is a bit of a blur by now), but I will point you in the direction of the New York Times review. It's harsh, but points out what's wrong with this production.    

Ben Brantley's Review

THE PHILANTHROPIST

By Christopher Hampton; directed by David Grindley; sets by Tim Shortall; costumes by Tobin Ost; lighting by Rick Fisher; sound by Gregory Clarke; dialect coach, Gillian Lane-Plescia; associate artistic director, Scott Ellis. Presented by the Roundabout Theater Company, Todd Haimes, artistic director. At the American Airlines Theater, 227 West 42nd Street, Manhattan, (212) 719-1300. Through June 28. Running time: 2 hours 10 minutes.

WITH: Matthew Broderick (Philip), Jonathan Cake (Braham), Anna Madeley (Celia),Steven Weber (Donald), Tate Ellington (John), Jennifer Mudge (Araminta) and Samantha Soule (Elizabeth)

Do I?

Let me tell you a story: a girl of 27 living life humbly as an elementary school teacher meets a fantastic guy and gets engaged. In two months, they will be newlyweds. She will continue to work, she says, but hopes her husband will make enough money so that she can be a stay-at-home housewife. She seems happy enough, and has truly found a man who seamlessly fits into her family; he's cute, smart, and Italian. And no it's not me, just to avoid any misinterpretation of the story. At this point, it does seem as if they will live happily ever after.

Let me tell you another story: a girl of 29, newly hired as a professor at a New York college, soon to complete her dissertation and receive a PhD. She has already completed her Master's, and apparently has nowhere to go but up. Her students love her, she's an excellent teacher, and she has the potential to go on to bigger and better colleges, where one will no doubt grant her tenure. She seems happy enough, and has found, in my mind, a truly satisfying career. In addition to this fabulous success, she also has a domestic partner. No, she isn't a lesbian. Her boyfriend has lived with her so long that the government has ostensibly married them on their tax forms. When asked if she ever wanted to get married, she replied "Eh."

So what do these two stories tell us? One woman happily satisfied with her husband, not with her career, and another woman feeling the exact opposite. So here's the dreadful question we as a society must ask: Who's happier? 

For a long time now, as most people know, the prospect of marriage and family has never appealed to me, and I have for the most part lived for myself. My ambitions are to buy a Classic Six on the Upper East Side, not to share it with someone. I don't mean to pump out another Carrie Bradshaw-esque post on this sorry little blog, but it comes across my mind as strange that I've never once wanted to meet someone, build a life with him and have children. Perhaps because of my orientation, or my disdain for some of my relatives, I have no impulse to propagate my gene pool. Or perhaps it's because I detest little children and would, if given the opportunity, reject rearing them properly and perform psychological experiments on them just out of sheer curiosity. Such as, oh, let's say showering one with gifts and praise and locking the other up in the basement feeding him cow hooves and old milk and comparing and contrasting the final outcome. Or naming my son "Wendy" and force him to wear girls' clothes to see if it has any effect on his gender identification or sexual orientation. 

As it can be seen, Social Services would be up my ass if I were a parent. At least if I were a parent now, anyway. This doesn't really cover the eternal, lifelong relationship part of the equation that I do not enjoy anymore. Why don't I have the urge to shack up with a guy and share my deepest darkest secrets with him? My friends have boyfriends, my cousins have husbands, so what's wrong with me? Perhaps I should just give a relationship a try. And I mean a real relationship, not the two dates and a blowjob in a public restroom kind of relationship that I---have heard some people have. Maybe. 

So what are we to believe? The woman who might not have the best personal life, despite all of the success she has otherwise, is not really happy? If I concentrate on my studies and just try to get degree after degree, what, I'm not worthy of anyone's reverence because I didn't just go to some bar, pick up some guy, and marry him? And what if, maybe, I will really feel fulfillment in my life if I'm in a relationship? What am I to do?   

Anyway, with the prospect of New York legislature granting gay marriage rights to the masses, maybe I should just consider finding a sugar daddy to marry me, that way I can figure this stuff (re: my life) out while not breaking a sweat about my credit card debt or rent bills in exchange for the occasional handjob. That's the kind of relationship I can picture myself in. For the time being, anyway.