Home at Last (Temporarily)

The Mayor of Cleveland, by the way, sends her regrets - she cannot attend the performance at Dobama on Thursday. But I was very pleased she, or rather one of her people, called. I thought that was classy.

So, anyway, we have made it home. There wasn't too much to report, at least as far as this show was concerned. Got a message from the BROWNTOWN peeps, apparently they, like I, have been "googling" ourselves to find out if there is any mention of us, anywhere. Other than that, we spent a largely stress-free three days getting home.

Okay, that's false, it was actually pretty stressful. Zelda couldn't understand why, after spending merely five days running around in the grass and sunshine and gravel and mud and seashells and everything it was necessary to get back into the damn car again (adorable photo of a sleeping child, notwithstanding.)

But I have a peculiar week ahead of me - beginning with my procrastinating, as a writer will, on a paid assignment. I need to turn in a five-hundred word piece on "what I did this summer" to Cleveland Magazine by Tuesday morning. Only this time it won't be about appearing naked in public, though it will be about something actually embarrassing. I will keep you in suspense, I will say it has to do with a ruffled collar and a pork rib.

On our way home we did stop in Elmira and check out Mark Twain's grave, speaking of dead children. The graves of the two daughters who predeceased him are there, as well as that of the one who lived. And did he not have a fourth daughter who died very, very young? We thought so, but there was no marker, at least not there. Now there was a man plagued by depression - and not without reason.

Oh, but about this week ... writing, getting back on top of my employment for Great Lakes Theater Festival (in this case - dry cleaning) and teching for the show at Dobama. Brian reassures me that everything is well in hand. I am not sure that means it will actually be a fun morning on Wednesday, especially as I will have to leave early to appear on Around Noon with Toni. The unvieling of Tunick's Cleveland portrait will be Friday evening, and they will we rebroadcasting our 'radio diary' on the first half of the show Wednesday, and then we're taking questions, live on the air. Hopefully Spencer will be available by phone, his next gig is this weekend in Buffalo.

Then the show Thursday, the unvieling at MOCA Friday ... and then I need to talk Brian and Kelly into leaving Saturday morning at, like, 3 AM or something to drive to NYC because I won't be sleeping anyway.

Blogging Live from ... The Barnstable?

Friendship, ME
Who is here?
David, Toni, Zelda
Toni's entire family; Con, Chris, Locke & Adrienne
Most of David's family; Mom, Dad and Denny

Flood's Cove is not a very fancy place, and that's why we like it. The Barnstable (you can guess its origins) has brown paper on the walls to keep out drafts, and I was shocked when returning in 1990 after a five-year absence to discover hot running water and that a shower had been installed. This was luxury.

So you can imagine my surprise when, in a cabin with no cable (we received one and a half broadcast channels) and no phone at all - that Toni's iBook is receiving a WiFi signal. From where we do not know, there are a number of permanent residences in the area which may be connected, but none close. Denny suggested it may be one on Martin's Point - a distance from here, as the crow flies, of roughly a quarter-mile. But there's nothing between here and there but water, nothing to obstruct the signal.

It comes and goes. Cool. Weird. I should be walking in the woods, and not sitting here.

What Keeps David Moving
This morning's randomly generated playlist:
All Night - Sam Phillips
Piku - The Chemical Brothers
Pump Up the Volume - M/A/R/R/S
One Call Away - Chingy
Didi (Funk Club) - Khaled
I Do Not Want This - Nine Inch Nails

I have been running roughly three miles a day* since I got here, beginning with the hill that takes me out of the cove, and then following the road along Martin's Point. I get an excellent view of the water, the morning lobster boats (yes, I have chosen not the hear them) and the smell of the sea - today, the low tide smell. I usually run as far as my uncle Dave's place and back, but today I pushed it all the way to where the road ends ... another five hundred yards.

Moxie

I always drink Moxie when Downeast, the most horrific soda pop even invented. I am always surprised they still make it, I think it was bought out by Coca-Cola, but the natives raised such a hoopla they continue to make it just for them.

It's a less-sweet cola, which a subtle and extremely tasty licorice flavor ... and the nastiest aftertaste you can imagine for something that is supposed to be a sweet treat. But it's like your first beer, after a while you just enjoy the bits you like and stop paying attention to the parts you don't.

My entire extended family has taken to ripping on me every time I pour a glass.

[*actually 3.8 miles - 8/3/2014]

"I want to introduce my dead son ..."

Friendship, ME

Okay, this is going back a few days, but something happened on Wednesday night I have reglected to recount. To me, it speaks volumes about the level of discourse in our nation at the present time.

We're getting ready to watch John Edwards give his acceptance speech at the Dem Nat Con. It's on PBS so Jim Lehrer is hosting, surrounded by a couple of stiffs, including David "isn't my skin smooth" Brooks. He writes luke-warm apologies for Bush for the New York Times. I think it's the luke-warm bit which supposedly makes neo-cons like to call him a liberal.

Anyway.

So Edwards is about to speak - he's been introduced by his wife, and she before by their eldest daughter. The talking heads make mention of the fact that their eldest child, a boy name Wade, was killed in 1996 in a car accident. I did not know this.

Brooks goes on to say (in a passing comment - the speech is about to begin) that he never talks about Wade in his stump speeches - and then he adds, but that will probably change tonight. Or words to that effect.

So. A man - a lawyer, yes, and a politican - has chosen to leave a great, tragic, one might suggest "life-defining" event out of his political rhetoric. This is not what I would call a casual decision. I am not suggesting he should or should not talk openly about Wade with his audiences. But it is obviously a decision, a decision for which there are definite reasons.

However, Mr. Brooks would suggest that John Edwards would go back on that choice out of some political need. Having decided to keep his personal reaction to the sudden, early death of his eldest son to himself (he does, always, acknowledge his son, by name, as a present member of the family, which is beautiful) what kind of man would he be to go back on that decision? What kind of person is Brooks suggesting he is by that comment?

I am just sick of the characterizations which have arisen in this campaign. From all I can see, Edwards is a good man. And he chose, once again, not to make Wade part of a campaign speech. Brooks was wrong, about an insignificant detail, perhaps, a small, thoughtless comment right before the speech, one we can all forget about.

... unless Edwards had chosen, instead, to make passing mention of the accident (he doesn't even do that, he refers to his eldest son as though he simply couldn't make it that night, which in a sense, it true) in which case Brooks could say "I told you so" and transform a new insight into Edwards' character as simply another political manipulation.

As Denny puts it, Brooks, like all the other heads, left right and non-existent center, are paid to write and say what people want them to say.

Talk to a local, they know what you need.

Hampton Inn: Bow (outside Concord), New Hampshire

Toni and I have a rule on road trips - no chains. We cannot eat in a franchised establishment without first making a legitimate attempt to find something home-grown. It's has always been very tempting, first leaving the Interstate, to pull into the nearest B*b E***s - D***'s - A****bee's or what have you, especially when your butt is tired and your feet are cramped. Even more so when you have an anxious toddler (who turned 18 months today, if you can believe that.)

Normally, we press on into whatever city is nearby, sometimes five miles up the road, some little burg, forgotten as a result of the big, nasty National Highway System. Thank you, Eisenhower. And we meet friendly people, the food is better, and cheaper. And it makes you feel like you've actually gone somwehere, and didn't just take a turn at Westlake.

Case in point - we load up from Syracuse around 9:30, with a resolution to go an hour before breakfast (it was a late night, we fell asleep watching Kerry's speech, and if that doesn't suggest we are all doomed, don't say I didn't warn you) and got off the turnpike at Hermiker, NY and decided to ask the Toll Booth Guy for advice. He was corpulent and had poor teeth.

"Can you recommend somewhere for breakfast?" I ask, handing him our ticket and cash.

"Okay," he says with a sigh, as though he knew I was going to ask that before we pulled up, "I can give you D***y's or a diner."

"Diner," Toni and I said, simultaneously.

He rattles off easy directions, and says the place is called "Chet's." And he was right, that place was great. Pretty homely, with lots of photographs of kids on the noteboard next to the bathrooms. The portions were not obscene and the price was right.

There was a McD*****'s up the street, the aforementioned D***y's we had passed, and a K** ... I wonder how much early morning business Chet's used to get, when it was "The Diner."

Holiday Inn: Syracuse, New York

Road Trip! We are headed for Friendship, Maine for a week with the extended family - mine and Toni's. Should be quite enjoyable - and make for a lame blog. Who knows. I have wondered whether taking a ten day vacation shortly before embarking on this NY Fringe gig would be an exercise in relaxation or futility. Will I succeed in taking an hour a day to rehearse my show, maybe out in the woods somewhere (or maybe in the outhouse, in order to approximate the size of our West Village venue) or will I merely whine about the fact that I am not rehearsing?

Yes. Interesting reading, indeed.

Anyway, Friendship is not so far afield I won't be able to check in on the company nor give regular reports on this thing. At least, I don't think so. And maybe there will be pretty pictures of puffins.

Oh, and we have indoor plumbing there. Not an outhouse. I just said that to be smart.

Next up: nagging Brian to pick up the postcards and posters to send to Harris and Liz in advance of our arrival, and then nagging them to distribute them around Downtown Manhattan (or, as they say, "Downtown.")

Nag, nag, nag.