Heavy

Running to the iTunes of a serendipitous string of shuffled songs one Saturday during my marathon training, I was struck by an insight that at the time I found quite Heavy: I had discovered yet another form of measurement of the passing of time.

It was in my 30s that light bulbs begin to click over my head about why my parents always whined about dated songs, missing friends, and forgotten celebrities. In my 40s, I realized one day that somehow all the war veterans had stumbled into the wrong generations—my comrades, who survived Vietnam, were the age my father’s WWII associates were supposed to be, and all his 40-something cronies had been mis-seated in the WWI vets’ place at the table. By the time I reached my 50s, it occurred to me that I might want to shut up about getting older because it was only going to get worse.

So these days I note the increasing bombardment of indicators mostly in silence. There are lapses. When the names of the four Beatles popped up as a trivia question on Jeopardy—one to which, furthermore, nobody knew the answer—I cried out in audible pain. A teenager who asked for my phone number and then looked at me quizzically, his finger poised over his open cell phone, when I handed him a slip of paper elicited a loud laugh. But mostly I suffer in silence.

Still, every now and then, a new variation slips in, and this is where it got Heavy for me during that Saturday run, the long one of the week. Dionne Warwick was crooning one of my all-time favorites, and it struck me suddenly that she sang of activities and truisms that no longer exist. “LA is a great big freeway, put a hundred down and buy a car…. weeks turn into years, and there you are, pumping gas… they’ve got lots of room in San Jose…” Pumping gas? Room in San Jose? 100 bucks to buy a car? She might as well have been singing about spooning under the harvest moon.

Topical tunes obviously fade, although it’s amazing how sometimes they don’t quite, or at least they go in and out of style, as with the Kinks’ tribute to that ancient energy crisis of the 70s: “I can score you some coke and some grade one grass, but I can’t get a gallon of gas.
… There’s no more left to buy or sell, there’s no more oil left in the well, a gallon of gas can’t be purchased anywhere, for any amount of cash.” The song will be apt again soon enough, I suspect.

Alas, some topics never seem to fade. Warren Zevon’s lyrics will always proclaim, accurately, that it is “time, time, time, for another peaceful war.” And “Where Have All The Flowers Gone” seems apt for all times, though the narrow population of one verse has become antiquated: “Where have all the husbands gone? Gone to soldiers, everyone.” Who picks the flowers, I wonder, now that the young girls fight alongside their husbands and sisters?

You can count on a certain dependable subset of war in select hot spots of the globe, so most of Zevon’s older lyrics still apply—but happily, sometimes even his lyrics become dated, at least regarding one lonely corner of our planet: “The Thompson gunner still wanders through the night… in Ireland, in Lebanon, in Palestine …” It’s not much, but I grab hope where I find it these days—another symptom of aging, I suppose.

Another Zevon tune from the 70s continues to be, while a bit off on some of the details, still weirdly prescient, in a sick sort of way: “Nuclear arms in the Middle East; Israel is attacking the Iraqis; The Syrians are mad at the Lebanese; And Baghdad does whatever she please; Looks like another threat to world peace for the envoy.”

My run is nearly over and my 54-year-old bones are glad. Bach breaks through the shuffle like a beacon. My mind clears, except to ponder that, having occupied myself with utter nonsense for the past couple of hours, I perhaps have provided empirical data to support my long-held theory that runners are merely recycled Heads. Decades past our pot-imbibing days, when Heavy ideas dissipated along with the smoke, having lived through careers, children, divorce, and bodies that rebel at more and more of the substances we try to put into them, we’re forced to turn inward for our dope—from pot to endorphins.

So the Heavy ideas still come to me—and float away with the clouds over the final mile of the day’s run.

Pardon My Dust review (the uncut version)

(a slightly abbreviated version of this review appeared in the Wichita Eagle on Sunday, September 20; I prefer this one because it includes more info about the actual production, including the set and co-star Keith Boyer's work)

Pardon My Dust review (the uncut version)

By BOB CURTRIGHT Wichita Eagle correspondent
Playwright Annie Welsbacher’s “Pardon My Dust” is a two-person play but a decidedly one-woman show – rather, showcase – because it’s all based on the words and writings of noted tart-tongued author, wit and critic, Dorothy Parker.

Welsbacher cleverly weaves together excerpts from Parker’s poems, plays, essays, theater and book reviews as well as acerbic observations and delicious zingers shared by her famous friends and even more famous enemies to construct a view into Parker’s sophisticated but often dark world. Parker’s cynicism, colored by personal tragedies from suicide attempts to abortion, revolved around her never quite believing she was a good writer, despite her fame.

Parker was part of the famous Algonquin Round Table of writers who ruled New York in the early part of the 20th Century, but she felt overshadowed by such talents as George S. Kaufman, Ring Lardner, Alexander Woollcott and Robert Benchley. The bitter irony is that, of her famous circle, she is the only one in continuous print nearly a century later. She is the survivor and the exemplar.

And playwright Welsbacher’s purpose is to force Parker to confront her own talents and realize her worth as a person, to give her the happy ending she may never have had in real life. Welsbacher does that by ushering Parker into a way station with all of her baggage – including more than a few stuffed dogs representing pets throughout her life – at the moment of her death in 1967 at age 73. “What fresh hell is this?,” Parker (Liz Willis) trumpets upon arrival in what looks like a posh gentleman’s club with dark wood bar and sleek leather chairs.

(The beautiful set design by Dan Williams is particularly brilliant because it is wallpapered with newsprint overlayed with giant Hershfeld caricatures of Parker and the Algonquin circle.)

It’s isn’t hell, she is told by a guide named Janus (Keith Boyer), but it might as well be because she is terrified of being alone. At Janus’ prodding, she roots through her considerable baggage – literally -- to recall and review the bits and pieces of her life. As she does, Janus transforms into half a dozen important figures in her past, from one of her husbands to snotty Woollcott (famous as the inspiration for “The Man Who Came to Dinner”) to her beloved Benchley, the love of her life but never (reportedly) her actual lover, to her dismay. Parker banters, argues, confronts, affronts and ultimately embraces Janus in his various guises so she can find peace with herself. The clever title refers to Parker’s ashes, which were relegated to a lawyer’s file cabinet for years before finally being laid to rest.

Veteran Wichita actress Willis, who approached Welsbacher to write this work for her, is a powerhouse as Parker, sometimes stalking the stage in triumph and sometimes shuffling around in doubt. Willis shows many emotional shades as she pushes beneath Parker’s strident, privileged, quippy surface to reveal the wounded romantic soul underneath.

Boyer, another prolific local actor, is a nimble, versatile presence as Janus who changes personalities (and voices) as easily as slipping on a pair of glasses, hat, smoking jacket or waiter’s apron. Boyer is a strong match for Willis and a generous co-star whose performance beautifully supports rather than competes with the heroine.

Directed by Wichita State’s longtime theater head Dick Welsbacher (the playwright’s father), the show – given its world premiere Wednesday – got off to a sluggish start but quickly picked up pace when Parker started throwing around her famous comments, some of them pretty salty. The play has R-rated language but is literate and sophisticated rather than smutty. While the play is designed as one 80-minute act, there is an unnecessary (to me) blackout pause to divide it into two scenes. Since nothing essentially changes and the setting is timeless, that moment creates a stumble in the mood.