Week 69 - Spontaneous Combustion Ladies and Gentlemen,

I am back. After a three month hiatus from the journal of the struggling
artist, I return to you only because I think I have something new to say.
The life of David since Christmastime has been fairly simple - a tolerable
day job interspersed with late nights and long hours either dedicated to
making strides into the entertainment industry (in all respects a tough nut
to crack unless your last name is Douglas or you're sleeping with someone
whose last name is Douglas) or watching the Dave Chappelle Show and
wondering if I'll ever be that funny.

Friday nights I volunteer at Manhattan Theatre Source. Manhattan Theatre
Source is located in Greenwich Village right near Washington Square Park.
Last weekend they hosted what they call 'Spontaneous Combustion' wherein ten
writers and twenty actors get together on a Friday evening, plan, write from
scratch, memorize and perform a show in 48 hours. On Friday I was partnered
with the best of the ten writers by a stroke of luck, and my acting partner
was a timid twenty year old kid named Ryan who was "visiting" New York, not
working here, not a struggling actor but a real person of all things, who
had come to visit his brother.

So Mac the writer sat us down and talked with us for a half an hour, kindly
nodding when I would make suggestions about what the script should include.
"I like ninjas," I said. "And bumbling hitmen sure are funny." Mac, to his
everlasting credit, patiently and dutifully made notes concerning my moronic
suggestions, assuring me with a straight face that he would
consider them all before setting pen to paper. To my infinite delight,
he used none of my stupid ideas and wrote a hilarious but touching story
about a boy who came to New York to visit his older brother. "Mac," I said.
"Thank God you didn't listen to me." On Saturday morning we ran the scene a
dozen times, participated in the two o'clock read through, scored some big
laughs, and then went home to set to the intimidating task of getting off
book by noon the following day.

We arrived in the morning, after a sleepless night of worry, essentially
off-book, but a little timid, and began running the scene, endlessly. In
the park, in the theatre, walking down the street, doing speed-throughs, in
Jamaican accents, even blindfolded. The dress was at five o'clock. We had
to be ready. We had to do justice to Mac's scene.

Our dress rehearsal came at five p.m. Sunday night, and when it was over, we
knew we were terribly, endlessly screwed. Despite running the scene dozens
(hundreds?) of times that morning, there were still all the errant pauses
and awkward moments that invariably occur in unpolished rehearsals. In a
dead panic we rehearsed nonstop from 5 until 8 o'clock, but the truth was,
we were doomed. Even the parts of Mac's play that we were unequivocably
comfortable to us were coming unraveled once shot through with a spotlight.
Mac had written us a wonderful five minute piece, and we were going to
destroy it on opening night in front of his very eyes.

The curtain went up, and as you might have guessed, we pulled it out. Somehow, someway, we pulled a cogent performance out of thin air. We
got big laughs, remembered everything we had practiced. It was sweet. When
we walked off stage, applause ringing in our ears, we were reminded of the
golden truth that is necessity. Sometimes, if you MUST do a thing, you will
do it, even if you believe you cannot.  ¶ 9:25 PM