Politics

May 18, 2010

If Your Name Rhymes with “Pooter,” You Won’t Be Getting My Vote, or, Street Credico
by Anthony Smith

Living in New York has taught me that there are beers and then there are expensive beers. Does a bitch drink Blue Moon? That’s fine but does that bitch think there’s nothing better? These are called pressing questions. Pressing questions left unanswered become political issues.

Now, I don’t mean to speak on behalf of all gay people, but every gay person is going to vote for Randy Credico. Why? Because with a name like that, how could he not be a powertop? Let’s look at these charts:

Let’s not because TextEdit doesn’t have a fucking chart making tool. If and when Steve Jobs reads this– baby, I’m pissed. Anyway, back to the story. Look, all joking aside, a New York Senator is like a snowflake– no two are exactly alike. And now that we’ve lost Hillary, we need a politician with balls. If Schumer had any, pics would’ve been leaked by now. This is called “The Edwards Effect”, or, modern telejournalism. And that’s why I’m putting all my faith in Randy Credico.

Let me recite what history teaches. History teaches. Vote Credico.

Paid for by The Gay Agenda, a Subsidiary of Pepsico


Argus Review!

March 1, 2010

http://wesleyanargus.com/2010/02/26/%E2%80%9Ca-safe-familiar-place%E2%80%9D-excitingly-alien-and-dangerous/

Mmmmmmm stellar reviews!


What We Talk About When We Talk About

February 24, 2010

I just wrote a small piece today. I don’t know what it’s about. Maybe the language that lovers speak, and how no one can understand that kind of intimacy, and sometimes even the lovers can’t understand that kind of intimacy. Although inadvertently, everything I ever write about love also has an intense food motif moving through it.

Maybe I’ll do a collection of vignettes called What We Talk About When We Talk About, but either way, it’s the title of this one play.

Teeeeaaaaaassserrrrrr:

Beau: Dressed? No, I’m… I called in sick to work today.
Charlie: Are you—
Beau: Sick? No, I’m not sick. I never get sick. I’m basically invincible.
Charlie: Basically invincible?
Beau: Well, even superman had kryptonite.
Charlie: Superman had bright spandex, too. Let’s get you some spandex. You’d look good in—
Beau: Where did you go last night?
Charlie: I went for a walk. Why are you home from work today?
Beau: Answer my question first.
Charlie: I did.
Beau: A walk where?
Charlie: Answer my question first.
Beau: It’s a special day.
Charlie: Why?
Beau: A walk where?
Charlie: Around. I went to a playground.
Beau: All night?!
Charlie: Free country. I sat on the slides and I… I just sat. It was wonderful. There was the, um, the sound of cars. I wasn’t thinking. It was wonderful.
Beau: (Pause) I don’t want you leaving the apartment that late.

A nice three-minute play about waking up in the morning. Mmmmm.


Sanguine Relationships: Previewing ‘The Hemophiliac’ and ‘Fun Dancing’

November 4, 2009

It’s been cast. It’s going up next week (alongside Fun Dancing) as part of a double-billing I’m cleverly calling “Sanguine Relationships”.

The full script of the first draft of ‘The Hemophiliac’ used to be up here, but now all you get is a taste–

[PREVIEW]

(A silence. They take it to mean two different things)

2: You were telling your story.

1: Right. My story. Well, I came home early because it was three days before my wife’s birthday, and I wanted to surprise her with a kiss and a cake and a—

2: What’s your wife like?

1: A woman. Legs, breasts, lips. You’d like her.

2: And how would you explain me if she asked?

1: She did ask.

2: And what did you say.

1: I said, “A young girl. Lips, legs, breasts. You’d like her.”

2: So you came home early and caught her canoodling with the milkman?

1: I know you’ve been here for a while, but there haven’t been milkmen in ages.

2: The mailman, then.

1: (Shaking his head) My best friend.

2: Charlie?

1: Yeah, Charlie. They were in the bathtub, splashing around. It smelled like bubble bath in the hallway and he giggled a little and sometimes she went, “Coo, coo, coo.” I could hear it all from outside the door. She was begging him for more, more, more… and I was just begging they’d keep it down a little.

2: So what happened?

1: I didn’t know what else to do. I thought if I backed up… if I just kept backing up and walked out the door and went back to work, I could undo it all. I could undo everything that ever hurt that bad and pretend like nothing happened.

2: And did you?

1: Sure tried. I backed up right down the staircase, found a little chance at peace, then lost my footing. My legs went over my head and things were cracking and all there was was hurt. When it finally stopped, I couldn’t move. My head felt split open, and the back of my neck was wet. Last thing I remember: My wife: (imitating her voice) Did you hear something? Charlie: (imitating his voice) Fuck it, Mona, I hear a lot of things.

2: That’s what he said?

1: That’s what he said.

2: How am I supposed to be forgiving if you can’t even manage it yourself?

1: Who says I can’t? I have.

2: Yeah, but why? How?

1: I don’t know.

2: Forgiveness can’t just come from out of nowhere.

1: Sure it can. It just needs a bit of an invitation is all.

[/ENDPREVIEW]


First post/Fun Dancing

September 30, 2009

Hi, I’m Anthony. I write. A blog is different from Twitter because you can blog sober, whereas Twitter users are generally irresponsible (college students, Sarah Palin).

This is a short play I wrote when I woke up a few days ago and I was convinced (convinced!) I had swine flu.

Fun Dancing

By Anthony Smith

Characters

Wallace, twenty-five

Jacob, twenty-five

1.1

(Wallace and Jacob’s bedroom. Wallace is furiously putting on his clothing. Jacob is in bed, in his pajamas, nursing a headache.)

WALLACE

Four Friday nights—count them, four—spent sitting in an audience of strangers watching a fat girl read naked poetry. Three perfectly good Sunday afternoons in Museums… and you know I don’t know a thing about art, Jacob, so don’t start with me about “Oh, Wally, you should enjoy those kinds of things. You should relish,”—that’s the word you’ll use—“You should relish the opportunity to get more cultured, to get to know me better.”

JACOB

Well, you should.

WALLACE

Well, I do. But it goes both ways, babe. I do all that artsy shit you like. You say, “Hey, Wallace, let’s go to a concert. In a graveyard. At 6 AM,” or you say “Hey, Wallace, let’s go see this movie at the Angelika— I hear there’s a five minute tracking shot of pancakes being made.”—

JACOB

You’ve been good about it—

WALLACE

I have been good about it! And that’s the thing! I don’t know the first thing about all this… crap. But I’m good, and you’re good, and I suffer through it because I like how good we are.

JACOB

I like it, too.

WALLACE

So here’s the plan: You’re going to get dressed. You’re going to get up and go out with me. We’re going to have fun dancing, and if we’re lucky—and this being the nineties and our being two dashing little monsters—we’re going to get lucky and bring a hott guy home with us and it’s simple that’s all there is to it.

JACOB

Mmm.

WALLACE

It’s best when it’s simple.

JACOB

Mmm.

WALLACE

So get dressed.

JACOB

Can’t.

WALLACE

Why?

JACOB

Headache. It’s kind of awful.

WALLACE

Do you want another line?

JACOB

No. (Laughing slightly) No, that’s probably why I have one in the first place. I’m tired of going hard.

WALLACE

Doing yay so you can write your little stories is hardly going hard.

JACOB
It is when you’re as boring as I am.

WALLACE

Don’t say that. You aren’t boring.

JACOB

Liar. I bore you and you hate me for it.

WALLACE

No, no, no. Just… just let’s get you dressed, okay?

JACOB

Wally…

WALLACE

Yeah?

JACOB

It hurts.

WALLACE

I’m telling you— you just need some coke in that pretty little nose of yours.

JACOB

Sure.

WALLACE

And then you’ll go out dancing with me?

JACOB

Sure.

WALLACE

And then we’ll have a good time, right? I’ll get a smile out of you, hm?

(Jacob smiles)

WALLACE

There we go. Your shit’s in the sock drawer, right.

JACOB

(suddenly defensive)

Hey, let me be the one to get it.

(He tries to get up, but his headache knocks him back down.)

JACOB

Agggh!

WALLACE

Aww, babe, don’t move. I’ll get it for you.

JACOB

No, please. I can do it.

WALLACE

Don’t be ridiculous. I’m already up, I’m already here.

JACOB

I just don’t want you going in there is all.

(Wallace opens up the drawer and rummages through it)

WALLACE

What? Afraid I’ll find your drugs?

(He laughs, until he finds a small prescription bottle. He reads the label. He’s no longer so fun, so glib.)

WALLACE

What the hell is this?

JACOB

Didn’t you read the label?

WALLACE

Of course I read the label!

JACOB

Then why the hell are you asking me what it is if you already know?

WALLACE

Jacob—

JACOB

God, you can be such a fucking sadist sometimes.

WALLACE

Since when?

JACOB

Since who knows. But I’ve known since yesterday. It explains everything, you know.

WALLACE

No.

JACOB

No?

WALLACE

No. No, no, no. Absolutely not. You’re not sick. You’re just—

JACOB

Melodramatic?

WALLACE

Exactly, you always overreact about shit like this. Remember when you thought you had melanoma and it turned out you’d slept on a milk dud?

JACOB

I think this is a little different.

WALLACE

Bullshit.

JACOB

I got it from you.

(Pause)

JACOB

I got it from you, and you’re sick, too.

WALLACE

You don’t know that. Jacob… we both fool around.

JACOB

I don’t fool around.

WALLACE

What?

JACOB

I don’t know. I just stay home, writing, being boring. You’re the one with the social life. You’re the one who fools around.

WALLACE

Fuck that. You fool around and you know it. Fucking admit it, it’s okay.

JACOB

There’s nothing to admit.

WALLACE

Exactly, because we’re not fucking sick.

JACOB

This morning, when you got out of bed, your pillowcase was covered in blood.

WALLACE

So?

JACOB

So.

WALLACE

So, a lot of people get nosebleeds. And it’s probably from all the yay. I’ve got one deviously deviated septum by now, no doubt, and that’s what all that blood is from. (A pause) Isn’t it? Jacob, isn’t it?

JACOB

Could be. I’m not a doctor. (He laughs) I’m not much of anything. (He lies back) And I won’t be much of anything for much longer.

WALLACE

Don’t talk like that.

JACOB

Like what?

WALLACE

Don’t talk like that and get dressed. We’re going out. We’re going to dance. We’re going to have fun dancing. And… and that’s all there is to it. What more do I have to say?

JACOB

Wallace…

WALLACE

(Angrily)

What?!

JACOB

I’ve been thinking.

WALLACE

You’re always thinking.

JACOB

I’ve been thinking about how we don’t have much of anything anymore.

(Wallace realizes he’s been too harsh. He sits on the bed with Jacob)

WALLACE

We have love.

JACOB

Yeah, but we’re running out of time.

WALLACE

We have love, and time, and all the drugs we could ever want. Work is good, sex is good, and condoms are free at STD clinics. It’s the American dream, baby, and all you have to do is wake up and realize we’ve got it and we’re there and… baby, we’ve got it.

JACOB

We sure do. (Pause) But other than that, we don’t have anything. Not anymore.

WALLACE

Do you really think that?

JACOB

Yes. No. Look, I have a headache. I’m sorry.

(Pause)

WALLACE

So, you’re not coming out with me?

(Jacob shakes his head. They stand in silence, looking at each other, as if they’re both about to be sick.)

WALLACE

You really fucking bore me sometimes.

(Wallace leaves. Fade out. End.)


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