Net Cotton Content / On Life and Marketing, Creativity and Ethics

A Letter to the Cast and Crew of Our Town

Last night, after another great show, we gathered at Katzinger's for a private cast party. Diane Warren opened her deli for us late at night, and placed that bounty before us, because she so respects the work we have done — and our product, the gift we have given our neighbors. Diane (and Eric and Michelle) and the entire Katzinger's team told us in food and hospitality:

Please, eat like actors, where "eat like actors" doesn't mean starving artists, but rather the city's best pastrami and corned beef. And pickles. Oh, those pickles. As actors, especially in Our Town, we are teachers. And as teachers, we can so mistakenly be undervalued by society. Diane Warren joined the applause we hear every night, and the laughter, and the engaged silence, and the tears, by saying: "No. What you are doing is worthy. As worthy as the best my business can offer you." ("What'll you have?... What can I do for you?")

Of course, we all thanked the Katzinger's team. And we thanked each other.

But, you have taught me (under threat of Aran Carr) to follow the script, and I found myself thanking you without a script. I was simply not prepared for that moment.

Please accept these words, as another attempt at expressing my thanks to you:

You gave me such a beautiful photograph of the production. Thank you. I've been looking at it overnight. Of course, it's beautiful: it shows the faces of the actors with Ian, Aran and Matt. Our eyes are shining. And in those eyes, I can see reflected, in the larger photo in my heart, the beautiful faces of the entire crew, providing expert sound and light. And props. And pickles.

At Katzinger's, Sara Courtright asked me, just before you gave me that photo, "Has this experience been what you wanted? Did you get out of it what you had set out to get?" I told the folks at the table that I didn't know yet. ("Do I believe in it? I don't know. I suppose I do.")

Of course, I have no doubt that my answer is yes, but "yes" doesn't do justice to the experience. I will need many days, weeks, perhaps my lifetime, to fully weigh all the emotions and growth. To more fully appreciate just what all of us have done here. To measure the size of the gift we have given more than a thousand members of the audience. And the gifts we have given each other and ourselves.

Yes, it will take weeks for the swelling to go down. Not in my head. (My ego will never recover. I must now become a World Menace.) No, it's the swelling in my heart. Since the final week of rehearsals, when I started to see, like you started to see, the larger scope of just what we are doing here, my heart has been popping out of my chest.

For now: Yes, Sara. Yes. This experience has delivered on every wish I had, every wish I might have had, and every wish I didn't know I could have. Every star delivered. Friends were gathered. They came to support the production, but left with the meaning of life. Emily saw the truth. And Simon said it outright. ("Yes, now you know. Now you know.")

Last night, I said something to you that might have sounded outrageous, but I firmly maintain it here:

There has never been a better production of Our Town. As proof of this outlandish assertion, what would you change to improve our production?

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Except perhaps, I would raise and seat the congregation at the wedding on cue. I'm sorry to have created such a tradition. ("Sumep'n went wrong with the separator. Don't know what 'twas.")

Friends, truly, this is no ordinary Our Town. This is the very heart of Our Town. ("Once in a thousand times, it's interesting.") I don't mean to say we are such big shots, that we are Broadway. No, no, no, to the contrary: our Our Town reminds us (and our audiences) that sweetness and bittersweetness and life come in the smallest, most genuine moments. In a world where bigger is often mistakenly considered better, we are producing these fine little moments, like diamonds. (As Emily says about the patent device that waters the stock, "It's fine.")

During that long wait for the opening of the first act, I look at the stage and I see two tables covered with these diamonds. Or are they little pills? Yes, this drug comes in a tiny pill. Better sit down. There are some side effects.

We learned enormously, with Ian's extraordinary teaching — so generous, so effective, so precise, so dear. I hope that I carry into my classrooms and life what I have learned from Ian as a teacher. Of all your wonderful performances, none has so taken my breath away as his work on our stage. I hope I am forever changed by his role modeling.

When I first realized that it was time again for Our Town, my friend Emily Rhodes suggested I seek advice from Matt Slaybaugh. You know how it is when you receive a new name. It sounds funny. You imagine the experience, but it is just a flat image of the unmet moment. ("You're just a little bit crazy.") We met for an ice cream (after finding the coffee shops too noisy) and I told him my tale, why I was compelled to do Our Town. He patiently listened. We chatted about theatre.

At the end of our ice creams, he said, "I like your reasons for doing this show. I'm willing to produce it. I want to produce it."

Months later, still wrestling with the presumption and preposterousness of precasting myself as the Stage Manger, I mentioned to Acacia that I felt awkward about claiming the role without an audition. She smiled: "Oh, but you did audition. When you met Matt over the ice cream cone, you were auditioning. Whenever he meets someone, he's watching, figuring out where on the stage they should go and in what role. You auditioned. And you passed the audition. If you hadn't, Matt would have simply finished his ice cream cone and that would have been that."

In the program, Matt writes of agape-love. I first read "agape" as when your eyes and mouth are open, and your eyebrows are high enough to pick up Cleveland. I could understand that. I've been agape with love. But Alisa said, no, Matt is writing of "agape," spelled the same, but from the Greek, and I had to visit the dictionary to understand. It's a love that is brotherly, divine, unconditional, self-sacrificing, active, volitional, and thoughtful. Yes, I came to Our Town and I got more than this lousy tee shirt. I learned a new kind of love.

Here we are for this brilliant moment together, living life in its fullest. ("Saints and poets, maybe. They do some.") What does it feel like for you? For me, it is scary. I am thrilled seeing life for what it can be. Hearing each night's audience of friends beyond the curtain between acts, glancing at them as I sweep the stage, still separated from us, like in Plato's cave, but closer to the truth than I've ever heard. And Mrs. Webb's eyes, when she fixes on Emily, and so nearly sees her, and yet, alas, just misses her — or, perhaps, not? Perhaps she does see. Perhaps we really do see each other just fine.

A friend, who came to the show from the east coast, told me this weekend that Wilder didn't want to answer any questions for us. ("Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it — every, every minute?") Wilder dodges the answer. He wants us to live in the question, my friend teaches, because life is found in the question, not the answer. In Wilder's text, "yes" isn't really better than "no." What's better is asking the question. ("What do you say, folks? What do you think?")

For Wilder, and for me, the answer isn't the goal. The search is the goal. That's why I'm straining away. And glad about it.

I've had Our Town for more than 25 years. Now it's yours, too, especially for those of you living in Our Town for the first time. Welcome to Our Town. May Wilder's themes and his wonderful words haunt all of us forever.

All along, I've tried to understand, "The morning star gets wonderful bright the minute before it has to go."

And now here we are, facing our final performance, wonderfully bright the minute before we have to go.

Again, yet again, let's light up the sky.

Why invest so much time in Our Town?

I've tried to tell you why I'm devoting so much time to Our Town.

Still you might wonder.

This week, several friends have sent me the same piece from The New York Times. It's nice when people forward items to me, especially good writing that they found meaningful.

But it's downright weird when several people send the same thing. That suggests, "This is more than interesting. It is somehow about you."

It's a short column from the op-ed page of the Times, describing the breakdown of neighborhoods and what we can do to know our neighbors.

Which reminds me.
Speaking of neighbors, and several of them sending you the same thing...

When it rains hard in our neighborhood, my mother's basement is sometimes filled with rainwater.  That's bad.

Sometimes it's worse. Much, much worse. More than rainwater. Chunky style.

Not wanting to volunteer (or be paid) to go down there and clean it up, I never want a lot of detail. A glance and errant sniff down the steps was all the detail I needed. I'm satisfied to say, "Gosh. That's a shame." Or, if it's particularly ripe, I might add a sympathetic, "Bummer. That's disgusting."

During the years, we've exhausted all the technical language for this delicate situation. We've said "sewage" and "feces." We've laughed about it, using the very coarsest language, which is always fun with one's mom. (My mom, anyway.)

But then we wipe our eyes and look down the stairs. And it's all still there. Laughing never makes the real poop go away. (Note to survivors: please put that on my tombstone.)

So for a while we chose to refer to the visiting floaters in a more poetic way, a way that embraces the contribution of the entire community.

We called it, simply, "meeting the neighbors."

After all, where do you think this detritus came from? Topeka? I don't think so. It's from John across the alley or Jack over the wall. Of course, it didn't come across the alley or over the wall. It was borne on little water wings beneath the homes, like drone gondolas. But this ain't Venice, friends. 

Actually, in the end, my mother determined that it also wasn't "meeting the neighbors." I don't know how she determined this. I don't want to know.

No, it wasn't "meeting the neighbors," she decided. It was "know thyself."

"Now we'll go back to our town."
That's an actual line (no charge) from Our Town, opening tomorrow to more than 800 advance ticket buyers and who knows how many buy-at-the-door folks.

Part of the reason I'm devoting so much energy into Our Town is because of the theme in the Times article that is finding its way to me.

I'm trying to give us all something to chat about. Something that will help us reveal ourselves to each other. (Just not in my mother's basement.)

So we can really be neighbors. So we can know each other.

Here it is, "Won’t You Be My Neighbor?" by Peter Lovenheim of Brighton, N.Y.

Beauty Helps

It seems like all the fancy bikers ride from the north into downtown. The best bike path comes down the riverside.

I live in the east.

So, in celebration of Bike to Work Week, I got up early, threw my bike on a COTA bus, and rode to a place where I could meet the group as it rolled downtown and down river.

As scheduling would have it, I had about a half-hour to enjoy along the riverbank as I waited for my peloton.

What to do? I pulled out my Our Town script and memorized my lines.

That's a good use of time...

...But Socially Awkward
I think I will place those words on my tombstone. (Later.)

It's odd to be standing alone, shouting words across a river, projecting to the opposite bank, as if facing the back wall of a theater.

It becomes socially awkward when individual bikers ride past and I'm so focused on my recitation that I don't stop.

They must think I'm in some trouble. Perhaps I need some help.

Today's Discovery
And, so, here's what I learned today: of the 50 or so bikers who rode past before my group arrived, two offered to help me. And the two were not the two I would have predicted.

Almost every man rode past without saying anything, unless I said something first. When I said, "Hi," they asked, "How ya doin'?"

"How ya doin'?" is one of the dopiest thing to ask when you are speeding past. There's no time for me to say, "I'm doin' fine. You?" By the time that's said, all I can see is north side of a southbound biker. No pretty picture, even in the best of cases.

Maybe they didn't really want to know how I'm doin'.

But here's the surprise, for me. Two women offered help. In the five seconds or so that we can converse – me standing, they speeding past – two women asked, "Are you OK?"

Their voices were sincere. I think, if I had said, "I am definitely not OK," they would have stopped to help.

I wondered what ailment I could claim that would win me some help. Should I grab a body part (not that one) and ask, "Do you think I broke this?"

By the way, it shouldn't matter, but it does to me: they were both quite pretty. As pretty as nature will allow when they are so bent over in helmets. Maybe that's a kinda thing for me. (Note to wife.)

But I ask you (note to you): Why would the prettiest bikers offer to help a man standing alone (beside his bike) on the riverbank, when the men would ride past with nary a "How ya doin'?"

In My Next Life
I'm not on the make, as you have read, but if I were, I would invest some serious time on the riverbank holding a body part. (Not that one.)

Roll 'em if you got 'em.

I'm on the bike this week and I hope you will be, too.

This is the first annual Bike to Work Week in Columbus.

The organizing group has a great website that explains the how small shifts in individual behavior yield great communal benefits — and how to do it. There are contests for competition among employers and corporate teams. Events and education on law, geography, and bicycle repair.

It's such a great enterprise. I tip my bike helmet to the organizers.

I'll be peddling quietly in support.
I think it's going to be neat to watch and participate.

I'm going to take the bus with my bike in the morning, so I can go to the wrong side of town and pick up a peloton of friends coming from the north.

Hundreds of enthusiasts will meet on the State House Lawn at 7:30 a.m. for breakfast with Mayor Coleman and a kickoff of Bike to Work Week.

See you there. It should be rainy so wear your trash bag.

Unless pride prevents.

No more Jay-Biking

Doug Morgan is right.

Doug is my rolling role model, my two-wheeling muse, my eco-physio-communal inspiration. Doug bikes to work most every day. (Once, I biked with him, but disliked the taste of my own blood.)

Doug is right.

He observed me riding a bicycle in traffic and saw me take unlawful advantage of being on a bike: when there was no moving traffic, I zipped through a red light.

It's not normal behavior for me. I'm pretty strict about adhering to the law. Of all my fears, a top five fear is going to jail.

The Jay-Biker's Rationalization
Running a red light on a bike is so available and so juicy when there's no crossing traffic in any direction and, really, who expects a bicycle to wait at a traffic light when there is no cross traffic?

Plus, it's safer for the bicyclist to cross a big intersection when there is no traffic flowing from any direction. Similarly, I've read that jaywalkers are safer crossing in the middle of a block (where there is only cross traffic) than lawful pedestrians crossing at an intersection (where traffic is flowing in various directions and turning). If safety is our goal, then I should be a jay-biker.

Doug's Argument
Doug gently admonished me. "Please don't do that," he said. He went on...

"There is such tension between automobile drivers and bicyclists. The tension — and the danger it produces — could be resolved if: (1) each automobile driver would recognize each bike rider's right to a safe share of the road; and (2) each bike rider would obey the laws of the road."

Ever the lawyer-citizen, Doug added this gem:

"Every time someone breaks a law, even a small infraction, I think that democracy dies a little bit."

My Pledge
Now, today, in the Columbus Dispatch, comes a front-page story of the tension between bicyclists and drivers. 

Today, I renounce jay-biking. I will uphold the law.

Now, egad, my self-righteousness is complete. Run for your lives.

Come to Our Town tomorrow night (Monday)

In 10 weeks, the three-day run of Our Town will close. (This is no time to be nostalgic.)

From now until then, however, we have a rush of activity for volunteers of every stripe and talent.

Tomorrow night, Monday, April 21, at the Available Light [theatre] space in Gahanna, we will have the Big (Fun) Volunteer Meeting for organizing everything. You are invited!

You have mentioned to me that you are interested in helping. (Maybe I was reading your mind?) Please come! Perhaps I'll see you there?

For all the information, here's the time and place.

If you need further persuading, I dare you to watch the following diversion...

Making Change

Woodhouse Lynch is the great gem of a men's clothing store around the corner.

My father bought his suits there. They are so well made that I still wear those suits. And I always shop there first.

The comfortable shop is amiably and expertly run by a father and son team both named "Tom Lynch." Father Tom wears out brooms pretending to sweep the sidewalk in front of the store. He does this so he's out on the street with a purpose. But the purpose isn't sweeping. The purpose is getting caught up in conversations about life with passers-by. It's great marketing.

Woodhouse Lynch Will Never Close
Until the end of the month. An article in The Columbus Dispatch this weekend (with that great photo above by Chris Russell) reported that, yes, indeed Tom and Tom are indeed entitled to close their shop if they want to.

And they have decided they want to.

Amazing.

Of course, there are economic realities at play. Per capita suit purchase is down, now that you can come to the office in a halter -top and flip-flops. Suburban shopping is up with fancy malls that refuse to call themselves "malls." And consumer spending is currently in the cruncher.

But, even with the economic writing on the wall for a small business, it takes enormous courage to shut 'er town.

The Courage To Change
It takes courage to close – and move to the next chapter.

In recent weeks, several people have described the same fear that keeps them from making big change in their lives.

Mainly, they worry what the world will think. One after another says, "If I close my business (or reject my long-standing profession), the world will think..." They trail off.

So I ask: think what?

They answer in a whisper, "...that I failed."

Au contraire, mon frère.
A friend told me several years ago that this fear doesn't really come to pass.

He had made enormous change in his professional life. Several times. He asked me, "Do you know what the world would say if you changed everything? What would the world say if you were to close Young Isaac?"

A lot of words came to mind. I thought my move would generate drama. Friends would be shocked. Clients would be disappointed. Employees would be destitute.

No, he explained. Here's what the world would say:

"Huh."

"And then the world will return to its daily life."

What Will Change Is Your World
To be sure, your own world changes when you change everything.

For example, if you are a banker and you leave banking to become an artist, the bankers will say, "Huh." They might envy you. They might think you lost your mind.

But, if they think anything more than "huh," you won't be there to hear it.

You will be standing among artists, listening more to what they say. 

So Did I Change Everything?
Kinda. Sorta. Four years ago, I had to change everything. Young Isaac wasn't growing like it should. I was frustrated.

Happily, rather than closing Young Isaac, I re-opened it, as the Chinese restaurants say, under new management.

What About You?
If the world didn't care, what would you change?

 

Haven of Hope

Do you know anyone who would be a good trustee for this organization?

It’s Haven of Hope Cancer Foundation, an organization in its first year. I joined the board a couple months ago.

We are looking for trustees who are:

• upbeat, glass-half-full people who have had personal experience with cancer (in themselves or in their loved ones);

• able to focus at the board level (not micro-managers) where we set policy, oversee the top administrator and ensure the financial viability of the organization; and

• experienced in fundraising; able to raise (or give) $5,000 per year.

Here's our quick pitch, prepared for the trustees to speak about Haven of Hope...

Welcome to Columbus

What a nice look at our hometown from our Chamber of Commerce.

I read recently and loved (but through all the Internet mystery can't attribute): "Civic Pride is the new black."

I'd add one point: Columbus is a great place to raise kids because it's so flat. You can always see them and just call them home for dinner.

What do you think?

Measuring the success of our educational system

How do we know if the educational system is working?

I'd leave No Child Left Behind behind. At Dana Elementary last week, I learned this federal legislation doesn't measure what counts.

Here's how I measure the success of our educational system:

1. The teenage pregnancy rate.
We know what prevents teenage pregnancy. Sure, we debate the polarizing alternatives: Fathers dream of abstinence. Pharmacists and doctors recommend prophylactics (or not). And we are deeply divided on abortion. But we do know this: the success of our educational system can be measured by the number of young, unwed mothers.

How are we doing?
The teenage birth rate in United States is the highest in the developed world.