Tag Archives: Stephen King

Why Do We Do It?

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It’s 1989.

It’s warm June evening.

We’re rehearsing KING LEAR.

Wait…

It’s an older story than that.

It’s an old and favorite tale among theatre folks, told a variety of ways. Here’s how I remember hearing it first (probably from my raconteur friend Chuck Pogue, a man untethered to accuracy, but always firmly adhered to poetic truth).

Sir Laurence Olivier was on a train, passing the journey studying the script of a possible next project on the stage, when another traveler plopped himself into the seat adjacent. The gentleman noticed Olivier’s reading material, expressed interest, and introductions ensued. The gentleman, it turned out was an avid actor in a small village theatre. He energetically regaled Sir Laurence with his hilarious and tedious adventures and misadventures on the boards as the miles dripped away ever more slowly.

Know anyone like that?

I can only sense your smirk and assure you this narrator is fully cognizant of “there, but for the grace of God…”

Eventually the gentleman thespian reached his stop. He rose from his seat, looked back at Olivier, and smiling sadly farewelled; “Why do we do it, Larry?”

Well…

…I have a thought or two.

It’s 1989.

It’s warm June evening.

We’re rehearsing KING LEAR.

It’s an outdoor summer Shakespeare festival in Woodland Park in Lexington, Kentucky. We’re rehearsing on the usable parts of a set still under construction built around a big tree that just might be as old as the play. At least we like think so. An anachronistic concrete sidewalk slashes about 20 feet across the front of our stage. It originates from the park’s swimming pool up the hill. The pool is not as old as the play.

In fact…

(Oh my God, here comes another side note.)

The pool in Woodland Park is another symptom of Lexington’s perverse love/hate of water.

I’ve been told that Lexington is the largest North American city lacking a large element of water. No ocean, no lake, no river, no bay.

Yet, I believe we harbor (le mot juste) a genetic longing for water.

The Town Branch of Elkhorn Creek formerly ran through downtown Lexington. It wasn’t scenic or particularly useful and it may have contributed to the cholera epidemics in Lexington in the mid-1800’s. We covered it up with concrete and bank buildings. It still runs under downtown Lexington. A few years ago, as an art installation, a microphone was lowered to the underground branch and as you walked between businesses on Vine Street, one could faintly hear the sound of running water. Today, Lexington is building a new park and hiking trail in the downtown area and striving to include some semblance of flowing water.

Similarly…sorta…

In 1885, Woodland Park had a lake; Lake Chenosa. Lexingtonians recreated on Lake Chenosa until the 1950’s when the city drained it and made baseball fields instead. Now, I love baseball, but…what kind of mind? But Lexington’s longing for water will not be denied. Lake Chenosa was replaced by a public swimming pool. Go figger.

(End of side note…thank…)

So…

…we were rehearsing KING LEAR. Lear had just been advised; “Thou should not have been old till thou hadst been wise.” (a line delivered precisely and definitively by yours truly.)

Three young boys strolled up the sidewalk from the pool. They looked to be nine or ten years old; barefoot, swimming trunks, no shirts, towels draped about their necks; last icons of a Huck Finn summer. They paused and listened to us for a few minutes, then gathered their satiated, chlorine-wearied towels of gold and moved silent on the road to Elsinore (apologies to Tom Stoppard).

A bit later, I was watching from the wings as Lear roared; “Blow winds and crack your cheeks! Rage, blow, you cataracts and hurricanoes.” I noticed that one of our swimmers had returned, spread his towel on the sidewalk, and was sitting akimbo and devouring every line. He stayed until we finished; “We that are young shall never see so much, nor live so long.”

Why do we do it?

We do it for the applause, the instant gratification.

We do it for the narcissistic thrill of hearing great lines launched into the ether by our voices.

We do it (as Stephen King suggests) to let the gorillas out.

Yes, I believe all that is so.

But perhaps the collateral benefit might be to at least intrigue, and at best inspire young swimmers.

Perhaps it’s a genetic longing.

Perhaps it’s a story older than KING LEAR.

I dunno.

It’s above my pay grade…

…sigh…

…but I did deliver that one line pretty well, dammit.

Saratoga Day-Dreaming

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In the early 70’s I was working a lot of nights. Four to midnight was a regular shift for me. Thus, my days were a bit skewed. Lunch was important. Many days, it began my day. It got the juices flowing. It got the little gray cells humming.

I was living just off Euclid Avenue. Geography and lunch funneled me to the Saratoga Restaurant. If it hadn’t, fate probably would have.

The “Toga” sagged on the precise piece of High Street where that urban label became the more rural Tates Creek Pike. The front sagged. The neon sign sagged. The interior ceiling sagged. I snuggled in, usually with a book.

Chipped plastic-topped tables, free-standing and booth…harsh and flickering fluorescent lights…woogety chairs… two steps up to the bar with stools and more woogety chairs and tables…12-inch TV perched in the corner (black/white, non HD, squinting helps)…seriously heavy drink pours…

I know. It sounds too exotic to possibly be true, but as God is my witness…

Two or three times a week you could find me there (usually with a book) for the $1.79 lunch special.

  • Might be the Iceberg Wedge; one-fourth of a head of lettuce buried in an impenetrable lava flow of blue cheese.
  • A Chicken-Fried Steak; to this day I don’t know what that even means and am in no hurry to enlighten myself.
  • A Salisbury Steak; to date, none of the Salisbury’s on the planet have stepped up to claim this war crime.
  • Pot Roast; picture a lake of brown gravy (23,412 calories per ounce) over an Alps of mashed potatoes.

It was a different dietary time. Gluten had not yet been invented.

The service was impeccable and personified by Mona.

Mona was the mistress of efficiency. She could approach your table and release your plate two feet away from your table. It would glide with a spill-less thud precisely in front of your cringing napkin. I remember one Friday during Lent. One of the specials was fish, of course. It was served with the head still attached. The patron who ordered it objected to that arrangement. Mona picked up the plate and the customer’s butter knife, performed instant, violent radical surgery, and returned plate and knife to their original deployment. There were no more objections.

Most days, I was left alone to my lunch special and my book (I think I was reading a lot of Stephen King, Kazantzakis, Blatty, and Joseph Campbell at the time – whatta literary salad!). Other days would find me sharing a table with Charles Dickens (yes, that was his real name), professor of theatre, University of Kentucky. I learned a lot of theatre at lunch. Good for me. Unfortunately, it may have been at the expense of other theatre students at UK. I knew when Mona asked if Charles wanted another Manhattan before ordering lunch (there were two depleted glasses in front of him at the time), that his 1pm Directing Class was about to be discarded in favor of a mentoring/reminiscing session for yours truly. I’m not saying it was right, but…I learned a lot about the theatre, and heard some killer stories.

Yes, lunch is what I primarily remember about the Saratoga, but there were some remarkable Monday nights as well.

Monday Night Football was a major weekly event in season.

  • Arriving about seven to partake of the thinnest t-bone steak possible.
  • Matriculating up the two steps to the bar to join the Runyan-esque elite of the liquor industry as they attempted to out-drink and out-lie each other.
  • Watching my boss try to impress me by pounding double-Drambuie’s and ending up pounding the floor.
  • Ordering a Coke and being accused loudly of being a “Coke-sucker”.
  • Placing my weekly $5 bet on that night’s game.
  • Watching the blurry TV image (black/white, non HD, squinting helps – remember?) of the kick-off and about half of the first quarter in a room-full of blurry wannabe Nathan Detroits.

The bar and the restaurant closed at ten, so we were all off to our homes or what dubious adventures could be found in Lexington on a Monday night in the 70’s. I’m told you could be surprised.

Alas, I would be surprised.

But the “Toga”…

Tawdry…perhaps.

White, misogynistic, homophobic…oh yeah.

Dietetically healthy… <<snort>>

Enjoyable…hell…I was young and indestructible, straight, male, privileged……sure.

I snuggled in.

Would I like to return to those halcyon days?

No.

I’d like to think I could grow, but I know I’m not indestructible.

It felt OK at the time, but it was not for everyone, and that was the problem. I no longer wanna keep track of who it’s good for and who it’s not. That’s way too much score-keeping for me.

If that Saratoga reopened tomorrow…I’d be busy that day…whatever day it was.