Classic Water

I had an intensive creative period during the spring.

 I was writing and rehearsing for Improv Asylum's Life Before Sext which you can now catch Thursday through Saturday nights at Improv Asylum in the North End. at the same time, I was recording the Explosion Bus web series with Jonathan Katz, which you can start watching on Sept 13th. Also, I had the pleasure of co-writing my second Gorefest script. This time I teamed up with Laura Clark of Improv Boston to create a creepy and disgusting muscial medical horror show entitled Gorefest IX: MASSacre General Hospital. The show opens October 10th but you can already buy tickets online. After such a busy spring, I really didn't do a lot of writing this summer, including, as my brother continues to point out, in my blog(s).

Since yesterday was Labor Day I figured I would reshare my favorite David Berman poem and consider this the official start of my beginning to blog again. Here we go.

"Classic Water"

I remember Kitty saying we shared a deep longing for

the consolation prize, laughing as we rinsed the stagecoach.

I remember the night we camped out

and I heard her whisper

"think of me as a place" from her sleeping bag

with the centaur print.

I remember being in her father's basement workshop

when we picked up an unknown man sobbing

over the shortwave radio

and the night we got so high we convinced ourselves

that the road was a hologram projected by the headlight beams.

I remember how she would always get everyone to vote

on what we should do next and the time she said

"all water is classic water" and shyly turned her face away.

At volleyball games her parents sat in the bleachers

like ambassadors from Indiana in all their midwestern schmaltz.

She was destroyed when they were busted for operating

a private judicial system within U.S. borders.

Sometimes I'm awakened in the middle of the night

by the clatter of a room service cart and I think back on Kitty.

Those summer evenings by the government lake,

talking about the paradox of multiple Santas

or how it felt to have your heart broken.

I still get a hollow feeling on Labor Day when the summer ends

and I remember how I would always refer to her boyfriends

as what's-his-face, which was wrong of me and I'd like

to apologize to those guys right now, wherever they are:

No one deserves to be called what's-his-face.