Monday, February 26, 2007

The God of Hell - Sam Shepard

So, I just got back to the Harold Washington Library this past weekend. HWLibrary is one of my most favorite places in the world. Not because I enjoy the close proximity to our city's homeless. It is because it is one of the largest most comprehensive and accessible public libraries, I've ever been to. It's like shopping for books without having to spend any money. So, I got a book (one of many)that I've been dying to read for a awhile but couldn't get my hands on when a resident of Atlanta (Cobb County Library system, I'm frowning at you!) Sam Shepard's latest The God of Hell,a strange hybrid of early surrealistic pulp-pop inspired one acts and the Midwest environments of his Buried Child period.

A simple idea executed in a simple, direct manner. I'd love to see a production of it. But, I don't know that I would spend time creating a production of it.

I guess the question is "Is this play a success or is it a disappointment because it is a play written by Sam Shepard?" or "If this were written by some late 20's early 30something from Yale Rep or Humana Festival...would it get the same sort of play that it got a couple of years ago when it first came out?"

I think some of Shepard's latter works have incredible strength. I like this play. But I have to emphasize that I only like it. Whereas, I love "Late Henry Moss" or I am haunted by "Eyes for Conseula"...The God of Hell just sort of entertains me. But it feels like something smaller in scope, even in it's ambition than the other works he has written in the past 10-15 years.

Not to say there are not moments I think are inspired. I love the ringing of the bell at the end of the play. That is haunting for me. The American Mother/Wife Archetype...calling in the men folk to defend the land and the way of life from a governmental invasion. The simplicity of this image is palpable to me.

Saturday, February 24, 2007


The pool table is held up from the floor with volumes of old phone books. The mutts bring out a carpenter’s level before anybody starts playing for money. Then the bulldogs lift the table up, and one of them moves to the highest corner and tears a few pages out of the top yellow book, and the carpenter’s level is situated on top of the table again. This goes on until all hands betting on the 8 ball are satisfied.

I look down and ask no one in particular, “Have we hit rock bottom yet?”

No one answers.

There’s an old man in the corner eating someone’s left over French fries. He’s a regular who is only tolerated by the management because he always buys beer. More accurately he always buys a single beer that he nurses all night. He holds each sip in his mouth tasting it on his tongue for as long as he can resist the natural action of his throat muscles.

They only thing that helps me actually recognize him from among any of the other tattered septuagenarian hard luck cases loitering throughout this town, the only thing aside from his particular tasting methods, is his cubs ball cap with throwing darts woven through the cheap plastic mesh like fishing lures. Tonight, he decides for some reason that we are best pals and keeps trying to finger me over to his corner. After four or five refusals, I finally acquiesce. Just so that I can stop dreading his beckoning ever time I pan and scan the room.

I get within a yard of him and stop there. He has enough sense to tell that I don’t want to get within hugging distance. He flashes me the OK sign, and only finally looks down at the pockets his fishing in once he’s convinced I won’t walk away if he doesn’t hold my gaze. He pulls out a wrinkly folded up piece of newsprint. It is an advertisement from women’s braziers. He indicated that he wants me to take it. I make sure I can see both his hands and then patently refuse. I start to back away. He is desperate to make his point, and takes tiny shuffling steps towards me. He holds the advertisement up at eye level pointing at the scantly clad gal.

-Can’t you see it?


-It’s Elizabeth Taylor

He sees my free fist clench, and begins shuffling backwards, back to his cold half eaten French fires shrugging an apology.

The bartender smirks knowingly.

-Was that a Valentine he tried to give ya?

-Skip it
But the beer-man don’t want to skip it.

-He want a kiss?

-From Cleopatra

There is some pushing and shoving over at the pool table. Nobody wants to break it up, but it settles itself in a minute.

-What’s on the docket tonight?

-The gym

-They got matches tonight?

-Why not

-It’s Valentine’s

-So, that aint stopping you from making a buck.

Beer-man shrugs.

Thursday, February 22, 2007

What I Like in Theatre and Art

Amplified Voices...
A wealth of action...
A Spectacle made when foreign sound meets with epic circumstance.
Inevitable violence divorced or deconstructed from traditional notions of glory.

A sense of immersion. A sense of being a tourist. Surprise.
A re-examination of what is primal.
A serious re-examination of what is psychological/psychoanalytical.
A reverberation of the myth and new rituals.
A total lack of academic condescension.
A confrontation with whatever it is that the artist believes to be evil, wrong.

Get rid of cute. I shit on cute.
I like characters, actors, walking talking caricatures even so long as they sweat, they bleed, they die or relish life before death.

I don't mind thinking about the piece, but damn it why can't that thought lead to action.

We need new paradigms of good and evil. A possibility of morality, civics, even spirit divorced from organized religious dogma or political fabrications. New systems of belief regarding good and evil. A reintroduction of that which is civics.

Where are the hogbutchers. I'm sick of the latte drinkers. Give me characters right out of Carl Sandberg poems.

Fuck Irony. Give me tragedy. Give visions so frightening on stage, that people will do anything they have to to make sure it doesn't happen in real life.

To me, that is what theatre can do. That is what I want from my theatre.

Places I'd Rather Be - House o' the Redeemer wit Signs Follerin' Bacward, GA

Little boys who aren't allow a month's growth on their softball sized noggins and little girls running round in flower dresses who havn't had a hair cut since great great great great grandmother ate of the fruit of knowledge.

They ain't no anger, no nothing but wide smiles and little fingers cutting warm bread loafs and spreading sweet cinamon butter and inch wide slices to hand out to anyone who happens upon this part of the river this sunday mornin'.

Each an everyone of this sunburnt cherubs is home schooled. Leanin against the white wash fence are a few of the teenagers. They know all bout pick up trucks and now that they are getting on, those who have paps with a generous nature have got a little length that they can comb back into Pompadours. They mothers pray quietly that they aint raising a honkytonky stray, but the Dad's know they got ants in their pants and need to test the waters.

Spread out like legos against the side of the doublewide that has serves as the church for the past year, spread out there are the boxes, mostly wooden, one welded aluminum. The heat seems to bring their contents to a boil, or a sizzle, a searing sound like a piece of pork meat fallin from the mesh of the grill onto the charcoal beneath. Sudden sound ever time I hear it.

I wont handle the snakes, but man I can't wait to see them so it. I don't known if it God's work, but it lifts me up. Isn't that weird, someone pulling their own life on the line for something that might mean nothin. But Lord It does lift me up.

Wednesday, February 21, 2007

Plays I'd like to see - The Revolution - Tonight at Nine

Due to legislation enacted enemies of the state can not appeal their imprisonment, but in order to get this, the executive branch of the govt, agreed with congress that they to be able to opening broadcast the prisoners for a certain number of minutes per day so that we can see that they are being treated 'humanly'. There is a channel just like CSPAN were we are shown documentation about how well detainees are treated. Even video taped responses from former detainees and their families advocating the process as it is currently covered. The fact that many of the detainee's who are interviewed are being mistreated doesn't matter. Why because no one watches the show, that is until there is an incredibly attractive detainee. People start tuning in because they want to know what is going to happen to this supermodel good looking revolutionary who may or may have not encouraged terrorist activity because of the slaying of her husband.

Once it becomes evident to those videotaping that she is too beautiful and as a result quickly gaining sympathy, popularity, and ratings...they tighten into just her face. The tactic backfires. The blogosphere is ripe with videos of her body, stolen video tapes of her from home from before the arrest, suspected sex scandal tapes, conspiracy theories that she was potentially raped and that the reason we aren't seeing more of her body is that the govt doesn't want to risk video prove, even suggestions that she was given a double mastectomy as an interrogation tactic.

She is constantly talking or singing. Her siren like voice doesn't help the govt either. Sometimes her narrative is very coherent other times it isn't so. Everything from Emily Dickensonian to Beckettesque Not I derivative.

The govt eventually decides to let her go. Hoping this will quell the curiosity in what they were doing does not. Now people are turned in all the time waiting for the next fetish fulfilling detainee.

Monday, February 19, 2007

Places I'd Rather Be - Bunyan's Bacon, Beans, and Beer Barn

This here is a destination spot for plenty of lonely souls still wandering the redwood forests waiting for the end of the Vietnam War. Longhairs who don't realize there isn't a draft anymore.

The Bunyan is much longer than it is wider. It is basically a log cabin. But it is a log cabin made out of a single log. The tree fell perfectly perpendicular to a straight stretch of road right outside the official national park border. Now locals park along the backside of the Bunyan hoping not to attract too much attention and loose the quaint quality to a host of Asian photography enthusiasts who can't believe their own eyes.

There is sign hanging from the neck of a stuffed Elk deer that is chained to a iron stake by the front door. "No photography of any kind."

At the far end of the bar, you see an old hippie with a blunt behind both ears next to a flower of the indian nation, half a flower. He leans in and whispers something that could never be made out from the distance at which I'm standing, but the squaw says back to him using her outdoor voice "I can't do that man. I got the lock jaw. i can't even get my mouth around half a bagel." I believe her since she is drinking her rocking rock through a straw.

The barkeep ain't Bunyan himself, but they make the poor sap dress just like him. However, this barkeep is a string bean and and ancient one at that. The lumberjack getup just doesn't cut it when it hangs loosely off his shoulders. A walking coat rack of a man holding on to the real man's clothes till he gets back.

"She can't even eat the beans. She just laps around 'em. Sort of sipping the sugar broth."

When you stand in the perfect center of the bar, both length and width wise, they say you can hear the sound of forest's birth. What in the hell, that sounds like I don't know. But, you get a shiver when you stand the spot with is marked with an a couple of oversized hubcaps. One on the roof like a halo, the other beneath your feet like a dish.

Sunday, February 18, 2007

Dada Meeting Tomorrow

Tomorrow is our first meeting about the WNEP Dada piece this fall. It should be a good time. So far collaboration with Don has been incredibly fulfilling. I think we do a good job of respectfully challenging each other so as to bring out each other's best.

Also, I'll be working with Steve Lund who was in one of the Mammals previous productions, Mexican Wrestling Macbeth. We worked strictly in the capacity as director and actor then on a very short rehearsal schedule. I respect him as a performer, and I'm sure he has a wealth of riches to offer as a dramatist.

I asked Don if there was anything for us to think about before the meeting. He told me to think Coney Island.

So when I think of Coney Island a few things come to mind

Failing parachutes
Freak show
A certain sort of sanctuary
A certain kind of concentration camp
Clowns (How to avoid being another fucking clown play...ughhh!)

Is the message dada? Is dada a tool to awaken the audience to a message?
Can you be to obvious as a dada? Can you be too obtuse?

What is the point of blowing there little minds unless we rebuild them and if we are doing what sort of model would I rebuilt them.

I am thinking about Lillian Smith recently. And she offers us an interesting to be certain that our dada does good...

Maybe this is or isn't a concern of the others involved.

The trickster! Think about what the trickster's goal is...

Prometheus the dada?

Pandora the dada?

Joyous, Disturbing, Questioning, Captivating
Don't make it easy for them to turn it off. Our society turns it off to easy. Breadcrumbs sugar coated are better than thumbtacks and mousetraps.

It is not about my pleasure at the discombobulation of the spectator. It is about awakening a new sensory, a new conscious, a new morality...

I fear it is too high falutin.

But I am interested in using dada to enable an audience.

Yes! Lets do that! Enable them! Can we do it? I don't know

Enough for tonight. Let's sit back for a few minutes and hear just what it is that our esteemed leader in this venture wants. Let's take this as an opportunity to see how another does what he or she does.

Saturday, February 17, 2007

Killers of the Dream by Lillian Smith

I've started doing research for my Hogzilla Science Fiction Play. Although, I might be able to with what I already got stored in my noodle make something funny or clever or even apt, I want to make something relevant and important so I decided to read up as much as I could so as to speak toward something real, something true.

I have a new hero. Her name is Lillian Smith, and she authored the book "Killers of the Dream" a memoir and essay of her observations and dissatisfactions with the south and segregation. When I read the following I was truly awakened...

There are so many people who are determined not to do wrong but equally determined not to do right. Thus they walk straight into nothingness. Are we the nation that first embarked on the high adventure of making a world fit for human beings to live in, about to destroy ourselves because we have killed the dream? Can we live with a dead dream inside us? How many dead dreams will it take to destroy us all?

She was speaking of segregation, she was writing this words at the same time MLK was praying peacefully his his flock in Montgomery fearing the four figure mob of white racists collecting outside the church.

She could have addressing our world today. A world where from a certain perspective things are worse than ever. I know that someone who is looking back at the history of the 20th century and comparing their existence now to hypothetical existence then might find that statement extreme, I stand by it.

Rather than congratulate ourselves that the south or the country has been desegregated, I think we should acknowledge that what has been is only the very least that could be done. I find no contentment that most Americans have since the mid 20th century awakened to the reality that white and black Americans are essentially the same. The reason this gives me no contentment is because it is obvious. We also acknowledge gravity and it's effects on the oceans' tide. Recognizing the essential equality of every human being is no grounds for self congratulations, none necessary...none deserved.

I have sat down next to an older southern gentleman who would never use the 'n' word in open company, but has no problem referring to the latin american invasion of our boarders in a room full of perfect strangers. No second thought. Why? Is it because his feelings are so fiercely felt? No, it is his own personal assurance that they are enough people in the room who would nod in agreement or would subtly entertain such thoughts themselves.

Our current president and vice president openingly declare that the geneva conventions only apply when they deem necessary. The hubris their acts will ignite will be shouldered by our American society long after those executives will have exhausted the touring circuits. Our politicians once elected don't even pretend to wear the white cowboy hats anymore.

The world we witness is worse now then ever before. As a specie, we took one leap forward with hesitation in the sixties, and now we have fallen two steps back on the global landscape.

Fact - All men are created equal. 46 chromosomes. Now, how do we maintain that equality? Do we even bother pretending anymore?

America now is infamous, the way China once was for ignoring, negating the rights of human beings.

But on the other hand, the more I read about the civil rights movement, the more encouraged I feel. There are people alive today who lived in an America where people were denied humanity based on skin color, and those same people made a change. They lived to see a world metamorphosed. They say this country try to become a better place.

Maybe we can do the same. But the fight is not with some uneducated stereotype straw man, some other. The struggle is in each of us. We must improve upon ourselves. The compassion of Jesus Christ (whether you believe of not...many southerns and northerns do) is a compassion that can not be matched by humanity. Some of us have stopped trying. Those that stop...don't get it. Or maybe, hopefully have only forgotten something they once knew and can hopefully recall with a little encouragement.

If you dont feel the concern, the struggle, the question "Am I doing enough?" Then it is you who is not the human being. It is you who has enjoyed a benefit that is undeserved.

So I am hoping that the play even if it has humor or spectacle or genre trappings, etc...I am hoping the play Hogzilla will address some of this. I hope it speaks to the idea that some of us in this world are determined to not to right...and they are just as dangerous as those who do wrong.


Friday, February 16, 2007

I used to live there!

Southern Religious and Political stuff

There is it. Could Hogzilla happen? Oh, yes it could. For me the thing that just blows my mind is that they are denying a heliocentric planetary model.

It isn't just outmoded racial attitudes that the south can harbor, I might be able to use some of this in the Ole' Hog piece.

The link to the AJC article is incredible. The comments section the article is the most intriguing thing. I can't believe that some of this stuff is still going. Amazing...a call to anti-semtism, anti-thought, anti science...and on a state representative's stationary.

Wednesday, February 14, 2007



The snow drifts into white dunes hugging the backside of Chicago rooftops. The sheets of white powder make silhouette of the power lines and the grey electrical barrels suspended above the alleyways. The wind stirs up the finest of the fallen snowflakes so that it looks almost like steam against the streetlamps.

I sit alone in the apartment. The radio gives good company, even though all the songs tonight are about loneliness or lost love. My chair faces the southern bay window. It is dark except for the closet light whose on off switch I haven’t been able to locate on any of the walls. It isn’t as lonesome as is sounds. Now that I settled in for the night, there is a tranquility provided by the blizzard outside. It would be a pleasure to share this tranquility with someone, but I’m fine with the solitude tonight.

I read Jack London, and for a moment I wish I had a malamute whose coat I could stroke. Then I remember what a labor it would be to have a dog in the city, in this sort of weather especially. Other people’s dogs are best. Metal scratches coarsely across concrete as Sisyphus and his snow shovel awaken me from such daydreamed wisdom.

Not having a television these past few weeks has been a real blessing. I have been dreading the decision of whether or not to disrupt the seclusion, the serenity, the lack of chaotic advertisements. I don’t want it to return. I have treasured the short stories both read and written. But, there is something seemingly inevitable to the succumbing to a television. Why? Perhaps, if I could cure one’s dependence to television I could cure the absence of reason and imagination so many of us suffer from today.

I watch the snow and my heart is light. My mind envisions a new fantastical skyline where the weather has obscured tonight’s Sears and Hancock and a dozen more towers between those two. Next, I imagine having a train car all to myself on the El. All the interior lights are extinguished, and I speed along El tracks like a hungry bird impervious to the cold air. I am moving at a wonderful speed, fast enough to get a bit of thrill, but not so fast as to miss tonight’s story of the streets parallel to my train’s track. And all the while in motion alone across the El tracks, so long as the motion is maintained, I become something holy. Myself becomes something sacred if only to myself. My mind folds upon itself aware all my senses and surroundings, but not so painfully conscious of the contradictions that usually keep me up late nights asking infinitive ‘what if’s.

I am thankful. I am thankful for the moment that that which is myself could find something holy in myself. Would I misplace so many of these moments if I surrendered to the inevitability of television? Would I still relish in the imaginative silences, a pleasure that my circumstance has led me to acquire? When it comes to the television, can I exercise discipline or am I susceptible to it as one addicted? This small bit of memoir I’ve written tonight, it is a small personal treasure like well made well earned origami. I am certain I would not have written it had I turned toward a television. I might not have even watched and appreciated the snow.


One of my oldest friends defines luck as when preparation coincides with opportunity. This is an excellent example.

Congrats to Bill for shutting up and letting Dick speak!


Sinclair Lewis - The brink of authoritarian government

It can happen here!

I want to write a play about a man who writes the new commonsense... a new Thomas Paine, who is... removed.

His father defends the government as not being the abductor of the new Thomas Paine!!

Al, i'll miss ya!!!

Al Franken is no longer going to be on Air America. Today is his last day. Man, I loved his show. I listened to it often on XM radio. I can only hope that Al will win his senate race and do something to bring a light of truth and accountability to DC. Tall order, but at least we'd know we had one of those white tower dudes on the side of people.

Al...stay progressive and keep it up!


During my twenties and early thirties, I used to compare what I had or hadn't accomplished to various cultural heroes. The most prescient one was Richard Foreman who hadn't done any of his really wild way out stuff until his thirties. But, yesterday I read the introduction to the Portable Jack London. The man was by definition prolific, and died at the age of 40. He had written his great novels in his early twenties. A strict disciplinarian, he wrote at least 1000 words a day, and traversed the globe. All this before his death at the age of 40.

I need to start working at the things that matter most to me as if I might have as much or maybe even less time that London did. I hope to have a nice long healthy life, but thinking of his life maybe me realize just how much of mine I am wasting watching TV and/or any other such distracting nonsense that I allow to obstacles to my most passionately felt goals. I need to work. I need to work!

Thursday, February 08, 2007

More on Hogzilla

Scene One

Nighttime - A music drummy muddy music with something dark and evil to it. The Hogzilla makes his way across stage. His noses takes him toward the backside of a filling station. Everywhere a hoof of hogzilla's touches the ground, the print seems to glow momentarily evil indigo colors before it seems to fade back to normal. Then the grass is a pecular shade of grey.

As Hogzilla sniffs around the women's restroom, the paint on the walls goes from softer powder blue to various shades of grey and the sign metamorphosizes from "Women" to "_olored".

Then Hogzilla wanders off aimlessly into the southern swamps from when he came. Before the lights fade we see Ole' John who is following Hogzilla, a bizarre sort of racist pilgrimage that only he makes.

Scene Two

We have a news report that the infamous Hogzilla often rumored of but never before recorded or seen has made a appear on the streets of this small southern town. The reporter has quite the antiquated haircut as he stands a few feet away from the "olored" sign. The camera man notices the hair and asks about it, the reporter shrugs if off thinking it weird that his hair would look such a way

Scene Three

The owner of the filling station has constructed a series of fences made out of chicken wire. it is in this chicken wire stations were he believes something is a miss. He tels us about the sign and how he wanted to take it off except when he gets under it and then is filled with a feeling that he wont take the sign down. He thinks that damn hogzilla did something and is now going to sell the land. Only a true bigot can stand to live or work on this land. During the course of his monolgue as he moves closer to the sign he becomes slowly by stages the bigot his grandfather was, the grandfather who hung a similar sign so many years ago.

Scene Four
A Klan member comes in and takes down the for sale sign and colored sign. He has a number of suitcases and seemingly is well armed.

Scene Five

An older german man tells us about their own shweinzilla and how it transformed children on a playground into "hitler youth" dsigning songs that they could never have known... and how one day after one of the children was almost killed a few of the towns men destroyed the playground. And caught and killed their shweinzilla.

Wednesday, February 07, 2007

Write Club

She had watched that one film with Lana Turner 3 times a day for the past 3 weeks.
Still, it took her sister to illuminate the movie's dark lesson. There was only one phenomenon stronger than love...self preservation.

Tuesday, February 06, 2007

Bits of Write Club

What day is it? I lose track. How many times have I seen this movie?

Better than waking up at the bar and not knowing how my hose got up on the moose antlers.

Dont laugh

I have to laugh

dont make light

Why not

cause It isn't funny

Shut up. I dont need this bring down so save it

I see things when the movie stops making it through

What sort of things

bunnys walrus rodin's thinker

What do all this things have in common?

I give up what

Nothing! Not a god damn thing!


Come home

I am home


What's there for me

You can live. You can eat. You can find someone.

I do all that up here

For how long

As long as I want

You're alone up there

i was alone down there too. You dont remembe that?

You had misconceptions. Are those slowly going away?

(Murnau's Sunrise on the movie screen) or (Bela Lugosi moving slowly toward us)

It's too dangeous up there I remember those stories you told me. God watches over fools, but not forever.

She saw that movie, it taught her that only one thing is stronger than love?

What is that

Self persevation

Monday, February 05, 2007

365 & Et cetra

This weekend Don, David and I participated in a festival of short performance pieces, Et Cetera VI, that was tied to Susan Lori Parks' 365 plays. I am a big fan of Susan Lori Parks, and was excited when I heard about this project that seemed as if it might have sprung from the mind of another of my favorite's Erik Ehn...but the majority of SLP's pieces I saw this weekend, while well executed by the directors and actors involved, sort of left me shrugging my shoulders. Why?

When I think of SLP, I think of an experimenter. I love her sketches and charts and manifestos, and the cadenzas I find in her scripted work are bold and purposefully and audacious. I saw none of that this past weekend. I saw bits and pieces that together didn't really become anything cohesive. It was playful, but I found myself saying "so what". Not one piece of SLPs struck me as deeply felt, or relevant except as exercises. Perhaps a true writer is someone who writes everyday, but if that writer wants to be seen as a writer of worth, they should be a little more selective about what words get read or spoken in front of an audience and what words don't. To be blunt, we do and should expect something more from someone as accomplished as SLP.

Now 365 was the first part of the evening, the second part of the evening, the part that we participated in was different, sort of your more traditional collection of short pieces that always seem to populate these types of festival engagements. There were some pieces I loved and others that I could have definitely done without.

Despite all that I found myself regretting the fact that there wasn't more or a sense of community between all participating. Maybe everybody just wanted to get home and avoid the first subzero weekend here in C-town. But, I think if you get this many artists together in the room without any real publicity (we were pretty much performing for each other that night) it would be nice to see the organizers facilitate some sort of sharing or bread breaking or something of the sort. I know someone could say, well why don't you just go say hi. Well, I did. I did the "I liked your piece we should talk" thing with the few that I sincerely liked and could grab a hold of before everything went out in a dozen serparate post performance directions. I think that it's not enough to say here's your 10 minutes...and....go. I think it would be beneficial to meet and greet and discuss and question and flirt and play after the pieces. I wish we could have hung out in the gallery, I wish that had actually been planned instead of what I got which was run around after the performances as fast as you can and try to strike up conversations with people striking their props because we got to be out of the theatre in 15 minutes. That isn't "literally" what happened, but that was the feel I got from the whole thing as it wrapped up.

I love making theatre, but I also love meeting other people who love it as much as I do. And, I appreciate it when those administering these sorts of festivals help facilitate that sort of exchange.

Thursday, February 01, 2007


Hogzilla The appearance at late night hours of a 15 foot half hog/half boar/half lizard is being reported in small town newspapers in the south. It seems that everywhere hogzilla walks there is a disturbance in the space time continum. When he walks, time reverts to the old days where people were more god fearing and they all knew there place. Rumors about what hogzilla is abound and the klan begins praying for Hogzilla's appearance in all there little towns.

What is the difference between this play and sincerety forever? I love the appearance of Jesus H Christ at the end of that play.

A street anywhere in the south. A street where the new south has been paved and suddenly everywhere the Hogzilla's foot steps a sudden shift in the space time continum. We can be in too places at one time when we step in the footsteps of the hogzilla. A south where the new is forming and a south where it isn't safe to black and alone late at night walking down the street.

Which ever time zone you're in the lag that waves is still the same. is there any validity to pride in a southern heritage without racial issue?

Is it just camofluague for a deep seated need for racism in the south? Is there a new south? Why is it that Germans dont talk about the beauty and pride of the third reich and try to divorce it from the death camps?

And if we go back do we not only get the strive but also get the saints as well. King, Stetson Kennedy...etc.

WE have the reverberation echo of wishing for a day back when among the KKK. The KKK want the way it was in hte 50's but the KKK of the 50's want it back to the way it was at the turn of the century and those KKKs want it like it ws before the war.

So that any slide back becomes a potential slide all the way back. If the hog keeps stepping through the same towns and the same streets again and again, then the possiblity of returning to a day when cro-magnon chased the neaderthal through the streets.

How can we kill the Hogzilla? Who is the team of characters that are dedicated to this? What antagonists will stop them? Do i create my own or can i dip into history? Perhaps, no perhaps about it, i should dip into history of the south and civil rights as much as possible.

Also, the modern day KKK movement and how or if minorities still face off to them on daily way.

An old nazi who remembers that they had there own hogzilla in the deutschland years ago

All the southern gentile dainties cant believe there are so many or these old redneck crackers suddenly coming out of the wood work, what do mean they are coming from our own basements?