Thursday, February 28, 2008

I've been slowing down a bit

Had a nice big post with the challenge to specify targets of change to the theatrical model in less than 250 words. I have been focusing more on the new blog for the Mammals... I have been getting alot of joy of making those images, especially the latest one of Don Hall as Utterson. I also have been reexamining the Mammals' mission statement, how it's goals have changed. I have dedicated a majority of my artistic life to work that embraces genre. Whereas that hasn't changed, I think the reasons behind my artistic choices have. The new mission for the Mammals is...

The Mammals explore performance works embracing themes of history, mythology, and destiny through the genres of science fiction, horror, and phantasmagoria.

I am at the moment of these keystrokes, listening to spring training online (deep satisfied sigh). I love baseball and can't wait to watch some ball.

I get I may be slowing down a bit post wise here. Maybe. I don't know. I guess it depends on how much energy I start dedicating to the Mammals web presence. I have posted about my anxieties about jumping back into the deep end of the production pool. It requires time...who knows what the future holds. But, between Clay Continent, Baseball, Dystopian Workshops, Write Club, Chicago Dramatists, and 40 hours a week for the day job...will I be able to retain whatever diligence to this blog?

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

More on the Dystopia Workshop

I've gotten some emails from folks asking more about the structure of the workshops as well as questions about what sort of time commitment will be required.

Here is what I envision. A group of approximately dozen initial participants meeting twice a month through the summer. The goal being to share text, images, ideas about how to create a play on the theme of dystopia...This would happen starting in June through probably September.

There would also be a blog that initially only the participants would access where we would share and create narrative for the workshop. Once the summer was over, we would assess what we had thus far created and then decide whether to move forward with a more traditional rehearsal schedule or if we needed more time to create the final performance to be produced.

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

New Photos at the the Mammals' Blog

Go check out


Dystopian Workshop

Starting in the Month of June...The Mammals will be conducting a series of workshops to develop material for a performance based on the notions of dystopia.

We are looking for the following sort of individuals. Writers, Directors, Performance Artists, Self styled DIY innovators, Musicians, Puppeteers...

The goal is to get a group or approximately a dozen artists together to discuss and then create a series of short pieces on the theme of dystopia. Once we accumulated an evenings worth of material, the Mammals will then set out to produce the work as a full event.

Dates of the workshops will be determined once we have a roster of collaborators.

If you are interested in participating please contact Artistic Director Bob Fisher at

Also, please share this post with any artists you feel would have interest in the project!

Oh yeah, how's the show going

So far rehearsals for Clay Continent are going wonderfully. I always have trouble falling asleep after rehearsal because I feel so invigorated by the work we are doing and the possibilities for the production. Whereas this run of Clay Continent opens in April and runs only until May, I do see the possibility of bringing the show back again in the fall or the spring of next year or maybe at the NY or Minnesota Fringe. The cast I have is only committed to April...but I am back to dreaming big. Nothing works so well to get you focused on possibilities than actually being in rehearsal, actually being in production.

It feels great to be a Director again, a Director with a capital D... i.e. to be in production as opposed to somebody who isn't currently doing it.

I worried in the past whether or not the piece could work in a proscenium space versus an environmental one, but so far it seems that it will. We will have the blocking finished on Tuesday and I really looking forward to our first run thru.

Monday, February 25, 2008

Hot Sexy Models? I think I'd actually like to snuggle with an older model

So, people are clamoring for a new model? A new model for making theatre? There is a lot of diatribe about tribes. Alot.

So tell me in 250 words or less how you are going to change theatre for the better?

"But, I can't do it in just 250 words?" Well then, you're dead at the starting gate.

How are you going to change theatre? I'm not opposed to change. But, all this talk of tribes seems to me to be more of a return to the old ways (Living Theatre, Hoffman School of Byrds, Wooster Group, Judson Church)...and I like that but...

I don't need a sound bite, but I need a simplification is getting a touch too pedantic for me.

Please. How? I don't need someone to tell me...please read these five books...please read my 25 part post on the issue...I need some to excite me and inspire me with their succinctness, sincerity, and simplicity.

Wednesday, February 20, 2008



Utterson from Clay Continent

This is a rough draft. The final edits will appear on starting in March

I don't know about you, but here is something I need as a Theater Artist in Chicago

...And it might already exist. I need a place on the web where I can see a directory of all the organizations in chicago that are currently renting rehearsal space to theatre/dance artists specifically.

I need to know their location, their rates per hour, all the contact information...

And then, wouldn't it be great if there was a place to review the venues similar to or the space was always clean and easily located next to an El stop...or if the space's contact never returns correspondence...or if the neighbors next door to the rehearsal space always stop by and chew out the renters for making to much noise...

That would be awesome. That would make my heart melt. Nick, Don, Tony, Dan....? Anybody out there thought of that already?

Monday, February 18, 2008


Monologue – Indeterminacy – By Bob Fisher

I abhor indeterminacy.

Why? Because chance is a lie, a falsehood. Perhaps I can not with my limited means measure the determining factors that result in a seemingly uninfluenced outcome, but those determining factors are still there, perched, omniscient.

I wanted to get out of the city so I drove and drove down the old county highway. I drove past the theme parks and farmyards and further still. I didn't stop till I got to a place where there was no line painted down the median, where the asphalt was giving way, and weeds spread the cracked mud veins, where there was no chain link or barb wire separating the road from the trees and the river and beyond. I pulled off to the side and went for a walk. I set off for a little adventure on foot through a path of trees. I couldn't see too far ahead due to the low hanging branches, but eventually the leaves subsided and I was entering a wide field of soft grass and wild flowers. The fragrance and the breeze of the place was so soothing, so serene I wasn't quite certain if I could remain standing straight up. So I gave into it and decided to lie down in the long grass. What was the worse that could happen out there. I could swallow a bug if I feel asleep with my mouth open. Aside from that or similarly dangerous concerns there was nothing to fear. So I abandoned myself to a little cat nap in the field.

The day was waning. And all the small annoyances I had gone out of the city to escape were slowly creeping back gently gnawing like field mice might once the moon rose. It was time to go back. I sat up and was startled to see someone else in the field besides myself. She stood at the opposite end of the flower patch maybe 75 yards away where the trees started to reappear. She seemed disturbed. It was hard to tell from that distance, but that's the sense I got. When I sat up she was staring straight towards me. There was a suspended moment longer than a second but much shorter than a minute where we were frozen staring at each other like two beast uncertain which is the predator. Then she opened her hand and dropped something, something barely perceptible from so far away but I'm sure that hand opened and something fell from her palm. Then there was nothing but her back as she fled through the leaves of the opposite side of the field.

Everybody knows that curiosity killed the cat, but come on some situations are just too much of a temptation. Here was a mysterious distraction just enticing enough to hold back the debilitating city bound frustrations I came out here to escape in the first place. So I got up and cautiously walked toward the spot where she had stood staring at me, the spot where she dropped that small almost invisible something. Now trying just to estimate the exact spot where she stood in a field of long grass when approaching from such a distance is hard enough, but as I got closer to the estimated spot, the grass was thicker and wind twisted, sharp knotted grass so much less inviting than the soft patch where I had my cat nap. So once I got there it was tough prospect picking through those scissory thistles. Then I saw it, and it filled me with a thrill like winning the daily lotto with your first and only ticket. It was such a small thing and the odds, if you believe in such things, of me finding it was as astronomical as you can conceive. I picked it up and held it between my index finger and my thumb. What was it? It was a single six sided dice or die or what have you. I don't know if dice is singular or plural or both. A single die maybe? But it was not your ordinary die. It was a almost coal black cube carved of marble with the faintest gray cataracts and the points on each side were made of ivory inlay. An exceptional die. A professional die, a die unlike any other except its mate which I couldn't find despite desperate hours of searching and suffering tiny incisions on my fingertips and palms under the light of the full moon.

I didn't think about the coal colored die for days. The tedious tasks, the boring chores, the debilitating stress of so much monstrous tedium overtook my initial enthusiasm for this beautiful little find. I dropped it into a coffee mug where I was sure I wouldn't misplace, wouldn't forget it. And, when I dropped it I can remember that was first time. that was the first time it landed on that number.

What number? I wont say. No, I wont say that number. Even if I tired, and trust me, I have, it would get caught up in my throat. It wasn't like that then, the very first time I dropped it. Why would it be? It was just a simple roll of the die. If you had asked me then what had I rolled, I would have told you without a second thought, but now after all the testing and retesting, I just cant bring myself to say that number aloud. I don't even like thinking it.

I can admit I've been know to let my imagination get ht better of me. As a child, my parents always thought I was just too starved for attention and that's why I'd tell all these fabulous stories. But, just because you let imagination run away occasionally, doesn't mean that all of the weird or frightening events in your life aren't true. Still, when I talk to the people I'm closest to, that I trust the most, about this thing, about the die, a thing that is real, that is measurable, the old stories get thrown into my face. Like that night I saw a UFO and my sister saw a flock of birds. But, in my defense, isn't it practically implausible a flock of seagulls would fly that slow and in a perfectly circular formation for that long? Can I really be blamed or ridiculed for thinking something like that was extraordinary, for them to fly like that for that long? Why is it simply dismissed as a matter of probability? Is it so ridiculous to suggest some kind of consciousness at work, some kind of inexplicable intent?

A couple weeks went by and probably every other day during that time I'd take the coal black die out of the coffee cup and flirt with it. I liked the way it felt on the tips of my fingers, the smooth marble held onto the Chicago cold it acquired while setting in the mug on the window ledge. Occasionally, I would spin the die like a top or roll it to hear how the marble sounded against the coffee table wood. then as it might naturally happen, I began to take toll of what numbers the die might land on and realized that it was landing on the same number every time. The first day I thought, "How interesting?", and dropped the coal black die back into the coffee cup without too disturbing a feeling, and as days passed, I found myself working a little harder and then much harder to get the die to land on another number, any other number. I got the notion, how do such pata-physical notions occur to one, to add another die so that combined they would eventually, hopefully rather quickly total up to a different number. After hours, after days of rolling this was still not the case. Now whereas which numbers the dice landed on would change the sum of their points always equaled the number.

I went to the closet and I got out he Yatzee dice and the Parcheezi dice and I put them all into the coffee cup along with the casino die and the coal black die as well. The total number of die outnumbered the total number of sides on any single die. All that was left to do was to roll all these die once and end the curse. They can’t add up to that number, right? They can’t! It is an impossibility, right? What happened next only happened once because I hadn’t the courage to try again, but when I rolled, yet again I got that number. How? Because a few of the die including the die black as crow landed face up with no points on them. I didn’t carefully analyze. I was so struck by what I saw that I threw the die away. I was terrified. I almost had a BM. Maybe my eyes were playing tricks on me. Maybe there was some dirt or some sort of substance obscuring the face of the die. I don’t know. But when I got my nerve back and went to collect the dice off from the floor, that damn black one crouched in corner mocking me, having landed once again on that number on that same damn number.

I knew only one thing, I had to get rid of the die. First, I threw it out in the trash. But after the garbage men emptied the dumpster into the back of there truck, I went to the back alley behind my building and there it was by one of the dumpster’s wheels, resting with that damned number face up. I decided to leave it there it was no longer my problem, just a piece of garbage in the alley. But everyday when I went out to the dumpster to throw out my trash there it was. The wind would not sweep it away, the rain would not wash it into the gutter. I didn’t want to touch, but I had to do something. So I decided to help the rain. I wrapped my shoe in some old newspaper, I know it is ridiculous but my in my fear I thought maybe it could act as a barrier. I then tried to kick the die into the sewer grate. It took several kicks. A die doesn’t move like a soccer ball. And yes! It landed on that dreaded number after each kick. But I was determined. I was going to kick it into the sewer, stand over the grate and watch it float away out of sight into a subterranean grave. But when the die fell through the grate’s steel teeth, it dropped only a few inches. Something had blocked up the sewer so that surface of the sewage had risen. There was no flow, no current to carry the die away. And inexplicably it would sink. Instead it just floated on the surface. This wasn’t working, I knew what would happen. Day, weeks, months would pass and I would keep coming out here to the alley and keep bumping into this coal black die. I would keep encountering it, and it would laughingly keep screaming up that same damn number at me every time. I was going to have to exert more effort if I was going to be rid of this thing. I got some tongs from my kitchen and ran back down to the alley. I fished the die out of the sewage.

I was walking to work downtown past a construction site when it hit me. I realized a perfect way to get rid of the die. They were mixing concrete in one of those huge truck sizes blenders. They had been mixing concrete and laying down new sidewalk surrounding a new downtown high rise. So, I took the die with me on my morning commute and as I passed the construction site, I found a section of hole in the chain link barrier large enough that I could toss the die through the hole and into the mixing cement. The joy I felt the moment I saw it disappear into the rotating maw of the cement grinder. While at my desk that day, It took everything I had to not giggle or whistle a happy tune. One coworker even asked me if I was on medication, I seemed that high. As the clock reached five and all my coworkers where packing it up for the night, I hesitated. I had no choice but to walk past the high rise on my way to the train, and all I could do was imagine scenarios where something had gone wrong and the die was there waiting on me, stalking me with it’s horrible number following me like eyes of a rapist or a burgher.

I finally got up my nerve around eight o clock.
When I approached the high rise construction, It appeared as if they had finished laying the new sidewalk. The six foot tall chain barriers had been removed as well as the concrete mixer. The street seemed nearly bare. The only things remaining to indicate the work that had been done was the wooden border of the still fresh wet cement and a child ahead at the cross street with a short stick drawing figures in the wet cement. I smiled st the young boy’s care free quality. As I approached him I looked down to see what he had been drawing. When I saw the young man’s graffiti I actually lost control and wet my pants. He had been a work for maybe an hour and yards and yards of the sidewalk had been covered with his work. What did he draw, he had scribbled that horrible horrible number, the very same number that always appeared face up when I threw that dreaded crow black die. I feel to my knees and climbed over the wooden border into the wet cement. I took my hands and tried to smooth out the number, but the young man had written it over and over again so many times, it seemed there was no way to obliterate all those numbers. I stopped and wept. I lost track of time. The moon was full. The boy saw me crying and saw what I had done. He walked over to me slowly. There was caution in his steps, but anger in his face. He was probably very proud of him work and the fortunate he though he had fallen upon, no adults around to stop him from leaving a mark on the street over and over again. When he was only a foot or two away from me, I pounced on him and pulled him toward me. “Why! Why did you scribble that number?!” He didn’t struggle, he didn’t scream he let me shake him for a moment or two till I stopped. I was holding the lapels of his windbreaker, when I noticed he lifted his little tiny doll sized hand up toward me, it’s fingers covered in dry grey dust, cupped in a fist. He wiggled his little hand, motioning for me to take it, take whatever dark horrible thing that tiny fist contained. I knew what it was. I had to be only one thing. I wouldn’t reach for it. I wouldn’t take it back. No matter how much that little boy wiggled his fist. No matter how many times he say “Take it. Take it. It’s yours mister.”

Suddenly the young boy turn and ran. He was being beaconed by a woman’s voice. Another frightened voice. She wanted him to come to her rather than approach the sight of me. I turned to her, to shrug my shoulders and gesture an apology. But, I…I knew her. She was a stranger and yet I knew her. She was the same woman who had to standing in that field of long grass so many days before. She was the woman who had dropped that small tiny indiscernible something that started me down this terrible nightmare. She was frozen too. She recognized me. I am certain of it. She reached down to take her child’s hand, the same tiny fist that had tried to get me to open. When she held it, she opened his fingers to see what he held. They were too far away from me to confirm, but I knew. I knew what she saw. She saw a coal black die. She saw a certain number stare up at her from within the palm of her child. She picked him, turned and ran. I screamed after her to wait. Here was the one person who might have some sort of answer for me about the curse I had been under, small and inconsequential it might seem, it had torn my view of reality asunder. I tried to follow her, but my legs would not move. I was struck to sidewalk. Sunk up to my heels in dry concrete.

Saturday, February 16, 2008

Friday, February 15, 2008

More FavoriteThing(s)ThisWeek

This is the sort of show I'd like to see

Audio Slide Show of the Patrick Stewart speakin about his new production of Macbeth


Check these out

Wednesday, February 13, 2008


Who out there uses a voicemail service other than your personal phone service for your theatre reservations? Suggestions? Horror stories? I am thinking about using a voicemail to email service with a 1 800 number for all theatre communication...

thoughts folks?

Possible Play - The Poacher

The Poacher

Jorge is an ancient man,wrinkled,dirty...he is peddling one of those tricycles built for seniors through a street in a major metropolitian chinatown years in the future. The tricycle has saddle bags and a wire mesh net on the front and back. These are filled to the brim with books and papers. Also, there is a small police scanner/GPS/internet access panel on his handle bars. There is an antenna as well very tall and dilaplidated.

Jorge spends his days sifting through people's garbage and recyclables
looking for books to resell. He is what they call a book poacher. It is amazing how many people are throwing
away good used quality books. People still read, but the idea of recreational reading amongst the younger generation has diminished to a small sub culture. The average reader needs to get rid of the books once they have a baby or begin cellular harvesting. The baby and/or tissue takes up that shelf space. People don't used paper anymore. But there is a small dedicated movement of readers especially for old hard bounds that makes it worth while for these poachers to go from can to can looking for books. They can try recycling aluminum which is plentiful, but a good poacher who knows something about what he is looking at, can make better scores for
less money. And if the poacher is connected to collecters without the used
book store middle man, they can make serious score, at least serious score
for someone on the street (which most of them are).

The city has probably only 5 poachers worth anything and that same number
at any time trying to break out of aluminum and get into paper.
There once was a time when paper was the manner in which we preserved
text. Now, it is the least reliable least immutable. People use paper only
to write down things they don't want to last. Handwritten messages can be
destroyed. Emails can not. Even the most security minded govt systems have
offsite redundancy.

The Poacher has taken pity on a younger newbie, he tries to counsel the
younger man, but the younger man attempts to steal from the poacher so he
is then ostracized. He comes back when he has something very deadly, he
has been picking through the wrong garbage cans, and he is now on the run.
Not from the law, but from free roaming organizations more like
underground Mafia than anything else. They have their own everything (even
their own manner of currency). They want what the young man has swiped and
the dont mind bothering our poacher to get it.

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

At the Mammals Blog!

If you haven't already please go check out some of the photos at

I have been having a blast playing around with some graphics ideas for the show. In the final weeks leading upto the show there will be a small series of comic strip panels about the story of Clay Continent on the website using the actually actors as the figures for the comic strip.

If you like the images then drop me a quick email at to let me know and to make sure you're on the Mammals mailing list!

Friday, February 08, 2008


Shadow Puppetry Slide Show at

I can't read a thing suddenly

So I remembered that when I am in production, it is almost impossible for me to sit down and read for recreation. My mind always goes back to the Production. I start to feel guilty for not giving over those minutes I might read to working on a new graphic for the show or emailing more folks or combing the net for more potential contacts that might enjoy the lastest production. So now I'm half way three books that I just haven't been able to pick up since this weekend.

TV isnt the same thing, because I can watch TV with the lap top in front of me and still be working if not with full dilligence, at least sporadically during my "free" evenings.

Oh well, I guess I'll have to probably put my reading list on hold until April. Anybody ou there reading any good fiction lately?

Wednesday, February 06, 2008

Deadwood Season 3

So, I finally finished the third season of Deadwood via my Netflix subscription. I loved it. I hope they finally get to the 4 hour conclusion of the series. However, one could argue that the series could end where it was. There was a resolution. And, I would say that 11 of the 12 episodes were excellent. And the tension of the last five minutes of episode 12 were fantastic.

David Milch should write a book. NYPD Blue, Deadwood, and even that show no else watched, John From Cincinnati...I was enamored of them all.

Aside from Deadwood, other shows I love and think are well written...

30 Rock - Perfect I think
Metalocalypse - Yes, I think season one was brilliant
I miss (drum roll) Moonlighting

A terribly written show that I love...Saul of the Mole Men. I need some new shows to watch. Keeping in mind, the preferences I list above, any suggestions out there for what should be my next favorite show? Please do tell...

Next on my Netflix queue...Rescue Me

Return to the Empty Space

There are photos from our first rehearsal at

How does it feel now? Have I crossed back into the roadway? Was I merely plodding along in the median before between two highways headed in different directions? Am I once again a director in the immediate sense? From once being a sort of retiree who obsessed over previous credits to one's name rather than fully engaging in current projects...focusing on life once lived when more life is swirling about us.

I want this is to the first rehearsal of many. I want one reading to be the catalyst to multiplcity of creative expression, decades of enabled interaction. I want to feel like I did when I was a kid just starting out. I want to stay up late nights with thoughts about how to stage this scene or that one bouncing back and forth like tennis match between my ears.

I want to know the joy of watching talented individuals speaking words you put down on the page. I want to anticipate the response the audience gives when you surprise them.

That rehearsal yesterday not only reminded me that I have done it before and done it well, but that I have it in me to continue to do so and that my dreaming, my goals, my ambitions are still ahead of me. My greatest accomplishments, my highest creative euphoria is still there on the horizon waiting for me to reach out and embrace it!

I am in love with this thing called art, called theatre, called the rehearsal. Yesterday was liken to grabbing hold of a loved one after a long absence. I am 35. I have a lifetime ahead of me, but simultaneously I must acknowledge that I also have no time to waste.

Back to the rehearsal room. Return to the half finished scripts. Return to writing everyday.

Tuesday, February 05, 2008

Rehearsals Begin!

Alright! Tonight it starts. Clay Continent goes into rehearsal mode. It is going to be a wonderful thing I believe. All the participants seem excited and the universe is our oyster. There will be posts about the rehearsal process on and of course more general information about the show will be available at the website

Whereas at this blog, I tend to post about anything and everything with a tilt towards theater in will be focused specifically on the company, it's rehearsals, it's productions, etc.

Monday, February 04, 2008

Red Roses

Mom - These came for you
Daughter - Oh my! How nice! They're from
Mom - That boy from last night
Daughter - That is so nice
Mom - They're red roses
Daughter - Yes...I can see that
Mom - You can see that?!
Daughter - What is wrong with you?
Mom - Why would he send you these?
Daughter - Men give flowers to women all the time?
Mom - Flowers yes. But roses? Red roses?! After a first date?
Daughter - What's wrong with red roses?
Mom - Red Roses are not what a decent noble young man should be giving a young woman so soon in a courtship. If he were to send you something else
Daughter - What else?
Mom - Carnations?! A floral medley? But not roses. And certainly not red.
Daughter - You are not making any sense.
Mom - Don't you know what this means?!
Daughter - It means "thank you for a wonderful evening"
Mom - Ohhhh Ho Ho!
Daughter - (mocking) Ohhh Ho Ho What?
Mom - Aren't you being clever?
Daughter - Why are ruining this?
Mom - Is it possible you don't know?
Daughter - I think it's obvious I don't know is wrong. I don't know what you mean with all this.
Mom - My dear, Red Roses implies something
Daughter - Flowers!!!It implies well wishes, romantic feelings
Mom - Other flowers yes! But these! These!!!
Daughter - Just tell me what is wrong!
Mom - This flower! In this color! It can only mean one think. It expresses gratitude, but a very specific kind of gratitude. The kind of gratitude that no mother wishes her daughter to receive. Not openingly. Not like this, before her wedding night.
Daughter - No
Mom - Yes. Yes!
Daughter - You don't think I
Mom - Why else would he have the impertience to send such a suggestive gift?
Daughter - They are just flowers Mother
Mom - No they are not, they're red roses!
Daughter - Yes! Red roses! But that doesn't mean I did anything with him
Mom - You're saying that you don't deserve these red roses?
Daughter - I'm saying they don;t mean what you say they mean
Mom - The color red signifies the blood of a virgin who has surrendered her "rose" her "bloom"
Daughter - You don't believe me when I tell you that such a thing didn't happen?
Mom - It doesn't matter what I believe. He has sent the roses already. They were delivered to the door. Right on our very own front door! The neighboorhood knows...or thinks they know that you so willingly gave that which should not be given except by a bride to her groom!
Daughter - No! No! That is not how it works her mother! Not in America!

Saturday, February 02, 2008

Never a Need to Grieve was the Madam's Motto - Part One

a brief character sketch by Bob Fisher

In a year that none can hope to pinpoint, two lonesome strangers made ramblers by the civil war had an episode of coitus and conceived a young girl. Nine long months later, the young girl was deposited on the doorstep of an orphanage along with the placenta. There the girl lived her through her school years as disobedient to the mentoring of her guardians. Obstinate, this was the nick name the nurses gave her, and that moniker followed her for the rest of her days. This didn't bother her much in the beginning, and it troubled her less once she learned the meaning of the word. Instead, she owned the designation with pride. To her mind, her adopted name was fair warning to any within her circles of influence that her own will was inevitable in all circumstance.

On the day of her sixteenth birthday, the weather, knowing she was miserable and desirous of escaping the orphanage, took pity on her in the manner of a twister that touched down on the center of the picnic table blowing out the candles on her cake as well as lifting her limbs lashing out akimbo off into a far foreign distance never to see the orphans and nurses ever again.

That tornado that swept her towards the heavens dumped her squarely into our locale which at the time was as close an approximation of earth bound perdition as there was. She was dropped here in a landscape of second hand caverns and arthritic lean-tos. The tale of it is that she landed square on the face of the tallest drunken in the vicinity knocking him onto his bank and perched on top his mouth like eagle in its nest.

They regained their conscious simultaneous, and after relishing their fortune at this improbable orgasmic initial acquaintance, they became fast friends, business partners, and eventual spouses. Their partnership was what in enabled our forebears to take a make believe town and transform it into a real place. Although any cartographer could vouch for our town's existence, none could so vouch for it's respectability.