The Bloody Doors Off

I can’t stand it, I know you planned it
I’m gonna set it straight, this Watergate
I can’t stand rocking when I’m in here
‘Cause your crystal ball ain’t so crystal clear
So while you sit back and wonder why
I got this fucking thorn in my side
Oh my God, it’s a mirage
I’m tellin’ y’all, it’s a sabotage

Sabotage, Beastie Boys

I had an idea.

While folding laundry.

A beautiful idea.

For a short play.

Guy’s folding laundry and he’s bored and frustrated because you know, it’s laundry, who likes doing laundry? Let’s take it to get washed, fluffed and folded somewhere else.

He comes across an article of clothing that’s inside out. He attempts to turn it over.

But now it’s inside out.

He was right the first time.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath.

“Hi!”

The Son of God heard his name, and dropped down for a chat.

Kinda like hitting the holy lottery.

Every once in a while, someone’s number comes up and they get to ask one life-affirming (or life changing) question.

And dude stares him down. Shows us giving real thought.

Then he asks a simple question.

What?

Did you think I was going to spoil the scene?

I know what I’m doing.

I’m procrastinating.

Stalling.

Because.

What if it’s not as funny as it is in my head?

But I guess that’s the risk every writer takes.

And not all of them land.

“The Girlfriend Experience” was, by far, my worst. I wasted a perfectly good title for a wacky premise on a two-hander of a schmuck and a working girl with a gold-plated heart.

Yet I stall.

Because.

I don’t have an ending.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

First ever Fringe play, we were six weeks out from open and the director was asking me how the play ended.

I made it up right there on the spot.

It wasn’t the best play.

But the ending was.

So.

Let me go write, dammit.

Click publish already.