So, my wife’s in bed and my son is snoring like a 90 year old man and I’ve just finished my PlayGround play. I’ll read it again tomorrow morning over coffee, and send it in, but already I can see that it’s not quite the play I started out to write.
That play that I didn’t write still lurks in my mind like a familiar stranger… and it involves a pack of wild monkeys dancing to ABBA and the Bay City Rollers singing “Saturday Night” and ends in an aquarium where the squid makes friends with the tuna fish and the sea otters are missing. And in between, aliens are lost on the escalator and so they ask what time it is. And when the clock strikes 2, all the cowboys in town jump out of the whore house windows and run down the street naked while the Harlem Globe Trotters make their way into the Catholic Church to hide their revolvers under the pew cushions where a band of wandering merry makers will sing to the moon and make a boy named Kevin pine for a red-haired lass whose teeth glow in the dark like fluorescent pearls and whose mom owns a cow that makes chocolate milk. But that doesn’t mean the roses won’t be delivered for the funeral because that cow can speak French and knows a thing or two about Sanskrit and enough to warn you that an albatross is only bad luck if you wear it around your neck.
Yep, the play I’ve written is nothing like that at all. But someday, I will write it. I surely will.