So I wrote a joke this morning. Actually, I “thought of” a joke. “Wrote” makes it sound like I sat a desk. Like I take joke writing so seriously that I clock in to do it. In reality, I was in this half-awake, half-asleep state when I thought of the joke and I thought it was hilarious. But now…I just don’t know.

I wanted to post the joke on Facebook this morning but I stopped myself because, you know, what if it’s not funny? And the more I think about it, the more I’m absolutely sure it’s not funny. I mean, part of me thinks it’s brilliant in the way it taps into modern day annoyances and draws on our collective childhood nostalgia. But then another part of me thinks that it’s not quite obvious enough. It relies on the listener making a connection and I’m not entirely sure he/she will make that leap.

Then again, it’s a joke that came from real life. I was grocery shopping and I had to text my wife and this irritating thing happened and I’m sure it’s something everyone can relate to. So why aren’t I more confident about this? I make jokes all the time. It’s a consistent irritant to my friends and family. What’s one more failed joke? I’m forty-seven years old and I have wisdom that comes with middle-age and the ability to not give a shit what anyone thinks. But at the same time, I know when I’m on Facebook and I read a joke that doesn’t quite work, I think to myself “Poor guy. If only he had phrased it differently, it might have worked.”

That’s another thing. I’ve been perseverating about this joke and trying to rephrase it in my mind. It’s a lot of information to cram into a single joke and if one word is in the wrong place, the joke will land flat. So far, I’ve come up with three different ways to tell the joke and I’m not sure what the best way is yet. It’s highly possible there is no best way. In fact, the more I think about it…this is a really bad joke.

So why do I care if people think it’s funny or not? This is what artists do, right? They put stuff out there and if it fails, it fails. What’s important is that we’re always taking risks. But this goes back to regret – regret that I didn’t invest in comedy more in my 20s, for one thing. Why didn’t I take classes at Second City? I mean I was right there in Chicago when Tina Fey and Adam McKay were there. Why did I have to feel like I was a “serious actor?”

And lets face it, the older you get, the less inclined people are to think you’re funny. You’re viewed as being out of touch or, worse yet, “corny.” I just don’t want to be one of those guys yukkin’ it up at age sixty and get laughs out of pity.

But you know what? Screw it. I’m going to write down the joke and let the chips fall where they may. This is about risk. This is about confidence. Success and failure are illusions. This is about life. Here is the joke:

Wile E. Coyote stopped sending text messages because everyone thought he was constantly complaining about his acne. #fuckautocorrect.

BENDING THE MAP

For the past few years I’ve been working on my one-person, autobiographical show “Panther Hollow,” which talks about my struggles with clinical depression back when I was 25. When I first started researching stories of mental illness – before I decided to write about my own – I began interviewing friends and acquaintances and collecting their stories about depression, bi-polar disorder, schizophrenia as well as stories about the difficulties of navigating the health care system and how our collective, fundamental misunderstanding of mental illness is making us…well…crazy.

Last year, I received a commission from Passage Theatre and the New Jersey Performing Arts Center to turn this material into another theatre piece. Under the working title “Sanism,” I’ve continued to interview people and gather their stories. I’m now at a point where I have so many stories – so many moving, remarkable, even heroic stories – that I’m unable to decide which ones to tell.

Hence, this blog.

Once a week, I’ll be sharing these stories and talking about my research. I’d love to know what you think – what speaks to you, what fascinates you and what pisses you off. By April, “Sanism” will have a public reading at NJPAC. That will be followed by a full production at Passage next season.

So where to start?

Recently, my wife told me about this concept called “Bending the Map.” Bending the map is something that people engage in when they are lost, or confused or in the middle of an experience they don’t understand. It doesn’t have to be depression or a psychotic break or anything like that. Everyone does it. It takes place when the person who is lost realizes that the map their using no longer corresponds with their environment. But instead of trying to understand how to survive their new environment, they decide there must be something wrong with the map. So they bend it. They break the rules outlined in the map in order to force it make sense with their surroundings. Of course, this can’t be done.

While it sounds like something only mentally ill people would engage in, all of us do it to some degree all the time. Unfortunately, we also bend the map when it comes to dealing with the mentally ill. When we can’t understand someone’s behavior, we prescribe motivations and character traits to them that we *can* understand. That person sitting in the corner sobbing for no reason? That doesn’t make any sense. They must just want attention.

We don’t understand mental illness because we don’t listen to the stories of the people who suffer from it. And we don’t listen to the stories because understanding them means creating a new map – one that clashes with our societal and cultural biases.

I want to make a new map. I’m starting with the stories.

My friend Gene (not his real name) was in his mid-30s when he woke up one morning, left his wife and four year old daughter, got into his car and started driving. He was missing for over a week. His friends and the police were notified. His wallet was found in an alley in Chicago, hundreds of miles from his home. He finally turned up in a hospital and returned home, but spent the next year coping with bipolar disorder and the dissolution of his marriage. Here’s what he told me during our interview two years ago. Highly intelligent, eloquent and introspective, Gene is able to look back on his bout with mental illness with an insight that is quite unique. I should also mention that Gene is funny – very funny – so if you wind up laughing at some of things he says, he meant for you to do that.

GENE
I didn’t have a map. I didn’t have anything. I just followed the signs. I knew…”go to the interstate and turn left. That way is Chicago.” But I wasn’t scared. I had no doubt, no fear, nothing like that.There was nothing really that led up to it. At all I wasn’t having any problems in my marriage – I mean we fought and stuff but there was nothing…we hadn’t been talking about divorce…there were no real stressers. The day before, I was working at the comic book store and a kid and his grandmother were checking out. They paid their money and I just stared at the receipt and I couldn’t do the math. I just couldn’t figure it out. Then they started talking to me but I couldn’t understand what they were saying and I became convinced that they were speaking to me in code. It’s such a cliché, the whole “I’m being tracked by government agents” thing. But that’s what I thought. It’s so typical.

That night, when Ally was asleep. I picked her up, handed her to Janet and said “I need you to take care of her.” Then I went to bed. The next morning, I got up, got dressed, got in my car and headed to Chicago. Because I had to see Del Close.

Del Close, of course, wasn’t in Chicago. Also he was dead. But there was a really, deep subconscious thing going on. Obviously, I knew him because he was an improv teacher and I did improv. But even more important than that, I knew Del Close because Del Close wrote a surreal comic book called “The Wasteland” and I had that in my head. You have to find this book and read it. You have to. It’s just a big “fuck you” to our whole notion of reality. So I subconsciously knew about the wasteland and it was written by Del Close and I knew Del Close was in Chicago so I had to go to Chicago.

It took me two days to get to Chicago. There are a couple of things I remember. I stopped once at a rest stop that had this circular dining area. I started walking around the perimeter of it because I suddenly understood that this was the whole world and I needed to encircle the world. And I knew it was the world because in the middle of the dining area, sitting at one of the tables, was this old guy playing a game of chess with a Hassidic Jew. I understood that was a symbol. A sign. Everything was a symbol. Everything was a sign. That was the level I was operating on.

About two hours outside of Chicago, I stopped at a hotel. I don’t remember what I did there. I think I just walked in, fell asleep, then got up the next morning and left. But I remember that I made sure I left the room exactly as I found it. That was important for some reason. I was covering my tracks.

When I got to Chicago I spent a lot of time walking. For three days. I didn’t sleep. I just walked. On the first day, I ditched my wallet. Because I had it in my head that people were trying to find me so if they found me, I didn’t want to have any ID on me. I didn’t want anyone to know who I was. So I threw my wallet in a dumpster in an alley.

At some point I went to this bookstore. And the reason I went there was because somehow I knew that Dave Chappelle was there. That was really important because Dave Chapelle was going to be my guide. My mentor. You see at this point, I realized that Chicago was a game. A puzzle. And I was playing the game. My job was to walk through Chicago, find the clues and solve the puzzle. And once I did, once I won the game, I would be…king of the world, basically. I would know everything. I would control everything from the background. Make policies. Pass laws. I would be in control. But first I had to solve the puzzle. I had to win the game.

To be continued…

Happy New Year

Here’s an update on performances of Panther Hollow in 2016. For more info, email me at david@passagetheatre.org

JAN

Friday, Jan 15th – Arcade Comedy Theatre, Pittsburgh, PA 8:00

Saturday, Jan 16th – Point Park College, Pittsburgh, PA 7:00

FEB

Rider University – Private performance, date & time TBD

MARCH

March 4th – Passage Theatre, Trenton, NJ 8:00 PM

March 18th – Passage Theatre, Trenton, NJ 8:00 PM

Third show TBD

 

.

A few minutes after I read about the shootings in San Bernardino, I rage-posted on Facebook. The post read – “Fuck this and fuck everyone who makes me afraid for the country my child has to grow up in. Take away the fucking guns. Sorry, responsible gun owners. I don’t trust that there are enough of you to worry about. Your feelings will get hurt but you know what? You’ll live.”

Good idea, right? ??

My profile is completely public. Everyone can see and share and comment on everything. Until recently, I’ve liked it that way. I make my living in the theatre and I like to know that complete strangers can learn more about me and my work. Yes, yes, I know that’s what a website is for. I have one of those too.

Quite frankly, I know better than to post something so reactionary about a politically charged topic. I like to think of myself as one of those truly enlightened individuals who can see all sides of an issue. I’m a playwright, for crying out loud. I work with other playwrights. If we don’t figure out a way to have empathy for people we disagree with, we aren’t doing our job.

But this was my tipping point. I was pissed. Another mass shooting? Are you kidding me? And while I know every mass shooting is contextually different, they all have one thing in common. The shooters all have guns. That’s why we call them shooters. Duh. They all somehow procured guns and they shouldn’t have been able to. So in that moment, in my fit of Facebook indignation pique, I posted something harsh about responsible gun owners. Now, in my mind I put the word “responsible” in sarcastic quotes. I know there are genuinely responsible gun owners out there. But I’m not all that concerned about them. However, I am concerned about the people with armaments up to their ears that assert their responsibility so often that I start to think…”methinks the lady doth protest…”

Twenty minutes later I was on my way to teach playwright to a group of high school students when I checked Facebook on my phone and saw that my post had almost 800 likes.

Uh-oh.

A few hours later I was playing Star Wars with my son and I looked at my phone. The post had been shared over 200 times.

Yikes.

I might have deleted the post right then and there if my son hadn’t told me to stop staring at my phone while he was hitting me with his light saber.

Later that night, of course, I was doomed. The post was everywhere, it seemed. It hadn’t really gone viral. More like viralesque. Strangers were posting on my page calling me an idiot and a moron. One guy called me a chickenshit and a little girl, then told me to go eat a bag of dicks, which seemed extreme (Jesus, a whole bag???). Then there were the slightly less personally offensive posts that tried to take in the big picture and explain to me, in their passive-aggressive way, that the problem was far more complicated than mere access to guns. One had to take into account mental illness, bullying, workplace violence, terrorism, etc., etc.,

Of course I knew that. The whole hyper-intellectual, holier than thou approach is usually my bag, which is how I recognized it. But this time was different. I was pissed. I posted in anger. And while people that knew me understood my post within the context of my entire persona (at least my Facebook persona) these strangers had not. At that point, my post had been read by more strangers than friends. The only thing they knew about me was that I didn’t care about gun owners and their rights.

Honestly, I guess I really don’t care. I understand that gun owners have rights. But I don’t understand the need for those rights. And I really don’t understand the extreme, almost spiritual devotion to those rights. I don’t understand the person whose identity is wrapped up, inextricably linked, to their possession of a fire arm.

I understand hunters. My grandfather was a hunter. He had three guns in the house. One was a pellet gun but I still count it because I almost put my eye out with that thing. Then there was the rifle mounted on the fireplace mantel, held up by two horse spurs. The scary one was the hand gun in his underwear drawer. I don’t know if it was loaded. As a kid, I would occasionally open the drawer when no one was around and just look at it. I held it in my hands exactly once and never again. My grandfather bought the gun after an intruder broke into his house, bashed him on the head and tied him to a chair. My father was sixteen at the time. He came home to find my grandfather trying to maneuver his way down a flight of stairs while still tied to the chair. My grandfather’s gun was for protection. He never used it. As far as I know, it never left the underwear drawer except for the one time I held it in my hands.

But I still don’t get it. Why do some people need so many guns and why are they afraid of people taking them away? I try to find some equivalency in my own personality. For instance, I love books. What if someone tried to take my books away? Nope. Doesn’t work. Books don’t kill people. Not even those Twilight books everyone seems to go on and on about. I also love my decongestants. Honestly, if I didn’t have my decongestants I don’t know what I’d do. But I accept the fact that I have to show my license every time I buy a box and I can’t buy more than one box a day just in case I’m some guy that makes meth-crack in my basement or whatever freaky thing people do with decongestants.

But guns? I don’t understand. My empathy fails me. I accept them as a reality, of course. But I don’t understand the passion or the fear of losing the right to have a gun. I mean, I don’t honestly think that all gun owners are trying to kill people. Please. That would be ridiculous. But if we could make a dent in this mass shooting problem by making it a little harder to get a gun, shouldn’t we do that? What’s the problem?

There’s this secret part of your Facebook message box that I keep forgetting about. It’s for all the messages from people who aren’t actually your friends. Thursday morning I realized I had a couple dozen in there. Hoo-boy.

As one of my friends posted in a comment “Why is No Backbone in quotes? Is this a recipe?”

And this…

And so on…

And so on…

And so on…

And so on…

Ad infinitum…

It’s pretty much an accepted truth of humanity that we very seldom change our minds about anything, particularly when we perceive we’re being attacked. In fact, we double-down and embed ourselves even further into our point of view even if we’re contradicted by irrefutable data. I’ve never really had that problem. Not because I’m so enlightened, but because I think I’m always in the wrong. Several of those messages I received are totally true. I am a big pussy. So I tend to step back and be the guy that listens, tries to see every point of view and bring everyone to a consensus, even if it means sacrificing my own convictions.

But that hasn’t been working when it comes to gun control. For anyone. We talk and talk and talk and people get shot and shot and shot. So I got pissed. I posted on Facebook while pissed. I made people angry. And they reacted in anger. But instead of feeling upset that I had been attacked, I realized that it wasn’t the end of the world. It was a bit like the first time you get a bad theatre review. It sucked, but I survived. People keep asking me if I was able to sleep last night. I slept fine. I’m not a victim. I’m not one of the people that was shot.

Now that I know I can speak out of anger, gain support from my friends and survive the onslaught of negative reactions, I’m much more willing to speak out in anger the next time an opportunity rolls around. If we can’t change things through rational discussion, maybe we can change things through irrational anger.

So you tell me – did I just become part of the solution or part of the problem?

Or am I kidding myself because neither rational debate or irrational anger makes a bit of difference? Perhaps I’m just as powerless as I was yesterday.

It’s true. I’ve seen the barn. It’s next to his house. Also, at one point I heard an old-timey phone ring while we were standing outside and I’m pretty sure he said “That’s the outdoor phone. Because there used to be sheep here.”

More importantly, John is directing Panther Hollow and he’s incredibly funny and has helped me hone the script and give the piece shape that it wouldn’t have otherwise. I am incredibly in his debt and I realized today that I’ve barely mentioned him at all. I think I thought to myself “Oh, this is a guy with a show off-Broadway right now. Also he wrote for TV and has lots of plays and stuff. Surely my little skit isn’t all that important.” My mistake. He’s done an incredible amount of work making sure that I don’t humiliate myself next week. Anyway, here’s to John Augustine. His bio is below. Proud and a wee bit humbled to have him on my side. Also, here’s a link to the show he directed “The Hummingbird Tour” which is running through November 22nd. http://www.hummingbirdoffbroadway.com/

http://www.broadwayworld.com/new-jersey/article/David-Lee-Whites-PANTHER-HOLLOW-to-Premiere-at-New-Yorks-United-Solo-Festival-20151101#