TRASH! Char-Len And The Art Of Maximalism!
The dog days of August are upon us.
And it’s time to put the garbage out.
We recognize its unsettling stench most particularly during summer’s baking temperatures.
What to do until the heat subsides and initiates the promise of a fresh and fragrant fall to follow?
Hmmmm...Hope springs eternal.
In the interim, many of us fancy a different kind of rot—the kind of rubbish that titillates and carries with it the scent of attractive excess—the perfume of celebrity— the tales of too much. Too much celebrity. Too much power.
I’ve always sensually associated August with salt air, the moldy scent of a used paperback novel and the steam that’s raised from a roasting beach blanket. I’d spend guilt free days rifling through lurid tales of superstars, pills and booze while delighting in my disapproval of too much, too soon—relishing in the toppling of too lofty personages from their unattainable heights, all the while being drawn by the heady incense emanating from their bacchanalian lifestyles.
A purge from both my glut and overstuffed gut (steamed clams and lobster bellies were pretty much a staple during Augusts spent at Char-Len) necessarily had to follow. I had to chasten my altar boy’s guilt for pagan attraction—my taking too much delight in casting aspersions on these poor lost souls. So, I’d hang up my bathing suit and with my brother and friends flock from the beach to a highly air conditioned movie house in the center of town—one that had a bowling alley at street level—and with the help of rampaging monsters, insects and plenty of alarming incidents, my screams became a fumigant quickly dashing my disgraceful days activity. A congregation of screaming kids in a theatre replicated a kind of communal confessional box to a well brought up Catholic boy. Once purified by FRANKENSTEIN CONQUERS THE WORLD, I’d return to the cottage and cool sheets on my humid bed, lulled finally to sleep by the whir of an electric fan after a minute or two spent with an Archie comic book.
Ah, the creature comforts of Augusts past.
I find that there are self truths to be mined from trash. Those fun and fetid morality plays so chockablock full of cliches are often clothed in such a way to appear quite recognizable to us.
This is the sandbox that we’ve chosen to get dirty in at Char-Len these next few weeks. My play, TIMBERLAKE, AMERICAN PULP, is the first project on our table. It’s considerably more pertinent today than it was when originally produced so beautifully by The Working Artists Theatre Project. It’s a macabre take on a morality play. A kind of glaring and glittery soap opera with a rather ugly underbelly. In short, it’s my own personal homage to trash.
Char-Len plans a scent-stationally sweet celebration of things overripe this August. The gift of a different distracting odor to clear the air. So, let’s have fun reveling in the kind of rot that sheds an odd light on life.
But, remember—
It’s critical to throw the toxic stuff out of the fridge once it’s reached its expiration date!
