DC Playwrights

Take a simple sentence. A typing drill. Nine words. 37 letters. What do the words mean? How are they related? How is meaning conveyed? Inspired by the texts of Lewis Carroll, Donald Rumsfeld, and George Bush and concluding with the inspirational metaphorical tropes of Barack Obama, the work presents five characters in search of meaning at an absurdist linguistic tea party.

When:
- Saturday July 18 @ 2:45pm
- Sunday July 19 @ Noon
- Friday July 24 @ 9:30pm
- Saturday July 25 @ 9:30pm
- Sunday July 26 @ Noon

Where:
Redrum - at Fort Fringe
612 L Street NW, Washington DC

Tickets can be purchased at:
607 New York Avenue, Washington, DC
or online at http://shows.capfringe.org/shows/26-Michael-Merino-The-Quick-Brown-Fox-J...
This production presented as a part of the 2009 Capital Fringe Festival.

The Emerging Voices Playwright Competition has recently named Maybe, a short play by Michael Merino, as a winner in their inaugural competition. Along with four other works, the play will receive a staged reading at the historic Lincoln Theatre on Thursday, March 5, 2009 at 7PM.

Merino’s play addresses the impossibility of clear and precise communication. The work involves two actors (Man and Woman), whose only words are "yes" and "no," respectively. An additional character called Stage Directions provides guidance regarding inflection and the actors' movements.

Winner of the Theatre Oxford's 10-Minute Play Contest in 2007, Michael Merino's play, Seat Yourself was performed October 9 through 12 at the Powerhouse Community Arts Center in Oxford, MS.

For nine years, Theatre Oxford has presented the work of some of the finest up-and-coming playwrights from all over the world. This year, Theatre Oxford presented a program of the 2007 - 2008 winners of the 8th and 9th annual contests.

“i wasn’t going to tell you –“
“i already know,” said the squirrel.
“know what?” i asked.

“gore got the nobel.”
with consolation i remarked,
“only half a nobel,” i added.
“he deserved it, i guess,”
guessed the squirrel.

“but he’s already got a grammy,”
i groused.
“i thought it was an oscar,”
said the squirrel.
“you’re right.”

“who won the prize in physics?
that’s the only category i care about,”
asked the squirrel.

“mind if i take this?”
asks the squirrel.
“yes,” i say.
“it might be important.”
“are you saying having dinner with me
isn’t important?”

“now who are you texting?”
i ask.
“some people,” confesses the squirrel.
“why?”
“to find out what they're doing later,”
he adds.

“you’re the reason i hate cell phones
and the people that own them.”
“they’re very convenient,” says the squirrel.
“allows you to stay in touch with people,”
he explains.
“in case there’s an emergency.”

“scrambled eggs with brains,”
squirrel tells the waitress.
“you might want to get something else,”
i suggest.
“those are squirrel brains, you know.
and besides, i thought squirrels
were vegetarians.”

“but i like brains.
i find them attractive in squirrels,”
he explains.

“you might get jacob-creutzfeldt disease.”
“what’s that?” he asks.
“mad cow,” i tell him.
“just order the mediterranean omelet.”

squirrel calls the waitress over
and asks if the eggs contain squirrel brains.
“i’m jacob schmirnoff-intolerant,” he explains.

“hi, i’m a mexican,”
reads the button.
“i’m wearing it in solidarity,” i said.
“but you’re not mexican,”
remarked the squirrel.

“unless you live on a reservation
or own a casino –”

“like the arapaho
or donald trump?”
asked the squirrel.

“we’re all mexican,”
i continued.
“we all come from somewhere.”
“but you’re not mexican,”
repeated the squirrel.

once again,
squirrel failed to grasp
the ineffability of buttons.

after his third mojito,
second pilgrimage to the shell shack
and sleeveless t-shirt shoppe,
squirrel asked:
“how long have we been in florida?”

“two days,” i said.
“feels like two months,”
replied the squirrel.

“i guess that’s why retirees come here.”
i explained.
“when you only have about ten years left,
it’ll feel like fifty.”*

(*attribution: kitty giorgio)

a ten-day salute to sausage
announced the beer cup.
“the best fest is the wurstfest,”
mumbled the squirrel.

i never knew a rodent
could eat so much bratwurst.

after the third or fourth polka band
in das grosse zelt,
catching his breath between
the chicken dance and
gobbling down a wurst taco,
squirrel said,
“i think i'm ready to invade poland.”

squirrel put up signs
on the trees and poles in the park.
“have you seen my mind?”
the sign read.
“gray with gyrus and sulcus.
about the size of a walnut.”

“did you lose it
or simply misplace it?”
i asked sympathetically.

“are you asking in
cognitive ethological terms?”
queried the squirrel.
“no, comparative neurobiological,”
i replied.

“because if you’re merely
having trouble with spatial memory,
like trying to remember
where you left your keys –”
“or nuts,” interrupted the squirrel.