DC Playwrights

squirrel said i looked peaked.
“you need to go for a hike, get some air.”
i told him that i had to work all weekend.
“big deadline on monday.
very important client.”

squirrel insisted.
“let’s take a drive to the shenandoah,
15-mile hike, full pack
will do you some good.”

i told him that i had to work.
“yeah, i got it,” said the squirrel.
“big important spreadsheet.
gather ye nuts as ye may,” he added.
“look,” i said,
“not everyone can run up and down
tree trunks all day for a living.”

“is that a rhetorical question?” asked the squirrel.
“rhetorical?
like a question that really doesn’t need to be answered?”
i replied.
“then why asked it?,” questioned the squirrel.
i looked at the squirrel,
nodding unconsciously,
but not nodding.

“do you understand the question?” asked the squirrel.
“what question?” i replied.
“then why ask it?” said the squirrel.
“is that a rhetorical question?” i wondered aloud.

we stared at each other for some time –
waiting to speak, not wanting to speak,
not wanting to question the question.

on the way to the library of congress,
a tourist took the squirrel’s picture.
“he didn’t even ask,” said the squirrel.
“like some methed up paparazzi.
don’t they have squirrels back in omaha or san marcos
or wherever these people are from?” he added.

“same thing happened to me yesterday,”
i told the squirrel.
i was sitting on the steps of the national archives
and this family walked up.
the little girl said, “look, daddy, a homeless man.”

squirrel called me an infidel
when he saw me eating a bag of pork rinds
and drinking a glass of two percent milk.
as i sat in my cotton poly-blend boxers,
watching the best of the girls next door,
i asked “why you gotta be like that?”
squirrel said that skim milk was not halal,
“and don’t get me started on the pork rinds.”

“have you ever had a pork rind?” i asked.
“they’re delicious. try one.”
the squirrel refused.
i asked him,
“name one thing more delicious than pork rinds.”
the squirrel said, “ uhm … food?”

squirrel looked at me with angry bloodshot eyes.
“you going to church?” i asked.
“you actually believe in that superstitious hocus pocus crap?”
“i take that as a no.”

i continued getting dressed,
donning my surplice and mitre.
“have you seen my crozier?”
squirrel pretended to be asleep.

as i walked to the door
and put the keys to the kingdom in the lock,
squirrel yelled out,
“hey, can you call me when you’re done
to make sure i am awake?
i am supposed to meet hitch for brunch.”

squirrel pushed a stack of acorns
to the middle of the table and said, “call.”
“all i have is the jack of diamonds.”
“read ‘em and weep,” said the squirrel
and laid down three ladies and a pair of deuces.
“nice,” i said. “could you tell i was bluffing?”

“you’re always bluffing,” said the squirrel.
“am i bluffing now?” i asked.
“yes,” said the squirrel.
“am i bluffing now?” i asked.
“yes,” said the squirrel.
“now?”
“yes,” said the squirrel.
“now?”

squirrel asks what i thought
of the recent joseph beuys exhibition at the hirshhorn.
i tell him that i found the work –
i hesitate, but i use the word anyway –
“derivative”
and that beuys seems to be repeating himself.

squirrel says nothing
knowing full well that the show was a retrospective.

“what did you think?” i ask,
expecting the squirrel
to ramble on about art not being about beauty,
to quote from lyotard or danto,
but all he says is:
“you know beuys has been dead for 20 years?”

my point exactly.

squirrel looked at my bookshelf and asked:
“hey, you read all them books?”
i said to the squirrel:
“you know all them nuts you been burying in my yard?
you eat all them nuts?”
to that he said: “touché.”
and i said:
“well one day i plan to.”
sadly the squirrel said:
“you better not.”

i wasn’t sure if the squirrel was sad
because he feared he might be hungry
if i ate all his nuts,
or maybe it was because
he didn’t know how to read.

And by big prizes, I mean $350 for first place, $250 for second place, and $150 for third place. And you pay $20 to enter. So, they need uh... 38 entries to break even. Deadline October 31, 2007.

The Little Theater of Alexandria has posted submission details and a loooong list of terms and conditions here: http://www.thelittletheatre.com/oneact.htm. Don't scroll too far, or you'll see that none of last year's winners were from the DC area.

squirrel tells me that his translation
of the aeneid is better than john dryden’s.
and i said, “okay, squirrel,
how do you top ‘arms and the man i thee sing’?”
to which the squirrel replied,
“skeeek, skeeek, skeeeeek.”