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December 12, 2002:

THROWING AND HURLING

Bruce Kimmel Photograph bk's notes

Well, dear readers, it is Thursday and I must hurry to work, put in a few hours, hurry home, change clothes and then drive off to the city known as Palm Springs to do my book signing. I’m very excited about it – it lasts from 6:30 to 9:30 and there’s a question and answer session (my favorite kind of thing to do). Hopefully, we may even sell a few books.

So, I’m afraid I can’t ramble on too too much today. I did find out that my New York trip is delayed until after the holidays because everyone that I need to have meetings with will be away. Had I not had to work the extra week I could have come in next week but it became too complicated to schedule. Therefore, I’ll be there around the tenth of January and, of course, we shall have an official haineshisway.com get-together.

I actually haven’t heard from anyone officially that my last day is Friday. I find that a peculiar way to do business, but I’m just assuming it is and will write a note to that effect today. As soon as I’m done I shall throw myself back into writing full time, I shall hurl myself back into writing full time, I shall write like the wind, I shall write like a demon possessed. Isn’t a demon possessed to begin with? I shall write until the cows come home and those fershluganah cows have been gone so long it’s not even funny, cow-wise. I cannot wait, frankly. Just writing on the weekends has been very difficult. It’s hard to get back into it after five days have gone by, so it always takes two hours for me to pick up where I left off. But, I’m telling you here and now and also now and here, I shall write like the wind, I shall write like a demon possessed, I shall throw myself and hurl myself like a shot put.

Well, why don’t we all click on the Unseemly Button below? After all, we don’t want to be stuck here on this page until the cows come home, do we?

When are those fershluganah cows coming home anyway? Damn them, damn them all to hell. Perhaps they are throwing and hurling themselves somewhere, having the time of their lives.

Oh, dear, oh dear, there is too too much to do before leaving and I must put a period on these here notes right this very minute or I shall never get out of here and let me tell you “out” has really overstayed its welcome and needs to be gone – so, I really do need to get “out” of here. Or should that be “out” out of here? You see, I’m rambling when I need to be rolling.

Well, dear readers, I must take the day, I must do the things I do, I must drive not only to the Hills of Woodland but to the Springs of Palm. I must sign books, I must answer questions and above all, I must be charming, oh, yes, I must be charming. I shall throw myself into being charming, I shall hurl myself into being charming, I shall be charming like a demon possessed. Today’s topic of discussion: In days of yore, all through the fifties and early sixties, there might be ten to fifteen (or more) new musicals opening, along with even more new plays. Revivals were few and far between and usually took place at City Center, the road or off-Broadway. It was a vital time for the theater, for actors, for the creative staff and for audiences. I am not a nostalgia freak but wouldn’t it be a wonderful thing if that were still going on? Oh, I know many of the musicals were not hits, same with the plays, but unlike now, even the non-successes had interesting things in them, interesting actors, directors, etc. I know the financial ins and outs have made it virtually impossible for Broadway to be what it once was, but what are your feelings? Would you like it the way it was, would you attend more theater, would there be a chance for more genuine good work and would that kind of creative atmosphere produce more hits rather than the “go for broke” three or if we’re lucky four new shows that come in every year (musicals)? Let us have great discourse on this topic – I am quite interested in it. I shall check back in often up until I leave at two o’clock, and then I shall check back in when I return home at eleven or so. Post away, my pretties, and I shall be back tomorrow with tales of palms and springs and throwing and hurling.

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