… if trying to cope /with a misanthrope:

The greatest challenge in producing Moliere’s “The Misanthrope” at Gulf Coast Community College, said director Jason Blanks, had nothing to do with the elaborate costuming or the historical accuracy of the setting.

It wasn’t even the usual challenge the leading actors face of learning a vast number of lines.

“One of the unique challenges of doing Moliere or any of the classic French comedies is it’s done in rhymed couplets,” Blanks said. “The challenge is to make sure that it doesn’t sound like an elaborately costumed Dr. Seuss book.”

Webster defines “misanthrope” as a person who hates or distrusts all people. In Dr. Seuss terms, he’d be something of a Grinch — cuddly as a cactus, charming as an eel.

The show opened Friday, and has a matinee performance today at 2:30 p.m. Encores will be Nov. 21 and 22 at 7:30 p.m. and next Sunday at 2:30 p.m. Tickets are $10 for adults, $5 for kids under 18; GCCC students, faculty and staff get free admission with a college ID.

See Photos Here.

In this play, the titular character (played by Nathan Simmons, who may want to start worrying about being typecast) is blinded by his infatuation with a flirtatious woman (Allison Fleckenstein) who embodies all the qualities that he dislikes in other people.

(Personal note: Don’t mistake this column for an unbiased examination of the production. I know most of the young men and women involved, and I contributed to the procreation of one of them. Having said that, what I saw of dress rehearsal on Wednesday was pretty darn funny.)

“You have to make it sound normal — normalized speech — but also there are points where accentuating the rhyme scheme actually makes it funnier,” Jason said. “So it’s skating the fine line between normal speech and heightened rhyming speech.”

The misanthrope in question engages in wordplay throughout the show, sometimes mimicking the delivery of his intended’s other suitors. Compared to those fops, he’s a bad banana with a greasy black peel.

Certainly, the style won’t work for everyone, but you shouldn’t mistake it for Shakespeare: There’s no iambic pentameter, the scenes are more madcap romantic/comedy style than that, and the rhymes come fast and furious, often disguised in the witty dialogue. Part of the fun is seeing what words will be matched and how they’ll be played.

That, and seeing if the misanthrope’s heart grows three sizes that day.

Peace.

It all passed too quickly, and the music didn’t linger.

In the Hammocks neighborhood, the music of the night was the giggling of costumed children who spent the early evening hours of All Hallows Eve rushing house to house and filling bags, pillowcases and boxes with treats. Hannah Montana was as ubiquitous as the many clones of Batman and Spider-Man, and some put more effort than others into their presentation.

More than a few of the goodie bags extended on this evening were grasped by children wearing no costume at all to cover their street clothes. But their lack of effort just made the imaginative one stand out all the more, like the child dressed as a mouse in a trap, or the little turtle who paused to model her head gear and berate me for rushing her before speeding along the sidewalk to the next house.

Before we knew it, the streets were empty. The ghouls had gone home to nurse stomachs packed too full of sweets. Porch lights all around were extinguished.

Later that night, in a house near downtown Panama City, the music was delta blues, but it carried an eerie edge, almost the whine of a theremin, like you’d hear in a 1950s sci-fi film. The keening moan came from a saw wedged between the knees of artist Heather Clements, who flexed the metal and excited it with a bow.

She accompanied guitarist and singer Slim Fatz, who worked the strings of a box guitar and sang the blues.
The location was the UnReal Artists Gallery, 839 Oak Ave., which was hosting an after-hours Halloween “Spooktacular.”

Host and owner Paulette Perlman encouraged guests to take a candle and wander through the darkened back rooms of the house on a self-guided art tour. They moved carefully, studying walls adorned with art — paintings, collections of objects, photographs, and a room decorated with ghosts and spider webs. Some held their candles perilously close to the work to pick out details.

Outside, in the “outdoor house,” the air was cool and clear. Though people milled and mingled, nothing went bump in the night.

Before we knew it, morning broke with Christmas music in the retail stores and on the radio. Jingle bells rang as crumpled Jack O’Lanterns dropped into garbage cans and candy wrappers got scooped off the floor. The sudden change was jarring, but then I had a flash of Jack Skellington in his Santa suit, and realized everything was going to be OK.

Peace.

Sometimes you couldn’t tell when he was serious.

He once tried to convince me to write a story about the resurgent popularity of garter belts. He stood at my desk, towering over me through no fault of his own, and explained how these fashion accessories, so necessary in the days before pantyhose, were catching on again.

“They’re the new craze all over town,” he said, and he wanted me to do man-on-the-street interviews (only, you know, with women).

I thought he was joking, so I laughed, and then I thought he was pretending to be frustrated by my lack of enthusiasm. He wasn’t pretending. The next Monday, a story ran on the front page about garter belts (he was the weekend editor at the time, and we had a new general assignment writer who did as he was told).

Sometimes you couldn’t tell when he was joking, such as his adamant assertions that Elvis had merely “disappeared.”

One time, he stopped by my desk, visibly excited, and said he wanted me to drop what I was doing and drive a few blocks west on 11th Street, where I would see some kind of tree in full bloom. I couldn’t miss it, he said, and we needed to do a story about it.

“It’s got to be the talk of the town,” he said.

I think I grinned and shook my head and said something like, “Oh, Claude,” and he stomped away in a huff. A few days later, if I’m not recalling this wrong, we featured a photo by Tom Needham of that very tree.

Claude Duncan could write a moving treatise on the name “Myrtle” or the migration of butterflies. He could illuminate modern issues by quoting from 200-year-old essays or examining the root and evolution of words. He could wound or heal with his words, as the case required.

If he liked you, you knew it, and if he didn’t then he could clearly articulate why in a manner that you couldn’t really argue against and make you consider changing to become a more Claude-worthy person. He was passionate about many things, but particularly human beings, the quirks that make each one memorable, the things in our lives that drive us. He was insightful beyond my ability to describe.

Periodically after he retired, he sent me emails directing me to stories online about advances in robotics and artificial intelligence, the subject of my story in our “Millennium” newspaper project in 2000.

He once wrote a column about me, and I told him I thought it was a rule that a person had to die before friends could publish such nice things about them.

I was wrong, and oh, how I wish I had done this sooner.

Peace, Claude. Say hello to Elvis for me.

… for shooting Andy Warhol

Despite (or perhaps because of) his professed superficiality, Andy Warhol would have appreciated the irony and even might have been amused by the artistic value of the stunt.
It happened one evening last month at the Gallery Above. Local artist Matty Jankowski arranged to have three young women (Tabitha, Mary and Amanda) show up to act as models, and he supplied his own piece of artwork a portrait of, Warhol printed on a discarded muffler and mounted on a bedpost, to serve as the centerpiece.
His concept: “Shooting Andy Warhol.”

(Click here to see a photo gallery from the event.)

(Click here to see VIDEO of the event.)

Matty started by giving the audience a history lesson via published reports and essays, bringing them up to speed on Warhol’s philosophies of art, death, time and reality. Tabitha sat with a wood-handled revolver in her lap and read aloud the tale of how Warhol got plugged in the chest by an unbalanced and marginal member of his Factory scene one day in June 1968.
Then the virtual carnage began. Toting real guns, the models took turns aiming at the muffler, at each other, and at random points overhead and all around. They also traded off posing with an antique Polaroid, shooting each other shooting “Andy,” and in turn being shot by Matty and any other person holding a camera or using a cell phone camera.
Electronic flashes whirred and snapped. Hammers click-clickclicked as the triggers tripped. This continued in fitful starts and stops for a quarter-hour, reflecting Warhol’s famous pronouncement that, in the future, everyone would be famous for 15 minutes.
The audience was encouraged to participate further by writing about their experiences in a book Matty passed around. Some wrote notes or quick poems or sketches. I attached a short story I had read earlier in the evening.
The “shooting” spree was part of last month’s Open Mic Night, which next occurs from 7-9 p.m. Wednesday, Oct. 29. The Gallery Above is at 563 Harrison Ave. For details, visit galleryabove.com
As a photographer attempting to capture the other photographers as they stalked the models that night, I became acutely aware of the audience, one step farther removed from the action, observing even me. It spun an already surreal happening into the realm of the absurd.
I had the experience of existing outside myself for a few strange minutes, and I think Andy could have sympathized.
Peace.

Here’s the thing about anniversaries: They happen at the same time every year, kind of like birthdays. So why is it that it’s so easy to miss one?
I submit that it’s not so much that you forget the day is coming up, but rather that you find yourself distracted by everything else going on and — what’s that? You’re not buying this, either?
There are a few days I’ll never forget. My birthday is one. When it’s approaching, I tend to remind the people who I think will buy me something.
(Other days I won’t forget are not the sort of anniversaries you celebrate. They’re more the sort of days you light a candle and say a prayer.)
And while I will admit that I’ve allowed an anniversary to sneak past me, I think it would have been helpful if others involved in the anniversary had reminded me as it approached. Hints don’t work. Do like I do at Christmastime and write down a list of stuff you’d like to receive, seeing as how you’ve been nice all year, and then post copies of it around the house.
This is such a big problem that there’s actually a wedding band for sale on the Internet called “The Remember Ring,” which has tiny batteries and a heating element in it; 24 hours before the set date, the inside surface of the ring will warm to 120 degrees for about 10 seconds, and keep warming up each hour.
In this vein, I’ve rustled up a few other things you can do to ensure that you remember your important anniversary dates. Writing it on a calendar, putting it in your day planner, noting it among your e-mail reminders, that’s just not enough. You may also have to:
- Have important dates tattooed on the back of your hands.
- Scratch them into the paint on your car using your car keys. (Don’t go too deep. When rust sets in, that “8” may begin to look like a “0.”)
-  Hire someone to call and remind you. (Be sure to withhold payment until after the call is successfully completed.) Double the reward: Hire your significant other to call and remind you, so you can give her/him a gift in payment.
I’m writing about this because today is the 23rd anniversary of my wedding. However, because of various other commitments, I think we’re going to celebrate next weekend. If I recall correctly. Maybe.
Peace.

The original ‘Joy Boots’

Friday will mark a milestone for a local charity group that I’m participating in. Project Joy Boots will have its long awaited auction to raise money for a technical theater scholarship at Gulf Coast Community College.

The auction will be in the GCCC Amelia Center Theatre Lab (the black box), where Marisa Joy Williams spent thousands of hours for countless performances and rehearsals — as an actress, a backstage tech or an audience member. Doors open at 7 p.m. for people to view the hand-painted boots, and the auction will begin at 7:30 p.m.

Marisa, New Year’s Eve, 2006

The daughter of Charles and Donna Williams of Lynn Haven, Marisa died in a car accident on Feb. 23. She was 18. She had recently moved to Orlando to pursue her bachelor’s degree in technical theater. She had finished her associate’s degree at GCCC ahead of schedule, just as she had graduated a year early from Bay High.
She was always a step of ahead of her time, and was taken before her time.

Katie and Jazma

Inspired by the painted rainboots that Marisa often wore, friends Katie Vickmark and Jazma Everett launched Project Joy Boots with the blessing of Marisa’s family. Their idea was to aid the healing process and raise money for a charitable donation. Donna Williams thought the funds should go to help a deserving student pursue the dream that was denied Marisa.
“We wish that we didn’t have to do this for the reasons that we do,” Katie said in an online post. “If we could trade all of this and more to have Marisa back, we would in a heartbeat, but we hope that she sees and smiles on this, and we also hope that this has helped even some of the people that loved her to heal a little — and helps the lucky student that will be awarded this scholarship.”

Please enable Javascript and Flash to view this Flash video.
Family and friends have gathered on several occasions to paint puddle-stompers. Others came from lone artists inspired by the project. The boots are wearable, or can be employed for various other uses around the house (doorstop, flower pot, pen holder, umbrella stand, etc.).
I encourage you to come out and see the boots, and bid on a pair if you like. Regardless, come view the fruits of this labor of love, meet the folks who made it happen, and help us honor the life of an exceptional young woman.
Peace.

… the interns are back to work

  The cycle begins anew: Another school year starts, another round of troubles appear. People will scramble to meet the challenges created by decisions made in prior school years, and the more things change the more they stay the same. Before school began, everyone was talking about how the student population has fallen in Bay District Schools. They said some schools should be closed and students rezoned. They said new schools should not be constructed.
    But that’s not what it looked like (or sounded like) on the ground this week, and some of that was a direct result of actions taken in the previous school year.
    I spent Monday morning following around Principal Denise Kelley at Breakfast Point Academy, a new K-8 school off Beckrich Road in Panama City Beach. While the school was built to serve 1,300 students and was expecting to open with only 550 or so, more than 750 were enrolled by opening day.
    The student drop-off loop was filled with cars passing through and parking along the curbs, squeaking past each other with only inches to spare. Those exiting had to drive onto curbs to pass those entering, because cars lined the driveway, and were abandoned in the far right lane of the street for a couple of blocks. Cars filled the parking lot and the sidewalks in some places, and blocked access to staff parking areas.
    A kindergarten orientation scheduled for that morning contributed to the near gridlock conditions, but it also could indicate what to expect when the school reaches its capacity. Another case in point: Backed up traffic on Mosley Drive because of parents trying to reach nearby Bay Haven Elementary School to drop off their children.
    Meanwhile, the new closedcampus lunch policy, which requires special paperwork and permissions before upperclassmen can leave campus for lunch, also has created overcrowding issues at area high schools.
    From Lynn Haven came a mother’s complaint that her daughter couldn’t find a place to park herself during her brief lunch period at Mosley High School. The freshman girl searched the lunchroom, then an outdoor seating area, and finally gave up.
    And a Bay High School junior tells the story of students nearly scuffling over long lines and lack of seating in the lunchroom. Sure, there are lots of places to sit outside in the courtyard by the library — if it isn’t raining, she said. And just wait until it turns cold.
    It’s a paradox that our world grows larger and smaller at the same time, and for the same reasons. And no matter how we think we’re prepared, there’s never good parking.
    Peace.

… on the occasion of her 19th birthday:

The days are growing shorter again. For a while the humidity was down, and that gave the atmosphere a false feeling of autumn just around the corner. It’s back-to-school season, and you can smell it in the air. It makes me think of all those mornings you picked up Nathan for school, and I keep expecting you at the door any moment, calling out “Ola!”

You’d probably be at Good Will this week, picking out something stylish that no one else would have recognized until you put it together. There’s a new store on 23rd Street we’ve been meaning to visit. I’ll let you know what we find.

We went to the beach last Sunday and got a little red. I saw a woman gathering debris from the high tide line to decorate her sand castle. She picked up shells and twigs and a dead crab. Her project reminded me of the one we all built together out at Grayton, using June grass and algae to color the surrounding “grounds” and the mermaid’s hair.

We dropped in to spend time with Chuck and Carmen on the night before they left for D.C., sat on the carpet in their empty house while Chuck finished painting his Joy boots. You’d have been there with us, I know, and Chuck would have had no reason to paint, and we’d never even have known how lucky we were. I could have lived all my life having never painted a pair of galoshes.

Even so, Project Joy Boots is going well. We’ve raised about $1,200 towards a scholarship. Your mom and Katie and Jazma have been relentless promoters. I finally finished my pair of time travel boots, though Jazma thinks they’re more like Cyberman shoes. You decide. They’re on display now in the cases at the Amelia Center.

This time last year, we were at your house. Nathan sang “Business Time” and you guys sported matching Spider-Man T-shirts. I rewatched that video again recently, and it made me happy. The future seemed wide open then.

What a difference a year makes.

Well, I know none of this is news to you anyway, and we talk every day. You always were a good listener. We’ll be visiting today and releasing some birthday balloons, so keep an eye out. Try to catch them if they pass close enough.

Love.

—–

View Marisa’s high school graduation video slideshow.

See the musical tribute to Marisa that was part of Gulf Coast Community College’s spring musical.

Watch Marisa and my daughter sing a song to me.

View the video for Project Joy Boots.

Marisa sings ‘Happy Birthday’ to Nathan last summer, with the help of a helium balloon.

Sorting out some thoughts on a few random experiences from the week past: