Attention All Partisans of Subversive Theatre
Coming Up Next:
the Black leader they're hoping you'll forget . .
PAUL ROBESON SPEAKS OUT!
by Phillip Hayes Dean
What?
PAUL ROBESON SPEAKS OUT! is a two-hour, two-act, one-man biographical play by Phillip Hayes Dean presented in collaboration with the Buffalo Ensemble Theatre.
Who?
Our production stars veteran actor/director Willie W. Judson, Jr. in the title role with musical accompaniment by Louis Irving under the direction of Kurt Schneiderman.
Where?
All shows are held at the New Phoenix Theatre on the Park at 95 North Johnson Park just two blocks from the corner of Elmwood & Chippewa.
When?
Opening night is Thursday,
February 5th at 8pm. This is our only Thursday performance. After that, shows are Fridays & Saturdays at 8pm and Sundays at 6pm for three weekends through February 22nd.
How Much?
We're talking about art not fast food. Like all Subversive Theatre productions, PAUL ROBESON SPEAKS OUT! is free and open to anyone who is open-minded enough to come and see it.
But our lofty ideals don't pay the bills. Therefore, we will gratefully accept donations immediately following each performance.
Hear Ye ! Hear Ye !
For our production of the inspiring one-man play PAUL ROBESON SPEAKS OUT! we are very exited to feature veteran actor/director Willie W. Judson, Jr. in the title role as the incomparable Black actor, singer, orator, and activist. Not the first time following in Robeson's footsteps, Judson starred in the Irish Classical Theatre's 2000 rendition of EMPEROR JONES in the role immortalized by Robeson in 1925.
PAUL ROBESON SPEAKS OUT! is directed by Subversive Theatre's Founder & Artistic Director Kurt Schneiderman.
This deeply passionate two act biographical drama re-kindles Robeson's fighting spirit from his early days as the third Black man ever admitted to Rutger's University in 1915 right on through to his defiant stand against McCarthyism in the 1950s.
About the Play
Written under the title of simply PAUL ROBESON, this piece has twice been performed on Broadway. First by James Earl Jones in 1979 and then again by Avery Brooks (that's right, the Commander from Deep Space Nine) in 1995.
Called a "wonderfully moving play" by the New York Post, PAUL ROBESON SPEAKS OUT! has been seen in almost every city in America (including neighboring Rochester in 1997 and Cleveland in 2001), except our own home town.
We are very proud to present the Buffalo premiere of this empowering historical filibuster.

Who was Paul Robeson ?
Famous for his performances in SHOWBOAT and EMPEROR JONES, the first Black man to ever portray Othello on an American stage, notorious for his tours of the Soviet Union, outspoken in his support for leftist forces in the Spanish Civil War, a leader in the fight for civil rights, union right, and anti-lynching legislation, a lawyer, a film star, an All-American college football athlete, a world-renown singer -- there's little Paul Robeson did not do.
A household name throughout the 1930s, 40s, and 50s, his opposition to the Korean War, his close ties with the Soviet Union, and his involvement with international peace efforts all contirbuted to his eventual investigation by the House Un-American Activities Committee in 1956 and his virtual deletion from American history.
Thankfully, this play helps revive Robeson's fighting spirit. We hope you'll join us in keeping the legacy of this great Black activist alive!

Harrassment Sucks

ran across the glimpse of a delightedly dramatized life again today. it seems i desperately want out of the role i have writ for myself, strengthened after seeing a play. plays are so fucked up, as mirrors of sorts, and i wonder if acting might be something i should try. but isn't that what everyone wants. drama, and more of the same, s'il vous plait. i want to say i'm interested in real life, whatever that may mean, in being a real person, doing real things and being true. but the truth of that is, it bores me terribly. i have tried, with so much struggle and little success, to "know myself" or whatever. i'm quite sick of it, actually. the answer seems simple, go ahead and write these worlds around me, if i want them so badly (gasp:do i dare? and do i dare?), go ahead and live them: stroll down streets with a parasol and in gloves 'how do you do'ing everyone, drink sloe gin fizzes all day out of martini glasses in 40s underwear speaking bad french, order dinners in piratese, what's to stop me, dammit?! fear. fear, fear, fear, fear, all senseless, but so powerful, a loaded 'that might make me leave this life behind' kind of pandering. a stupid thing to be afraid of? when that might be exactly the thing. when this one is driving me slowly insane.
maybe i need to do more drugs to live the life i (think i) want. but maybe that's the easy way, and i have been taking that way for a very long time.

damn it, to dream of a garden full of things let to go wild, things that will multiply with or without human help, babies toddling through the pennyroyal, sparrow hunting sparrows, stalks of plants hanging upside down from trees for tea, and myself, rolling in the earth and the sun.

i had a super weird dream in which gdub was giving this important speech, except two rows over a man and woman were arguing and talking very loudly, and weren't paying him any attention at all. this was definitely a dream, because, rather than congratulating them and shaking their hands, i was *pissed.* i thought "you just don't *DO* that!"
well, it turns out i have to give a speech too. i go up on stage and don't say anything for many many seconds. this is because i'm trying to demonstrate the beauty and eloquence of silence. except the crowd starts heckling me horribly and laughing. so i start talking, saying that in our culture, silence is a thing to be cursed and hated and run from, that we never get a moment's peace, that inside each of us is a truth (and right when i said that, the entire first row, who were all in the army, chanted some marching song REALLY LOUD, and the theatre erupted in hoots and laughter) and someone came up on stage and told me to exit. obviously this dream is very unpleasant as it seems to mock the futility of trying to deal with the world calmly and sanely, and also because somewhere deep in my subconscious i think gwb ought to be listened to? yikes.

if i had unlimited piles of cash, i would seriously consider a sex change. gimme a penis, doc, is what i would say.
then i could become the kind of man i truly would like to be: dirty. i'd grow a scraggly beard, work on the perfect mullet, get very fat on whoppers, and drink a pallet's worth of piel's, OV, or golden anniversary a week. i'd have an unlimited supply of bawdy jokes and tales, and i'd tell em all to ya if ya came roun m'trailer ever so often. i'd like to be this kind of man mostly for that crazed fervor so unique to them and them only. plus i'd really like to growl, hoot, holler, poorly enunciate, live in a trailer, drink, eat, and smoke too much, go in to town for some pussy, have a lot of junk in my yard, shoot off m'shotgun at parties just for the hell of it, and scratch myself a lot for a while. then i'd go back to being a woman.

it is strange to think of one's life going by without something to teach. if not, it makes the whole damn rather sad and pointless thing seem even more so. and so i had a longer-than-usual head scratching session at what i could teach. i mean positively, rather than how to see the world cynically, sarcastically, bleakly, or dryly. cause knowing how to do something cool puts the rose colored glasses on again for a little bit. looking with scorn at the "anti-stress" label on your dish soap does not. unfortunately. ahem.
actually, i have been giving SO much thought to this subject as anything that might resemble a career in my life has fled rapidly after a quick shave smoke n shit. teaching now seems like a good idea, but i fence sit for a number of dismal reasons. one, i am somewhat haunted by a stupid quote i heard once, "those who can, do. those who can't, teach." meaning if your degree is in say, archaeology, and you "end up" teaching, you somehow can't "make it" as a "real" archaeologist. now this is, as mentioned, stupid as it knocks teaching as somehow a lesser profession, which is ridiculous. but i do understand what this stupid quote implies, especially for lazy people like me, is that if you can't, for whatever reason fulfill various creative endeavors, teaching will definitely pay those bills. it's a backup. in the meantime, keep trying, you'll get it someday. two, is somewhere along the way, i acquired a pretty bad habit of scathing self-doubt. speaking in front of a classroom=projecting confidence. and sigh-the-world-sucks-and-so-do-i-and-so-do-you isn't the best replacement strategy. three, high school english is most likely what i'd like to be teaching, and teenagers, for the most part, are jagoffs. not ALL of them, but a goodly sum. i once subbed a class where two groups of four or five decided they were going to have a fight with open bottles of black tempura paint, and time it just right before the bell rang, so they could all take off while i flipped out. subbing isn't the same thing, but yikes. you know?
fight club being so highly esteemed, i wonder what i would say i wanted to be if there was a gun to my head. and if only the fear of death would get me to do it.
well, to make this long story short, here are some good things i could teach anyone to do if they wanted to learn by a somewhat botarded teacher: switch tags at amvets. look for portents. get at least one tax credit. pee just about anywhere, for ladies. you know how to reach me,,,,..... ha ha...

just before closing time, late tuesday night. 10:45. a truck pulls up behind the pizza hut, dropping off a load of provisions. tomorrow is buffet night. buffet night saves the pizza hut. all day wednesday, the workers will work for the buffet. the truck drops a heaping load of frozen meats and cheeses, doughs and sauces. from the warehouse. from the factory. from hq. much prep must be prepped.
buffet night is from 5-8. maybe at 7:30 or so they can slow down stop making pizza pizza pizza pizza pizza pizza pizza pizza pizza pizza pizza. maybe at 7:15 or so, a few couples will walk in, some on purpose for the buffet, some on accident with a surprised delight. "oh, there's a buffet! well, allright!" but at 5:00 there's a queue of families waiting for the first pies to hit the hot line. 5:00 on the button, three hours to go. feeding frenzy for family, fat family fun, food food food!!! the pies come out at about 5:06. late. bad workers, bad. MAHMEEE I DON'T LIKE SALAD tension in those minutes, kids struggling with layers, coats boots hats gloves scarves sweaters all over the floor, musical chairs, the boxed in (trough?) kid has to pee all the time, relentless movement, lines and lineups and grabbing plates more foooooooooood and pepsi bottomless pepsi all around. shhhhhhh--- the pizza's coming out. go on, don't be shy, let the festivities begin. chemically enhanced sauce on tables chairs kiddy shirts mouths mouths mouths everywhere stuffing it and stuffing it and stuffing it again. line up sit down eat eat eat. line up sit down eat eat eat. the chatter and clatter of platters gets madder and madder, pudge of the patriarch, marmalade matriarch, roly, poly, insatiable, and max run yes run up to the hot plates. they can barely wait. get another pepsi, junior, so you won't get thirsty in the car.
buffet night saves the pizza hut. fat family, full, leave so happy, since they got it all at such a good price.

i fear i am becoming a nasty mean old witch. winter doth work strange poison. who stole my eye of newt, damn it!

for fabulous listening, try anoushka shankar. she too is the daughter of ravi, in whose past lives was very, very good for being born in this one as music. he has passed on some good lookin genes: see anoushka and her sister, norah jones. heart stopping talent *and* breath stealing beauty. anoushka kicks some ass on that sittar too. ....can i trade dads?

i really like the word icily, as it is takes a noun and turns it into an adjective. 'she stared at him icily' --with the properties of ice.
oh, and i hate when 'ster' is put on the end of words when it's not supposed to be there. monster is ok, but not jokester, or the nauseating word i heard someone call their kid recently "cutester." ugh.

who ever thought up that crazy idea? MUSHROOM TRIPPERS, THAT'S WHO!!!

paul and i were watching this great program on animals who enjoy getting fucked up on various natural substances (except the monkey segment, who were slugging sluggish tourists' forgotten tropical concoctions--unnatural substances but "made with natural flavors" just like froot loops.) and there was a part of this show on a mushroom that grows under the snow way way up north (like by the pole?). anyway i forget the name of the mushroom, flyanonin or flyagogin or something that starts with flya, and the reindeer eat it in fairly large quantities until there's no more. the people who live there eat it too when they can find it and, as the teevee reports (ha) gives them feelings of airy weightlessness. they figured if they were feeling it, the reindeer were too, and began to "hallucinate" the reindeer flying through the air. hence, santa's flying fleet is born in the reveller's phantasmagorical fantasy land, an unknown realm of ice and snow, santa's magical mystery tour.

i bring this up in reference to terry's 'holidazed' as he mentioned that yes there is tradition behind various this n thats and how it's all lost and commercialized. although i learned the above tidbit from the teevee, i really enjoy the fact that flying reindeer are someone's mushroom trip, carrying santa on a trippy journey in a freaky suit, fiddling around other people's houses and eating craploads of cookies. sounds like fun. i'll stop blowing sunshine up everyone's ass now, cause xmas gets me down too, but traditions can be made without buying or buying into all the boolsheeit. i hope. okay, now i'll stop.