First ten pages of my new play: Mic.

[Despanan]

I've started working on my fourth full-length play. This one is called "Mic." and it's about the NYC open mic. scene. Anyway, I just finished the first ten pages. Check 'em out and lemme know what you think.

Originally Posted by Mic. by Despanan

Act I
Scene i

Lights up on a makeshift stage in a dirty basement; the walls are red brick, old, and more than a little corroded. The stage is spare, and painted black, old pipes span the ceiling, and a few old theatre lights hang in view of the audience. A sign in the back wall reads “Rathkeller’s Open Mike” and in front of it there is a spotlight up on a lone microphone: it is old, dented, and held together with black gaffers tape. VIRGIL enters. He is a man in his late forties, his hair is long and scraggly, and his beard is beginning to turn white. Over his shoulder VIRGIL carries an acoustic guitar with an electric attachment, it is scratched and dented, but the instrument is clearly loved. He checks with the sound guy, and then plugs in. VIRGIL tunes his guitar and runs his fingers down the chords. He looks out the audience and holds for half a second, then:

VIRGIL:

[The Show – By Mike Milazzo]

Life can seem so strange
When you roll along
With the disappointed
Spill into the streets
With the phenomenons
And the anointed

Mr. Barry he told me what to do
With his eyes a blazin’ blue
Mother Mary held onto me real tight
As we breezed on through the lights

Don’t know what I’m gonna do
Don’t know what I’m gonna do
Don’t know what I’m gonna do
Yeah, I don’t know I’ll do

The wolves they hit the town
And everyone
Scurries for the light
It depends on the wolves you meet
If you’re going to
Survive in this town

Mr. Barry he told me what to do
With his eyes a blazin’ blue
Mother Mary held onto me real tight
As we breezed on through the lights

I don’t know what I’m gonna do
I don’t know what I’m gonna do
I don’t know what I’m gonna do
Yeah, I don’t know I’ll do

Well, you’ve come a long, long way
And now you’re going home
It’s alright
The show went well today
But you never really know
Yeah, it’s just another Tuesday night!

Mr. Barry he told me what to do
With his eyes a blazin’ blue
Mother Mary held onto me real tight
As we breezed all through the lights

I don’t know what I’m gonna do
I don’t know what I’m gonna do
I don’t know if I’ll make it through
‘Cause I don’t know I’ll do

He finishes, the crowd cheers, the lights go down.

Cynthia:
(offstage)
Lets hear it one more time for our own Virgil Johnson!

The cheering increases in volume, and then fades out.

Scene ii

Lights up on a back garden, which resembles an alleyway, it is late evening. The ground is stone, and light filters in from above, presumably from apartment windows. There is an old metal table and chair set in one corner, and a fire-escape in the other. Ivy crawls up the corner of one wall, and grass cracks through broken stone in a few places, giving the garden an air of urban mysticism. Below the fire-escape are steps, leading down to an old metal door a few feet below the stage floor. TUCKER sits on the fire escape. He is a man in his late twenties, or possibly early thirties. He is unshaven, his hair is matted, and his forearms, hands, and neck are heavily tattooed. He wears torn blue-jeans, old leather shoes, and what remains of a tattered black sport-coat which is just a bit too small for him. TUCKER smokes a small, hand-rolled cigarette and a large can of cheap beer sits next to him. A beat. The door opens, and the muffled sound of a performance taking place within can be heard, then JOSH enters the garden and closes the door behind him. The noise stops. JOSH walks up the stairs and into the garden, he is a man in his mid-twenties. His hair is shoulder-length, and he carries an acoustic guitar on his back in a case. Josh walks over to the table and looks up into the night.

TUCKER:
(Whistles to him)

JOSH:
(Surprised)
Oh, hi Tucker.

TUCKER:
Joshua Redding. Haven’t seen you all day good sir, how have you—

JOSH is looking at the sky again.

TUCKER:
Are you waiting for “The Mothership”?

JOSH:
Just looking for the stars.

TUCKER:
You seen any?

JOSH:
Not a one.

TUCKER:
That’s the problem with living in the city. There are too many things going on down here, for you to see what’s up there.

JOSH:
I suppose so.

TUCKER:
(Extending his cigarette)
You wanna hit this spliff?

JOSH:
I’d be much obliged.

He walks to the edge of the fire-escape, TUCKER hands him the cig. JOSH inhales, coughs, and hands it back to him.

TUCKER:
What number did you get?

JOSH:
(Still coughing)
Thirty-seven.

TUCKER:
Damn.

JOSH:
Yeah (Coughs again) That’s good.

TUCKER:
No it’s not, you just haven’t had any for a while.

TUCKER draws on the cigarette and hands it back to JOSH. JOSH inhales.

TUCKER:
You going to stay for it?

JOSH:
I dunno. Probably not.

TUCKER:
You haven’t been up in two weeks.

JOSH
Yeah, ‘cause I keep getting shitty time-slots.

He hands the cigarette back to TUCKER.

TUCKER:
This keeps up we’ll have to start calling you “The Lord of Darkness”.

JOSH:
Think I’m cool enough to pull that off?

TUCKER:
Not at all. That’s why need to remedy the situation.

JOSH:
It’s random, what the fuck am I supposed to do?

TUCKER:
Just do what I do.


JOSH:
I’m not sure Cynthia would be up for that.

TUCKER:
Who are you to say what Cyn is, and isn’t up for?

JOSH:
Wait, what, you mean—?

TUCKER:
(Grins)
Relax. We’re not lookin’ for a “Josh sandwich”, and besides, that’s not what I meant.

JOSH:
Oh—

TUCKER:
Though that does say all kinds of weird things about you.

JOSH:
Thanks.

TUCKER:
You’re lucky I don’t take offense to the accusation that I get better time slots by banging the hostess.

JOSH:
Sorry, that’s not—

TUCKER:
I know. Anyway, I’m talking about improving your odds.

JOSH:
Improving my odds? Do you mean I should—

TUCKER:
I mean you should write your name on a bigger slip of paper, genius.

JOSH:
Oh. Yeah. That, that makes sense.

TUCKER non-verbally tells him: “Duh.”

JOSH:
When are you up?


TUCKER:
Fifteenth.

JOSH:
What are you gonna do?

TUCKER:
I haven’t decided yet. Maybe the “Vicious Circle”.

He drinks.

JOSH:
I like that one.

TUCKER:
Really?

JOSH:
Yeah.

TUCKER:
Why?

JOSH:
‘Cause its funny.

TUCKER:
Didn’t go over too well last week.

JOSH:
Last week you were twenty-sixth.

TUCKER:
So?

JOSH:
So the crowd was drunk, and the ones that weren’t drunk were tired—

TUCKER:
High.

JOSH:
That too.

A beat.
JOSH:
It’s a good routine.

TUCKER:
I’m sure it is. So long as it’s never played to a crowd that’s drunk, high, or tired.

JOSH:
Tucker—

TUCKER:
Good thing I mostly play to tee-totaling lunch crowds.

JOSH:
It’s funny…What’s Cynthia doing?

TUCKER:
What are you doing?

JOSH:
Nothing. I’m not staying.

TUCKER:
You got anything better to do?

JOSH:
Not tonight, but tomorrow I’ve got an interview.

TUCKER:
What for?

JOSH:
Gradschool.

TUCKER:
Well, then by all means, do not be late for that.

JOSH:
And after that…A couple more appointments.

TUCKER:
Hunting for a job?

JOSH:
(Looks up at the sky)
Apartments.


TUCKER:
Our couch isn’t good enough for you then?

JOSH:
Oh god no. I mean you guys have been—

TUCKER begins to laugh to himself.

JOSH:
More than amazing, and lord knows without you two I’d still be crashing on my ex’s couch, it’s just that—

TUCKER:
Relax Mr. Redding—

JOSH:
I’d really like to not impose anymore and—

TUCKER:
Josh.

JOSH:
I’d just prefer it if I was making it on my own.

TUCKER smiles.

JOSH:
What?

TUCKER:
Nothing, it’s just, kinda cute.

JOSH:
What are you talking about?

TUCKER:
(Mocking bravado)
I’m a-gonna make it on my own! I’m a gonna kick this city in the balls and take its wallet…

JOSH:
I don’t sound like that.



TUCKER:
(Tapping his head with his finger)
You do up here.

JOSH:
Wonderful.

TUCKER:
You’re also a hell of a lot uglier.

JOSH:
Good to know.

TUCKER:
We’re living in a society my friend, there’s no shame in receiving help.

JOSH:
Think I should start pan-handling in the subway then?

TUCKER:
Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You’d never get into that union. Not with your resume.

JOSH:
I just feel like I need to hit the ground running ya’ know?

TUCKER:
Yeah. I do.

JOSH:
(Looking up)
So you never see the stars?

TUCKER:
Never.

JOSH:
Not a glimmer?

TUCKER:
(Shakes his head)
Not once twelve years have I seen anything sparkle up there that wasn’t an air-plane or part of that sixth floor drag-queen’s undergarments.

JOSH:
It bothers me.

TUCKER:
You’ll get used to it.

JOSH:
I hope so…’cause right now, it makes me feel…I dunno, uncertain.

TUCKER:
Welcome to New York. We live with uncertainty, we sleep with uncertainty, and then we raise its bastard children.

The door opens and CYNTHIA enters. She is a thin woman in her early thirties. She wears a black-dress, leather boots, leggings, and striped arm-warmers. She see’s JOSH and smiles brightly.

CYNTHIA:
(Gives him a hug)
Hi sweetness!

Almost robotically TUCKER pulls a cigarette from his pocket and hands it to her, along with a lighter. She takes them both and lights up.

TUCKER:
(Spoken with an edge)
How’s it going tonight honey?

CYNTHIA:
(Right back at him)
Superfantastic pookums.

JOSH:
You two freak me right the fuck out.

CYNTHIA pulls out her phone and checks her email.

TUCKER:
Any word on the audition?

CYNTHIA:
Not unless a Nigerian prince has my resume’…

CYNTHIA’s face falls.

TUCKER:
What is it?


CYNTHIA looks from TUCKER to JOSH but is unable to speak. She exits, hurriedly.

[Apathy's_Child]

Okay, I'll be straight with you, because I'm pretty sure that A) you can take it, and B) you posted this because you wanted honest feedback: I was kinda bored.

I'm of the mind that if you want to have a long scene based on dialogue that's mostly conversational, rather than ""about" anything the viewer/reader can directly identify with (or at least, get into the story enough to imagine), you need an extra dimension to capture interest. A relevant example would be Snow White Zombie, which I enjoyed because it was witty enough to engage my interest, and used comedy to mask the undertones of tragedy in an original and interesting fashion. But while I know it's easier to get your iconoclasm on when you're parodying an established form of narrative than when you're trying to drag a story that doesn't exist yet out of the ether, this didn't really give me anything to get hold of.

I terms of concrete suggestions, I'd like to see more of the characters' inner worlds reflected in what they're saying. There was a little revelation as to what's going on inside, but not enough to be satisfying. It can be done subtley rather than explicitly if you want to leave room to develop (as I'm guessing you do, since this is the first scene), but I think it needs to be THERE.

[Despanan]

Originally Posted by Apathy's_Child

Okay, I'll be straight with you, because I'm pretty sure that A) you can take it, and B) you posted this because you wanted honest feedback: I was kinda bored.

I'm of the mind that if you want to have a long scene based on dialogue that's mostly conversational, rather than ""about" anything the viewer/reader can directly identify with (or at least, get into the story enough to imagine), you need an extra dimension to capture interest. A relevant example would be Snow White Zombie, which I enjoyed because it was witty enough to engage my interest, and used comedy to mask the undertones of tragedy in an original and interesting fashion. But while I know it's easier to get your iconoclasm on when you're parodying an established form of narrative than when you're trying to drag a story that doesn't exist yet out of the ether, this didn't really give me anything to get hold of.

I terms of concrete suggestions, I'd like to see more of the characters' inner worlds reflected in what they're saying. There was a little revelation as to what's going on inside, but not enough to be satisfying. It can be done subtley rather than explicitly if you want to leave room to develop (as I'm guessing you do, since this is the first scene), but I think it needs to be THERE.

Good advice, and thanks for the feedback.

Honestly, this is a first draft, and I'm still trying to get a feel for who these characters are (Which I usually discover in the writing). The big difference in my process is that usually, I let a new play idea stew in the back of my head until it bubbles up and I absolutely have to write it (I tend to turn out one or two plays a year this way). Mic. is different because I had finished writing my previous play Afterall literally weeks before, and I had just enrolled in a playwriting class on the advice of someone at the particular Masters program I'm currently trying to get into. A week before the first class I was informed: "You will be writing an entirely new play in this class".

So I had to go with an idea that, If I had my druthers, would have stewed in my head for at least another three months, and just start writing.

Anyway, I need to churn out approximately ten pages a week, so here's the continuation from last week, with some re-tooled dialogue from the first scene:

[Despanan]

So you never see the stars?

TUCKER:
Never.

JOSH:
Not a glimmer?

TUCKER:
(Shakes his head)
Not once in twelve years have I seen anything sparkle up there that wasn’t an air-plane or part of that sixth floor drag-queen’s undergarments.

JOSH:
It bothers me.

TUCKER:
You’ll get used to it.

JOSH:
I hope so…’cause right now, it makes me feel…I dunno, uncertain.

TUCKER:
Welcome to New York. We live with uncertainty, we sleep with uncertainty, and then we raise its bastard children.

The door opens and CYNTHIA enters. She is a thin woman in her early thirties. She wears a black-dress, leather boots, leggings, and striped arm-warmers. She see’s JOSH and smiles brightly.

CYNTHIA:
(Gives him a hug)
Hi sweetness!

Almost robotically TUCKER pulls a cigarette from his pocket and hands it to her, along with a lighter. She takes them both and lights up.

TUCKER:
(Spoken with an edge)
How’s it going tonight honey?

CYNTHIA:
(Right back at him)
Superfantastic pookums.

TUCKER:
Is that a new dress?

CYNTHIA:
Same one I wear every night.

TUCKER:
Really? Looks different…

CYNTHIA:
How so?

TUCKER:
(Nonchalant)
Fatter.


CYNTHIA:
(Smiles)
Then you should stop feeding me all that gravy.

TUCKER:
I tried, you damn near tore my arm off.

CYNTHIA:
I’m a growing girl.

TUCKER:
Horizontally.

CYNTHIA glares at TUCKER, then grabs the catwalk and pulls herself up to face level with him. A beat, and then they kiss passionately.

JOSH:
You two freak me right the fuck out.

CYNTHIA and TUCKER continue to kiss.

JOSH:
No, seriously, what do you two do when you fight? Compliment each other?

CYNTHIA:
That we do.

TUCKER:
Excessively.

CYNTHIA:
I tell him what a great lover he is. How he makes me laugh—

TUCKER:
And I tell her she’s thin and talented.

JOSH:
There really ought to be a study done on this.

CYNTHIA hops down from the fire-escape and pulls a phone out of her pocket.

JOSH:
You get a call?

CYNTHIA:
Email.
TUCKER:
Is it about the audition?

CYNTHIA:
Not unless a Nigerian prince has my resume’…

CYNTHIA’s face falls.

TUCKER:
What is it?

CYNTHIA looks from TUCKER to JOSH but is unable to speak. She exits, hurriedly.

JOSH:
What was that about?

TUCKER shrugs.

TUCKER:
I gave up trying to figure that bird out a long time ago.

JOSH:
You gonna go see what’s up?

TUCKER:
(Takes a drag)
Nope.

JOSH:
Okay.

TUCKER:
What?

JOSH:
Nothing. Okay.

TUCKER:
You think I should go and chase her down?

JOSH:
Not my place.

TUCKER:
But you still think I should.

JOSH:
It’s what I would do.

TUCKER:
But you’re not her boyfriend.

JOSH:
That’s why I said it wasn’t my place…What are you going to do?

TUCKER:
Look, Josh, I appreciate the situation, I really do, but if Cyn were ready to tell me, she’d have told me. I’m sure I’ll get an earful about it later, but for now—

JOSH:
You’re going to sit here.

TUCKER:
Fuckin’ “A” I’m going to sit here. I’m going to sit here, drink my beer, finish off my spliff, and stare at the drag queen on the sixth floor.

JOSH:
Well do you want me to talk to her?

TUCKER:
You wanna stick your head inside that’s hornet’s nest, be my guest; though I’ll be mighty surprised if you do, considering you’ve already decided it isn’t your business.

JOSH:
Right, I’m going inside. Have a good set Tucker.

TUCKER:
You too Mr. Redding. Broken legs all around.

JOSH:
(Exiting)
I’m not staying.

TUCKER:
So you keep saying.

JOSH is offstage, the door closes. TUCKER drinks his beer, smokes his cigarette, and stars up at the night sky.

TUCKER:
Not once in twelve years…

Lights down.

Scene iii

Lights up on the Rathkeller stage. ERIC enters, he is a man who is probably in his early forties, but appears to be younger judging by his posture and demeanor. He is dressed in a faded jean-jacket and wears round eye glasses. He is unshaven and in his hand he carries a beer. A number of rolled canvases are balanced precariously under his arms. They are various shapes, and sizes, and run from small to reasonably large. As he walks to the microphone, a few of the rolled canvases fall, and spill out onto the stage; ERIC sets his beer down and hurriedly arranges them.

ERIC:
(Direct address, he speaks while he sets up)
Paintings for sale. I have paintings for sale. You sir, would you like to buy a painting? As you can see, I have quite a few, and they are for sale. Today is special because today I have small paintings…and I have large paintings. In-between paintings. Would you like to buy a painting? You could buy an in-between painting and place it above your mantle, or buy a small painting, and give it to your daughter…or girlfriend. They’re good paintings. I mean, I know they’re not in a gallery, and they’re not…framed. It’s too hard to transport them, framed, on the subway. But, a painting doesn’t have to be in a gallery to be good. It doesn’t have to be in a frame to be worth money, and this way your money goes to the painting, and not the frame, or the gallery…Besides, there aren’t too many galleries left in Soho. Twenty years ago I would come here, and there were galleries…and my paintings weren’t in any of them—but they were here. Now these streets are full of chain stores, tourists, and corner purse-salesmen. You madam, will you buy a painting? You could by this large painting…of geese. I saw these geese swimming in the Hudson River, and I painted them. This one took me the better part of a week, off and on…the geese wouldn’t hold still—(As if speaking to a child You, hello there, yes do you like that one? Yeah, I think it’s cool too. That’s a smaller one; I could give it to you for twelve dollars, or ten dollars. You might want to hurry though, I don’t have a permit, and the man selling watches from that table over there told me that when the cops come, he won’t be able to do anything to help me. Paintings for sale! I know, I don’t have a name that you recognize, but they’re good and if I can sell just a few, I’ll be able to get through the day, maybe even make rent. Get myself some, food. I’ve been skipping meals lately, trying to make sure I have enough…I keep trying to look for a job, but instead, I paint (A Beat) Maybe I’m just making it easier on myself…easier to slip into homelessness. Maybe—

As ERIC walks toward another painting he accidentally knocks over the can with his foot. Beer spills onto the stage and soaks one painting.

ERIC:
Oh shit, sorry Cynthia...(He starts to gather up his paintings) does anyone have—?

JOSH hurries onto the stage with a rag from the bar and begins to mop up the spill.

CYNTHIA:
(Entering with more rags, she hands them to JOSH)
Joshua Redding, ladies and gentlemen.

ERIC:
Sorry, sorry. Can you—

JOSH hands him his painting, it is of a black cat, and is thoroughly soaked.

ERIC:
Awwe, man…

CYNTHIA:
(Grabbing the mic.)
Let’s have some applause for Mr. Eric Clark.

The crowd cheers.

ERIC:
(Grabbing his paintings)
Thanks, thanks.

CYNTHIA:
Paintings for sale, that was awesome.

ERIC:
(Borrowing the mic.)
And, in case anyone’s wondering, these paintings are for sale. (He holds up the soaked cat) This one is discounted.

JOSH and ERIC exit, holding the rags and the paintings.

CYNTHIA:
Alright, moving right along here guys, the stage is clean, and I am very excited about this next performer, he is a regular here at the Rathkeller Open Mic. and a very funny man, he’s an amazing comedian please give a warm welcome to the man with two first names, Mr. Curtis Tucker!

The crowd cheers, TUCKER enters. He takes the microphone. His voice is gravely and intense his delivery is low-key.

(Continued in next post)

[Despanan]

TUCKER:
Thank you people, and please give it up for your host, Ms. Cynthia Carter. I am Curtis Tucker, the man with two first names, and I assure you I’m not nearly as much of a red-neck as either of them imply. Shakespeare said, “What’s in a name?” and in my name is a fifth of Jim Beam, a shotgun, and a fistful of oxycodone. I’ve been performing comedy here in New York City since I was seventeen and passing out in gutters since I was seven, ladies and gentlemen. That’s right, when I was seven years old, my friend Jimmy Stubbs and I stole a taste of bourbon from my father’s liquor cabinet. Not much, just a taste, I mean come on, we were seven, I had not yet grown into the pillar of the community which stands before you today. My eyes had not yet retracted into my skull, and my body had not reached the level of strung out, heroine chic which the ladies find so irresistible…Everyone wants to fuck a pale, jittery, skeleton with a five-o’clock shadow and a haircut which I like to call “the lazy lesbian”. Jimmy and I were wide-eyed and apple-cheeked as we poured ourselves a shot, each, slammed it, and promptly puked it up onto the kitchen floor…but later on that evening daddy came home, and he found his floor smelling curiously of sour cheerios and Windex. He found his weekly bottle mysteriously drained, and he found his apple-cheeked son slurring, ever so slightly, during dinner conversation. So, his thinking being that this situation was somewhat similar to when he’d caught me stealing his smokes, daddy took it into his head to solve this problem in the same manner. He sits me down, pours me a glass, on the rocks, twists a lime in it and finishes it off with a splash of club soda and a sprig of mint leaf, he was classy that way. Then he sets it in front of me and makes certain that I do not leave the table until I have drained the glass of every last drop, and that I’d I kept it down. You people want to talk about a hang-over? I was seven. This was a hang-through. A full-forty eight hours of not being able to keep anything in my stomach but water and ice-pops…and mom gave me red ice pops. Guess what that looks like when it comes back up. But I’m not bitter about that ladies and gentlemen, because there are so many more things in my life to be bitter about. I tried out for last comic standing, and was told that I told too many stories. They wanted jokes. They wanted me to talk about…marriage, and women and the difference between white people and black people, and tie it all together with neat little punchlines and cheeky sound-effects. I’m not good at sound effects. So I didn’t get picked. Fame keeps missing me. It’s like the fame-related cupid who’s got me in his sights keeps going wide and hitting the guy next to me. That’s how I know I’m not going to make it. You all may recognize this next name: Anna Marie Tucker, of “The Bachelor” fame, and my sister. Given the boot for boning a staffer in the boiler-room, and then kicking Chris Harrison in the bean-bag when he told her she had to leave; “Inappropriate relations” they called it. I found it to be very appropriate. A week ago she gave me a call and let me know that her new agent, Gustavo, had arranged an audition for her, for Broadway. I said, “hey, that’s great Anna, what are you auditioning for?” and she told me it was “something about Chicago”…I said “Chicago? Great. I know people who would literally kill for that chance…hey wait a minute, when did you start acting?” She of course hadn’t done anything on the stage since she’d played a tree in Lackland Elementary’s Christmas pageant, the same year as my pre-pubescent bourbon-bender. I also, am blessed with the knowledge that she’d never sang outside of a karaoke bar, and as for dancing…well she was in cheerleading wasn’t she? But she is my blood after all so I said: “Break a leg” and went back to writing jokes about the miserable, smoldering crater of tragedy that is my life, content in the knowledge, that my status as the fuck-up performer of the family was, at least for now, secure, and she called back the next day (A Beat) She got the lead!


(Becoming more energized.)

It was then, ladies and gentlemen, that my worst fears were confirmed: No one, in this business gives a fuck about talent. No one gives a fuck about toil, or craft, or inspiration. What people care about is name recognition: They want to know you’re a national brand before they buy. Those people you see on the stage, and on the television, those people who accept grammy awards, and play to stadiums aren’t there because they’re good, or god forbid talented, that’s happy chance at best! They’re there because they have something, a name, a piece of paper from some institution with a name, a connection to someone else with a name, or maybe they just kicked someone with a name right in the mean bean-bags and now they’ve made a name for themselves. A name people, that’s what’s important, a name and someone else who figures they could make a buck off of it, and people just eat that shit up because all they know is what is fed to them and…(He realizes he's ranting. A BEAT, then, partially to himself Hello Sudden Dark Turn, good to see you’ve come back to play. (To the audience Alright, I’m going to get off this stage before I embarrass myself further. You guys have a good night.

Lights down. The crowd cheers.

Cynthia:
(offstage)
That was Curtis Tucker!

Scene iv

[Despanan]

Hey guys,

I'm pleased to annouce that "Mic." will be in the NYC international Fringe Festival this year!

So if you guys want to make the pilgrimage to NYC, it'll be worth checking out.

[Despanan]

"Mic." poster & Postcard art by by friend Emoore!

[Despanan]

Back of the postcard. Dates + Times.

[Despanan]

Mic. has been published and is now for sale here.

Script, media, music and reviews are all available on the site.