Don’t go into Lindsay’s barn
Okay, so my good friend and fellow playwright, Lindsay Harris Friel, had a living room reading in her parents’ home. The reasons for this are shrouded in mystery and duplicity, but it matters little, as it was a gorgeous, old, refurbished farmhouse on several acres of suburban steppe. There’s a barn on the property, too, but we were told we couldn’t go in because it was infested with looms.
Lindsay, whose previous plays include Traveling Light (produced locally by Liam’s Sofa Cushion Fortress), has written a vaguely-historical piece about Georgia O’Keefe called Wide Open Spaces. I gotta say, it might be the best thing I’ve seen Lindsay do, and I was really happy to be at the reading. I’ve got no idea who she’s showing it to, who’s reading it, or what other development plans she might have, but I hope it has a future life on a local stage.
The only other attendees I knew were Lindsay’s husband, Vince, and playwright, Alex Dremann, so I was making all kinds of new friends and enemies in a pastoral setting while stuffing my mouth-hole with cold cuts. I met a husband/wife band called Hot Breakfast!, who have been making waves around Philly and Delaware. I don’t know yet if they’re friends or enemies, but they’re certainly a force to be reckoned with. Coincidentally, they’re playing Melodies, here in Ardmore at the end of January, which is one of my occasional caffeine-fueling stations. Check out Hot Breakfast!’s Christmas video on their website; it’s pretty ginchy.
Thanks again to Lindsay for inviting me out there, thanks to all my fellow critics for putting up with my crap, and thanks to Lindsay’s dad for unknowingly feeding me beer.
- The naming of playwrights
- The Unexpected Virtue of…I forgot what I was saying