by Ian Frazier
De duh de de duh de de dah,
De duh de de duh de de dah.
De duh de de duh,
De duh de de duh,
De duh de de duh de de dah.
Then he would mail that in to the “Information, Please” column of the London Times Literary Supplement and ask if any subscriber knew what the words might be.
Just as disappointing was Alfred, Lord Tennyson, a laureate who literally could not write his way out of a paper bag. He proved this at a benefit performance for the Christian Temperance League in 1879. The poet was placed inside a large sack of standard-weight brown paper on a stage at Covent Garden, given several pens, and left to himself. He thrashed and flopped helplessly inside for four and a half hours; finally, members of the Grenadier Guards had to come and cut him free.
How Tennyson ever made laureate is anybody’s guess, yet even he was an improvement on John Dryden, England’s first poet laureate, although by no means her best. Whenever people told Dryden they didn’t like one of his poems, he threw such a fit—arguing, sulking, and snapping at them—that they would resolve never to be candid with him again. By means of such behavior, Dryden was able, in a short period of time, to manipulate an entire population into pretending that he was a genius without equal. Today, we know better.
And what of John Masefield, poet laureate from 1930 to 1967? He was the one, you will remember, who penned the howler “Sea Fever,” with the opening
I must go down to the seas again,
to the lonely sea and the sky
Eeeeeeeouch! It is a sad fact that among past poets laureate of England tin ears like Masefield’s have been not the exception but the rule.
If anyone can turn this tradition around, Queen Elizabeth and Prime Minister Thatcher can. Both have proved themselves to be smart, articulate women with an eye for spotting talent—and the world of contemporary poetry gives them quite a bit of talent to spot. So far, the top candidates are Philip Larkin, 62; Roy Fuller, 72; D. J. Enright, 64; Gavin Ewart, 68; Ted Hughes, 53; and Dr. Leo Buscaglia, 59. Larkin is a popular essayist, as well as a poet with a strong sense of the beauties of commonplace speech. Fuller served on the governing board of the BBC, England’s main TV network, and a reflected glow from that “cool medium” often shines through the luminous poetry on which his reputation rests. Both Enright and Ewart have been poets since they were very little, and they have had a great many interesting insights over the years. Hughes is a much-honored poet whose trademark is the originality shown in every page of his work, which combines a love for the rhythms of nature with some other values. Buscaglia, though not, strictly speaking, a poet or an Englishman, still might be as good a choice as anyone, if not better. First, he is a doctor; second, he is an author and expert on the subject of human emotion, notably love, which has always been the poet’s province; and third, his books, Love, and Living, Loving, and Learning, and Personhood, which have sold in the millions, are profound enough to be poetry already. With a slight change in typography, they would be. Lots of people know who Dr. Buscaglia is. And, compared to more traditional poets, Dr. Buscaglia is a nicer person. He could infuse social functions with a warm feeling that would humanize all that glittering pomp, and everyone would benefit. Along with poetic talent, the ability to reach out to others might well be an important requirement for the poet laureate of the future.
Soon the Queen and the Prime Minister will announce their decision. One of the candidates will wear the wreath of laurel; the rest will send their congratulations, and console themselves with the thought that, at this level of poetry, there really are no losers. With a new poet laureate at the helm, a new era in English poetry may dawn. And in libraries and country retreats and book-lined dens across the land thousands of poets will return to their work, providing the verse that feeds a nation.
A NOTE FROM THE PLAYWRIGHT
To the theatergoer: The performance of Songs for a Conquered Moon that you are about to see differs so completely from the spirit of the play as I wrote it that I wish hereby to disavow any and all association between myself and this production. If I could, I would remove my name from the marquee and from the program you hold in your hands; unfortunately, I am informed by my lawyers that contractual considerations render this impossible. When I wrote Songs, I set out to weave a net of speech, action, and mood with which to ensnare certain moments in human existence that are as fleeting and evanescent as a dream. Seeing my lovely net filled instead with the unappetizing aesthetic baggage of one particular director and set of actors makes me wonder briefly why I ever chose this regrettable profession in the first place.
My carefully crafted stage directions, absolutely essential to any understanding of the play, have been discarded from this production with a thoroughness that suggests the hired vandal. The freeway pile-up in the middle of Act II has mysteriously disappeared, without an explanation; the chorus of forty Greek sailors commenting on the action has been replaced by two town criers (obviously not Greek); the underwater sequences have been crudely faked; and the marvelous moment at the climax of Act III, when Lord Hargreaves draws his breath to sneeze and his starched shirtfront rolls up under his nose like a window shade, has been so toned down as to lose all its impact. I could continue this list almost endlessly … But really, why bother?
Now, as per the agreement between my attorneys and the attorneys for the Top Contemporary Theater Company, I include here the first few pages of Songs for a Conquered Moon, exactly as they were written. I hope that they will give some idea of the very great distance between my play as it was originally intended and the shabby counterfeit you see on the stage before you.
SONGS FOR A CONQUERED MOON
A Play in Three Acts
Cast of Characters
Marcelline, a woman so beautiful it is impossible to look at her without a sharp intake of breath. A strong woman whose looks are a form of disguise; beneath those high-fashion dresses hides an adventurous tomboy with many of the same traits as her father, a billionaire.
John Vanderjohn, a third-generation brain surgeon and outsider. Wears his hair a bit overlong, down to and beyond his shirt collar. The echo of an Old World patronymic in his name is intentional; he should suggest the epic proportions of a Tolstoy, wandering lost in this shopkeepers’ century.
Railroad Tom Stevens, a poet, a prophet, a preacher, a liar. A man as full of contradictions as the nightly news. He’d give his last quarter to a little boy, and then change his mind. Also, he is able to “shape-shift”—change from human form to that of any other species—in a matter of seconds. Lover to Pamela.
One Stab, a full-blooded Indian. Silent, laconic, terse, and as violent as the occasion requires. Well over seven feet tall. Mr. Earl’s factotum.
Mark Brainard, a young writer and critic with the most brilliant mind of his generation.
Bob, a neighbor from downstairs.
Five Claims Adjusters
The “Solid Gold” Dancers
Assorted Messengers and Passersby
Some Other People
Act I
The time is the present, approximately.
The setting is anywhere along the Pacific rim; state or country need not be made explicit. Set designers are referred to postcards of the region, Kabuki drawings, and the imitation-French Regency landscaping favored by gangsters and the newly famous. A western pine perhaps, stunted bonsai-style, clinging to a coastal rock. Stage right, there is a fifty-foot waterfall, and at stage left we see an eight-lane suspension bridge of reinforced concrete. In the background is an active volcano, with molten lava coming down the sides and slowly making its way to the footlights. Overhead a real airport control tower broods above the scene.
The lighting should try for an effect both spare and lush, if possible. It should change almost continually, as the moment dictates. For the second act the light panel must be equipped with at least four state-of-the-art military lasers. Interacting with the cast members and the scenery, the lighting will
become practically like another character in the drama, as palpable as the charmed radiance in a painting by Raphael or Giotto or someone of equal stature.
JOHN is seated in a chair downstage right. The residue of a black mood can still be seen around the corners of his eyes. Occasionally he knits his brow and shakes his head. Close at hand is a fresh cup of imported coffee, which he sips from time to time. MARCELLINE enters stage left.
MARCELLINE [hauntingly]: Oh, hi, John.
JOHN [in an upsetting tone]: Oh, hi, Marcelline. How come you’re right here?
MARCELLINE [movingly]: I just came in from over where I was.
JOHN [no longer depressed]: Oh, that’s great!
MARCELLINE [affectingly]: So, what if we—
JOHN [expressing the audience’s hidden fears]: Wait, wait, no—
MARCELLINE [with perfect timing]: Hear me out.
JOHN [in his regular voice]: O.K.
MARCELLINE [compellingly]: What if we went to a store and bought some things?
JOHN [after a pause of twenty-four seconds]: Oh, O.K.
The scene then shifts to Tibet. MARCELLINE and JOHN come in. TOM is already there.
TOM [instantly commanding attention]: Hi, you guys.
MARCELLINE [responding to what TOM has said]: Hi.
JOHN: Hi, Tom.
TOM [memorably]: What do you say we go and get something to eat?
MARCELLINE [with a touching expression]: Thanks. I’d like that.
JOHN [this is a great line]: Count me in.
TOM [excitingly]: O.K., let’s go!
I am sorry that, owing to limitations of space, this excerpt cannot be longer. I would suggest that those of you as yet unfamiliar with my work go out and buy copies of all my plays, the better to judge future productions for yourselves. And I would also ask that the next time you want to see a play by me, you call me first to ask whether the production is any good or not. (I am home most evenings, and if I’m out, someone can take a message.) I know full well that a writer’s relationship with his audience is the most important one he has. After all, without you, where would I be? I would even go to your houses, no matter how long it would take to see everybody. If you have any questions, I would welcome the opportunity to sit down with each of you on an individual basis to discuss just how great my play could have been.
Also by Ian Frazier
Nobody Better, Better Than Nobody
Great Plains
Family
Coyote v. Acme
On the Rez
It Happened Like This (translator)
The Fish’s Eye
Acclaim for Dating Your Mom
“Bold, challenging humor that works as the inspiration for both laughs and thoughts.”
—The Philadelphia Inquirer
“Intellectual knee-slapping … some of the titles alone are good for a hearty chuckle.”
—The Boston Globe
“A satisfying and refreshing humorous voice … reminding us that there is nothing so sacred it cannot or should not be laughed at.”
—Los Angeles Times
“Shows that he is one of our best contemporary humorists.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“It’s a treat to have this first collection of Frazier’s as a mirthful refuge to turn to when a grim era’s inane clichés start flying.”
—Newsday
“Very, very funny … simple, graceful, funny pieces with no obvious targets … . Frazier’s writing is so graceful and controlled that all these pieces have the feel of an effortless romp.”
—The Voice Literary Supplement
“One of America’s funniest writers.”
—Vogue
Your Notes
DATING YOUR MOM. Copyright © 1975, 1976, 1977, 1978, 1980, 1981, 1982, 1983, 1984, 1985, and 1986 by Ian Frazier. All rights reserved. . No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address Picador, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
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Grateful acknowledgement is made to The New Yorker, where all of these pieces, except the following, first appeared: “The Museum,” “List of Funny Names Released,” and “A Note from the Playwright” were originally published by The Atlantic; “Your Nutrition & You” first ran in The New Republic.
eISBN 9781466828766
First eBook Edition : August 2012
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Frazier, Ian.
Dating your mom.
ISBN 0-312-42152-4
I. Title.
PS3556.R363D3 1986 813’.54 85-20646
First published in the United States by Farrar, Straus and Giroux
First Picador Edition: March 2003
P1