Going back to El Do.

When I was fourteen, I thought the greatest band of all time was Guns N’ Roses. Two weeks later, my best friend Chuck Price would quickly convince me otherwise by tossing Nirvana’s Nevermind into my cassette deck. This, of course, meant that the most overplayed album in both our walkmans during 1991 would be NWA’s Niggaz4Life.

In a nutshell, this pretty much exemplified my friendship with Chuck. He was the guy always two steps ahead of me, but never so far in the lead that he couldn’t enjoy falling into the same pop-culture pitfalls as myself. He was my bestfriend at an age when terms like “Bestfriend” still really meant something.

In less than 12 hours, I’m hopping a flight to visit El Dorado, Arkansas, the hometown of my youth – that place that gave me all my aggressive redneck attitude – that backwoods world that taught me how to take a punch and give it back twice as hard.

Getting there, however, is no easy task for your favorite yella playwright.

If there are three absolutes to my personality, it would be the following:

1) I write

2) I fight

3) I'm terrified of flying

Planes to me make about as much sense as evolution does to an evangelical bible-thumper. Statistically speaking*, it may be the safest way to travel and the mechanics which keeps them a’flyin’ may be completely scientifically sound, but regardless of science or safety I’m still fucking scared as all fuck to board one. My caveman fear of crashing to a fiery Lynyrd Skynyrd ending overrides any ability to coolly and calmly take to the skies. And, please, don’t try to make me feel better about it. You'll just get frustrated. I'm a natural born sissy.

Chuck would understand.

I met him when I was four years old during my second year of Kindergarten. Due to fact that both my parents were freshly unpackaged immigrants to the great land of the Cheeseburger, the only language spoke in our household was Vietnamese. This meant, of course, I had exactly zero English skillz before being unleashed to the El Dorado public school system. With none of my teachers understanding a word I was saying, they assumed I was retarded and did what any Arkansas teacher does when they can’t figure out a kid – they flunk them and let some other pedagogue-for-the-pint-sized deal with it. Yep, so I was stuck repeating. Twice.

Chuck, unlike my teachers, didn’t care that I couldn’t communicate in his native tongue. We became fast friends and, though he was only five years old, he pulled off teaching me that thing that confounded the hell out of my under-qualified teachers. He taught me how to speak "American".

“Okay, Qui, what’s this?”

“Booger.”

“And what do we do with it?”

“We put it in the teacher’s sandwich?”

“And if we get caught, what do we say?”

“It’s a Vietnamese custom, yo. What, biznitch? I was tryin’ to be nice. You don’t understand? Fuck you, ya fuckin’ racist! Shit, if I wasn’t three feet tall, I’d go gangsta to yo’ face.”

“Good, Qui. You’ve learned well.”

As kids, we spent every afternoon at each other’s homes playing Nintendo, basketball, and, frequently, the uber-nerd game of Dungeons and Dragons (Yeah, I played D&D. Whaddup?).

During summers, we would aimlessly ride our bikes through the neighborhood wasting countless hours exploring every street of Murmil Heights and seeing how fast we could make it from one house to another.

Once, I remember falling off my bike, flipping over my handle bars and landing hard on my hands. Bloody and crying, Chuck pulled over his ride and sat beside me as I openly wept. Instead of trying to calm me down though, Chuck pulled out a small Swiss army knife, cut his own hand and immediately grabbed mine. And as I sat there on the curb sucking up my tears, staring at both our bloody palms touching, Chuck stoicly looked at me and said “There’s nothing to cry about, man. We’re brothers now.”

We were an inseparable pair. Chuck had my back and I always had his. The only problem with this alliance, though, was the fact that I had a bit of a huge anger streak and Chuck wasn’t a very good fighter.

“Yo, Ching-chong, you think your mommee would likee to suckee on my ding-dong?” A bully would throw my way.

I’d usually retort with a punch to their throat. Which would end fights rather quickly. However, when Chuck was around . . .

“Yo, who the fuck are you talking to, redneck?” Chuck would interject.

“Hey, man, I got this." I'd whisper.

“No, Qui, if someone fucks with you then they’re fuckin’ with me.”

“Hey, man, seriously, I got –”

Chuck now screaming at the top of his lungs, “Come on, asshole, you wanna fight? Let’s get it on!" He'd hurl his skinny arms and legs like a broken G.I. Joe being tossed at a much bigger and sturdier He-Man action figure. After a coupla swings, my best bud would be laid out on the ground clutching his bloody nose in near tears.

“Yo, Ching-Chong. I just beat up your girlfriend, now what are you going to –”

Finger-tip thrust to throat. Bully goes down. I tend to my failed curly-haired savior.

"Hey, man, you okay?"

“We really kicked his ass, huh?” Chuck would muster through snot, blood, and tears.

“Yeah, buddy. We sure did. Thanks for the help.”

He wasn’t the toughest kid in the world, but he was loyal

As we got older, the energy we’d spent playing video games transferred to girls. Chuck thankfully was much better at this than at fisticuffs. But where he gained in smooth, he lacked in taste. On one glorious afternoon, Chuck appeared at my doorway with, instead of two D&D dice, a pair of two very trashy young ladies from around the block.

“Yo, Qui, that curly haired chick is totally vibing you, bro. She said she’s been eyeing you like mad crazy.”

“That's nice. But, dude, I don’t know how to say this, but . . . her face?”

“Yeah, dawg, that’s right! Butter face! That’s what I’m talking about, chigga. Fine ass body, ‘BUT HER FACE! Ha. Ha. Get you some of that booty, boy-ee.”

“Chuck, why are you talking like that? You’re white.”

“These girls dig the dark meat, yo. I’m tricking them into thinking I’m albino. Check it, I gots curly hair. They totally are falling for it.” (They weren’t.)

“Chuck, you’re retarded. I’m not going to hook up with this girl.” (I did.)

“Why’s that, playa? You scared to get your dick wet or somethin’? Shit, it ain’t a thing, son. I’ve done it a million times.” (Actually, at that point, he’d actually done it a total of zero times.)

“Fine, okay. Let’s go. But I expect to get like at least a thousand free experience points for Qui-dar (My D&D character).”

“Fine, Yella-man. Let’s roll!”

As the final years of High School came upon us, Chuck and I found different interests. He fell into parties and drugs. I fell deeply in love with theatre. High School girlfriends were the final break, deepening the chasm between us so large that we stopped talking to one another completely. By the time I graduated, Chuck and I had lost all contact.

The last time I saw him was the Summer of 2001. I had just broken up with my girlfriend at the time and was getting ready to take a very long drive from Arkansas to Philadelphia for an internship at People’s Light and Theatre Company. We bumped into each other at the Exxon Mobile closest to my home.

“Qui, holy shit, how the hell are you doing?”

“Chuck?”

“I heard you finished college, man. I just want to tell ya congrats. What are you up to nowadays?”

“Still in school actually.”

“Really?”

“Grad school.”

“Well, I don’t blame ya. The real world fuckin’ sucks.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“How are you doing, Chuck?”

“Me? I’m doing good. A lot better anyhow. I stopped getting fucked up all the time. I got a kid, ya know. Little girl. Her name is Alison. Ya can’t keep partying like an asshole and raise something as special as that. I’d love for you to meet her, man. She's about as old as when we first met.”

“That’d be cool.”

“You got time to grab a beer?”

“Actually, I’m headed out right this minute. Got a twenty-hour drive ahead of me. How ‘bout we grab a drink next time I’m home?”

“You got it, bro. And Qui . . .”

“Yeah?”

“I am proud of you, man. I am. We all are. You’re gonna make us Arkansans finally look good.”

Last March, four days before the opening of my show “Trial by Water”, I found out that Chuck passed away from Leukemia. He was thirty years old. I never even knew he was sick.

Going home to El Dorado is always bitter sweet now. The good parts are still always good. I get to see my family. I get to taste the awesomeness of my mother’s Vietnamese/Soul-food cooking again and hang out in a town that still remembers me for the brashness of my youth. However, it’s also a reminder of all the people I’ve lost along the way.

I look at my life now and I see so much of my old friend in me. Though he didn’t stick with it, it was Chuck who first convinced me to sign up for theatre in High School. It was Chuck who first pushed me to begin writing and it was even Chuck who first got me into reading comic books. So it doesn't take Freud to figure out that it was this friendship that turned me into the Vampire Cowboys writer that I am today.

I will always regret that we never got that beer, that I missed my opportunity to tell him how much he meant to me – to simply let him know that regardless of time and distance and years apart, he's still as important to me now as he was when we were boys. To me, he'll always be the guy who I looked up to and saw a few steps ahead. In no subtle way, I think I’m still trying to get my “big brother” to be proud of me. I hope he is. I truly hope he is.

* Or at least according to Christopher Reeves from “Superman: The Movie”

Get some Vampire Cowboys on your bookshelf!

Whaddup, Vamp Fans! Check it out! Vampire Cowboys' critically acclaimed ass-kicking hit of last season, MEN OF STEEL, just got published by Broadway Play Publishing. So for all y'all sexy mofos that missed out on its original run or any of you in-the-know badasses just wanting some more, here's your chance to jump in and visit (or revisit) the Vampire Cowboys' comic book universe. It's some mad fun, yo! Fo' real!

How do you get it? CLICK HERE!

No Fried Rice for You!

The most common reaction when people discover my origins tends to be disbelief. Take a good look at me: you’ll see the typical black hair, almond eyes and golden skin of a classic Asian sensation. I’m as yellow as a kung fu flick, yet my roots…well, my roots are from down south. Deep south. We’re talking “chicken-fried steaks, grits and a side of pickled pig’s feet” south.

Down south, food is culture. Simple as that. We don’t have any famous museums or theatres or music*. Instead we have food. Big food. Food meant to make a man out of your skinny city boy ass. Hipsters need not apply.

My moms, though uber-yellow, is a master of the high-cholesterol culinary arts. Trained by beautiful black ladies to flavor her veggies with spice and her meats with soul, my mother’s cooking is 100 percent Southern-style with a touch of Asian flave. How did a teeny little Vietnamese lady learn to fry so well?

Flashback to a time when most of us were still sporting Superman Underoos. It is 1975 and my folks have landed in America. The Vietnam War just ended and my parents escaped the newly unified Communist nation by moving smack into the rural south. As thousands of Viet refugees flooded America, the government needed to find a place to house them. Knowing that Vietnam is a coastal country which has the majority of its citizens basing their livelihood on purely fishing and boating, Uncle Sam decided sending them to the completely land-locked states of the South and Mid-West would make complete sense. Once relocated, families were given foster homes for job training and help in cultural assimilation. My mom was sent to Arkansas.

Now, I’m from the South. I hate the stereotype of all Southerners being bigots because I know it’s not true. However, in 1975, in the backwoods world of El Dorado, Arkansas, Southerners were not nuts about a whole buncha Yellas moving into their ’hood. My parents were no exception to this blatant hate. So, my moms found refuge in the one area of town not afraid of the Yellow Fever. She moved into the projects. And as the story goes, there goes the neighborhood.

Fast forward years later, my moms is now the first Asian to sport a jheri curl and a Bob Marley Rasta hat. To celebrate her new Soul-cooking skill, she bought a diner in the middle of town and started selling fried chicken to fat rednecks. As one would guess, a smack-talking 4’ll” Far East woman vending down-home vittles stirred more than a few questions.

“Hey, I’d like some fried rice, an egg roll and some Wonton soup,” the typical first-time customer would ask upon arriving to Nguyen’s East Main Diner.

“We have no egg roll, fat man,” my moms would correct.

“You got no egg rolls? How about the fried rice?” they’d persist.

“Are you stupid? How many diner you see have fried rice and egg roll?” she’d respond.

“But you’re Oriental,” they’d retort.

“Fuck you, fat man. I hope you have big heart attack while you watch Hee-Haw and fuck your sister!”

My moms was not great at the customer service. However, she did find a way to convince folks that East Main Diner, though Asian-owned, was indeed a diner and not an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet. Her solution? Put it in the greeting.

“Hello, welcome to East Main Diner, we don’t have any goddamn Chinese food. You want Chinese food, go to a goddamn Chinese restaurant. Look at my menu, you see anything Chinese? Fuck no. I not Chinese. I Vietnamese and I cook soul-food, motherfucker. Now, what the hell do you want?”

As I said, my moms is not the best salesman, but her point was made.

Whether it was the novelty of Soul Food from a Yella or just folks wanting some quick eats from the closest sit-down joint, the citizens of El Dorado did venture into the quaint dive of my mother’s food establishment. And as the years went by, the diner earned a large, loyal following. Some stayed for the food, but most visited daily for other reasons.

“Hey, can I get a burger today?” a regular would ask.

“No!” my mom would yell.

“Oh, come on, Tong. I need some red meat. I want some red meat. If I don’t get any red meat, I’ll die.”

“You too fat, fat man. You get any more red meat, you will have heart attack. Today, you get garden salad with no dressing.”

“But…”

“But nothing, fat man. I want you to come to diner, not to early grave. Besides, I hate going to funeral. I look terrible when I cry.”

“You’d cry for me, Tong?”

“What?”

“You’d cry for me?”

“Do you want salad or not?”

“Sure, Tong, I’ll take the salad. And Tong . . . I love ya."

"You drunk."

The biggest attraction to the diner isn’t its novelty, the food or even the little Asian owner speaking ’70s jive. It’s much deeper than that. The regulars at this corner joint are what you’d expect to see in a Sam Shepard play. They’re older, largely single and a bit alcoholic in nature. They are the divorcees of the South, the abandoned, those accustomed to watching Wheel of Fortune from their Barcaloungers. Perhaps because the geisha-sized cook knows well what it’s like to lose a home, she knows it’s important that her restaurant be a place where anybody can hang a hat. So, here, in the smoke-filled, greasy-spooned world of hamburger steak plate lunches, she’s made this place their safe haven. The regulars come to the diner not because its uniqueness. They come because, after all, it’s just a diner.

*Unless you count country music, which is about as artistic as a wet beer fart.
**Huh?

Googling oneself out of existence

I google the fuck outta my name. All the time. Incessantly. Where I once used to surf music sites, sport scores, and porn, I’m now obsessed with finding more information about Qui Nguyen. Don’t misunderstand my words, though, I’m not some ultra-vain egomaniac who loves staring in the mirror and wearing shiny jewelry in the shape of my moniker. No, I don’t do it because of ego, I do it because of paranoia.

No, it's not me that I'm looking for when I type "Qui Nguyen" into the google search bar. It's the Doppelgangers that I'm trying to eye.

Fictional Beyondabsurdity Reader: But your name’s Qui Nguyen, Qui. Ain’t that name like mad uncommon? How many chiggas out there gonna be Q to the UI?

Answer: A lot.

Yep, Qui Nguyen is like the LaVar Burton of Vietnamese labels. It ain’t quite John Smith, but then again, it’s not like my parents just threw together some random letters or decided to just call me an onomatopoeia. It’s clearly been well thought out.

Thirty-one years ago . . .

Mom: Husband, what should we name our prized first-born son who will one day grow up to be a slightly successful playwright who, though, earning master degree and averaging half a dozen production a year will still only make enough money for Ramon Noodle dinners and American-made stereo system for home.

Dad: American-made stereo?

Mom: He very poor.

Dad: Can we call him “Phucking stupid”?

Mom: Already taken. Unfortunately, that’s the nickname for Actors Equity Association’s thoroughly behind-the-times showcase code.

Dad: Ah, yes. AEA is a bitch.

Mom: Any other ideas?

Dad: How about making him Junior. So all world knowing that he is my boy!

Mom: Hmm, good idea. But . . .

Dad: But what?

Mom: Maybe we should be using “Junior” for next child* after we get some practice in on this one. Remember this one will only end up being . . . a playwright.

Dad: Good call, good call.

Mom: How about Qui?

Dad: Qui?

Mom: Yes. Qui.

Dad: Isn’t that the sound made from female part when air is escaping vaginal tunnel during sex or other non-specific physical activity?

Mom: That’s Queef, silly. I said Qui. We should name him Qui, not Queef.

Dad: You know, his schoolyard friends will call him Queef if we name him Qui.

Mom: Hehe.

Dad: Hehehe.

Both: Hahaha . . . hehehe . . . ohohoh . . . my side, you killing me . . . hehehe -

Dad: Okay, then it is decided! We will name our boy Queef –

Mom: Qui.

Dad: I mean . . . Qui. Qui Nguyen! May his name bring him much ridicule and very little self-esteem.

Yep, Vamp fans, that’s exactly how it happened. True story.

With the thought that there’s more than one of me out there, I’m always frightened that one of them will be sporting our unique ID vastly better or thoroughly worse than myself.

In grade school, I knew exactly two kids who had the misfortune of being named “Michael Jackson”. This, of course, is during the days when the world still thought of Jacko as being hot, black, and not sleeping with little boys. This was the Michael of Thriller, Beat It, and Billy Jean fame.

And like a bad science experiment, one of the grade-school Mike’s was black and the other was white (Nope, I’m not gonna make the obvious Michael Jackson before/after joke here. It’s too easy).

Black Mike embraced his pseudo-identity like a good cover-band artist trying to perfectly mimic his imitated meal ticket. He learned the dance routines, wore the zipper-rific red jacket, jheri-curled his hair, and even strutted around with the single white glove. His peers loved him. Walking with him through the hallways of Murmil Heights Elementary, you felt like you were part of his miniature celebrity entourage styling through the hottest dance club as the crowds parted and all eyes were fixed on you.

White Mike, however, tried in vain to convince everyone he’d rather go by Bubba, Spike, or Rex. He had the anti-awesome experience. If Black Mike got to glorify in all the good components of the King of Pop, White Mike was the one pegged with the jokes about having a high voice and being “faggy”.

They were the yin and yang of second fiddle.

And this right here is singularly where my paranoia stems. Being second fiddle - the guy who has the same name as some other FAMOUS GUY.

And the truth is . . . FAMOUS GUY doesn't even have to be a writer to fuck it all up. Any variation that draws headlines suddenly makes me less me. Think about it: Serial Killer Qui, Lottery Winner Qui, Reality Show Qui, Religious Fanatic Qui, Pornstar Qui, Drunk Driving Actor Qui, Political Prisoner Qui . . . any variation that hits and suddenly your favorite yella playwright is just the guy who has the misfortune of sharing the same name as some other famous guy.

You don't have to tell me. I know this is a ridiculous and utterly fucked-up paranoia. But it is what haunts me every time I google. Every time I click on a wiki, every time I scan thru IMDB, every time I see an article about the world, I wonder is this the click that's gonna delete me out of existence?

And as I surf the internet sifting through the myriads and variations of myself, suddenly I find something I hadn’t seen before. Something that had never crossed my mind until it stares me in the face. I find three versions of me that are . . . women.

What?

I have a unisex name? I didn’t know that!

And suddenly where once I was afraid of another Qui fucking it all up, I start to ponder something even more perplexing. What if I’m actually a girl? And if I am a girl, do I find myself attractive?

Oh god, my paranoia has just evolved.

* And so they did.

Openhouse with the Vampire Cowboys!

Like the way you wished your prom date would've, Vampire Cowboys is puttin’ out for free! FREE!

Come celebrate the opening of The Battle Ranch on Saturday, September 8th, 2007 with a day of cool classes and an evening of party.
Details are below:

OPEN STUDIO DAY AND PARTY - SATURDAY SEPTEMBER 8TH

FREE CLASSES:
11AM to 12NOON: Children's Dance Class with Francesca Todesco
Dance for the young-uns, geared for children from 3 to 6 years

12NOON to 2PM: Vampire Cowboys' Stage Combat Workshop
Led by your favorite yella purveyor of kickass, Qui Nguyen

2PM to 4PM: Producing Workshop with Partial Comfort Productions
Our friends at Partial Comfort Productions dole out the theatre-producing know-how

4PM to 5PM: Movement for Actors
Led by Dancer and instructor Tami Stronach

5PM to 7PM: The Joy of Improv
Instructor Bob Lamm leads a class in improv for both performers and non-performers alike

Finally . . .

PARTY:
At 7PM, we’ll tear off our mild-mannered disguises and kick back for some drunk-juice, grub, tunes, and fun with THE BATTLE RANCH OPENING PARTY! There’ll be beer, food, music, and magic (Yep, muhfuckahs, I said MAGIC!). We’ll also be doing a free raffle to give out tickets and free rehearsal hours.

Saturday September 8th, 2007

at THE BATTLE RANCH
111 Conselyea Street, #2L
Williamsburg, Brooklyn

Click here for the mappage!

I hope to see ya there!

YEE-HAW!!!

Free play: ASIAN ACCENTS IN THE KEY OF SUCKY SUCKY

Whaddup, Vamp Fans! I’m about to head out for the weekend for a writers retreat with Youngblood and Ma-Yi. It should be a good time, though my liver may see some permanent damage from it. Wish me luck.

For your reading enjoyment though, below is a ten-minute piece I just wrote for 2G’s TEN which was produced by current Ma-Yi Labbie and former Youngblooder, Lloyd Suh.

ASIAN ACCENTS IN THE KEY OF SUCKY SUCKY

[Lights come up on THE REPORTER]

REPORTER: Welcome to Anyplace, America. A town that looks, smells, and seems just as ordinary as any other location in the great US. Zoom in closely, though, and discover a much more uglier truth hidden underneath this charming and seemingly innocent exterior.
Hello, ladies and gentlemen, today we examine a very frightening epidemic currently attacking our Asian youth. Unlike the good old days of old, the modern Asian household has gone through a very provocative change. First off, let's meet the Trans. A typical Asian family so normal they could literally be your next door laundry mat.

[Lights shift revealing a normal 1950's household.
Everyone speaks with heavy Asian accents.]

FATHER: Honey-san, I'm home.

[The FATHER enters with a huge smile and dressed like a 1950's sitcom. His wife greets him with a bow.]

MOTHER: How was your day, Husband-san!

FATHER: Downright dandy! Mister bossman was rearry excited about my work. He say "I never thought I'd hire a Jap after Korea, but I never knew you people knew so much about computers."

MOTHER: He thought you were Japanese?

FATHER: We all do look very similar, Wifey-san.

MOTHER: Very true. Very true.

SON: Daddy-san!

FATHER: Son-san! How was your first day of school?

SON: I got picked to be quarterback for Varsity Football team.

FATHER: I knew you would. So moves old-man show you help you out, no?

SON: Coach say it illegal to snap defender's neck in American Football.

FATHER: Ah, perhaps there is small difference between Defensive lineman and North Vietnamese Guerilla fighters.

SON: But couch still very impressed. He say because of equal-opportunity clause in school mission, I can be third string quarter-back on practice squad.

FATHER: See, son, if we put our minds to it, we can be anything we want to be.

SON: Even white.

FATHER: Yes, son, even white.

[The wife enters with a pot.]

MOTHER: Are you ready for dinner?

FATHER: What are we having?

MOTHER: Your favorite.

SON: German Shepherd!

MOTHER: With Rice Gravy!

FATHER: Mmmm-mm, that's some good eating.

[The family freezes in a smile.]

REPORTER: I know what you're thinking. They seem to be a completely normal Asian-American household.
But behind this very normal Nuclear Family exterior lies a much darker secret. A secret that would leave them speechless.
Intro: Dat Tran, the eldest child.

[DAT enters. He looks concerned.]

DAT: Mom. Dad. There’s something I think I should tell you. It’s about my voice . . .

[DAT speaks without any accent.]

MOTHER: Dear rord.

FATHER: Impossible.

SON: Make it stop, Daddy-san. Make it stop!

DAT: The thing is . . . I don’t have an accent.

FATHER: You just feel ill, number one son-an . Sit down. You just need to crear throat and everything be better.

DAT: My throat feels fine, dad.

FATHER: Repeat after me. Rove.

DAT: Love.

FATHER: Retter.

DAT: Letter.

FATHER: Raraparooza.

DAT: Lalapalooza.

FATHER: Honey-san! Call doctor . . . and fast!

[Light shift.]

REPORTER: Your ears are not deceiving you. I know it seems confusing, but this is, in fact, an Asian. An Asian void of an accent. It's a disturbing phenomena, I know. But it's one that is not confined just to the Tran household. All across America, young Asians everywhere seem to be losing their God-given pidgin English.

[Lights come up on a ASIAN TEENAGER and ASIAN VALLEY GIRL.]

TEENAGER: It's like I'm trying to talk like the way my Mom and Dad would like talk. But, like, it's hard.

VALLEY GIRL: I literally have no idea how something like this could have happened. But it did. And to be honest, I don’t think it’s that big o a deal.

TEENAGER: Like I try to tell them that I just sound like this.

VALLEY GIRL: Sure, I’m proud of my heritage, but when I misplace my L’s and R’s, it just feels . . . unnatural.

TEENAGER: Like, is this weird or what?

[Lights shift back to the Reporter.]

REPORTER: This lack of accent seems almost charming, doesn't it? But unchecked . . . it can grow to become much worse.

URBAN ASIAN: Sup, sup, muhfucka. I jus one Far East Beast sporting the urban jive tip for my vocal inclinations. Ain't no pidgin speech holding me back from getting me some bling, ya know what I mean? Fa’ real.

REPORTER: I have no idea what you just said.

URBAN ASIAN: Ain't no replacements in my L/R categories. I’m proud that tha words coming from my mouth sail freely like a lady without her panties. Got that, son?

REPORTER: It's as if you were just speaking in grunts.

URBAN ASIAN: Believe that. Say what? Fa' shizzel!

[Light shift.]

REPORTER: To find out more about this epidemic. We go to Doctor Ching Chang Walla Walla Bing Bang, the foremost expert in spontaneous speech assimilation. What does she think caused this problem and how can we fix it?

DOCTOR: I've been researching this for quite some time. Nearly twenty years.

REPORTER: So you've seen it all?

DOCTOR: Oh yes. Asians sounding like whites, blacks, latinos. Quite awful. Close your eyes and you can't even tell these are Asians speaking to you.

REPORTER: Do you know what could have caused this?

DOCTOR: Well after nearly a decade worth of compiling research, the only single driving connection we can identify is one common characteristic that all our youth possess.

REPORTER: And what is that characteristic, Doctor Bang?

DOCTOR: They all seem to enjoy . . . television.

[Lights shift revealing two men in Martial Arts stances.
It is a Kung Fu movie.
A MASTER and his STUDENT.
Their voices are dubbed over.]

MASTER’S VOICEOVER: I see that your Kung Fu has grown quite immensely since beginning your study here at the Shaolin Temple.

STUDENT’S VOICEOVER: My Kung Fu is Good, Master. But I must question . . . is it as good as yours?

MASTER’S VOICEOVER: There's only one way to find the answer to that question, my student.

STUDENT’S VOICEOVER: What? You wish me to fight you, Master?

MASTER’S VOICEOVER: I wish to see if you are worthy of this Shen Gong Wu. Bring it!

[The MASTER and STUDENT begin fighting. There are sound effects added in for all the punches and kicks.]

REPORTER: Pause.

[The action stops.]

DOCTOR: I think we've seen enough. Obviously, the actor's real voices weren't used. As you can see, young Asians exposed to this may have picked up the wrong message. They may think it's okay to speak without an accent.

REPORTER: Many would like to blame Hollywood for causing this problem. But what does Hollywood have to say about this? Let's talk to the stars of this Kung Fu hit to find out their opinions.

[Light shift. The Kung fu duo now sit comfortably on canvas actor chairs.]

MASTER: I feeling very sad that young people thinking my movie say it okay to turn back on hundred years of incorrect speech. Our people have spent much time perfecting bad Engrish and now, my movie make new generation lose all rink to past. It very very sad.

REPORTER: You seem to feel pretty strongly about this.

MASTER: Media making British accent sexy. Making French and Italian accent sexy. But not always this way. Wrong time ago, when America first come to be, all accent was bad. But now, Hollywood grorify some, but not other. I asking – why not retting us speak the way we speak? If America can see sexy Asian men and women speaking with true Asian accent, it too can be sexy just like rap music.

REPORTER: I see.

MASTER: I go to studio everyday. I saying to director, I want to make quality picture so young people can see great Asian hero. Instead, he steal my voice and make my children sound rike pro-wrestlers.

REPORTER: Your real-life son co-stars in many of your movies. How does he feel about all this?

MASTER: Oh, I thinking he no better than any of the other young people. He speak like man not proud of heritage.

STUDENT: Pop, stop it.

MASTER: I show you "stop it". You talk rike hippie.

STUDENT: I'm not a hippie.

MASTER: I knew raising you in movies was bad idea, but your mother disagreeing. You too young to do this. Now. you just ungrateful brat!

STUDENT: Screw you.

MASTER: I show you "screw".

STUDENT: Pop, that doesn't even make sense.

MASTER: I show you "sense"!

STUDENT: Pop, don't get riled.

MASTER: I SHOW YOU RILED!

[The MASTER attacks The STUDENT.
This time, though, it's not Kung Fu. It's just an ass-beating.]

REPORTER: Once again, ladies and gentlemen, the communication gap begins to destroy yet another family.

POLITICIAN: It's clearly not the Media. Should I remind everyone that our neighboring Canada watches the exact same movies and listens to the exact same music as our young Asian-American youth. However their speech patterns haven’t changed. They still say things like "Eh", "Sory Boot Dat", and "Oh".

REPORTER: Then if not the media, then what could have caused our Asian-American decline in pidgin English?

POLITICIAN: Well, what do we have that Canada doesn't?

REPORTER: Good Fashion Sense?

POLITICIAN: Well, besides that.

REPORTER: I don't know.

POLITICIAN: The Constitution.

REPORTER: The Constitution?

POLITICIAN: Yes, the Constitution of the United States of America.

REPORTER: You blame our legislature?

POLITICIAN: I blame the misinterpretation of the Constitution for all this. Especially the first amendment.

REPORTER: The freedom of speech?

POLITICIAN: Obviously, when that amendment was originally drafted, it was a different time. Our forefathers intents had nothing to do with speech itself. It was written as a way for us to defend ourselves in case our new government became a tyranny. So we could speak out against them.

REPORTER: I see.

POLITICIAN: However, the first amendment does not imply, though, in any way the right to speak without any sort of dialect. No where in the constitution does it have any reference to any dialects whatsoever. It is time to define that speech is, once and for all, one dialect to one ethnicity.

[A crowd forms. They picket against the POLITICIAN.]

ACTIVIST: How can you say that?

PROTESTER: That's bullshit.

ANGRY CITIZEN: Hell no, we won't go!

POLITICIAN: It's time we stand up to activist judges who would give special rights to those that are accentless.

ACTIVIST: Everyone should have the right to speak clearly!

PROTESTER: Dialects suck!

ANGRY CITIZEN: You can have my "Standand English" when you rip it away from my cold dead trachea.

POLITICIAN: Calm down, people.

THE MOB: It’s a right, not a light! It’s a right, not a light! It’s a right, not a light!

[The MOB carries THE POLITICIAN away.]

REPORTER: As you can see, the argument of accents is a very sensitive one. But who is right here? Is it the Media's fault or is it because of a missing law that has caused our Asian youth to lose their vocal identities? Perhaps both arguments are valid. Or perhaps both arguments are just as faulty. As you can see, though, no one seems to be getting any closer to the answer.
For our final thought of the evening, I’d like to introduce you to a very special young lady. One who, instead of worrying about blame, speaks her own vernacular – a vernacular that mixes the linguistic and cultural patterns of Eastern tradition with contemporary urban American slang. And she speaks it with pride.

LINGUIST: Moshi moshi, muhfuckahs!
Ima first thanking all of y’all for retting me speaking to you about my yella identity.
I say – Ai-ya- what the hell is “AA”?
Asian American?
Alcoholics Anonymous?
Amino fucking Acids?
How about just “Anotha Assholean” term trying to define how I’m suppose to sound, speak, and act.
Before all o’ this, I useta thinking that the ways my moms and pops spoke was disgustin’, but what I came to realize was that I was hearing them through yo’ Hollywood filter of chop-chops and “me rove you wrong times”. I was retting yo’ hate define my rife. I was retting you define me.
Now I say – fuck all that!
Rook at me – rook at my face – rook at my voice.
I am what I am – I am all the yella, brown, and gold that ever made it to these shores. I am broken Engrish and I am American. And I bow to nobody.
Wanna step? I’ll go Bruce Ree on yo’ ass.
My Engrish is sexy, my Engrish is hot – my Engrish is equal parts bad grammar and equal parts badass.
And I’m gonna talk loud. On subways, in restaurants, right next to ya – and you can roll your eyes and you can whisper you’d wish this Asian bitch would go somewhere else. But guess what, Gwai lo, I ain’t moving nowhere. I lives here. I living where you livin’.
So this is to all my brothas and sistas – wheter you’re South-East Brown or Far East Gold, we all stand together – this is our voice, muhfuckahs, and if you ain’t riking it, go busy some earprugs, bitches!
Sheh-sheh. KIAAA!

End of Play

Making nice at The Metropolitan

They say the best remedy for a hangover is more drinking. With this in mind, I decide to extend my past weekend’s bender for one more day by joining my roommate, Nathan, on a drunken pilgrimage to his favorite watering hole, The Metropolitan, Williamsburg’s local dive for queers and beers.

When it comes to hops that even a poor playwright can afford, The Metropolitan budgets suds at bargain basement prices. Especially at the top of the week when on Monday nights from 10pm to 4am, they offer $1 cans of PBR. So if you’re fan of the boy-on-boy or girl-on-girl action (Yep, it plays for both crowds), this hangout for rainbow friendly hipsters is definitely a place to embrace your inner alcoholic.

*Screech!*

Fictional BeyondAbsurdity Reader: Whoa, whoa, whoa! Back the fuck up! Who’s Nathan? When did you get a roommate?

Oh, yeah, to help alleviate the brunt of the new rise in monthly apartment rent due to our move to The Battle Ranch, the Abby-chu and I picked up a roommie. But not just any roommie, Nathan and I have been friends since Year Two of undergrad. During the days when Britney Spears was still virginal, Meg Ryan was still hot, and Nathan was still pretending to be a fan of Tang (The Astronaut drink, you pervs. Geez!), we formed a fast friendship that’s lasted for, well, a very long time.

Strolling into The Metropolitan, we immediately meet up with another one of our long-time compadres, the infamous Jeremy Sarver, who not only starred in Vampire Cowboys’ most recent premiere, Men of Steel, but was also a past roommate of mine back in 2002 as well as a fellow graduate of Louisiana Tech’s theatre department.

Jeremy: Whaddup, breeder.

Me: Nuthin’ much, fudge-packer.

(Yeah, we’re keen on being politically correct at all times.)

Jeremy: Let’s get our drink on!

It’s not long before the drunken muse of Lady Liquor gets our social muscles rolling. We do what all old friends do, we crack jokes, reminisce on unimportant old shit, and slam back booze like we’re a trio of teenagers at a religious retreat (Okay, I’ll admit I’ve never been on a religious retreat, but I’m just assuming that’s what you do at one of those things. Come on, ya got to be boozin’ to take in that much God, right? Right? Okay, I might be wrong.).

Perhaps it’s because of my folks’ open-minded upbringing of me or the fact that I’m in the arts or, most likely, my usual social mantra of just not giving a fuck, but for being a straight guy, hanging out at a gay bar has never been a thing to phase me in the least bit. In all honesty, I actually find it quite refreshing to not have to wade through the typical machismo posturing of angsty post-collegiate males as they try to entice young sorostitutes by shoulder-checking fellow drinkers and screaming sweet-ass come-on lines like “Yo, baby, is that Windex you’re wearing, cause I can see me in your pants!”

I’m an equal opportunity drunk willing to throw back at any bar that’ll serve me a beer for less than five dollars. And as we all know, finding quality dive bars like that in the ol’ NYC don’t come easy. Thus, I drink without prejudice. Plus, it’s kinda fun to look over and see a pair of fine senoritas making-out in the corner (Yeah, that’s right).

However, just cause we’re at a gay establishment doesn’t mean the occasional jackass doesn’t sneak thru.

“Hey, are all you fags?” inquires an aggressive trucker-hatted hipster who looks like he’s taken one too many hits off the ol’ stupid-pipe.

“Why? Gotta a problem with that?” I immediately come back.

“I just wanna know if all y’all are fucking faggots.”

Now, I have a slight history of violence in my past. Growing up as one of the only golden-skinned rednecks in my primarily white and black hometown of “Yee-haws” and “Get’r done’s”, my trigger finger to prejudice is slightly sensitive to say the least. It’s a button that can get me going Hulk faster than it takes George Dubya in doing something stupid. As soon as I hear this fucker say “fag”, my instinct to go ape-shit flips on.

However . . .

“Nope, he’s a breeder,” says Jeremy as he points to me.

“You don’t have to tell him that,” I reply. “That shit don’t matter.”

I give a cold stare, but Trucker Hat flops down at our table anyways. He looks at Jeremy and slurs out, “So you’re a fag, right?”

I’m two seconds away from breaking a beer bottle over this guy’s head.

Jeremy, however, stays completely calm and goes, “Look around, honey. We’re all fags.”

Trucker Hat eyes the scene cautiously and slowly turns back to me. “So you tolerate this shit, man?”

“Tolerate?”

“Yeah, you don’t mind being around all these fags?”

“Nope. I love beer.” I stoicly reply.

Suddenly, a smile crosses Trucker Hat’s face and he screams “ME TOO!” He stands up to high-five me. I, however, leave him hanging.

He stands there awkwardly.

And now a moment for science: When alcohol is consumed at this great of a quantity, both sensory and motor functions are highly compromised. As the brain attempts to metabolize the rapidly growing tide of alcohol molecules at an exponentially slowing rate due to intoxication, the body’s ability to fully function at optimum capacity is rendered inefficient. Meaning simply, whatever goes up . . .

Trucker Hat abruptly collapses face-first onto the ground.

. . . must come down.

The whole bar quiets as his crash creates a large boom that ricochets throughout the walls.

All eyes are on us.

Growing up, I used to get into a lot of fights. It was like a weekly ritual for me during my Junior High School days. Avoiding punches, beating up bullies, learning to spit out a slam before an asshole could retort was all part of who I was in that former life. About the age of 15, my father, picking me up directly after yet another schoolyard brawl, drives me to The Minuteman, a local burger joint in El Dorado, Arkansas. We sit down with a pair of milkshakes between us and he says to me “What are you doing, son? You can’t teach people with your fists. You can keep knocking them down to the floor, but they’ll always keep coming right back. Sometimes you have to know when to stop and help them off the ground to win. Do you understand?”

I didn’t. At 15, I felt too justified in my anger, too bullheaded with my bullshit, to be able to listen to my father.

But on this night. Fifteen years later . . .

Jeremy reaches down and scraps Trucker Hat off the pavement and pulls him up back onto a chair. “You okay?” he asks, brushing him off and checking on his face.

“No,” Trucker Hat replies. “My life sucks.”

“Join the club,” Jeremy adds charmingly.

Trucker Hat looks up and acknowledges Jeremy’s good graces.

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

And with that, a conversation begins – without the word “fag”, without angsty posturing, without incident. Jeremy listens as Trucker Hat incoherently rambles on and on about the shittiness of his existence. It doesn’t take long, but we all get involved and shortly afterwards, the tide turns.

Watching how Jeremy handled himself in this situation, I see what my dad was trying to tell me all those years ago. A fight would have just been a fight. But in a simple act of giving a fellow drunk a hand, who knows? Maybe some walls got knocked down without having to use any brute force.

We all depart each other around 4am once the PBR’s stop being $1. And as we stumble out of The Metropolitan, Jeremy pauses and orders one last round of shots. We tink glasses and I realize, regardless of the alcohol, the world looks just a little bit different to me now. Which is a good thing.

Familial Theatre Fuckup

My parents don’t know much about my profession. Being Vietnamese immigrants to the great land of the cheeseburger, my dysfunctional Mom and Dad had a slightly difficult time adjusting to the culture. Without even being able to speak the common language, their early years in America went about as easy as a porn-star vying for public office. It just was bad. Now though, almost thirty years later, after surviving many many different naïve mistakes and social fuck-ups, they somehow have finally found their niche in the New World. Raising a family, helping three kids financially through the gauntlet of higher education, and owning their own old-fashioned greasy spoon diner, my folks are the proverbial American Dream.

However, now as they watch their three boys tackle the “real world”, they get a tad nervous.

My two younger siblings, however, both have business degrees. With tons of practicality and left-brain thinking on their side, these two future six-figure contenders are not my folk’s primary worry. My mom and pop, regardless of how nervous they are about my siblings’ rocky beginnings, know that their boys will be able to climb to the pinnacle of their professional mountains with no problem.

Shift the focus to me, however, watch as my parents’ look of pride fade into confusion.

It isn’t because they don’t have faith in me. When it comes to faith, their support is as strong as a shepherd hacking up their first-born son to an invisible deity. They know I’m smart. What they don’t know exactly is what the hell I’m doing.

Vietnam, during my folk’s adolescence, was more bombs, explosions, and military action than a place to do any growing up. Citizens and the innocent bystanders were too busy ducking and covering than to have any free time to concentrate on things like leisure and entertainment. Of course, looking at the history of Vietnam, art does exist. However, back in the day, the communists were too busy blowing that shit up for anyone to enjoy. Communists like to do that sorta thing. Blow shit up.

My profession is theatre, specifically playwriting, even more specifically, being a struggling playwright. Since my mom and pop have had no real experiences with art, the idea that I’m doing art translates into me doing nothing. When I say I’m a professional playwright, what they hear is only the word “play”, nothing else.

“Son, how is work in New York?”

“It’s good, Dad. We’re in our last week of rehearsals for my newest play and it’s looking pretty good.”

“No. I no ask about how you play. I ask about work.”

“I know, dad. I write plays. I’m not actually playing.”

“I ask about work.”

“This is work.”

“You said you play.”

"No, Dad, I said I write plays.”

“See, you play!”

“I. Write. Plays.”

“Right! You play!”

“Are you even listening to me?”

“I ask about work.”

“Who’s on first?”

“Don’t make fun of your father!”

“Work is good, Dad. I’m making money.”

“That’s all I want to know. Thank you.”

Obviously, there’s a bit of a communication gap over the AT&T long-distance lines.

What’s great about them, though, is the fact that they supported me through all my theatrical education with zero debate. Unlike alotta folks, they didn’t freak when I said I was going to be a theatre major in college. I’ll admit that their support was kind of incidental to the fact that they didn’t know what the hell theatre even was, but regardless, ignorance bred happiness when I brought home report-cards filled with A’s instead of my high school C’s.

“Son, it look like you did very good in . . . Commedia dell’arte? Uh, what is that?”

“It’s a theatre class, Dad.”

“What?”

“Theatre.”

“What!?!”

“What was your question again?”

“Don’t make fun of your Father!”

“It’s . . . an Italian math class, Dad.”

“Ahhh . . . VERY GOOD!”

Okay, so I’ll admit I wasn’t much help in fostering their understanding of my profession either. However, in the last couple of years, my parents have picked up a few facts here and there.

“Honey, did you know there is a Broadway Street in Little Rock?”

“No, Mom, I didn’t.”

“If you move there, you can work on that street. Then you be on Broadway! Isn’t that what theatre people want to do?”

“Not the same thing, Mom.”

“But Little Rock so much closer to home than New York. We miss you!”

Now, it’s really cute that my folks have tried to find a way to understand my passions. Sadly, though, their facts are a bit skewed. Instead of going to books or even the internet for their facts, they decided to get their insights from a much more reliable source – the redneck regulars at their diner*. To say the least, theirs view on Artistic folks now have become a tad . . . general (Or thoroughly fucked up. Whatever.).

“Honey, I talk to Clarene at Restaurant about theatre yesterday.”

“Really, Mom. That’s cool.”

“She say theatre people are all gay.”

“Um. Okay. Well, Mom, some theatre people are . . .”

“I just want you to know that your father and I love you very much. We accept you.”

“What?”

“We accept you.”

“Mom, I’m not gay.”

“We understand that you are an individual and you make your own decisions.”

“Mom, I’m straight.”

“It okay. You can tell me.”

“I like women.”

“No need to hide.”

“Mom, I’ve been in a ton of relationships. Remember Anna? We dated for three years. And this girl Abby I just met -”

“But why you not married?”

“Because I’m not ready.”

“No, it because you not like girl!”

“I’m not Gay!”

“You gay!”

“Mom - ”

“I love you, my gay son.”

Click . . .

As I said, my folks are very supportive. They are crazy as all fuck and apparently slightly deaf, but they’re supportive.

My father, at least, realizes that I don’t worship the cock. He’s a bit more old-fashioned than my Mom, though. I’m not saying he’s a raging bigot. He just likes to give advice.

“Son, I know you have lots of gay friends.”

“Yes, Dad, that’s true.”

“But you not gay.”

“Not even the teeniest bit.”

“But if you are gay, we still love you.”

“I know and that really means a lot to me.”

“You straight.”

“Yes.”

“You know, though . . . gay people really like to drink.”

“What?”

“If you drink, you should not get too drunk with gay friend. Maybe you get confused and go home with gay friend.”

“Get confused, dad? What are you saying exactly?”

“You not see very good. Your eye all blurry. You think your friend is girl because they smell like Gucci perfume and then . . . oops, you sleeping with man. Then you Gay!”

“Dad, you drink a lot. Have you ever slept with any of your male friends?”

“No! But I not in theatre.”

As I said before, my folks don’t get what I do. But maybe I’m asking too much. Looking past all the mess and past miscommunications, though, I realize that alotta other parents – especially Asian parents - would have freaked that their kid was dedicating their life to something not practical. Not my folks, though. Regardless of understanding my job, the type of work I do, or even the lifestyles surrounding the aura of my artistic community, they have blindly thrown all their love and support towards my success, even though they don’t know what success in my field actually even means. Then again, I don’t even know what that exactly means. But as I get older, I do know it has something to do with what my parent’s already have. Faith, love, and little bit of nuttiness.

* Though, I do refer to my folk’s regulars as Rednecks, these guys are some of the most open-minded soft hearted people I’ve ever known. Though they’re simple, they aren’t crazy racists. I just call them rednecks because they love Reba and eat pickled pig’s feet. In my opinion, that’s just enough country to earn them the Redneck title.

It's back . . .

The FringeNYC has returned and there’s almost 200 productions in this season's line-up.

Me: How many shows do we have to see this year?

Which means it's time for Abby and I to start getting picky.

Abby: A lot.

Figuring out which ones to check out each year is like playing a really intricate game of chess. It’s easy making the first couple of moves, but it’s the latter ones that always love to fuck up a good plan.

Me: So how about we just choose from the ones that have people we know in them. That has to rule out a few, right?

However, after five years of rocking it out in NYC’s Off-Off Broadway theatre scene, both of us have accumulated more acquaintances, collaborators, and drinking buddies than our social calendars can easily accommodate. And unfortunately for us in this occasion, most of them can always be found doing the Fringe. Which means . . .

Abby: (Sarcastically) Wow. Nice. That really made a sizable dent, honey. And, look, most of them are happening at the exact same time!

And there's us getting fucked. Okay, so this may take awhile.

In case you're curious . . .

Here’s 12 shows that I’m gonna try my best to attend (In no particular order). Will I manage to pull it off? Who knows? We'll see.

1) Lights Rise on Grace
2) Hail Satan
3) The Commission
4) Antartica
5) Bombs in your Mouth
6) Not From Canada
7) John Goldfarb, Please Come Home!
8) Orientarhythm
9) Williamsburg! The Musical
10) Dressing Miss Julie
11) Susan Gets Some Play
12) Scout's Honor!

Happy Fringing, everybody!

Weekend Hangover

Whaddup, my perky-titted pals and hard-bodied homies (Cause you know if you like reading the Qui then you gotsa be hella sexilious . . . or at least slightly above-average and thoroughly bored at work. Close enough)! It’s Monday and – surprise, surprise – your favorite yella faced dramatist is still gainfully unemployed. But worry not, Vamp fans, all is not lost. There are still two pending royalty checks hanging out there somewhere in the vacuous ether that have yet to reach the ol’ inbox. It’s not much money, but at least enough green to pay for my upcoming September rent, ward off the evil credit card demons, and immediately get me some relief from my sudden crash diet of Oriental flavored high-sodium noodles and Chef Boy-R-Diarrhea (Cha-cha-cha). Thank goodness for my superhero playscripts cause Citizen Qui ain’t doing so hot at the day-job box office.

Of course, just cause I’m broke, out-of-work, and quickly drowning in writing deadlines doesn’t mean I’m suffering a case of the blues. Oh hecks no. I would have to have loads more common sense to let a little thing like a lack-of-cash bring me down. So instead of staying home and contemplating the emptiness of my employment status, I did what anyone in this predicament would do - I freshly Febreze’d my least dirty shirt and strolled out to get my weekend drink on.

Luckily for me, the search for low budget entertainment wasn’t daunting. It wasn’t even a trifle. No hitch, no snag, not even a hiccup. It came as easy as finding a drunk sorority girl at a Dave Matthews Concert (Mmm, drunk girls.).

My weekend inebriation began at The Battle Ranch, the official headquarters of my mighty mighty Vampire Cowboys. Me compadres over at Nosedive Central rented out the facility for some benefitty goodness and they brought with them - along with a pretty kickin’ rock band, jello-shots, and an array of baked snacks – a keg of lager-riffic fun. The benefit was to raise money for their upcoming season which includes three shows (Blood Brothers present Pulp, A Very Nosedive Christmas Carol, Colorful World) and hopefully a trip to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival to remount their last season’s hit, The Adventures of Nervous Boy.

Anyone in the biz can tell ya, the job of raising funds takes up as much time* & energy** as creating the art. The shit we all do doesn’t come cheap, so – seriously – if you’re digging someone’s artistic excrement, shell out. Dig deep into your low-rise hipster jean pockets and toss your spare dimes at your favorite indie storytellers. Don’t let the Republicans fool ya***, art is important. So help out the world and adopt a theatre company. It’s the gift that keeps on giving.

Don’t know who to adopt? Check out any of the companies on the right hand column under “My Favorite NYC Theatre Companies”. Not only will seeing them better your life, it’ll also help get you laid. No, I ain’t fuckin’ with ya. Everybody loves a cultured muhfuckah and cultured muhfuckahs who dig the best shit always draw in the best tail. And these companies are some of the absolute best in NYC, so sayeth the Qui.

Continuing . . .

On Saturday, my theatrical drinking excursion brought me to The Zipper Theatre to check out the always amazing Ma-Yi Theatre Company tear it up with their rendition of Suzan Lori Park’s 365 Plays/365 Days.

The show was excellent with a cavalcade of new actors showing off their shit to a sold out house of 240. The highlight of the night was in the finale in which 16 actors (led by the uber-talented Jojo Gonzalez) performed a dance/tap/stomp-the-yard’esque musical piece honoring Gregory Hines. It was some full-on goodness that left me smiling long after I left the theatre (Well, it was either that or the large quantity of liquor I was consuming . . . either way, I was happy).

Afterwards, I hung around the Zipper to wash a few back with my badass buddies of Ma-Yi. The Zipper, along with its theatre, also sports a very lovely bar/restaurant which has a very interesting (And not outrageously priced) draft selection including three imports (Krusovice Pilsner, Weihenstephan Hefeweisse, & Grimbergen Double Bock), four tasty microbrews (Brooklyn Pennant Ale, Fuggles Shipyard IPA, Black Dog Ale, & Mothers Milk Keegans stout), and – my choice (cause it was the cheapest) – a lager from Canada called appropriately enough, Zipper Lager. Drinking here was a nice change from the usual divey dive bars I more readily frequent. Gone were the loud scenesters, stumbling sorostitutes, and geriatric alcoholics that usually make up my drinking scene. It was a nice escape, but – again – I’m broke and a foray into this slightly fancier setting will do a number on my dwindling supply of pocket Hamiltons.

I ended my evening of liver-damage back on 14^th Street at Flannery’s Bar. The prices aren’t quite Greenpoint’esque affordable, but they do offer my Cowboy beer of choice via $8 pitchers and the crowd is void of suits, ties, and guys who wear sunglasses at night (All of which gets my nod of approval). It’s still far from being a Williamsburg dive, but I have nostalgic reasons for enjoying it. Five years ago, this was my usual first stop after doing my duty as a waiter. I had shared many a drink here trying to exorcise my quarter-life crisis and numb myself from the fact that I had scored exactly zero prospects in getting any of my plays produced. This is where I moped, questioned, and doubted. This was where I wallowed in my professional lows and tried to kill it with drunkaholic highs. Sitting here amongst my friends five years later, though, I’m ironically still broke, still without a job, and still sucking on a beer bottle like it had gold at the bottom. From the outside, there seems to be very little change except now I’m a bit rounder and my friends have gotten a bit better looking. On the exterior, it may seem like the same set as the former show, but on the inside, it couldn’t be further from the truth. The Qui now has finally won a few rounds. In 2002, I was just the kid getting hit. Now, I truly feel like I got a chance. Because when it comes down to it, it’s now my day-jobs that suffer and my art that gets the time, focus, and attention. It’s the way it’s supposed to be. And regardless of how many Benjamins may be coming my way via Joe-job, I’m feeling mad rich when it comes to the real shit – the shit that defines me – the shit that I came here to do. So why would I ever feel blue about that?

I may still have a hangover, but my drunk has never felt so good! Hoo-yah!

*Actually more
** Way More
***Aw, shit, Qui just went political!

A shot from Ma-Yi Theater Company's production of 365 Days/365 Plays.
Photo by Ralph B. Pena.

Even Superman had a dayjob . . .

So after five years of pounding the glittery pavement of the NYC theatrical highway, I’ve somehow managed to create a somewhat decent livelihood* where little more than half of my yearly income is strictly coming from playwriting and fight directing gigs**. This, of course, says to me that (A) I’m actually making some professional headway in this pipedream career of mine and (B) that whatever I'm making per year is undoubtedly floating around the national poverty line. It’s not a bad place to be for the time being, but it ain’t quite Mecca.

Looking back, it’s a pretty far departure from where I started. During year one of Qui’s dark night adventures, I made 100% of my rent money by getting my ass-slapped at one of Chelsea’s most geriatric gay bar/restaurants. I was a waiter and if I wanted the big tip, I had to stay in shape and learn how to be sexually ambiguous enough to convince all the grey-haired rice-queens that they had a chance. This, of course, was not a high point in my search for a writing-life. It was definitely not what my ol’ immigrant Mom and Pop intended as they slaved away during their overtime hours to pay for my college education.

But regardless of how it started, it was my path and it somehow got me here. Here, where half of my life is now paid for by doing that which I love. Half, meaning I may not be a rockstar just yet, but I definitely do get the chance to rock. It’s not so bad when I think about it. It’s actually pretty muhfuckin' badass.

But – and here’s the big butt of it all – if exactly one-half of my life is that of Superman, the other half, unfortunately, is dedicated to the mild-mannered day-jobs of humdrum and who-gives-a-crap. If writing pays for my burger, my shitty joe-jobs are the ones that pay for the fries and beer.

Which brings me to today . . .

For the last two and a half months, I’ve been successfully unemployed. I say “successfully” because luckily for me, royalty checks and a few well-timed fight gigs have allowed me to eat and sleep entirely on art’s dime. However, after soaking in summer’s humid rays with Lady Playwriting, the mongrel-faced beast of NYC’s overpriced rental fees have finally come a'knocking to claim some geisha-like loving from my bank account.

To feed it such, I gotta now throw on some slacks, print up some resumes, and get cracking at finding some paid work in doing that which I do worst (AKA anything that isn’t writing or fighting).

Previously in the life of Qui Nguyen, I worked as an adjunct professor at Kingsborough Community College. I taught acting and theatre appreciation. It wasn’t a bad gig, but working as an adjunct means that once a semester ends, there’s no guarantee that I’m gonna still be working when the next round of classes begins. It’s all dependent on numbers and if not enough students sign up for my classes, I’m shit outta luck.

It’s now mid-August and I haven’t gotten a call from the school. My assumption at this point is that I’m on my own.

So, thusly, the job hunt begins.

Looking for a Joe-job to me is like looking for the least painful way to get executed.

Scanning through the classifieds, I try to find positions that (1) Will best fit into my lifestyle of writing and rehearsals, (2) Pays enough that I don’t have to worry about my rent, (3) Not a job that I have to do any work on after I leave the office, and (4) Being there won’t drive me to a point of complete suicidal depression.

The last point is one that is pretty crucial. I know no Joe-job will ever make me happy, but all I ask is that it doesn’t drive me sad. Which is hard because, honestly, 99% of all Joe-jobs brings a pretty distinctive frown to my glowing yella face.

My darling Abby’s been helpful in helping me in my search for the least painful way to pay for my bills. She's lined me up an interview this morning that I’m hoping not to bomb. Staring at myself in the mirror, I tuck in my shirt and practice my most charming smile as well as my most convincing laugh. Hearing myself, I realize there's a reason why I gave up on the acting eight years ago.

Hopefully, it won’t be too long before I’m able to afford both eating and having a place to sleep. But until then, I do what we've all have had to do at one time or another - I cinch back my belt and learn to love Ramon noodles again.

Wish me luck, Vamp fans. I'm off to get my Clark Kent on.

See ya on Monday!

*Stress on “somewhat”, stretch on “decent”.

**Please don’t misconstrue this as bragging at all. An artist being proud that they can make half of their income at only doing art is like being John Bobbit and being proud that only half his dick got cut off. It’s relieving that it’s not all completely lost, but it ain’t quite like you’re gonna be fucking any pornstars anytime soon.

You know you likee likee!

For all you theatre geeks out there that got an Asian fetish and love free stuff (And let's be honest here, that pretty much sums up everybody), here’s ya some yella action that won't make ya reach for your billfold:

Ma-Yi Theater Company presents Week 39 of Suzan-Lori Park’s 365 Days/365 Plays!!!

Go see this shit. It’s gonna be hot.

Fa' shizzle!

Finally, The Battle Ranch has arrived!!! (Actually, it got here about a week ago, but . . .)

Oh, holy heck, I’m back. After six days of being excommunicated from the information age due to my move to The Battle Ranch, the Time Warner installation Gods have finally decided to let me back into the internet gates of pornbloggraphy. And it feels good. Oh, yes, how I’ve missed my OCD existence of procrastinately (I know it’s not a word) checking my email every fifteen minutes, playing online Texas Hold’em, reading sports scores, and – of course – keeping up with the whacky world of theatre through the eyes of my bloggarific compatriots. It’s good to be home. Oh, yes, it is muhfuckin’ good to be muhfuckin’ home!

Speaking of homes . . .

(How do ya like that for a segue, bitches!?!)

Abby and I are finally moved in. The Battle Ranch is alive. And – boy – is this shiznet some fun!

How’d the move go? Well . . .

On Wednesday, Abby and I woke up way too early in the morning to prep our apartment for all the exodus hijinx. Abby smacked the alarm then smacked me and off we went packing the last of our toiletries, refrigerated items, and bedding before the movers arrived.

Yes, you heard me correctly, true believers, I said movers. Not drunken friends, guys who owed me money, or that homeless fella on the corner that smells like Oriental flavor Ramon Noodles, I said movers. For the first time in my thirty years of life, instead of conning my buddies into hauling my shit from place to place, Qui’s stuff is being transported ala professionals. And that plan was good.

I will admit, however, a strange feeling of guilt washing over me as I watched our team of four above-average-sized guys carry our belongings down two flights of stairs during one of the hottest days this summer. But when Abby told me how much we were paying them, including a very generous tip, that guilt quickly got the fuck outta Dodge.

BTW, there’s nothin’ sexier than a good tipper. And my baby tosses a tip like a bitch playin’ craps. If I were still a waiter, she’d be the one who always scored a special free treat at the end of her meal (Yeah, innuendo intended).

However, it wasn’t just my apartment that needed moving. Along with my home, we also had to relocate all our Vampire Cowboys stock from our storage locker by the Navy Pier back to our current burg of Battle Ranchy goodness. That endeavor, however, did not include a team of heavyweight transporters. Nope, that move was being executed by me, Vampire Cowboys’ Ass Pro (As in Associate Producer, you pervs.) Dan Rech, and one very lucky Uhaul truck.

After seeing how quickly and easily my movers gravy-trained our junk outta our house, I was feeling pretty frikkin’ inspired to get my man-on. However, I’m a certified weakling with a master’s degree in namby-pamby. Luckily, Dan’s a good Midwestern boy who can toss a bin stuffed full of costumes as easily as he can throw a bail of hay. And that white boy can toss some muhfuckin’ hay.

Dan and I reached the storage facility at around noon-thirty. It wasn’t until about an hour later before we actually got to moving shit. Why? Cause it was the first of the month which meant the storage facility staff was too busy cleaning out spots of delinquent renters than to worry about assisting two guys needing to move five grocery carts worth of theatrical shizzy. They hogged up every moving cart, elevator, and elevator operator for the majority of the day.

Note: If you’re gonna get a storage locker for all your mad rubbish, pay for that shit. Cause these guys are ruthless. They were tossing televisions, stereo systems, fucking photo albums. Let me repeat that: They fucking tossed photo albums. That’s like smearing a big wet steamer into your grandmother’s face. Yeah, that’s fucked. Big time. So pay for your shit or it’s going to the great trash heap.

After a copious amount of impatient smoking, pacing, and twiddling of thumbs, we spotted an open cart. Well, sorta. An old man had just finished unloading some items into the back of his truck. As soon as the last box left his weathered wrinkly old-man hands, I was on his shit like a stick-up, kid.

"Yo, you done with this?"

"Well, actually, I still have –"

"Thanks, man, we’ve been needing one all day!" And off I went, running away with the prized rollie-mcthingy. Luckily at that exact moment, an elevator opened up and we were riding up before the elderly gent could manage walking back up the stairs.

Worry not, fans of old folks, wrinkly guy had a second cart which was being used by his son. He was just wanting to get outta that joint fast by hitting his shit with some double penetrating action*. However, my need to just get started over-rided his need for efficiency.

When Dan and I finally made it to the storage locker with our trusty pushcart in hand, we opened the mysterious door to locker 2033 to discover . . . about five years worth of props, costumes, and other equipment including four fold-up gym mats. Looking at the contents of the locker and then comparing it to the bed of our coffee-table sized cart, logic would dictate this would take some time.

However . . .

Dan and I are great at building beer can castles. Thus stacking far more junk onto a cart than physics allows. When we finally make it to the Uhaul, this is when my jellyfish muscles came into play. As Dan chucked, tossed, and threw, I scooted, wheezed, and strained.

“Hey, man, you need help with that?” Dan asked as he flung overstuffed costume bins the size of a mini-cooper into the truck.

“No, I got it” as I struggled and tugged with all my might to lift a single wooden bench.

“Dude . . . it would help if you weren’t actually sitting on the bench as you did that.”

“What? Doh!”

When Dan and I finally made it back to The Battle Ranch a bit after two-thirty, the move was pretty much done. All our stuff was delivered and Abby was with her crew of Vampire Cowboys** unpacking and decorating the studios. Besides seeing first hand how exactly out-of-shape I had become, the move was pretty quick, easy, and manageable. We were in our new home now and, in a matter of a few hours, our first renters would be inside rehearsing at our freshly christened headquarters. The Battle Ranch is born and I’m happy to have all of Off-Off Broadway kicking it hard inside our studios. It’s gonna be a good ride.

So there you have it. We’re here, we’re queer, and we’re not going any . . . um, did I just say I was queer***? I mean, we’re outta the closet and officially open for business, so to all my theatre buddies out there (the ones I know and the ones that have just accidentally found this blog), come use our space! It’s big, it’s cheap (Only $10/h), and it’s in a fun neighborhood. Literally, steps away from the Alligator Lounge, Union Pool, and Barcade (How’s that for some post-rehearsal drinkilous fun?) Seriously, here’s the invitation in case you needed it: Use us. Let us help build a stronger Off-Off Broadway theatre community. That’s why we got the place.

Speaking of . . .

(Don’t be jealous that I segue better than you, suckah. It’s part of the charm.)

Ya gotta come to this! Ya just gotta.

NOSEDIVE BENEFIT

Tomorrow - Friday, August 10th at 7pm, those sick monkeys from Nosedive Productions will be having a benefit to raise money for their upcoming season. This party will be featuring the band Aldenbarton, all your favorite Nosedive hooligans, a few never before seen video sketches, and everyone’s favorite party concession – CHEAP BOOZE!!

Where it be?
THE BATTLE RANCH
111 Conselyea Street, #2L
Brooklyn, NY

Click here for the mappage!

From 7-midnight
Friday, August 10th

$7 at the door, $2 Beers, $1 Jell-O Shots.

And – no – I’m not pimping out this party because I’m over a week behind in handing them a script or because they’re good friends of mine who have been mad supporters of Vampire Cowboys or the fact that they do awesome work that deserves fuckin’ attention or even because this shindig is at my house. No, I’m not plugging this benefit because of any one of those reasons. I’m plugging this benefit because of ALL of those reasons. So, come out. Party with the Nosedive gang. Make them happy. And PLEASE draw their attention away from me so I can fucking finish that play I owe them. It’d be hella helpful all around.

But don’t mess up my shit or I’ll punch you in the throat.

Kindly.

*Wow, that’s one disturbing analogy. Sorry!

**Much love to my Vampire Cowboy peeps who came out to help us unpack and decorate the space: Christian T. Chan, Sharon Eisman, Jeremy Sarver, Paco Tolson, Dan Rech, Andrea Marie Smith. You guys are my heart.

***Yeah, ya got me. Vampire Cowboys has been known to bat on both sides of the plate. Don’t know what I’m talking about? Then you best come see our plays to find out. Cause it’s fun.

Hot Asian Action!

Check it out!
My play TRIAL BY WATER is published in this awesome book full of Asian theatrical awesomeness. Buy it. Cause you know your knowledge of Asian American theatre is lacking. Hell, I’m yella and my knowledge of Asian American theatre is lacking. So in the words of LeVar Burton – “Take a look, it’s in a book - fuckin’ Readin’ Rainbow”*. Just get it. Where? HERE!

But...you don't have to take my word for it.

*Hmm, I’m not quite sure if those were the exact lyrics