My Sophia Ballou Bio

The Soundtrack: Whipped Cream and Other Delights by Herb Alpert.

The Scene: a strange mixture of the American Ideal overlaid on police sirens, helicopters and the racing of engines. Outside the place and backstage, there are all manners of people migrating. They're moving from their hideouts, caves, dugouts or hovels and moving on toward the cornershops, pawnshops, pornshops or late night churches. But inside the place, “the scene” are potted plants drying out by the moment, and Herb Alpert channels bliss from beyond the vinyl dumpyard.

The Characters: this is a tricky mix. There's a dishwasher, a picture framer; a Boy Scout, a soldier. They're all talking at once: recounting tales of war, dirty dishes, beveled picture frames and singing summer camp songs. “You can't ride in my little red wagon, the backseat's broken and the axle's draggin'...” The doorbell rings, enter stage left: a trumpet player, a tap dancer; ancient car restorer, movie actor. The movie actor says, “The bartender, the waiter; the student, and the once jailed speeder are on the corner by the liquor store. They said something about gin and tonic, Manhattans; grappa, and blood and sand.”

The Action: the party gets swinging. The picture framer is in the kitchen washing dishes, much the dismay of the dishwasher. The bartender explains the finer points of a particularly violent game of cards to the soldier who quietly explains the reason why he's not allowed to play games, much less the violent ones. The trumpet player and the tap dancer look through the vast collection of Herb Alpert records. These two are pretty close in proximity, both time and space. And Herb Alpert's pretty cool.

The Conflict: enter the writer. He comes from stage right, some hidden, darker hallow from the depths of the house. He moves into the room and the record stops. The soldier fits inside the student, the student then into the Boy Scout. The bartender and the waiter, down their drinks and fade into the walls, the ancient car restorer follows suit then the once jailed speeder. They dispense into the room, the walls, thin air, each other. The writer flows through the house and into the kitchen. The picture framer continues his work at the sink, soap suds rippling heat waves through his cut fingers. He turns off the tap, the job's done. He faces the writer and in stride vanishes into the dish soap smelling air of the stale kitchen.

The Sound: a faucet hiss, a sigh, the refrigerator’s hum.

The Motion: the filling of a water glass. The view from here, out the kitchen window: Ansbach, or Al Basra, or Denver. Beyond the lilacs it could be San Francisco or Vermont, or Portland, or Tucson.

The Spread: ten to one. No one here gets off easily, at least not that easily.

The Outcome: Law suits, lawn suits; leisure suits, Umbrella Factory suits.

The Writer: like all the other dudes, call this one: Anthony.