Why Is Neil LaBute E-Mailing Me?

Why is Neil LaBute e-mailing me? It must have something to do with the scathing commentary that I recently posted in regard to his scathing opinion piece in the Los Angeles Times. I will investigate further, and then report back. But if I mysteriously disappear before I can file my report, then you know who to blame. I plead with you now: "Avenge me!"

—Reporting From Glendale, California


  1. nah, you have to post the emails.. the ones from my ex would far top his, i'm sure.


    i'm on my own in life. my kids know if i die, i practice falling face first. that way, the terrier will eat my ass and not my face.

    gotta think on my feet.

  2. My cat would eat every inch of me. There would be no evidence that I ever existed.

  3. fall face forward...i'm telling you.

    they can put the face on a dummy.

    open casket, here you come.

  4. i moved this from the other post, as it makes sense to have it on both places..

    reading the editorial in the la times again and thought about, and i read the letters, too.

    i so hate the use of the 'm' word when people speak of labute and what he writes or directs ..personally, i think he writes about love in his body of work.. love on acid, perhaps, but, it's love all the same and how we as humans abuse that emotion. i digress.

    he says, "...And while we're doing this, why not acknowledge the achievements of several of our greatest playwrights — people like Lorraine Hansberry, David Henry Hwang, José Rivera, August Wilson, etc. — by allowing anybody who wants to play the parts they've written the opportunity to do so?"

    i see that point, anyone in theater, from stagehand to producer would love that to happen... some plays, however, do lend themselves to race. sad, but, true.

    i believe in casting by talent... i don't care if you are black, red, yellow, orange, short or tall... be talent, not a bloody prop that eats. give me magic, not spaces between lines that a truck can drive through. i can fix your fuck-ups in editing on a film.. when i'm in a booth watching you stand there on stage, and crickets are chirping, i want to stab you with a sharp pencil... i don't care who you are or what race or how your ancestors came to be here.

    show me the talent.

    i live in reverse discrimination. i am so white skinned, i wake in the morning, look down and yell, "where's the rest of me?" until i see my red toenails. i live in the projects of the bronx. i assure you, i stand out like no ones business. i worried like mad when i moved here.. i still do, not because i'm not of these cultures, but, because crime doesn't see colour. in my time there, i've become part of the landscape, still...i'm known by my race first, then my name. "oh, yeah, the white lady on the fifth floor"

    sadly, people can't put past atrocities behind them... generational behaviour keeps them in our faces. northern ireland (a waitress from that area recently told me that she and her mates would throw stones at the proddy's 'just because' when she was a child)... the gaza strip stays that way for a number of reasons, and i have a life from 1968 that has photos that only need a change of date to make them current looking.

    colour matters... my nappy head proves you can call me related to the moors visiting my ancestors 1000 years ago.. it doesn't make me anything but white.

    theater should be the one place we can be colour blind. some films have cast a hugely diverse racial group in classical plays... were they successful? no.

    labute has his heart in the right place.

    sadly, the world doesn't have the soul of atticus finch. if we did, we'd not have our problems.