Essay Fiesta 1

This is a nifty show for a good cause, Essay Fiesta (a free show!) donates proceeds from its monthly raffle to the Howard Brown Health Center. Here's how I debuted there:

My Persistent Difficulty in Attracting Corporate Sponsorship.

In the non-profit world, many organizations rely in part upon donations from business. In this mutually beneficial arrangement, the non-profit receives a welcome infusion of cash, and the corporation receives the PR and tax benefits of its association with the cause the non-profit seeks to address.

An example might be teaching kids pottery, say. When a company gives a comparatively tiny amount of money to an after-school program that teaches kids pottery, that company can then slather its slick website with endearing photos of bedimpled moppets speckled with clay. Which might draw your mind away from the slave labor conditions for child workers in the company’s assembly plant in the Philippines.

Because who among us will think of the malnourished 8-year-old outside Manila – who, to be fair, might have done something to deserve that most recent caning – when the company’s home page features a photo of an 8-year-old girl with arresting green eyes and the tousle of Christopher Robin hair and she’s wearing a smock and she’s regarding the camera in a dreamy way and she’s got a dab of clay on her upturned little nose?

When faced with the teeth-gritting adorableness of this girl in her smock, you can’t help forgetting all about that suffering bunch of kids at the assembly plant outside Manila, who are, it must be admitted, though through no fault of their own, brown-skinned. And wicked, wicked far away. And super poor.

As an artist of great importance, the time has come for me to be paid for the vision and audacity of what I do. I have made numerous inquiries with a variety of potential sources of corporate funding, and I confess I have met with limited success. “Limited success” should here be taken to mean either stony silence or needlessly aggressive refusal.

To improve my future prospects, I have brought with the draft of a letter, upon which I would be grateful for you feedback. It is a plea to the Newman’s Own company, which you will recall was founded by the late film star and philanthropist Paul Newman. All I’m after is a modest donation to support the important, important artistic work that heroically undertake which, let’s face it, makes the world a better place for all of us.

The first is to the Newman’s Own, which SAYS right on its website: “Shameless exploitation in pursuit of the common good.” It’s RIGHT THERE, man. It reads:

Dear Nell Newman:

Really sorry about the loss of your dad. Paul Newman was a fantastic actor and an amazing humanitarian – and I am in no way just saying this because I want something from you. I really, really mean it. Truly.

I am writing with a proposal I hope you will find compelling. I am seeking your philanthropic support for my dazzling artistry. I am a writer-performer who, unlike your dad, does not memorize my stuff, but who is nonetheless magnetic and riveting. I mean, if ONE more person compares me favorably to Spaulding Gray, I will positively SCREAM, you know what I mean? I am including links to a number of local blogs that have mentioned my work so you will be able to tell that I am a legitimate artist, because I think we can agree that one doesn’t make it into the blogosphere upwards of EIGHT TIMES without really having something to offer.

I know that your time is valuable, so I will get straight to the point. I am writing to request that your outstanding Champion Chip Cookies become the exclusive sponsor of the world premiere of a new work. I’m thinking here in particular of the Orange Chocolate Champion Chip Cookies, as which anyone can tell you, are uncommonly delicious.

What I propose is, in short, an unprecedented opportunity for your company to enjoy the many benefits of making an incredibly targeted and direct connection with my rabidly devoted fan base as I incorporate your delectable cookies into an original piece of time-based artwork to be devised and performed by myself.

I will not claim to have not worked out every particular of this exciting and visionary project, but the overall shape of the piece will go something like this:

I feel very strongly that this performance will underscore the mind-bending deliciousness of your cookies. I mean, after all, what more compelling demonstration could there be? With this world premiere, in addition to the many complex and nuanced theses it puts forth about the recent demise of capitalism and the futility of consumerism, your company benefits from its central message, which is that I am so devoted to these cookies that I am willing to eat them twice before a live audience.

I ask you, Ms. Newman: what more persuasive spokesman can there be than the one whose smile is flecked with own feces? And furthermore, I feel compelled to emphasize: feces that is unadulterated by any other food than the incomparably delicious Newman’s Own Champion Chip Cookies that are the exclusive sponsor of this prestigious world premiere? I think you’ll agree that only the most callous among could not be moved by the spectacle of such devotion. But as stirring as this performance promises to be, my proposal does not end here.

I know, Ms. Newman, that your dad had a real thing for sick kids – he started like a camp or something for them, didn’t he? I recognize, therefore, that this project might in the strictest sense fall outside the bounds of the Newman’s Own “mission” or whatever you’re calling it. But I will offer you this pledge: if you wish it, and if it will help to cement our partnership, then I totally have no problem at all feigning any sickness of your choosing. Whattayou want? You want a chemo look? I will totally pluck every hair out of my face and body right now. May I show you something in a nice Parkinson’s? I promise you, I can make Rush Limbaugh’s “making fun of Michael J. Fox” routine look positively inert. You name it, Ms. Newman: on your say-so, I will be as sick-looking as can be. Here’s how it breaks down: for a thousand bucks, I will look drawn and pasty. For two grand, I will pitch a seizure that would fool any expert. For five thousand, I will remove all my hair, as indicated above, PLUS I will throw in your choice of coughing up blood or – wait for it – the loss of a tooth.

Now at this point, Ms. Newman, you may be saying to yourself: “This is insane. This guy’s creeping me out.” I am hearing, Ms. Newman. I want you to know that I am listening. You may feel the consumption of my own defecation and removal of a tooth is excessive. You may question the wisdom of this approach, and to see limitations in its utility in advancing your company’s messaging goals. While I respectfully disagree with this assessment, I can understand where you might regard this approach as a slightly bolder vision than you are currently considering.

I would submit to you, Madame, that it is fine to act all high and mighty when your daddy is a dead movie star, but down here, where real life happens – down here in the STREETS, Ms. Newman, we can ill afford the luxury of your squeamishness. The majority of us, Ms. Newman, do not oversee a multi-million dollar company as you have the good fortune to – good fortune, Ms. Newman, which I hasten to emphasize, is not based on merit, but which was deposited into your ungrateful lap by your father. While it may jar you learn it, Ms. Newman, the plain fact is that for the overwhelming majority of hardworking Americans like myself, there is no option but to poop in a bowl and eat it for money. Welcome to your wake-up call.

On an unrelated note, that Oscar your dad won for the “Color of Money” was a joke and everyone knows it.

You know what? I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. May we start over? You know what it is? I cannot STAND my life. I know this is not your fault, Ms. Newman, and I have no right to take out on you.

It’s just that I have this office job that I hate like syphilis. Every day that I don’t burn that place to the ground is a mystery of such eye-popping wonder, I can’t even tell you. Where did my life go, Ms. Newman? I used to be an attractive guy. My wife couldn’t keep her hands off me back in the day. And now LOOK at me. I’m a sad, fat old man. I don’t BLAME her for stiff-arming me in the sack. I wouldn’t want this paunchy old wreck pawing at me, either. The other day, I told my nine-year-old to get his PJs on, and he didn’t even SAY anything – he just threw an elbow to my groin and walked out of the room. And have SEEN my eyebrows? I’ve got these freaking Gandalf wizard-hairs that are threatening overtake my forehead. And if you feel like having a good cry, then try catching a glimpse of THIS body in the mirror as you step out of the shower. And you open the paper every day and you just feel the will to live draining away. And so finally some friend of yours asks you to do some dirt-baggity little show that nobody comes to and you come up with some half-baked idea about pooping in a bowl and eating it and you KNOW that this is a perfectly HORRIBLE idea, but it is the very best you can come up with because all the originality has been completely leached out of you by the pummeling vortex of impotent rage and thwarted hopes that your life has become. And so instead of weeping in the shower all Monday night, you do SOMETHING.

So in that spirit, Ms. Newman, the spirit of not executing my co-workers and refraining from pulling a full-on all-male version of “Thelma and Louise” except that I have no real friends to speak of, so it would be more precisely just a “Thelma”, I respectfully request a donation in the amount of $10,000. And if you do NOT wish me to create a world premiere performance of pooping out your cookies and eating them, I would therefore request a donation of $20,000.

Best regards,

Ian Belknap