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”What’s involved?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Tell me, what’s involved?”

I wanted to be clear, so I said it clearly, “There’s no money in theater.”

Two days later, I was in his office, and I said to him and his son, “Repeat after me, ‘We’re now going to talk about theater and money, and therefore, that makes us (them) certifiably insane.’” That’s exactly what they did. Thirty minutes later I walked out with a significant check.

Dream Team

back row, left to right: Rachel Healey, Jim Leaming, Keith Pitts, Joe Foust

center row, left to right: Rita Pietraszek, Deya Friedman, Carmen Roman

front row: Olympia Dukakis, Todd Logan

missing: Lindsay Jones

Carmen Roman is a force of nature. She is also one of Chicago’s best actors. She’s won the best actor award for Wit and Master Class. Two years ago, she did a reading of BOTANIC GARDEN at American Theater Company. Her husband, Jim Leaming, was supposed to read with her. At the last minute, he bailed because he was just hired for a role in a Steppenwolf show.

After the reading, while we were at nearby joint, sucking down the obligatory post-reading beers, Jim stopped by. Very nice guy. Very good looking. Like Carmen, very tall. I’ve yet to make eye contact with either of them. I asked Carmen how the reading might have gone if she had read with Jim.

“I would have cried throughout.”

That was two years ago. That stuck with me. I tracked down Carmen and Jim at Peninsula Players, the oldest summer stock theater in the country, located in Door County Wisconsin. I made the four-hour drive to see them. They read the play aloud. Twice, Carmen cried. I offered them the roles, and they accepted. One catch: we had to mutually agree upon a director. Reasonable, I thought.The last five years, Carmen has spent most of her time in New York.

“I’m involved with a theater group in New York, and if you wouldn’t mind, there’s someone I’d like to ask to direct.”

Sounded reasonable.

“Olympia Dukakis.”

I kept a straight face. But, if the old Zapruder camera had been on me, I’m sure it would have seen every permutation of laughter, hilarity, incredulity, as in there’s no frigging way that will ever happen. I indulged Carmen.

“Sure, sure try Olympia.”

“She’d really sink her teeth into this material.”

I tried to picture Olympia’s teeth. I couldn’t.

“Carmen, if Olympia isn’t available, who are some Chicago directors you and Jim would consider?”

“Let’s just try Olympia.”

“Just for the hell of it, let’s think of a few names.”

“Let’s not.”

Since we were sitting down, we were able to look directly into each other’s eyes. I saw in Carmen a resolve and strength that, well, frankly, intimidated the hell out of me.

“Sure, let’s just try Olympia.”

I thought Carmen’s Olympia fantasy would last 24 hours — the time it would take Carmen to contact Olympia (assuming she really knew her) and have Olympia pass. It didn’t go that way. Olympia was in Russia. Olympia was here. Then there. Olympia this. Olympia that. With each Carmen update, I pressed for names of other directors. Carmen was steadfast.

“I’m just not thinking about anyone else.”

“You can’t throw out a name?”

“I’m only thinking about Olympia”

“You mean dreaming about Olympia.” I didn’t say that. I wanted to say that.

“I understand you’re concerned ,especially after what happened to you in New York.”

“That’s right, theater camp sucked.”

“You’ve said that many times before.”

“Didn’t you read my blog?”

“No. Did you know that I haven’t had one conversation with you where you haven’t been fretting about something?”

That hurt. Calling me a fretter. I told my older sister Holly that Carmen called me a “fretter.”

“That’s a good word for you.”

“Why?”

“That’s what we do (all of my sisters and me) when adults don’t behave in the way we expect.”

“Fret?”

“Fret.”

“How come no one has ever said it before?”

“Fretting isn’t a bad word.”

“It doesn’t sound manly.”

“It’s not.”

I get a call from Carmen. “Spoke to Olympia. She’s interested in reading the play. May I send it to her?”

“What do you think?”

“I’m just trying to be respectful.”

“Do you have a back up name?”

“Sorry, I’ve got another call.”

Click.

A quick digression. What’s your take at this point? Is it me or Carmen?

A week later, Carmen forwards me an email from Olympia, which says she really likes the play, but can’t direct because our dates conflict. “If things change,” she writes, “let me know.”

“So, now what?” I fretted.

“I’m going to be in New York next week,” Carmen replied. “Let me have a conversation with her.”

Let me have another name.

Carmen calls me. “I just met with Olympia for three hours. She really loves the play. She’s given me two sets of alternative dates –”

“We don’t have a theater.”

“I spoke to Marcy at Victory Gardens. Their upstairs mainstage is available.”

No shit.

“I should meet Olympia, don’t you think? I am the playwright.”

Silence.

“I am the playwright.”

“You’re also a fretter. That’s not going to play well with Olympia.”

“No fretting?”

“No fretting.”

And, no jokes. That came from my children.

“Dad, very few people find you funny,” my daughter Nina told me over and over and over.

No fretting. No Jokes. What’s a guy going to do?

Two nights later, I met Carmen in New York for a pre-Olympia dinner. Before we sat down, I looked her straight in the collarbone and said, “Carmen, you’re going to tell me your story, and I’m going to tell you my story. By the end of dinner, we’re going to be good buddies.” She said, “You go first.” This thing about fretting was new to me. But, I was aware of my reputation for being long-winded and having the ability to suck the oxygen out of the room. I calculated the square footage of the restaurant and then divided that by the number of patrons and figured I had 28 minutes to tell my story. Think about it; you try telling your story in just 28 minutes. Think about the pressure of trying to tell that story knowing that each patron was the equivalent of a canary in a coal mine.

Shit, if I didn’t pull it off. Full disclosure, Carmen downed three glasses of wine. But, she did look genuinely interested. True, she is an actor, and a damn good one to boot, so what does looking genuinely interested really mean?

“Okay, your turn.”

Carmen made a mouth flapping gesture with her fingers and said, “Sorry, I really don’t like to talk about myself.”

“Not fair!”

“Sorry.”

“You’ve got to give me something.”

“Not going to happen.”

“C’mon, I’m a writer.”

Again, is it me or Carmen? The next night I had dinner with Carmen and Olympia. Olympia was great. Down to earth. Eager to roll up her sleeves to find the characters beneath the words. As for me, I was on model behavior. No fretting. No jokes…. Okay, there was a moment when Olympia caught me glancing at my watch. What she didn’t know was I felt the stem sticking out. When I changed the time from Chicago to New York time, I had probably forgotten to push the stem all the way back in. I knew this. Olympia didn’t. I glanced. She caught it. She spoke.

“I’m sorry, do you need to be somewhere? Are we keeping you?”

She said it in such a way I knew she wasn’t insulted, but genuinely concerned. Actually how the hell did I really know? The woman did win the Oscar for Moonstruck. But, in that moment, I believed she was being sincere.

“Are you keeping me,” I repeated. I stood up, pushed in my chair, and said, “That’s right, you are. I flew 1000 miles to talk to you about directing my play, but there’s also a movie I’ve been dying to see, and it starts in 15 minutes. So, if you don’t mind…”

Olympia laughed. Carmen gave a distressed courtesy laugh. I eventually confessed I was under family orders not to try any jokes.

“You have a droll sense of humor,” Olympia said. “You don’t make people feel compelled to laugh.”

I thought that was sort of a compliment, but I’m not so sure because Carmen has repeated it like a thousand times.

Here’s the bottom line. Olympia Dukakis told me she liked my play. Olympia Dukakis told me she’s offered two plays a week to direct. Olympia Dukakis told me she wanted to direct mine. The closer was when she asked what the weather was like in Chicago in January and February. I said, “balmy.”

The genesis for BOTANIC GARDEN was a story my mother-in-law told me five years ago about going on a first date after my father-in-law died. She was dressed and ready to go 45 minutes before her date arrived. She says that while she sat there waiting, for the very first time, she became angry with her husband for dying. If he were alive, she wouldn’t be in that situation. I loved that story. I spent the next year writing a play inspired by that story. I finished it in November of 2004. The play has had readings at the Workshop Theater in New York, the Algonquin Theater in New York, Chicago Dramatists, Victory Gardens, and American Theater Company in Chicago. It had five days of rehearsal at the 78th Street Theatre Lab in New York (see Theater Camp Sucked).

Now… now it’s opening January 30 at the Victory Gardens Greenhouse. Even more incredible, I’ve got the Dream Team. Not just the amazing, incomparable Olympia Dukakis directing, but thanks to that force of nature, Carmen Roman, we’ve got Deya Friedman, one of Chicago’s very best stage managers, and a design team to die for: Lindsay Jones, Keith Pitts, Rachel Healey, and Rita Pietraszek. And, the incomparable Joe Foust. If you’re in Chicago theater, you’re smiling at the mention of Joe. He’s that kind of guy.

So, yes, it’s theater camp all over again.

To be completely honest, my happiest moment will be when Carmen and Jim take their final bows after our last show on March 9th.

Finally, the dream will have been a reality.

So, once again, it’s about butts in the seats. For tickets, just click here. Also, check out the nights Olympia will be doing a post-show Q & A.

Look forward to seeing you at the theater…

It’s an end run in a bricks and mortar world.

2. What the hell does that mean?

Instead of sitting around waiting for theaters to get back to me, I said the hell with it and decided to record stuff and distribute them thru this website.

3. Are any other playwrights doing this?

As far as I know, no.

4. So, you’re the first?

What did I just say?

5. It was a rhetorical question.

How was I supposed to know?

6. It was in my tone.

Was it?

7. I thought so.

Didn’t really hear it.

6. If you re-read it, you’ll see it’s there.

Just did. Still don’t see it.

7. Believe me it’s there.

This is important to you… that I see it.

8. Yes, it is.

I’ll try to do better.

9. Thank you. Now let’s get back to toddlogansdesk.com. Could you tell us a little something about the work?

Like what?

10. Your movie, WITH A FAMILY LIKE MINE… is it about a family like yours?

I like to believe it’s about all families.

11. In this particular movie, there are three sisters, a mother, and a brother named, Todd. In your family, you have three sisters, a mother, and your name is Todd.

Okay, okay, I’ll cop to this one. It’s about my family.

12. Axes to grind?

Working out stuff.

13. How did your family feel about you making a movie about them?

Let’s just say it was an adventure.

14. Can you be more specific?

Okay, okay, at first my mother –

15. — Marcelle?

That’s her name in the movie. She was pretty ticked off when she read the script. She thought my sisters came off poorly and I made myself seem great.

16. Can you be more specific?

Well… alright, she said I made one sister a hypochondriac, another a hysteric, and the third came across as a mafia don.

17. Ouch!

Actually, my sister’s were okay with it.

18. But not happy campers about you coming off smelling like a rose?

I want to make two points about that. One, I think if you watch the movie closely, you’ll see it’s just the opposite; every trait of theirs that I make fun of, my character ends up exhibiting the same traits in spades. Two, yes, I suppose in the end my character shines, but, and this is an important but, it’s not easy writing a screenplay with twenty-three characters, so if I want to pump up my character, I think I’m entitiled, if you know what I mean.

19. Is it true your mother made you re-shoot the ending?

She didn’t make me. After the first family screening, she made a strong suggestion, which I, upon reflection and her badgering, thought had merit, so we shot a new ending.

20. What was her suggestion?

Sorry, you need to see the movie.

21. Fair enough. Segue, segue, segue. In your play PERSISTENCE OF VISION, which is set in an emergency room, the character Mr. Ganz believes he might have had a heart attack. The questions the doctor asks him are so thorough. Did you have to do a lot of research?

Zero.

22. Really?

I knew this stuff like the back of my hand.

23. You’ve had a heart attack?

No, but in the last 30 years I’ve had four fake heart attacks. The first one was in Dubrovnik when my wife and I were on our honeymoon. The last one was after I ski trip. I woke up up at 5:00 in the morning with the most searing chest pains. I woke up my wife, who happens to share the same bed, and told her I thought I was having a heart attack. She told me to drive myself to the ER and to call her if it was really a heart attack.

24. Kinda cold, wouldn’t you say?

No. She’s just been through the drill. Turned out, by the way, to be bruised ribs from a ski fall. If you know anything about bruised ribs, they’re as painful, if not more painful, than a heart attack.

25. In your play SEPARATE VACATIONS, the character Teddy has a low pain threshold…

Your point?

26. Just an observation.

Acutely observed.

27. Segue, segue, segue. TOPS OR BOTTOMS is your sex play. Can you tell us about the title?

Tops or bottoms is a striptease game the characters played early in their relationship.

28. A game you and your wife play?

No.

29. No?

Believe it or not, some of my stuff is original.

30. That’s refreshing.

It’s true! If you don’t mind, I’d like to wrap up this blog.

31. Just a few more questions.

Shoot.

32. People can come to this site and listen to your plays and watch your movie and it’s all free?

That’s right.

33. And, they can download all of this for free, too?

Yep.

34. This might be a really, really stupid question, but you can’t make money this way, can you?

You’re right, it’s a really, really stupid question.

35. Then why are you doing it?

Maybe I want to put my work out there, maybe I think I have something to say. Yes, I know that sounds pretentious, but I don’t care. Just maybe, by taking this approach, one day someone is going to offer me a boatload of dough for this crap, I mean stuff, I mean art.

36. Yeah, good luck with all that.

Last question.

36. Now that you have your own website, do you Google yourself?

All the time.

Norma Rae writes:

Todd, here is my “Man-Made Natural Disaster Show Biz Story”:
I wish they would cancel the show I am currently “in rehearsal” for. Now, mind you, there is nothing I enjoy more than embodying a fully-realized character in a very well-written play. And this play won the Pulitzer Prize. But, the performance space is currently under water. Which also means the rehearsal space is currently under water (and untreated sewage). The director took an acting job – in Rockford! and so he won’t “be around very much, and won’t be able to attend the performances…” – but “assured” the other actor and myself that a stage manager may be able to attend one of the rehearsals – at one of the actor’s homes, maybe? – when he is not there. The play is scheduled to open in two weeks. Did I mention that the performance space is very precariously near (in) the Des Plaines River? Did I also mention that my rain dance should also win the Pulitzer Prize (if there is such a thing for dance choreography?) There should be. The river crests at nine feet. I never would have known that before this “process”. I also never thought it would be possible to fill out an Actors Equity Association Application WHILE performing a rain dance. It is.

Pretty good, don’t you think?

There are three postscripts to this story. The first is Norma Rae’s play was cancelled. For this she’s extremely grateful. The second is Norma Rae has decided to take a break from acting. The tipping point wasn’t her torrential tale of woe; rather it was the insulting experience of a director not casting her in the role of ‘the wife,’ because in ‘real’ life she’s never been married. Can they do that, you wonder? They can do any damn thing they want. Finally, Norma Rae is thrilled to have won the contest. Just one problem, she wants to swap the six-pack for a Starbuck’s cappuccino, grande, two-percent, extra foam. Yeah, Norma Rae, good luck with that!

After 5 days of rehearsal, my play, BOTANICAL GARDENS, was cancelled by the producers. Their decision was neither fair nor rational. The way they went about making their decision –one in Scotland, the other in Wyoming — was torturous, leaving the two actors, the director, and myself hanging in the proverbial breeze for 48 hours. The details are not juicy; rather mundane. What can I say? Theater camp sucked.

Yes, to have my play cancelled is a disappointment. Three things I like about playwriting are:

1. Writing. When I’m writing and the characters finally come alive on the page and begin talking to each. It feels like I’m taking dictation. I wrote PERSISTENCE OF VISION in a weekend. The other plays and screenplays have taken at least 8 months. And, in each instance it was at least 6 months before the characters started talking to each other. Before that happens, I write a lot and throw away a lot.

2. Rehearsals. I get tremendous pleasure watching terrific directors and actors practice their crafts. BOTANICAL GARDENS’ Anne Carney and Malachy Cleary are amazing actors, Rob Urbinati, a successful playwright himself, is a high-powered director. Watching them work together was like watching musicians learn a new piece of music. Within just five days, they were already hitting the right notes for the first 4 scenes.

3. Watching performances. Many people tell me that they catch me laughing during my plays. It’s true. I have a great time at performances.. It’s not because I think the plays are great. By the time they make the stage, it’s been at least three years since I finished writing. By then, I hardly remember having written it. I laugh because the actors are so good. They make me laugh.

How are you doing? How are you taking it? You must be crushed? Are you going to live?

The last one my mother, who has never blogged, asked.

You know when it was painful? When the producers took their sweet time making a final decision. Limbo is an anguishing pain. Once the decision was finally made, you go into emotional damage control. Well, there go eight fabulous weeks in New York. Making that 12 block walk to 78th Street each day, smiling because, at last, you’ve got a play in New York. Just 23 paces from Broadway. But, let’s tell it like it really is. The 78th Street Lab is OFF-OFF-OFF Broadway. But, they do get reviewed by the Times. There was that. Yeah, it could be a lousy review, but the mind doesn’t go there. Instead it imagines a wonderful review and the possibilities that follow. Then the mind catches itself. Don’t go there. It’s bad luck to imagine a good review. Too late, you’ve done it, and you find yourself unable to stop. Now I can stop. Then there were the friends and family coming in from out of town. The dinners to be shared. And then there’s me — the focal point. I may play the modesty card, but who are we really kidding.

Now that future is in the past. Can that be right? (I mean the concept of the future in the past?) You need to notify people. Even though it wasn’t your fault, wasn’t your play’s fault, you still feel some shame and embarrassment. You imagine who might actually enjoy hearing the news. You write the obit. Headline: BOTANICAL GARDENS CANCELLED. You write, ‘ due to a set of extraordinary circumstances BOTANICAL GARDENS has been cancelled.’ You apologize for any inconvenience this has caused anyone. You thank them for their support and interest in your work. You tell them you’ll keep them posted on any future production. Then you stuff your 250 plus email list in the blind c.c. slot and, take a deep breath, and then push send.

If it were only so easy. Your computer won’t send out 250 plus names at once. You must chunk them. This isn’t your strong suit. Gradually you get the hang of and send 20 letters at a time. While you do this you notice your ‘in box’ start to collect mail.

The new emails are from family, friends colleagues, all saying how horrible it is. That your play has been cancelled. You actually get two emails in a row that say, ‘Bummer.’ Good word. Your brother-in-law writes ‘Mallamard dead…. Neidermeyer dead….the producers…. The reference comes to you. Not 100% sure, but pretty sure it’s from ‘ANIMAL HOUSE.’ The next day you’re informed you’re right. The question that most ask is ‘what happened?’ At first you think of the long story. It’s complicated. No one really wants to read the long story. You realize the short story will suffice. You write back, ‘the cast, director, and I were screwed by the producers.’

You write it over and over and over and over. Til every email has been replied. When you’ve finished, you look around and you’re at the airport, and it’s your turn to board the plane. You stop for a moment and try to remember how long it’s been since you’ve been home. 11 days. That’s all?

Thought for sure it was a month. Then you board.

Once you take your seat, you settle in. Relax. You smile because you remember your kids are okay, your wife is okay, and, yes, you’re okay, too. And then you settle back and move on.

Wow! A lot going on there. And, not part of the original Otherwise, Inc. plan. The ‘original Otherwise, Inc. plan’ was to create a site to draw people interested in the themes of my movie and my plays, get them to watch and listen, and then join in discussion groups. It was made clear to me that I was not a selling point. ‘No one has ever heard of you.’ they said. Not true. Many people have heard of me — family (obviously), friends, colleagues, and people who have been to my plays or seen my movie (yes, some memory jogging may be required). After some debate, Otherwise, conceded the point but not without making it clear, they had never heard of me. There was no mention of a blog until early last week — when I read the revised marketing plan.

So, here I am, on a plane to New York — off to theater camp — writing my first blog entry. The person sitting next to me is craning her neck to see what I’m writing. My dilemma, should I or should I not show her? I’m an airplane neck- craner, too. Yes, life would be much easier if your seatmate just shared what they were writing. They don’t; I’m not going to be the first.

I’m not really off to theater camp. My play, BOTANICAL GARDENS, is opening at the 78th Street Theatre Lab in New York on September 6th. Rehearsals start tomorrow. I’ve never had a play in New York. Many people have asked me if “78th Street Theatre labis off Broadway or off – off Broadway. No one has asked if it’s on Broadway. The theater is exactly 23 paces from the corner of Broadway and 78th street. I’m not 100% sure, but I don’t believe there’s another theater in New York closer to Broadway than the 78th Street Theatre lab”> (If there is, please keep it to yourself.)

If you’re in the New York area, please, please come see the play. The play, I’ve been told is decent enough, but the real reason I want/need you there is I get unnerved at the thought of an empty theater. Just before my first play opened, I asked Richard Shavzin, the director, ‘how many people do you need in the audience for the show to go on?’ His answer was, ‘one more person than the number of actors in the cast.’ We had a cast of four, which meant we needed five in the audience. Since I planned to attend most nights, the challenge was to find four. Easy you say? Easy for you to say.

I was so spooked about not having enough ‘butts in the seats’ (an industry term, as if you really care), I saw a therapist. I told him that I loved writing plays so much that I didn’t want anything negative — like no butts in the seats — to ruin the experience. Certainly, I didn’t want it to affect my desire to keep writing. By the end of the session I was feeling good. Even confident. The number of people in the audience would have no bearing on my emotional stability. Because, when you get right down to it, it’s the joy of writing, the joy of rehearsals, and the joy of seeing your work done. Theater camp! That’s what counts. I happily wrote out a check for $175.00. I wasn’t even bothered that he was one of those doctors who doesn’t accept insurance, and you’re on your own to battle for reimbursement. Just as I was exiting his office (literally one foot out the door), he said, “Hey I just got an idea. What if you rented a bus and picked up forty or fifty people from a nursing home?’

So, if you’re in New York, please, please come to the play. If not, tell your friends. It really is a decent play. The restaurant CESCA is offering a free glass of wine to any ticket buyer. Even better, there’s no intermission and it’s under ninety minutes.’ Doesn’t get any better than that.

Sorry, looks like I’ve got to wrap this up. The pilot just announced that we’re about to land and all electronic devices need to be turned off. So, real quick, here’s the deal: I have to blog. How often I don’t know. Yes, I’m embarrassed the site has my name it. Another Otherwise, Inc. idea. If you can look past that, the plays and movies are there for you to enjoy. They cover many subjects, including adult sibling rivalry, passion in marriage, the loss of a loved one to mental illness. Yes, if the play(s) or the movie stays with you, and you want to share your thoughts, your own experiences, the blog is – - Okay, the flight attendant is giving me shit about my laptop. Give people a little power. Get this: the neck- craner is telling me to turn this off. Bad, bad move. I’ve got the aisle seat. Let’s see how she feels about being last off the plane. It’s getting ugly. Gotta go.