Saturday, July 10, 2004
Ten-Four Good Buddies, Over and Out
Ten-Four Good Buddies, Over and Out
Dear Sirs:
Now that the production has opened and seen its first public performances and press reviews, I am filing my report as requested.
I am severely dissatisfied with the progress and state of the dance program that you employed me to be production manager of. I write to you today to outline my grievances surrounding the events of the past few weeks. I find at least some guilt in each of you, therefore I am writing to all of you.
First, Mr. Pembroke. I realize that as a megastar of the industry, your schedule prevents you from showing up to rehearsals, over-committed to so many projects paying you so many tens of thousands of dollars each. Your lack of being on the scene kept you from dishing out the abuse that I suffered at the hands of your partners, therefore I have little ill feeling toward you by comparison. I like you just as a prisoner under interrogation likes the cop that abused him the least. The initial reviews are in: What you contributed to the project is exactly the same piece that you have choreographed in three other current shows running in major cities. You have the least of the guilt, along with the least imagination.
And now, Mr. Edgerton. I must say this in your defense: You are the only one who in any way acknowledged that I was poorly treated. You should know. You dished out half of it. You said that the production and its conditions turned you into something you don’t like, and never wish to become. I accept that. You are something I don’t like and never wish to become as well. A jet-propelled asshole. With your apology of the other night, you feel as though you are absolved of guilt in your abusive treatment of me. Since you are an atheist, it is me who must absolve you. You have no God and no priestly figure to do it for you. Not only do I not accept your apology, I do not accept your dismissal. There are still twelve weeks left on my contract, and I expect payment in full. You feel guilty? You want absolution? Here is your opportunity. Put your money where your large, backbiting mouth is. You’ll get your absolution when the check clears. Until then, fuck you. If I don’t hear from you within the next fourteen days, I will be in contact with the National Labor Relations Board. I’m confident that you will find it infinitely easier to pay me off rather than have a battalion of federal investigators, wearing jack-boots and miner’s helmets, marching shoulder to shoulder up your cavernous rectum.
Last, but far from least of the partnership, would be you, Mr. Pudnicki. The wunderkind of Broadway dance. Obviously you can fool all of the people some of the time. Not this time, pal. The feelings I hold for you are akin to what I previously reserved for my high school football coach. Please accept this warm invitation to descend to the subway station beneath your office building and French kiss the third rail.
I have evidence that you intentionally set me up with impossible tasks so that when they were not completed, you could verbally abuse me publicly. You took my reports on the lack of feasibility to execute your ideas within budget and altered them. You even physically grabbed me. The only reason you still have all your parts attached is because at the time of that incident, I still held out hope that once the rehearsal process was over, I would be rid of you and that conditions would improve. Any further touching of me will be regarded as an attempted assault and I will defend myself accordingly, and I will defend myself until you are a motionless blob of ectoplasm. Don’t forget: I lived for years in neighborhoods that would make you wet your didies just to drive through, Mr. Beverly Hills princey-boy.
For some time, I have wanted to call you a piece of shit, but I now realize that to do so would be a disservice to self respecting shit worldwide. You are not worth what I scrape off the bottom of my shoes after I have been dancing in a dog park. Judging from the reviews in the Los Angeles Times and Variety, that dance would be far more interesting than anything you could choreograph.
Cordially,
Dear Sirs:
Now that the production has opened and seen its first public performances and press reviews, I am filing my report as requested.
I am severely dissatisfied with the progress and state of the dance program that you employed me to be production manager of. I write to you today to outline my grievances surrounding the events of the past few weeks. I find at least some guilt in each of you, therefore I am writing to all of you.
First, Mr. Pembroke. I realize that as a megastar of the industry, your schedule prevents you from showing up to rehearsals, over-committed to so many projects paying you so many tens of thousands of dollars each. Your lack of being on the scene kept you from dishing out the abuse that I suffered at the hands of your partners, therefore I have little ill feeling toward you by comparison. I like you just as a prisoner under interrogation likes the cop that abused him the least. The initial reviews are in: What you contributed to the project is exactly the same piece that you have choreographed in three other current shows running in major cities. You have the least of the guilt, along with the least imagination.
And now, Mr. Edgerton. I must say this in your defense: You are the only one who in any way acknowledged that I was poorly treated. You should know. You dished out half of it. You said that the production and its conditions turned you into something you don’t like, and never wish to become. I accept that. You are something I don’t like and never wish to become as well. A jet-propelled asshole. With your apology of the other night, you feel as though you are absolved of guilt in your abusive treatment of me. Since you are an atheist, it is me who must absolve you. You have no God and no priestly figure to do it for you. Not only do I not accept your apology, I do not accept your dismissal. There are still twelve weeks left on my contract, and I expect payment in full. You feel guilty? You want absolution? Here is your opportunity. Put your money where your large, backbiting mouth is. You’ll get your absolution when the check clears. Until then, fuck you. If I don’t hear from you within the next fourteen days, I will be in contact with the National Labor Relations Board. I’m confident that you will find it infinitely easier to pay me off rather than have a battalion of federal investigators, wearing jack-boots and miner’s helmets, marching shoulder to shoulder up your cavernous rectum.
Last, but far from least of the partnership, would be you, Mr. Pudnicki. The wunderkind of Broadway dance. Obviously you can fool all of the people some of the time. Not this time, pal. The feelings I hold for you are akin to what I previously reserved for my high school football coach. Please accept this warm invitation to descend to the subway station beneath your office building and French kiss the third rail.
I have evidence that you intentionally set me up with impossible tasks so that when they were not completed, you could verbally abuse me publicly. You took my reports on the lack of feasibility to execute your ideas within budget and altered them. You even physically grabbed me. The only reason you still have all your parts attached is because at the time of that incident, I still held out hope that once the rehearsal process was over, I would be rid of you and that conditions would improve. Any further touching of me will be regarded as an attempted assault and I will defend myself accordingly, and I will defend myself until you are a motionless blob of ectoplasm. Don’t forget: I lived for years in neighborhoods that would make you wet your didies just to drive through, Mr. Beverly Hills princey-boy.
For some time, I have wanted to call you a piece of shit, but I now realize that to do so would be a disservice to self respecting shit worldwide. You are not worth what I scrape off the bottom of my shoes after I have been dancing in a dog park. Judging from the reviews in the Los Angeles Times and Variety, that dance would be far more interesting than anything you could choreograph.
Cordially,
