Stuff Now.

So yeah, the Kilroys are hosting the Ovation Awards in Los Angeles on Monday.

When the director of the show invited us to participate, I don’t think it totally clicked we were being asked to do something BIG– like, more than just read winners off a card and do shots in the lobby.

But lemme tell you, it is NO JOKE. We gotta write a 30 page script, invite presenters, organize announcers, edit bios, do other stuff, and basically try not to bore the living crap out of 1600 theater people in tuxes and gowns.

Backing up.

What does it mean for an advocacy group to associate itself with an awards show? We are independent by choice, unbound by the constraints of a governing body or the interests of a funding source. But when our name gets stamped on a program, isn’t that an endorsement? What if we don’t agree with something on principle?

Like, say a theater nominated for Best Season produces a year of plays written exclusively by white men. If that theatre wins, we’re the ones waiting for them at the podium. Which is… awkward?

And what of the awards show itself? Can the Kilroys belt out a compelling choral rendition of “Everybody Says Don’t?” (Not currently.) Are the Kilroys known for telling irreverent yet tasteful jokes that poke fun at AND revel in life’s absurdities? (Not remotely.)

We drop lists. We give cakes. We publish books. We make noise. We advocate. And while it’s ballsy for the Powers That Be to give the mic to a gang o’gals with a reputation for stirring shit up, it’s friggin’ nuts when the gang en masse has zero experience entertaining large groups of people for multiple hours at a time. (It’s gonna be GREAT.)

Meanwhile. This event marks the evolution of the Kilroys. The 13 founding members will officially pass the torch to these 14 super badass killer queens. Which is suddenly and unexpectedly very emotional. (For me. Heh.)

We built this thing in 2014 out of frustration and desperation. It has been a refuge, a vessel to contain our energy and hope and anger. A place of recognition. But the work is grueling. Over the past five years we’ve acquired spouses, kids, careers. We’ve run TV shows. We’ve had theatre premieres. We need replacements so others can prioritize what we no longer can.

It was the right choice, no question. Except now I’m like, where will I dump all my spectacular feminine rage? I’m already a spin instructor for chrissakes…

The author in repose.

I suppose I can launch the occasional prickly missive here. But every time I post something that skews even lightly towards sermon, I hate myself. I’m uncomfortable with my own moralizing. I care too much what people think. I don’t know squat. But also, nothing ever happens. The chances of impact are like, microscopic.

At least with playwriting I have persuasive tools like character and story at my disposal, which makes it easier to assert a potentially challenging point of view. But even when my work is political and/or impactful, the act of making a play is mostly self-serving. The main beneficiary is me.

But with the Kilroys, it’s all action. Exhausting exhilarating obsessive righteous action. And while any impact we foster is a product of our own individual efforts, the beneficiary is Theatre. Women. Art. You. When it works, it’s thrilling beyond words. I’m gonna miss the heck out of it. But I’m stoked to cook up one last bash with these fierce new ‘Roys.

So… as we collectively struggle to find outfits for Monday that won’t cast us as victims of the patriarchy, here are the questions we ask ourselves:

1) What is a reasonable level of entertainment one can expect from a gang of grass-roots activists?

2) How does one perform one’s principles in formalwear?

3) Is it possible to publicly identify institutional bias without taking anything away from the institution at hand?

4) Can we shout-out the artists who aren’t being honored while lovingly celebrating the ones who are?

Guess we’ll find out next week…

I don’t make a regular habit of reading reviews of my work, or anyone else’s. I can tell when they aren’t good, though. I get asked how my show is going instead of being congratulated for it. Or someone will say “so-and-so’s review is waaaay off,” and I’ll feel compelled to investigate further.

Or sometimes I’ll sneak a peek when I’m in the mood to hurt myself. It always works.

I used to read all of them. Bad and good. I was drunk on the strangeness of that kind of formal reckoning. But there were um. Side effects. So.

Luckily, I’ve only been forced to socialize with two human theatre critics; one at an arts festival in Europe and one at a mutual friend’s wedding. In both circumstances, I had to be careful to not over-drink so I wouldn’t start an uncomfortable conversation.

Before we get into that, I want to admit I’m not a total “CRITICS SUCK” kind of gal. Many reviewers write thoughtfully with deep love and respect for the theatre, much the same way a restaurant critic writes about food. They’ll take past work into consideration and synthesize a playwright’s larger cultural goals into their critique, even if their opinion is ultimately negative. They don’t let the pressure of getting eyeballs on their publication influence what they write, and they can have a shitty day and not grind it over a play like seasoning.

In my experience, most theatre critics aren’t like that. But so what? Yes, writing a play is hard, getting it produced is hard, getting it RIGHT is hard, and inviting public praise and/or ridicule from strangers who have no problem letting their mood affect their appraisal is like, masochistic. And yeah, misogyny and unconscious bias and identity politics are often at play, from all genders/races of critics.

But sometimes, a critic is just not that into your writing. It’s all part of the deal; no writer goes into capital-T theatre thinking that’s an avoidable risk. It’s still considered a sign of success (and often a sour badge of honor) to have been smartly castigated by a top tier reviewer.

Bottom line: it’s not our vocation to judge what the critics do, even when they suck. It’s theirs.

Having said that.

The uncomfortable conversation I was afraid of having at both the wedding and the festival was this: I wanted to know to know how these critics were so casually and pleasantly hospitable to my face when they had to know I fucking hated them.

I mean. I deeply, professionally, ferociously hated their guts. (This was years ago. I’m in therapy.) Both reviewers had indirectly suggested I failed at the task I set out to accomplish without ever identifying what it was. They had taken multiple paychecks at my expense for their lazy, imperious writing. Or so I felt.

My main issue wasn’t even about the content. It was about the tone. They’d been so icily dismissive of me so often it felt personal. And here they were in festive attire, making amiable eye-contact, pretending what they’d done hadn’t hurt.

Well, it had, ok? My irrational and misplaced hissy-fit was all about being unfairly judged. I wanted them to feel guilty for getting paid to identify me as dismissible. Because I deserved to be taken seriously.

Which is bullshit. No one “deserves” anything. You can work hard and get lucky, or work less hard and still get lucky, or work really really hard and never get lucky, or work really really hard and get sick before you get lucky. Et cetera.

But at the time, all I knew was my pain. So if I had knocked back a cocktail or three, I may have asked them if they enjoyed being terrible at their jobs, since they’d made it clear I was bad at mine. Or maybe I would’ve quoted their words back to them to watch them squirm.

Instead, I feigned supreme sanguinity. I clutched my single glass of red wine like a life raft and muscled through the mirth. I sprayed the flame of my hatred in the cooling mist of civility, knowing this was temporary.

And then. Months later. I wrote a ten-minute play for a one-night thing where I had several actors attack the audience with the most puffed-up excoriating shit they (and other critics) had ever written. Not just about my stuff. All plays. All playwrights.

It was so freeing and fun to write. But when I saw it performed, it felt like I was parading my smallness around on stage. As if it was something to be proud of. As if I hadn’t just given away all my power.

And for what? Vengeance? Did I actually expect either critic to show up and watch my play and feel something other than pity? Or even remember their own words?

Turns out… one of them was there.

In the audience.

For that play.

They approached me afterwards, laughing oddly. The sound was like a saltine snapping into smaller and smaller pieces.

“I think… I wrote… some of that…”

HERE'S SOME OF WHAT THEY/I WROTE.