Whenever I talk about THE STRAND, I feel like I’m in a Dickens Novel…

I had an hour to waste yesterday, so thinking to “better myself,” I meandered over to the ole’ Strand Bookstore, choosing to stalk through the aisles doing the one thing one must never do at the ole’ Strand Bookstore… As it is written: “When at the Strand, one must never try to locate any particular title. If one does attempt said peccadillo, one will be faced with extreme vexation and imminent madness, not unlike the result of sustained Chinese water torture, or perchance trying to drink a gallon of whole milk within a single hour… don’t do it, you’re stomach lining cannot withstand that amount of base liquid.”

Anyway… First I searched the Classics section; Second, I tried Poetry; Third (a desperate attempt), I even looked through Fiction… But it wasn’t until I archaeologically unearthed the Greco/Roman History section that I finally discovered what I was questing for. There before me, at eye level: two single copies of Catullus. Why in the History section, I pondered? Certainly, Catullus would prefer to be in the company of Dylan Thomas instead of Pliny the Elder (or Pliny the Younger for that matter).

(Joshua William Gelb feels this blog is sadly lacking in stage directions. He amends this, writing thusly: “A chorus of schnauzer puppies enter from stage right performing the can-can.” It is adorable. Now back to the blog)

Today’s diatribe, however, my faithful blog readers, does not concern the Strand, nor its Greco/Roman History Section, nor Dylan Thomas (He was pretty f-ing badass)… Rather, before I continue to recommend that everyone purchase their own copy of Catullus, I want to set out some ground-rules so no one here ends up the victim of a crime that has been perpetrated since the very re-discovery of the Carmina Catulli… I call it, Catullus rape.

Let me elaborate. Of the two copies set before me in the Greco/Roman History section (around and about the works of Cicero, which has more to do with a certain show-stopping musical number in Tully than one would imagine) was an edition circa 1925 and an edition circa 1970. The difference between the two is great, young Jedi, and will no doubt influence the pleasure you experience while losing your Catullus virginity.

Firstly, the 1970 edition. This translator, in his introduction, boasts proudly of Catullus’ bisexuality. He revels in the vulgar and annotates expletives to his obvious delight. This is a good Catullus lay, with all the dirty pillow-talk and foreplay included. If you want, he’ll get rough. If you need cuddling, he’ll do that too. This translator is not afraid of sexuality. This translator is not afraid of being sensitive. This translator has been liberated by the godless society we live in. Thank God. (Huh?)

Moving on: The translator of the 1925 edition writes in his Preface, “I have not allowed my own personal tastes to override the judgment of Catullus.” Let’s address this simple statement first. HE TRANSLATED THE FUCKING POEMS; OF COURSE HIS PERSONAL TASTE HAS SOMETHING TO DO WITH IT. He later writes: “In a very few of the epigrams some slight modifications have been necessary.” Blog readers, this translator is all talk and no game. He is a Censor, a Puritan, and a Prohibitionist! This fellow obviously wasn’t slumming in the Harlem speakeasies. This translator’ll make you do all the work, he won’t let you finish, and he’ll be out that door before you can say “Tempus Fugit,” believe you me.

But don’t fear, blog readers. For I’ve tracked yond knave, purchased said villainous copy, and pledged my duty bound to keep it from the oh-so susceptible world till my dying days, at which point, this wicked, unsatisfying 1925 edition will be spirited away to a secret location no-doubt similarly occupied by the Arc of the Covenant and Walt Disney’s cryogenically frozen head.

Rehearsals start Tuesday! I’ll finally have material relevant to the show to blog about!

(Time for another stage direction: Enter Walrus with top hat. Adorable. Simply adorable)

The Calm before the Storm: Disconcerting, huh?

(4:27 AM. Joshua William Gelb’s Washington Heights Apartment. Overhead shot. Joshua William Gelb discovered tossing and turning in bed)

Last night I had this dream…

(Cross-fade to distorted POV shot.
Cue Phillip Glass score)

I’m in the West Thirties with my Tully collaborator, Stephanie Johnstone. We’re on our way to see Superbad at the AMC Times Square, when suddenly the entirety of New York City is inexplicably blighted by this colossal storm. And I mean colossal like the Colossus of Rhodes. We’re talking hurricanes taking out Midtown, tornado funnels cruising up Eighth Avenue, lightning-bolts striking the Chrysler, locusts descending upon the Summer Stage in Central Park, and the Hudson River, a vast tsunami worthy of Melville. This is, like, the end of days; This is, like, Mel Gibson’s sequel to Apocalypto; This is, like, Sodom & Gomorrah… without the drunken sodomy. And like Cassandra before me, I feel this sudden terror seizing my limbs, an impending doom, a foreshadowing of disaster to come, a vision of Greeks crammed into a large wooden equestrian.

(Joshua William Gelb wakes up
screaming:)

“Trust not the horse, Trojans! Beware the Greeks bearing gifts! -- Unless it’s a Gyro… in which case, I’m hungry.”

(Joshua William Gelb raids the fridge, chooses a jar of pimento stuffed olives. He indulges as he addresses the blog audience)

That’s a real dream, blog readers. No embellishment required.

(He returns the olive jar to the fridge
as he ruminates thusly:)

So what’s one to make of this dream, friends? This dream past the wit of any man to say what dream this was? Certainly, one could consider it a forecast of things to come: A subconscious preview, perhaps, of the next Jerry Bruckheimer movie. Or perchance, the fate of the world as prescribed in the book of St. Al Gore and his apostle Leo DiCaprio. One could also interpret the dream more symbolically: The young collaborators adrift in a life threatening, seemingly disastrous situation. Which begs the ultimate question:

What shit’s about to go down?

I don’t know about you, blog readers, but with Tully rehearsals about to commence and the NYMF opening a mere month away, this untimely dream has got this director/book & additional lyrics writer filled with prophetic dread.

(Resounding Thunder & Crashing
Lighting)

Next Week: Joshua William Gelb checks himself into a mental ward. Michael Height contacts an exciting new director…

Coming Soon to the New York Musical Theatre Festival: Tully: At World’s End, a Jerry Bruckheimer production.

Reflections on Catullus, Homer, and Roger Daltrey

I was watching that documentary today. You know the one -- it’s called, The Kids Are Alright. I was watching it trying to remember how badass “The Who” used to be. I mean, remember Towshend smashing those guitars into amps. And Keith Moon, who couldn’t give a rat’s ass about anything. Why can’t people be badass like that anymore? Catullus was pretty f-ing badass. I mean, you try talking shit about Julius Caesar when he’s the most powerful man in the known world. I mean, this guy isn’t Bush. We’re not talking checks and balances here. Yeah… Catullus was badass. He didn’t care what people thought.

(Referencing poems No. 17, 24, 29 & 80)

He’d speak his mind -- call everyone he knew a flaming catamite!

(Pause. Joshua William Gelb considers poems No. 48 & 99)

Then again… I guess, Catullus sort of was a flaming catamite… so maybe it’s like Jews telling jokes about the Holocaust.

(Cut to Producer Michael Height chewing off his cuticles in fear Joshua William Gelb will offend someone… if not everyone)

Anyway… I hope all of this talk about being a badass sort of get’s all of you blog readers a little more interested in the poetry of Catullus. I mean, come on! When was the last time you heard someone call Horace a badass? Or Virgil? Ovid had his moments, but he was only ripping off Catullus… which by the way… is totally true.

(Joshua William Gelb pauses. Reflects)

I guess Homer was a badass. But he was blind. And probably didn’t exist.

(Moving on…)

Anyway, here’s this week’s news: Reality TV’s You’re The One That I Want contestants Austin Miller & Kate Rockwell are officially members of the Tully community, joining the previously announced Mr. Adam Hose, Miss. Autumn Hurlbert, Master David James McGee, His Lordship Evan Jay Newman, and that other guy… I forget his name… but I think he’s related to a pirate.

(The grossly omitted Owen O’Malley writes a disgruntled letter to the blog. He proceeds to sack and pillage in reprisal)

Yes, my tween blog readers, the (emphasis on the “the”) Austin Miller and the (repeat emphasis) Kate Rockwell will be appearing in the upcoming NYMF musical, Tully (In No Particular Order), as the notorious brother/sister power couple, Claude and Clodia Beautée.

(Brief musical transition. Joshua William Gelb swivels in his chair, looks to Camera #2)

Who are Claude and Clodia Beautée, you ask? Well, let me tell you. Clodia and Claude Beautée (that’s a French bastardization of the word “beauty”) are the musical counterparts for the once reality celebrities of the ancient Roman republic, Clodius and Clodia Pulcher (Pulcher being the Latin word for beautiful). Part political heavyweights, part Hilton sisters, the incestuous Clodius and Clodia, drank, screwed, corrupted, and murdered their way into Roman infamy… I guess you could say they were pretty badass.

(A scream and sudden crash. The Camera #2 operator has been skewered by a scimitar. Pirates ambush the blogging session. Joshua William Gelb is sacked by Captain O’Malley and his crew of malicious rogues)

Re: Tully Casting Announcements... Yeah, about that...

(A podium set before a large ambiguous waving flag. Joshua William Gelb appears in supplication to his blog readers. He reads off the teleprompter)

Aren’t there enough empty promises in the world? Enough meaningless motions and consequently enough low expectations? Must my own be added to the already oppressive collective?

(With hands held high ala Frank Langella ala Dick Nixon)

My dear blog readers, last week I made a promise to you. I promised, without fail, complete Tully casting announcements in the forthcoming issue of this director’s blog. I made a promise to you -- Yes, you! … And you! … Maybe even you! -- But it was a promise I had no right to make, as this week I am unable to fulfill said promise. There will be no casting announcements today.

(Communal disappointment)

Of course, that’s not to say we aren’t cast; nor does it say that we don’t have a friggin’ awesome cast at that. But…

(Joshua William Gelb scoffs)

Mr. Michael “Producer” Height has held conference with our esteemed “promotion” team and, apparently, the general consensus is: this humble “director’s blog” is not “high profile” enough on which to initially “reveal” our “fast-breaking news,” since such an “announcement” on such a “trivial” “site” may only “damage” our “place” “in” the “coming” “news cycle” “.”

(Joshua William Gelb folds his arms and briefly pouts)

That’s not to say I’m bitter about this unforeseen censoring. I’m not. Really. No really, I’m not. Because I see this as an opportunity -- a rare but welcome opportunity for me to take the time to talk to you, and I mean really talk to you, about the New York Musical Theatre Festival and, in particular, about our musical, Tully (In No Particular Order).

So let’s start at the beginning. Our inspiration: Catullus.

The Roman poet, praenomen “Gaius,” gentilicium “Valerius,” cognomen “Catullus” was born in Sirmio on Lake Garda, in the province Verona, around 84 B.C. to a wealthy military family. Certain sources dispute the date of his birth, saying he was born in 81 B.C., but in looking at the Suetonius and checking the dates with Caesar’s commentaries --

(Exeunt Joshua William Gelb, pursued by bear)

Next Week: Catullus: the adolescent years. His friends, his family, and the girl next-door named Winnie Cooper.