I Am So Popular: Puttin' On the Dick

Back then, I’d show up, spew out a piece about masturbation and a talking Barney the dinosaur stuffed toy, or maybe my hatred of the game Candyland, or how it is easier to discuss a yeast infection than admit a crush. I’d have a couple of pints in me. Sometimes I’d win the fifty-dollar prize. And often enough my son, Henry, then still a little guy, would accompany me, laying down to rest on his own, private, skanky plush chair, our little slam mascot.

The slam provided me with my first real non-work-related community in Austin. For a little while, I even shared a house with slam queen Genevieve Van Cleve. The summer we lived together she was on the team Austin was sending to nationals and many nights rehearsals were held on our porch. I still have friends from those days, though I think I split the scene (not intentionally, I just sort of drifted) a decade ago. And I will always have gratitude to Wammo and the rest of the gang for swinging open the performance art door for me.

So last night, when we performed the official one year anniversary show of The Dick Monologues at Hyde Park Theatre, I dedicated the show to Shannon. The slam was her doorway, too, and according to a recent story by Michael Barnes, one she stepped through when she was just fourteen, accompanied by her mother to a slam at Ego’s on South Congress. She moved up swiftly, by all accounts a passionate and prolific writer and performer.

What I’d like to do now, then, is turn this week’s column into Spike’s Love Letter to Austin. Today’s valentine specifically targets how incredibly supportive this town is of artists of all stripes and persuasions. I think some people will disagree with me on this. I’ve heard bellyaching that you can’t make it in this town, that there’s not enough appreciation for this and that, that there is no money to be had.

Once, I was having dinner with a group of women, all of us artists—two writers, a dancer, and a painter. One of us (not me) complained that you just can’t make a living from art here. Another countered that, while this might be true, you can know that you’ll always be taken care of, fed and, god forbid you suffer a tragedy, that people will rush to your aid via one of the countless benefits forever being thrown here.

This has been true for me. As a single mother hell-bent on making it with my writing, I took on all sorts of odd jobs—still do—to support my art and my kid. Along the way more people stepped up to help than I could ever count or properly thank. There were nights I’d lay in bed worrying how I’d keep the utilities on or wondering where the next can of beans would come from. But through the support of friends who wanted to see me succeed, friends who fed us and babysat for me and helped me find odd jobs and who even raised the dough for me to have foot surgery because I was uninsured, I made it.

Over the course of nearly seventeen years here, I’ve had a lot of nutty ideas. These also garnered support instead of the sort of negative, it-will-never-work poo-poohing I imagine occurs in other places. When I decided to put together a calendar of naked musicians to raise money for uninsured kids, dozens of artists, photographers, and sponsors jumped on the project and volunteered their time. When I threw benefits, people showed up with wide-open wallets. When I decided it would be a good idea to put on a series of Teen Rock concerts to give young musicians, my son among these, a chance to perform in real venues like Stubb’s and Threadgill’s, the community got behind me.

But my personal favorite, I have to say, has been the Dick Monologues. That show, which we’ve put on at least twenty times now, was just supposed to be a one-night, art-as-revenge piece to help me cathartically wade my way through a devastating divorce and a disgusting rebound with a three-timing (at least) sociopath whose picture really should accompany the word “liar” in the dictionary.

I emailed a couple of dozen performer friends early last summer and asked who might like to do a piece interpreting the word “dick” any way they chose. I figured maybe five or six people would join my little scheme, we’d put on a show for a few people, and I’d move on.

Instead, over a dozen artists agreed to show up that night, the performance went on for a ridiculous three hours, and the packed house not only stayed the entire time, but they asked us to do it again. And again. And so, with very little advertising, we’ve managed mostly sold out shows and we’re moving into our second year.

The experience has been eye-opening and educational, to understate things. Early on, I was approached by a potential investor, who suggested we might try to turn the show into a TV pilot. I’m not a TV person but the idea intrigued me. Money was discussed. Though the show was not conceived as a moneymaker, I got dollar signs in my eyes pretty quick.

These dollar signs grew when a couple of other potential investors sat down with me and pointed out that the show had off-Broadway potential if we would polish it up and pare it down. One meeting begat another and before I knew it, I’d brought in a producer, accepted some seed money, and started talking over the legal aspects of the show with a high priced entertainment attorney.

My head spun at some of those meetings. Numbers were crunched, potential liabilities discussed, plans made. There was talk of cutting out this or that performer, gaining ownership of pieces, making the show one, set, predictable thing that could potentially be performed by actors in other cities. I thought about royalties. I thought about how this might be it, my ship at last arriving, an opportunity to quit the ten different jobs I still seem to always have to keep a roof over my head.

But something wasn’t gelling. I can’t say exactly what it was. Some might call it a fear of success but I really don’t think that was it. And every time I said, at the table, that the show was a collaborative piece, that I felt it important that all players share equally in the profits, or at least share a lot, I felt like maybe I was coming across as nuts or at least not a very good businesswoman.

In the end, I gave up the dream of going big time with the show, deciding I wanted to keep it local and ever changing—organic and dynamic, not set and static. This left me with a mountain of debt, all that money needing to be repaid and, on top of it, thousands in legal fees. I’ve spent all of this year taking on even more work digging out of a $10,000 hole, money I could’ve spent on my kid or fixing my teeth or traveling or taking time off to write a novel.

But I have few, if any, regrets about this. I call the whole thing my crash course MBA. I figured out what the show really is, which is the same thing it started out as—a chance for catharsis and community and a regular creative outlet. Besides our core performers—and I have to say we’re an impressive lot—we’ve had all sorts of interesting guest monologists. I’ve met people I wouldn’t have otherwise met. And I know that, no matter how many commercial writing gigs I take on in any given month, I always have at least one night where I can say and do whatever I want.

Yesterday, as I always do on show days, I loaded my car with half the furniture in my house, cases of beer and wine and water and soda, and I headed to the Hyde Park Theatre. We had a full house, two hours of hilarity, and then load out—again with the furniture, the leftovers. I got home at eleven, lugged all that shit into the house, and collapsed with happy exhaustion.

And gratitude. Always gratitude for a city that supports its slam poets and performance artists and teen musicians and dancers and painters. If not with cash rewards, then with those other, better, priceless things: permission to test out nutty ideas, support for creativity, community and, last night anyway, a standing ovation.

Spike Gillespie is extremely popular and she does know dick. She blogs regularly for LaunchPad Coworking and at www.spikeg.com. She is also head mistress for the Dick Monologues. Next show is August 27th and you can email her at spike@spikeg.com to reserve seats.