Sometime between when I lost all that weight and I lost all that hair, I indulged my wife by agreeing to attend a play produced by her niece Erin and some of her friends, all recent or anticipated graduates of Colorado College. I was prepared to suffer through the program as I do other such familial "cultural events"; by unfocusing my eyes and silently reciting the lyrics to "Don't Fence Me In" repeatedly until it's time to go home.

To my surprise, "Quixote" turned out to be the real deal. The fine acting, sharp writing, and outstanding stagecraft that is a hallmark of what transformed into the Buntport Theater were evident even in that first production. I remember sitting in the dim theater, feeling my reality warp into something else, thinking, "I want to be part of this. I want to find a way to fuck this up."

My opportunity came several years later, when, as part of a fundraising event, the group offered for bid the opportunity to co-write an episode of their ongoing sitcom "Magnets on the Fridge". The premise of "Magnets" is that a group of friends are cajoled into participating in a book club, with titles chosen at random from suggestions by the audience. The themes of each episode are inspired more or less by the assigned book. My first "contribution" to the project was when one of my book suggestions was selected in the first season: Me and the Orgone, by Orson Bean, a book I had stumbled across at a used book store years before. I think the book "Magnetized" quite nicely, and it gave Erin the opportunity to mock my surname and assign me a lame nickname. No target too easy, apparently. My kind of people.

My first chance for more direct involvement came in the series' second season, when they first offered the co-authorship chance at auction. I was too self-conscious to bid on the opportunity myself, and Denise wasn't sure of my reaction if she bid on it for me (thus proving once again that telepathy is a crock), so the chance went to another contributor, whom it turns out never contacted Buntport. I heard after the fact that Erin was disappointed that I hadn't bid, that the group was intrigued with the thought of becoming my "puppets" for 45 minutes. I determined then to reward their curiosity - or punish their flattery, as the case may be - should the opportunity arise.

Fundraising being what it is, and community theater being in its thrall, I of course had my chance the next year, when on the opening night of "Magnet's" third season, the group held another auction. I posted the first bid for the co-writing "prize": $80; high enough, I hoped, to dissuade countering bids. Not so. Shortly after my bid, some froggish dweeb upped the ante by ten bucks. Good enough, I decided, at least I tried, and maybe influenced someone to donate more than they intended to the cause, and I was relieved of the challenge of writing something worth staging. To my disappointment, Denise countered that bid by another double sawbuck, thus proving once again that telepathy is a crock.

I had my choice of any date in the season to use my prize, but kismet was swift. On the very night I won the bid, the book selected for the next episode was William Burroughs' Naked Lunch. I would have to have been as addled as El Hombre Invisible himself not to respond to such a clear sign. For the Reichian connection alone, I decided to make my playwright debut about a book I never read, by an author about whom I knew little more than he killed his wife while trying to shoot a shot glass off her head, and that he spent his declining years masturbating inside a cabinet designed to focus ethereal sexual energy into his brain.

I made my pitch to the group via e-mail. Brian called with his ok, we met with Erin to decide on a vague plot, and I spent the next three days writing an outline and the dialogue for the "Uncle Dennis" character. I shortly discovered that collaborating with Buntport means sending work into the void and waiting for feedback that apparently arrives via Godot cart. I had delusions of huddling with my thespian compatriots during a long weekend of intense rehearsal, tweaking plot and twiddling lines until from the ashes of a vague idea springs forth a phoenix of a brilliant performance. Guess again, Mamet-o. My first view of the play came as a member of the audience on Tuesday night.

I thoroughly enjoyed what Buntport did with my framework, although I wonder if they changed so little of my work out of respect for my ability or fear that I might demand my money back.

Below to the left is my submission, and on the right the working script. I'll leave it to you to decide who made the stronger contribution, and indeed if any of it is any good.