My controversial play "The Screech Owl" is greeted with hoots of derision upon its premiere, the cast members pelted with cabbages and double A batteries. This humiliating incident is taken up as a cause célèbre in certain cultural circles as evidence that serious theater still matters, otherwise why would anyone bother to start a riot over such an egregiously dreadful example of the genre? Upon reflection I decide that the provinces simply aren't ready for a work of such searing insight and sexual frankness, and that perhaps the chorus of naked teenage boys in gold body glitter wasn't the best idea I ever had. Still, I have hopes for a smoother European premiere. Not only will I find more sophisticated audiences there but the setting of a boys' soccer camp will doubtlessly find more resonance overseas. Note to self: change all soccer references to "football," I heard that's what they call it there. Weird.

My short film The Shit Stained Voluptuary, produced on a shoestring over two years' worth of weekends, is met with cruel indifference when screened at 10:30PM on a cold and rainy Tuesday night at the first annual Cigarettes Cheaper International Hermaphrodites and Gender Transgression Film Festival in a leaky tent in the parking lot behind Burgerville near the 205 on-ramp.

My satirical series of fake Government Printing Office informational pamphlets is deemed tasteless and offensive when displayed in the lobby of the Portland March of Dimes. Special hostility is directed at the brochure entitled So You've Been Raped Repeatedly.