A native son of Texas on the teaching of creationism in public schools

There has been much talk since the election of Obama of the fear of imposition of "sharia law" in America as if the President were intent upon its establishment as a national religion. 

The irony here is that there is a group working in concert to establish, or more correctly, impose a rigid moral and ethical code in America and it is the Christian Fundamentalists. I do not doubt their fervent faith, nor deny them their right to believe as they choose, but when their actions bleed into the social/political arena, stand the constitution on its ear and violate it, yes violate constitutional law, by teaching hokum (creationism) with established scientific theory (and please look up the use of theory in the scientific sense) then we are treading the same path that led to the demise of a vital and scientific culture decades ago, namely the Persian empire that was driven back into ignorance and poverty by the rule of the religious intolerant.

 The irony is palpable and the threat is already playing itself out in school boards across the nation and congressmen on scientific committees who publicly declare scientific theory to come from the depths of hell. Not all Conservatives think like this but their silence is telling and they have made a political calculation to embrace ignorance to achieve a political end. But should it come to pass, it will be a pyrrhic victory, as history has shown us, to well, the consequence of such silence. But these days, we are more interested in rewriting history than studying it. This country was founded on the idea of freedom from the establishment of a single religion, "the government shall not establish" but leave all the freedom to worship as they please. Is it not strange that those who proclaim to stand up for America, truly know so little about its founding principles.

the fountain of youth

In the autumn of time
All that is left is but to make
the bed of our final rest

Gauf is a way for some, and a torment to the rest

Shinny (Rooster)

“More than 200 years ago, Indians throughout the United States played a variety of club and ball games described as ‘Shinny.’ Translation of the various Indian appellations given the game include ‘The Club of the War Gods’ or ‘the yielding stick’ but it was popularly known as ‘Rooster’ amongst the Tashuan tribe where it is said to have first originated and had a shortlived, but well-documented history amongst its people.

Introduced to the Tashwans by a seaman second class by the name “Shanks” McNaught who claimed he was washed ashore after riding a great white whale with his Captain Jonah, after the wreck of the whaler, The Raven out of Turro, Massachusetts. Rooster was more akin to dueling than to the game of golf as we now know it. In the game of Rooster - two contestants compete head-to-head in a match of ‘fool-hardy will and dubious courage.’ Each player armed with a wooden club called a baffer, which has a leather grip at one end, and a bent, gnarled, spoon-like head at the other. If the contestants were to smote each other with these baffing clubs they might have caused considerable damage, but the rules of Rooster strictly forbade striking your opponent directly with the business end of the club. Rather, the rules of the game required the contestants to stand 216 paces distant from each other and to “flayel the baffer, thereby striking the baul at yourn foe in the wee hope of goffin ‘im in the noggin.” “Wee hope,” being the operative words. For the most part, it is said Rooster contests devolved into utter frivolity, as few of the players were capable of striking the baul with any degree of certainty, much less inflicting any damage upon a foe so far afield.

Games of the North American Indians was first published in a U. S. Government document titled Eighteenth Annual Report of the Bureau of American Ethnology to the Smithsonian Institution, 1902-1903, by H.W. Holmes.

a true man of no title

sunset at st. andrews

Is it true, that I transcribe my memories by hand with a quill honed from the bone of a great white whale and ink from the dust of my ancestor’s bones. Does it matter? My life is a tale so fantastic that none believe it, when it is told. And, yet, for posterity’s sake, I transmit the story for the sake of my people, while briefly noting, for vanity’s sake, my family’s rightful place in the golfing records.

My father was Jonah Shipman, he was the second son of the infamous Kyntire lightkeeper and golfer of small note, Seamus Shipman (Old Seamus in his later years). When my grandfather was a younger man, he beat everyone at match play, including and especially Tom Morris. Before my grandfather became the Kyntire light keeper, he was one of the first makers of the gutta percha golf ball, a ball that revolutionized golf in its day.

In those early Prestwick days, my grandfather Seamus was a fierce competitor. He won often and some suspected with outside agency, but always with gamesmanship and brinksmanship. His matches often required a rules decision to settle the matter. After the brawl, of course. My grandfather was also prone to rubbing salt in the wounds of his vanquished a little too strenuously when in his cups in the clubhouse. That too, was often.

Old Tom Morris never beat Old Seamus at matchplay head-to-head, but got everything else he competed against Old Seamus for, namely, the pro's job at Prestwick in 1858. It drove my grandfather out of the golf business and into light keeping on the Irish side of the island. The Old Tom got the job at the Old Course and then won Open Championships, that were followed by Young Tom's championships.then his sons championships.

The feud between the two men went back to the early days of Prestwick, guess it wasn't much of a feud in anyone's head by Old Seamus, but he couldn't let it go.
, there was a feud between Old Tom and Old Seamus, a feud that dates back to the early days of Prestwick that came to tragedy off the coast of Machrihanish.

For a brief time, when challenge matches were the major competitions, he was unbeaten. But was never competitive when competition turned to counting strokes


. who fled Scotland, when the English Courts called him to testify in the wake of a shipwreck caused by the failure of the Kyntire lighthouse in 1871.

My grandfather was Seamus Shipman (Old Seamus in his later years), a noted golfer in his brief time, but forgotten now. When Old Seamus was a younger man, he used to beat everyone, at match play, including and especially Old Tom. He was master club maker and wielder of hickory sticks, the best "stuffer of feathers", and an irrascible and fierce competitor who won often. Unfortunately, my grandfather was also prone to rubbing that fact in a little too strenuously when in his cups, which was often. So there was a feud between Old Tom and Old Seamus, a feud that dates back to the early days of Prestwick that came to tragedy off the coast of Machrihanish.

In 1858, Old Seamus took the job as Kyntire lighthouse keeper and moved his family to the westernmost finger of Scotland. Wouldn’t you know it, not two years later, Old Tom helped set up the first, so-called, British Championship in 1860 and finished second, but Old Seamus really hit the roof when he heard that Old Tom won it in 1861. And things didn’t get much better as the decade progressed. Old Tom won the belt three more times, and then, to make matters worse, the son took up where the father left off and capped it by winning possession of the belt with his third consecutive victory.

Old Seamus just bristled that those Easterners, as he called them, (Old Tom and the younger) were hogging all the gaufing glory simply because he and his eldest couldn’t get time off from lighthouse duties to play in these so-called Open Championships. and everyone knew that "the true game of gauf is match play, not stroke, spell it anyway you like."

So in the Spring of 1871, when the membership of Prestwick declined to offer up a new prize, Old Seamus wrote a withering letter to his old club and challenged his rival to a challenge match, pitting the best of the east (Young Tom) against the best of the west (Young Seamus) for a prize to be determined.

Of course, there was no golf course on this westernmost finger of Scotland, except for the sheep pasture where Old Seamus taught his sons to play the ancient game. But Old Seamus was determined to have the match played on home turf, so he bought the farm and spent all that spring fashioning a rough ten-hole course on which to hold the competition. As they say, there's no rivalry like the rivalry of Old Men; and Old Tom leapt at the chance to put his old nemesis in his place, even if it was just a match played between their sons.

My father, Young Seamus and Young Tom Morris played a thirty-hole (three times around a ten-hole circuit) match which ended all square, never one in front of the other by more than a hole the entire way. But, the weather was turning might nasty at the end and so play was suspended while a great storm was rolling in off the Irish Sea. The stoppage imposed by the rule committee, but objected to by both players who were eager to finish.

Old Seamus ordered my father back to to the lighthouse to the tend the signal, whilst he and Old Tom and the committee retired to the nearest establishment to codify the terms of continuance, planned the next morning, if the storm did not pass.

As neitherYoung Seamus, nor Young Tom wanted to quit.
And so, they lingered on the links as the crowd dispersed,
and then decided to continue, sanction or not.
And so, my father sent his young brother of nine
--the lad had carried the bags for the thirty hole match--
to the lighthouse in his stead.
Something that was not 'officially' allowed, but oft happened.
and Seamus and Tom, continued on...

But young Seamus's younger brother, 'his bother' as he called him for the boy was a "bit light in the head, if not in the shoes", couldn’t bear to miss the finish of the match either, for it had been one for the ages, so far. And so the boy hid in the weeds to bear witness to the conclusion of the match, neglecting his older brother's instructions and the family duty.

For six long holes, in the screaming wind and rain it went, until Young Seamus, hit a knock-down cleek from 108 yards into 54 mile an hour gale and watched it drop into the hole for an eagle to win the match on the 36th hole.

But the glory was short-lived.

The son had disobeyed the father,
and brother neglected brother,
one stayed to play,
the other to watch.
And eighteen souls (sailors)
were set adrift at sea
drowned (or so it was thought)
off the Kyntire coast.

Fearing the vengeance of Her Majesty's Courts, my father fled Scotland, to Ireland and then on to America, by hiring out on a whaling ship. He made his way to Newfoundland, and then on to Massachussetts where he prospered in Turro in the whaling business. In 1885, he set sail on one last whaling season but he never made it back to port…the last entry found in the ship’s log noted that “The Raven" (his whaling ship) hunts a great whale..”

1st tee of Machrihanish

I learned all this from my father's younger brother, Jonah B. Shipman, when I was at Carnoustie with the Hawk. (Number 15).


James Boles Shippen Jr.

Sunset at St. Andrews

Zen and the Art of Divot Replacement

by James Boles

  

Golf is a powerful metaphor in my life and a complicated relationship. More than a game, sport or competition—at my best it is a meditation, but more often it devolves into a confrontation with my mental affliction—the wedge: scooping, decelerating short game.

The best driver of the ball you have ever seen…a streaky putter…but the short game is an affliction…Can you hold one thought, one swing, one shot in your mind from waggle to impact? Or will you succumb to the impact zone yips, the fatal chase move...but we are not discussing my swing flaw, or rather, my scoring flaw…

I have come to believe in the four noble truths;

and I play golf as a metaphor—a means to teach

an unmasterable game— enlightenment

The grounds for gauf

The rules of gauf

The true match

One swing, one shot

My teacher, a master of zen,

put it more eloquently when he told me,

“one shot to test your understanding,

and eighteen holes to polish the soul.”

I took up the game of golf faster than some, earlier than most but not all. It was the summer of my ninth year, when a friend up the street started taking golf lessons at the Dallas Country Club. He invited me out to the grounds of Dover Elementary School to demonstrate what he had learned, and together we fashioned a two-hole course between the baseball diamonds on the playing fields. My re-collection, is that I beat my friend with his own clubs, first time out­­ over that makeshift layout. The friendship did not survive that first match, but my passion for the game did.

Soon thereafter my family left Richardson, Texas, and moved overseas when my father accepted a European assignment with the Department of Army. Our family spent the next three years in Italy, just outside Livorno, port city to Florence and then two more in Heidelberg, Germany, headquarters of NATO High Command. Most of my summer weekends I spent on the golf course, either caddying for my father on one of his golfing trips to Punta Alla in Italy; or caddying for the generals in Heidelberg—lessons in how not to play the game.

When we got overseas, my father also took up golf. My father was not a very good golfer. He was a leftie, and so played the game from the other side of the ball at a time when there was only one lefty in the pros. When he was on he could drive the ball with power, but seldom did he have the accuracy to match his length. His touch around the greens could be quite abysmal as well, but he keep fidelity with the rules. He counted every stroke and never improved his lie.

It was an important lesson to me.

When I reached my middle years, a phase my wife claims began shortly after my 37^th birthdate and continued without cessation until the end of my fiftieth year, golf became a weekend obsession…an escape from the pressures of the job or lack of one, and tension in the family unit.

I was also trying to re-activate a writing career that had laid dormant too long. A novel had sprung into my head about the story of a half-black, Shinnecock caddie by the name of Jobe ‘one shot’ Shipman who carried the bag for eighteen Open winners.




Metro-North Eastward, from the northside platform, Stratford, Ct

 

the last train by j.b. mcneely

Tomorrow, I go to get the keys.

Then the prodigal officially returns to the Upper West Side.

75th and Columbus, up two streets.

The frame store is still there, but Bernard has retired

The Chinese/Argentinian restaurant persists

and the framed painting of my master's ki remains

Return to training and the circle is complete.



     And so, the weed-hopper, returns to his first teacher, M. Crevani, student of Heshiki Sensei, 72nd Street Dojo, Matsu-bayashi, karate-do. Those were my garrot years in the city that never sleeps when I first began my training in the art of the fist some thirty years ago. (Not really a garrot, no. On the second floor of four-floor brownstone on 73rd Street, except that when the third floor shower was used, it rained in my kitchen.)

These are the years that I am told now that I will look back on with fondness. Perhaps, in a Proustian sense, it can almost be, whatever I make of it and such is the fragility of memory. These pages, these pages of my 'Burn This' years, of theatre on the sleigh, sleight of hand, slight of mind.



Joe McNeely as Lee Harvey Oswald
The Sixth Floor
The Douglas Fairbanks Theatre



Hard now to remember the time when I was that thin. Those were the years of training. Long stretches of framing, bartending, waiting, and the occassional audition or show, sometimes even under union contract.  Princes and assassins.. Henry V and Lee Harvey Oswald. And those were some venues. Henry V, off-Broadway, 42nd Street, Theatre Row;  The Sixth Floor at the Douglas Fairbanks Theatre.

Yes, back in the day when I strode down Broadway and everyone took me for a star, or was that just my imagination...running away with me.


Bob Hall directed. Founding member of The New 'Rude Mechanicals'. After this performance, I did a small role in A Midsummer Night's Dream, a cameo in the Scottish play, during which I found my love, the mistress of my heart, and then Prince, nay King Hal. Then the theatrical career kind of trailed out. Had an audition for Joyce's Ulysses, but traveled to the West Coast instead. Turned down a paying gig, to play the wordiest mother-f#%$er, William Shakespeare ever wrote.

And there in, lies a tale,
a tale but for some other time...
The story of the audition
the breakfast, the walk in the park, the I'll be looking into these eyes for the rest of my life.

january 21-22, 2012
arbor street
office of audioevolution, llc

Saturday, white morning written pages to the tune of a favorite concert (Koln concert by Keith Jarrett). All elements of the writer's trade at hand: smokes (though that must be done outside, and more on that later), music, the empty page and my fountation pen. Now, I could delay things immensely, as I used to in days past, to stop and take out my camera to show you pictures of all those elements, but is it not better that I leave it to your imagination.)

Words, words, words, the immortal character intones.

For him a mockery

For me an incantation

Interruption...

Off the shovel snow, and now the wife is gone. The house is mine.

Light them up. We will handle the storm of fury on her return. She is off to saturday sessions, listening to people. They share grief, pain, addiction, withheld feelings, hidden secrets, longings and desires whilst I grasp at

What is it that I grasp at?

Answers to unsolveable questions

forgiveness of past sins

the torments of personal failings

Scattered thoughts

a few gems to preserve on paper

while the rest sink like stones



first snow at Kilkare cottage

Looking out o'er the middle ocean
a three year hermitage
there were many words, words, words
written on the pages of the countless journals
Someday, soon I shall gather all the shards
and piece them back together
bind them, marry them
and it will be a song of creation
soon forgotten.

"Dissecting Gum" by Ariel

Post-Production by Jobe Jr.



*A commentary update from the audio publisher regarding A Disorder Peculiar to the Country


Monkey Mind*

 Update: January 19, 2012
It is my understanding that Ken Kalfus has been at work on a new novel. Of course, anyone in publishing already knows this, but this blog is not written for the likes of publishers marketplace and publishers weekly, but for the lonely audiophiles who straggle on to this site in the wee morning hours. The traffic that comes to this site is mostly myselfto write, my mother to see what else I might have said about her, or my father, sister, or nephew; and audiophiles. The confusion, audioevolution.com versus audioevolution.org.

"Audio Evolution,. heh that sounds cool, I need some new stereo equipment."__audiojoe

Original post March 2007

Ken Kalfus's post 9/11 novel, A Disorder Peculiar to the Country was a 2006 National Book Award nominee. A sly satire (dark) black comedy of war, terrorism and conjugal strife. Audiobook Details Author Interview

I first read this novel in manuscript when I was still the acquisitions director for Audio Renaissance, a division of Holtzbrinck Publishers, LLC, now known as Macmillan Audio. Little did I know at the time how few the degrees of separation were between myself and the author, Ken Kalfus. I would come to find out later, that the book was dedicated (in part) to my wife's college roommate and that the two of them had attended NYU with the author. It is indeed "a small world after all." Published in contravention of all the accepted axioms of audio publishing (big first print, marketing budget and simultaneous with the hardcover). Why? Because: the novel spoke to me.

I found in it a voice that crystallized my inchoate concerns, thoughts and feelings post 9/11, especially about the direction the country was heading in its aftermath. As a nation, I believe that we responded to 9/11 with our collective hypothalamus, determined to avenge the stain upon our nation. We set reason aside, then our founding principles, and finally, our morality. There is nothing we have not sacrificed to achieve victory in the war on terror, nothing, not habeus corpus, due process, nor civil liberties. We sacrificed it all in an illusory quest, not for freedom from terror, but for freedom from the fear of terror. And all we have after four years and billions of dollars is more terror and more fear of terror as we sacrifice more and more of our freedoms. A black comedy, indeed.

The Phoenix Chronicle (continued)

۞         ۞        ۞

My life is a barren field.

I begin again.

This is the way,

I am the Phoenix.

Jake was my uncle

a Texan, who drank to drown his sorrow.

When he was younger

he thought he had what we wanted, Jessie

his wife, his high school sweetheart.

It was a desperate love.

She was unfaithful, but so was he.

Jacob was no saint

but there is a rule in Texas for women

and one for men

that it ain’t right nor fair

just ain’t germane.

He killer her lover on a full moon night

coming home from a three day drunk.

Caught them in bed together.

Killed him with his hands.

His best friend.

He served his time, seven years.

Jessie was long since gone

His children to

Scattered to the winds

He returned to the oil field

Late nights, slamming quarter inch pipe

down deeper and deeper holes

to the bowels of the earth

They said of Jake

he could do more work drunk

than two men sober.

He took more wives

but it came to nothing.

Always his sorrow, his secret grief.

Living in cheap motels

stinking of cigarettes and stale beer

he worked less, drank more.

Always a bar stool for Jacob.

He died drunk in Dubai

rolled his truck down a mountain of sand

I was with him once, asleep at the wheel

When the wind moves the sand.

it sings his story

it howls in the wind.

Jacob’s Lament

I am Jacob

I have grown so weary.

Life is a barren field

and I am hungry.

I sew the seed by hand

I water it with blood

still nothing grows.

Shall I live to see the rain

and if I did

who would I tell.

I am the dust.

Will I ever be at peace

until death,

Or even then?

taboo

Transcription from the black moleskin, "Dark Matters"

"the nymphet, now with a dash of Irish blood, was really much the same lass,... but otherwise the thing was new and had grown in secret the claws and wings of a novel" - Vladimir Nabokov (1956)

He wrote his story, and then went to burn it as promised,
but the wife stopped him on the way to the incinerator
and saved the final copy.

Commentary:
(Deleted)
obliviously unaware,
of the cock of her hip
I transcribe immoral words
on the soft fold of her

shoulder,
(Yes, less offensive, shoulder.)

She casts a glance back
questioning
(an encantation)
then cast a spell.

dusk

o'erlooking the great unsalted sea

kilkare cottage
grand haven, michigan

The Phoenix Chronicle by j.b.  

to she who suffered as I came to life
And she that is the joy of my heart,
When the tumult ends, we will dance in silence.

*   *   *

I begin again

over and over again,

always new beginnings

my odyssey

fear not the flames

I am the Phoenix.

What was it I wanted to say here?

What was it I wanted to do that has driven me to this abyss?

To see myself for who I really am,

to touch the place where my heart resides.

The forces of fear have gathered,

what can I do to stem the tide?

The cleverness of my speech is gone,

standing naked to the wind, I am not cold.

A fire grows in my belly, a hunger, a thirst.

I've searched the bull these many years

Still no glimpse of eternity.

I sit me down.

Having tried to apprehend the truth of existence was I successful?

It is not for me to judge.

the first step of the journey

It is said Satori, enlightenment comes in a flash

I have sat a lifetime, still the door is closed

go to knock

I will speak for no faiths

No ism, no cause, save one

The celebration, the sustenance and the surrender of life.

It is the last of my hope
Which I throw away

take no side in matters of violence

sit poised watching the majesty of life unfold
though it is written with pain and bitter tears

there is also joy in life's embrace

and a word, not yet uttered

love

now, forget this too

it is too much this hope

too sublime, too clinging

too late for tears, too soon

we are the dust

Super Bowl Sunday! At Kilkare looking out over the great unsalted sea, America's great interconnected waterway! Was out writing on Friday night with Mary Robinette, and a nameless editorial assistant. I was writing by long hand and seizing up about every three minutes, my hand cramping. Still there were some good lines. First page He was always rewriting his words. Perhaps like his father before him, he would express himself via the written word only to those he loved dearly, or lusted, lost and longed for. No, that's not really true. It was a fiction page, or so he told himself, not him, well yes him, but him inflated beyond all recognition. "What was it I wanted to say." What was it I wanted to do, that has driven me to this abyss. When would he escape himself he asked. Who is this I?, that I grasp at?

The Art of Learning

Tuesday, March 4, 2008

Just finished principle-recording for The Art of Learning (subtitle-An Inner Journey to Optimal Performance by Josh Waitzkin, read by the author. That name is probably not familiar, but if I mentioned Searching for Bobby Fischer, that would ring a bell of recognition, and you may or may not realize that Josh was the subject of the book written by his father that was later made into a movie. After retiring from chess, he took up the study of Tai Chi Chuan, under Master William C.C. Chen on 23rd Street, NYC and competes internationally.

The unabridged audiobook will be publishing first as a download edition from Iamplify.

Othello's Passion

Some residents of Stratford were witness to a theatrical success this weekend. The Bard's, The Tragedy of Othello, The Moor of Venice, as performed by a company of players, led by Robert Johanson was sponsored by the Stratford Arts Commission. It was a swift evening of two hours, demonstrating that Shakespeare is not only relevant, but topical and yet methinks as fascile as the performance was, there was something amiss or should I say amissing. Kudos, to Robert Johanson's performance of the villanous Iago, whose crisp elocution and wry delivery found all the dark humor; it was on his back that much of this performance was carried and he ably bore the load, not only of a leading role, but as the director as well, (a perilous combination usually). And yet, my highest praise is reserved for Jo Anne Parady, who excels in the role of Emilia, Iago's wife and Desdemona's attendant. There is a rhythm to tragedy which is indicated by the playwright in meter and phrase, but the actor must breathe life into the words...and the most affective moments of the night belonged to her. Recognition must also be made to Alexander Kulcsar, who stepped into the role of the Duke, as a last week replacement, and wove himself seamlessly into the production. On the technical side, the costumes were magnificent as was the setting, and the placement of the stage a revelation. From the audience perspective, the stage was set at the entrance of a natural arbor that seemed to wend its way to the river, whilst if one looked but slightly to the left, the panorama revealed of bobbing boats and the outgoing currents of the Housatonic emptying into the tides of the Sound was a site to bestir one's soul. Tech-Theatrical Services, LLC, the vendor who provided sound and lights for the Festival should be commended for its patience and perserverance. Working with no drawn plans, a last minute diminuation of and placement of the stage, and a total reworking of the light rigging...Tech-Theatrical went above and beyond the call of duty. The setting was magnificent, and so was the play, and there was enough audience to awaken the hope of renewal. There is more that I can say, but it is enough for now.

I'm back in the saddle again

page two:

Well we finished the first and second tech rehearsal for the upcoming performances of Othello, Friday and Saturday, August 10&11 at 7 pm: Free Admission.

The evening sponsored by the Mayor, the Stratford Arts Commission, printing of the playbill and sound operation of the Festival courtesy of Audio Evolution, LLC and KAP Audio. ("courtesy" means time volunteered and services provided at no cost.) But enough of that.

First night: a seizure, a hissy fit and a Ronald Reagan microphone moment: "I paid for this microphone." Second night: Costumes, potential trips, pratfalls, dead batteries...

Par for the course.

Shakespeare-on-the-Housatanic

Old Will, is rearing his head in Stratford again…Othello—the tragedy of the moor of Venice will be staged. And I have volunteered as a stage hand, (let's say a New Rude Mechanical) for the performance.

Nice to be back in the Theatre. I recognize it already by its lack of pay. I shall be doing the load-in, the lights, the sound, the program, all the good things a liaison between a theatrical troupe and the producing entity—and all of it for free. Ah, but is anything free…

The beginnings of a press release: An Actor’s Equity production of The Tragedy of Othello, The Moor of Venice by William Shakespeare will be staged on the grounds of the Stratford Festival Theatre (Stratford, Connecticut) this Friday and Saturday night (August 10 & 11, 2007) at 7 pm. The production sponsored by the Mayor and the Stratford Arts Commission; is a presentation, developed at the Theatre Artist Workshop of Connecticut directed by Robert Johanson. Robert Johanson served for 20 years as the Artistic Director of the Paper Mill Playhouse—the State Theatre of New Jersey. He’s performed and directed on Broadway, NY City Opera, Madison Square Garden and theatres around the country and Europe. In addition to directing, Mr. Johanson will also be playing the role of Iago, one of Shakespeare’s cruelest villains. The role of the jealous moor, goaded into murder, and a tragic end shall be played Forest Hamilton, the Artistic Director of the Blueberry Pond Theatre Ensemble in Ossining, NY and a graduate of the NYU Tisch School of the Arts; while the role of Desdemona will be played by Kathryn Marchand. Kathryn appeared this season in Shakespeare-on-the-Sound’s production of A Comedy of Errors, and her numerous credits include Broadway, Off-Broadway and Regional Theatres across the country; while her television credits include The Sopranos, Law and Order and film credits include The War of the Worlds.

[Aside] I played Iago but once, and that for a staged reading on the epistle side of St. John's Cathedral or as we called it then "Gabriel's Horn and Tabernacle" in Harlem, NY. The actor who read Othello, had played the role once and had a story to tell about his close encounter with a group of theatre-supporting, fund-raising, supposedly enlightened yokels Down South. Legend has it, that the performance of the Tragedy by this troupe, in which the actors heightened the role (and fear of) of a woman's awakened sexual passion and the taboo of intermarriage (miscegenation) was a concept that worked all to well, because the performance bestirred a frenzy and near-riot, forcing the cancelation of the evening's fund-raising activities and a contractual dispute that was finally arbitrated in the company’s favor by the board of the Actor’s Equity Association grievance committee-their final ruling stating: "when you book a performance of the Tragedy of Othello, you also book the meaning of the play."

Tulia: Race, Cocaine and Corruption in a Small Texas Town by Nate Blakeslee, read by James Boles "...as good as non-fiction audio gets"-AudioFile (Earphone Award winner ) Free sample available at http://podcast.audioevolution.org/ or buy CD or download at http://www.audioevolution.org/store.html "Boles' unflinching performance of the trial deliberations.. creates a palpable air of courtroom drama." -Publishers Weekly “…In this spellbinding, riveting, and exceedingly detailed work, Nate Blakeslee tells the stranger-than-fiction story of how one corrupt Texas cop managed to set in motion a juggernaut that put one-fifth of the adult black population of a small town behind bars, some defendants for as long as 90 years. James Boles provides a homespun reading, replete with West Texas accents, giving the book the necessary color and adding to the compelling drama. This is as good as it gets for nonfiction audio

Elaine's Circle

Elaine's Circle

a teacher, a student, a classroom and one unforgettable year

by Bob Katz, read by Mimi Bederman

produced by Audio Evolution, LLC

Single User ISBN 0-9787712-2-2 http://www.audioevolution.org/title_elaine.html "This book is a gift. It's a reminder of the profound lessons that can happen daily in the classroom of a gifted teacher. Elaine's Circle is also a lesson about what children are capable of understanding when treated with honesty and respect."-Marc Brown, bestselling author of Arthur, the children's book and television series. "a gripping and moving account of how compassion can transform people in the most difficult of times. ...a ...lesson about empathy and helping children through tough times that every teacher and parent can benefit from." -Daniel Goleman, bestselling author of Emotional Intelligence Dear Reader: I am the publisher of Audio Evolution and Elaine's Circle is my latest direc-to-download audio release. A heartwarming story of a quiet teacher who inspired with a quiet dignity and always compassion. For a free audio sample (first chapter) go to http://podcast.audioevolution.org/.

To purchase go to http://www.audioevolution.org/store.html

Botany of Desire

Just received a glowing review from Publishers Weekly for the audio publication of The Botany of Desire by Michael Pollan; read by Scott Brick.

Published as a direct-to-download audiobook in May 2006 by Audio Evolution, LLC.

Publishers Weekly (starred review) "On the sixth anniversary of its original publication, Pollan’s scientific twist on the human/plant symbiosis makes its audio debut. Pollan preaches a unique sort of romantic environmentalism where humans and plants satisfy each other’s desires for survival, enjoyment, satisfaction and escape. He uses the apple, tulip, cannabis and potato to develop his ideas, offering the histories of each and how they developed reciprocal relationships with the humans with whom each interacted. Scott Brick exudes excitement and breathes life into the recording—the timbre of his voice offering just the right touch of humor and depth. Listeners will feel like Brick truly loves the book and loves reading it aloud. It’s a great combination for listeners: interesting subject, great writing and wonderful reading. Definitely not to be missed. "