Lisa back from shopping sooooon!

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Lisa has been spotted buying frocks for her new play!!!!…..Snapped by Mitch Hicks

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The Juice Bar is on Summer Hiatus!

Fruit

Thank you all for your devotion & juicy contributions!

L.K. Thayer is in a play called “O’Neill’s Ghosts”

Rehearsals start today for a September 5th opening!

(See previous post for info)

Too much is happening for me to split my focus

so I bid you a sensous summer and see you

this Fall!!  xoxo

- L.K. Thayer

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“O’Neill’s Ghosts” Play at The Odyssey Theatre – Opens Sept. 5th

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September 5th – 8PM (Limited Engagement)

Performances: Thurs.- Sat. 8PM – Sun. 2PM

The Odyssey Theatre

johnstarkproductions.com

O’Neill’s Ghosts, written by award-winning playwright Jovanka Bach, is told from the tormented perspective of Eugene O’Neill as he struggles with his latest writing while being haunted by the ghosts of his alcoholic-suicidal son, Bud; his career-plagued father, James; his dope-fiend mother, Ella; and debauched older brother Jamie. O’Neill suffers pangs of conscience while ravaging his family’s troubled history as plot fodder for his many plays, but it doesn’t stop him from pushing the pen.

The drama is set in 1912, in a coastal Connecticut home. As O’Neill arduously tries to concentrate on his latest work, he is haunted by the years of paternal neglect toward his eldest son, Eugene O’Neill Jr. (Bud). This relationship is reminiscent of the interactions with his own father James, mother Ella and brother Jamie. In the meanwhile, his long-suffering but dutiful wife, Carlotta struggles to uphold his privacy. The interruptions include a series of frantic calls from the family attorney concerning Eugene’s and Carlotta’s overwrought concern for their ailing dog. From her own perspective, the family’s surly Irish maid, Maude, grows even more disgusted as she tries to make sense of the family’s dysfunction.

Sadly neither O’Neill’s father, his mother, nor his brother can impress upon him enough to change the way he interacts with his own son, Bud. The more he tries to impress his father, the more Bud’s spirit deteriorates as it becomes evident that his father will never take the time from his calling to accept him into his world. And, just as O’Neill seems to have an epiphany, it is all too late as Bud takes his own life. But, the show must go on as they say, and O’Neill continues to bury himself in his work.

Featured as Eugene O’Neill is John DiFusco, with a supporting cast of Dana Kelly, Michael Vaccaro, Lisa Thayer, Penny Orloff, Tom Groenwald and Tanya Starcevich.

The production is designed by Jaret Sacrey, with lighting and sound by Kent Inasy and stage management by Joe Morrissey. Poster designs by Lara Starcevich.

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Fruit for Thought…

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Photo by L.K. Thayer

“It’s the action, not the fruit of the action, that’s important. You have to do the right thing. It may not be in your power, may not be in your time, that there’ll be any fruit. But that doesn’t mean you stop doing the right thing. You may never know what results come from your action. But if you do nothing, there will be no result.”
― Mahatma Gandhi

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Eugene O’Neill

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(Eugene O’Neill & Carlotta Monterey)

A Regular Sort Of Guy

He fights where the fighting is thickest
And keeps his high honor clean;
From finish to start, he is sturdy of heart,
Shunning the petty and mean;
With his friends in their travail and sorrow,
He is ever there to stand by,
And hark to their plea, for they all know that he
Is a regular sort of a guy.

He cheers up the sinner repentant
And sets him again on his feet;
He is there with a slap, and a pat on the back,
For the lowliest bum on the street;
He smiles when the going is hardest,
With a spirit no money can buy;
And take it from me, we all love him ’cause he
Is a regular sort of a guy.

I don’t care for the praise of the nations,
Or a niche in the great hall of fame,
Or that posterity should remember me
When my dust and the dust are the same;
But my soul will be glad if my friends say
As they turn from my bier with a sigh
“Though he left no great name, yet he played out the game
Like a regular sort of a guy.”

Eugene O’Neill
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Maya Angelou – R.I.P.

 

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My great hope is to laugh as much as I cry; to get my work done and try to love somebody and have the courage to accept the love in return.

 

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Memorial Day quote

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My fellow Americans, ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.

 

 

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Juicy Quote…

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“Sex A-Peel…”

I would rather play Chiquita Banana and have my swimming pool than play Bach and starve.


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Pablo Picasso

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We all know that art is not the truth, art is a lie that makes us realize the truth.

- Pablo Picasso

 

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Maryrose Smyth

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Salad Days

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Poof, and it’s all gone,

falling,

breaded,

in an egg mixture with seasonings

– lips thrown onto brown paper,

hot beast smiles we grab and eat,

exoskeletons detached from their flesh bellies,

moon shadows and French kissed souls snapped from their God given rights,

All the world loves a parade, a good meal, found money,

Oh, but to behold that face!

#

It was September and I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

A time before things changed forever and life asserted it’s irrevocables,

became opposite day everyday.

How I hate that Pat told us the future that day, said he planned to die early and leave a pretty corpse.

How I hate that we just sat on the deck of our uncle’s boat nodding,

laughing,

drinking,

sunning ourselves between mile markers,

spent time talking about bee shadows messing up our tans,

liar, liar, pants on fire,

how I hate how funny became ‘un,’

how glad never regained her running momentum,

how time, just left out the side door,

after first hanging a forever picture in my mind,

then gone,

slipping out the side door.

#

Paul told me, “Had a friend named ‘Congo’ once

– a man who lost both legs in the war to end all wars,

still made himself do leg lifts after his morning coffee everyday,

lifted what wasn’t there,

hundred-fifty times,

each side,

every day.

Phantoms,”

looking at me so I’d get it,

“The hardest, too much compromise, I guess.”

#

A new client texts me, “Things will happen quickly, shift’s coming.  Things long forgotten will be remembered.

No doubt it’s the Lord’s doing.”

I send her a text, let her know she can count on me, let her know where the Christian right can go now that I’m working my new shoe job at Bloomie’s,

I text her bold, “’COME. Well-stocked 4 end times:

50-off Jesus sandals and Armageddon boots.”

#

Mid-April, I ask my gardener,

“Can I ask you to move the wood by the oak we just took down?”

Straw hat tipped back of his head, Frito greasy,

only hat ever owned, him standing with feet apart taking the agaves out real slow.

Sun, that time of day, hot, you know the one,

 then I ask,

“Would it be too weird to ask for you to take down the Christmas lights?”

#

The narcissus did not bloom this year.

All over town, pale tissue fists raised on green lawns,

gardens too — white, yellow, orange.

Our house?

Green stems,

nothing but stems.

The hundred or so I planted last Christmas with money my mother-in-law sent me,

nothing but green stems.

All over town, fists on lawns,

– white, yellow, orange, pale fists on lawns, gardens too

Me?

Green stems, stems, stems,

no fruit,

no flowers. 

Just stems.

#

August sun, a bitter hag, even the mountains turned their backs when the great outdoors became an oven last week of April. 

August, every month of the year. 

The city, a lean factory, temps tipping past the century mark.

No a/c units, no fans left to purchase in big box stores,

the work of pushing cumulus and wind gone to where manufacture’s cheap.

Permanent summer, shade, not coming back.

#

I’m chillin’ shaking hash night and day ‘til I get my street cred back,

you know, get some reserves in the bank.

Get me sweet cheeks? 

Times tough, somes got more doubt than down for fill, more druther than they can handle,

SUV wheels stuck on some coulda shouldas woulda hill grinding hope to a halt. 

Tell you this much, raising kids like raising opossums –

doubt – the same – can’t cage what’s rabid, stir-crazy,

thems, moody mother suckers,

first things first, first coax the heart, then the mind, cross my heart,

the money will follow.

- Maryrose Smyth

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