In about 48 hours, I begin a three-day theatergoing binge. But I have no idea what I’ll be seeing.

Intrigued?

As part of their upcoming “Theatre Week” in September, I’ll be seeing and writing about the experience of spending 72 hours on a jam-packed odyssey through the New York International Fringe Festival for Narratively, a website dedicated to the telling of New York stories. But in discussing a Fringe-based article with editor William Akers, who I know best as ouijum on Twitter, I proposed a slight twist that might set me apart from the countless die-hards who feast on all that New York theatre has to offer on an ongoing basis.

I proposed to Will that either he or someone of his choosing make up the schedule for me, and that’s what’s happening. I don’t know who is setting my theatergoing agenda, I don’t know what shows I’ll see, I don’t know how long my days will be, I don’t know how much crisscrossing of Manhattan I’ll be undertaking. Do I need an emergency sign-up for CitiBike? When might I get meal breaks, or simply time to think, check e-mail or return calls? No idea. Really.

My theatergoing pace in this scenario is hardly unique. I’ve been reading posts from friends and/or journalists at the famed Edinburgh Fringe who are reveling in (or enduring) five, six, seven shows a day, some for a period of weeks. I haven’t given Will and Narratively quite that much time; my three days pale compared to the dedication of the Edinburgh stalwarts. Also, I’m reading lots of reviews of the work at Edinburgh, and while what I write may well talk about shows I was sent to, I’ll stop far short of critique, as has been my policy online for years. My goal is to chronicle my adventure, not the discrete productions.

What I’m hoping to explore is an experience few of us (beyond critics) ever have, which is seeing theatre that is not self-curated. I am not merely a theatre professional, but also an avid theatre fan. Yet even omnivorous buffs have to make their own choices about what they see: does it fit around their work schedule, do their friends or spouses care to see it, are tickets available when it’s convenient to attend, can they afford to see all that they want.? But “want” is the key word, since later this week, I won’t be seeing what I “want” to see but what I’m made to see, and I won’t vary from the supplied agenda. I will react with my ingrained biases, but they won’t be a factor in the theatrical menu prepared for me. I’m hoping to be freed of my self-imposed theatrical constraints and wondering if in seeing work I would have otherwise skipped, or simply have known nothing about, there will be discoveries.

I’m gearing up to plunge down a rabbit hole with anticipation and anxiety, knowing I’ll be seeing shows picked by what will be, until the journey is over, an unseen power (I’ve never met Will, by the way; we’ve spoken by phone only once and otherwise have only communicated by Twitter and e-mail). Did he find a friend of mine who will program against my personal preferences? Perhaps someone who follows my Twitter feed or reads this blog who relishes playing puppetmaster? Might it have been left to the whim of the festival’s publicist who surveyed participants about who would most like to host me? Maybe there was dart throwing.

I always say that I try to go to every show with an open mind. But in this particular experiment that I’ve created, my mind will be truly open, or at least as open as it can be after I get my daily roster.  When it comes to theatre, I haven’t been a tabula rasa for a long time. But this week, my slate will be as clear as its been for some thirty years.

This is not a cranky older guy post, whining about the way things used to be, but merely an observation about how the digital revolution has affected a behavior that was long taken for granted. I am referring, specifically to the habit of browsing bookshelves and record collections when visiting a home for the first time.

For me, this was a time-honored activity because, in moments when I might be left alone in the appropriate room, or during a party seek refuge from din, I would drift to bookshelves or record (later CD) racks to peruse the archive, as it were. Visiting a new friend, it would help me to quickly understand what more we might have in common; on an early date, it might provide fodder for conversation during a forthcoming lull. Even the manner in which the materials were kept was a indicator; as a compulsive alphabetizer, a jumbled collection might give me pause; my books are still divided between fiction and non-fiction and my CDs are broken down, by rock, jazz, classical, comedy and cast recordings.

Some of my fiction books,
imperfectly organized

Long before we talked of online curation, one’s music or literary collections were a snapshot of a person just ripe for the examining. In The New York Times, Verlyn Klinkenborg has likened a book collection to being a personal reminder of one’s literary pursuits and achievements. I instead see them as somewhat more external, hunting trophies for the cultural adventurer, displays of prowess for others to marvel at. True, they’re hardly foolproof record. There was an era when nearly every self-respecting bookshelf held Stephen Hawking’s  A Brief History of Time, but I’ve never actually had a conversation with anyone who’s read it; it was the equivalent of buying a stag’s head in an antique shop rather than tracking wildlife through the Rockies (not that I’m advocating anyone running out to kill animals for display).

Mind you, the digital shift has been an enormous boon to many. One no longer need  enter someone’s home to check out their interests; the cavalcade of Facebook likes means you can surf the interests, if not ownership, of people you may have just met – or don’t yet know – allowing you to prejudge if you wish.  Trying that option with me online will prove vastly less fulfilling than a bookshelf crawl in my apartment; I tend to “like” very little on Facebook so that my news feed won’t be overrun with ads and “you may also like” suggestions. I’m not intentionally shielding my digital footprint or my enthusiasms from others, but only trying to limit marketer access to the degree that’s still possible.

A portion of my music archive,
alphabetized by artist

The iPod and the Kindle (and their competitors) are responsible for stymieing this wholly acceptable form of social and cultural snooping. If you’re spotted gazing at a bookshelf, no one would think anything of it, and might even evince a certain amount of pride, while if you were to suddenly activate their tablet while they’re off getting you a drink, they might not be so sanguine. The digital survey, even if deemed acceptable, is also not so rewarding as to do so physically; there are no book flaps and author bios to read easily, or album art or liner notes to study.  To be sure, the digital devices allow us access to our collections constantly, thanks to portability and now even cloud storage, but it has hidden our interests from view, cutting off a line of communication.

Of course, as an avid theatergoer, that aspect of my interests has always been less accessible. There are only so many Playbills and programs one can artfully array on a coffee table before it comes clutter, and theatre programs don’t have spines with the names of shows visible if stored on shelves. Part of my CD collection is  misleading, because I often acquire cast recordings for reference, not necessarily personal enthusiasm; I have musicals on disc that I have never listened to, but they’re right at hand should the subject come up.

I am a creature of habit, and my attachment to the physical is deeply ingrained. I suppose on a vacation I might download a stray mystery to the Kindle rather than carry a book (hardcover is my preference, in almost all cases, with the attendant weight burden). The stray pop tune may warrant an iTunes impulse buy, rather than an album purchase, and the same holds true for some obscure material that is no longer in print but remains downloadable. But as someone who still dreams of a room in my home called the library, with comfortable reading chairs, a great sound system and walls filled with books, I can’t let go of my prizes, which even after periodic culls, have traveled from home to home with me, not least being my copies of published plays, in weathered paperback, some of which date back to my teen years.

It wouldn’t be cost effective for me to rebuy my books in digital form, even if it would free up precious apartment space; I could convert all of my recordings to digital, but I’d need a bigger iDevice. Doing either would deprive me of a portion of my trophies (the limited edition 5-CD Elvis Costello live set; the signed, numbered first edition of Vonnegut’s Slapstick) and of the display of my cultural plumage. I’m just not prepared to give that up. And like the owner of a home “under water,” I’ve invested a lot in this ephemera, only to find its physical value eroded by the march of technology, so it wouldn’t be close to an even trade if I opted to upgrade.  I am, at this point, rooted in my outdated pursuits, even if I ever choose not to be.

Mind you, I’m told that some people also like to check out bathroom medicine cabinets when they visit a home; that’s a line I’ve never been compelled to cross. But for aficionados of that level of intrusion, it’ll have to remain a physical pursuit, unless Facebook starts letting people “like” pharmaceuticals, which I hope never comes to pass.

I happen to follow a group of smart, funny and insightful television journalists on Twitter – among them Alyssa Rosenberg, Todd VanDerWerff, Linda Holmes, Alan Sepinwall, Kate Aurthur, Roger Catlin and June Thomas. As a result, for the last 10 days or so, my feed has been overrun with their real-time thoughts and intramural conversations about the new and returning crop of television programs, because they’ve all been together at the Television Critics Association‘s summer residency in California, where they’ve had a daily barrage of presentations by dozens of TV networks.

It’s been pretty entertaining and informative watching these folks melt when Tom Hiddleston starts quoting Shakespeare (he plays Prince Hal/Henry V in the upcoming The Hollow Crown) and get riled up when sitcoms try to defend reactionary humor about race by draping themselves in the flag of All In The Family. Even as they acknowledge their own complicity in a grand promotional scheme, they’re proving their value as cultural commentators, generating instant awareness for the upcoming TV season and no doubt stockpiling material for coverage and commentary to come.

So I ask: where’s the corollary event for American theatre?

To be sure, there are few media outlets these days that are likely to underwrite theatre journalists spending a week or more hearing comparable presentations; travel budgets are limited if they exist at all. Unlike TV, the majority of theatre is ultimately a local or regional, rather than national, event.  But it strikes me that while there are any number of conferences and convenings within the field itself (i.e. the TCG conference and Broadway League spring road conference), some of which invite the press, they are designed for “internal” field conversations, rather than focused for those who write about the field. The open-to-the-public TEDx Broadway conference is, consistent with the TED template, presentational; the annual “day after the Tony nominations” press event is a mob scene of media outlets scurrying for timely soundbites from shellshocked nominees, shuttling from booth to booth, providing brief access tied to a singular event.

The American Theatre Critics Association meets twice annually, and they regularly invite artistic guests. But by and large, content is geared towards what’s taking place in the locations they visit; their winter/spring gathering is in New York every other year, with alternate spring events and the summer locale varying. I wonder how fully the broad spectrum of American theatre is available to them each year, as a result of purely logistical and budgetary considerations.

Now maybe part of the lure of the TCA events is that it allows TV journalists to be in the same room with people they normally see only on screens, or perhaps in the occasional phone interview. Certainly there’s a thread of fandom running through their tweets when certain figures appear; in addition to the Hiddleston admiration, Sesame Street characters and one of the Bunheads also provoked enthusiasm from the TV tweeters. Theatre journalists, on the other hand, are used to being in the same room as many of the artists they cover, not least because the performances are live, not on some digital medium.

But I’ve also watched as the TV journos take the opportunity to ask questions of the various panels arrayed before them, and even comment upon each others questions, as well as the sometimes informative, sometimes evasive responses from the panelists. While it seems that the networks do their very best to control the flow of events, some of the conversations that ensue can be unexpected and even messy. Still, even after day upon day of seeming incarceration in hotel meeting rooms, the writers can get fired up about the field they’re covering, both pro and con.  That has enormous value.

So how do we foster this kind of engagement with the journalists who cover our field? They, like we, face enormous challenges, and we should be bonded together in our support for the arts. Yes, Twitter has created a platform where certain critics and select artistic leaders pursue truncated dialogues and debates, subject to the vagaries of happening to be online at the same time, but sustained interactions between the press and our field are usually limited to proscribed interviews on certain subjects, rarely lasting more than an hour. That’s pretty perfunctory for people who rely on one another for aspects of their livelihood, and we should do better.

I’m not suggesting a marathon event like the TCA’s, for practical reasons. But what if every summer (when fewer companies are in production), artists, commercial producers and not-for-profit heads, of ventures large and small, from around the country, had a platform for candid but on the record conversations with the theatre press? What if the ratio were more or less equal? What if journalists could speak with creators not just from their own community, but hear what’s going on in multiple locations from the people making the work, not just their peers who actually get to see it? Yes, I imagine the prospect might frighten many on the theatre side, since the instinct is to always try to control the story, but don’t you think that’s the case as well for the TV networks? Admittedly, showing the work itself would prove problematic (not an issue for TV or film), but properly constructed, an event of two or three days duration could do more than just hold participants’ interest, but inspire it as well.

This is not rocket science and the TCA event is only one model. Social and streaming media could actually open up such an event even more broadly, and if there’s one thing theatres and theatre journalists could use, it’s a broader platform, rather than an ever-narrowing one. Could this take place under the aegis of an existing entity or several banded together? Of course it could, so long as everyone seeks a common goal, not the singular aim of their own organization. Could this prove contentious at times, as thoughts are openly shared? Absolutely, but that’s what makes news, and disagreement isn’t always detrimental.

None of what I say here should be taken as criticism of any of the events that already exist in theatre or in the broader arts community. They are constructed with certain goals for distinct constituencies and each achieves their ends ably I’m sure. But perhaps we need one more event, one crafted specifically for the mutual needs and interests of those who make and produce work and those who help carry our news and work to a broader audience, instead of, on occasion, inviting them in to watch us talk among ourselves or to serve our immediate promotional needs – or being in a select group from our field invited in to talk with them. We are often in the same rooms at the same time at performances. What about being in a room where we actually converse?

Volume 1 of Fantagraphics’
The Complete Peanuts

In one of his best known stories, “Adrift Just Off the Islets of Langerhans: Latitude 38° 54′ N, Longitude 77° 00′ 13″ W,” the science fiction and fantasy author Harlan Ellison tells of a man who has lost his soul and who embarks on a metaphysical journey inside himself to find it again. At the end of his adventure he finds (partial spoiler alert) a bit of long forgotten pop culture ephemera.

I never need to go on the journey taken by Ellison’s protagonist, because while I know my soul is more complex than any single touchstone, I am certain of what looms largest inside the innermost me. That’s because it also happens to sit, at 18 volumes and counting, on the shelves across from where I write. I refer to “The Complete Peanuts,” an ongoing series of hardcover reprints from Fantagraphics of every “Peanuts” cartoon drawn by Charles M. Schulz, which still has several years to go before it is fully complete. Between those covers are perhaps the single greatest influence on me from age five to 15, and in many ways both the formation and reflection of my psyche.

A relatively early “cast” of Peanuts

Since I was born in the early 60s, “Peanuts” was already established by the time I began reading the comics page of the local newspaper. Thanks to tag sales and paperback reprints, I was able to work my way back to the strip’s earliest years without any difficulty.

Remarkably for a comic so steeped in Schulz’s own Midwestern childhood decades earlier, the Peanuts were a late 60s-early 70s phenomenon, as TV specials, a long-running musical and theatrical films spread the gospel of Charlie Brown and company (there was even a book called The Gospel According to Peanuts). Both the establishment and the bourgeoning counterculture found something they could share in Peanuts, and while there was surely a massive marketing campaign run by The Man, resulting in Happiness is a Warm Puppy taking  up permanent residence at cash registers everywhere, you could also find Peanuts-emblazoned merchandise in progressive record stores too, with Snoopy posters (maybe even some in blacklight-sensitive colors) on the walls behind the bong display cases.

I’ve only read the first volume or two of the collected works, even though I buy them as they’re published; they seem to call for a certain kind of lazy Sunday afternoon, perhaps in a hammock, that one rarely finds in Manhattan life. Even those earliest strips remain familiar; they don’t trigger a forgotten memory like a random madeleine, but merely jog my brain where snapshots of the strips reside barely out of reach, filed, not faded. While the digital transition continues apace, I’m putting these books aside to be read by me in two or three decades, though youthful visitors with clean hands will be welcome to page through them in the meantime.

Here’s the World War I
Flying Ace, high over
France…

While a biography has already emerged which links, in some cases unfavorably, Schulz’s own life with that of his characters, I have no particular interest in the artist’s role as a man, a husband, or father. As much as possible, I want to retain that childhood innocence where the work simply exists, that time before we fully realize that an actual person has created these things we read.

Then, as now, Peanuts is a marvel. The main characters are archetypes: the ever aspiring but never succeeding Charlie Brown, the take-no-prisoners Lucy, the contemplative Linus, the artistically single-minded Schroeder, the free-spirited and soulful Snoopy. It’s worth noting that for all of the other characters Schultz created, these five were the core of the strip; Violet, Patty, Shermy, Frieda, Franklin, Pig Pen, Woodstock, Spike and so many others were always supporting players. Schroeder even ran out of steam after a while, ceding his lead position to both Sally and Peppermint Patty.

But for me, Peanuts was all about Charlie Brown and Snoopy – the former being the person I saw myself as, the latter being the personification of who I hoped to be. I never could kick a football, even if it wasn’t snatched away from me; I couldn’t throw or hit a baseball; the little red headed girl (or blonde or brunette) would barely notice me, let alone return my affection. I couldn’t let go of that enough to enjoy the simple pleasures of a good meal (suppertime!) or an imaginative foray into dark territory. No Red Barons for me – too scary.  Even as I achieved academically, even as I began to gather a group of friends with whom I am close four decades later, I always felt like the kid who got a rock in his Halloween candy, the kid laying flat on his back, staring at the sky, wondering why he’d fallen for the same ridicule yet again.

Flyer for Amity Junior High School’s 1977
You’re A Good Man, Charlie Brown

Peanuts even provided my entryway into theatre. The first time I can recall performing publicly, I played the title role in a significantly truncated and surely unauthorized presentation of You’re A Good Man, Charlie Brown at my day camp at age six or seven; in ninth grade, in the first musical ever produced at my junior high, I played Snoopy in the complete show, taking on the persona to which I aspired. I can’t remember auditioning for either engagement, but perhaps there’s something to be gleaned from the fact that while in my single digits, others saw me as I saw myself, while perhaps seven years later I could assume (or had assumed) a more exuberant façade.

I muse on my one-time obsession and future comfort because after decades of ever-less-inspired television specials, I read last week that the Peanuts characters will soon return to the big screen…in 3D rendered images and 3D projection. I will stop short of calling this sacrilege, because, as I say, the original work remains intact. But I worry about Peanuts going the way of Alvin and the Chipmunks, Underdog or Rocky and Bullwinkle, other childhood treats who proved to have less dimension when a third was added. Peanuts, like The Simpsons, have always looked vaguely creepy when fully modeled; they are best suited for the two-dimensions of the page precisely because they function in an isolated world wholly their own and their distinctive features can seem monstrous when extrapolated into something resembling reality. The makers of the stage musical intuited that immediately, which is why there are no oversized heads or dog costumes in You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown.

I am not a die-hard collector of memorabilia; there is no “Peanuts room” filled with collectibles in my apartment. But my bookshelves belie my interests. Those Peanuts volumes share space with the complete works of Berkeley Breathed (“Bloom County” and its successors), I’m working out a justification for buying the multi-volume hardcover compendium of “Calvin and Hobbes,” and I should probably start squirreling away funds for the as yet unannounced but hopefully forthcoming complete “Doonesbury.”

I will spend hundred of dollars on these books because I want to hold them in my hands the way I did when I first read them, not scroll through them on a screen. “Doonesbury” is and will be the chronicle of American life in my era (conveniently beginning in New Haven when I was growing up there). But Peanuts – which ended just before Schultz died in 2000 – will be the constant reminder of my childhood, and in some ways the record of it as well, the philosophy, the psychology and the often rueful humor that gave birth to me as I am today, burrowed deep inside my brain and my heart.