Happy Winter Solstice

This evening I will celebrate with an old friend who is in assisted living with Stage 4 Cancer having been diagnosed 4 or 5 years ago now. We will share an hour of no phones, no TV, meditate, light candles (LED candles as no fires of any kind are allowed in her place), maybe sing together. We'll drink some sparkling juice, eat traditional Scottish shortbread and welcome the coming light. In ten days I will go out and cut some forsythia branches and watch them come into bloom indoors as a sign that spring will soon be here -- even though today is the first day of winter. I hope you are all settling for the long winter's night, enjoying the dark time and looking forward to the coming light.

New Year is coming!

I'm going to participate in National Small Stones Month, in which I will write a "small stone" every day in January 2011. I will write it here in this blog, and will create some sort of river to start my new year. Will you join me? if you are interested, please visit pathofpossibility.com for more information.

love and peace in the world, peeps ...

12 days till Christmas, 8 days till Solstice

Trying to keep those spirits up! Buckets of rain not helping much. Daughter's car (which I share) broke down on Friday night -- brakes went out -- that didn't help much. I have to walk down to the auto shop now and pick it up. And pay for it. That's a chunk o'change. But part of my caregiving package: physical, emotional, financial. I'm glad I'm able to help. So many people in so much worse shape, here in Portland, all over the world. I mailed another get well card to my recovering Mom today with a letter of encouragement (get up and walk, Mom) as well as a birthday card and letter to my ex. Two people I spent a lot of years with. So, Happy Holidays everyone! Let's keep those spirits up, remember to be grateful for what we do have, not despairing for what we don't have. Cheers!

December 11, 2010 Holiday update

Had a wonderful coffee break with a young friend today. She came with CDs of my grandchildren singing in their recital, as she was their singing teacher. They have both left her now, but both gained a great deal of self esteem and knowledge from her while in her charge. She is a remarkable young woman who was caregiver for her mother and grandmother, so we spoke of our experiences. We also discussed creative outlets, singing, music, writing. Talked about favorite relatives, had some laughs. A much-needed outing, very much enjoyed.

I still need to wrap some gifts for the mail this week, write a letter to my Mom this evening and put it in the post tomorrow with another get well card -- she's going to be in rehab for that broken hip a long time. sigh.

The car has to go into the shop tomorrow. So no Holiday Shopping for me for at least one day, maybe more. And more debt. ugh.

I hope all of you are NOT incurring debt this holiday, but are spending only the cash you can afford when it comes to gifts. We can have cheer without debt, yes?

All best,
sdh

December 9, 2010 Christmas Spirit update

I'm forcing myself to get into the holiday spirit. I have made plans to celebrate Winter Solstice (my favorite winter holiday) with my friend. We will light LED candles (she can't have real candles in her assisted living joint) have some sparkling cider and talk about writing and the goddess until late in the night (9pm). Last night I sang carols with my teenage grandson -- I knew the tunes, even if I didn't remember the lyrics. All those years in Sunday School ground those tunes in deep. He has never even heard most of them having been raised in non religious households and schools. He has been going caroling with his choir groups this year though and is learning some, so we did our best. Also, I have now shopped for two people. Yay! Three more to go. One is a Visa card, she knows that. One is books. What to get my son who needs everything? hm. Also, I may wrap up some of my own abundance and send it to my faraway friends who don't really need anything, but who doesn't like to get packages in the mail? Yes, I'll wrap and mail those gifts tomorrow.

Happy Holidays? not so much cheer here ...

OMG, it's December 7th already. I sent out Hanukkah cards on time. I also sent out early Holiday e-cards, trying to lift my own spirits and remind my close friends that I care about them. I've bought exactly one gift so far. How are you people doing? Where does one dredge up the energy to get through the season when one simply doesn't feel like it? I really don't feel like it. My mom broke her hip eleven days ago. She's 93, 2,000 miles away being properly cared for by my sister and brother-in-law, and I'm here caring for my daughter who needs me way more. All my grandchildren are teenagers who really only want money, although my grandson has asked for books, the girls just want money. I don't know what to buy my faraway son. He needs everything, as he is starting over in midlife. We are all living on far too little money, everyone is sad and/or depressed. Mom may or may not live through the holidays. I am grateful for what I do have, that is true. I am grateful that my kids are alive, that my grandchildren are healthy, that I'm alive and this sadness will pass. I have my writing, I have so many good friends, and I have my wonderful sister and brother-in-law out there with my Mom. There is love and light.

Kate Kasten has a new book out!

One of the best writers I know -- who also happens to be a dear friend -- has a new novel out. I just ordered copies from amazon.com and you can too. (The link is over there on the right.) If you know other fiction lovers who are appalled by the influence of Christian fundamentalism creeping into government, please pass the word along about this novel. I think people will also find it a good read even if they aren't interested in religion or politics. At least go take a look at the gorgeous cover!

GODMOTHER TOMBOY'S TIME (1920's)

Being homosexual was more accepted in the 1920s and early 1930s than in later times, although in a different way than it is today. Here, check out this video:

THE PRINCESS AND HER PRINCES

When the sun went down the princess
went to her wardrobe and flung open
its mirrored door.
Inside were dresses sparkling
in the colors of my old Crayola box:
aquamarine, burnt sienna,
deep ruby red.
My favorite were the two
opposites: bridal white
and black taffeta.
Shoes to match every dress
and the extra dove gray platforms
with crossing 12 inch straps
just because
she had small feet and
tiny royal ankles.
She displayed all her
best assets in these
garments and accessories.
Every Friday and
Saturday night the
witch went dancing at the
Silver Star Tavern
with a handsome prince
who upon closer inspection
resembled a warty toad.
A sweating, rotten-breath amphibian
who promised to get me a
singing contract.
Or the other one who said
I had bedroom eyes.
Our fridge was empty,
my shoes had holes,
the princess witch and
her princes wore raiment
of kings with pockets
full of promises
which upon closer
inspection resembled
crumpled bits of
fabrication.

New Poem

Shelley Bell got salmonella
not from eggs, like you might think
but from her strange bedfellow
she plucked from the drink
twenty years ago and
made her bee eff eff.
i know! right?
and every night
they sleep together
side by side
leg by leg by leg
leg leg --
leg.
Her "friend"
is a turtle
this big! I mean
it's huge! I think
she kissed it.
Shelley Bell
got salmonella.
whadda you think?

poetry

Rats. Just learned that posting my own poems in my own blog is the same as having them published online anywhere else. So, no more poems here unless they have already been published elsewhere. So sorry.

samuel packwood, chillicothe ohio 1710

(this is the 6th version of this poem. trying to get it right)

dear god forgive my sins and take me
straight to heaven where my wife and parents
wait for me god please do not let me suffer
his head is covered
but he can hear the throng of
friends and relatives gathered on
the banks of the greenbrier river waiting
for the shawnee chief to set him aflame.

heathens! savages! let him go
but no rifles are fired
only voices are raised
clad in skins and paint
the shawnee are
dressed for this ritual
carrying spears and
torches they whoop with
the thrill of justice
about to be served hot

we will get them, father
the last words samuel hears in english
before the smoke
overtakes him

as his head falls to his chest
a young rider yanks the cover from
samuel’s head

white eyes! watch our sacred dance!
packwood’s clan are inflamed
and roar:
long live samuel packwood!

My books at Amazon

BLUE AT THE LAUNDROMAT

by Sandra de Helen

I’m not myself today. Seeing red
because some skinny-assed white
boy jumped in front of me – a
purple basket piled four feet high
with rags smelling of puked-up beer
and grabbed the blanket machine.
I have to wash my grammaw’s heavy quilt.
She’s laying up there in the assisted-living
with her weeping sores, dreaming of
that time she sewed her old man’s
wore out Sunday-go-to-meetin’ suit
into this cover, and I’m sitting here
steamed, breathing Tide and bleach.
Usually I’d soften the old thing up,
remind her of the days we used to
run in the grass, lie in the sun,
bake blueberry pies. Sing the blues.
Instead, green ice pinches my trapezius
and makes my underwire bra ride up.

Days like this it doesn’t pay to get
out of my sleep number bed. Unless
I’m overlooking something? Is there
a soul mate waiting at the next dryer?
Not that jerk. Reading material? Only
an old O magazine. Watchtower brochures.
Alone with my thoughts. An open door
carries fresh damp air, a stranger dripping
with July rain, dropping white socks on the
grimy tile floor. A dangling chenille belt grabs
and she trips. Nearly falls into my lap.
The basket hits my face with a load of
whites. She smacks me with a laugh the
size of Texas. Sorry, thanks for catching me,
she guffaws.

I am brought back to the land of the actual
living, no assistance needed.
I gather my grammaw’s laundry,
and carry it back to her place, in a
brand new blue attitude.

Memorizing poetry

It's time to begin again. In my younger days, we always memorized poetry, other things too. It is time for me to begin again. I attended a poetry reading recently and was moved when one of the poets recited her own work -- a poem she had written only that day. Her name is Seal and the work was wonderful. The next day, my poetry teacher assigned the entire class the task of memorizing our own work. Timely. I've begun with an easy one, but I'll not stop here. Here's the one I'm learning "by heart" this week:

CRY AND LIE
by Sandra de Helen

I sigh. I want to die
you cried all night
last night and spoke again
of suicide. I lied and
said I know your pain.
I don’t. I know my own.

If you leave me alone
I may die, suicide
myself, rather than
face your life without
you in it. Cry and lie
but do not die, do not
leave your issue
for me to rear. I did
not bear them, and
cannot bear them now.
Not alone. Not without
you.

I realize I got you here
but cannot keep you here.
My will alone will not
hold you here, no more
than my arms. No more
than my love. I don’t
know your pain. I
know my own. Don’t
leave me alone,
I sigh.

At first I thought this was a "silly" poem ... it's growing on me.

ABUNDANCE

Resisting consumption becomes me
as well as my living space.
Minimalism has its place
it seems, in my home. See
the walls are not without art
the floors are not bare
in fact, the rugs I care
for are Turkish at heart.
I work from my chair, legs
resting on Eames’ ottoman
my iBook busy as I am
until I prepare to exit
my front door. Happy I
sprung for the glass door
that always presents more
bounty for my happy eyes.
Less is the key here
I still have too much
I find myself clutching
my favorite cashmere,
books, plants, bluejeans,
coats, jackets, too keen
on my favorites, I fear.
Minimalism has its place,
yes. But maybe not here
after all. Maybe here
is too small a space.
I’ll aim for compact
and tidy, neat, clean.
An uncluttered routine,
that’s my contract.
Two hundred square feet
One person, one cat
Six jackets, one hat
Twelve dresses, complete
half my closet, a dresser
that’s all, no mess here
I promise, replete.

Another dream

In the wee hours this morning, I dreamt I was almost out the door of a hotel with a male friend going to a swank party down the street. Along came my friend Dorothy who turned into Julia Roberts. We stopped at a jewelry counter where she quietly told me she had taken 120 nitroglycerin tablets and they were going to take effect. What? I was sure she would die. Then, as she was talking to the clerk at the counter, Julia fell back to the richly carpeted floor, and started doing gymnastics, but with extremely contracted muscles. Her clothes had changed from an elegant dress to something like a one-piece swimsuit. She continued doing these horribly tight movements so that her body looked like a giant Charlie horse. She assured me she was just fine, though I wanted to call 911, and the clerk did in fact call 911. I left her there to go find a bathroom. Well, what would you do? (come on, it was a dream. In real life I would save Julia Roberts, of course!)

Cadillac Confessional

Forgive me for being twelve,
blond, a good kid, a bad
reporter. The frontseat
refuses to keep

its quiet, the reststops refuse
any longer to withhold
their brutality secrets from
our faces. I’ve fallen for
the fifty year

old American Shriner who
gives rides.
I’ve invoked the goddess
I’ve desecrated – no – I
flamencoed cemeteries
that led to fiery tap-dancing.
With sisters
Tiny nymphs.

A breast
touching arm, the tongue
hooked inside teeth.
I’ll get over it and
bring myself about all over
again: the predatory American
the groping banker

with the hands. But I’ll not
cry tears dripping
someone else’s salt. At
twelve, I was wizened
by a Shriner

of fifty in the oversized
celadon Cadillac past Rolla.
My mother
shamed me into accepting
the fiver. I could die.

That Shriner is now 104
with a corpse in his grave
in the shape of my slipper.
My foot is a beautiful appendage.
I sometimes run. I don’t
indulge in abandonment.

I don’t hide treasures from
the old-age sisters who sang
songs beyond my heart
the last time we danced.
But I did. Found the guts of
the story and let those
intestines sing their
tales again

and again. I harmonize.
I’m a good reporter
who can’t help accepting
life, grasping toward
the future. This is not
the finale.

All of my finales
are prologues.

Poem of the Day: April 15th

RED CRESTED POET

Forty years after the last poem
burned on the altar of atonement
for the sin of having written
like a girl, she stands before
a crowd of welcoming readers
writers like-minded poets.
Rusty voiced she tells of
doorkeepers with feet
seven armlengths long
who keep paparazzi at bay.
Dead quiet room.
Next she reads a tale
called Unrequited Love
that sears the air with
violence and Amazonian
resistance. Applause.
Bolstered, the red-crested
poet carries on with fare
suited to the palate of
this blood-thirsty claque
feeding them with fugues
obsessions, and thwarted
suicide.
The poet and audience
are sated.
We finish with the one
with violets in her lap.

Poem of the Day 4/6/10

QUICKENED
by Sandra de Helen

You throw the rat poison
bottle out the door, down
the hall. It doesn’t break.
By the time I retrieve it
see the skull and crossbones
you have barred your door
and gone silent.
Scared, crying, but tiptoeing
I run outside the house,
peer in the windows for
a glimpse of your dying body
or maybe your prankster self
having a good laugh on me
like I thought you were
when Dad died.
That was no joke. Is this?
I can’t take it no more
you said before you
slammed the bedroom door
and sealed your promise
with a tossed vessel.
A darkened room, no
sound. Do I dare call
for help, risk your wrath
in exchange for my peace of mind?
Just because I wish you dead
doesn’t mean I want to be an
orphan. Do you really want to
die? Isn’t drinking enough?
I’m 14, I don’t know. Sometimes
I want out pretty bad myself.
I call you aunt and uncle.
No answer. I take this as an
omen, that no call is
necessary. In the morning
you slide the dresser away
from your door and are
resurrected.

experience

Christina Katz says she will find me if I write about experience this week, I don't know how, but here I am writing about it. I first wrote as a poet, or at least I was first published as a poet back in the olden days when people wrote by etching into the mud of their caves and published by having someone carve their work into stone. I think that's how it worked. I was 14 and my English teacher Mrs. Janice Wallace had my poem on abortion (abortion wasn't legal at the time) published in a teacher's magazine. I have no proof of this, not even a copy of the poem, but this is what I remember. In my 20's I had more poems published, and I do have copies of them. But the year I was 26, I took a creative writing class at Alaska Community College and my teacher who shall remain anonymous told me that I could write poetry because I could write like a man (like him), gave me a C, and I stopped writing poetry. Later that year I heard about the women's movement and tried to find out where to join up. I went on strike with the rest of the nation, became a feminist and never looked back. Unfortunately, I forgot about poetry until this year. I became a playwright, and have been produced as such for more than 30 years, always
saying I didn't like poetry, didn't understand it, couldn't write it, and so on.
But I became interested in writing a play in verse. So I thought I'd better learn something about poetry. The minute I did, suddenly all this poetry started pouring forth. The beast was
unleashed. I haven't been able to stop. I've been writing twitter poems daily. I've been writing longer poems. Poems from prompts, poems from no prompts, spending hours and hours writing and rewriting poems, bothering my friends with my poems. I've even signed up to read my poems at an open mic in just 10 days. I'll have to buy a poet outfit. (Will someone tell me what that looks like these days? It used to be a black dress and ballet slippers.)
Here's a recent poem of mine:

ICON

by Sandra de Helen

Millions of us, women and men

thought we could save her, if

only she would let us or

know us if only we

could wrap our arms

around her ivory soft limbs

whisper loving soft words

nurture her with everything

money or no money could buy.

I know I could have.

I would have kept her safe

from Bobby from Jack

from Peter and Frank. Hid

her in my closet as I did

Mary in our sophomore year

when she was pregnant

her stepfather wanted to kill

her and her unborn baby.

I would have stolen books from

St. Louis public library to

feed her hungry mind. Shop-lifted

the finest clothes Famous-Barr

had to offer. Held her ten to five

through the night terrors.

Told her what a great actor she

was, how I saw through the

bombshell image, saw the true

amazon warrior yearning to

be known. To be free.

But I was born too late

to save her.

Just as she was born

too soon save herself.

Completed, submitted

The Godmother is out into the world, looking for a producer. Two Acts, simple set, 13 characters played by 6 actors, gender-bending multi-racial actors. Young, actors who want to have a great time. This play is The Sopranos meets The L Word. If HBO or Showtime comes knocking on my door, I'm ready to play. Know why? Because I am totally in love with every character who showed up for The Godmother. Everyone has a backstory and a character arc. Every body has a story to tell. There are so many A, B, C and D stories here that we can go on for years. Seriously, The Godmother is just the beginning. Tomboy wants a lovelife! Bill has to grow up and find himself. Who knows what all Corker has in store? Like I say ... they all want their stories told. Meanwhile, The Godmother needs a producer. Or local investors, we could produce it here in Portland, Oregon no problem. The director would love to continue on. The script it already out in the world, and will be in other theater's literary managers in-boxes shortly. Wish us luck.

Nine more pages

Or however many it takes to write this last scene. We've had the dark night of the soul, the climax, and now we're wrapping it all up. Heading for that final scene, that final look at Tomboy that echoes our first look, but is totally different. The one that shows us where she is now after her journey, the journey we took with her. I love Tomboy. I hope she has a long life on the stage. I hope lots of people fall in love with her as I have. This is the first play I've ever written that I can visualize in other media. The Godmother could be The Sopranos meets The L Word if HBO or Showtime comes knocking. Or maybe it's a movie with a sequel. Or maybe it's more than one play, but whatever it is, Tomboy wants off the page and onto the stage. I have to continue to do my best for her. So, back to the coal mines I go.

Dreaming of writing

I had this dream last night. A young woman actor I knew was in a film that was nearing completion, she thought it was finished, so she dove into it (don't ask -- it was a dream!) and I was watching the film, enjoying it so much, couldn't wait to see the end, when the film stuttered, and words came up, that I couldn't quite read, then we skipped a scene and she was back, exciting! The film went on, but then -- without warning -- words came up again. Sorry, no ending. We're waiting for the writer to finish the script. Yikes! my friend was stuck inside the film! I had to get to the office, talk to the writer. I drove to the building and went to the door, but it was sealed off. I ran to another door and made my way in, but everything had changed in my absence. I was directed further and further into the building. I didn't know my place any more. And where was the writer? The asshole. He was gone. Could I use his office? Maybe I could finish the script and rescue my friend. I got inside his office, I set myself up at his desk, and I thought I heard my grandson call me from downstairs "Mom?" He doesn't call me Mom. What the? I woke up. Did I really have this transparent dream? Yes, I did. Will I finish the script in time? I don't know. But obviously I have to try!

Writing Part Two

The second act is coming along just fine, thanks. The opening scene is exactly what I was hoping for. The false victory scene is a family feast that's going gangbusters until --- interrupted by Chee Chee di Mayo. I've written out the outline with notes, and will fill and complete scenes all the way to fini. Aiming for wrapping up by the end of the day Sunday. We'll see. Think good thoughts if you're wired that way. I have a cold and a migraine, so it's like working in sludge today. It'd be great to finish early because there are a couple of things nagging me from the first Act that I want to clean up ...

Whew.

The staged reading of The Godmother was a huge success. More than 50 people attended, laughed, applauded, and at least one person had tears at the end. (I saw them with my own eyes, so I know she wasn't kidding.) The actors were awesome. I had no idea there would be so many laughs, but they all came at appropriate places, so that was good. Many people asked for a copy of the script as is, many more asked me to let them know when they can see it in full length form, many more said they really hope it gets a full production soon. Me too. I was able to pay the actors from the door proceeds, which made me happy. Now. Back to work on Act Two. Must finish before Jan. 31.

Godmother is sure to be up all night ...

Will she be drinking? pacing? I don't know. She keeps me awake on nights like this. I can feel her anxiety about appearing in public, having people know her private life. But wait til you see her, the way she wrests her power from the atmosphere and wields it over her men. The way she charms her girls, switches from being hurt to being in charge. Tomboy McCorkle may not be someone you want to be, but you can't help admiring her strength, her courage. And Corker? What's with this one? Who is she? What does she want? What is her game? What will become of Billy? Dolla Bill. Will he sell his future to become Million Dollar Bill? What happened to Paddy? Who killed the Slapper? No wonder Tomboy isn't sleeping ... Come see her at 12:30pm tomorrow, Portland Center Stage, mezzanine level. BYOB.

Godmother and her gangsters

What a cast! Even if you weren't dying to know what will happen in an hour's time this Saturday afternoon at Portland Center Stage in a play called "The Godmother," you have to want to see these fabulous actors in the following roles:

Tomboy McCorkle, Godmother by Jessamyn D. Rae

Corker McCorkle, her sister-in-law by Dierdre Atkinson

Billy McCorkle, her brother by Miles Thoming-Gale

Charles Uppity Jones, mobster by Shoshana Maxwell

Black Walnuts, mobster by Jerry Bell

Daniel, mobster by David Loftus

Ernie, mobster by Greg Alexander

Paddy, consigliore by Alan Hakim

Chee Chee di Mayo, crime boss by Patric Callahan

Juanita, call girl by Megan Skye Hale

Blondie, Hottentots girl by Victoria Blake

Sally, Hottentots girl by Stephanie Blair

The director is the talented, skillful and creative Andrew Wardenaar. Come and bring your peeps.

Some of the participants on January 23rd

Jessamyn D. Rae IS the Godmother Tomboy McCorkle. Her nemisis? Patric Callahan plays Chee Chee di Mayo. Brother Billy is played by 16 year old Miles Thoming-Gale; Sally by Shoshana Maxwell. Watch this space for more names in coming days. The full cast will be named very soon!
See a picture of The Godmother in the current of Just Out magazine, Portland's GLBTQ newspaper, where Fertile Ground made the cover for January. Fertile Ground will also be the cover on this week's A&E section of The Oregonian. We are the happening event of the month, people! Over 50 events, including world premieres of full productions, staged readings, dance productions, music, you name it baby. Come get out of the cold, see what's H.O.T. Buy your pass for ALL of it, or tix for The Godmother HERE: www.tinyurl.com/tomboygodmother

movies, new movies

Every year at about this time, I saturate myself in new movies, trying to anticipate which ones will be nominated for Academy Awards: best film, best director, best actors (male and female), best supporting, best screenplay (adapted and original), best sound, best costumes, all that. I have a grand time. I never see them all, of course. I've seen "Precious," "Up in the Air," "Blindside," "Invictus," "Nine," and I have a very long list to see. Some just because I want to have fun. The Men Who Stare at Goats. That looks like fun to me. There were movies that came out that seemed like they couldn't fail, then got such horrid reviews I didn't even go: Fame, for one. Really? How could you mess up Fame? Apparently they did. And I was sooooo disappointed in "Nine." Like how I use and don't use quotation marks? I'm fickle that way. The story was dismal, the songs were forgettable, even the choreography left a lot to be desired except for Fergie's number and then it was hard not to think of how difficult it must have been for the dancers to deal with all that sand all day. sigh. I love movies. I want them to love me back. Entertain me. Knock my socks off. Give me that old Busby Berkeley treatment, or film noir, or Alfred Hitchcock. I did like Precious. Just wish they'd had more money to spend on it so Precious could have had million dollar fantasies. And Invictus was the feel good movie of the year for me. Mandela was a man of his convictions, and a true leader. Now if only we could make a movie out of The Godmother that would equal or top "Chicago" I'd have something to write home about. mmm.

First reading of The Godmother

oooh, delicious! I heard the play read aloud last night by a table full of actors, playwrights, the director and other readers. Tomboy, Corker, Black Walnuts, Uppity, Billy, they all jumped to life right there in the director's dining room. Scary, funny, and exciting all at once. I will tweak the script a bit over the next 10 days before the next rehearsal so the cast will have a clean script going into the days before performance of the staged reading. I hope we have a standing room only audience and just pack that mezzanine full of folks ready and waiting for this sassy young butch lesbian taking over her crime family as well as the stages of first Portland and then -- who knows?

It's a New Year, will prohibition end?

Tomboy McCorkle has just taken over the reins of the McCorkle crime family in Kansas City, Missouri. It's 1928. Prohibition is in full swing, but the Pendergast family has a stronghold on the police, District of Attorney's office, and the entire Justice Department, so the speakeasies are lively and jazz rules. The McCorkles operate out of the back room of The Hottentots Club where white lightning is served alongside home brew. The girls are hot, the jazz is hot, and the booze flows like the Missouri River. Trouble brews between the McCorkles and the di Mayos because older brother Bobby "The Slapper" McCorkle wanted to get into rum-running from Canada (di Mayo's turf), and within the family because Tomboy is female, and a lesbian to boot. She's gonna have to show everybody who's boss. You might as well come and see it for yourself. There will be blood. There will be music too. Come on down to Portland Center Stage and see for yourself. January 23rd, 12:30pm. Lunches can be bought by the box and carried up to the mezzanine and munched while you watch. Tix can be purchased online: https://robot.boxofficetickets.com/800-494-TIXS/WebObjects/BOTx2005.woa/wa/inspectProgram?id=88145&passKey=2b42b57e5f