THAT’S it – I’m turfing my defeatist attitude. If William
Shakespeare can produce a new play centuries after his death, and, nine months
after Michael Jackson’s funeral, his estate can sign a seven-year distribution
deal worth $250 million, it’s obvious that none of us has any excuse for not
pumping out the hits.
Here’s what Shakespeare and Jackson had in common: both
geniuses, both brunettes, both dead. Eliminate the genius aspect, note my hair
colour, then take into account my age (not out loud!), and you’ll agree that by
rights, I should already be two-thirds of the way to “legendary” status.
So that’s enough screwing around. Shakespeare’s newly
identified 39th play, Cardenio, and Jackson’s numerous
to-be-released hits, must step aside for Zimmerman’s debut drama with musical
tendencies, entitled Billie Jean Actually Was My Lover.
Admittedly, this play is only in the planning stages. It
will focus on Billie Jean King, the professional tennis player who famously
defeated former Wimbledon single men’s champion, Bobby Riggs, in the Battle of
the Sexes in 1973. I figure the world has been waiting impatiently for this,
er, gritty tale of, er, feisty sports figures, in the, er, battle of their lives.
In my genius-like way, I’ve centred the action on a tennis
court set that converts onstage into a discotheque and a hotel room. There,
after a debauched night featuring a bottomless vat of vodka-spiked Gatorade,
Billie attempts to fend off the advances of the bespectacled racket-wielder
with the excuse of excuses: I’m a lesbian. It is at this point that Billie Jean
sings the musical’s raunchy sensation, Yes, I’ll Have No Bananas.
This play has it all – sex and tennis. And Gatorade. I see
Ellen DeGeneres in the lead role in the premiere, possibly alongside Alec
Baldwin, since he’s in pretty much everything these days. It’s either him, or
Brent Butt, depending on whether the play makes its debut on Broadway or in
rural Saskatchewan.
One thing about legends, though – they’re usually working on
a bunch of stuff at the same time. So Billie Jean Actually Was My Lover is not
my only project. Modestly taking my cue from the Bard, I’ve got a comedy in the
works, as well, containing thinly veiled references to current historical
figures. Of course, as was the case for Shakespeare, these timely allusions
will eventually transcend their period and cement the characters as archetypes
in the public imagination, like Iago and Falstaff.
My magnum opus, called The Twerps, tells the tale of a
notoriously bland Prime Minister whose greatest dream is to be seen as
charming. Mid-career, he realizes that elections are not won on the force of
personality; rather, their results hinge on a variety of factors such as the state
of the economy, dyed-in-the-wool attitudes toward political parties, etcetera.
Thus, he concludes, simply being elected to lead the country proves nothing. So
Prime Minister Parkour decides to appear, in disguise, on a television show
called Canadian Driftwood, on which regular folk compete to be named the most
nondescript person in the land. It’s sort-of like the Discovery Channel series
Canada’s Worst Driver, with no car crashes or parking tickets.
Parkour’s plan is to disguise himself and, through his
innate dynamism, lose in the show’s season finale, to his rival in the House of
Commons, Bickle Rachmaninov. Meanwhile, the deluded Rachmaninov believes
winning the title of Canadian Driftwood in Chief will enable voters to see him
as down-to-earth and boost his chances of winning the next election. Parkour’s
right-hand man, Akbar, is in on his scheme and it falls to him to bulk up
Parkour’s personality just enough to leave Rachmaninov in the dust on game
night.
I’ve just started writing this play, but at my age, I
haven’t a moment to lose in terms of my quest for fame. So I’m releasing Act I,
Scene I now, to you, my future acolytes. Did I mention The Twerps is written in
iambic pentameter?
ACT I, SCENE I. The
office of the Prime Minister. Prime Minister PARKOUR, a tall grey man in a tall grey suit, sits behind an impressive desk. Chief
of Staff AKBAR, a short brown man in
a sharp black suit, sits opposite him.
Akbar (consults a list
on his Blackberry): My Lord, hast thou placed thy news on Thou-Tube?
Updatest thou thy daily Twitter feed? Art thou Linked-In, unlike an utter rube?
Have we met all thy social media needs?
Parkour (wearily):
I am but a humble public servant, fond of bread and homemade strawberry jam. Thou
wishest I were Steve Jobs – clairvoyant. Social networking isn’t who I am.
Akbar (in an aside): My Lord, thy dreary Luddite soul
will put to death thy deepest, most ambitious hopes.
Parkour (grimly):
Dear Akbar, wilt thou please enlighten me? Why must I Tweet about my Commons
lunch?
Akbar: My Lord, it is to show the common touch to those who
feel thou art too Brady Bunch.
Parkour (puzzled):
But Akbar, my family isn’t blended …
Akbar: I simply mean thy image is too clean. Voters don’t
see thee as reassuring, but someone kind-of creepy, like Celine.
Parkour (whining):
But why is social media the answer? Can’t I just play piano, like last year?
Akbar (soothing):
Thou forgettest that thou hadst a band, sir, and Yo Yo Ma can’t always be right
here. Perhaps the key’s TV entertainment. Canadian Driftwood’s looking for some
“logs.” Thou signest up after thy arraignment, then lose against thy
parliamentary dawgs.
Parkour (shudders):
Odds bodkins – can I trust thy new advice? (Pauses.) Does Rachmaninov’s website
gain ground, then?
Akbar: Thy rival’s website constantly makes nice.
PARKOUR groans and
buries his face in his hands. AKBAR reaches
across the desk and pats his shoulder.
Akbar (cannily):
If I were thou, I would Tweet my shoe size, then dangle just a modicum of
sleaze.
Parkour (outraged):
It’s not enough to say I love French fries, and pound down two beers weekly
with great ease? (PARKOUR sighs.)
Already, I am the king of Driftwood -- dull, inglorious, tepid to the bone.
Akbar: My Lord, think of me as Doctor Feelgood. Thy biggest
fight will not be fought alone.
Parkour (brightens):
Akbar, I recall a naked moment! A photo of me, at the age of four! Dost thou
wish to tweet it to the press now?
Akbar (triumphant):
Ah, no, my Lord, ‘cause that’s what Facebook’s for!
The pair
high five each other and EXEUNT.
