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The Alhambra is losing a hoard of customers tonight ( Read more... ) -
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The author knows his work completely. There is nothing within it that escapes his reckoning. He leaves the “subtext” to the critics, and if he chastises them for overanalyzing his work-well, that is his prerogative. Jack never discouraged subtext. In fact, he encouraged it and often found that critics had seen something that had escaped his notice ( Read more... ) -
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The dinner, provided by Jack’s friend, smells delicious and looks questionable. That’s what one must expect with gourmet food, though Jack, knowing this, can’t help but make a face at it as he glances from the door to the table.
He’s not pacing the living room. He’s not anxious. Not at all.
But where’s Mary Anne? -
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There isn't much to his flat. A short hallway leads into the living room, behind which is a kitchen and another hallway leading to Jack's bedroom. Jack's furniture, alas, is stuck in the 70's. Thankfully he's chosen muted colors instead of garish orange hues, but they could due for a good update. The entertainment center, interestingly enough, is ( Read more... ) -
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The corridors were silent and empty as he walked to the library. These days he walked with his shirt on. No one to impress with it off, and the one person he did want to impress was avoiding him. So he walked to the library, fully clothed and physically unimpressive, to learn new and exciting information about plant life on Mars ( Read more... ) -
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THE FEDERAL THEATER PRESENTS:
A NEW WORK BY JACK DRISCOLL
"CRY HAVOC!"
a COMEDY
Where's Jack? Who knows. Backstairs arguing, giving a prep talk, or just listening. Wherever he is, he's not in the lobby. Yet. -
Sometimes it's better to write it all down.
Jack Driscoll wrote the following on May 17, Milliways Bar-time, in his room in Milliways:
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It's a jazz club, sadly lacking in alcohol. Jack Driscoll sits in a large booth with a collection of colleagues, all debating whether an artist should suffer for his art ( Read more... ) -
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Bacon!
Where? In the diners of New York City, not in the house of Driscoll. There is, however coffee brewing in the kitchen, where a man in pajamas is reading a book. Squinting at it, too.
He may be considering going to one of those diners with his house guest. -
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The time is mid November, 1933. The weather is cold, crisp, an appetizer slightly less similar to the main course itself. Jack Driscoll is in his music room polishing something stringed and wooden. It is not his guitar, which is leaning against the piano. It's a violin, perhaps Jack's best-kept secret. He doesn't expect any visitors tonight, which ( Read more... )