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Lockless in Life: A Stream-of-Life
Musical
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Art Samples
Character Breakdown
Lyrics Samples
Music Samples
Scene Sample
Synopsis
CHARACTER BREAKDOWN
VICTOR LOCKLESS, 35-50, a confused wash-out
OLD VICTOR LOCKLESS, 65-80, a bitter hermit
YOUNG VICTOR LOCKLESS, 16-21, a discouraged dreamer
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SYNOPSIS
It is impossible to provide a formal synopsis for this show since it was
written to be plotless. All dramatic attention is focused upon the
varying internal perspectives of Victor Lockless in his three major walks of
life. "Will he accept or reject himself?" is the question to be
answered by the directorially-arranged juxtaposition of the arias . . . and
by the audience.
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LYRICS SAMPLES
"Stasis King"
Immobility. Stuck in place.
I’m the yellow signal for the human race.
Look at a sloth, and you’ll be seeing me.
I’m always hitting the snooze to stay in reverie,
And when I finally muster, I go find a chair,
Turn on the boob-tube and vacantly stare
At particles flashing by in red, blue, and green
Assembling places where I’ve never been,
And sometimes a sitcom brings a friend or two by.
That’s when I hit the power and cry.
When did my destiny escape so far from me?
I don’t remember saying: “Bye.”
I started as a go-to, hopeful, willful sort of guy,
The sort of man who won’t accept ennui.
I’d like to have potential back, but did I ever have the knack
Of making a bold assertion of my primal needs and wants?
I can only say: “I did not.”
I’m just a statue in a public park
Where I’m pigeoned by day and graffitied by dark.
The people all stare, but I don’t care
Because they’re noticing me and being slightly aware
That I’m a person who had important history
And that knowing is such a source of bliss for me.
I’m an emblem they think is maybe a-okay,
But they all move on and here I stay.
Reaching a hand, I want contact.
I need feeling. How I want that.
Nobody cares. They don’t notice.
They don’t realize. They’re too focused.
I can appeal, but it’s fruitless.
I’m too idle. It’s all bootless.
Life is a blur to me, vigor and zip.
No one slows down for a drip.
I’m a stasis king,
Everything is exceeding my grasp.
The lifestyle chosen by men by the dozen
Is just too damn fast.
From a stasis king,
Concentric rings spread out and retreat,
Made up of matter that’s former and latter
And achingly quick on its feet.
When you’re a stasis king,
All you can bring to the big marathon
Is a wheezing “hooray” as the men run away
To the gold, silver, bronze.
Behold the stasis king,
Avoiding the sting of ambitions so tall
By slowing his pressure to lesser and lesser
And hardly ever moving at all.
"I'd Rather Be Gay"
“Look out, girls!” is what I’d like to say.
“Here comes Casanova come to make your day.
Let’s be a little friendly. Hey. Hey. Hey.
What’s a few inches of skin between friends?”
I’d like to knock their socks off or charm higher up
And make them feel constricted by their brassiere cups,
But it’s just a mental exercise I like to play.
All things considered, I’d rather be gay.
It’s a seldom-spoken mode of male existence,
And though I comprehend that it’s taboo,
And rife with scary motions I don’t care to try,
The people it caresses seem so fresh and new
Whenever they come out for public view.
No more confusion about the other gender.
I could stay confused about the sex I know.
No worries where to put the eyes.
Who cares when it’s between the guys
As long as you can keep your hands above the towel?
Nah! Even slapping ass could never be a foul!
I know it’s much more complicated,
But the fantasy keeps me so elated.
Call me Butch and tell the world I’m strange.
Not a lot of gossip here would have to change.
I’m sure no one would think me a bit deranged.
“Look at that Victor. I knew he was a fairy.”
Just watch me sashay around and frighten the jocks
By telling them I like the heavy hang of their blocks.
There’s such a freedom when you act cliché.
Seems like a blessing: I’d rather be gay.
I’m already effeminate, slight and small.
The girls say I’m a sissy, prone to throwing hissy
Fits of pride when they don’t like my compliments.
Maybe I should try cross-dressing and invest in rich valour,
Take up Oscar Wilde and drink Perrier, not Coors,
Wear red Angora sweaters and enjoy the way they frill . . .
I don’t have that kind of courage, but I’d like to.
Could I kiss a man and love him? No. That’s strike two.
I want every speck of frippery and maribou,
Shalimar and regal, ravishing drag
Without the burden, the weighty burden
Of being called a fag.
But I hear the women laugh at me
Behind their shiny curls,
And it hurts that I’m no hetero entrée.
I’m trapped by their breasts and all the rest
Of the sensuous curves they hide away.
Why should they have the power
Hour after hour after agonizing hour
To keep me wrapped under their sway?
I wish I could escape for good someday.
I tell you, brother, one man to another: I’d rather be gay!
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MUSIC SAMPLES
"I'd Rather Be Gay"
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SCENE SAMPLE
Plaza Styx
(Lights rise to reveal VICTOR standing alone CS. The beams concentrate on
his upper body, suggesting that he is standing behind a counter.)
VICTOR
Well, I tried frying fries,
Stocking shelves, and pushing ties,
But I just couldn’t survive
On the basic slavey wages.
I knew I could do much more
If my work weren’t such a chore.
That’s when I went out and signed up
For the prize job of midnight.
I went out and found a hotel to hostel.
Plaza Styx sub-assistant night manager.
That’s the job I landed.
I don’t need a brain
Or the slightest bit of training
To stand behind the desk
And watch parades go by
In the shape and form
Of couples I can only despise.
(Photographs, elaborately gilded at the edges, are projected US as
representations of the guests VICTOR names. They fade out after their
appropriate verses. Oddly enough, one of the VICTOR selves can be seen in
each of the photos, but only at the periphery.)
Room 102 has the newlywed rutters.
They’ve burned out two mattresses
And shouted down the shutters.
Room 305 houses divorced gay misters.
I’m sure they’ll wear the bedding down
If they ever drop their snifters.
The V.I.P. suite has the girlfriend du jour.
Her playboy likes impressing girls
And sneaking out the door.
These are the tricks of Plaza Styx.
Pay a pair of twenties and the night is bright.
The people make me sick at Plaza Styx
Because, unlike me,
They do a lot of things right.
(More photos of guests are projected US as their verses are sung, but now
the VICTOR selves dominate the pictures. They are jealously trying to steal
the places of the people depicted.)
Room 505 is the primest of prime.
It’s where a certain madam
Airs her chorus line,
And 425 b and c concurrently
House the geriatrics so bereft,
Sowing all the oats that they have left.
It really gets you down
To think that Grampy’s gone to town
And all you can do
Is hope he leaves a tip for you.
(The photos dissolve. VICTOR is fully spotlighted. He strolls along the edge
of the stage debating whether or not he should jump off.)
Plaza Styx sub-assistant night managers
Always have to sing the blues.
Who to ring and who to let snooze?
Who to send the overpriced booze?
It’s not me! It’s not me! It’s not me!
Stuck inside the bricks of Plaza Styx,
I have to feel a trifle constrained,
Treating people to my disdain,
But not a one has ever complained.
Why should they, when they’re being
Sustained in the ways they enjoy?
It’s like I’m being ground
Pound by blubbery pound
Into paste for all the guests to consume,
But that’s okay because, anyway,
I know I could never pay for a room
Myself, not with what they pay me –
Which is still more than I ever made before.
(VICTOR decides not to jump. He returns to the space where his counter is
located. The light fades away until only his upper body remains, just as he
stood when the song opened.)
Plaza Styx! Plaza Styx!
It’s the drug that I picked
To prick myself with what wasn’t meant.
The hours aren’t brief, but they spell out relief
To anyone who isn’t what his wasn’t ought to be
Just what his is-yet never was.
It’s the go-chronically-moronic
Till you’re lost and catatonic
And so sorrowfully Charonic circle of Hell!
Plaza Styx!
(Blackout.)
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ART SAMPLES
Artwork is pending.
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