Christy Ward


Scene 1

(Lights come up on Ann and Sub Ann. Ann is sitting stage right at a small table. Sub Ann is sitting on her platform and slightly stage right of Ann.)

Ann: Is your beer warm?

Sub Ann: Yeah.

Ann: Do you think it's the beer or the mug?

Sub Ann: The mug.

Ann: Yeah.

Sub Ann: How's the food?

Ann: Kinda bland.

Sub Ann: Yeah. Jesus, what's happening to this place?

Ann: I wonder where everybody is.

Sub Ann: Probably drinking cold beer somewhere.  But who cares? We hate 'em all  anyway. 

Ann: Well, ya gotta point. (pause) God this place is dead.



That's really an overstatement.  I don't actually hate anybody. I just feel so*

Not hate. Um, what's the word I'm looking for?* 

Dissatisfied, or is it unsatisfied?* 

Either way, that's how I feel.* 

If the people I know were entrees, it would be like: "The food was bad and such small portions."  You know that joke?* 

What my life lacks in quality, I try to make up in quantity.  I'm pretty sure it's not working.  But then again, who can say?*

  From what I can see it's pretty much the same all over.  It's a drag to think this is it.  This is life.* 

To think it's the same, no matter if you're in the*

suburbs, or penthouse, or loft, or farm, or under a bridge.* 

Or if you're a *

doctor, or oil tycoon, or waiter, or bus driver, or Prince of Wales, or fabulously famous, it's the same ol' shit.* 

I used to think there were people out there who were really doing something.  Whose lives were filled with grand, important, moments.*

Where pettiness didn't even exist, because these people were making the important decisions in art and philosophy.  My goal was to meet these people.*

To become one of them and spend my days witnessing genius.  But no,*

Woody and Mia had a gruesome divorce, the Prince writes kiss and tell books and Ginsberg wrote a poem about smoking.  Totally disappointing.* 

It's now not that I may never find those people, it's that they don't exist.  I wanted them to exist.*

Andy Warhol was completely right, and you know, that sucks.* 

That really, really sucks.


*I'll tell you what I hate.

*The way they decorated this place.

*Marsha for moving to New York.

*My job.

*My boyfriend, such as he is.

*My family.

*My butt.

*My life.

*Suburbs, penthouses, lofts, farms.

*My apartment.

*Doctors, oil tycoons, waiters, bus drivers, Prince Charles, anybody famous.

*What a pile of shit.

*I hate boredom.


*Boredom can make you do dangerous things.

*Idle hands are the Devil's playthings.


*I hate the government.

*The middle class, aw hell, mankind in general.

*It really, really, sucks.

(Black out)

 Scene 2