The Adventures of 13 Playwrights Across The 8th Dimension

Everything I wrote yesterday about 13P was a hideous lie. It came to me just now in a flash. Their success has nothing to do with hard work, a clear mission statement, or fundraising genius. Rather, it's because they are thirteen of them—and each one must have his or her own specialization. It's like Ocean's Eleven, or, better yet, Buckaroo Banzai

Which one is Sarah Rule?

Now that they've imploded, the gang must be done for good, right? 


They're either going to get back together in a couple of years to put on one more big show, or they'll get word that Earth is in danger from an intergalactic evil that can be stopped only by creative fundraising. Rob Handel will yell, "13P—Assemble!" and the evil will be vanquished...for now.

After The Implosion

Since the good people behind 13P imploded their long-running production group, they have been taking a well-deserved victory lap. Now that they've run out of plays to produce, Rob Handel and his cronies are bragging how they engineered their crowd-pleasing success story.

That I've been grimacing a bit at all the self-congratulation is due strictly to the toxic cocktail of jealousy and regret that is the preferred drink of every playwright, no matter how successful. I am bitter because other people are producing plays that aren't mine, that I missed all of their thirteen plays besides  the rather lousy Have You Seen Steve Steven, in 2007, and that I didn't make an effort to go to their implosion party, which was by all accounts a good time. 

But more than that, I feel the sting that hits whenever I see playwrights finding success producing their own work. It's akin to the twinge of irritation that comes when I meet people who speak lots of languages. They possess a special knowledge that I lack, and it bugs me. I could learn what they know, of course, but learning is hard, and I am a lazyboy.