Life is good and my carpets are very clean

Thu, 22 Apr 2010 10:04:36 -0700

You know you have been working on a project for a long time when you can't remember when you started the whole thing. I came to this realization when I was giving the pre-show speech for The Vacuum Project (the Heroes' latest endeavor) this past weekend. I was prepared with my vacuum cleaner jokes, my "extinguish your cell phones" and "sign our mailing lists" and then mid-word I realized that I couldn't remember when I began work on this project. I promptly forgot my vacuum cleaner joke (something about being quite sure that the show didn't "suck") and began thinking about all the planning that went into the Vacuum Project.

It began with an idea. And once the group decided to do it, I began looking for writers and space. And that was when I realized something else. Anyone can write, but if you have a theatre space, you are set. Really. If you happen to own a theatre space, you really are set, because you will never have the need to compile a list of all the places in Seattle that might consider renting to a new and tiny production company. We went through many different ideas. A theatre space. A different theatre space. A wharehouse space (which presented its own set of obstacles: chairs, lights, insurance--just to name a few). And finally I went back to Freehold (where The Heroes performed "Baggage Claim"). I just want to say this: Freehold is pretty damn awesome.

So things began to come together. Writers wrote. Directors did some thinking and then some casting. Actors did some memorizing. And I did a lot of organizing, trying to think of every contingency. And then, in one day, we managed to rehearse and perform all four plays. And it was a success. I was, and am, so incredibly proud of all the work that everyone involved put into this. Because it wouldn't have happened if we had been down a single man.

My goal with this project was to do a little bit of community building. See, I think that theatre is there to entertain (see my previous blog post, "Art. Like, Seriously"), but I also think that art (and theatre in particular) is there to build community. And I am fairly certain that this project did a bit of that. The Heroes definitely managed to expand our base and worked with about 20 actors we hadn't worked with before. And how cool is that? If approximately 20 people had a good time doing this project and about 100 people had a good time seeing this project, then I think we have done a good job.

If you didn't manage to see The Vacuum Project, keep your eye out for videos. And to anyone who happens to read this, I hope you will try and make it to our next project. The Heroes are making our mark on the Seattle arts scene and we want you to be a part of it. So thank you for your past support and thank you, in advance, for your support in the future.

Also, I still have about six vacuum cleaners in my apartment. Life is good and my carpets are very clean.

Here Comes the Sun

Mon, 22 Feb 2010 02:14:01 -0800

On this beautiful, sunny weekend that deceptively threatened the arrival of Spring, I was proud to spend much of my time indoors participating in the most recent Heroes event.

"Getting in Touch" was a the first in a series of educational workshops presented by the Heroes, the brainchild of Heroes member Lauren Williams and co-project coordinator Jessica Day. Led by massage therapist Rye Russell, the workshop demonstrated simple techniques that can be practiced around the house, alone or with a partner. A great tool for artists especially, who more often than not, put way more care and thought into the practice of their work than the sustenance or care of their bodies. (I can easily say I spend more time writing at my desk than I do interacting with family members...)

The best part of this workshop, aside from all the friendly laughter shared with my friends, was watching a fellow artist really "own it" as a teacher. Our guest and teaching artist Rye was incredibly nervous before the start of the class -- but once he got into his groove, he did a fantastic job leading the workshop. An engaging speaker, a strong listener and a skillful practitioner, I think Rye is a natural teacher.

That's the best part of the Heroes: we create experiences in which artists have a chance to really show themselves what they can do. And in a very low-risk environment. No matter what was "learned" in that workshop, we would have had a great time, because we're an open-minded and supportive group.

I'm proud to call myself a Hero. Even if it is a sort of silly title -- one which raises a lot of questions. With every event, we give it new meaning, new depth and new possibility.

Thanks to everyone who participated and helped at our first workshop. On to the next one!

-Bond Huberman

In Haiti

Mon, 18 Jan 2010 15:55:43 -0800

I'm riding in the back of a truck, going way too fast around a hairpin turn with two Haitian guys singing “Three Little Birds” by Bob Marley. We arrive in Port-au-Prince—people everywhere, frenzy, chaos. Haiti was poor and crazy before the 7.0 magnitude earthquake that rocked the capitol. Our singing dies down at the sobering sight. I see my first one: a building the size of Broadway Grill completely leveled.
 Seventy-two hours earlier I was serving mac and cheese to one of the countless suits that file through the Icon Grill downtown. I was in a haze that day at work because I had been watching everyone’s favorite homo anchorman Andersen Cooper reporting from Haiti. They said it was bad and that it would get much worse before it got better. The awful tweets and images poured in and I felt moved to action. I contacted my cousin Holly, whom I knew had worked in Haiti at a clinic, and she said it looked pretty bad and was at a loss about what to do. I went to bed, my head reeling, and decided to Facebook Holly in the morning explaining that I intended to help any way I could. She wrote back to say that her husband (a pediatrician) and daughter were going to go and if I wanted to, she would buy me a ticket to join them. I gave her my answer before she was done asking.My manager gave me the time off. Hopefully my shifts are there when I get back. Small price to pay for playing hero in Haiti.

I packed some essentials in a backpack and was in Miami before I knew it, then the Dominican Republic, where I spent the night at Masimo's house. Masimo was wasted from the word go and danced samba with a gun in his hand while we all watched. I took a deep breath and remembered that I wasn't in Ravenna anymore. After being awake for 40 hours, I finally got some sleep. In the morning, I met Marline Olivier, the founder of HOPEH, an organization founded in 1998 to assist Haitians with medical care and education (www.hopeh.org). Olivier runs the show and has her shit together. So she, my cousins, and Annette (a Haitian herself and friend of Olivier from New York City), all boarded a huge truck with gallons of clean water, food, medical supplies, and gasoline, and headed toward the border.Passing from the Dominican Republic into Haiti is like going from Mercer island into—well, somewhere very poor. Poor, poor, poor. The people we passed greeted us with curious looks, then smiled as we waved and shouted “Bonjour!”

We arrived in Jumpas, our headquarters, a small village in the mountains of western Haiti. We unloaded the supplies at the clinic and after another long day I hit the bed running. In the morning we geared up a sort of caravan to go to Port-au-Prince. I found myself in the back of a truck again but this time was joined by Johnston and Pascal, two friends of the organization who lived through the quake. Their stories, like thousands of others, are like little miracles. Johnston was supposed to take an exam at his university but was not feeling well. His best friend Pascal egged him on but Johnston said no—he just didn't feel up to it. The university where his exam was to be is now in ruins. Pascal was at an accounting class on the second floor when everything started shaking; the third floor fell on him and killed 23 of his classmates. He said he slithered like a snake to freedom and after he found Johnston they got the fuck out of dodge and back to Juampas, their hometown. It’s when we’re riding in the truck that Johnston asks, in amazing English by the way, if I know Bob Marley. I say hell yeah and launch into “Buffalo Soldier.” Their faces light up and they join me, the "why-yi-yoa, why-yi-yi-yoa" part especially joyful. We sing Bob the whole way there—me singing to prepare myself, them singing to forget.
 Our mission in Port-au-Prince is simple: Get as many pregnant women, elderly people, and displaced kids as we can find and get them THE HELL out of there. The destruction is revealed as we inch closer and closer to the city center. We pass the airport, which has since turned into a UN compound and US military ops center. With all those UN vehicles, it looks like a movie—a cold comfort. We roll up to a tent city nearby and see thousands of makeshift homes. Sheets held up by sticks and rope. Bathrooms inches away. Entire families’ worldly belongings in a pile. Like the post-Katrina lower 9th ward times a thousand. We find plenty of people but only half of them want to go up the mountain and leave home. We loaded up as many people as we can and head back. It’s a chilling day but nowhere near as bad as the next day, when go back to Port-au-Prince sans huge trucks (easier to get around). Pietonville, a neighborhood closer to the epicenter, is the worst sight I've ever seen. CNN doesn't do it justice. Nothing ever could. All I could say was "Oh God" over and over. It needs to be seen to be believed.

Imagine Seattle in your mind. Got it? Now, demolish the Space Needle. Flatten EMP. Devastate Qwest Field. Obliterate SCCC. Your favorite coffee shop? Reduced to a pile of rock, broken mugs, the remains of chairs and tables. The flyer of your favorite indie band floats in the wind. Where are you reading this? Are you inside? Look up. Imagine that ceiling falling and crushing you. Maybe you're reading this on your iPhone outside a Safeway or QFC. How many people do you suspect are in that QFC? Now destroy that QFC and cook what's inside for days at 90-degree heat. The smell is unbearable. Bodies in the street. Kids roaming around looking for their family. How are you going to eat or drink tonight? You can't communicate. It’s about to get dark and you’re in a city with no power. This is hell. Hell on Earth.
 For my part, I've handed out water and medicine. I've tried to make people laugh. I helped a dear elderly woman and my friend Annette’s mom—who'd had a stroke—get to a hospital. Then I watched as the doctors said there was nothing to be done and Annette needed to make the impossible decision of whether to leave her mom behind or stay in hell. I held her as we drove away. I found pregnant women and orphans. I tried to give namaste to everyone I see. I've done next to nothing in a place that needs everything. The spiritual implications of this will take awhile to process. In the meantime? I will remain in Jumpas for the next couple weeks. Help at the clinic, make more runs to Port-au-Prince, and try to make people laugh, like I’m some sort of fat Patch Adams. (Man boobs are funny everywhere in the world.)
 What can you do? Be mindful with your donations and your assistance. Help me get Pascal and Johnston into the States. These guys are amazing, educated fellas. Have a contact? An idea? Email me at sprflycat@gmail.com. You can donate to HOPEH at www.hopeh.com. Pray, if you believe in God. And don't forget about this place once Anderson Cooper leaves. Talk about it. Do something.
 I will never forget what I've seen here. A countryside filled with love. Eyes filled with hope through tears. A city in ruin. The boldness of compassion. I'm not a hero. I’m just a guy who serves mac and cheese at the Icon Grill and sings Bob Marley in the back of a truck.