In a second

I saw you yesterday in my dream. It was the first time I laid eyes on you so forgive me if this is a hot mess of mulch:

You were with my son, and I was going to space.
The upstairs attic did not lead, in fact, to an attic,
It led to space. Outer space.
I breathed into this huge mechanism,
Similar to a Gin Mill.
I took breath,
As this would sustain me
As I ventured into outer space.
Which was actually my attic.
(Who knew, And what are the odds.)

Then I saw you with my son.
I looked Continue reading In a second



The last thing I remember,
Was lying with you on a mattress on the floor
Of my mothers second unused bedroom.
(Unused ha!)
It was hardly used
Except for the radio
In the room—which served
As our “alarm” system.

But let us go back to the times of Vanilla Ice;
The times of cargo pants and Gatorade.
To railroad tracks,
and knowing who are the skaters
and who are the surfers.
Fortunately, or not,
We were neither.
Drama geeks
High spirited Continue reading Pish-Posh

Real Talk

What’s the sous-chef’s name?
I don’t know.
I want you to find out before you leave tonight.
What is his name?
I want you to find out.
Well, tell me. And I’ll know.
I want you to go, and introduce yourself.
I’ve been here three weeks. I’m not going to suddenly walk up to the sous-chef and say, “Hi, my name is Elan, what’s your name?” This isn’t summer camp. I don’t understand why you won’t just tell me?
Because I want you to know about your co-workers, and become a team.
I say “hi” to everyone when I enter. I say “goodbye” to everyone when I leave.
What’s the host’s name?
I don’t know.
That’s another thing you need to find out before you leave.
Okay. Do you know where’s the windex is?
Um, I’m not sure.
Okay, well I want you to find it. And when you do, I want you to introduce yourself; find out where it’s from, and how long it’s been in the states.

Oh, Scotland. Or, what you will miss when you leave the Edinburgh Fringe

I miss you.
I miss your enormous hills and cliffs in the center of town.
I miss walking for hours through your wild flowers.
Your valleys.
Your hilltops.
I miss that wind, threatening to blow me down the 45 minutes it took me to get to the top.
I miss your stone.
I miss your warmth.
I miss the drama.
I miss Portobello.
I miss walking past the garden where all the dogs roam free.
I miss walking along the beach where all the dogs roam free.
I miss explaining how I like an americano.
“More coffee, less water.”
“You want a long black.”
I miss the long black, where the water goes first then the coffee on top.
I do not miss your croissants.
I had one, and that was enough.
I miss your macaroni pie,
Your Birdie,
Your “man” chips.
I miss your tea,
And that coozy that holds the tea.
I miss your beans, sausage, fried eggs.
Your enormous breakfast sandwiches that seem to interrupt both lunch and dinner.
I miss Bross Bagels.
I miss Larah, Marc, Dood, Andrew, Ann, Kate, Piper, Shauna, Cal, Red, Ever, (the other one), Bear, Peter and Lindsay, Rachel and Joanna, Hope.
I miss the guys behind the ball at Surgeon’s Hall.
I miss seeing shows ANY time I want.
I miss the cold air.
The double-decker buses.
The accent.
I miss performing 6 days a week.
I miss flyering.*
Even you, sir.
Who when I said “Last chance to see House of Cards Actor ‘Elan Zafir’ in his solo show, The Unaccompanied Minor, you replied “Oh, what a shame.”
But you didn’t really mean it. You didn’t mean it as a shame. You meant it sarcastically. No, that was not lost on me.
I even miss you, too.
I miss North Berwick.
The hill I never got to climb.
The cheese shop I didn’t get to eat at.
I miss the Highlands.
The distilleries I didn’t go to.
The Munro’s I didn’t climb.
I miss Three Sisters and the waterfall.
I miss Glencoe and the motorcyclists.
I miss the soup, the fish and chips.
I miss the sky.
*(Apparently, I have made the act of handing out flyers — a verb. Computers don’t have that information yet… wait till upgrade.

Light yourself on fire


At the Edinburgh Fringe… performing is the easy part.
Flyering for three hours,
seeing four to five shows in a day,
eating on the fly,
Oh, fuck it.
That’s all pretty fun, too.

This. Is my kind of Woodstock.
All we do is see plays.
Any time of the day.
You can see a play, that someone wrote, and people act in.
For a MONTH!

You see theatre,
you talk about that piece,
you talk about other plays you’ve seen
other places you’ve travelled.
This festival is mandatory for every actor.

It’s glorious.
People are walking around drinking beer
Doing their thing on stage
Smoking rolled up cigarettes
All through the cobblestone beauty that is Edinburgh.

What a fucking city.
I wish this experience on every actor I know.
You would all love it.

Also, the English make fun of us… we know.
But did you know they make fun of us for saying how we feel in a particular situation?
Like, if your with your friend,
On a bench,
In he sun,
Drinking beer, and you say “Man, I am having the BEST time.”
They’ll think your mad.
They NEVER do that.


Hey You


Twenty five people in the audience today. I flyer-ed from 1pm-3:45pm, and holy shit did it work! My wife and mother in law were there to give that last extra push.

I would like to say something to that woman who told me “I’m doing the right thing.” But what I really heard was “Hold on.” I heard what you said. About your father. I want to thank you for sharing that with me, and I want to thank you for seeing my show, and being open enough to let it affect you. Sorry, if I seemed somewhat distant, or confused. When someone I don’t know is telling me something very personal—it’s hard for me to concentrate. I feel a lot of stimulus, and there’s your face, voice, clothing, the content of what you’re saying… I’m trying to take it all in, and I get sensory overload.

But I heard you. And I hope you hear me when I say you are the reason I wrote a show like this.

Elan Zafir’s misemployment of the run-on sentence