16. August: Osage County

A play by Tracy Letts

Mike: Beautifully and cleverly written but I did not like the family.
The Dad: What’s not to like? She takes pills and I drink. That’s who we are.
Mike: And your kids, who have all grown up into the types of people I avoid like the air of a stranger's bad fart? Your family is a catalogue of types of assholes. Why should I care what happens to them?
The Dad (pours himself another drink): Can’t help you with that. Cummings once said…


Mike: You were a poet…
The Dad: One fucking book of poems. Sold like crazy, and mostly among the academic elite. In fact, I believe every copy is yellowing on their office shelves between a whole lot of the same. I’m not a poet.
Mike: Please tell me you have been writing in secret all those years and that it’s just a matter of your asshole children and their asshole husbands, ex-husbands and boyfriends on the side happening to never find it all…
The Dad: I told you, I drink. She takes pills and I drink… and speak caustically to my dear, beloved pill-sogged wife…
Mike: Oddly, that’s the best part of the play. You’re all fucked.
The Dad: Yes. We’re all fucked.

Mike: I don't like when writers create poets.