Thank you for inviting me to speak with you this evening. Allow me to begin with two words: Paula Vogel. Writer. Professor. Mentor. I’ve never met her. Wouldn’t recognize her if she passed me on the sidewalk. She could be among us right now and I wouldn’t know it. But this I know: She has a baboon’s heart. A transplant. Possibly stolen. I hate her. You know the way you despise certain people purely on circumstance. That’s not entirely true. I know her deeds. And her deeds are evidence enough to justify my vitriol. Vitriol. How scholarly to use that word. Academics. I eschew academia. Eschew. Another good one. Any writer worth his salt must find something to eschew. And until this moment the only thing I ever eschewed was using the word eschew. In any tense or variation.

But this is not a rant about language or vocabulary. Oh no, no, no. My talk today is titled “THE MFA BS CARTEL” for a reason. First the myth: Possessing an MFA in Dramatic Writing is a guarantee of talent. Nope, it only says that you have money, or that you were dumb enough to mortgage away the rest of your life repaying loans for a connection. Even if it means you now spend most of your time shouting “DOUBLE VENTI SOY LATTE” to the barista with an MFA next to you.

Unless of course you’re lucky enough to attend Brown. I believe that’s where Miz Vogel professes. Not sure. Think I read it somewhere. Like in every bio of every “emerging” playwright in every new play festival in the country. Okay, just the one I’ve received rejections from three years in a row. Gives new meaning to the slogan “What can Brown do for you?”

Truth is you just can’t get anything done in theatre anymore without having first spent a semester up Paula Vogel’s twat. Which makes all of these festivals one gigantic, masturbatory, incestuous vagina monologue. I know, different author. Eve what’s her name? What a gimmick she’s got going on. Vaginas. Brown master class title: “How I Learned to Muff Dive.” It’s all lip service. Lip. Service. I’m talking about the kind that speaks of nurturing the unknown, undiscovered, emerging artist. As in “We are devoted to developing and producing emerging writers.” The truth: you are only emerging if your soft spot is poking out of Miss P’s cervix. If it sounds to you like I have a problem with pussies, then you must be one. Sense of humor, people. Meow!

There is no such thing as lip service at the Playwrights Theatre of New Jersey. Here is their submission policy verbatim: “Playwrights Theatre no longer accepts any unsolicited manuscripts or ten page submissions. We will only consider submissions from playwrights with established agents.” Okay. Fine. Whatever. Gets better though. The truth that dare not speak it’s name elsewhere--Quote: “We will also consider submissions from playwrights who are alumni of (or currently enrolled in) a recognized graduate dramatic writing program such as Brown, Carnegie Mellon, Columbia, NYU, Yale, etc.” Now why can’t other theatres be just as forthright and honest? “Columbia, NYU, Yale, Etcetera.” Etcetera! What exactly qualifies as etcetera? This!

Actually, it’s all cleft lip service. Really. Pierced labia. M.F.A.--Mother Fucking Academics. Do you know that one definition of academic is “formulistic or conventional?” Yeah, that’s what I want--a degree in formula and convention. Perfect for Disney. “The Lion King 16” or “Ice Age 22.” Hah, I’m sure working for the mouse in the Magic Kingdom is way beneath any Master of FAH from Brown. Etcetera etcetera.

There is one obvious exception, a way to get your work read without an MFA. Be British. Hailing from the magical United Kingdom trumps all graduate degrees. The red coats are coming and coming and coming. In waves. Multiple times. But it’s the American theatres who are wetting themselves over characters who speak English with such a cultivated accent. Oh the urbanity. Can’t get enough of it. It’s revolting. Now, I’m no xenophobe, but these cheeky illegals are taking jobs away from hard-working, non-graduate, degree-earning Americans. I fancy that these bloody arses bugger off. Cheerio.

Let’s return to the subject of earning degrees. Some make sense. I understand you can’t do my taxes without being a CPA. No therapy without an MSW or the very least a CSW. Most entrepreneurs need an MBA. And try representing me in court without a JD. But you do not require an MFA to write. Attending a festival full of Brown writers is like having root canal. Which by the way requires a DDS. You, my dear MFA friends, are no DDS’s. The only purpose of the MFA is to create scholars. And we all know how exciting scholars are. Cue one: Ambien enter stage right. Cue two: Unisom enter stage left. Curtain up on “The Chamomile Chronicles.” A master thesis performed live.

You’re doing a heck of a job Brownies.

Quick story about how pervasive this “MFA has more merit” mentality is. My ex and now actor friend, Sarah, really down to earth, plain Jane, no tolerance for bullshit. After we break up, amicably, she moves from New York to Los Angeles to what? You would think to break into film or television, right? Nope. She’s gets involved with a theatre company out there and now she’s doing way-off-off-Broadway showcases. So I think, “great I’ll send my scripts to her.” Just get one on the pile. I’ll take a reading. Anything. I mean, she likes my work. At least she acts like she likes my work. So last week we’re talking on the phone and she tells me that she’s almost guaranteed to be cast as the lead in a new play. You know, with her “theatre” company. Wow. The lead. “I L-O-V-E- love the script,” she says. I make note of the difference between liking and loving. Loving to the actor means there’s a role for you. “Oh God, it’s so wonderful, Pat, it’s about blah blah blah blah by some guy so-and-so. It’s soooo good. Paula Vogel sent us the script.”

Just what kind of fucking bi-coastal pheromone is Paula Vogel queafing onto these scripts? Cause I sent you scripts too you Mother Fucking Asshole! Different kind of MFA. Sarah--gone, hopelessly seduced. You know, fuck it. Who wants to be doing theatre in Los Angeles anyway? It’s a long ride home, Sarah.

Okay, one more quick story. Indulge me. Do I have time?  Good. This past weekend I’m at my son’s soccer game chatting up with another soccer “mom.” And you know, inevitably in New York City, the “what do you do” question will be asked. I know. I’m guilty of it as well. But I usually try to make it digestible. Like “So, what’s your passion, your vocation?” I know, same shit, different phrasing. Anyway, so I’m asked by this other parent what I do and I say I’m a writer. She then asks, “Oh what do you write?”

“...mmmm plays. Sometimes poems, essays.”

“Ooooh I’m a playwright too,” she exclaims, “I teach at Columbia. What graduate program are you affiliated with?”

“I’m not.”

“So you’re going it all alone?”

“Yep.”

“Oh god, that’s tough.”

YES IT IS YOU FUCKING ELITIST BITCH! Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay. I didn’t say that. Snap judgment in my head. Look, I understand it’s a club. Fraternity. Sorority. Fellowship. A Maah-Fee-Ah. I can read the “MFA’s ONLY” sign above the water fountain.

The club and it’s members are all so insular. Insulated. Warm, safe, comfortable and energy-efficient. All the things a writer shouldn’t be, especially energy-efficient. Crammed in the attic. No room to explore. Whooooh, so scary to press against the insulation. Prickly. Scratchy. Itchy. A sensation that doesn’t easily wash off. Too petrified to puncture the fiberglass ceiling in your pre-fab cookie cutter? And to be Frank, there is only one worthwhile attic story. So news flash: While you’re all waltzing around jerking each other off, the rest of us are on the roof with an oil can and a matchbook, ready to torch the joint and jump.

Hey, I just had a thought. Why not lie? I could have told her I studied at Dartmouth. Dartmouth? Was that on the list before? I don’t remember. But I like it. Might be harder to track down the lie if I use Dartmouth. Or just say I studied at Brown but use a pseudonym. Why not? Go for it. My MFA--a Masters in False Advertising. Better, an MFA from API--as in Apex Technical Institute. I’ll just use API. A Most. Fabulous. Acronym. Love it. Blow the roof off. Not like it’s going to ruin my career. In fact, it could only help. Do you know how many copies of “A Million Little Pieces” sold after the truth came out? Neither do I, but I’m sure a lot. Heck, I almost bought the book out of pity after seeing Oprah crush the author.

Oprah? Now that could be a good pseudonym. Excellent thought. A minority woman. Could work. Oprah though, it’s obvious, blatant. Works well backwards, however my Nom de Plume needs to be fresh and provocative. Enigmatic. Petra. Petra is mysterious. Last name? Not sure. Hispanic, Latino may be the way to go. Petra Ortiz? Hernandez? Vasquez? Gomez? Definitely one of the Z’s, don’t you think? Martinez? Petra Martinez. Okay. Like Pedro. The Ace. He’s in the stretch. Here’s the wind up. Pitch on the way. Fast ball down the middle. Strike three. You’re out.

No, wait, wait, I got it: Petra Martinez Sexton. Jolly good. Sexton. Anglo. From this day forward the writer formerly known as Pat Smith will be Petra Martinez Sexton, or PMS, MFA from API. Done. Launched. Remember that name. When she wins the Tony you’ll know it’s me. Sssh.

Petra Martinez Sexton. An abundantly diverse brew. Toil and trouble. Petra: Eye of Slov or Czech. Martinez: Toe of Latina. Sexton: Wool of Brit. Sexy. Sex sells. Especially when a ton exists right there in the name. Sex-ton. A British Hispanic Czech WOH-man. Only thing missing is the tooth of Jew. Jew never hurts. To be slipped into my resume and cover letters. Under affiliations: Temple Shalom. That’s a wrap.

Rap. Damn. Yeah, rap. She has to be urban. Getting all street and ghetto is essential. Jiggy. Means you’re hip. Hip-hop. Everything’s hip-hop. Or trying to be. Oh yeah, it’s hard out here for a pimp, baby! Hah-ha. Seriously, when that won the Oscar for best song from a movie I never felt so out-of-touch. Desperately out-of-touch. I said to myself “Where the hell is Randy Newman when you need him?”

Geez, I guess hip-hop is the future. Well, it was the future back in 1986. Funny how the future has a way of catching up to you. So I guess I’ve got to either jump on that hip-hop Acela or sit on the embankment and bitch? Yo, yo, so check it out dawg, Petra is stickin’ with the bitchin’. WOOF! He-he-he. Eeck. So it’s hard to be a pimp. It’s so fucking god damn hard out here for a pimp, huh? What total bullshit! Pimpin’ is easy. Pimpin. Is. Easy. The proof. Two words: Paula Vogel. And heed this as a warning Miss P: I’ve been to the zoo. Broke bread with the baboons. We’re casing you and we want the heart back.

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