Let me reset the scene:
We’re in Pasadena in the early 2000s. George W. is president, low-rise jeans are in full swing, and brother Ken and I are sitting with our Diet Cokes and Ken’s wild idea for a screenplay called The Fork. I scribble down the basic pitch—something about brothers and a food critic and a golden fork and a dream—and I carefully file it away in the “vault,” which is a fancy name for a cluttered spreadsheet buried with all our other ideas on a hard drive I haven’t seen since the Bush administration.
Act I: The 2000s – The Great Idea Freeze
For 10 head-spinning years, The Fork sits. It matures like a fine wine (so I’m told) or a high-end European car (so I’m also told). Occasionally I remember it, the way you remember an old friend or that one dental appointment you keep rescheduling.
Act II: The 2010s – A Sudden Thaw
Flash forward to 2012-ish. A deadline looms for a 10-minute play festival, and desperation is the mother of invention. I raid the vault. The Fork emerges, blinking in the light. We dust it off, narrow the concept down to a 10-page version, and send it in. Lo and behold, it is not only accepted into the festival, the three-hander wins top honors—not just here at home, but also in New York City, where they invented plays. Imagine that. A play about forks. In New York.
We get excited about the idea of a full-length play. We host a staged reading. People clap. We even briefly consider ordering the mandatory scarves that all (ahem) award-winning playwrights must wear. But then real life tugs at our sleeves—day jobs, bills, the usual. The Fork goes back in the vault. The scarves stay in the online cart.
But we do learn something in the meantime: if you want to greenlight quirky, off-beat plays, it helps to have a place to do it (odds of getting a greenlight go way up). So we build one. Not a metaphor. An actual theater, in a building that was used to chill bananas. Yes, bananas. We like to think some of that energy—odd, unruly, full of potential—still lingers in the walls. The theme of a space’s past usage influencing its future uses may come back. Read on.
Act III: The 2020s – Cue the Music
We hit the 2020s with a little more gray in our hair and a lot more “why not?” in our hearts. We launch a Kickstarter to see if anyone, anywhere, might want to see a full-length version of The Fork. This is the all-or-nothing kind of Kickstarter, where your dreams either come true or they evaporate in a puff of polite indifference.
Spoiler: we landed squarely on “nothing.”
Meanwhile, my health throws me a curveball—some odd illness that has sidelined me for a stretch. The kind of thing that makes you reconsider not just your project list, but your entire existence. (You know, casual Tuesday thoughts.)
Ken calls me up and says, “Hey, what if we made The Fork… a musical?” So not just a farce, but a musical farce, no less.
At this point, I’m fairly certain Act II me is lobbing softballs to Act III me—like, “Here, buddy. You’re gonna need a little levity next decade.” I take a breath. I think about the absurdity of musicalizing a story that already feels like an operatic fever dream. Then I say, “Let’s give it a go.”
We rework the script. We add heart. The brothers in The Fork are now trying to save their failing restaurant in hopes of funding the opera they’re secretly writing (not autobiographical at all), as inspired by the spirit of Puccini, who once ate in that space while on a tour of New York City (true-ish story).
We send it off to our composer friend Aaron Edson, who we haven’t worked with much since the early 2000s when we still thought flip phones were cool. He works his musical magic. Ken assembles a crack cast. The show is set to debut this summer.
Me? I’m sidelined by health but still smiling. Impressed by the team, grateful for the 30-year ride, and just quietly happy to see this little fork might finally be dancing. If it does, maybe come see it and bring a friend? Or 12? Help The Fork get its happy ending.
So, what’s the takeaway here, you ask?
Well, if you’re in Act III of life and wondering if it’s too late to dust off that old dream…
Here’s what I’ve learned from 30 years of The Fork:
- Ideas don’t expire—people just forget to open the vault. You may be sitting on something wonderful that just needs a second look and a little faith.
- Your tribe may surprise you. That project you feared no one cared about? Turns out, some people do. And they might just be waiting for you to say go.
- Levity is not a luxury. In a world that feels increasingly sharp-edged and serious, comedy—especially the musical kind—is a rebellious act of hope.
- Keep going, even if you can’t be center stage. There’s something healing about creating—even from the sidelines. Maybe especially from the sidelines.