Saying goodbye to something incredibly special

I bust serious ass to keep this theater going. I don't pay myself, I take up the slack whenever I have to for others, I go without sleep or a social life, I pretty much sacrifice anything in any way to make sure that this thing I started in 1998, Jobsite Theater, can keep going.

It's not always easy, and it's not always the easiest thing for people to be able to support us.

Being part of something like The March of the Kitefliers makes every bit of it worth every bit of the struggle. I hate to see it go this Sunday, even though Jack has really become a part of me and I know I'll carry this guy in me for the rest of my days.

You can help be a part of this, a part of Jobsite, and help ensure we're able to keep reaching and growing as we have done. I know you all can't always be donors or have your business sponsor us or anything like that - but I think almost anyone can buy a ticket to a show. That's always been the best way people can support us anyway. We can't do shows without butts in seats. Would you like to see us continue? Come check out the show this weekend, or if you've seen it send someone our way.

This show is just really special to Jobsite, to Tampa, and to all of us working on it.

Do you know how satisfying it is to make something yourself - from the very ground up, with a group of people you love, and put it out there for people only for everyone who comes in contact with it to fall in love with it as deeply as you?

That kinda sums up Kitefliers. The first time we did it, it was truly a phenomenon. It surpassed anything we could have imagined. So when we went back to do this again we made it a mission - every single one us - to top ourselves in every possible way.

I think we did a damn good fucking job at it. The writers, the director, the designers and the actors all stepped up.

This play is truly a triumph. It shows what local arts can be. It shows off who we are as a company and what we're really capable of. All without fancy famous writers from New York, or checks from millionaires (though we're not turning those down, either) or plays that some other company made famous first. Without holiday schtick. Without appealing to what may perceived as being plain ol' vanilla middle America.

This show proves what we can do when we get out of our own way and allow ourselves to create to our potential, and it's outright fucking magical to be a part of - on either side of the curtain.

This is Jobsite as it's finest, and why we think people should be as excited about us as we are. We just want every seat full. We don't want to hear in 2 weeks or 2 months that someone is "bummed they missed it" or asks us if we're going to bring it back. At this point, we're positive we're not for any time in the immediate or distant future.

So we've only got four more times to do it before our final goodbye, even though we hope it goes on elsewhere. I've already made peace with the fact that I'll likely be saying goodbye to Jack this weekend for good. I'll likely be too old to ever do it again, and if it ever does become something big and famous they'll want someone equally big and famous in my part.

Come out this weekend. Please? I've kicked, I've screamed, I've begged, I've offered deals. Now I'm just being plain. It would mean a lot to me. It would mean a lot to the odd dozen and a half of us who have now invested a few years in this show, if you'd like to look at it as one big process.

We were lucky to get this chance once, let alone twice. Let us show you what we can do.

If you don't leave the theater feeling better than when you got there, you're a vampire or a lawyer.

The March of the Kitefliers