"On the upside, Walt's daughter Diana is everything parents dream of: a hard-eyed realist with an unwavering career focus. But when Walt nearly dies from one weiner too many, it's time to start re-evaluating his values and hers. A boneheaded boyfriend, a zany cousin and a doctor with 'issues' complete the picture in this outrageous but sweet-hearted story about fat and fatherly love. Life sneaks up on you. That can be good." -- Alberta Theatre Projects brochure description of The Knowing Bird

"When I began working on this play I had two intentions. First, I wanted to explore the way we humans manage to reconcile the 'guilt' of doing something we know is bad for us with our ability to go right ahead and do it anyway. My second intention was to write a play that would appeal to a 'broader audience'. In April 2005, having nothing more clever to say, I mumbled these same two intentions to the cast assembled to read the first draft of the play at ATP. Also in attendance were Vanessa Porteous who directed the reading, and Vicki Stroich, who was listening in as a dramaturg. Following the reading I received an email from Vanessa that included a comment by Vicki about my 'intentions': 'Consumer guilt?? Audience appeal?? I hardly know the guy but it's obvious: He wrote the play because he loves his daughter.'"-- my Playwright's note from the Alberta Theatre Projects program.

The play is about an extremely overweight (about 400 pounds) man named Walt, and his daughter Diana. Diana finds Walt's weight both socially embarrassing and medically frightening. Walt thinks Diana is shallow, self-centered and only focussed on getting wealthy. He makes a deal with her: He'll lose 100 pounds if she goes to Italy and tries to recapture some of her humanity.

Here's a scene from near the beginning of the play, where Walt's doctor, Lucy, confronts Walt about his weight right after he has had his third heart attack:

WALT: Went for a walk today.

LUCY: That’s good.

WALT: To the... back lane.

LUCY: Uh huh.

WALT: Might seem like a short walk to you but I was carrying a Glad bag.

LUCY: Good.

WALT: I’ve also been thinking a lot about butter.

LUCY: Uh huh.

WALT: I am definitely going to reduce my butter intake.

LUCY: Good.

WALT: I had a banana for breakfast.

LUCY: That’s good.

WALT: ...day before yesterday.

LUCY: Uh huh.

WALT: It’s hard to keep fresh fruit in the house. Goes bad.

LUCY: Uh huh.

WALT: Especially when you don’t eat it. (Pause.) Steaks, you can freeze steaks. But anyway, the butter. My butter conviction is absolute.

LUCY: Good. Easy on the butter.

WALT: You bet.

LUCY: Butter! As if you could thwart your blooming lipids by simply not eating butter. That’s what it all comes down to? Butter?!

WALT: Fries...

LUCY: Listen: I’m tired. I’m tired of furniture-cracking abominations like you waddling into my office, week after week, day after day, whining “Oh, Doctor, I’m out of breath all the time,” “Oh, Doctor this is my Nth heart attack.” “Oh, doctor, when I went on your diet I started having irregular bowel movements.” I’m sick of witnessing the inexhaustible and festering self-pity you oozing-buboes-whose-burst-is-imminent manage to exude. I’m sick of watching you settle your loathsome buttocks down upon my kind little stool, feigning helplessness while your gargantuan asses manage to swallow the poor thing whole. I’m sick of probing through your disgusting corpulence... let alone considering a prognosis.

WALT: But I crave! I crave!

LUCY: In addition to your cardiovascular meltdown, you’re verging on type-two diabetes!

WALT: I am?

LUCY: Have you noticed any numbness in your feet?

WALT: Yeah...

LUCY: Likely diabetes... Well, don’t worry, amputation isn’t quite as horrible as it used to be.

WALT: Amputation? What ampu—

LUCY: How’s your vision? A little blurry sometimes?

WALT: Some... sometimes...

LUCY: That’s the blood sugar attacking the small blood vessels of the retina. When they rupture and start bleeding into your eyeballs then—

WALT: —Rupture—

LUCY: —Course the blurriness might not be diabetes. Could be a pseudotumor...

WALT: What’s a—

LUCY: Abdominal fat pressing down on your heart and lungs also puts pressure on the vein returning blood from your brain. You’d really get a sense of the kind of weight your heart and lungs are under if we hung you upside down for a couple of hours. Would you like to try it?

WALT: N... no...

LUCY: It’s not a widely recognized therapy. (Pause.) You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to write you a prescription.

WALT: (Optimistically:) Oh, great!

LUCY: For a Great Big Bottle...

WALT: (Curious, as well as optimistic:) A big bottle! Of what?

LUCY: Sleeping pills.

WALT: Sleeping pills...

LUCY: (Writing a prescription.) I think this should be enough but God only knows with someone your size.

WALT: What do you mean... enough? You think... you think I should— !

LUCY: Why not?

WALT: Well, because... because... I don’t want to die!

LUCY: Oh the hell you don’t!! (Handing him the prescription.) This’ll get things over in a jiff.

WALT: And... you’re a doctor!

LUCY: And... as a doctor I guarantee, I guarantee you’ll be dead within the next six months anyway!

WALT: You’re... serious? (She throws his medical file down and flops into her chair; a grand gesture of incredulity and exasperation.) I know I’m a little overweight...

LUCY: You are morbidly obese.

WALT: I could stand to lose a few...

LUCY: You’re not listening to me are you?

WALT: Sure...

LUCY: You ignore everything I have to say but still keep searching for the miracle diet, the miracle exercise machine.

WALT: I was going to ask you about this one where you hook yourself up to these electrodes, and you exercise while you’re sleeping...

LUCY: I can’t go on with this... you know? I should have written that prescription for me. It’s just what I need: a sweet peaceful soporific demise...

WALT: Pardon...

LUCY: Except that’s not my style. If I’m going to do it I’m going to go down in a bloodied flourish, with you, the oleaginous instigator, right here in the room. Maybe seeing pale death first hand is the only way you’ll learn...

(She grabs a scalpel from a drawer, holds it up.)

WALT: What...? …are you—?

LUCY: Do me a favour: Spread the word to your fellow fatties what you’ve seen and heard here today: The first of many doctors finally gives up!

(She pulls up her sleeves, draws the scalpel across both her wrists, quickly, expertly. WALT lunges to stop her, but can’t. Blood gushes.)

WALT: No, don’t do that! (She collapses.) NO! Nurse! ...no... Someone! (He tries to help her.) NURSE! (Stumbling to the door.) NURSE!! IS THERE A NURSE in this clinic?!! (While WALT panics, LUCY slowly sits up. WALT turns, sees her and starts.)

LUCY: My nine year old’s Doctor Kit. See. (She holds up the scalpel.) Squirts “blood”. (She squeezes the scalpel, squirts him in the face. Slight pause.)

WALT: You’re serious about me dying, though?

(Pause.)

LUCY: Unbelievable.