**This is way delayed, apologies. There has been a Blogger issue with my computer, but I found a back way in - just like with your mom...**
I can't say why, but it doesn't seem like August should have 31 days. It doesn't seem like that kind of month. It sort of feels like there is some great worldwide calendar conspiracy going on - like those who control the dates are messing with my mind. This also means that they've tapped into my memory and changed that "30 days has September" song that I memorized as a child. It's like the rest of the world stating for fact that 4 is not an even number.
It's my licentious past coming to get me. It's that final snap with reality that the steadfast little voice in my head has warned me of all of these years.
But August is ending folks, do you feel it? Do you? And being it's ending on this unexpected sort of Brigadoon day, this 31st that never was before (I don't care what you tell me) it feels momentous for some reason.
I've been feeling all of this change on the air. Not just my change, 'cause there's certainly a lot coming down my way, but everyone seems to be in a state of movement. People are moving, people are going back to school, people are making decisions to change their lifestyles. And yeah, I know, we're always in a constant state of change, but it seems like we struggle to maintain some sort of steady bearing. I have this feeling that people are giving up on that idea, that frustrating and ultimately destructive idea of pushing against that frightening concept of change; we're leaping into the dark with wide smiles, we're letting the river take us for a little while.
Then again, I'm the one who is dead certain that August only has 30 days...
It's Kyle's last day at work today, he's moving to Germany. I'm excited for him, I know there was a lot of worry and deliberation in that decision. And honestly, while it is an exciting one, the idea of moving to a whole other country sort of makes me want to shit my, or someone else’s, pants. Go rock on with your bad self Kyle, go collect some stories, go live your life with passion and fulfillment. I'm gonna miss that smile something awful...
Okay… Vodka, Chambord and blackberry juice? Shaken and poured with a little ice? What do you think? Fruity yes, but I think good fruity...
Thank you Captain Derailer.
Let's all do our best to see August out with a bang shall we? She's been a good month, been there for us. We begin a final push to the close of our show tonight, I'm gonna celebrate August's demise by actorating all over the audience. Can I get a "hell yeah"?
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
The Calm Before The Fall
I took yesterday off. I knew it was going to happen, It was a matter of time. I wore myself down and shared close backstage air with a number of sick cast members. I could feel myself starting to get sick, so I took a crash day as a preemptive measure to all out badness. I slept all... day... long... I slept while Strangers On A Train and The Two Towers spun unheeded in my DVD player. I slept and I dreamt of the posting I would miss yesterday.
No I didn't, he said slyly. I did actually dream of my director for the show currently in rehearsals giving me acting notes on a show that doesn't exist. I couldn't understand a word he said, but I kept nodding and saying "okay". Stupid actor dreams. There's also the ones where you go out on stage and realize you don't know your lines, or you've learned the lines for a completely different show.
Oh man you guys, I'm a little fuzzy brained today, I beg your pardons.
I got up in the evening and shuffled feverishly to the theater. It was overcast and humid out, a little cold around the edges. It reminded me of New Orleans a bit; when you can feel all of that pent up rainfall in the air, bouncing off the brick walls, it always does. But it was really the realization that fall was so close to here, like two blocks away on a bike, that made me smile and feel light inside. I just kept thinking of pies and bread and soup, and bundling up to walk outside in air that smells wet and spicy.
We did some heavy, serious, one on one work inside the theater. When we broke for the night we conglomerated outside the theater like normal. It had rained while we were inside and the streets and the bricks of the buildings were shining. I always feel good when I have done some serious acting type stuff, when I have gotten into a place where I'm not thinking anymore and just running on instinct, but there was this nearly post coital calm that I felt afterwards.
Erik asked if I wanted a ride. I didn't, I wanted a slow walk through the light rain, I wanted to indulge myself in a sort of romantic melancholy. The guy who always perches on the sidewalk next to Linda's and gives out a "hey guy" when you pass was scooted as far out of the rain as possible. I gave him my daily salutation back and he laughed with this bubbly glee that makes me smile thinking about it. "Try to stay dry brother," he said, laughing.
I felt tired, and I felt sickness trying to pry itself further in, but I felt good damn it. I felt a peace and excitement all together in an intoxicating mix. I felt like all of these unseen pieces had come together just right to bring me to these present moments, and that man, I really couldn't want for more. I felt love for all the amazing people I'm lucky enough to have in my life. I got excited thinking about wrapping the baby bear up and walking through the city to give it it's first taste of the world.
This glorious, heartbreaking world.
No I didn't, he said slyly. I did actually dream of my director for the show currently in rehearsals giving me acting notes on a show that doesn't exist. I couldn't understand a word he said, but I kept nodding and saying "okay". Stupid actor dreams. There's also the ones where you go out on stage and realize you don't know your lines, or you've learned the lines for a completely different show.
Oh man you guys, I'm a little fuzzy brained today, I beg your pardons.
I got up in the evening and shuffled feverishly to the theater. It was overcast and humid out, a little cold around the edges. It reminded me of New Orleans a bit; when you can feel all of that pent up rainfall in the air, bouncing off the brick walls, it always does. But it was really the realization that fall was so close to here, like two blocks away on a bike, that made me smile and feel light inside. I just kept thinking of pies and bread and soup, and bundling up to walk outside in air that smells wet and spicy.
We did some heavy, serious, one on one work inside the theater. When we broke for the night we conglomerated outside the theater like normal. It had rained while we were inside and the streets and the bricks of the buildings were shining. I always feel good when I have done some serious acting type stuff, when I have gotten into a place where I'm not thinking anymore and just running on instinct, but there was this nearly post coital calm that I felt afterwards.
Erik asked if I wanted a ride. I didn't, I wanted a slow walk through the light rain, I wanted to indulge myself in a sort of romantic melancholy. The guy who always perches on the sidewalk next to Linda's and gives out a "hey guy" when you pass was scooted as far out of the rain as possible. I gave him my daily salutation back and he laughed with this bubbly glee that makes me smile thinking about it. "Try to stay dry brother," he said, laughing.
I felt tired, and I felt sickness trying to pry itself further in, but I felt good damn it. I felt a peace and excitement all together in an intoxicating mix. I felt like all of these unseen pieces had come together just right to bring me to these present moments, and that man, I really couldn't want for more. I felt love for all the amazing people I'm lucky enough to have in my life. I got excited thinking about wrapping the baby bear up and walking through the city to give it it's first taste of the world.
This glorious, heartbreaking world.
Monday, August 28, 2006
Yes, They Went To The Space Needle
I got to see my brother this weekend, and to meet his wife. My brother now lives in Costa Rica full time and had taken his new bride up to the states to tour around. It was decided that they would come see the show I'm in right now. Because of this, my new sister-in-law's first impression of me would be of me in a sparkly, blue dress. This would all be fine and well if I hadn't met his first wife the same damn way.
Okay, that last part is a lie.
She is an absolute sweetheart and beautiful on top of it. She has a passion in her that just pours out of her eyes and smile. She speaks English very well, but was a little self conscious about her abilities and would occasionally slip into Spanish for my brother to translate.
My brother seemed happy, there wasn't any of the quiet, bored detachment that seems to be a family trademark, something we do when we get uncomfortable or unhappy. There was talk, there were drinks, there were a large number of pictures taken. There was an inner remark of wonder when I realized that Evelyn the sister-in-law had had a rum drink, Jagermeister and tequila (at least) in those few hours; this endeared her to me forever. There was a moment when I thought to myself after losing half a glass of whisky that I probably didn't need anymore - this was before having at least another 2.
The next day, after sleeping off what should have been an UGLY hangover (but which turned out to be only slightly unbecoming), we all took the ferry over to Bremerton to visit my grandmother.
I listened quietly to my brother and Evelyn tell stories about Costa Rica, imagining this hot and humid jungle paradise. Something seems vulgar and near blasphemous about Americans (including my parents) buying up land in this country whose inhabitants can't afford to buy pieces of their own, only to jack up the prices and sell it back to other spoiled Americans at exorbitant prices. But I let that slide for the moment, lulled by stories of all of this fresh tropical fruit and seafood from as of yet unspoiled waters, stories of monkeys and images of jungles awash in a heavy and warm rains.
I've wanted to venture into Costa Rica since my brother found his way down there years ago. There have always been issues that have come up; no money, unemployed, moving to a new city. At some point someone was mentioning their desire to get there sometime as well. Evelyn said something in glorious sounding Spanish and looked at my brother with questioning eyes.
"There's no direct translation," he said, sort of searching his mind for something close. "Life's too short."
Yeah, it really is.
Okay, that last part is a lie.
She is an absolute sweetheart and beautiful on top of it. She has a passion in her that just pours out of her eyes and smile. She speaks English very well, but was a little self conscious about her abilities and would occasionally slip into Spanish for my brother to translate.
My brother seemed happy, there wasn't any of the quiet, bored detachment that seems to be a family trademark, something we do when we get uncomfortable or unhappy. There was talk, there were drinks, there were a large number of pictures taken. There was an inner remark of wonder when I realized that Evelyn the sister-in-law had had a rum drink, Jagermeister and tequila (at least) in those few hours; this endeared her to me forever. There was a moment when I thought to myself after losing half a glass of whisky that I probably didn't need anymore - this was before having at least another 2.
The next day, after sleeping off what should have been an UGLY hangover (but which turned out to be only slightly unbecoming), we all took the ferry over to Bremerton to visit my grandmother.
I listened quietly to my brother and Evelyn tell stories about Costa Rica, imagining this hot and humid jungle paradise. Something seems vulgar and near blasphemous about Americans (including my parents) buying up land in this country whose inhabitants can't afford to buy pieces of their own, only to jack up the prices and sell it back to other spoiled Americans at exorbitant prices. But I let that slide for the moment, lulled by stories of all of this fresh tropical fruit and seafood from as of yet unspoiled waters, stories of monkeys and images of jungles awash in a heavy and warm rains.
I've wanted to venture into Costa Rica since my brother found his way down there years ago. There have always been issues that have come up; no money, unemployed, moving to a new city. At some point someone was mentioning their desire to get there sometime as well. Evelyn said something in glorious sounding Spanish and looked at my brother with questioning eyes.
"There's no direct translation," he said, sort of searching his mind for something close. "Life's too short."
Yeah, it really is.
Saturday, August 26, 2006
There's A Place In The Stars For When You Get Old
He had gotten to that part of an evening of excess where he's literally speaking in tongues; using words that can only be understood between himself and his god. His focus was approximately 12 feet beyond your head when he turned to you and tossed those magic words your way. I was realizing a little late, as I myself had had more than enough thick and ice cold vodka and bong hits, that he was in no shape to be out there in the garage anymore.
I think he may have said something about cowboys...
Scruggs, the bad influence that all bad influences seem molded after, was finding absolute comedy in his shambling and earnest nonsense. He kept providing more drinks and goading him into drinking them. I pulled Scruggs' fat form away and tried asking him kindly not to give him anymore booze. Asking Scruggs nicely to do something was like feeding a five year old candy and coke and asking him to sit still and be quiet. Kindness equated to weakness in Scruggs' diabolical eyes.
His slurs had become passionate, he wanted so badly for someone to understand him. I grabbed him by the shoulders and told him I was taking him home. He tried to focus on my eyes and I could feel anger, derision, fear and hopelessness coming out of there. But it was tough to tell as he wasn't really there anymore, he hadn't been for awhile.
It was on that short trip home that I suggested we get out of town, away from external forces that were creating his demise more and more quickly. He was near tears and I could almost feel the powerful focus it took to pull tangible words together.
"It's not the drugs," he said, trying to beat me to any reasoning. He was wrong, but also so right. The drugs had caught him in a spiral that he couldn't or didn't care to pull himself out of. What I didn't see at the time beneath the constant flow of that crystal river though was the depression and fear and self loathing that opened that appetite.
He had passed out by the time we got to the apartment. Out so far that a volley of good shakes and couple of hard slaps couldn't raise him. I tried to get him out of the car, only managing to watch him tumble to the parking lot. Had I not gotten him over on his side, it was likely he would have drowned on the flood of whisky and vodka and beer that erupted from his mouth.
I struggled for close to 40 minutes, trying to get his lifeless form up an amazing amount of stairs. And I swear to his god and anybody else’s that it had occurred to me more than once just to leave him outside. But I got him into the apartment and left him sleeping on the living room floor.
The following days, the last days that I would spend living in Southern California, things seemed to be easier between us. There seemed to be a breach in the shields of avoidance we had been carrying around. There seemed to be a decision made for the better...
“Seemed to be” is way too pliable a thought to rely on though.
I think he may have said something about cowboys...
Scruggs, the bad influence that all bad influences seem molded after, was finding absolute comedy in his shambling and earnest nonsense. He kept providing more drinks and goading him into drinking them. I pulled Scruggs' fat form away and tried asking him kindly not to give him anymore booze. Asking Scruggs nicely to do something was like feeding a five year old candy and coke and asking him to sit still and be quiet. Kindness equated to weakness in Scruggs' diabolical eyes.
His slurs had become passionate, he wanted so badly for someone to understand him. I grabbed him by the shoulders and told him I was taking him home. He tried to focus on my eyes and I could feel anger, derision, fear and hopelessness coming out of there. But it was tough to tell as he wasn't really there anymore, he hadn't been for awhile.
It was on that short trip home that I suggested we get out of town, away from external forces that were creating his demise more and more quickly. He was near tears and I could almost feel the powerful focus it took to pull tangible words together.
"It's not the drugs," he said, trying to beat me to any reasoning. He was wrong, but also so right. The drugs had caught him in a spiral that he couldn't or didn't care to pull himself out of. What I didn't see at the time beneath the constant flow of that crystal river though was the depression and fear and self loathing that opened that appetite.
He had passed out by the time we got to the apartment. Out so far that a volley of good shakes and couple of hard slaps couldn't raise him. I tried to get him out of the car, only managing to watch him tumble to the parking lot. Had I not gotten him over on his side, it was likely he would have drowned on the flood of whisky and vodka and beer that erupted from his mouth.
I struggled for close to 40 minutes, trying to get his lifeless form up an amazing amount of stairs. And I swear to his god and anybody else’s that it had occurred to me more than once just to leave him outside. But I got him into the apartment and left him sleeping on the living room floor.
The following days, the last days that I would spend living in Southern California, things seemed to be easier between us. There seemed to be a breach in the shields of avoidance we had been carrying around. There seemed to be a decision made for the better...
“Seemed to be” is way too pliable a thought to rely on though.
Friday, August 25, 2006
Can't Understand, Just What Does He Say
I awoke this morning with this vague sort of dread that it had been awhile since I'd heard my alarm go off. I quickly grabbed my phone, putting it up to my face so I could see clearly. It was a little later than it should have been, but nothing dire. My next immediate thought was, what the hell caused that awful taste in my mouth? It tasted like someone had snuck in during the night and filled my mouth with swamp water and road kill possum.
None of this bade well for an easy going morning. I am a little worn out and tired and so, a little cranky. And when I get cranky at work I find it necessary to listen to my ipod or I will snap. The sound of some of my coworker's voices can be enough to make me want to launch into an ill advised tirade; the sort that I usually form in my head, keep silent about and laugh at my bitchy cleverness. When I get tired and out of sorts like this, sometimes I get the ideas of sharing my wit and just being plain hurtful mixed up.
So ipod to the rescue. I was making a playlist for my pleasure and delight and began remembering how much fun I had DJ'ing on the college radio station.
I think being on the radio was always a dream that I had kept in the back of my head from a young age. After I saw the movie Pump Up The Volume, I so badly wanted to start a pirate radio station. Without ever bringing it up myself, my friend Dave once asked me if I would do a pirate radio show if he and Keith stole the equipment to make it happen. I nearly threw him to ground and made sweet, sweet love to him right there. Would I? Fuck yes I would!
So when Biffy got a show on the San Francisco State radio station, I eagerly pushed my way into that (I'm sorry by the way if I totally stepped all over your shit Bif). We had a blast, we played whatever the fuck we wanted to and would spend long breaks talking about random shit that would crack us both up. And I loved the search for the perfect twenty minute song which would allow us a quick restroom break, a smoke and a trip to the student union for a bag of Corn Nuts.
In case you ever need this knowledge, The Diamond Sea by Sonic Youth will allow you to accomplish these things and it’s still a great song.
Mmmmm, those were good times. And while I miss it, and wouldn't mind going in and doing a show from time to time, it makes me a little sad to think about doing that for a living on a real station. Those folks who have to play off a playlist, never talk about anything interesting and feel the necessity to speak in that friggin' fake retarded DJ voice, they seem desperate and sad somehow.
Anyway, the day is picking up, it's not as bad as it looked like it might be. I hope y'all are doing well.
p.s. Listening to tapes of Mercedes as a DJ saying, "It's Friday!", with more energy than a mere mortal has the right to have, is a delight that I hope to never forget.
p.p.s. If you listen to only one X song today, make it Adult Books. My god, I love that song!
None of this bade well for an easy going morning. I am a little worn out and tired and so, a little cranky. And when I get cranky at work I find it necessary to listen to my ipod or I will snap. The sound of some of my coworker's voices can be enough to make me want to launch into an ill advised tirade; the sort that I usually form in my head, keep silent about and laugh at my bitchy cleverness. When I get tired and out of sorts like this, sometimes I get the ideas of sharing my wit and just being plain hurtful mixed up.
So ipod to the rescue. I was making a playlist for my pleasure and delight and began remembering how much fun I had DJ'ing on the college radio station.
I think being on the radio was always a dream that I had kept in the back of my head from a young age. After I saw the movie Pump Up The Volume, I so badly wanted to start a pirate radio station. Without ever bringing it up myself, my friend Dave once asked me if I would do a pirate radio show if he and Keith stole the equipment to make it happen. I nearly threw him to ground and made sweet, sweet love to him right there. Would I? Fuck yes I would!
So when Biffy got a show on the San Francisco State radio station, I eagerly pushed my way into that (I'm sorry by the way if I totally stepped all over your shit Bif). We had a blast, we played whatever the fuck we wanted to and would spend long breaks talking about random shit that would crack us both up. And I loved the search for the perfect twenty minute song which would allow us a quick restroom break, a smoke and a trip to the student union for a bag of Corn Nuts.
In case you ever need this knowledge, The Diamond Sea by Sonic Youth will allow you to accomplish these things and it’s still a great song.
Mmmmm, those were good times. And while I miss it, and wouldn't mind going in and doing a show from time to time, it makes me a little sad to think about doing that for a living on a real station. Those folks who have to play off a playlist, never talk about anything interesting and feel the necessity to speak in that friggin' fake retarded DJ voice, they seem desperate and sad somehow.
Anyway, the day is picking up, it's not as bad as it looked like it might be. I hope y'all are doing well.
p.s. Listening to tapes of Mercedes as a DJ saying, "It's Friday!", with more energy than a mere mortal has the right to have, is a delight that I hope to never forget.
p.p.s. If you listen to only one X song today, make it Adult Books. My god, I love that song!
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Oh Man, Look At Those Cavemen Go
It happens all the time - I push myself and I get tired and the mind starts to wear down and I start to mumble blasphemous things under my breath and become emotionally unstable... I'm loving it though guys, I'm performing and rehearsing and being pushed as an actor (which I effing love). The only drag to the inner-Billy circle jerk of joy is the job.
These freakin' idiots I am forced to talk to in order to get a paycheck... They make me want to set my knuckles on fire and then punch them in the face repeatedly.
And on thinking about that, I was reminded of a night, long ago, outside the Steps of Rome in North Beach, San Francisco... Follow me now, will you?
Corado and I were walking down the sidewalk, a little drunk on red wine when we heard a loud and heated argument break out. Two older men, who looked a little - shall we say, disreputable - began yelling at each other about a woman and how said woman was taken by one of the men. Things escalated really quickly and suddenly punches were being thrown.
I don't like witnessing real violence; it makes me uncomfortable and it shreds the small amount of faith that I have that we as men and women have the ability to divine something greater out of our basic animal origins. I at times can get into that vicarious thrill of film violence, but sometimes I even get overwhelmed by that. I talk all tough, but it would actually take a lot for me to purposefully hurt someone else.
"It's amazing how fast it happens..." Corado said, watching these two salty bastards go at it on the street corner. I imagine myself grimacing while I look on. At some point, this tussle knocks someone's coffee cup onto the street and I turn to watch the fluid course its way down the sidewalk. Defense mechanism, perhaps, but my entire attention went to watching this brown stream of coffee find the path of least resistance to the drainage grate in the street, where it would then lead to San Francisco Bay and then to the Pacific beyond. I got completely wrapped up in the idea that water, like energy, just continually recycles itself and its very nature is to get on back to the mother ship.
And now I cannot get my mind off the fact that Pluto is no longer a planet. It makes me want to freeze my fist in liquid nitrogen and punch an astronomer in the face with it until one of them shatters. I refuse to change my model of the solar system, I'll go ahead and be wrong. Lick my balls bitches!
I would pay good money though to watch the dog Pluto duke it out with Goofy...
These freakin' idiots I am forced to talk to in order to get a paycheck... They make me want to set my knuckles on fire and then punch them in the face repeatedly.
And on thinking about that, I was reminded of a night, long ago, outside the Steps of Rome in North Beach, San Francisco... Follow me now, will you?
Corado and I were walking down the sidewalk, a little drunk on red wine when we heard a loud and heated argument break out. Two older men, who looked a little - shall we say, disreputable - began yelling at each other about a woman and how said woman was taken by one of the men. Things escalated really quickly and suddenly punches were being thrown.
I don't like witnessing real violence; it makes me uncomfortable and it shreds the small amount of faith that I have that we as men and women have the ability to divine something greater out of our basic animal origins. I at times can get into that vicarious thrill of film violence, but sometimes I even get overwhelmed by that. I talk all tough, but it would actually take a lot for me to purposefully hurt someone else.
"It's amazing how fast it happens..." Corado said, watching these two salty bastards go at it on the street corner. I imagine myself grimacing while I look on. At some point, this tussle knocks someone's coffee cup onto the street and I turn to watch the fluid course its way down the sidewalk. Defense mechanism, perhaps, but my entire attention went to watching this brown stream of coffee find the path of least resistance to the drainage grate in the street, where it would then lead to San Francisco Bay and then to the Pacific beyond. I got completely wrapped up in the idea that water, like energy, just continually recycles itself and its very nature is to get on back to the mother ship.
And now I cannot get my mind off the fact that Pluto is no longer a planet. It makes me want to freeze my fist in liquid nitrogen and punch an astronomer in the face with it until one of them shatters. I refuse to change my model of the solar system, I'll go ahead and be wrong. Lick my balls bitches!
I would pay good money though to watch the dog Pluto duke it out with Goofy...
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
In The Morning
It would be awesome if instead of waking up to the trilling, electronic sounds emanating from my cell phone, I could awake to the warm tones of a fanfare played by a French Horn. And I mean a person standing in the corner of the bedroom, playing the French Horn.
At first I imagined a middle-aged man, not necessarily English, but maybe with an affectation of a slightly British accent. I also imagine him wearing a red velvet blazer. But on further reflection, I'm thinking maybe a tall, young woman in her twenties, plain but pretty, and still in that red velvet blazer. She would play until I got my lazy ass out of bed, at which she would say with a smile, "good morning" and leave to go wherever it is she goes. Probably to the library, I think she's doing a research paper on the long term effects of Carnuba Wax in foodstuffs.
I'm typically against the idea of servants, but if I had the money, I think I could rationalize having a French Horn player on the payroll.
It would also be awesome if I would get up early enough to lounge in the hot shower for awhile and listen to a good chunk of Dieselhed's Tales Of The Brown Dragon while I suds it up with hemp peppermint soap.
This stuff is awesome by the way.
It would also be awesome if I could stop saying "awesome" so much.
And as long as I'm wishing on more morning time, I would love it if after that shower and dressing, if I could have a nice warm breakfast and cup of coffee sitting by the kitchen window. I first thought of eggs benedict, but I'm gonna start packing on the pounds if I eat that everyday; maybe just some simple scrambled eggs with potatoes and toast.
I have a particular fondness for sitting at our little green table, at the window, and drinking coffee early in the morning. I especially appreciate this for some reason when it's cold out.
I can feel the season change coming - a little early I think. There's a darkness to the mornings that wasn't there a couple of weeks ago, a chill to the air that is just flirting with the idea going pro and becoming serious cold. I'm looking forward to the upcoming fall with that quickened beat of the heart that is reminiscent of the return of your love after being away from home for a few days.
I've realized that with the return to living with actual seasons again, there is this constant excitement with the coming of a new one; just as I start to get tired of the current season's actions, the next one comes around.
Man, I hope my French Horn player finishes her paper soon, she really seems stressed about it.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Some mambo song that is in La Dolce Vita, this one’s a clinger…
At first I imagined a middle-aged man, not necessarily English, but maybe with an affectation of a slightly British accent. I also imagine him wearing a red velvet blazer. But on further reflection, I'm thinking maybe a tall, young woman in her twenties, plain but pretty, and still in that red velvet blazer. She would play until I got my lazy ass out of bed, at which she would say with a smile, "good morning" and leave to go wherever it is she goes. Probably to the library, I think she's doing a research paper on the long term effects of Carnuba Wax in foodstuffs.
I'm typically against the idea of servants, but if I had the money, I think I could rationalize having a French Horn player on the payroll.
It would also be awesome if I would get up early enough to lounge in the hot shower for awhile and listen to a good chunk of Dieselhed's Tales Of The Brown Dragon while I suds it up with hemp peppermint soap.
This stuff is awesome by the way.
It would also be awesome if I could stop saying "awesome" so much.
And as long as I'm wishing on more morning time, I would love it if after that shower and dressing, if I could have a nice warm breakfast and cup of coffee sitting by the kitchen window. I first thought of eggs benedict, but I'm gonna start packing on the pounds if I eat that everyday; maybe just some simple scrambled eggs with potatoes and toast.
I have a particular fondness for sitting at our little green table, at the window, and drinking coffee early in the morning. I especially appreciate this for some reason when it's cold out.
I can feel the season change coming - a little early I think. There's a darkness to the mornings that wasn't there a couple of weeks ago, a chill to the air that is just flirting with the idea going pro and becoming serious cold. I'm looking forward to the upcoming fall with that quickened beat of the heart that is reminiscent of the return of your love after being away from home for a few days.
I've realized that with the return to living with actual seasons again, there is this constant excitement with the coming of a new one; just as I start to get tired of the current season's actions, the next one comes around.
Man, I hope my French Horn player finishes her paper soon, she really seems stressed about it.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Some mambo song that is in La Dolce Vita, this one’s a clinger…
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
The World Shines...
If this feels rushed when you read, it is. I'm super busy today and nursing a bad mood hangover that started yesterday for some reason - probably just tired...
But, me and Biff went and saw John Darnielle of The Mountain Goats last night at Easy Street records. He was doing a record store appearance in celebration of the midnight release of his new album, which seemed odd. He was doing a signing afterwards, which seemed odd. This sort of record store marketing thing just doesn't seem like his whole deal.
But it was odd, seeing him in this sort of venue. It at first reminded me of those shows at the Bottom of the Hill where it was just him, an acoustic guitar and a large handful of rabid fans. The number of rabid fans seems to have increased over the years, which is fine as he deserves the attention, but standing amongst the Children’s/Vocalists rack in a CD store just didn't feel like the way you should be experiencing this man.
Not to say it wasn't good. The Mountain Goats live are still one of the few bands that can make the hairs stand up on my neck. He's the one that can gracefully grab my emotions and twirl them in deft fingers and leave me tossing them out in tears and blissful smiles. I couldn't really see him from where I was standing, which on one hand is fine since it's a guy with an acoustic guitar - there's no multimedia show with lasers going on up there. On the other hand though, it always makes me grin to see him go wild eyed and shake his head with abandon when he feels the need to push those words out in an explosive torrent.
Instead of staring at the back of heads in front of me, I kept finding myself staring at an Eartha Kitt CD just to my right:
This definitely added to the surreal feeling of the evening. Uberfans can seriously freak me out, I think often times they're a hair away from fucking crazy. There was one up front (where else would he be), who began some rant about how last time John Darnielle came to town he didn't play anything off of All Hail West Texas and he was still mad about it. Though he handled it with his usual quick and sharp wit, I felt bad that he had to deal with Senor Loco Cabeza.
Oh and check it out, I don't know if anyone else could get away with this. There were moments when he would play and sing so quietly that you could barely hear him. He was pressing the boundaries of shifts in dynamics, going the opposite of the typical bombast that others may play with. And not a whisper from the audience - it was odd to be able to hear a truck passing outside the store while he played and a roomful listened.
We left before the whole signing thing. We were tired, and I honestly didn't know what I would say to him that would not make me look like psycho uberfan in the front row anyway. But thanks for Going to Georgia, thanks for Jeff Davis County Blues, the new stuff sounds great.
I guess I could have said that.
But, me and Biff went and saw John Darnielle of The Mountain Goats last night at Easy Street records. He was doing a record store appearance in celebration of the midnight release of his new album, which seemed odd. He was doing a signing afterwards, which seemed odd. This sort of record store marketing thing just doesn't seem like his whole deal.
But it was odd, seeing him in this sort of venue. It at first reminded me of those shows at the Bottom of the Hill where it was just him, an acoustic guitar and a large handful of rabid fans. The number of rabid fans seems to have increased over the years, which is fine as he deserves the attention, but standing amongst the Children’s/Vocalists rack in a CD store just didn't feel like the way you should be experiencing this man.
Not to say it wasn't good. The Mountain Goats live are still one of the few bands that can make the hairs stand up on my neck. He's the one that can gracefully grab my emotions and twirl them in deft fingers and leave me tossing them out in tears and blissful smiles. I couldn't really see him from where I was standing, which on one hand is fine since it's a guy with an acoustic guitar - there's no multimedia show with lasers going on up there. On the other hand though, it always makes me grin to see him go wild eyed and shake his head with abandon when he feels the need to push those words out in an explosive torrent.
Instead of staring at the back of heads in front of me, I kept finding myself staring at an Eartha Kitt CD just to my right:
This definitely added to the surreal feeling of the evening. Uberfans can seriously freak me out, I think often times they're a hair away from fucking crazy. There was one up front (where else would he be), who began some rant about how last time John Darnielle came to town he didn't play anything off of All Hail West Texas and he was still mad about it. Though he handled it with his usual quick and sharp wit, I felt bad that he had to deal with Senor Loco Cabeza.
Oh and check it out, I don't know if anyone else could get away with this. There were moments when he would play and sing so quietly that you could barely hear him. He was pressing the boundaries of shifts in dynamics, going the opposite of the typical bombast that others may play with. And not a whisper from the audience - it was odd to be able to hear a truck passing outside the store while he played and a roomful listened.
We left before the whole signing thing. We were tired, and I honestly didn't know what I would say to him that would not make me look like psycho uberfan in the front row anyway. But thanks for Going to Georgia, thanks for Jeff Davis County Blues, the new stuff sounds great.
I guess I could have said that.
Saturday, August 19, 2006
HR, Poop 'n Stuff
Apparently my lips are chapped, for I got some hot chili sauce on them and they are burning beyond the boundaries of what one would normally consider ordinary. I feel like very small fire ants have crept into the cracks in my lips and laid fiery little eggs.
We had the opening night for the new show last night. After a less than stellar preview on Thursday, I think our actual opening went pretty damn well. This one is Episode 4 of a soap opera parody and it's been a blast to work on. I love my fellow cast mates, and not only because I've been able to get them all to make "your mom" jokes.
So now, I only have rehearsals for one show, on the nights that this play isn't up and running. I've been in a theater, till late, for what feels like every day of the last three weeks. And it won't end for while. Tiring, but it's fulfilling in a way that my real jobby job can't touch, something I don't think I can explain to the HR department.
Color In Your Cheeks by The Mountain Goats is currently breaking my heart in the best way. Said Goats are doing a free in store, late night appearance on Monday night and I'm pretty damn excited.
I'm also slowly realizing that I'm nearing the point of delirium - that sort of hazy, 'oh, fuck me', mind set that makes going to Safeway and playing a little game I like to call "scaring the normals" so much fun. It beats going to Walmart and having those patrons scare me.
It's sort of amazing how quickly I can revert to childlike behavior when I get this tired. In the last ten minutes I have said 'poop' a number of times (simply for the fun of it). I have put a purse on my head, automatically and without forethought, with the handles over my forehead like a headband. And I have put a battery back into a small timer a number of times even though I knew the shrill alarm would sound when I did.
I don't know how to end this or what to call it... man, I'm tired. Here's a map of where I live:
We had the opening night for the new show last night. After a less than stellar preview on Thursday, I think our actual opening went pretty damn well. This one is Episode 4 of a soap opera parody and it's been a blast to work on. I love my fellow cast mates, and not only because I've been able to get them all to make "your mom" jokes.
So now, I only have rehearsals for one show, on the nights that this play isn't up and running. I've been in a theater, till late, for what feels like every day of the last three weeks. And it won't end for while. Tiring, but it's fulfilling in a way that my real jobby job can't touch, something I don't think I can explain to the HR department.
Color In Your Cheeks by The Mountain Goats is currently breaking my heart in the best way. Said Goats are doing a free in store, late night appearance on Monday night and I'm pretty damn excited.
I'm also slowly realizing that I'm nearing the point of delirium - that sort of hazy, 'oh, fuck me', mind set that makes going to Safeway and playing a little game I like to call "scaring the normals" so much fun. It beats going to Walmart and having those patrons scare me.
It's sort of amazing how quickly I can revert to childlike behavior when I get this tired. In the last ten minutes I have said 'poop' a number of times (simply for the fun of it). I have put a purse on my head, automatically and without forethought, with the handles over my forehead like a headband. And I have put a battery back into a small timer a number of times even though I knew the shrill alarm would sound when I did.
I don't know how to end this or what to call it... man, I'm tired. Here's a map of where I live:
Friday, August 18, 2006
Cowinkydink
I've had this weird case of coincidence pile up in the last couple of days. It reminds me of the lead character in I Heart Huckabees searching out the meaning of a coincidence in his life. There is no meaning here, just sort of interesting.
So I got home from dress rehearsal the other night and sat down to watch a little South Park before going to bed. As I've mentioned before, I don't have cable, so I don't see shows like South Park on a regular basis, now that it's syndicated though I catch it from time to time after coming home late from rehearsals. Well on Wednesday night they were showing an episode that I had actually already seen the end of somewhere before. This was a coincidence in itself. But on this particular show were the animated forms of JonBenet Ramsey's parents.
You see where I'm going with this...
I come into work yesterday, and all over the internet news are stories of the apprehension of a suspect in the killing of JonBenet. I know it's wrong, there's that whole book and cover thing, but I looked at the picture of this guy and thought to myself, "ooh, he looks like a total creepy freak". I immediately imagined him in some dilapidated house with a pit in the basement, I imagined him tucking his penis between his legs and dancing to some bad 80's techno song.
John Mark Karr. He could just be some sort of crazy guy who wants a little infamy fix by inserting himself into an unsolved murder. The guy behind him in the picture though... I want a party with this guy. He looks WAY happy, he looks like he's getting ready to tap a piece of that ass while he sings something from The Sound of Music; The Lonely Goatherd song maybe.
But I took a closer look at this Karr guy and suddenly I saw it, an uncomfortable resemblance to 80's techno performer Gary Numan:
OK true, Karr is a little thinner, but they have that same sort of smug, male model pose thing going for them. Gary Numan by the way used to do concerts where he got into this "futuristic" vehicle which scooted robotically across the stage while he sang. I have seen footage of this, and while it may have been the proverbial shiznit back in '81, it looked a little ridiculous when I watched with a grin in '89.
Gary Numan's biggest US hit was a song called Cars. Cars... Karr?
I'm so high right now.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Fill The Void by Oingo Boingo
So I got home from dress rehearsal the other night and sat down to watch a little South Park before going to bed. As I've mentioned before, I don't have cable, so I don't see shows like South Park on a regular basis, now that it's syndicated though I catch it from time to time after coming home late from rehearsals. Well on Wednesday night they were showing an episode that I had actually already seen the end of somewhere before. This was a coincidence in itself. But on this particular show were the animated forms of JonBenet Ramsey's parents.
You see where I'm going with this...
I come into work yesterday, and all over the internet news are stories of the apprehension of a suspect in the killing of JonBenet. I know it's wrong, there's that whole book and cover thing, but I looked at the picture of this guy and thought to myself, "ooh, he looks like a total creepy freak". I immediately imagined him in some dilapidated house with a pit in the basement, I imagined him tucking his penis between his legs and dancing to some bad 80's techno song.
John Mark Karr. He could just be some sort of crazy guy who wants a little infamy fix by inserting himself into an unsolved murder. The guy behind him in the picture though... I want a party with this guy. He looks WAY happy, he looks like he's getting ready to tap a piece of that ass while he sings something from The Sound of Music; The Lonely Goatherd song maybe.
But I took a closer look at this Karr guy and suddenly I saw it, an uncomfortable resemblance to 80's techno performer Gary Numan:
OK true, Karr is a little thinner, but they have that same sort of smug, male model pose thing going for them. Gary Numan by the way used to do concerts where he got into this "futuristic" vehicle which scooted robotically across the stage while he sang. I have seen footage of this, and while it may have been the proverbial shiznit back in '81, it looked a little ridiculous when I watched with a grin in '89.
Gary Numan's biggest US hit was a song called Cars. Cars... Karr?
I'm so high right now.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Fill The Void by Oingo Boingo
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Big Crazy Chair
This would have been back in '95 I guess, back before the great San Francisco bubble. The Museum of Modern Art had yet to be built and there were not a lot of expensive SUV's in the Mission. My roommate and I were walking down Market Street; I don't know where we were going, but we were down by 4th and Market - close to where the Virgin Megastore was being built.
Someone had put an enormous chair in the middle of the sidewalk. I mean seriously big, the back of the chair was probably 12 feet tall. It was like a prop for a movie where someone is shrinking. I assume it was someone's idea of an art installation. It was brown naugahyde, Lay-Z-Boy looking chair. There was no plaque, no sign, no explanation. I saw it and immediately thought to myself, "I'm gonna climb up into that chair". And so I did.
I perched above the sidewalk, feeling suddenly like a child; not only smaller, but somehow a little more carefree. I believe my roommate was feeling embarrassed and either walked in circles, smoking a cigarette and trying to ignore me, or he wandered off somewhere else.
Before long, as was bound to happen as I was attracting them by the boatload at this time, a street wanderer shuffled up to the chair. He looked up at me and asked me to help him up into it. As I said, I was feeling innocent and childlike, so I reached down and pulled him up into the oversized comfy chair. The chair was big enough for us both to sit in it comfortably. And so we sat, side by side, a wise ass, early twenties white boy and a middle aged, black, homeless man.
We sat quietly for a minute or two, people watching, and then he asked if I had a smoke. I pulled a pack and we both sat there smoking when he pointed away south over a fence. There was an empty lot at this time on the south side of market, and we could see the church and rectory that sits on Mission, across the street from where the Metreon now sits.
"You see that cloud hanging above that church there?" The man asked in a worn, warm voice. "It reminds me of Russia."
{Now, I don't know if this fella had actually been to Russia. It didn't matter though because this true Zen nugget was about to fall from him gracefully.}
"No matter where you go, you always see the same things."
It was just this sort of offhand comment, but it blew my head open. I thanked him for our time together and hopped down off the chair. It seems like a natural progression now, like a link in a chain, but I feel this comment started something rolling in me which produced an avalanche a few months later. As I sat in a Film History class, I heard my own voice distinctly telling me, "you don't need to work so hard to find yourself, you're right here". I busted out with a smile reminiscent of a little boy sitting in a chair way too big for him.
Sometimes you get a little wisdom dropped your way when you least expect it.
Someone had put an enormous chair in the middle of the sidewalk. I mean seriously big, the back of the chair was probably 12 feet tall. It was like a prop for a movie where someone is shrinking. I assume it was someone's idea of an art installation. It was brown naugahyde, Lay-Z-Boy looking chair. There was no plaque, no sign, no explanation. I saw it and immediately thought to myself, "I'm gonna climb up into that chair". And so I did.
I perched above the sidewalk, feeling suddenly like a child; not only smaller, but somehow a little more carefree. I believe my roommate was feeling embarrassed and either walked in circles, smoking a cigarette and trying to ignore me, or he wandered off somewhere else.
Before long, as was bound to happen as I was attracting them by the boatload at this time, a street wanderer shuffled up to the chair. He looked up at me and asked me to help him up into it. As I said, I was feeling innocent and childlike, so I reached down and pulled him up into the oversized comfy chair. The chair was big enough for us both to sit in it comfortably. And so we sat, side by side, a wise ass, early twenties white boy and a middle aged, black, homeless man.
We sat quietly for a minute or two, people watching, and then he asked if I had a smoke. I pulled a pack and we both sat there smoking when he pointed away south over a fence. There was an empty lot at this time on the south side of market, and we could see the church and rectory that sits on Mission, across the street from where the Metreon now sits.
"You see that cloud hanging above that church there?" The man asked in a worn, warm voice. "It reminds me of Russia."
{Now, I don't know if this fella had actually been to Russia. It didn't matter though because this true Zen nugget was about to fall from him gracefully.}
"No matter where you go, you always see the same things."
It was just this sort of offhand comment, but it blew my head open. I thanked him for our time together and hopped down off the chair. It seems like a natural progression now, like a link in a chain, but I feel this comment started something rolling in me which produced an avalanche a few months later. As I sat in a Film History class, I heard my own voice distinctly telling me, "you don't need to work so hard to find yourself, you're right here". I busted out with a smile reminiscent of a little boy sitting in a chair way too big for him.
Sometimes you get a little wisdom dropped your way when you least expect it.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Crazy For Feeling This Way
A bunch of us were standing around outside the theater after rehearsal last night, a short break before we started painting the floor and parts of the set. There were various circles of conversation going on and general, tired happiness. About fifty yards up the sidewalk stood the shambling form of a man, covered in shadows and carrying on his own conversation with the side of a building.
While I think most of us stood in that circle of light, shining down from the naked bulb outside the theater door, feeling like the light and sheer presence of numbers would keep this person away like some forest animal circling a campfire, it did not. He eventually wandered into our circle, mumbling in some street poet's tongue.
I'm fairly used to street crazies, years of walking the streets of San Francisco put me face to face with a number of them. I seem to draw them to me. I was particularly surprised last night when all traces of conversation died away as we allowed this guy to take center stage. He mumbled incoherently, attempted to call us out (for what I couldn't really understand) and did these knee bends that were dancer graceful. You could feel how uncomfortable everybody was, no one said a thing.
I began to wonder what it was exactly that had us all on edge. Was it the whispers of chaos, the worry that anything can happen because this guy did not follow our societal rules? Was it the possible danger that this guy could get violent? Was it a quiet reverence for own sense of sanity? Worries of catching the crazy? All I know is that there seemed to be an extended held breath as the guy lit a match to light his smoke.
I know that personally, insanity is one of those things that really gives me the creeps. Crazy people feel to me like a physical example of something from the supernatural realm, like a visitor that has fallen to our world but still holds too much knowledge from the other side to quite make it work over here. I know I'm made uncomfortable by the uncertainty of their actions as social norms are disintegrated, but then I'm also a little excited and intrigued by what may happen because of this. I think mostly what puts me on edge is the possibility of being a few brain tics away from the wandering street mumbler myself.
I can easily see my mind focusing on one thing a little too hard until it becomes an all consuming obsession, becoming just a little too heavy for the delicate teeter-totter of my mind and tipping things into the never-turn-back, pulsing crimson violet of absolute abandon. How thin is the line between a slightly outside point of view and bugshit crazy?
I avoided my typical sarcastic comment as our visitor wandered back into the shadows of Seattle. I stood quietly and thought about the sense of relief that flooded into the group like a long exhale after a held breath.
While I think most of us stood in that circle of light, shining down from the naked bulb outside the theater door, feeling like the light and sheer presence of numbers would keep this person away like some forest animal circling a campfire, it did not. He eventually wandered into our circle, mumbling in some street poet's tongue.
I'm fairly used to street crazies, years of walking the streets of San Francisco put me face to face with a number of them. I seem to draw them to me. I was particularly surprised last night when all traces of conversation died away as we allowed this guy to take center stage. He mumbled incoherently, attempted to call us out (for what I couldn't really understand) and did these knee bends that were dancer graceful. You could feel how uncomfortable everybody was, no one said a thing.
I began to wonder what it was exactly that had us all on edge. Was it the whispers of chaos, the worry that anything can happen because this guy did not follow our societal rules? Was it the possible danger that this guy could get violent? Was it a quiet reverence for own sense of sanity? Worries of catching the crazy? All I know is that there seemed to be an extended held breath as the guy lit a match to light his smoke.
I know that personally, insanity is one of those things that really gives me the creeps. Crazy people feel to me like a physical example of something from the supernatural realm, like a visitor that has fallen to our world but still holds too much knowledge from the other side to quite make it work over here. I know I'm made uncomfortable by the uncertainty of their actions as social norms are disintegrated, but then I'm also a little excited and intrigued by what may happen because of this. I think mostly what puts me on edge is the possibility of being a few brain tics away from the wandering street mumbler myself.
I can easily see my mind focusing on one thing a little too hard until it becomes an all consuming obsession, becoming just a little too heavy for the delicate teeter-totter of my mind and tipping things into the never-turn-back, pulsing crimson violet of absolute abandon. How thin is the line between a slightly outside point of view and bugshit crazy?
I avoided my typical sarcastic comment as our visitor wandered back into the shadows of Seattle. I stood quietly and thought about the sense of relief that flooded into the group like a long exhale after a held breath.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Derision On A Blog
When I was a younger man than I am now, I would watch any movie that got caught on my feelers as it floated through the entertainment deluge. Hence seeing The Cutting Edge; of course, I was trying to get some.
I think that there was this fear of missing something. I think that there was a fear of a hole in my internal popular entertainment knowledge base. I find it interesting that that fear is no longer there. I find it interesting that there are years worth of movies that I will never watch. And I don't mean wait till they're on DVD or catch them on cable in some motel room on some random travel, I mean I will never watch them.
Miami Vice comes to mind. Though, heart Will Farrell I do, Bewitched comes to mind. Lambada: The Forbidden Dance Of Love also comes to mind, but seems to weaken the small stance I'm taking against Miami Vice.
But Snakes On A Plane... I was thinking to myself last night that I will probably never see this movie. There's no anger to the decision, the movie's as ridiculous and unnecessary as Miami Vice, I think it's just I miss so many good movies already that I need to specify my watching habits to films I will get a little more out of than CGI snake footage and Samuel L acting the badass.
But there is something so audacious about calling a film Snakes On A Plane, something so "F you" to the action movie crowd. It feels as though the true feelings of studio execs are peering through the lines of that decision, like they're dumbing down the title to match the expected intellect of their expected demographic. It's all right there on the title. What's the movie about? Snakes on a mother effing plane.
It reminds me of a thought I had while my mind was wandering during MI:2 - Electric Boogaloo and I was in a very nihilistic place. I would like to make a film that opens with ten minutes of someone just getting the crap kicked out of them and then shot point blank in the head. This would then be followed by an hour and twenty minutes of explosions. This seems to be what sells tickets, it seems to cut down to the basics what movie studios feel we as viewers are looking for.
Yeah alright, I'll probably end up renting SOAP...
I think that there was this fear of missing something. I think that there was a fear of a hole in my internal popular entertainment knowledge base. I find it interesting that that fear is no longer there. I find it interesting that there are years worth of movies that I will never watch. And I don't mean wait till they're on DVD or catch them on cable in some motel room on some random travel, I mean I will never watch them.
Miami Vice comes to mind. Though, heart Will Farrell I do, Bewitched comes to mind. Lambada: The Forbidden Dance Of Love also comes to mind, but seems to weaken the small stance I'm taking against Miami Vice.
But Snakes On A Plane... I was thinking to myself last night that I will probably never see this movie. There's no anger to the decision, the movie's as ridiculous and unnecessary as Miami Vice, I think it's just I miss so many good movies already that I need to specify my watching habits to films I will get a little more out of than CGI snake footage and Samuel L acting the badass.
But there is something so audacious about calling a film Snakes On A Plane, something so "F you" to the action movie crowd. It feels as though the true feelings of studio execs are peering through the lines of that decision, like they're dumbing down the title to match the expected intellect of their expected demographic. It's all right there on the title. What's the movie about? Snakes on a mother effing plane.
It reminds me of a thought I had while my mind was wandering during MI:2 - Electric Boogaloo and I was in a very nihilistic place. I would like to make a film that opens with ten minutes of someone just getting the crap kicked out of them and then shot point blank in the head. This would then be followed by an hour and twenty minutes of explosions. This seems to be what sells tickets, it seems to cut down to the basics what movie studios feel we as viewers are looking for.
Yeah alright, I'll probably end up renting SOAP...
Friday, August 11, 2006
There Is A Time To Dance
I get audition notices emailed to me, a lot of them. With these acting auditions are also notices for photo models and stage managers, PA's and dancers. I got a notice a couple weeks back that opened my eyes to performing niche that I did not realize was there.
Christian Hip Hop Dance.
I suppose that it makes sense, it just wasn't something I had ever considered before. And hey, this group which was auditioning dancers, holds many winning titles and are in fact winners of the McDonald's Gospelfest.
Again, unaware that there was a McDonald's Gospelfest. The cynical side of me suggests that it's McDonald's once again vying for that "urban" market, but sometimes one should not listen to my cynical side...
Anyways, some requirements for the Christian Hip Hop Dance auditions:
· Be prepared to show 1 minute of a hip hop dance routine (must be Christian music) - I imagine snazzy cheerleader type routines done to Stryper.
· Be stretched and ready to go. - The words "be stretched" in such close proximity of church activity makes me nervous.
· Be prepared to answer the following question: "Why do you want to be part of a Christian Hip Hop Dance team?" - Because I want to spread the magic and wonder of our savior Jesus' teachings through my talents of both popping and locking.
I did not get a spot on the team...
Christian Hip Hop Dance.
I suppose that it makes sense, it just wasn't something I had ever considered before. And hey, this group which was auditioning dancers, holds many winning titles and are in fact winners of the McDonald's Gospelfest.
Again, unaware that there was a McDonald's Gospelfest. The cynical side of me suggests that it's McDonald's once again vying for that "urban" market, but sometimes one should not listen to my cynical side...
Anyways, some requirements for the Christian Hip Hop Dance auditions:
· Be prepared to show 1 minute of a hip hop dance routine (must be Christian music) - I imagine snazzy cheerleader type routines done to Stryper.
· Be stretched and ready to go. - The words "be stretched" in such close proximity of church activity makes me nervous.
· Be prepared to answer the following question: "Why do you want to be part of a Christian Hip Hop Dance team?" - Because I want to spread the magic and wonder of our savior Jesus' teachings through my talents of both popping and locking.
I did not get a spot on the team...
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Trashtastic
It's amazing the amount of garbage our brains hold onto. While sitting here doing my work, a wide variety of useless crap bubbled up from the memory banks like gasses of decay bursting through the muck of a swamp. Here are a few examples:
a) Fly Like An Eagle by the Steve Miller Band.
b) I often like things grouped in threes, fives or tens.
c) Empathized for a moment with formerly famous New Kid on the Block Joey McIntyre. It's gotta be tough to have the world love you one day and then be a has-been the next.
d) Remembered a dream I had where I looked around our small and moldering San Francisco apartment on the day we were moving out, only to find a door I'd never noticed in the bathroom which led to a ginormous other apartment we could have been living in the whole time.
e) Reaffirmed my beliefs that Paris Hilton is an ugly twat.
f) Forgot to worry about West Nile Virus. And SARS. And Avian Bird Flu. Oh, and killer bees.
g) I love that scene in Videodrome when they rearrange his "programming" by putting a videotape inside of James Woods' vaginal belly slit.
h) There are no opening titles to Apocalypse Now, the name of the movie appears painted on a wall in Kurtz's compound.
i) Worried that the computer was maliciously changing my documents on me.
j) The term 'quadratic equation'.
The amount of useless brain chatter is truly shocking. And it makes me wear this sort of embarrassed grin knowing that I'm consistently feeding this little gibbering mind monkey with useless crap. Not that doing my work requires this, but trying to settle your mind down to quiet is exhausting, if not downright near impossible sometimes. Since we're all just organic computers anyway (something that film maker David Cronenberg explores in a way that really gets to me by the way), I kind of wish we had a big trash can icon in our heads. I could drag stuff that I would like never have repeat on me like a meal chock full of bad dairy. Do I really want to delete the entire Journey catalogue?
Yes, a big resounding yes.
But then, even as I'm thinking about this, a little bubble pops and lets out a nervous little voice like a sigh, "someday, you might want those memories". So even if I had this trashcan ability, my own neurosis regarding distrust of machines and regret would probably keep me from using it.
a) Fly Like An Eagle by the Steve Miller Band.
b) I often like things grouped in threes, fives or tens.
c) Empathized for a moment with formerly famous New Kid on the Block Joey McIntyre. It's gotta be tough to have the world love you one day and then be a has-been the next.
d) Remembered a dream I had where I looked around our small and moldering San Francisco apartment on the day we were moving out, only to find a door I'd never noticed in the bathroom which led to a ginormous other apartment we could have been living in the whole time.
e) Reaffirmed my beliefs that Paris Hilton is an ugly twat.
f) Forgot to worry about West Nile Virus. And SARS. And Avian Bird Flu. Oh, and killer bees.
g) I love that scene in Videodrome when they rearrange his "programming" by putting a videotape inside of James Woods' vaginal belly slit.
h) There are no opening titles to Apocalypse Now, the name of the movie appears painted on a wall in Kurtz's compound.
i) Worried that the computer was maliciously changing my documents on me.
j) The term 'quadratic equation'.
The amount of useless brain chatter is truly shocking. And it makes me wear this sort of embarrassed grin knowing that I'm consistently feeding this little gibbering mind monkey with useless crap. Not that doing my work requires this, but trying to settle your mind down to quiet is exhausting, if not downright near impossible sometimes. Since we're all just organic computers anyway (something that film maker David Cronenberg explores in a way that really gets to me by the way), I kind of wish we had a big trash can icon in our heads. I could drag stuff that I would like never have repeat on me like a meal chock full of bad dairy. Do I really want to delete the entire Journey catalogue?
Yes, a big resounding yes.
But then, even as I'm thinking about this, a little bubble pops and lets out a nervous little voice like a sigh, "someday, you might want those memories". So even if I had this trashcan ability, my own neurosis regarding distrust of machines and regret would probably keep me from using it.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Goes Well With Seafood, Grilled Chicken And Black Cotton
We went to lunch on Sunday with my folks, after witnessing the awesome might and majesty of the Blue Angels showing the greater Seattle area how they dazzle the enemy into submission. We went to a seafood restaurant down on the water, not super fancy, but fancy enough. Not bragging, it comes into play here in a minute.
My dad ordered a bottle of wine to go with lunch. He was not going to drink that day as he had gotten five degrees of fucked up the night before on vodka, whisky and beer - even leaving me a slurring voicemail, where I'm not positive, but I think that he said "purple nose monkey" to me. Sound familiar faithful readers? Particularly those that I have drunk-called? Yeah, those are my genes.
Anyway, the cute, little waitress brings over the bottle of Chardonnay and proceeds to tell us that she has never opened a bottle of wine before.
Hold up.
1) How the hell do you get a waitress job and not know how to open a bottle of wine? Isn't this something that you should know for your job? And even if you were hiding that fact from your new employer, at least sneak over to the bartender before bringing it to the table and get a little advice.
2) Unless you're a teetotaler, how do you get to be in your twenties without opening a bottle of wine? I knew my way around a corkscrew before I could drive. Then again - review paragraph above.
3) It's not like performing open cranium surgery while contemplating the Theory of Relativity and riding a mechanical bull. It's a really simple piece of machinery used to pull a cork from a bottle.
But alas, she couldn't really even figure out how to cut the foil around the bottle. My dad took the bottle, showed her the little cutting tool on the opener, and took the foil off for her. Her first attempt at opening would have snapped the cork in two, so we pointed out that she would want to get the screw further down into the cork before pulling it out. After a couple of false starts, she got the cork out, put the bottle on the table and walked away.
Now, I'm not a restaurant snob. I don't eat at fancy places often, but I do know that when you open a bottle of wine, you're supposed to go through the pretentious rigmarole of letting the person who ordered it taste it - which, for those fucks out there who think they're impressing someone, is to see if the bottle has turned or has been corked; it is not for you consider whether you like the wine or not - and then pouring. You don't just leave the bottle sitting on the table.
But fine, I can pour my own wine, not that big a deal. But when the waitress returned, she knocked my newly filled glass with her arm and I was suddenly drenched in a cold (yet delightfully mellow) Chardonnay. She was understandably embarrassed and she apologized. I mopped up what little wine had actually hit the table with a couple of napkins and asked if she could bring some towels so I could try to dry off a little bit. She left and I literally wrung out my shirt. Thankfully, we were outside and I was sitting in the direct sunlight which allowed for my clothes to mostly dry out because I never got any towels. Nor did we get anything comped for the meal.
Okay, again I'm not uptight about my restaurant visits. I mean, if I don't get what I order I will probably ask them to take it back (sometimes I might go ahead and take what I get - life throwing me a little surprise, something I wouldn't have tried otherwise), but I'm really pretty lenient with mistakes. When Magnolia on Haight Street first opened, there was a waiter that was wonderfully adorable and sweet, but very forgetful when it came to actually putting in your orders. We would usually just laugh it off, but we were being fed a lot of free beer in the meantime.
So it did surprise me when we didn't even get the bottle of wine for free. Typically what should probably happen is the manager comes over (hopefully with those towels), apologizes and tells you the lunch was on him. As I wasn't paying for the lunch, I didn't really feel it was my place to say anything about it, but was honestly surprised that my folks didn't either. They are the epitome of picky, bitchy restaurant goers.
I walked out, slowly shaking my head and hoping I didn't get pulled over on the way home since I reeked of light floral notes with subtle flavors of oak.
My dad ordered a bottle of wine to go with lunch. He was not going to drink that day as he had gotten five degrees of fucked up the night before on vodka, whisky and beer - even leaving me a slurring voicemail, where I'm not positive, but I think that he said "purple nose monkey" to me. Sound familiar faithful readers? Particularly those that I have drunk-called? Yeah, those are my genes.
Anyway, the cute, little waitress brings over the bottle of Chardonnay and proceeds to tell us that she has never opened a bottle of wine before.
Hold up.
1) How the hell do you get a waitress job and not know how to open a bottle of wine? Isn't this something that you should know for your job? And even if you were hiding that fact from your new employer, at least sneak over to the bartender before bringing it to the table and get a little advice.
2) Unless you're a teetotaler, how do you get to be in your twenties without opening a bottle of wine? I knew my way around a corkscrew before I could drive. Then again - review paragraph above.
3) It's not like performing open cranium surgery while contemplating the Theory of Relativity and riding a mechanical bull. It's a really simple piece of machinery used to pull a cork from a bottle.
But alas, she couldn't really even figure out how to cut the foil around the bottle. My dad took the bottle, showed her the little cutting tool on the opener, and took the foil off for her. Her first attempt at opening would have snapped the cork in two, so we pointed out that she would want to get the screw further down into the cork before pulling it out. After a couple of false starts, she got the cork out, put the bottle on the table and walked away.
Now, I'm not a restaurant snob. I don't eat at fancy places often, but I do know that when you open a bottle of wine, you're supposed to go through the pretentious rigmarole of letting the person who ordered it taste it - which, for those fucks out there who think they're impressing someone, is to see if the bottle has turned or has been corked; it is not for you consider whether you like the wine or not - and then pouring. You don't just leave the bottle sitting on the table.
But fine, I can pour my own wine, not that big a deal. But when the waitress returned, she knocked my newly filled glass with her arm and I was suddenly drenched in a cold (yet delightfully mellow) Chardonnay. She was understandably embarrassed and she apologized. I mopped up what little wine had actually hit the table with a couple of napkins and asked if she could bring some towels so I could try to dry off a little bit. She left and I literally wrung out my shirt. Thankfully, we were outside and I was sitting in the direct sunlight which allowed for my clothes to mostly dry out because I never got any towels. Nor did we get anything comped for the meal.
Okay, again I'm not uptight about my restaurant visits. I mean, if I don't get what I order I will probably ask them to take it back (sometimes I might go ahead and take what I get - life throwing me a little surprise, something I wouldn't have tried otherwise), but I'm really pretty lenient with mistakes. When Magnolia on Haight Street first opened, there was a waiter that was wonderfully adorable and sweet, but very forgetful when it came to actually putting in your orders. We would usually just laugh it off, but we were being fed a lot of free beer in the meantime.
So it did surprise me when we didn't even get the bottle of wine for free. Typically what should probably happen is the manager comes over (hopefully with those towels), apologizes and tells you the lunch was on him. As I wasn't paying for the lunch, I didn't really feel it was my place to say anything about it, but was honestly surprised that my folks didn't either. They are the epitome of picky, bitchy restaurant goers.
I walked out, slowly shaking my head and hoping I didn't get pulled over on the way home since I reeked of light floral notes with subtle flavors of oak.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Oh I'll Mess With Texas...
It's like a gnarly little flashback to 2001, and not the movie, 'cause that would rule. Back in 2001, after months of misdirection and lies, my family away from family, my coworkers at the hedonistic headquarters of DG Systems were told that they were soon to be no longer gainfully employed as they were moving part of the company to Dallas, TX.
Roughly six months later, the same happened to the rest of us. Was I bitter about it? Like a Sour Patch Kid marinated in quinine, buried in a lemon and covered in gravy made of bitter. I mean not only was this messing up the lives of many people that I cared deeply for, but it reinforced my cynical view that corporations don't give a fuck for the humans working for them, just the "metrics".
And I guess I should have known this, so in a way it was a good lesson in the harsh ways of the world; a good way to build up an uncaring callus, craft a scab over that naive wound.
Well the scab got ripped open a little bit when on Friday, on her birthday, Biffy found out that her new company is again selling out their employees and moving the company to Texas.
And I guess I should state, for my own conscious if nothing else, that before any of this happened I already did not like Texas. Most of this was a bias built up around movies and the way representatives from the state behaved. The fact that our ignorant and dangerously incompetent president came from the Lone Star State had me voting for their seceding.
But then I visited Texas, I drove through a large chunk of it, and I can say without reservation that Texas can lick my balls. It's great that a place can generally hold onto that old South sense of racism and sexism like it's a point of pride. It's apropos that JFK was killed in Dallas, a nice little symbolic follow through for the death of Camelot.
One of the most humorous-slash-horrible moments of my life was landing in Dallas and watching all of these Texas women, with Texas sized hair, whipping out their arsenal of makeup and adding another layer to the Bozo the Clown coating that was already there.
And if one more person tells me that "Austin's nice"... Austin may be all backrubs and blow jobs, but it's surrounded by Texas!
And yes, these companies that treat their employees as disposable have not made Texas the festering pile of putrescence that I feel it is. Texas did that all on its own. But, it seems a little too much of a coincidence that these companies are located in a place where the idea of the rich and powerful fucking over everything in sight for more profits seems to be celebrated (see again our illustrious president if more proof is needed).
Sorry for the histrionics so early in the week, but I can’t pass up a good Texas rant when the opportunity floats my way.
Roughly six months later, the same happened to the rest of us. Was I bitter about it? Like a Sour Patch Kid marinated in quinine, buried in a lemon and covered in gravy made of bitter. I mean not only was this messing up the lives of many people that I cared deeply for, but it reinforced my cynical view that corporations don't give a fuck for the humans working for them, just the "metrics".
And I guess I should have known this, so in a way it was a good lesson in the harsh ways of the world; a good way to build up an uncaring callus, craft a scab over that naive wound.
Well the scab got ripped open a little bit when on Friday, on her birthday, Biffy found out that her new company is again selling out their employees and moving the company to Texas.
And I guess I should state, for my own conscious if nothing else, that before any of this happened I already did not like Texas. Most of this was a bias built up around movies and the way representatives from the state behaved. The fact that our ignorant and dangerously incompetent president came from the Lone Star State had me voting for their seceding.
But then I visited Texas, I drove through a large chunk of it, and I can say without reservation that Texas can lick my balls. It's great that a place can generally hold onto that old South sense of racism and sexism like it's a point of pride. It's apropos that JFK was killed in Dallas, a nice little symbolic follow through for the death of Camelot.
One of the most humorous-slash-horrible moments of my life was landing in Dallas and watching all of these Texas women, with Texas sized hair, whipping out their arsenal of makeup and adding another layer to the Bozo the Clown coating that was already there.
And if one more person tells me that "Austin's nice"... Austin may be all backrubs and blow jobs, but it's surrounded by Texas!
And yes, these companies that treat their employees as disposable have not made Texas the festering pile of putrescence that I feel it is. Texas did that all on its own. But, it seems a little too much of a coincidence that these companies are located in a place where the idea of the rich and powerful fucking over everything in sight for more profits seems to be celebrated (see again our illustrious president if more proof is needed).
Sorry for the histrionics so early in the week, but I can’t pass up a good Texas rant when the opportunity floats my way.
Saturday, August 05, 2006
They're Grrrr-eat!
August 5, 2006 - Wilkes Barre, PA
Famed cereal spokes-animal Tony the Tiger has apparently gone on a sugar induced rampage and mauled a number of innocent bystanders. 51 year resident, Bucky Laurent, stated, "It was horrifying. He moved through here like a coked up bullet train; a coked up bullet train with claws and teeth. Oh and stripes, you don't often see bullet trains with stripes. He just kept growling, 'they're great? I'll show you great!' Simply awful."
Tony the Tiger,
shown here in better and less frantic times, had reportedly spent the better part of the morning in a local restaurant requesting bowl after bowl of Frosted Flakes, the cereal he has lent his image to for so many years.
"We ran out of Frosted Flakes at one point," states Sara Westford, waitress at Rosemarie's Diner where Tony had been spotted. "He went through like twenty of those little boxes. We were out, and when I offered some Fruit Loops instead he threw his bandana on the table, stood up and demanded I go get some more Frosted Flakes. He's taller than he looks on that cereal box."
Reports show that he burst out of the restaurant and made pretty much a straight line through the downtown area. At least three people are currently in critical condition from horrific bite wounds.
Miss Amanda Woody, a third year community college student, was lucky to escape with her life.
"He charged up to me and said, 'My nose isn't the only thing that's blue'. I didn't get it at first, and then I was kinda’ like 'ewww'."
Tony the Tiger was subdued soon after inside of an adult bookstore as he perused a variety of sexual toys and devices. Zoo officials were able to bring him down using a number of tranquilizer darts. He is currently incarcerated in the local jail.
Reports are speculative, but some say that this erratic behavior may be sparked by the break up of an unsubstantiated affair Mr. the Tiger was having with fellow spokes-animal Toucan Sam.
Famed cereal spokes-animal Tony the Tiger has apparently gone on a sugar induced rampage and mauled a number of innocent bystanders. 51 year resident, Bucky Laurent, stated, "It was horrifying. He moved through here like a coked up bullet train; a coked up bullet train with claws and teeth. Oh and stripes, you don't often see bullet trains with stripes. He just kept growling, 'they're great? I'll show you great!' Simply awful."
Tony the Tiger,
shown here in better and less frantic times, had reportedly spent the better part of the morning in a local restaurant requesting bowl after bowl of Frosted Flakes, the cereal he has lent his image to for so many years.
"We ran out of Frosted Flakes at one point," states Sara Westford, waitress at Rosemarie's Diner where Tony had been spotted. "He went through like twenty of those little boxes. We were out, and when I offered some Fruit Loops instead he threw his bandana on the table, stood up and demanded I go get some more Frosted Flakes. He's taller than he looks on that cereal box."
Reports show that he burst out of the restaurant and made pretty much a straight line through the downtown area. At least three people are currently in critical condition from horrific bite wounds.
Miss Amanda Woody, a third year community college student, was lucky to escape with her life.
"He charged up to me and said, 'My nose isn't the only thing that's blue'. I didn't get it at first, and then I was kinda’ like 'ewww'."
Tony the Tiger was subdued soon after inside of an adult bookstore as he perused a variety of sexual toys and devices. Zoo officials were able to bring him down using a number of tranquilizer darts. He is currently incarcerated in the local jail.
Reports are speculative, but some say that this erratic behavior may be sparked by the break up of an unsubstantiated affair Mr. the Tiger was having with fellow spokes-animal Toucan Sam.
Friday, August 04, 2006
Friday Round Up
So, I shuffled home from rehearsal the other night a little downtrodden. While I was fairly sure from the start that I wouldn't get the part from the audition last week, I was realizing how bad I really wanted that part, how much I could just shred it up and how much I really wanted to work with some of the people involved with the show. I overheard that another cast member in the current show had gotten the news that she was cast, and as I had not gotten any reply I would have to assume that it was a negative for me.
I went home and sat on the bed and, admittedly, pouted a little bit. I whined to Biffy about it and was generally feeling sorry for myself. I then tried to move on to the 'oh well' rigmarole that I do when I don't get a part; something more important will come up, it just wasn't meant to be, now I can spend my time learning ice carving...
I went to rehearsal last night, happy as usual to be doing my thing, loving my fellow cast mates, when the director of the show I didn't get came backstage to deliver food to his girlfriend. He said "hi" as he passed and I went back to reading my script. As he came back through, he tapped me on the shoulder, apologized for bothering me while I was trying to rehearse, and asked if I wanted to play the part.
Not some little pick up part they couldn't wrangle someone in to cover, THE part that I wanted.
Did I feel like King Golden Shit? Why yes, yes I did. I'm still damn excited when I stop and think about it.
Also, today is Biffy's birthday. If you see her wandering around the city - as she likes to do - give her a kiss and a spanking. This go around there’s no show happening, no rehearsal tonight, I get to spend the evening with my lady. Happy birthday sweety, you're a beautiful mom-to-be, you're an effing champion, you're my hero. Thanks for the little pep talk the other night even though it turned out it wasn't necessary.
In other news, I would still pay good money to watch Paris Hilton be kicked to death by a unicorn and then have her body ripped to pieces by half-starved ferrets.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Elevate Myself by Grandaddy
I went home and sat on the bed and, admittedly, pouted a little bit. I whined to Biffy about it and was generally feeling sorry for myself. I then tried to move on to the 'oh well' rigmarole that I do when I don't get a part; something more important will come up, it just wasn't meant to be, now I can spend my time learning ice carving...
I went to rehearsal last night, happy as usual to be doing my thing, loving my fellow cast mates, when the director of the show I didn't get came backstage to deliver food to his girlfriend. He said "hi" as he passed and I went back to reading my script. As he came back through, he tapped me on the shoulder, apologized for bothering me while I was trying to rehearse, and asked if I wanted to play the part.
Not some little pick up part they couldn't wrangle someone in to cover, THE part that I wanted.
Did I feel like King Golden Shit? Why yes, yes I did. I'm still damn excited when I stop and think about it.
Also, today is Biffy's birthday. If you see her wandering around the city - as she likes to do - give her a kiss and a spanking. This go around there’s no show happening, no rehearsal tonight, I get to spend the evening with my lady. Happy birthday sweety, you're a beautiful mom-to-be, you're an effing champion, you're my hero. Thanks for the little pep talk the other night even though it turned out it wasn't necessary.
In other news, I would still pay good money to watch Paris Hilton be kicked to death by a unicorn and then have her body ripped to pieces by half-starved ferrets.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Elevate Myself by Grandaddy
Thursday, August 03, 2006
You Don't Have To Live Like A Refugee
So, I'm watching the news the other night and they're promising a story of domination of the human spirit in time of war, a story of a harrowing escape from war torn Lebanon to Seattle.
A brief summary of the story: As missiles fall closer and closer to her home, a mother makes the brave decision to bundle her children together and get them out of Lebanon. She manages the soul crushing journey back to her original home in Seattle after a journey full of hardships that pit her against the very reserves of her endurance.
The home that this mother escaped from, the home that I imagined as a modest and cramped dwelling, was literally a palace. The newscaster even referred to it as a palace. The pictures they showed of it proved that it was a palace - the sort of gaudy exercise in excess that is shameful. And the awful journey this plastic surgery showroom and her children had to endure? Well, they took a boat to Cypress. Oh, and it was a rough crossing. The part of this journey that brought the family to the brink of survival is that there were people getting seasick.
There was probably also the issue of not being able to get all the kids and their nannies into first class on the flight over. Yeah, did I mention that on this refugee flight, where the family barely escaped with their lives, they also brought along their 2 nannies.
Okay.
Admittedly, if British Columbia started tossing missiles down on Seattle I'd bust a move on out of here and quickly find an audience to share my hardships with (like having to leave behind my recently found copy of the out of print Silver by The Wrens). Hell, I think there should be a news report on me every time I walk back home from Safeway with a big box of kitty litter hurting my fingers. And just because you're rich, it certainly doesn't make the horrors of war any less horrific than it does for the poor.
But, by painting your mildly discomforting trip away from your bountiful riches as something akin to Jews fleeing Europe in the 30's you make a mockery of the poor people who are actually facing real hardship or actually dying. It's like people who claim that their little accessory, child replacement, purse dogs are service animals and then scream that they are being discriminated against when told that animals aren't allowed in a restaurant. You're spitting in the face of people who have actually had to fight against discrimination, you selfish whore.
And a lot of this can be blamed, once again, on the news station that feels they must make everything hyper dramatic to keep the attention of those deficient in attention. I mean they have to keep selling those commercial slots for gas guzzling ginormo-trucks and chemical rich packets of goo that keep you from having the scrape the food off your plates before putting them into an automatic dish washer.
I am definitely in need of some more coffee. And a pep talk from Mel Gibson…
A brief summary of the story: As missiles fall closer and closer to her home, a mother makes the brave decision to bundle her children together and get them out of Lebanon. She manages the soul crushing journey back to her original home in Seattle after a journey full of hardships that pit her against the very reserves of her endurance.
The home that this mother escaped from, the home that I imagined as a modest and cramped dwelling, was literally a palace. The newscaster even referred to it as a palace. The pictures they showed of it proved that it was a palace - the sort of gaudy exercise in excess that is shameful. And the awful journey this plastic surgery showroom and her children had to endure? Well, they took a boat to Cypress. Oh, and it was a rough crossing. The part of this journey that brought the family to the brink of survival is that there were people getting seasick.
There was probably also the issue of not being able to get all the kids and their nannies into first class on the flight over. Yeah, did I mention that on this refugee flight, where the family barely escaped with their lives, they also brought along their 2 nannies.
Okay.
Admittedly, if British Columbia started tossing missiles down on Seattle I'd bust a move on out of here and quickly find an audience to share my hardships with (like having to leave behind my recently found copy of the out of print Silver by The Wrens). Hell, I think there should be a news report on me every time I walk back home from Safeway with a big box of kitty litter hurting my fingers. And just because you're rich, it certainly doesn't make the horrors of war any less horrific than it does for the poor.
But, by painting your mildly discomforting trip away from your bountiful riches as something akin to Jews fleeing Europe in the 30's you make a mockery of the poor people who are actually facing real hardship or actually dying. It's like people who claim that their little accessory, child replacement, purse dogs are service animals and then scream that they are being discriminated against when told that animals aren't allowed in a restaurant. You're spitting in the face of people who have actually had to fight against discrimination, you selfish whore.
And a lot of this can be blamed, once again, on the news station that feels they must make everything hyper dramatic to keep the attention of those deficient in attention. I mean they have to keep selling those commercial slots for gas guzzling ginormo-trucks and chemical rich packets of goo that keep you from having the scrape the food off your plates before putting them into an automatic dish washer.
I am definitely in need of some more coffee. And a pep talk from Mel Gibson…
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Trial By Fire, Trial By Ice
I gotta say that I was pretty freakin' happy with our campfire building skills this weekend. With twigs, driftwood, rotted logs and a little bit of paper, we got a fire going in little time. No fuel people! Okay, we weren't going steel and flint old school, but it was still impressive.
I have to admit that I was a little concerned with letting the fire burn down enough before going to sleep. After setting a Ford Aerostar and a nice chunk of a Napa field ablaze, I'm a little fire shy. When we got into the tent that night, I looked out the little mesh window at the faint glow of the embers with what I can only assume was my brow-furrowed worried face.
This is when something strange happened. I was gazing out said window when a bright blue light seemed to charge across the clearing in front of our tents and move into the woods. It was like a steady, blue, electric spark about four feet over the ground. I put it down to a tired mind and tired eyes trying to form anything out of all of that pitch black darkness.
But on thinking about it later, I've been in a lot of dark places and have never had my eyes trick me like that before. I've seen those blue flashes in your eyes, say after you've rubbed them too hard, but never anything that solid. I was certain that this little light was out there. And granted I was a little drunk and tired, but...
But nothing, I went to sleep. And on getting out of the tent I was even more impressed with our morning fire lighting abilities as it had rained and there was a lot of wet around. We eventually got a little fire factory going where we moved the glowing coals over to half the pit to cook breakfast over, consistently replenishing new coals. Henry Ford would have been proud.
After breakfast, I decided it was time for me to get into that snow melt called a river back behind the campsite. It was a given that it was going to happen from the moment we realized that we were near a river bed. With thoughts of Buddhist monks greeting the day in icy streams, with thoughts of greeting in a New Year's Day with five other crazy fucks in an ice cold Eel River, with thoughts of a campfire and half full bottle of Makers up above, we trudged down to the water.
The three guys waited out a short rain shower. Which totally makes sense as we were going to submerge ourselves in water... I'm not going to lie to you people, this river was cold. It set your feet to stinging with icicle needles within seconds. Nikki 2 K's and I got in up to our shoulders and quickly scampered out. I don't think that I've ever felt my boys climb quite so high up in me. As I got out, I was already feeling that I would regret it later if I didn't go all the way in, head submerged. Before I could give it much more thought, Jason up and dove in all the way; like a champion I might add. Well, there was no question anymore, and so we climbed back into that frigid water, with an internal war cry of "no regrets" pushing me on.
I'm sure that it seems dumb, but for some primal, unexplainable reason it had to be done, and so done it was. But it did make that impressively built fire all the sweeter.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Blue Spark by X.
I have to admit that I was a little concerned with letting the fire burn down enough before going to sleep. After setting a Ford Aerostar and a nice chunk of a Napa field ablaze, I'm a little fire shy. When we got into the tent that night, I looked out the little mesh window at the faint glow of the embers with what I can only assume was my brow-furrowed worried face.
This is when something strange happened. I was gazing out said window when a bright blue light seemed to charge across the clearing in front of our tents and move into the woods. It was like a steady, blue, electric spark about four feet over the ground. I put it down to a tired mind and tired eyes trying to form anything out of all of that pitch black darkness.
But on thinking about it later, I've been in a lot of dark places and have never had my eyes trick me like that before. I've seen those blue flashes in your eyes, say after you've rubbed them too hard, but never anything that solid. I was certain that this little light was out there. And granted I was a little drunk and tired, but...
But nothing, I went to sleep. And on getting out of the tent I was even more impressed with our morning fire lighting abilities as it had rained and there was a lot of wet around. We eventually got a little fire factory going where we moved the glowing coals over to half the pit to cook breakfast over, consistently replenishing new coals. Henry Ford would have been proud.
After breakfast, I decided it was time for me to get into that snow melt called a river back behind the campsite. It was a given that it was going to happen from the moment we realized that we were near a river bed. With thoughts of Buddhist monks greeting the day in icy streams, with thoughts of greeting in a New Year's Day with five other crazy fucks in an ice cold Eel River, with thoughts of a campfire and half full bottle of Makers up above, we trudged down to the water.
The three guys waited out a short rain shower. Which totally makes sense as we were going to submerge ourselves in water... I'm not going to lie to you people, this river was cold. It set your feet to stinging with icicle needles within seconds. Nikki 2 K's and I got in up to our shoulders and quickly scampered out. I don't think that I've ever felt my boys climb quite so high up in me. As I got out, I was already feeling that I would regret it later if I didn't go all the way in, head submerged. Before I could give it much more thought, Jason up and dove in all the way; like a champion I might add. Well, there was no question anymore, and so we climbed back into that frigid water, with an internal war cry of "no regrets" pushing me on.
I'm sure that it seems dumb, but for some primal, unexplainable reason it had to be done, and so done it was. But it did make that impressively built fire all the sweeter.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Blue Spark by X.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
"If We Get To The Top Of The Hill, And It's Like Burning Man Up There..."
Ahh, the thing allowing the unrighteous and misplaced anger of customers, who honestly should not be left on their own for survival, to flow over me like water is memories of camping. I’m having a little zen moment here. It's the thing keeping me in my seat and not charging someone with my stick to cause serious damage. Well that and Brian Eno's Here Come The Warm Jets.
We set across the mountains towards vague directions of a campground on a lake. This was because of me, the vagueness I mean. I like to under-plan when I take trips, to "wing it" as it were. I have found that if things start to get too planned, there leaves little room for happy accidents that tend to be the best part of the trip. This began with my first trip to Europe where I would decide what city or country to visit next by looking at the destination board at the train station and see which train was to leave the soonest.
But not everyone likes to vacation in this fashion, and sometimes I need to remember this. So when we arrived at our destination to find that the campground was full, I could feel a little stress in the vehicle (that on top of the seatbelt digging into my rectum). We asked the matronly park ranger for any recommendations and she suggested going away from the campground and into the woods where we could free camp and there were no rules.
This, by the by, is just the thing a car full of people with more alcohol in their supplies than food wants to hear.
She tried to back down her statement a little bit, perhaps after seeing all of our eyes alight with berserker anticipation of raping and pillaging this forest of no rules. She told us as there was no one to patrol the area there could be all manner of drunk and disorderly behavior going on up there. Not exactly dissuading us... When we asked about campfires, she did say that this wasn't allowed. However, no rules and no one to patrol the area trumps no campfires in my book.
So we traveled up the unpaved road, into the old growth pines, and found a little overgrown path away from the road. What we found at the end of the path was a perfect little clearing where someone had dug a fire pit in the not so distant past. It was just up a slight hill from a summer shallow river, from which you could get a magnificent view of granite faces of the surrounding peaks and miles and miles of trees. We were, for all intents and purposes, in the middle of nowhere. We were NOT 20 feet from a family whose idea of camping was to pack their house into a smaller, mobile version of their house and park it on asphalt.
What we found by happy accident was actually the exact sort of camping I was hoping for. This was, in two words, fucking perfect.
Even after a light after bed rain, the sound of which drumming on the tent still makes me smile wistfully, soaked our firewood, everyone approached the morning undeterred. We got a fire going again and had a fireside breakfast of bacon, eggs and fire toasted doughnut holes.
Thanks Biffy, thanks Mandy and Jason, thanks Nikki 2 K's for a great little vacation weekend. It reignited my passion for camping so that I cannot wait to go again. And smelling that musky campfire smell on my hat all day yesterday even made doing the laundry feel okay.
Will there be more tomorrow about this? More than likely…
We set across the mountains towards vague directions of a campground on a lake. This was because of me, the vagueness I mean. I like to under-plan when I take trips, to "wing it" as it were. I have found that if things start to get too planned, there leaves little room for happy accidents that tend to be the best part of the trip. This began with my first trip to Europe where I would decide what city or country to visit next by looking at the destination board at the train station and see which train was to leave the soonest.
But not everyone likes to vacation in this fashion, and sometimes I need to remember this. So when we arrived at our destination to find that the campground was full, I could feel a little stress in the vehicle (that on top of the seatbelt digging into my rectum). We asked the matronly park ranger for any recommendations and she suggested going away from the campground and into the woods where we could free camp and there were no rules.
This, by the by, is just the thing a car full of people with more alcohol in their supplies than food wants to hear.
She tried to back down her statement a little bit, perhaps after seeing all of our eyes alight with berserker anticipation of raping and pillaging this forest of no rules. She told us as there was no one to patrol the area there could be all manner of drunk and disorderly behavior going on up there. Not exactly dissuading us... When we asked about campfires, she did say that this wasn't allowed. However, no rules and no one to patrol the area trumps no campfires in my book.
So we traveled up the unpaved road, into the old growth pines, and found a little overgrown path away from the road. What we found at the end of the path was a perfect little clearing where someone had dug a fire pit in the not so distant past. It was just up a slight hill from a summer shallow river, from which you could get a magnificent view of granite faces of the surrounding peaks and miles and miles of trees. We were, for all intents and purposes, in the middle of nowhere. We were NOT 20 feet from a family whose idea of camping was to pack their house into a smaller, mobile version of their house and park it on asphalt.
What we found by happy accident was actually the exact sort of camping I was hoping for. This was, in two words, fucking perfect.
Even after a light after bed rain, the sound of which drumming on the tent still makes me smile wistfully, soaked our firewood, everyone approached the morning undeterred. We got a fire going again and had a fireside breakfast of bacon, eggs and fire toasted doughnut holes.
Thanks Biffy, thanks Mandy and Jason, thanks Nikki 2 K's for a great little vacation weekend. It reignited my passion for camping so that I cannot wait to go again. And smelling that musky campfire smell on my hat all day yesterday even made doing the laundry feel okay.
Will there be more tomorrow about this? More than likely…
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