I think I was still feeling the frustration from that shoot on leaving work yesterday. Not even writing about it was enough to purge the ketchup and bile sandwich on poop bread that was the bad taste of Tuesday’s shoot. I was being ridiculous about it, holding onto it for far too long, but then the Mariners game let out about a minute and a half before I walked past the stadium on my way home.
Do you know a good way to beat that frustration hanging around you like a lead shower curtain of shame and rage? Well I can tell you that being suddenly surrounded by 20,000 drunken nimrods from the ‘burbs is not a good one for me.
I charged through the city sidewalks, sidestepping jerseyed clowns and wearing a scowl that after awhile actually hurt my face. After awhile though, I didn’t care, this scowl was keeping people out of my path. I actually watched a person begging for change begin the body movement of their act and upon seeing said scowl, became quickly deflated and set their eyes towards the next target.
I was trying to get home quickly, knowing what was on the schedule for me.
On the flip side to Tuesday’s exercise in the sort of frustration that begged for self-inflicted wounds, the loving yin to the video shoot’s suicidal yang, the cast for the new show I’m doing met up for an initial read through last night.
This is a cast that for the most part has worked together before, a cast that already has a fast and saucy short hand, a cast that has touched each other inappropriately a number of times.
After the necessary “your mom” jokes and spankings, general horsing off, we sat down and got into business. Actors were actorating and the director was taking charge and steering us towards the vision she had in mind. I got a little taste of my love of acting and it was enough to wash away what felt like the flavor of sour cream and marshmallow caked to my teeth like the morning after a late night Mexican food/Easter candy free for all that is the example I’m using now for a bad taste up in there.
Anyhow, it’s good to be actively doing something that I love, and it’s good to have this group to remind me why it’s something I love.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Lights... Camera... Camera... Camera...
Now, I've never actually been in a train wreck, and aside from seeing them in a couple of David Lean films, I've never witnessed one either. I did, as a child, have a nightmare about coming across one that left me shaken and scarred for quite some time.
Obviously, I was not in a train wreck yesterday, if so I would probably be in a hospital, or pinned beneath twisted wreckage and regretting the fact that I never got to Machu Picchu, or more than likely figuring out how to get in on the class action lawsuit against the railroad and the dumbass who thought it would be good idea to “Dukes Of Hazzard” it across the train crossing. The video shoot yesterday though was (from what I understand) LIKE a train wreck.
Okay, maybe it's that I've made a couple of films, or that I've been on the set of other people's shoots as an actor, but I thought it was a given that the best way to progress with this sort of thing is to have a script. Barring that, at least a vague idea of the shots you hope to accomplish that day.
The director was the sort of man who couldn't be hampered or held down with a script. In fact when questioned about continuity by a member of the creative team, who sat in chairs behind the monitor like a battalion of generals, the director said:
"Continuity is for wimps."
Continuity is this funny idea that film makers have about making sure things are continuous throughout the film. A for instance: someone enters a scene carrying a coffee mug, that actor should always have that coffee mug throughout the scene.
And so we were thrown into a melee of no script and no shot list, only a vague idea for what was to be shot, and continual discussions about odd little technicalities that the creative department wanted to get into. It was like watching the engine just ignore the tracks altogether, taking down a long line of unsuspecting cars. I couldn’t take my eyes off of it.
The thrill of being on a set quickly left even the cheeriest of volunteer actors. People began to trickle away as the day wore on and the inevitable sugar crash from the bowl of Jolly Ranchers set in. I kept myself to a quiet corner and studied lines for an upcoming play for the large amount of time that I was sitting around doing nothing. When at one point I was shaking my head at the ridiculousness surrounding me, a coworker asked what I would rather be doing.
“I’d rather be working,” I told him with all seriousness.
I was a little depressed in finding that one gig could so easily sap the joy out of an activity that I love, and wallowed in the irony that it was in fact my real job type job that did it. But then I realized that what I did yesterday was not acting, it was standing around for hours in order to watch someone masturbate.
And I get paid good money for that on the outside.
Obviously, I was not in a train wreck yesterday, if so I would probably be in a hospital, or pinned beneath twisted wreckage and regretting the fact that I never got to Machu Picchu, or more than likely figuring out how to get in on the class action lawsuit against the railroad and the dumbass who thought it would be good idea to “Dukes Of Hazzard” it across the train crossing. The video shoot yesterday though was (from what I understand) LIKE a train wreck.
Okay, maybe it's that I've made a couple of films, or that I've been on the set of other people's shoots as an actor, but I thought it was a given that the best way to progress with this sort of thing is to have a script. Barring that, at least a vague idea of the shots you hope to accomplish that day.
The director was the sort of man who couldn't be hampered or held down with a script. In fact when questioned about continuity by a member of the creative team, who sat in chairs behind the monitor like a battalion of generals, the director said:
"Continuity is for wimps."
Continuity is this funny idea that film makers have about making sure things are continuous throughout the film. A for instance: someone enters a scene carrying a coffee mug, that actor should always have that coffee mug throughout the scene.
And so we were thrown into a melee of no script and no shot list, only a vague idea for what was to be shot, and continual discussions about odd little technicalities that the creative department wanted to get into. It was like watching the engine just ignore the tracks altogether, taking down a long line of unsuspecting cars. I couldn’t take my eyes off of it.
The thrill of being on a set quickly left even the cheeriest of volunteer actors. People began to trickle away as the day wore on and the inevitable sugar crash from the bowl of Jolly Ranchers set in. I kept myself to a quiet corner and studied lines for an upcoming play for the large amount of time that I was sitting around doing nothing. When at one point I was shaking my head at the ridiculousness surrounding me, a coworker asked what I would rather be doing.
“I’d rather be working,” I told him with all seriousness.
I was a little depressed in finding that one gig could so easily sap the joy out of an activity that I love, and wallowed in the irony that it was in fact my real job type job that did it. But then I realized that what I did yesterday was not acting, it was standing around for hours in order to watch someone masturbate.
And I get paid good money for that on the outside.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Bring It On Home
I missed today, just too much work to do and they apparently don’t give a rat’s ass about the fact that I have a blog posting to write. I realized tonight, at home, that I was not going to be able to do one tomorrow either. I have the video shoot at work then – which I’m sure will be a fertile breeding ground for dozens of snarky comments that I can share with you come Wednesday – and then a read through for a one act that a fellow actor wants me to do tomorrow night.
There are a lot of little things that I’ll let slip by the wayside, things like a full cat box and student loan payments, but apparently two days of no blog is something I’m willing to postpone sleep over.
On Saturday, we went down to Georgetown, one of the oldest parts of Seattle. It’s a wondrous part of town where it looks as though nothing new has been built in the last 40 years, and what seems like a quarter mile of street is overshadowed by a deserted brick factory.
There was a street fair/art fest in the neighborhood, and honestly I was a bit worried about the hipster quotient. I tend to get annoyed by being within ear shot of 2 or 3 of these self important “artists” – says the man babbling away on a blog where anyone can read it – but the anger tends to get the best of me when I’m drowning in a block party of douche bags.
I also realized the sad fact that all of these people with sleeves of tattoos, something that should be an act that individualizes a person a bit, well now they all look just like everyone else.
A search for food took us a ways away from the main drag, mostly for the lack of establishments that would allow an infant inside, and this is what I want to tell you about.
We found ourselves a nice little bar/restaurant that served things like pita pizzas and shepherd’s pie, but more importantly a wide variety of cold beer, and by the pitcher. There were also singers up front performing as if we were bobbing our heads in musical unison within a 60’s coffee shop in the East Village. A truly gifted singer with a subtle complexity to her acoustic guitar playing floored me.
I looked around at the rest of the clientele to see if they were enjoying this woman as well. They were absolutely, but I suddenly noticed the blend going on in there. There was this great mix of black and white and gay and straight and hipster and working class and twentysomethings and parents and children, and I just breathed in that music and the calm togetherness and sighed out a shaky but well meant, “well all right.”
Holding onto that feeling through the trip home and the delicate transportation of a sleeping baby into the apartment, I felt the sweetness of true hope for the world, simple as that.
There are a lot of little things that I’ll let slip by the wayside, things like a full cat box and student loan payments, but apparently two days of no blog is something I’m willing to postpone sleep over.
On Saturday, we went down to Georgetown, one of the oldest parts of Seattle. It’s a wondrous part of town where it looks as though nothing new has been built in the last 40 years, and what seems like a quarter mile of street is overshadowed by a deserted brick factory.
There was a street fair/art fest in the neighborhood, and honestly I was a bit worried about the hipster quotient. I tend to get annoyed by being within ear shot of 2 or 3 of these self important “artists” – says the man babbling away on a blog where anyone can read it – but the anger tends to get the best of me when I’m drowning in a block party of douche bags.
I also realized the sad fact that all of these people with sleeves of tattoos, something that should be an act that individualizes a person a bit, well now they all look just like everyone else.
A search for food took us a ways away from the main drag, mostly for the lack of establishments that would allow an infant inside, and this is what I want to tell you about.
We found ourselves a nice little bar/restaurant that served things like pita pizzas and shepherd’s pie, but more importantly a wide variety of cold beer, and by the pitcher. There were also singers up front performing as if we were bobbing our heads in musical unison within a 60’s coffee shop in the East Village. A truly gifted singer with a subtle complexity to her acoustic guitar playing floored me.
I looked around at the rest of the clientele to see if they were enjoying this woman as well. They were absolutely, but I suddenly noticed the blend going on in there. There was this great mix of black and white and gay and straight and hipster and working class and twentysomethings and parents and children, and I just breathed in that music and the calm togetherness and sighed out a shaky but well meant, “well all right.”
Holding onto that feeling through the trip home and the delicate transportation of a sleeping baby into the apartment, I felt the sweetness of true hope for the world, simple as that.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Advice From Uncle Billy
I tried something yesterday so that now you don't have to: Prawn Crackers.
Prawn Crackers come in a colorful bag, are shaped like stale french fries, and are flavored like prawns; prawns that have apparently been left to die and rot under some less fresh prawns.
Now, it could be they're an acquired taste (why you would want to acquire it, I don't know), and if you're a fan I'm not bagging on you. I myself like things that people have been vocal about not liking; scotch, green olives, Oingo Boingo... But sweet lord, Prawn Crackers?
If walking through Fisherman's Wharf after a long day in 90 degree heat could be condensed down to a flavor, you have this particular snack treat.
And just while we're doling out advice here, I also recommend not suggesting to your boss and coworkers that you, "get all done up on ouzo, strip and cover each other with Band Aid brand adhesive bandages."
Let's just say, I really also cannot suggest actually getting all done up on Ouzo, stripping and covering yourself with Band Aid brand adhesive bandages.
Also, do not mess with ping pong players, even for fun. They will get 10 kinds of serious on your ass and flash you a grimace like their trying to crap a pumpkin. And those paddles sting...
Confidential to Nikki 2 K's: I hope you're feeling okay after the tonsillectomy. God speed you, you glorious bastard.
Prawn Crackers come in a colorful bag, are shaped like stale french fries, and are flavored like prawns; prawns that have apparently been left to die and rot under some less fresh prawns.
Now, it could be they're an acquired taste (why you would want to acquire it, I don't know), and if you're a fan I'm not bagging on you. I myself like things that people have been vocal about not liking; scotch, green olives, Oingo Boingo... But sweet lord, Prawn Crackers?
If walking through Fisherman's Wharf after a long day in 90 degree heat could be condensed down to a flavor, you have this particular snack treat.
And just while we're doling out advice here, I also recommend not suggesting to your boss and coworkers that you, "get all done up on ouzo, strip and cover each other with Band Aid brand adhesive bandages."
Let's just say, I really also cannot suggest actually getting all done up on Ouzo, stripping and covering yourself with Band Aid brand adhesive bandages.
Also, do not mess with ping pong players, even for fun. They will get 10 kinds of serious on your ass and flash you a grimace like their trying to crap a pumpkin. And those paddles sting...
Confidential to Nikki 2 K's: I hope you're feeling okay after the tonsillectomy. God speed you, you glorious bastard.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Dadaist Should Haves
Working at the corporate office of a major company is a little surreal to begin with, but when people refuse to accept the surreality of the situation and try to behave with some semblance of normalcy, it's like watching a family having a picnic on an industrial dump site - a family on fire.
There is this pressing desire, nay, more than a desire, a freaking mandate from the heavens above to add to the already nostril high levels of ridiculousness here. I would like to do things like walking into the men's room and screaming, "why is it bleeding?!?"
Again, I saw a young man in a suit and visitors badge sitting at a table and facing off against two minions of the empire in a battle for the soul known as an interview. It took a lot for me not to open the door, sit down on the side of the well dressed young chap and tell the interviewers that I was sorry I was late, but I would be representing the interviewee. I would then pantomime opening an imaginary briefcase (the imaginary dial lock set to open at 1 2 3 4), lick the tip of an imaginary pencil and assume the 'ready to take notes' position.
But I kept walking down the long hall that reminds me so very much of the Death Star hallways. Two men, dressed strikingly similar and of similar heights and builds, walked around the corner. I got a heavy The Shining feel from these guys, and again suppressed an urge to say, "come play with us Danny." And then throw out a "forever" all spooky like with my eyes wide.
But the crazy surreal thing was an audition that I had to go through yesterday - here at work. The creative team is producing a video to send out across the country, I was asked if I wanted to take part, and I thought that sure, it'll be a lark. I did not realize that there would be an audition involved that required my reading out some of the worst written lines ever. I should have walked into the room, cleared my throat and said, "for today’s audition I've prepared a monologue," and then launched into a thing about a poop fetish.
The representatives from the creative group got involved in a lot of bad film student talk (I should know, I was once a bad film student), and while I didn't want to ruin the excitement these guys were dousing themselves in, I really wanted to verbalize my disappointment in such a bad script coming from the creative department.
But, I realized that a lot of this was jealousy that I wasn't in the creative department myself, so I went into my audition scene as if I was all coked up. It got a laugh, and I find out tomorrow if I get the part. Keep your fingers crossed…
Sorry diary, I gotta get back to calling some folks and pretending that I'm from the Czech Republic...
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: "Eurotrash Girl" by Cracker.
There is this pressing desire, nay, more than a desire, a freaking mandate from the heavens above to add to the already nostril high levels of ridiculousness here. I would like to do things like walking into the men's room and screaming, "why is it bleeding?!?"
Again, I saw a young man in a suit and visitors badge sitting at a table and facing off against two minions of the empire in a battle for the soul known as an interview. It took a lot for me not to open the door, sit down on the side of the well dressed young chap and tell the interviewers that I was sorry I was late, but I would be representing the interviewee. I would then pantomime opening an imaginary briefcase (the imaginary dial lock set to open at 1 2 3 4), lick the tip of an imaginary pencil and assume the 'ready to take notes' position.
But I kept walking down the long hall that reminds me so very much of the Death Star hallways. Two men, dressed strikingly similar and of similar heights and builds, walked around the corner. I got a heavy The Shining feel from these guys, and again suppressed an urge to say, "come play with us Danny." And then throw out a "forever" all spooky like with my eyes wide.
But the crazy surreal thing was an audition that I had to go through yesterday - here at work. The creative team is producing a video to send out across the country, I was asked if I wanted to take part, and I thought that sure, it'll be a lark. I did not realize that there would be an audition involved that required my reading out some of the worst written lines ever. I should have walked into the room, cleared my throat and said, "for today’s audition I've prepared a monologue," and then launched into a thing about a poop fetish.
The representatives from the creative group got involved in a lot of bad film student talk (I should know, I was once a bad film student), and while I didn't want to ruin the excitement these guys were dousing themselves in, I really wanted to verbalize my disappointment in such a bad script coming from the creative department.
But, I realized that a lot of this was jealousy that I wasn't in the creative department myself, so I went into my audition scene as if I was all coked up. It got a laugh, and I find out tomorrow if I get the part. Keep your fingers crossed…
Sorry diary, I gotta get back to calling some folks and pretending that I'm from the Czech Republic...
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: "Eurotrash Girl" by Cracker.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Had A Dad
I called dad on Sunday to wish him a happy Father's Day, but my first call was met with modem noise - rather snooty modem noise that refused to take a message - and the second call ended with me speaking to the cell phone voice mail. Frankly, I was sort of looking forward to the same exchange dad and I have had for the last 15 or so years:
Me: "Hey dad, happy Father's Day."
Dad: "Hey, right back at ya."
Me: "Ummm, yeah dad, not a father."
I was sort of looking forward to pointing out that it was the first year that his reply was appropriate. Anyway, he called back yesterday and so on my journey to the drug store I called him back. He was letting me know that he had gotten my message and had gone to bed pretty happy. I said that it was good to go to bed happy, and he clarified that it made him happy to know that both of his sons had called him.
"You'll see," he said.
Even now, that petulant little teenage shit part of me wants to refuse to take lessons from dad. I was unsure how to respond, but I knew he was right. I thought about that toothless smile when I enter a room that suddenly seems to make the world right. Dad asked if I had seen the pictures from when Bif took Riley to see them in Arizona. He asked about the one of him and Riley at the Grand Canyon.
I smiled to myself, knowing immediately the picture he was referring to. I was taken from the first with the shot of the two of them staring intently at each other. There was this brief moment of thought wasted on the missing link in that picture, but that was pretty much torn to pieces when I could practically feel the attachment the two had at that moment. I wouldn't sully that moment for anything.
We talked for a moment about how excited he was for the planned birthday celebration in Mexico in February when all of us will be together, we said our goodbyes. I walked back home in a daze, pondering that delicate and sometimes treacherous relationship between fathers and sons, and how I had managed to step into a whole new aspect of it.
Perhaps it was being in a fairly emotional place already, but watched Half Nelson last night. Kinda kicked me in the gut a little bit. If Bif hadn't have gone to bed and left me alone, I probably would have found a room to be by myself for a couple of minutes. I definitely recommend it.
Me: "Hey dad, happy Father's Day."
Dad: "Hey, right back at ya."
Me: "Ummm, yeah dad, not a father."
I was sort of looking forward to pointing out that it was the first year that his reply was appropriate. Anyway, he called back yesterday and so on my journey to the drug store I called him back. He was letting me know that he had gotten my message and had gone to bed pretty happy. I said that it was good to go to bed happy, and he clarified that it made him happy to know that both of his sons had called him.
"You'll see," he said.
Even now, that petulant little teenage shit part of me wants to refuse to take lessons from dad. I was unsure how to respond, but I knew he was right. I thought about that toothless smile when I enter a room that suddenly seems to make the world right. Dad asked if I had seen the pictures from when Bif took Riley to see them in Arizona. He asked about the one of him and Riley at the Grand Canyon.
I smiled to myself, knowing immediately the picture he was referring to. I was taken from the first with the shot of the two of them staring intently at each other. There was this brief moment of thought wasted on the missing link in that picture, but that was pretty much torn to pieces when I could practically feel the attachment the two had at that moment. I wouldn't sully that moment for anything.
We talked for a moment about how excited he was for the planned birthday celebration in Mexico in February when all of us will be together, we said our goodbyes. I walked back home in a daze, pondering that delicate and sometimes treacherous relationship between fathers and sons, and how I had managed to step into a whole new aspect of it.
Perhaps it was being in a fairly emotional place already, but watched Half Nelson last night. Kinda kicked me in the gut a little bit. If Bif hadn't have gone to bed and left me alone, I probably would have found a room to be by myself for a couple of minutes. I definitely recommend it.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Nothing To Call It But Ellensburg
Ellensburg, it's a city in Eastern Washington. It's across a mountain range and into the hot, deserty, Eastern planes. It is, according to a billboard I read this morning while Sparklehorse played lightly in my ear, a winner of some national award. The whole darn city won.
Now, I do not get most of my learning from billboards, save everything that I know about long distance service and the books full of numbers that said long distance providers have, but I was unaware of this national award given to cities. Which I guess is the reason for the billboard...
What I know of Ellensburg (prior to my billboard encounter this morning) is based on two things:
1) In "Soul Of A Whore", the Denis Johnson play that I was in, there's a discussion of a double murder in the city of Ellersburg, and not the Canadian Ellersburg, the Ellersburg in Texas. Ellersburg is apparently a small and dusty town, and every time I heard it coming from the stage it made me think of Ellensburg. I guess this doesn't really count as knowing a damn thing about Ellensburg...
2) People go to play women's softball tournaments there. My mom was on a softball team that went to some sort of championship in Ellensburg when I was a wee young boy. I remember it being hot and dusty. I remember softball fields and a cheap motel. This is my only real point of reference to Ellensburg, and it hardly seems award worthy.
All of this Ellensburg revelry reminded me of trying to carve a replica of Devil's Tower out of a dirt clod that sort of already resembled Devil's Tower. I remember also wanting to cause serious bodily damage to my brother when he broke my dirt clod Devil's Tower.
There was a short time in my life that I was obsessed with Devil's Tower:
Not in the Richard Dreyfuss in Close Encounters Of The Third Kind sort of way, but it was because of Close Encounters that I was obsessed with it. For a few years in my childhood, it appeared that Steven Spielberg and I shared obsessions. We both were apparently taken with UFO's, aliens, giant sharks and daredevil archeologists chasing biblical artifacts capable of melting the faces of Nazi's. At some point our interests took separate roads; mine towards heavier plotlines and Bunuel/Lynchian surrealism, his towards Tom Cruise.
Anyway, congratulations Ellensburg, I bet you torqued off Wenatchee but good
Now, I do not get most of my learning from billboards, save everything that I know about long distance service and the books full of numbers that said long distance providers have, but I was unaware of this national award given to cities. Which I guess is the reason for the billboard...
What I know of Ellensburg (prior to my billboard encounter this morning) is based on two things:
1) In "Soul Of A Whore", the Denis Johnson play that I was in, there's a discussion of a double murder in the city of Ellersburg, and not the Canadian Ellersburg, the Ellersburg in Texas. Ellersburg is apparently a small and dusty town, and every time I heard it coming from the stage it made me think of Ellensburg. I guess this doesn't really count as knowing a damn thing about Ellensburg...
2) People go to play women's softball tournaments there. My mom was on a softball team that went to some sort of championship in Ellensburg when I was a wee young boy. I remember it being hot and dusty. I remember softball fields and a cheap motel. This is my only real point of reference to Ellensburg, and it hardly seems award worthy.
All of this Ellensburg revelry reminded me of trying to carve a replica of Devil's Tower out of a dirt clod that sort of already resembled Devil's Tower. I remember also wanting to cause serious bodily damage to my brother when he broke my dirt clod Devil's Tower.
There was a short time in my life that I was obsessed with Devil's Tower:
Not in the Richard Dreyfuss in Close Encounters Of The Third Kind sort of way, but it was because of Close Encounters that I was obsessed with it. For a few years in my childhood, it appeared that Steven Spielberg and I shared obsessions. We both were apparently taken with UFO's, aliens, giant sharks and daredevil archeologists chasing biblical artifacts capable of melting the faces of Nazi's. At some point our interests took separate roads; mine towards heavier plotlines and Bunuel/Lynchian surrealism, his towards Tom Cruise.
Anyway, congratulations Ellensburg, I bet you torqued off Wenatchee but good
Monday, June 18, 2007
Gobo Comes A Calling
There's a whole mess of angry people out there, angry and sue happy people. I feel I'm doing a good job of letting it slide, of not taking their hatred on like some ratty and dirty hand-me-down coat made of razor wire. I'm doing my damndest to remember the good people out there.
People like Jen Jen the Panda Girl, taking the intrepid and wet journey up from Portland to visit this weekend. Bif and I did a little tag team dating with her on Saturday night, She and Bif going out to dinner while I watched over Riley, Me and Jen hitting a bar afterwards. I like to believe that I was the Jimmy "Superfly" Snuka in this scenario to Bif's "Rowdy" Roddy Piper.
There was a need to drag Jenny to the Rosebud as Terri (one of the best scene partners I've ever had the opportunity to work with) was visiting for the weekend from her sojourn in Alaska. This means that there is going to be a bar full of drunken actors, which means that I'm going to get caught up in that pulsing energy of drunken performers with only themselves for an audience.
I tried to keep an eye on Jenny, make sure that all was well, and she always seemed to have that gorgeous and somewhat shy Jenny smile while she sipped her whisky sour. But eventually even a small amount of bourbon on an empty stomach will do its damage, and I felt like I was an early 90's front man, suddenly I was crowd surfing and was just trying desperately not to kick someone in the face.
Oh, and as a side note, this drinking on an empty stomach nonsense, it's gotta stop. I felt like I was finished getting tattoos, but perhaps one more on my wrist, in block letters, that says, "Eat Before Drinking". The 2 slices from Hot Mamma's on the way home did nothing to ease the deserved pain that came with the morning of my first Father's Day.
So Jenny I apologize for not getting a ton of quality Cucaloris Twin time in. As well as for all the low moaning come Sunday morning. It was thrilling to hear you're almost done with the book, and just plain nice to have you in the place. I was hoping to get some time to talk about it, but I want to get writing with you but quick. I love you like crazy, thanks for coming up.
And everyone can quit worrying, after letting breakfast sit for awhile and a little nappy time, I was good as gold. We took Riley for a walk, went to the store, picked up the new Frank Black CD... All in all not a bad Father's Day.
People like Jen Jen the Panda Girl, taking the intrepid and wet journey up from Portland to visit this weekend. Bif and I did a little tag team dating with her on Saturday night, She and Bif going out to dinner while I watched over Riley, Me and Jen hitting a bar afterwards. I like to believe that I was the Jimmy "Superfly" Snuka in this scenario to Bif's "Rowdy" Roddy Piper.
There was a need to drag Jenny to the Rosebud as Terri (one of the best scene partners I've ever had the opportunity to work with) was visiting for the weekend from her sojourn in Alaska. This means that there is going to be a bar full of drunken actors, which means that I'm going to get caught up in that pulsing energy of drunken performers with only themselves for an audience.
I tried to keep an eye on Jenny, make sure that all was well, and she always seemed to have that gorgeous and somewhat shy Jenny smile while she sipped her whisky sour. But eventually even a small amount of bourbon on an empty stomach will do its damage, and I felt like I was an early 90's front man, suddenly I was crowd surfing and was just trying desperately not to kick someone in the face.
Oh, and as a side note, this drinking on an empty stomach nonsense, it's gotta stop. I felt like I was finished getting tattoos, but perhaps one more on my wrist, in block letters, that says, "Eat Before Drinking". The 2 slices from Hot Mamma's on the way home did nothing to ease the deserved pain that came with the morning of my first Father's Day.
So Jenny I apologize for not getting a ton of quality Cucaloris Twin time in. As well as for all the low moaning come Sunday morning. It was thrilling to hear you're almost done with the book, and just plain nice to have you in the place. I was hoping to get some time to talk about it, but I want to get writing with you but quick. I love you like crazy, thanks for coming up.
And everyone can quit worrying, after letting breakfast sit for awhile and a little nappy time, I was good as gold. We took Riley for a walk, went to the store, picked up the new Frank Black CD... All in all not a bad Father's Day.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Tell Them Anyway, And You Can Make It Up As You Go
I had the little man strapped to me, in a daze from his first encounter with food that did not come from out his mother, and babbling slightly while I prepared things for dinner. I got to thinking about my own blah blah bullshit that I had written earlier about the stronger sense of empathy and whether it was a blessing or a curse. This in turn got me to thinking about the constant duality in life. Watching your child grow, even in the small beginning increments, is also marking the moments that get you closer to your own death. There is all kinds of laughter inducing, hair on the back of your neck lifting, joy in the world, and there is certainly inconsolable grief. Highs and lows, ins and outs, strikes and gutters...
I had apparently put my thoughts down to sleep before they were ready to be done though. They followed me to bed and swam around behind my closed eyes.
In my dream, a friend and former co-worker had died. He had somehow managed to set it up so that his remains were boxed up and left in a bus station lost and found, held for pick up by someone in the claims department that I work with now.
The dream became inhabited by friends, old and new, people I had once gone to school with... The locations kept switching on me, going from a bowling alley to a picnic on a cherry grove that reminded me of something out of Kurosawa's Dreams - which actually occurred to me in the dream, which seems to make all of this so post modern I can't even stand it.
Anyway, the box of remains was given to me by the claims representative and seemed way too small to be holding onto this guy's body. It was slightly bigger than a shoe box. I didn't know how he had died exactly, and didn't want to open the box and try to figure it out, but I remember thinking that these shenanigans with having to be picked up at the bus station were just so him.
There was this feeling of deep sadness at realizing that there would never be a chance to see him again, that I had let so much time get between us. I rolled the box over in my hands and saw a line written in his handwriting:
"Life is too short. Certainly too short to let something stupid get between you and someone you love."
I had enough coherence in my dream to realize that this friend was actually standing in for another friend altogether, but not enough coherence to pull me out of the dream completely. I felt the line was written for me, that he had known the box would eventually come into my hands underneath these snowing cherry trees, and suddenly I found the love that is buried in any grief.
I didn't awake at that point, I'm assuming that the dream expertly morphed into one of me riding a giant dog through a steamship or of crossing an ocean on a parmesan rind or something, but this is all I remember. And it stuck with me hard as opposed to most dreams that seem to tatter at the seams when my eyes open.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: "Kicked It In The Sun" by Built To Spill.
I had apparently put my thoughts down to sleep before they were ready to be done though. They followed me to bed and swam around behind my closed eyes.
In my dream, a friend and former co-worker had died. He had somehow managed to set it up so that his remains were boxed up and left in a bus station lost and found, held for pick up by someone in the claims department that I work with now.
The dream became inhabited by friends, old and new, people I had once gone to school with... The locations kept switching on me, going from a bowling alley to a picnic on a cherry grove that reminded me of something out of Kurosawa's Dreams - which actually occurred to me in the dream, which seems to make all of this so post modern I can't even stand it.
Anyway, the box of remains was given to me by the claims representative and seemed way too small to be holding onto this guy's body. It was slightly bigger than a shoe box. I didn't know how he had died exactly, and didn't want to open the box and try to figure it out, but I remember thinking that these shenanigans with having to be picked up at the bus station were just so him.
There was this feeling of deep sadness at realizing that there would never be a chance to see him again, that I had let so much time get between us. I rolled the box over in my hands and saw a line written in his handwriting:
"Life is too short. Certainly too short to let something stupid get between you and someone you love."
I had enough coherence in my dream to realize that this friend was actually standing in for another friend altogether, but not enough coherence to pull me out of the dream completely. I felt the line was written for me, that he had known the box would eventually come into my hands underneath these snowing cherry trees, and suddenly I found the love that is buried in any grief.
I didn't awake at that point, I'm assuming that the dream expertly morphed into one of me riding a giant dog through a steamship or of crossing an ocean on a parmesan rind or something, but this is all I remember. And it stuck with me hard as opposed to most dreams that seem to tatter at the seams when my eyes open.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: "Kicked It In The Sun" by Built To Spill.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Needles (And The Damage Done)
Little man Riley had to get some shots at the doctors today. Apparently he handled the whole thing with the sort of panache and style that I would not normally assume a six month old would have, but the kid's got his moments, he's got some moxie. Thinking about the needles punching into that resilient little flesh (which I still have this odd impulse to want to eat), and the screaming bout that was sure to come with it made me feel bad for the little guy.
I was reminded of a medical crisis when I was about 8 or 9. One night after school, my leg started to ache pretty badly. I didn't think much about it, except "hey that hurts something good", and went on eating peanut butter out of the jar or watching Diff'rent Strokes, whatever I did for kicks when I was 8 or 9. I woke up the next morning and it hurt BAD. I decided it was time to bring in the expert on all things of medical importance; mom. She thought I was trying to ditch school for the day and sent me on my way.
By the time the school day ended, I could no longer walk. I was helped out to the bus by my friend Tom, and the bus driver actually drove off the route and to my house, helping me off the bus and into the waiting arms of my very apologetic mother.
There was a visit to the ER where they discovered some mutant strain of bacteria was attempting to make paella out of my hip bones. That first night's a little bit fuzzy, but I remember being poked with needles and what felt like bamboo spikes by the dozens. I tried to cinch my eyes tight and send my mind somewhere else, but it's tough when you have all kinds of metal being pushed into your body. I cried, and cried pretty hard.
Apparently, I learned later, my dad held onto my mom in the hall while she cried at the sound of my pain coming through the hospital door.
I didn't get it at the time, I mean mom wasn't being punctured by needles. What the hell was she crying about? Yeah, I get it now.
On top of a variety of things that having a child has brought me is this enhanced sense of empathy, which I am unsure as of yet is a blessing or a curse; somewhere in between I'm guessing. Having a child has not however brought back that nifty comic book version of Star Wars that I was given for reading material for my stay in the hospital, I miss that.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: "She's In Parties" by Bauhaus.
I was reminded of a medical crisis when I was about 8 or 9. One night after school, my leg started to ache pretty badly. I didn't think much about it, except "hey that hurts something good", and went on eating peanut butter out of the jar or watching Diff'rent Strokes, whatever I did for kicks when I was 8 or 9. I woke up the next morning and it hurt BAD. I decided it was time to bring in the expert on all things of medical importance; mom. She thought I was trying to ditch school for the day and sent me on my way.
By the time the school day ended, I could no longer walk. I was helped out to the bus by my friend Tom, and the bus driver actually drove off the route and to my house, helping me off the bus and into the waiting arms of my very apologetic mother.
There was a visit to the ER where they discovered some mutant strain of bacteria was attempting to make paella out of my hip bones. That first night's a little bit fuzzy, but I remember being poked with needles and what felt like bamboo spikes by the dozens. I tried to cinch my eyes tight and send my mind somewhere else, but it's tough when you have all kinds of metal being pushed into your body. I cried, and cried pretty hard.
Apparently, I learned later, my dad held onto my mom in the hall while she cried at the sound of my pain coming through the hospital door.
I didn't get it at the time, I mean mom wasn't being punctured by needles. What the hell was she crying about? Yeah, I get it now.
On top of a variety of things that having a child has brought me is this enhanced sense of empathy, which I am unsure as of yet is a blessing or a curse; somewhere in between I'm guessing. Having a child has not however brought back that nifty comic book version of Star Wars that I was given for reading material for my stay in the hospital, I miss that.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: "She's In Parties" by Bauhaus.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Staying Afloat
I'm in a good mood, honest I am, but there's a lot of irritants out there trying to sink me.
The guy who injured himself on a box that he spent a minute and half staring at while he was peeing, and is now demanding that I call him back to discuss restitution? Not gonna to work beyotch....
The worries that I will never be able to keep up with Frank Black's recorded output (and it is a true and crippling worry)? Uh-uh, no way you're gonna tear me down.
The annoying sound of clanging metal balls, a mish mash of noisy conversations and the robot fart noise of an air conditioning fan on the fritz above me is trying to worm its way in, but I'm fighting. I'm fighting damn it!
A sudden sadness for the loss of innocence that came with realizing I haven't seen a grade school film strip in many a year, and the realization that Power Point was destroying the important lessons taught through still frames of celluloid narrated by a cassette tape that beeped to alert the teacher to advance to the next frame, it all almost over came me.
I started to realize that film strips are an art form that are not being utilized. I'm trying to imagine the perfect venue...
Oh, and confidential to dude in the convertible RED Audi that came close to running me down as I crossed the street this morning: Most guys drive those kind of cars because they're trying to compensate for something (and seriously, red?), but it was the revving of the engine as I finally moved out of your way that proved the point. You and your two inches of glory couldn't bring down my day, cheers.
The guy who injured himself on a box that he spent a minute and half staring at while he was peeing, and is now demanding that I call him back to discuss restitution? Not gonna to work beyotch....
The worries that I will never be able to keep up with Frank Black's recorded output (and it is a true and crippling worry)? Uh-uh, no way you're gonna tear me down.
The annoying sound of clanging metal balls, a mish mash of noisy conversations and the robot fart noise of an air conditioning fan on the fritz above me is trying to worm its way in, but I'm fighting. I'm fighting damn it!
A sudden sadness for the loss of innocence that came with realizing I haven't seen a grade school film strip in many a year, and the realization that Power Point was destroying the important lessons taught through still frames of celluloid narrated by a cassette tape that beeped to alert the teacher to advance to the next frame, it all almost over came me.
I started to realize that film strips are an art form that are not being utilized. I'm trying to imagine the perfect venue...
Oh, and confidential to dude in the convertible RED Audi that came close to running me down as I crossed the street this morning: Most guys drive those kind of cars because they're trying to compensate for something (and seriously, red?), but it was the revving of the engine as I finally moved out of your way that proved the point. You and your two inches of glory couldn't bring down my day, cheers.
Monday, June 11, 2007
A Year In The Meadowlands
Turn away G-ra. Turn away Harpoon and Biffy...
It was all going to be so grand, a tremendous reunion, to see each other to be sure, but also to go see one of the few times The Wrens played a show, and it was here in Seattle. As the days drew on, it became clear that it wasn't going to happen. Greta and Chris have a bookstore that must keep operating even if The Wrens do decide to leave New Jersey. And then Bif drops on me that she will be visiting The OC for her sister's baby shower on that weekend.
Sometimes it's difficult to get people rounded up to see a show, be it work schedules or just mustering the desire to see a band you know nothing about, so I was completely prepared for a solo outing to the Crocodile; especially when further news of schedule conflicts began to pour in. I was not going to be deterred, this was going to happen.
See, the December before last, we got a message from C&G that essentially just said - We just saw The Wrens in San Francisco and it turns out they are playing in Seattle, do yourselves a favor and see them. That was it, like a tip off to take pretty damn seriously, a surprise gift of a letter in the mail. So go we did, not knowing song one or frankly anything about the band. From the get go I was knocked out, one of those rare concert moments where you leave your body and swim the divine confidence and showmanship of a rockin' band.
Thankfully, Nikki 2 K's decided to brave the miserable Sunday to come with a 6am start time to the job after a late night out drinking whisky so I was not left alone. It’s a tough decision, I know.
They hit the stage, reminding me of my brother-in-law Rog and people that he would hang out with, which ultimately made me love them that much more somehow. "This Boy's Exhausted" started out all quiet and sedate, but when Kev jumped in, just when the lyrics said that he would, they were off on a rocking tear. It was at that moment that familiar feeling hit, the one that I run to concerts looking for, that floating feeling of right place, right fucking time. I become emotionally overloaded by the connection to the music and release usually through giddy laughter or overwhelmed tears.
I missed the sound of Chris and Bif laughing, I missed Greta May turning back to me with a crazed smile and those same tears in her eyes, there was an aching somewhere within me that I couldn't even begin to think about how to reach it. And just at that moment, unasked, Nikki threw his arm around me and kissed my cheek. I was home; family members far away, but damn it, I was home.
I dove in completely. It was one of those rare nights where my mind was nowhere except with the band. Knowing the songs this go around created a fairly different experience, seeing how they were messing around with their songs, but a no less powerful one. Kevin's primal scream in "This Is Not What You Had Planned" picked me up, the closing of the show with "She Sends Kisses" floated me on out into the city streets with a contentment that his hard to find.
Thank you Wrens for coming to my part of the world. Thank you Nikki and Sarah for coming out to see a band you knew nothing about.
It was all going to be so grand, a tremendous reunion, to see each other to be sure, but also to go see one of the few times The Wrens played a show, and it was here in Seattle. As the days drew on, it became clear that it wasn't going to happen. Greta and Chris have a bookstore that must keep operating even if The Wrens do decide to leave New Jersey. And then Bif drops on me that she will be visiting The OC for her sister's baby shower on that weekend.
Sometimes it's difficult to get people rounded up to see a show, be it work schedules or just mustering the desire to see a band you know nothing about, so I was completely prepared for a solo outing to the Crocodile; especially when further news of schedule conflicts began to pour in. I was not going to be deterred, this was going to happen.
See, the December before last, we got a message from C&G that essentially just said - We just saw The Wrens in San Francisco and it turns out they are playing in Seattle, do yourselves a favor and see them. That was it, like a tip off to take pretty damn seriously, a surprise gift of a letter in the mail. So go we did, not knowing song one or frankly anything about the band. From the get go I was knocked out, one of those rare concert moments where you leave your body and swim the divine confidence and showmanship of a rockin' band.
Thankfully, Nikki 2 K's decided to brave the miserable Sunday to come with a 6am start time to the job after a late night out drinking whisky so I was not left alone. It’s a tough decision, I know.
They hit the stage, reminding me of my brother-in-law Rog and people that he would hang out with, which ultimately made me love them that much more somehow. "This Boy's Exhausted" started out all quiet and sedate, but when Kev jumped in, just when the lyrics said that he would, they were off on a rocking tear. It was at that moment that familiar feeling hit, the one that I run to concerts looking for, that floating feeling of right place, right fucking time. I become emotionally overloaded by the connection to the music and release usually through giddy laughter or overwhelmed tears.
I missed the sound of Chris and Bif laughing, I missed Greta May turning back to me with a crazed smile and those same tears in her eyes, there was an aching somewhere within me that I couldn't even begin to think about how to reach it. And just at that moment, unasked, Nikki threw his arm around me and kissed my cheek. I was home; family members far away, but damn it, I was home.
I dove in completely. It was one of those rare nights where my mind was nowhere except with the band. Knowing the songs this go around created a fairly different experience, seeing how they were messing around with their songs, but a no less powerful one. Kevin's primal scream in "This Is Not What You Had Planned" picked me up, the closing of the show with "She Sends Kisses" floated me on out into the city streets with a contentment that his hard to find.
Thank you Wrens for coming to my part of the world. Thank you Nikki and Sarah for coming out to see a band you knew nothing about.
Friday, June 08, 2007
Hearts And Minds
With the wife and child away on a Thursday night, my first thought was, 'well, this calls for a jaunt over to the liquor store and a pizza.' This is because below any shallow trickery of appearing to be an adult, I am carrying around the mind of a teenager.
But somehow, the adult side swam up from the depths, charging through the 'parents have left/cat's away' excitement to remind me that there was plenty of food to eat at home. I don't know where that fucker spends his winters, he rarely appears this adult side of the mentality, but this seemed like an unfair time to show his dominant side. Instead of leaving the store with a bottle of something high octane and a sauce stuffed crust frozen pizza, I walked out with a bag of cat food and 3 lemons. I looked more like a citrus loving bachelor than a care free teenager.
The battle ensued for the rest of the evening. A battle of epic proportions between my loud-mouthed hooligan leanings and the button down Billy where the loser would lay battered and bleeding, the winner with a fist held high and shaking towards the nice people in the apartment upstairs.
Adult kept on a roll of supremacy after its supermarket victory, a healthy dinner was consumed along with a big glass of peppermint tea. But the sly boy side struck out with a laying on the couch scenario, allowing The Man side to believe it was relaxing after a long day at work. While the adult side was lulled by an episode of My Name Is Earl, The Boy took the body into the bedroom where it plugged the guitar into the amp.
The Boy rejoiced in clouds of distortion and echo until The Man reminded him that it was approaching late, and the neighbors next door had a newborn themselves. The Man continued on, throwing out reminders that it was a school night and one should get ‘a good nights sleep’ while it was possible. In a lame attempt to fight this logic, The Boy insisted on petulantly fighting against his own tiredness and ended up passing out on the couch; he does this a lot.
It appears, no matter the course of last nights battle, that The Boy will always win out. The fact that I laughed hard enough to choke at the subject line of a junk email from tarot.com proves that:
"Uranus is positioned for summer surprises..."
Apparently it's going to be a good summer.
But somehow, the adult side swam up from the depths, charging through the 'parents have left/cat's away' excitement to remind me that there was plenty of food to eat at home. I don't know where that fucker spends his winters, he rarely appears this adult side of the mentality, but this seemed like an unfair time to show his dominant side. Instead of leaving the store with a bottle of something high octane and a sauce stuffed crust frozen pizza, I walked out with a bag of cat food and 3 lemons. I looked more like a citrus loving bachelor than a care free teenager.
The battle ensued for the rest of the evening. A battle of epic proportions between my loud-mouthed hooligan leanings and the button down Billy where the loser would lay battered and bleeding, the winner with a fist held high and shaking towards the nice people in the apartment upstairs.
Adult kept on a roll of supremacy after its supermarket victory, a healthy dinner was consumed along with a big glass of peppermint tea. But the sly boy side struck out with a laying on the couch scenario, allowing The Man side to believe it was relaxing after a long day at work. While the adult side was lulled by an episode of My Name Is Earl, The Boy took the body into the bedroom where it plugged the guitar into the amp.
The Boy rejoiced in clouds of distortion and echo until The Man reminded him that it was approaching late, and the neighbors next door had a newborn themselves. The Man continued on, throwing out reminders that it was a school night and one should get ‘a good nights sleep’ while it was possible. In a lame attempt to fight this logic, The Boy insisted on petulantly fighting against his own tiredness and ended up passing out on the couch; he does this a lot.
It appears, no matter the course of last nights battle, that The Boy will always win out. The fact that I laughed hard enough to choke at the subject line of a junk email from tarot.com proves that:
"Uranus is positioned for summer surprises..."
Apparently it's going to be a good summer.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
They're Starting To Run Us Over
I'm not a big fan of zoos. I don't hold it against people who are, and I certainly appreciate what zoos do in regards to providing a home for animals, some endangered, but ultimately zoos tend to depress the hell out of me.
The last visit to a zoo that I endured was to the San Francisco Zoo, so much concrete and lethargic, caged animals made me want to run home and chew on a pound of Paxil, wash it down with enough bottom shelf scotch to erase the taste of animal empathy. I try not to be a baby about things, but the last time friends had visited San Francisco and wanted to head out to the west end of the city and take in the zoo, I took a rain check that I never intended to cash. I just didn't think I could take it and feared going into some crowd screaming frenzy ala the end of some apocalyptic sci-fi film where I try to warn a collection of zoo zombies that the animals are not happy.
I read this in a news story a couple of weeks ago:
An orangutan escaped from a Taiwanese zoo and terrified patrons at a nearby restaurant Wednesday, overturning picnic tables and motorbikes and forcing terrified diners to cower inside the eatery.
Awesome. A primate took it upon himself to charge on out of there, I imagine humming the simian version Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive", and wreaking havoc. It makes me laugh to imagine this, not so much for the animal comeuppance, but for the idea of an orangutan turning over picnic tables and knocking over a row of motorcycles in that clichéd domino sort of way. But more than anything, it's imagining dozens of yelling, wide mouthed city dwellers being forced into a restaurant while Clyde from Every Which Way But Loose taunted them outside the window.
The angry ape was eventually subdued via tranquilizer dart (which frankly is way overused in this sort of wild animal in the midst of humans scenario) and taken away in the scoop of a bulldozer, allowing a bunch of middle management drones to flee a noodle house, vowing never to speak of this again.
Oh, and to make the story just a tad more tragicomic, at this same zoo six weeks prior, an alligator decided to liberate a veterinarian of his arm.
This is either quite possibly the worst zoo ever, or the first shots of the coming Animal Wars.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: The Wrens' cover of They Might Be Giants' "They'll Need A Crane" is doing good things for me.
The last visit to a zoo that I endured was to the San Francisco Zoo, so much concrete and lethargic, caged animals made me want to run home and chew on a pound of Paxil, wash it down with enough bottom shelf scotch to erase the taste of animal empathy. I try not to be a baby about things, but the last time friends had visited San Francisco and wanted to head out to the west end of the city and take in the zoo, I took a rain check that I never intended to cash. I just didn't think I could take it and feared going into some crowd screaming frenzy ala the end of some apocalyptic sci-fi film where I try to warn a collection of zoo zombies that the animals are not happy.
I read this in a news story a couple of weeks ago:
An orangutan escaped from a Taiwanese zoo and terrified patrons at a nearby restaurant Wednesday, overturning picnic tables and motorbikes and forcing terrified diners to cower inside the eatery.
Awesome. A primate took it upon himself to charge on out of there, I imagine humming the simian version Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive", and wreaking havoc. It makes me laugh to imagine this, not so much for the animal comeuppance, but for the idea of an orangutan turning over picnic tables and knocking over a row of motorcycles in that clichéd domino sort of way. But more than anything, it's imagining dozens of yelling, wide mouthed city dwellers being forced into a restaurant while Clyde from Every Which Way But Loose taunted them outside the window.
The angry ape was eventually subdued via tranquilizer dart (which frankly is way overused in this sort of wild animal in the midst of humans scenario) and taken away in the scoop of a bulldozer, allowing a bunch of middle management drones to flee a noodle house, vowing never to speak of this again.
Oh, and to make the story just a tad more tragicomic, at this same zoo six weeks prior, an alligator decided to liberate a veterinarian of his arm.
This is either quite possibly the worst zoo ever, or the first shots of the coming Animal Wars.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: The Wrens' cover of They Might Be Giants' "They'll Need A Crane" is doing good things for me.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
It's Late. No Lil, It's Early
Random sleepy headed thoughts while I tried in vain to get a baby back to sleep at 3 something in the morning:
*There's never going to be a positive side to waking up bloody.
*When Tom and/or Jerry would wipe "Vanishing Cream" on themselves and become invisible... I loved that.
*I wish there really was a Landspeeder from Star Wars.
*I bet a little bit of bourbon would knock this kid out but good.
*Why the hell are my eyes so dry when I wake up?
*There's a container of tofu in the back of the fridge that should be probably thrown the hell out.
*Seriously, the soft babbling is much better than the screaming. No... Don't start screaming again.
*I bet I sleep with my eyes open. I wish I could see that, I bet it's creepy.
*"Your bone's got a little machine"
*I think this exercise ball needs more air.
*I wish they had Friday the 13th Part 3 in super 3D on DVD. I'd watch the shit out of it.
*Kickers, it's 3 something in the morning, even the junkies outside are passed out.
*I wonder, with the windows open and all, if the people in the building across the street can hear him hollering.
*I could practice throwing knives, I mean not for a job or anything, but it would be a cool thing to do well.
And on the final march around the apartment, I again glimpsed the window across the street where there stands a male mannequin with its back to the street. I saw it for the first time the other day when I was once again showing Riley what was going on outside. I kept glancing over to it, believing it to be a real guy, and wondering what would keep a guy standing in one place, so still, for so long. My thinking was a blowjob of course.
*There's never going to be a positive side to waking up bloody.
*When Tom and/or Jerry would wipe "Vanishing Cream" on themselves and become invisible... I loved that.
*I wish there really was a Landspeeder from Star Wars.
*I bet a little bit of bourbon would knock this kid out but good.
*Why the hell are my eyes so dry when I wake up?
*There's a container of tofu in the back of the fridge that should be probably thrown the hell out.
*Seriously, the soft babbling is much better than the screaming. No... Don't start screaming again.
*I bet I sleep with my eyes open. I wish I could see that, I bet it's creepy.
*"Your bone's got a little machine"
*I think this exercise ball needs more air.
*I wish they had Friday the 13th Part 3 in super 3D on DVD. I'd watch the shit out of it.
*Kickers, it's 3 something in the morning, even the junkies outside are passed out.
*I wonder, with the windows open and all, if the people in the building across the street can hear him hollering.
*I could practice throwing knives, I mean not for a job or anything, but it would be a cool thing to do well.
And on the final march around the apartment, I again glimpsed the window across the street where there stands a male mannequin with its back to the street. I saw it for the first time the other day when I was once again showing Riley what was going on outside. I kept glancing over to it, believing it to be a real guy, and wondering what would keep a guy standing in one place, so still, for so long. My thinking was a blowjob of course.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Sleepy Beer Drinker Wanted
Once again, I subscribe to this internet group that sends me emails regarding auditions. Often I read and think to myself, man I'd like to do that show. Sometimes, say when after the post lists 8 or 9 character breakdowns they make a point of saying that with ONE of those characters, acting experience would be preferred, I wonder why it is I bother. Sometimes my mind is blown a little bit.
Female breath holder needed. $40 - $100.
That's a pretty specific call, and frankly doesn't sound like the auditioning party will be playing Lady Macbeth. I wondered if they would ever request a male breath holder. I mean, I'm not a professional, but I could hold my own with other breath holders. I used to be able to cross a pool underwater. One time in band (yeah, I said band) I had to hold a long note on my saxophone for 60 seconds. I did nearly pass out though.
Then I began to wish that they would put up postings for other seemingly random feats that I can perform:
*Needed: English muffin toaster.
*Do you listen to music while you shower? We're looking for you.
*Looking for a cream in your coffee kind of guy.
*Wanted: Reads while shitting.
*We - New theater group in town. You - Can sit on a couch like a champion.
*For immediate release! We need someone who can talk Star Wars for hours.
That last one actually sort of happened. My first audition in Seattle was for a mockumentary about Star Wars fans. The breakdown was for someone of my age with improv skills. The director seemed to like the monologue that I had prepared, but it was tough to get a read on the stoic young man running the video camera. The director prompted me into an improvised monologue about my feelings for Ben "Obi-Wan" Kenobi. I grasped pretty quickly what it was the guy was looking for so I launched into a thing about Obi Wan as a father figure and The Force as an analogy for believing in yourself.
The director seemed to be visibly moved and stated that he felt the same way about Ben Kenobi and asked if what I was saying was true. I informed in as nice a way as possible that, no, I was an actor. He was looking for actors wasn't he?
After that, he didn't seem all that interested in the improv I was doing with a delightful young lady who was playing my wife. We were a fighting couple, having problems at home. The director didn't really seem to perk up until I brought up my fictional wife's fictional vibrator and asked if she hadn't named it "The Violator."
I never got a call back.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: "You're All I've Got Tonight" by The Cars.
Female breath holder needed. $40 - $100.
That's a pretty specific call, and frankly doesn't sound like the auditioning party will be playing Lady Macbeth. I wondered if they would ever request a male breath holder. I mean, I'm not a professional, but I could hold my own with other breath holders. I used to be able to cross a pool underwater. One time in band (yeah, I said band) I had to hold a long note on my saxophone for 60 seconds. I did nearly pass out though.
Then I began to wish that they would put up postings for other seemingly random feats that I can perform:
*Needed: English muffin toaster.
*Do you listen to music while you shower? We're looking for you.
*Looking for a cream in your coffee kind of guy.
*Wanted: Reads while shitting.
*We - New theater group in town. You - Can sit on a couch like a champion.
*For immediate release! We need someone who can talk Star Wars for hours.
That last one actually sort of happened. My first audition in Seattle was for a mockumentary about Star Wars fans. The breakdown was for someone of my age with improv skills. The director seemed to like the monologue that I had prepared, but it was tough to get a read on the stoic young man running the video camera. The director prompted me into an improvised monologue about my feelings for Ben "Obi-Wan" Kenobi. I grasped pretty quickly what it was the guy was looking for so I launched into a thing about Obi Wan as a father figure and The Force as an analogy for believing in yourself.
The director seemed to be visibly moved and stated that he felt the same way about Ben Kenobi and asked if what I was saying was true. I informed in as nice a way as possible that, no, I was an actor. He was looking for actors wasn't he?
After that, he didn't seem all that interested in the improv I was doing with a delightful young lady who was playing my wife. We were a fighting couple, having problems at home. The director didn't really seem to perk up until I brought up my fictional wife's fictional vibrator and asked if she hadn't named it "The Violator."
I never got a call back.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: "You're All I've Got Tonight" by The Cars.
Monday, June 04, 2007
Conspiracy
I love a good conspiracy theory. I do not however love the movie Conspiracy Theory. I haven't actually seen it, but the thought of Mel Gibson and Julia Roberts together makes my stomach clench in an oily fit. Mandy mentioned in a comment that lip balm was a government conspiracy, and while a lot of that may be a joke, I wonder if she's partly serious - and if so, I wanna hear the conspiracy.
As I said, I love a good conspiracy theory, but man I hate me a bad one. I would sucker punch a bad conspiracy theory in the balls if it were possible. A good conspiracy theory: Various JFK theories, we never landed on the moon, Area 51... A bad conspiracy theory? Well, let me introduce you to Gene.
Gene worked with me at the Oakland Airport, helping to load freight planes. Oh, and when I say helping, I mean that on more than one occasion I found him hiding behind the portable that served as an office while the rest of the team threw freight. Gene claimed that he was once a member of the Black Panthers. Gene occasionally wore a beret to perhaps prove this claim.
One early, early morning, another crew member was lamenting the fact that he could no longer get food at the roach coach as he was developing an ulcer and could not eat spicy food. Gene, with a knowing gleam in his eyes, informed us that doctors advising people not to eat spicy foods was a conspiracy by 'The Man'.
My ears immediately perked up and I asked in a non-committal fashion what he meant.
Gene lectured to us that the government didn't want us to eat spicy foods, that they wanted to get us to eventually eating bland and tasteless foods, preferably in the form of tubes of paste apparently.
"Okay Gene? That doesn't make any friggin' sense! Why would the government want us to eat bland tasting paste? What's in it for them? Is someone on the tube paste lobby really putting in the cash? 'The Man' doesn't just readjust the thinking of the masses for kicks."
He took an idea based on bad sci-fi movie props, fashioned a paranoid delusion around it and walked off as though he'd spoken the gospel. As he walked, Gene said simply, and knowingly, "you'll see."
The bastard beat me with a 'you'll see'.
As I said, I love a good conspiracy theory, but man I hate me a bad one. I would sucker punch a bad conspiracy theory in the balls if it were possible. A good conspiracy theory: Various JFK theories, we never landed on the moon, Area 51... A bad conspiracy theory? Well, let me introduce you to Gene.
Gene worked with me at the Oakland Airport, helping to load freight planes. Oh, and when I say helping, I mean that on more than one occasion I found him hiding behind the portable that served as an office while the rest of the team threw freight. Gene claimed that he was once a member of the Black Panthers. Gene occasionally wore a beret to perhaps prove this claim.
One early, early morning, another crew member was lamenting the fact that he could no longer get food at the roach coach as he was developing an ulcer and could not eat spicy food. Gene, with a knowing gleam in his eyes, informed us that doctors advising people not to eat spicy foods was a conspiracy by 'The Man'.
My ears immediately perked up and I asked in a non-committal fashion what he meant.
Gene lectured to us that the government didn't want us to eat spicy foods, that they wanted to get us to eventually eating bland and tasteless foods, preferably in the form of tubes of paste apparently.
"Okay Gene? That doesn't make any friggin' sense! Why would the government want us to eat bland tasting paste? What's in it for them? Is someone on the tube paste lobby really putting in the cash? 'The Man' doesn't just readjust the thinking of the masses for kicks."
He took an idea based on bad sci-fi movie props, fashioned a paranoid delusion around it and walked off as though he'd spoken the gospel. As he walked, Gene said simply, and knowingly, "you'll see."
The bastard beat me with a 'you'll see'.
Friday, June 01, 2007
I'll Be Running The Other Way
I got out of bed this morning, for the final time, did my bathroom duties and came back into the bedroom to get dressed. I was tired, and as usual not feeling the particular desire to make my way to work, but was enjoying the pale sunlight painting the bed and the walls. I was putting on my boots when it finally dawned on me what that song was that was stuck in my head.
"If You Leave" by OMD was dancing around playfully. "Really?" I thought. "OMD?" OMD, or Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark (and I have to commend the balls to spell Manoeuvers in that way), were the type of poppy synth band that makes a lot of people roll their eyes. I wasn't so much bothered by having the song stuck my head, or by having any song by OMD stuck in my head, as I was confused by why it was there. I hadn’t heard the song anywhere, hadn’t seen anything with the song in it.
"I touch you once, I touch you twice, I won't let go at any price."
I wanted to dramatically throw myself around the bedroom, singing wildly. I did not however want to wake up the wife and kid. So I sort of bopped my head a bit while I put my wallet and lip balm into my pockets and thought about how if I started a synth with strings band I would call it ELOMD.
"If You Leave" came off of the Pretty In Pink soundtrack. So I had thoughts of Molly Ringwald just before she slipped off the cliff of obscurity, of James Spader as the perfect prick, and of Ducky managing to find the girl in the end and thus break the longing he had for an oh-so-80's Molly, instead of running off to college still carrying his torch and then drunkenly having sex with a female friend in the dorms where he would mistake sex for love and walk down the road of a relationship that shouldn't be...
I wondered whatever happened to my tape of the The Best of OMD. Did it get tossed out with the Great Cassette Purge of '96? Quite possibly. I decided that it was probably best not to revisit that ghost, even for another shot at "Tesla Girls", and promptly washed my ears with some PJ Harvey.
"If You Leave" by OMD was dancing around playfully. "Really?" I thought. "OMD?" OMD, or Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark (and I have to commend the balls to spell Manoeuvers in that way), were the type of poppy synth band that makes a lot of people roll their eyes. I wasn't so much bothered by having the song stuck my head, or by having any song by OMD stuck in my head, as I was confused by why it was there. I hadn’t heard the song anywhere, hadn’t seen anything with the song in it.
"I touch you once, I touch you twice, I won't let go at any price."
I wanted to dramatically throw myself around the bedroom, singing wildly. I did not however want to wake up the wife and kid. So I sort of bopped my head a bit while I put my wallet and lip balm into my pockets and thought about how if I started a synth with strings band I would call it ELOMD.
"If You Leave" came off of the Pretty In Pink soundtrack. So I had thoughts of Molly Ringwald just before she slipped off the cliff of obscurity, of James Spader as the perfect prick, and of Ducky managing to find the girl in the end and thus break the longing he had for an oh-so-80's Molly, instead of running off to college still carrying his torch and then drunkenly having sex with a female friend in the dorms where he would mistake sex for love and walk down the road of a relationship that shouldn't be...
I wondered whatever happened to my tape of the The Best of OMD. Did it get tossed out with the Great Cassette Purge of '96? Quite possibly. I decided that it was probably best not to revisit that ghost, even for another shot at "Tesla Girls", and promptly washed my ears with some PJ Harvey.
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