There's this bittersweet feeling to everything today, and I could probably explain it in a number of ways if I chose to. And being I'm having a difficult time focusing my mind, I choose to.
First there's the lemming leap of the 31st off the cliffs of August and into the crumpled and bloodied corpse of September. Another month is down, face stolen right of its head, as the man once said. Nothin's gonna bring it back. Even the hot weather that hovered the last couple of days has conceded to the inevitability of fall.
And while I love me some fall, no lie, I sort of feel I was cheated on my summer this year. There were only a couple of those sweltering days and frankly none that made a dip in the lake effing mandatory. I sort of feel, looking back on this summer, as I did looking back on my teens from the wide vantage point of 20; I should've done more...
Also, there was rehearsal last night. We were rehearsing the climactic scene for my character which involves a long emotional outburst. We did it four or five times. We performed it so much that I had blown out my voice to a Bonnie Tyler husk, and while I sat quietly trying to shake off the dark emotions the scene dredges up, my cast mates sort of stepped lightly around me.
There is no complaint in any of that. It's a good feeling, the feeling that you're doing interesting work and that you're acting truthfully, but the combination of that, the 182 degrees in the theater and the three fistfuls of wasabi flavored peanuts that I had for dinner, I was beat.
Oh yeah, and some good, fine people, some young actor friends are shuffling off the dust of this Seattle town and trying their hands at the business in LA. While I hold out hopes for the best for them, LA can crush you pretty easily. And show business in LA, even more so. It's just that they're good, talented people and I want good things for them. I guess I need to learn to let them leave the nest.
Wipes away dramatic tear with dramatic finger.
I mean, people have to make it in Hollywood, and they certainly deserve to be those people, but there is a definite sadness knowing our days on the stage together are done. Not a lick of jealousy, but already a hole where there was laughter.
So yes, a complex flavor of emotions for this day; a dark chocolate and a sip of cabernet. I'm muddling through it with the hilarity that comes from exhaustion, that and developing my alter ego Banana Fitzbitch.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: "Letterbox" by They Might Be Giants. I have absolutely no explanation for this whatsoever.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Turn Around (For) Bright Eyes
I want to like the band Bright Eyes, but something won’t allow it to happen. When I hear them on the radio, I like what I hear; it doesn’t drive me to dance, but it’ll put a skip in my step. I see that the singer wants to be an earnest singer/songwriter. He really wants to be earnest. He yearns to be earnest. He understands the Importance of Being Earnest.
But, based solely on one show I saw him perform, the yearning doesn’t quite build out to anything. It was like watching someone act like they’re being raw. It was like watching a man tell someone that they admire them, when you understand that said man really just likes to say the word “admire” a lot. It’s like getting a bagel and what you think is smoked salmon cream cheese, but it turns out to be strawberry instead.
Had I held onto my impression of Modest Mouse from when I first saw them in concert, I would probably have ended up hating them. They behaved like bratty teenagers, and admittedly this was back when they were bratty teenagers, and I was so put off. But, they kept producing music that made me tingle and that was enough to convince me to give them another try live; and I was happily blown away. I guess the thing is, Bright Eyes hasn’t produced that same tingle.
So I’m not really sure why I want to like them.
Now I’m doubting myself. Now I’m craving strawberry cream cheese and an English muffin. Now I’m wanting a nice cold beer with a breakfast item, like an omelet. Now I want to sit around with friends, drinking beer and discussing the ridiculousness of the word omelet; definitely listening to music, possibly listening to Moddy Mouse, maybe Lonesome Crowded West. Now I’m wanting to push time forward a month or so and be in Willits. Now I want to be helping GRa celebrate her birthday in the sort of style deserved.
A naughty, drunken style…
Confidential to GRa and Harpoon: Bif done found a restaurant that has Mythos and Alpha. Dig it.
But, based solely on one show I saw him perform, the yearning doesn’t quite build out to anything. It was like watching someone act like they’re being raw. It was like watching a man tell someone that they admire them, when you understand that said man really just likes to say the word “admire” a lot. It’s like getting a bagel and what you think is smoked salmon cream cheese, but it turns out to be strawberry instead.
Had I held onto my impression of Modest Mouse from when I first saw them in concert, I would probably have ended up hating them. They behaved like bratty teenagers, and admittedly this was back when they were bratty teenagers, and I was so put off. But, they kept producing music that made me tingle and that was enough to convince me to give them another try live; and I was happily blown away. I guess the thing is, Bright Eyes hasn’t produced that same tingle.
So I’m not really sure why I want to like them.
Now I’m doubting myself. Now I’m craving strawberry cream cheese and an English muffin. Now I’m wanting a nice cold beer with a breakfast item, like an omelet. Now I want to sit around with friends, drinking beer and discussing the ridiculousness of the word omelet; definitely listening to music, possibly listening to Moddy Mouse, maybe Lonesome Crowded West. Now I’m wanting to push time forward a month or so and be in Willits. Now I want to be helping GRa celebrate her birthday in the sort of style deserved.
A naughty, drunken style…
Confidential to GRa and Harpoon: Bif done found a restaurant that has Mythos and Alpha. Dig it.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Turn Around Bright Eyes
The other day, I was walking through the park with Kickers. We were on our way to the swings which he typically enjoys. He’s like his dad in that way. In fact, if people wouldn’t look at me like I was some sort of acid casualty, out for a day from the halfway house, I would probably shriek and giggle too as I pendulum through the air.
I’m not really sure why that’s stopping me though…
But Kicker’s was having none of it. He was having a frustrated sort of day. He’s also like his dad in that way; when he’s frustrated he’s sometimes not good at keeping it to himself. As we walked away from the swings we passed by this group of man-boys on bikes.
Shaggy haired, black concert shirts, apathy coming off of them in waves you could taste. And it sort of tastes like a flavorless cookie that’s been made with way too much shortening, apathy does, a cookie that’s been dipped two days ago in stale and burnt coffee.
They were in a rough circle these bland cookie man-boys, a circle that looked as if it had been drawn by an acid casualty out for a day from the halfway house. They were singing Bonnie Tyler’s masterpiece, “Total Eclipse Of The Heart”. They were however singing like The Dan Band sings it in Old School, complete with profanities:
“And I need you more than fucking ever!” they sang in a chorus.
Everyone stopped there, the joke shared, the commonality of pop culture understood… Everyone except for one man boy who continued the song for half a phrase before dropping off all embarrassed.
Thing is, I could tell that he really dug the song. He was singing it out because the power of “Total Eclipse Of The Heart” could not be contained for him. I wanted to go to him, this man-boy, and put my hand on his shoulder (and Kickers probably would have felt the need to put his hand out as well; he’s again much like his father in this way) and say, “sing it out brother.”
Because he’s right to want to let that power fly, “Total Eclipse Of The Heart” is one of the greatest songs ever made. I know how that bike riding ragamuffin feels, I am smitten so damn hard. It’s taken years for me to be comfortable with how simple lines like “we’re living in a powder keg and giving off sparks. I really need you tonight. Forever’s going to start tonight. Forever’s going to start tonight” bring me to a place that’s akin to pop song heaven.
God bless you Bonnie Tyler
I’m not really sure why that’s stopping me though…
But Kicker’s was having none of it. He was having a frustrated sort of day. He’s also like his dad in that way; when he’s frustrated he’s sometimes not good at keeping it to himself. As we walked away from the swings we passed by this group of man-boys on bikes.
Shaggy haired, black concert shirts, apathy coming off of them in waves you could taste. And it sort of tastes like a flavorless cookie that’s been made with way too much shortening, apathy does, a cookie that’s been dipped two days ago in stale and burnt coffee.
They were in a rough circle these bland cookie man-boys, a circle that looked as if it had been drawn by an acid casualty out for a day from the halfway house. They were singing Bonnie Tyler’s masterpiece, “Total Eclipse Of The Heart”. They were however singing like The Dan Band sings it in Old School, complete with profanities:
“And I need you more than fucking ever!” they sang in a chorus.
Everyone stopped there, the joke shared, the commonality of pop culture understood… Everyone except for one man boy who continued the song for half a phrase before dropping off all embarrassed.
Thing is, I could tell that he really dug the song. He was singing it out because the power of “Total Eclipse Of The Heart” could not be contained for him. I wanted to go to him, this man-boy, and put my hand on his shoulder (and Kickers probably would have felt the need to put his hand out as well; he’s again much like his father in this way) and say, “sing it out brother.”
Because he’s right to want to let that power fly, “Total Eclipse Of The Heart” is one of the greatest songs ever made. I know how that bike riding ragamuffin feels, I am smitten so damn hard. It’s taken years for me to be comfortable with how simple lines like “we’re living in a powder keg and giving off sparks. I really need you tonight. Forever’s going to start tonight. Forever’s going to start tonight” bring me to a place that’s akin to pop song heaven.
God bless you Bonnie Tyler
Monday, August 27, 2007
Dr. Sterling, We Hardly Knew Ya'
Well, we closed it up. The final episode of the staged soap opera that had been a part of my life for awhile now has come to an end.
I thought I would be a little sadder about watching it explode out of the world. I mean I’ve been working on this for a year plus, with some fine people that I’ve grown very close to. With the end of every other episode there was a sadness that was salved with the knowledge that a new one would be coming up soon.
I think that I may have psyched myself up for what I thought was going to be an impending crush of emotions. I wasn’t going to be working with this group, in this capacity, ever again. And two of these actors that I have now done 4 shows with are leaving town to hit LA. I may not do a show that is just this over the top fun to do again.
I walked backstage after my final stint as a character named Gossip Whore, giving a long and energetic rundown on the shows that have come before, and realized that ol’ GHo was done. He was bitchy and fast, and honestly just a lot of fun to do, but even the knowledge that I was putting him to rest didn’t strike a chord.
Some of it could have been that I did feel that I had put in enough time with this series. Some of it could have been that this last go around it seemed as though the theater didn’t really give a shit about the show; it felt like a lot of people didn’t really seem to care this time, save the cast, the director and a small sprinkling of fans (old and new).
Somewhere after 3AM, after dancing in a frenzied manner to “Come On Eileen” while in a dress and wig, I chased a couple of cast members down the street to say goodbye. I know it’s a small town, a small acting community, but it was quite possible I wouldn’t work with these people again and that is a shame.
It began to rain lightly while we hugged out our goodbyes and I made the decision to grab my stuff from the theater and make an attempt for a quick out. These goodbyes never work out quite that way. By the time I was on my way home, it was a full bore rain and the streets were empty, save for me and the strong feeling that this was only fitting.
I thought I would be a little sadder about watching it explode out of the world. I mean I’ve been working on this for a year plus, with some fine people that I’ve grown very close to. With the end of every other episode there was a sadness that was salved with the knowledge that a new one would be coming up soon.
I think that I may have psyched myself up for what I thought was going to be an impending crush of emotions. I wasn’t going to be working with this group, in this capacity, ever again. And two of these actors that I have now done 4 shows with are leaving town to hit LA. I may not do a show that is just this over the top fun to do again.
I walked backstage after my final stint as a character named Gossip Whore, giving a long and energetic rundown on the shows that have come before, and realized that ol’ GHo was done. He was bitchy and fast, and honestly just a lot of fun to do, but even the knowledge that I was putting him to rest didn’t strike a chord.
Some of it could have been that I did feel that I had put in enough time with this series. Some of it could have been that this last go around it seemed as though the theater didn’t really give a shit about the show; it felt like a lot of people didn’t really seem to care this time, save the cast, the director and a small sprinkling of fans (old and new).
Somewhere after 3AM, after dancing in a frenzied manner to “Come On Eileen” while in a dress and wig, I chased a couple of cast members down the street to say goodbye. I know it’s a small town, a small acting community, but it was quite possible I wouldn’t work with these people again and that is a shame.
It began to rain lightly while we hugged out our goodbyes and I made the decision to grab my stuff from the theater and make an attempt for a quick out. These goodbyes never work out quite that way. By the time I was on my way home, it was a full bore rain and the streets were empty, save for me and the strong feeling that this was only fitting.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
From The Ground Up
Oh hell yeah, this one’s going to be a little ventastic. And before we dive on in here, I want to point out that I’m not trying to start some sort of corporate boycott, I’ve had to deal with douche bags trying that tactic before. It’s just that sometimes an angry Billy is a funny Billy. Much like a blow up doll, this is intended for entertainment purposes only.
So it became necessary to order a new computer. Apparently laptops don’t respond well to introductions to cups of coffee. I ordered said new computer online and waited anxiously for the shipment notification. Soon, the email arrived and I saw that computer was being sent via FedEx.
FedEx, if you were to take human form, and the male version of the human form, I would punch you right straight in the balls. And then while you were doubled over in gagging pain I would take a shit on the back of your head. And kick you. Possibly set you on fire.
An attempt to deliver this package was made on Saturday. I have to say it was a half-assed attempt to say the least. The driver apparently didn’t realize that in an apartment building, you need to ring the number for each individual apartment. Which seems would be one of the few things, aside from a basic understanding of driving, that you would need to know for this job. As the number you have to push for our apartment rings to a cell phone, I can verify that there is no record of the driver attempting delivery, merely of leaving a sticker on the door.
So calls were made to the 800 number, and a deal was struck to have the computer left at the FedEx Kinkos location up the street. Yes, completely doable, people are happy. On calling FedEx Tuesday, to verify that the delivery had occurred, the rep stated that she didn’t show any record of this request being made. Oh but no, now she found it, and yes verified that the package was at the location up the street. She then transferred us over to said location and a woman verified that the package was there.
Apparently this person put a coworker on the phone to feign employment at the 10th Avenue location. You will soon see why, follow me.
I headed on up to the FedEx Kinkos only to learn that the package was not there as promised. Upon calling FedEx once again, I was told that they have a policy of not delivering home packages to the FedEx Kinkos locations. I asked if she could tell me why it was we were told by 2 different people that it could and even had been done, another person even going so far as to act as if they were at this location. This phone rep could not. This phone rep informed me that if I wanted to drive down to the Kent sorting facility I could pick the computer up there. I have little desire to return to Kent. I informed said phone rep that I was going to have to hang up the phone as I was concerned that my head was going to explode.
Bif, in a far calmer mood called them back a bit later and arranged for the package to be delivered the next day, Wednesday. When no computer arrived on Wednesday, FedEx was called once again. We learned that the package had not been set up for delivery, which was obvious from the above mentioned lack of computer, and that it would be delivered on Thursday.
Guess what has not come on Thursday. Go ahead, guess. Yeah, sorry guys, the package was again not set up for delivery, we double dog promise this time that you’ll have it tomorrow.
FedEx can lick my balls – after a long, sweaty walk home.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Most of The Beatles Revolver has been in my head today. "Doctor Robert" at the moment.
So it became necessary to order a new computer. Apparently laptops don’t respond well to introductions to cups of coffee. I ordered said new computer online and waited anxiously for the shipment notification. Soon, the email arrived and I saw that computer was being sent via FedEx.
FedEx, if you were to take human form, and the male version of the human form, I would punch you right straight in the balls. And then while you were doubled over in gagging pain I would take a shit on the back of your head. And kick you. Possibly set you on fire.
An attempt to deliver this package was made on Saturday. I have to say it was a half-assed attempt to say the least. The driver apparently didn’t realize that in an apartment building, you need to ring the number for each individual apartment. Which seems would be one of the few things, aside from a basic understanding of driving, that you would need to know for this job. As the number you have to push for our apartment rings to a cell phone, I can verify that there is no record of the driver attempting delivery, merely of leaving a sticker on the door.
So calls were made to the 800 number, and a deal was struck to have the computer left at the FedEx Kinkos location up the street. Yes, completely doable, people are happy. On calling FedEx Tuesday, to verify that the delivery had occurred, the rep stated that she didn’t show any record of this request being made. Oh but no, now she found it, and yes verified that the package was at the location up the street. She then transferred us over to said location and a woman verified that the package was there.
Apparently this person put a coworker on the phone to feign employment at the 10th Avenue location. You will soon see why, follow me.
I headed on up to the FedEx Kinkos only to learn that the package was not there as promised. Upon calling FedEx once again, I was told that they have a policy of not delivering home packages to the FedEx Kinkos locations. I asked if she could tell me why it was we were told by 2 different people that it could and even had been done, another person even going so far as to act as if they were at this location. This phone rep could not. This phone rep informed me that if I wanted to drive down to the Kent sorting facility I could pick the computer up there. I have little desire to return to Kent. I informed said phone rep that I was going to have to hang up the phone as I was concerned that my head was going to explode.
Bif, in a far calmer mood called them back a bit later and arranged for the package to be delivered the next day, Wednesday. When no computer arrived on Wednesday, FedEx was called once again. We learned that the package had not been set up for delivery, which was obvious from the above mentioned lack of computer, and that it would be delivered on Thursday.
Guess what has not come on Thursday. Go ahead, guess. Yeah, sorry guys, the package was again not set up for delivery, we double dog promise this time that you’ll have it tomorrow.
FedEx can lick my balls – after a long, sweaty walk home.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Most of The Beatles Revolver has been in my head today. "Doctor Robert" at the moment.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
It's Like A Fly In Your Chardonnay
So many things to go over, so little time.
I was hoping to post something from the brand new computer (post in itself) which was supposed to be delivered yesterday, but FedEx has let me down (again, a whole other post in itself) in a way that frustrates me immensely.
But, first thing’s effing first…
Friend, director, fellow actor and possible writing partner, Erik got himself married to the lovely and charming Irene. I got in the car after the initial stumbling block with FedEx, in a sour mood and staring down the dark underside of some ominous weather apparently trying to cross my path.
As I5 whited out in the ensuing downpour, and I thought to myself that this has happened more than once when driving to Tacoma, I hadn’t craved a smoke so hard in a long time. Some of that though was because of the unending mind echo of Alanis Morissette singing, “It’s like rain on your wedding day.” But I managed to get to Point Defiance, where there’s a compound of gardens, a zoo and aquarium, without hydroplaning or careening into some other hapless vehicle.
I got a little confused about the rose garden parking location and had to go to the zoo ticketing counter for directions. The slightly stressful drive may have had something to do with it, but this small trip to the ticket window became my own private David Lynch movie. First, there was a clown that sort of resembled J.P. Patches (the television clown I watched religiously as a child) making balloon animals for mildly upset children. Anytime a clown crosses your path (or balloon animals for that matter) things are bound to get wonky, but the person at the window who gave me directions in as vague a way as possible, seemed to have a misshapen head that made me think of horrible industrial accidents. Oh and there were peacocks wondering around all willy-nilly.
The peacocks reminded me of same birds wondering about in the same willy-nilly fashion around the Palace of Knossos on Crete. I was briefly reminded of warm weather, a whicker cowboy hat and that strange jungle noise a peacock makes that seems like it shouldn’t be coming out of a bird. These were thoughts that me smile as I had to pass by JP Drunky once again, who I’m pretty sure was about a minute and a half away from being escorted away by zoo officials.
So I found the garden, sat with a couple who have both directed me in plays (and who make me laugh a great deal) and watched my friends get hitched. It was a nice, touching ceremony, and it was quick, which I think everyone appreciates. The reception was at the aquarium itself which is a flipping awesome idea.
I spent a lot of time looking into the large tank of creatures that formed the center of the room, contemplating throwing things into it as well as talking myself down from actually jumping in. Yeah, it would have been a spectacle to be sure, but I think deep down, Erik would’ve wanted it that way.
Everything was well and fine until I was accosted by some dudes who had apparently spent a large amount of time inebriated with my brother. There was a lot of this type dialogue:
“There’s a Badge!”
“You’re a Badgley? Get out of here!”
“Definitely a Badge!”
“Badge!”
“Man, I have been so fucked up with your brother.”
I wanted to be cool, but honestly I didn’t know these “Dudes” (and they were the definition of Dudes), and I really couldn’t give two big ‘ol logs of poop about the times they had with my brother. Had said guys been 22 while they were shouting at me like I was C list celebrity at a kegger, I probably would have tolerated it with more humor.
But I doubt it.
Wrap up: Thrilled for Erik and Irene, I wish them all kinds of love and happiness. I had a great time although I did have to literally eat and run (well, fast walk) to get out and to my show that night. 30 some year old frat boys are possibly more annoying than the more age appropriate variety.
I was hoping to post something from the brand new computer (post in itself) which was supposed to be delivered yesterday, but FedEx has let me down (again, a whole other post in itself) in a way that frustrates me immensely.
But, first thing’s effing first…
Friend, director, fellow actor and possible writing partner, Erik got himself married to the lovely and charming Irene. I got in the car after the initial stumbling block with FedEx, in a sour mood and staring down the dark underside of some ominous weather apparently trying to cross my path.
As I5 whited out in the ensuing downpour, and I thought to myself that this has happened more than once when driving to Tacoma, I hadn’t craved a smoke so hard in a long time. Some of that though was because of the unending mind echo of Alanis Morissette singing, “It’s like rain on your wedding day.” But I managed to get to Point Defiance, where there’s a compound of gardens, a zoo and aquarium, without hydroplaning or careening into some other hapless vehicle.
I got a little confused about the rose garden parking location and had to go to the zoo ticketing counter for directions. The slightly stressful drive may have had something to do with it, but this small trip to the ticket window became my own private David Lynch movie. First, there was a clown that sort of resembled J.P. Patches (the television clown I watched religiously as a child) making balloon animals for mildly upset children. Anytime a clown crosses your path (or balloon animals for that matter) things are bound to get wonky, but the person at the window who gave me directions in as vague a way as possible, seemed to have a misshapen head that made me think of horrible industrial accidents. Oh and there were peacocks wondering around all willy-nilly.
The peacocks reminded me of same birds wondering about in the same willy-nilly fashion around the Palace of Knossos on Crete. I was briefly reminded of warm weather, a whicker cowboy hat and that strange jungle noise a peacock makes that seems like it shouldn’t be coming out of a bird. These were thoughts that me smile as I had to pass by JP Drunky once again, who I’m pretty sure was about a minute and a half away from being escorted away by zoo officials.
So I found the garden, sat with a couple who have both directed me in plays (and who make me laugh a great deal) and watched my friends get hitched. It was a nice, touching ceremony, and it was quick, which I think everyone appreciates. The reception was at the aquarium itself which is a flipping awesome idea.
I spent a lot of time looking into the large tank of creatures that formed the center of the room, contemplating throwing things into it as well as talking myself down from actually jumping in. Yeah, it would have been a spectacle to be sure, but I think deep down, Erik would’ve wanted it that way.
Everything was well and fine until I was accosted by some dudes who had apparently spent a large amount of time inebriated with my brother. There was a lot of this type dialogue:
“There’s a Badge!”
“You’re a Badgley? Get out of here!”
“Definitely a Badge!”
“Badge!”
“Man, I have been so fucked up with your brother.”
I wanted to be cool, but honestly I didn’t know these “Dudes” (and they were the definition of Dudes), and I really couldn’t give two big ‘ol logs of poop about the times they had with my brother. Had said guys been 22 while they were shouting at me like I was C list celebrity at a kegger, I probably would have tolerated it with more humor.
But I doubt it.
Wrap up: Thrilled for Erik and Irene, I wish them all kinds of love and happiness. I had a great time although I did have to literally eat and run (well, fast walk) to get out and to my show that night. 30 some year old frat boys are possibly more annoying than the more age appropriate variety.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Telegram From Tiredesville
Obsessive need to touch base. Stop.
Work is a merciless whore that will not let up, constantly busy. Stop.
Tired in a whole body sort of way that pharmaceuticals, coffee and Surfer Rosa era Pixies will not touch. Stop.
Once again going to rehearsal straight after work where I will do a scene that exhausts me to my soul, it’s a good thing, but no less exhausting. Stop.
Ever wonder why telegrams say stop all the time? Stop.
Stopped on the way home from rehearsal last night, sitting on a rock in the summer warm darkness, to talk to Hippy Jonny about life and things but mostly about his relationship that had ended and badly, and had a sudden realization that I cannot pick up everyone, but I can at least try to help dust them off. Stop.
If this were a real telegram, that last line would have cost me like three bottles of good whisky. Stop.
Telegram Sam, you’re my main man. Stop.
Work is a merciless whore that will not let up, constantly busy. Stop.
Tired in a whole body sort of way that pharmaceuticals, coffee and Surfer Rosa era Pixies will not touch. Stop.
Once again going to rehearsal straight after work where I will do a scene that exhausts me to my soul, it’s a good thing, but no less exhausting. Stop.
Ever wonder why telegrams say stop all the time? Stop.
Stopped on the way home from rehearsal last night, sitting on a rock in the summer warm darkness, to talk to Hippy Jonny about life and things but mostly about his relationship that had ended and badly, and had a sudden realization that I cannot pick up everyone, but I can at least try to help dust them off. Stop.
If this were a real telegram, that last line would have cost me like three bottles of good whisky. Stop.
Telegram Sam, you’re my main man. Stop.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
What Happens When You Invite Thriller Into Your World
For some reason the below post, which I published yesterday, never showed up. I am apparently the target of a Michael Jackson supporters cabal, checking the internet-waves for MJ related materials and using their power to keep the truth from being told.
That’s fine, I’m not afraid, I will push forward and sing the truth. I think if you follow the threads far enough back, you’ll see how this group is responsible for trying to bring down Eddie Murphy.
In further paranoid schizophrenic ramblings, I think I’m being haunted by Michael Jackson; or at least my own thoughts of Michael Jackson.
Right after I published the below post, which the Michael Jackson Supporters Cabal (or MJSC) had kept off the blogosphere, I came across a banner ad with a picture of young MJ, still black and not looking like some creature design from The Lord Of The Rings trilogy. If I picked the correct name to match this picture, again it was definitely MJ, I could win a free dinner at The Olive Garden.
It was like MJ was trying to get me some Chicken con Broccoli from beyond the grave.
And then last night I was watching another in a long series of true crime/investigatory television journalism shows that I get helplessly sucked into. Last night’s was about the possibility that Jeffrey Dahmer killed Adam Walsh (the son of the host of America’s Most Wanted). And then they did the story of a scam artist in a Navy uniform who tricked like 7 women into marrying him. I’m not sure how these stories connected at all and was ready to hit the sack after the Dahmer story was over, but then they advertised the show iCaught.
iCaught, obviously meant to be associated with iPod and other things that the kids are finding hip these days, takes videos that are a hit on YouTube (so you don’t have to look at a silly website) and does a little investigatory television journalism around them. And I use the words “investigatory television journalism” loosely. But anyway, they were doing a thing on the prisoner “Thriller” dance routine.
Spooky, N’est-ce pas?
I remember being a little morally unbalanced when I first heard that prisoners were being forced to do dance routines somewhere in the Philippines, and this is the stance that the show was trying to take. The warden was the brother of the governor, the warden was using gangster (or gangsta, as the kids are saying) type tactics to make himself powerful, there was the possibilities that some dancers were dancing until their feet were bleeding.
Well I say that with new dancers, you’re bound to get some bloody feet. Ginger Rogers had bloody footsies while dancing on the set of Swing Time, and she’s an M Effing pro, so suck it up Filipino prisoners. I also say that yes, forced anything sucks, but forced dance routines beats the living crap out of forced field work. Couple that with the fact that these guys also do a take on Queen’s “Radio Ga-Ga”, and well hell, you got a prison that’s probably pretty close to working fringe theater.
That’s fine, I’m not afraid, I will push forward and sing the truth. I think if you follow the threads far enough back, you’ll see how this group is responsible for trying to bring down Eddie Murphy.
In further paranoid schizophrenic ramblings, I think I’m being haunted by Michael Jackson; or at least my own thoughts of Michael Jackson.
Right after I published the below post, which the Michael Jackson Supporters Cabal (or MJSC) had kept off the blogosphere, I came across a banner ad with a picture of young MJ, still black and not looking like some creature design from The Lord Of The Rings trilogy. If I picked the correct name to match this picture, again it was definitely MJ, I could win a free dinner at The Olive Garden.
It was like MJ was trying to get me some Chicken con Broccoli from beyond the grave.
And then last night I was watching another in a long series of true crime/investigatory television journalism shows that I get helplessly sucked into. Last night’s was about the possibility that Jeffrey Dahmer killed Adam Walsh (the son of the host of America’s Most Wanted). And then they did the story of a scam artist in a Navy uniform who tricked like 7 women into marrying him. I’m not sure how these stories connected at all and was ready to hit the sack after the Dahmer story was over, but then they advertised the show iCaught.
iCaught, obviously meant to be associated with iPod and other things that the kids are finding hip these days, takes videos that are a hit on YouTube (so you don’t have to look at a silly website) and does a little investigatory television journalism around them. And I use the words “investigatory television journalism” loosely. But anyway, they were doing a thing on the prisoner “Thriller” dance routine.
Spooky, N’est-ce pas?
I remember being a little morally unbalanced when I first heard that prisoners were being forced to do dance routines somewhere in the Philippines, and this is the stance that the show was trying to take. The warden was the brother of the governor, the warden was using gangster (or gangsta, as the kids are saying) type tactics to make himself powerful, there was the possibilities that some dancers were dancing until their feet were bleeding.
Well I say that with new dancers, you’re bound to get some bloody feet. Ginger Rogers had bloody footsies while dancing on the set of Swing Time, and she’s an M Effing pro, so suck it up Filipino prisoners. I also say that yes, forced anything sucks, but forced dance routines beats the living crap out of forced field work. Couple that with the fact that these guys also do a take on Queen’s “Radio Ga-Ga”, and well hell, you got a prison that’s probably pretty close to working fringe theater.
No Mere Mortal Can Resist The Evil Of The Thriller
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: “Thriller” by Michael Jackson; all friggin’ day.
Someone forwarded me the link to the video of prisoners performing the dance moves from the “Thriller” video, and since I have now been placed in a position of trust at work, where they feel I can handle the responsibilities of a computer with sound and video capabilities (big mistake on their part), I was able to watch it.
I don’t remember the Michael Jackson version ending with the ugly transsexual being mauled by the zombies, nor do I remember the sharpened toothbrush stabbing, but I can see how one would need to step things up for the prison guard audience.
I do remember former roommate Captain MIA freaking himself out by listening to “Thriller” alone in the middle of the night. Admittedly, it was more the Vincent Price, spoken word part, as well as the creepy horror movie laughter, but I still found it pretty damn funny that a Michael Jackson song had freaked him out.
Little did we know then...
It also me think of the time that me and Dave and Captain MIA thought it would be a good idea to get all kinds of stoned and listen to “Bela Lugosi’s Dead” by Bauhaus on one stereo, coupled with a haunted house soundtrack on another stereo on the other side of the darkened room. It was like a sound based conceptual art thing. Well, Captain MIA and I went downstairs to grab something to drink for all of us and got caught up in a stony conversation with another roommate downstairs. We lost track of time, as will happen, and suddenly Dave came running down the stairs talking about how he was getting way freaked out.
Good times. Seriously though, I cannot get “Thriller” out of my head; serious drag.
Someone forwarded me the link to the video of prisoners performing the dance moves from the “Thriller” video, and since I have now been placed in a position of trust at work, where they feel I can handle the responsibilities of a computer with sound and video capabilities (big mistake on their part), I was able to watch it.
I don’t remember the Michael Jackson version ending with the ugly transsexual being mauled by the zombies, nor do I remember the sharpened toothbrush stabbing, but I can see how one would need to step things up for the prison guard audience.
I do remember former roommate Captain MIA freaking himself out by listening to “Thriller” alone in the middle of the night. Admittedly, it was more the Vincent Price, spoken word part, as well as the creepy horror movie laughter, but I still found it pretty damn funny that a Michael Jackson song had freaked him out.
Little did we know then...
It also me think of the time that me and Dave and Captain MIA thought it would be a good idea to get all kinds of stoned and listen to “Bela Lugosi’s Dead” by Bauhaus on one stereo, coupled with a haunted house soundtrack on another stereo on the other side of the darkened room. It was like a sound based conceptual art thing. Well, Captain MIA and I went downstairs to grab something to drink for all of us and got caught up in a stony conversation with another roommate downstairs. We lost track of time, as will happen, and suddenly Dave came running down the stairs talking about how he was getting way freaked out.
Good times. Seriously though, I cannot get “Thriller” out of my head; serious drag.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Viva La Loma Rica
I want to express my apologies for forgetting a couple of August birthdays in the small list from the last posting. In August there also lies the day celebrating the birth of the man, the myth, the legend, the initials and punctuation mark of kc! Bradshaw. And also Hulk Hogan, sorry Hulk.
I also want to blame the introspective memories I had on the walk in this morning on the slower songs popping up on my iPod, so I will. I cannot remember which song got the rocks rolling necessarily, but I remembered a cold night during Christmas break back in 1989. As it’s what I got, it’s what you get…
Having thoroughly fucked up things at school my senior year in high school, my parents decided I wasn’t ready for life away from them and moved me from the soul crushing suburbs of Orange County to the evergreen and soul crushing suburbs of Gig Harbor, Washington. While it’s an easy out to blame the drugs and alcohol, I feel that it was more the apathy of a troubled soul being pulled in different directions (which is a prettier way of saying that I was a bored and confused teenager) that nearly cost me my graduation. What have you, I feel I paid for my transgressions.
That Christmas, my partner in crime and future roommate, Captain MIA came up to Washington to visit. As it was the holiday break for universities all over, my childhood friend Chris was back in this side of the state and plans were made to see each other again after 4 years apart. My worlds collided…
Well Chris, Captain MIA and myself got together to go see a movie back in the town where I had spent my childhood. First stop though was at the home of the girl whom I had a crush on in junior high. She and Chris had ended up dating in high school, and so he was quite chummy with her parents. Chris spent an inordinate amount of time speaking with the folks while Captain MIA and myself sat in the living room with this young lady. While she was still the bright and funny woman she was when I left her 4 years prior, she was running down a path of successful GPA and sorority status. I myself felt I was on a vision quest to discover who I was. I still maintain that it was in fact a vision quest, albeit an immature way to go about it. There was an uncomfortable space between us, and Captain MIA – who clammed up tighter than a whale’s anus when he was with someone he didn’t know – said not a word. She and I eventually agreed on a fondness for The Far Side; what a bridge we had crossed…
It turned out that Chris had a fake ID, so many beers were bought for our viewing of Christmas Vacation, or whatever it was we decided to waste our hour and half gaping at. At some point in the night I remember that warm feeling of camaraderie, flowing like beer through my veins, coming on. Chris and I talked about how good it was to see each other again and those drunken promises of friendship that fall so easily.
Chris drove around the town of my childhood, Captain MIA drank many beers in the backseat, and I sat looking at all the houses that I used to pass so often as a kid. Christmas lights painted the air a pastel red color, but did nothing to adjust for the bitter cold. Chris seemed to be taking us on a tour of houses that had contained girls that he had slept with in the last four years. He was telling all of his woman hunting stories and driving around looking for a house where he was likely to score.
I had little to say, this kind of macho womanizing was boring and pathetic. He eventually stopped at a house that looked so much like every other house on the street. He informed me that the girl living here had some sort of bipolar disorder, pulled up to the curb and went to the door. He came back a minute later to let us know that he was going to go inside with her for a little bit. Captain MIA went at the remaining stockpile of beer and I looked up towards Chris’ retreating back with some dismay.
A half an hour later, Captain MIA was passed out in the backseat and I was sitting outside on the curb smoking a cigarette. I sung “Number 13 Baby” by the Pixies to myself, paced around a bit to stay warm and generally wondered how it was that my life had led me there.
Chris eventually came back out to the car with a devil may care grin and drove us back to my car. He told me that I should come out to see him at school while I maneuvered a barely standing future roommate to my trusty Honda, but I could tell that it was a half hearted recommendation. We parted ways for the last time.
I drove out past the elementary school Chris and I had attended, past the house where I learned to tell time. Captain MIA asked in a long slur if I was okay. He meant about the alcohol consumed and the driving I was undertaking. I could have told him that the cold and the time and the disappointing thoughts had sobered me up, but I just said “yes”.
“If you need to pull over, just pull over,” he mumbled just before tumbling onto me in a drunken heap as I turned onto the highway that would take me home.
I also want to blame the introspective memories I had on the walk in this morning on the slower songs popping up on my iPod, so I will. I cannot remember which song got the rocks rolling necessarily, but I remembered a cold night during Christmas break back in 1989. As it’s what I got, it’s what you get…
Having thoroughly fucked up things at school my senior year in high school, my parents decided I wasn’t ready for life away from them and moved me from the soul crushing suburbs of Orange County to the evergreen and soul crushing suburbs of Gig Harbor, Washington. While it’s an easy out to blame the drugs and alcohol, I feel that it was more the apathy of a troubled soul being pulled in different directions (which is a prettier way of saying that I was a bored and confused teenager) that nearly cost me my graduation. What have you, I feel I paid for my transgressions.
That Christmas, my partner in crime and future roommate, Captain MIA came up to Washington to visit. As it was the holiday break for universities all over, my childhood friend Chris was back in this side of the state and plans were made to see each other again after 4 years apart. My worlds collided…
Well Chris, Captain MIA and myself got together to go see a movie back in the town where I had spent my childhood. First stop though was at the home of the girl whom I had a crush on in junior high. She and Chris had ended up dating in high school, and so he was quite chummy with her parents. Chris spent an inordinate amount of time speaking with the folks while Captain MIA and myself sat in the living room with this young lady. While she was still the bright and funny woman she was when I left her 4 years prior, she was running down a path of successful GPA and sorority status. I myself felt I was on a vision quest to discover who I was. I still maintain that it was in fact a vision quest, albeit an immature way to go about it. There was an uncomfortable space between us, and Captain MIA – who clammed up tighter than a whale’s anus when he was with someone he didn’t know – said not a word. She and I eventually agreed on a fondness for The Far Side; what a bridge we had crossed…
It turned out that Chris had a fake ID, so many beers were bought for our viewing of Christmas Vacation, or whatever it was we decided to waste our hour and half gaping at. At some point in the night I remember that warm feeling of camaraderie, flowing like beer through my veins, coming on. Chris and I talked about how good it was to see each other again and those drunken promises of friendship that fall so easily.
Chris drove around the town of my childhood, Captain MIA drank many beers in the backseat, and I sat looking at all the houses that I used to pass so often as a kid. Christmas lights painted the air a pastel red color, but did nothing to adjust for the bitter cold. Chris seemed to be taking us on a tour of houses that had contained girls that he had slept with in the last four years. He was telling all of his woman hunting stories and driving around looking for a house where he was likely to score.
I had little to say, this kind of macho womanizing was boring and pathetic. He eventually stopped at a house that looked so much like every other house on the street. He informed me that the girl living here had some sort of bipolar disorder, pulled up to the curb and went to the door. He came back a minute later to let us know that he was going to go inside with her for a little bit. Captain MIA went at the remaining stockpile of beer and I looked up towards Chris’ retreating back with some dismay.
A half an hour later, Captain MIA was passed out in the backseat and I was sitting outside on the curb smoking a cigarette. I sung “Number 13 Baby” by the Pixies to myself, paced around a bit to stay warm and generally wondered how it was that my life had led me there.
Chris eventually came back out to the car with a devil may care grin and drove us back to my car. He told me that I should come out to see him at school while I maneuvered a barely standing future roommate to my trusty Honda, but I could tell that it was a half hearted recommendation. We parted ways for the last time.
I drove out past the elementary school Chris and I had attended, past the house where I learned to tell time. Captain MIA asked in a long slur if I was okay. He meant about the alcohol consumed and the driving I was undertaking. I could have told him that the cold and the time and the disappointing thoughts had sobered me up, but I just said “yes”.
“If you need to pull over, just pull over,” he mumbled just before tumbling onto me in a drunken heap as I turned onto the highway that would take me home.
Friday, August 10, 2007
He Ain't Heavy
Sorry for the delay, sorry for the missed days, I’m sorry okay. Jeez. Work is crazy busy.
August is a big month for birthdays, dontcha know. You got Bif, you got the irrepressible G-Ra, you got the divine Ms. Miller and the force of nature that is Hellbus. You also have Donny Most, the freckle faced red head who played Ralph Malph on television’s “Happy Days.”
When I was a kid, I always thought it was Ralph Mouth. I also always wondered what happened to the older Cunningham child. I also thought Potsie was a douche. I also thought it was cool when Fonzie jumped the shark.
But this is not about television’s “Happy Days”, it’s about yours and my happy days. No it’s not, I lied. It’s about how my brother’s birthday also falls within the confines of the month of August and how I called him in Costa Rica to wish him a good one.
1) I’m amazed that the phone I carry around in the pocket of my jeans can call Costa Rica. Frankly I’m always a little amazed when this tiny bugger can call anyone, and honestly I think fax machines are made possible through some sort of black magic. And…
2) When I picture my brother in Costa Rica, I imagine a green and wet jungle from some B movie, or perhaps a very special episode of “Happy Days” where Joanie and Chachi travel abroad and get malaria, comforting each other in a very romantic, but chaste televised sort of way. But anyway, it’s a stereotypic jungle with dirt roads and huts with corrugated tin roofs and rains that wash away said roads and huts. I may not be far from the truth, I’ve yet to be able to visit my brother’s adopted land.
Call him I did, while I walked along 1st Avenue on my way home. And while on the phone with him, it began raining so hard there that I could hear it over the difficult connection, like some monster snake from above mentioned B movie or special episode of “Happy Days”.
My brother and I had the same sort of tumultuous and abusive relationship that a lot of siblings have, and he being the younger took the brunt of the abusive part from me. While we fought more often than not, there was love and a friendship there underneath the other crap. I particularly remember couch cushion forts and creating separate sleeping quarters underneath the fold out bed where we would drag the 13” black and white and some popcorn to watch the late night Saturday monster movies.
As an adult, this guy actually had the audacity to have a dream and pursue it. He fell in love with Costa Rica and so he bought property and moved there. He is currently running a bar with his wife and apparently working pretty hard at it.
It just felt good to talk to him so many miles away. He sounded tired, but he sounded happy, happy to be living a life that he chose, happy about his nephew and meeting him soon, happy to be talking to his brother on the phone. I was reminded that, not only did I of course love him, but I highly respected the man that he has become. I felt an obvious connection of brothers, but another connection that was harder to put my finger on. I felt like there was an unforced, relaxed and perfect understanding of each other, there was excitement from both sides of that tiny telephone for the lives each of us are living.
It’s easy for me to look at him as this cosmic joker in the universal deck, but that’s both divine and dangerous. Sometimes I just need to remember him as my brother, as simple and as great as all of that is.
August is a big month for birthdays, dontcha know. You got Bif, you got the irrepressible G-Ra, you got the divine Ms. Miller and the force of nature that is Hellbus. You also have Donny Most, the freckle faced red head who played Ralph Malph on television’s “Happy Days.”
When I was a kid, I always thought it was Ralph Mouth. I also always wondered what happened to the older Cunningham child. I also thought Potsie was a douche. I also thought it was cool when Fonzie jumped the shark.
But this is not about television’s “Happy Days”, it’s about yours and my happy days. No it’s not, I lied. It’s about how my brother’s birthday also falls within the confines of the month of August and how I called him in Costa Rica to wish him a good one.
1) I’m amazed that the phone I carry around in the pocket of my jeans can call Costa Rica. Frankly I’m always a little amazed when this tiny bugger can call anyone, and honestly I think fax machines are made possible through some sort of black magic. And…
2) When I picture my brother in Costa Rica, I imagine a green and wet jungle from some B movie, or perhaps a very special episode of “Happy Days” where Joanie and Chachi travel abroad and get malaria, comforting each other in a very romantic, but chaste televised sort of way. But anyway, it’s a stereotypic jungle with dirt roads and huts with corrugated tin roofs and rains that wash away said roads and huts. I may not be far from the truth, I’ve yet to be able to visit my brother’s adopted land.
Call him I did, while I walked along 1st Avenue on my way home. And while on the phone with him, it began raining so hard there that I could hear it over the difficult connection, like some monster snake from above mentioned B movie or special episode of “Happy Days”.
My brother and I had the same sort of tumultuous and abusive relationship that a lot of siblings have, and he being the younger took the brunt of the abusive part from me. While we fought more often than not, there was love and a friendship there underneath the other crap. I particularly remember couch cushion forts and creating separate sleeping quarters underneath the fold out bed where we would drag the 13” black and white and some popcorn to watch the late night Saturday monster movies.
As an adult, this guy actually had the audacity to have a dream and pursue it. He fell in love with Costa Rica and so he bought property and moved there. He is currently running a bar with his wife and apparently working pretty hard at it.
It just felt good to talk to him so many miles away. He sounded tired, but he sounded happy, happy to be living a life that he chose, happy about his nephew and meeting him soon, happy to be talking to his brother on the phone. I was reminded that, not only did I of course love him, but I highly respected the man that he has become. I felt an obvious connection of brothers, but another connection that was harder to put my finger on. I felt like there was an unforced, relaxed and perfect understanding of each other, there was excitement from both sides of that tiny telephone for the lives each of us are living.
It’s easy for me to look at him as this cosmic joker in the universal deck, but that’s both divine and dangerous. Sometimes I just need to remember him as my brother, as simple and as great as all of that is.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Tell Me About Time There Was A Crisis At Work
I have to sit through interviews again today. No bat shit crazies yet (still a chance for that this afternoon), just some over eager young adults, with rabid little eyes prying me to let them in, please let them in, you don’t know what it’s like out there.
There was the guy who could have easily been mistaken for a drifter who killed hobos in his spare time, the guy who when I asked if he could walk us through his resume glared at me for what felt like three and half minutes and then said, “You mean tell you about my resume?” Yeah. He could have ventured down Crazy Road, but opted for gradually more and more uncommunicative.
And there’s those poor souls who are so nervous that they cannot keep there voices under check, the ones who wipe their hands before shaking with me. I feel for them, but cannot let my empathetic ways sway my decisions. People, I’m a professional.
Did I ever tell you guys about the really bad interview that I had?
I was desperate for a gig, I wasn’t even able to buy smokes, and was at a point where I was just plain sick of retail abuse. There was a posting on the career callboard at school for what amounted to an office bitch position at an insurance company. Of course I didn’t give a fuck about insurance, but it was somewhere, it was a paycheck.
I spoke with the contact there, we’ll say his name was Ken. Ken and I had a great conversation, Ken said that he would get back to me, but apparently Ken was just not that into me. It’s not that I couldn’t take the hint, I understood that he didn’t want to hire me, I just wasn’t going to let it go. I called, I sent faxes, if I knew that he had a pet bunny I would have left it boiling on his stove.
Again, I was poor and I was nic fitting.
After much diligence on my part, Ken finally agreed to meet with me at his office in downtown San Francisco. It was in one of those older buildings in the Financial District, it was high up and made mostly of windows. Now I really wanted to work there.
We talked about my work experience, about school, and I found then (as I still find now) that being a film major will get you nowhere fast. I was playing it all flirtatious by laughing at anything he said that was remotely funny. When he brought up some chestnut about his policy selling days, I fake laughed so hard that I let one rip.
Yup, loud, pants rip sounding, no mistake about it fart. Ken was kind enough to overlook the sound effects, pretending he didn’t hear it, but when that burning and rotten lunch meat smell hit his nose, there was no mistaking it. That row of way too white teeth became a pucker that drew down a bit at the corners. I think he may have actually tried to hide a gag. He put a fist to his mouth, cleared his throat and began closing with the dreaded, “anyway.”
I’m totally kidding, that never happened. I did interview at a bookstore with a case of walking pneumonia, sweating so hard that I could feel it trickling down the back of my neck. And man, I certainly understand why you don’t want to bring in a sweaty, self proclaimed David Lynch fan into your small bookstore.
It’s a recipe for disaster, that and powdered milk.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: “Low Down” by Tom Waits.
There was the guy who could have easily been mistaken for a drifter who killed hobos in his spare time, the guy who when I asked if he could walk us through his resume glared at me for what felt like three and half minutes and then said, “You mean tell you about my resume?” Yeah. He could have ventured down Crazy Road, but opted for gradually more and more uncommunicative.
And there’s those poor souls who are so nervous that they cannot keep there voices under check, the ones who wipe their hands before shaking with me. I feel for them, but cannot let my empathetic ways sway my decisions. People, I’m a professional.
Did I ever tell you guys about the really bad interview that I had?
I was desperate for a gig, I wasn’t even able to buy smokes, and was at a point where I was just plain sick of retail abuse. There was a posting on the career callboard at school for what amounted to an office bitch position at an insurance company. Of course I didn’t give a fuck about insurance, but it was somewhere, it was a paycheck.
I spoke with the contact there, we’ll say his name was Ken. Ken and I had a great conversation, Ken said that he would get back to me, but apparently Ken was just not that into me. It’s not that I couldn’t take the hint, I understood that he didn’t want to hire me, I just wasn’t going to let it go. I called, I sent faxes, if I knew that he had a pet bunny I would have left it boiling on his stove.
Again, I was poor and I was nic fitting.
After much diligence on my part, Ken finally agreed to meet with me at his office in downtown San Francisco. It was in one of those older buildings in the Financial District, it was high up and made mostly of windows. Now I really wanted to work there.
We talked about my work experience, about school, and I found then (as I still find now) that being a film major will get you nowhere fast. I was playing it all flirtatious by laughing at anything he said that was remotely funny. When he brought up some chestnut about his policy selling days, I fake laughed so hard that I let one rip.
Yup, loud, pants rip sounding, no mistake about it fart. Ken was kind enough to overlook the sound effects, pretending he didn’t hear it, but when that burning and rotten lunch meat smell hit his nose, there was no mistaking it. That row of way too white teeth became a pucker that drew down a bit at the corners. I think he may have actually tried to hide a gag. He put a fist to his mouth, cleared his throat and began closing with the dreaded, “anyway.”
I’m totally kidding, that never happened. I did interview at a bookstore with a case of walking pneumonia, sweating so hard that I could feel it trickling down the back of my neck. And man, I certainly understand why you don’t want to bring in a sweaty, self proclaimed David Lynch fan into your small bookstore.
It’s a recipe for disaster, that and powdered milk.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: “Low Down” by Tom Waits.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Big Weekend, Small Hangover
A lot of things this weekend, so hang onto your shoes, we’re flying:
We opened the show on Friday. It wasn’t as full a house as they tend to be on opening nights, and not quite the drunken free for all audience all hootin’ and hollerin’, but I still feel we pulled off a pretty good show. Folks I talked to afterwards seemed to have enjoyed it, and the view from the lighting booth apparently confirms that. I am the first actor out on stage and on entering got some nice yelling and applause. Honestly, it threw me a bit Friday night, but (even more honestly) feels pretty friggin’ awesome now.
By the end of the show, the amazing and incomparable Betty Campbell had aggravated a recent foot surgery wound on her foot. She stood in the green room with blood slowly running from her little black shoe, slightly crying and with a quiver to her voice that is hard for me to shake. She was taken to the ER after the show, and is absolutely fine, but we called the show Saturday just to play it safe.
Which actually worked out really well as Saturday was La Birthday de Biffy (or Biffy’s Birthday if you don’t speak the lingo). I tried to make some chocolate cupcakes from scratch, but they turned out less than stellar (I blame it on an oven that does not run at the advertised temperature). The frosting however, if I say so myself, turned out well enough to eat with a spoon. Not that I would do that, three or four times.
We went to dinner with Beth’s parents and grandparents, little man putting the moves on the waitress like the player he is. We had an amazing fish dinner and a fine, fine chardonnay. We also got to hang out and play some Scene-It later in the evening with Mandy and Jason (until Jason succumbed to the allergy terrorists). It was nice to sit around and play some games with those guys again, it feels like we don’t see them often enough.
There were some extraneous things that had upset Bif on Saturday (one of them being me I’m sorry to say - I had stayed at the aftershow party pretty late, but did manage to come away with a very small hangover), but I hope that she was able to at least end the day feeling proud of her accomplishments as a coach, as a mother and as a friend. I certainly know that I’m proud to call her my wife.
Sunday we had our first read through for the show that I’m taking part in come September. Typically, I like it when I can jump into a new show directly after the rehearsal process for one ends, it feels like fate meshing gears or something. It’s a brand new show that’s never been performed and a brand new theater company. It’s a fantastic script and I’m lucky enough to be playing the male lead. At the read through itself, I found myself getting worked up at some of the dialogue that I have. I’m really excited about the opportunity and think that it could turn out to be great.
And I think that pretty much catches you up. I hope you’re all doing well out there, feeling the irrepressible tug of the universe, feeling the need to get on a waterslide.
We opened the show on Friday. It wasn’t as full a house as they tend to be on opening nights, and not quite the drunken free for all audience all hootin’ and hollerin’, but I still feel we pulled off a pretty good show. Folks I talked to afterwards seemed to have enjoyed it, and the view from the lighting booth apparently confirms that. I am the first actor out on stage and on entering got some nice yelling and applause. Honestly, it threw me a bit Friday night, but (even more honestly) feels pretty friggin’ awesome now.
By the end of the show, the amazing and incomparable Betty Campbell had aggravated a recent foot surgery wound on her foot. She stood in the green room with blood slowly running from her little black shoe, slightly crying and with a quiver to her voice that is hard for me to shake. She was taken to the ER after the show, and is absolutely fine, but we called the show Saturday just to play it safe.
Which actually worked out really well as Saturday was La Birthday de Biffy (or Biffy’s Birthday if you don’t speak the lingo). I tried to make some chocolate cupcakes from scratch, but they turned out less than stellar (I blame it on an oven that does not run at the advertised temperature). The frosting however, if I say so myself, turned out well enough to eat with a spoon. Not that I would do that, three or four times.
We went to dinner with Beth’s parents and grandparents, little man putting the moves on the waitress like the player he is. We had an amazing fish dinner and a fine, fine chardonnay. We also got to hang out and play some Scene-It later in the evening with Mandy and Jason (until Jason succumbed to the allergy terrorists). It was nice to sit around and play some games with those guys again, it feels like we don’t see them often enough.
There were some extraneous things that had upset Bif on Saturday (one of them being me I’m sorry to say - I had stayed at the aftershow party pretty late, but did manage to come away with a very small hangover), but I hope that she was able to at least end the day feeling proud of her accomplishments as a coach, as a mother and as a friend. I certainly know that I’m proud to call her my wife.
Sunday we had our first read through for the show that I’m taking part in come September. Typically, I like it when I can jump into a new show directly after the rehearsal process for one ends, it feels like fate meshing gears or something. It’s a brand new show that’s never been performed and a brand new theater company. It’s a fantastic script and I’m lucky enough to be playing the male lead. At the read through itself, I found myself getting worked up at some of the dialogue that I have. I’m really excited about the opportunity and think that it could turn out to be great.
And I think that pretty much catches you up. I hope you’re all doing well out there, feeling the irrepressible tug of the universe, feeling the need to get on a waterslide.
Friday, August 03, 2007
Part 6 - Four Funerals And A Wedding
I’m not gonna lie to you, I feel we have that sort of relationship, I’m tired. We had our preview of the show last night to a rousing and fired up crowd of three. Oh, and at our normal run time, which is 11, which means I don’t get home till after 1, which is reasoning behind the being tired thing.
If my jobby job hadn’t gone all Homeland Security on the website where I keep my pictures, you would see below a purple postcard advertising the show. Apparently we have some sort of jihad against flickr.com or something – or it could have been the monkey sex pictures I was looking at… Anyway, I will take care of this oversight when I get home.
So tonight is opening night, and the grand finale of this six part soap opera parody that has consumed a lot of my time over the last year. I’m going to be sad to see this fucker go, knowing I will never work with this same group in this same capacity again. But I’m also jazzed about going out there and seeing this beast off in grand style, surrounded by a cast I am proud to call Darryl.
I call the cast as a whole Darryl, not each individual member. Whatever, I’m tired, see above.
Again, if you find yourselves in Seattle during the next four weekends and you like drinking and inappropriate jokes in a theater type setting, come by and see us.
I’m now going to go act like I’m listening to what an instructor is saying.
If my jobby job hadn’t gone all Homeland Security on the website where I keep my pictures, you would see below a purple postcard advertising the show. Apparently we have some sort of jihad against flickr.com or something – or it could have been the monkey sex pictures I was looking at… Anyway, I will take care of this oversight when I get home.
So tonight is opening night, and the grand finale of this six part soap opera parody that has consumed a lot of my time over the last year. I’m going to be sad to see this fucker go, knowing I will never work with this same group in this same capacity again. But I’m also jazzed about going out there and seeing this beast off in grand style, surrounded by a cast I am proud to call Darryl.
I call the cast as a whole Darryl, not each individual member. Whatever, I’m tired, see above.
Again, if you find yourselves in Seattle during the next four weekends and you like drinking and inappropriate jokes in a theater type setting, come by and see us.
I’m now going to go act like I’m listening to what an instructor is saying.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
My Cynical Side
I have to sit through a class for the next two days, which I’m sure will be enthralling. As it is confusing when you do not have a tone of voice to determine whether something written was intended to be sarcastic, let me assure you that the comment about enthralling was not genuine. In fact, by enthralling I meant mind numbing. By mind numbing, I mean meandering pornographic thoughts in my head that eventually turns into some weird chase scene while a teacher’s voice drones on in the background.
I’ve already had to do some pre-work for the class. It was about harassment. I now have a 95 skill level at harassment, and a 17 charisma….
Point being that posting is going to be a little rough, but we’re gonna keep on keepin’ on good people.
Second point is that I pass by this store on a daily basis, on the way home as well as back and forth to the theater, that really annoys me for some reason.
The store should be called “All Things Indian” as it sells, well, stuff from India. But it’s called "Travelers". They sell rice cookers, and rice, and Nag Champa, and teas and stuff. I would be okay with the store if it stopped there, I mean all of these things are worthy of purchase to be sure, I purchase most of these things myself. But in the back of the room, which you can see quite clearly from the street, there are tables set up and these tables are typically filled with douche bags.
I would guess that they’re for learning sessions about traveling, about things to do in Bhopal, but mostly they’re filled with Neo-Hippies sitting around and talking. On more than one occasion I have walked past only to find most of these conversers stopping what they’re doing and turning to look at me. I imagine that my cynicism burns holes in their auras and they must turn to see where all of this derisive power is coming from.
But the thing that is really bothering me about this store at the moment, this place that caters to people who would appear to care for the environment, is that they have a couple of signs in the window which proclaim loud and proud that, “We have AC! Come on in!”
Comfort’s cool, I dig comfort, but air conditioning is a monster electricity eater. And while it’s summer here for sure, it’s not as if Pine Street is located in the Sahara, it’s not like it’s triple digit weather here. And hey, isn’t India all hot and humid? It bothers me that they seem to be flying in the face of the image they want to portray themselves as.
But sometimes, don’t we all…
It’s a small thing to be bothered by, but I hope to exorcise the thoughts by shooting ‘em out onto the internets here.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: “Keep The Car Running” by Arcade Fire.
I’ve already had to do some pre-work for the class. It was about harassment. I now have a 95 skill level at harassment, and a 17 charisma….
Point being that posting is going to be a little rough, but we’re gonna keep on keepin’ on good people.
Second point is that I pass by this store on a daily basis, on the way home as well as back and forth to the theater, that really annoys me for some reason.
The store should be called “All Things Indian” as it sells, well, stuff from India. But it’s called "Travelers". They sell rice cookers, and rice, and Nag Champa, and teas and stuff. I would be okay with the store if it stopped there, I mean all of these things are worthy of purchase to be sure, I purchase most of these things myself. But in the back of the room, which you can see quite clearly from the street, there are tables set up and these tables are typically filled with douche bags.
I would guess that they’re for learning sessions about traveling, about things to do in Bhopal, but mostly they’re filled with Neo-Hippies sitting around and talking. On more than one occasion I have walked past only to find most of these conversers stopping what they’re doing and turning to look at me. I imagine that my cynicism burns holes in their auras and they must turn to see where all of this derisive power is coming from.
But the thing that is really bothering me about this store at the moment, this place that caters to people who would appear to care for the environment, is that they have a couple of signs in the window which proclaim loud and proud that, “We have AC! Come on in!”
Comfort’s cool, I dig comfort, but air conditioning is a monster electricity eater. And while it’s summer here for sure, it’s not as if Pine Street is located in the Sahara, it’s not like it’s triple digit weather here. And hey, isn’t India all hot and humid? It bothers me that they seem to be flying in the face of the image they want to portray themselves as.
But sometimes, don’t we all…
It’s a small thing to be bothered by, but I hope to exorcise the thoughts by shooting ‘em out onto the internets here.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: “Keep The Car Running” by Arcade Fire.
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