Monday, March 31, 2008

Right Now I Feel Like A Dead Guy

Busy today, it ain’t gonna clear up tomorrow, so I’m trying this typing as quickly as the words come into my mind thing.

Spent an insane amount of time in the theater this weekend for tech rehearsal, 10 AM to 10 PM both Saturday and Sunday. I’m tired. That sort of tired where you hear your own voice talking to somebody and then wonder just who in the hell that is talking.

Any good stories? Nothing that isn’t funny outside the haze of exhaustion and theater dust. A lot of shop talk and 6 weary cast members busting their asses to do a good show. There are some nightmare stories regarding this run that I will have to share with you all over whiskies as there are bridges I don’t want to burn.

We have a preview tomorrow, then an official opening night Wednesday, April 2nd. If folks in the area can’t be enticed to see this show by an amazingly talented cast, or by an interesting take on the reality TV phenomenon, perhaps you can be enticed by scene change music that is compiled mostly of Led Zeppelin.

It’s a far better thing to leave rehearsal with “Kashmir” stuck in my head than it is to leave with “Don’t You Wish Your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Me”, which has happened in the past…

Thursday, March 27, 2008

Things We Lost In The Fire

One thing I lost in the fire – any respect for the band Blind Melon.

I should point out that this is a metaphorical fire that occurred in and around my sense of cynicism. Said fire was also round abouts ’94.

I saw a flyer on my way to work this morning, advertising an upcoming Blind Melon show. Okay, what? First of all, the lead singer died like the fucking rock cliché that he was. Second, are there people out there clamoring for a triumphant return of Blind Melon? I don’t know who they have filling ol’ Mr. Overdose’s shoes, but does anyone hear echoes of Van Halen with the schmuck from Extreme? Do they sound like the screams of integrity being slaughtered? Thirdly, the flyer contained a picture of “The Bee Girl”…

I trail off because I cannot explain how… dumb this is.

Do you know what the remaining members of The Doors did after their lead singer took a trip down rock cliché way? Well, nothing really, except spend whatever camera time they could covet talking about their days as Doors. To be fair, Ray Manzerek did produce 2 awesome X albums. I’d heard that they were reforming with the guy from The Cult, or Danzig, singing for Morrison. I can’t remember if it actually happened, because it’s dumb. But at least with them it was The Doors, they were the dark lords of pop, they backed the Lizard King, they spoke to full legions of stoned and depressed college freshmen. Blind Melon’s claim to fame is an annoyingly poppy song sung with an annoyingly high and nasal voice whose video featured a girl dressed like a bee.

Okay, your singer’s got a little problem with the old cook cook shoot it up and rolls the dice one too many times, but you as a band aren’t ready to call it quits (over ten years later)? I’m not saying to stop playing, but seriously start a new band, and for fucks sake, use a new marketing gimmick.

Joy Division rearranged band duties and focus on keyboards to become New Order. Dave Grohl didn’t let a little self inflicted shotgun death keep him from starting himself a popular little band called The Foo Fighters.

But, I guess it’s gotta be tough to crawl out from beneath the shadow of Shannon Hoon…

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

At A Loss

I’m not really sure what to write about today.

I’m at home today, a Wednesday, as I had to work on Sunday. “What’re you doing for Easter? Are you hiding eggs for your son?” a coworker asked me last Friday. I said no, I will be working.

“Just like Jesus,” replied another coworker.

“I’m no biblical scholar, but I’m pretty sure Jesus did not supervise a call center.”

There’s tortilla soup on the stove that smells spicy and fulfilling, there’s a baby talking low in the next room that makes me smile, there’s a wife who got to take a well deserved nap that I hope keeps her feeling good for awhile.

There’s some reason that the horror that is The Cutting Edge keeps cropping up to haunt me. I recently learned from another cast member that someone had the balls and lack of any artistic integrity to make a part three to this movie. Learning this felt like a combination of the onset of diarrhea, the continuing dread of knowing you will one day die, and the feeling of trying to chew a baby carrot that had apparently fallen into your shirt pocket a week ago and you are finding it now as said shirt has been hanging in the bathroom.

Here’s a picture of a baby carrot that had apparently fallen into my shirt pocket a week ago and I am finding it now as said shirt was hanging in the bathroom:

Mo Money Mandy? Your soul will one day whither and die for the love you harbor for the evil that is The Cutting Edge. But seriously, we should watch the shit out of Saturday The 14th.

Soup’s on…

Monday, March 24, 2008

#2 In The Model Home Series

Okay, quick like bunny…

I had wanted to do a post about Into The Wild which I saw most of last night (I read the book, so I know how it ends), but per my regular poor time management skills, I have run out of time. It’s probably for the best, I need a little more time to think about it.

This is hell week for the show I’m working on, last week of rehearsals leading into two days of 10 hour tech this weekend. This tech weekend will very likely charge me up for an amazing run, or kill my desire for theater all together. It will be the first time we will be using some heavy duty technology that is necessary for the show, and rests solely on my characters shoulders – literally.

While there have been a lot of difficult and negative aspects to this show so far, I am really happy to be part of it. I’m working with a director who I really admire and respect, and a cast (all of whom I have worked with on different projects in the past) that I love being around and getting to play with. This gig does feel really collaborative in a lot of ways. Not only is there this sort “us v. them” feeling to it, but we also got to spend a weekend doing film shoots for fake commercials, one of which I recorded a cheesy, Hessian guitar theme for.

Other than that, just trying to keep in perspective what the day job is actually there for, spend what little time I have with the family and enjoying watching Riley be a beautiful force of nature and Biffy be a beautiful mother.

What else? I fought a huge impulse to force my way into a question and answer session with the CEO today, step to the microphone and do a dramatic reading of “Desperado” by The Eagles. I watched loudQUIETloud, a documentary about the Pixies reunion tour, which I enjoyed thoroughly and highly recommend. If you’re not a Pixies fan, this will probably not change your head, but I do feel it’s important to say that you’re wrong and should suck it. I’m wondering how long it will take before ABC has to officially use quotes around the “stars” in “Dancing With The Stars”.

I am also fairly heavy into the band Cold War Kids right now. And apropos of nothing, have dived into the back catalogue of Guided By Voices while at work yesterday and enjoyed the shit out of it.

That’s it, gotta run. Billy out.

Sunday, March 23, 2008

Gerald Makes It To Seattle

Gerald, the slow rotting Easter Bunny, shambled off of the Greyhound and into the rain slicked streets of Seattle. His exit from the bus was met with a rush of wind as the other passengers, en masse, exhaled sharply.

Reaching into his thrift store satchel, Gerald removed a bottom shelf flask of high octane rum and took a swig.

“I know white wine typically goes better with rabbit, but…” He looked around the dark sidewalk to see if anyone had noticed his biting wit. No one had.

“Seriously? Nothing?”

He squinted his eyes and attempted to focus to the East, noticing how the street climbing up the side of a hill appeared more like a wall from his vantage point. He had secretly been hoping that the “hill” in Capitol Hill was just a name. Tomorrow was the big day, and the syndicate and ordered him to this part of the world. He took another swig and slowly moved his head back and forth, looking for a local. A young Asian man approached and Gerald grabbed his arm.

“Which way is Capitol Hill?”

The young man screwed up his face and swung his head away as if something had just smacked him on the nose. He pointed to the wall road and roughly pulled himself away from Gerald’s grip.

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuck,” Gerald moaned.

Halfway up said hill, Gerald had to stop and lean against a mailbox. He began retching up the rum, as well as most of the 40 he had chugged once the bus got through Portland. Coming from down the hill, Gerald could hear the sharp reports of a whistle. He felt his jaw pop as he clenched it. He stood straight, and looked up at the leather dressed gent blowing on a silver whistle with a coked up glee.

“Hey buddy,” he said.

The guy stopped in front of him, curtailing the shrill sound long enough to say, “you smell like feet and wet dog.”

Gerald grabbed the front of his leather shirt and said, “This ain’t no party, this ain’t no disco, and maybe you didn’t notice from the apartment buildings all around, but it ain’t no fucking rave either.”

A dirt-caked paw smacked the guy’s awe struck face and managed to lodge his little silver whistle into the back of his mouth. He looked as though he was trying to say something, but all that came out was a noise that sounded like tin drowning in a swamp.

Gerald continued on up, smiling slightly at the wet and choking tweets coming from behind. He reached into his satchel and spinning with a grace that was unexpected, and pitching with a power that minor leaguer would have envied, Gerald hurled a hard boiled egg, the color of a clear and early spring sky, straight at the guys face.

“Enjoy your friggin’ Easter!”

Thursday, March 20, 2008

Hey Liza

I hate to be all Naggy McNaggerson, but uh... As we discussed before, there's a hole in friggin' bucket.

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

Time Keeps On Slipping

When I perfect my time travel experiments, I will go back and visit the 16 year old version of me.

Knowing the 16 year old version me, he would probably first ask how I managed the time travel thing so he could then go back in time and pick up the out of print Last American Virgin soundtrack.

I would tell him not to worry about it, that a kindly used record store clerk in Tacoma would locate a copy of it in Portland for him 1989. I would also fret over whether or not to ruin the surprise of the Pixies soon to come his way.

I imagine that 16 year old version of me would ask how being a famous film director was treating me. I have the distinct feeling that when I describe what it his he will be doing for a job 20 years down the road, that 16 year old version of me would kick me straight in the nuts.

I know I would.

As I crumble slowly to my knees, I would whimper out, “you might rethink the film major…”

Monday, March 17, 2008

We Haven't Located Us Yet

I like me some Wes Anderson. Rushmore really surprised me in a way that was exciting. He managed to make this charming, funny and touching movie in a completely stylized way that, when you stop and think about it, shouldn’t work. Typically that sort of stylization feels a little wankery in the hands of lesser artists, but there are those that can pull it off, artists that I respect immensely. David Lynch uses it to sing the signs of his demented dream muse. And I certainly get where people find Stanley Kubrick’s stylized vision distracting and off-putting, but I feel so much control coming through that I know I’m putting myself in the hands of a consummate craftsman. Wes Anderson’s work achieves this strange hyper-realism through its theatrical stylization, and it seems to be alive with a sort of innocence that’s infectious.

He took that stylization even further with The Royal Tenenbaums and again created something that knocked me for a loop. The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou on the other hand didn’t really work for me. I think I was expecting too much and walked away feeling like the emotional pay off he tried to give us in the end was not justified by what had come before. I’ve grown to like it more with further viewings, but it’s been a hard fought like, and not at all the jubilant dance of laughing love his other films were for me. It’s because of that feeling of let down that I put off watching The Darjeeling Limited.

I should not have worried.

I was drawn in and pretty knocked out. I let it sit and brew for a couple of days and then went in for a second helping, and sure enough, it was love alright.

Brief synopsis: Three brothers, still reeling from their father’s death, take a train trip in India to sort things out and to attempt to get close again.

Less brief synopsis: The trip represents a spiritual journey, which is, okay, obvious. In fact I think the characters make no bones about pointing out that they’re striving for a spiritual journey. But the characters self knowledge about this make it unachievable; they’re trying too hard. It’s not until they have been forced out of their schedule and forced into dealing with each other and each others way of grieving that they can begin the actual spiritual journey.

During the train trip, all of the brothers are holding onto base ideas of the physical world; Francis’ need to control every moment, Peter’s holding onto items of clothing and keys that his father left behind, and Jack mired in sexual desire and his father’s literal luggage. The whole ride, the brothers work against each other in pairs in this comical dancing triangle, and if that weren’t enough to derail them, they spend most of their time trying to stay inebriated with Indian pharmaceuticals; consciously or subconsciously trying to avoid this journey. It’s not until the brothers are forced off the train, and literally the moment that they finally lose the printer/laminator that has heretofore made their spiritual journey schedules, that they are set upon the path they need.

David Lynch once described a film as being like a duck, going further to state that with a duck, you couldn’t have the eye anywhere else than where it is. It would get lost if it were on the body, and if it were on the bill you would have two busy things too close to each other… I’ve never fully understood what the hell he was talking about, but I think I got close to understanding it with The Darjeeling Limited. All the moments in the story happened when they were supposed to happen, the characters go through what they are supposed to go through when they need to and when they’re ready for it.

When the brothers first leave the train, they each take part in this ritual with a peacock feather only to learn that they did not know how to do it correctly. Looking back on it, I thought, “well of course they didn’t know how to do it. They hadn’t gone through what they needed to go through yet.” There’s a flashback to a scene of the day of their father’s funeral that comes at the exact right moment of the film, when they’re figuring themselves out, when they’re ready for a second chance at dealing with the feelings they were left with.

This is a wonderfully put together film, and I’m amazingly enamored of it. It brims with this childlike innocence and I’m left gasping even at the fairly obvious symbolism near the end. I once again felt the dizzy combination of humor and drama and poignancy that Mr. Anderson’s other films gave. Most of all, I thought it was a wonderful reminder that life itself is a spiritual journey.

Live it accordingly.

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

The Devil's In The Details

Sometimes I have a devil may care attitude, sometimes a devilish gleam in my eye. I have sympathy for the devil and, a friend of the devil is a friend of mine.

I never really considered The Exorcist a very scary movie; it creeped me out, but I was never really scared by it. I sort of wonder about the “scare” aspect of it now and wonder if people respond more to the fear of a person gone completely out of control – or more specifically, a young girl at the edge of those rebellious teenage years going completely out of control. I remember a conversation I had with a woman during a group dinner in Amsterdam, and she threw out the idea that perhaps The Exorcist didn’t terrify me in the way that it did her, and apparently many others out there, because I was not raised Catholic.

And maybe that’s why the idea of The Devil doesn’t really frighten me at all. I mean besides the fact that I have a hard time not believing that The Devil is a fictional, if not symbolic, character. When I think of The Devil I think of a charming sort of trickster, a dapper gent with a wicked sense of humor. He’s well educated, you bet (in fact, the name Lucifer comes from the word for “light bearing”, and I remember pointing out to one of my professors that there was a "light bearing" lamp in the San Francisco State University logo), a bit blasé about things, and he’s generally a guy I think I would enjoy sitting around and knocking back a few bourbons with.

And maybe that’s the inherent danger with The Devil, maybe he tricks you into thinking that he’s not that dangerous, that there’s nothing to fear. Maybe it’s one of The Devil’s tricks to make us think that he doesn’t exist at all. Maybe, if he wandered the world looking like this I would be more frightened:


But I would probably be more likely to tell him that I dug him more in Rocky Horror…

And maybe it’s dangerous to think of The Devil as a harmless trickster, like it’s dangerous to think of an American president as just moronic when that person is also inept, dangerous, irresponsible and possible a little homicidal. I find it interesting that war and strife for power and money done in the name of righteousness and of God, really seem more like the actions The Devil would dig.

And maybe, just maybe, I don’t have a fear of The Devil because in the back of my mind I have an idea that if this whole Christian end of times things goes down, I’m doomed to be spending a little knockin’ back bourbon time with Big Red. According to a charming little card one of our customers sent to us, I will not be saved for a variety of reasons, but some of the better ones:
“Ever looked with lust? Jesus said lust is the same as adultery. Ever had hatred? God sees hatred as murder of the heart. Ever used God’s name in vain? That’s called blasphemy.”

Have I done these things? God yes. Looked with lust? Three times today, and it’s on my calendar for tomorrow.

Personally, I view The Devil as a great, great fictional character. I mean the guy is used to represent absolute evil, and everyone loves the bad guy. The Devil is the dark side of The Force made flesh, he’s the one who forged the ring of power in the fires of Mt. Doom, he’s Kaiser Soze wrapped in Michael Myers wrapped in the horror understood by Colonel Kurtz.

And I’m not really sure where I’m going with this. Except straight to hell…

Wednesday, March 05, 2008

'Morning

We seemed to fall back into the everyday nonsense of non-Mexico life alarmingly fast. It’s almost as if it were some hazy dream, a Tecate soaked story from the past now reinforced with lies and exaggerations in places where truth would have seemed too commonplace. Strangely, the act of noting it, of remembering it, of throwing it out to an audience seems to have made it fade that much quicker, as if the mind had deigned that I had spent too much time with it despite what the soul had to say about the whole operation.

Anyway, life continued on while I tried to hold onto those barren roads and sunsets a little bit longer.

Kickers has been battling a tag team foe of incoming molars and a flu/cold coughing bonanza that has him upset and throwing tantrums that would be comical if you didn’t simultaneously feel bad for him and want to sell his crying ass to the highest bidder. He would wake himself up coughing, which would start him crying, which would naturally not be conducive to sleeping, and so he would spend the following morning grumpier than papa with a bar brand whisky-beer back hangover on a Tuesday. Not cool.

I already felt bad for the guy. It makes me far happier to see the little man laughing, trying to show you where all the clocks are in the room and dancing up a storm just ‘cause it moves his groovy little soul to do so, than to mope around and stand in a corner crying. Then when I came home from a Sunday work shift, feeling an unholy fire burning in my lungs like I’d inhaled off a pipe filled with wild boar hair, poop and sickness, my sympathy slid slyly to empathy. A fever kicked in, quickly followed up by a soreness and a bad, bad tired. I felt awful and I knew what was going on, it had to suck to have no understanding of why you feel like crap. I wanted to pick up my crying son and somehow find the way to explain to him that it was going to be okay. I tried lying on the couch with him, rubbing his head and humming softly. That was all fine and well until he started coughing so hard he threw up the juice I’d just given him to soothe his throat all over me.

Moving on.

The return to home also brought the start of rehearsals for a new show I’m in this spring. I think it’s going to be an interesting and fun show for people to watch, but it’s a challenging one for me personally for actory-schmactory reasons that few others would probably find interesting. It’s great to get back out onto a stage and be working after taking a couple months off, but it was definitely thrown an already fairly precarious household schedule all kinds of out of whack. Biffy’s handling it like a pro, but I miss her, and I miss the little man (even with the crank and possibility of an unasked for rainbow shower).

But… For as quick as that below the belt hitting sickness came on, it fled almost as fast. I’m not 100%, but feeling damned good compared to Monday. Kickers seems to be feeling better too. As I got dressed for work this morning, I could hear him in his room talking quietly to himself, using a soft melody to chase away the fog, brewing up his own morning song. It makes me want to cry sometimes how beautiful and fragile the world can be.

Last night I watched our director get just angry happy as a scene we were working came together; the timing and movements and characterizations meshing in that way that makes you feel like magic is indeed a real thing. He was up on his feet and in one of those spaces of blind artistic rage that he would have pushed us past all hours of decency to keep this feeling alive and working. And had we not had a rational stage manager to be reminding him of the time, damn it, I think we all would have followed him.

And spring, fuck you, you slinky little, irrepressible whore. You’re a flirt, and lord knows I love to flirt. You had me colder than an ice rectal thermometer this morning, but the sky all pale blues and green shoots scattered around just makes me want to do a little jig down Pike Street, not caring second one how tired I was (or how the Red Red Meat on my headphones was not necessarily something one would jig to).

Sometimes I feel like I’m waking up to the world.