Fit My Bits

23 Jun

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Post-show bad-eating, booze-swilling, and couch-reading, has added another requirement to the Super-Awesome-Life-Plan-Reboot.

…In the end, it was cheaper to not buy an entire wardrobe in a fatter size, than to invest in a thing which can actually shrink me.

Up til now, I’ve always relied on free fitness apps to get my ass in gear,  my body watered, my eating reigned in, and my booze intake under the “daily alcoholic ” label. But with no theatre at night, no line-learning pacing by day, no show-specific in-shape requirement, and stacks and stacks of plays to read and break down for monologues, I’ve become such a sedentary blob, my body is literally oozing up and out of my clothing like I’m the Michelin Man.

Currently at the heavest weight-mass in my life…it’s really a lot not good.

…Obviously, I needed a new plan for that too.

…And so: welcome The Fitbit.

…A thing I must wear in punishment, to remind me constantly…like a voluntary self-branding. Because when thin people wear a Fitbit, it’s cuz they’re conscientious and, well… “fit.” When a chunky person wears it, it’s like a final plea for help. It means we know we cannot be trusted to moderate and motivate and follow thru on the other eight million free ways to keep in shape. We have to drop a chunk of change on a thing that sits on our person and lights up and buzzes and links to our phones and computers, so no matter where we go: it’s there. Watching us.

…Like that 80’s stalker song…

…Every move I make, every breath I take, he’ll be watching me…

…Which is exactly WHY he was necessary.

A wearing, staring object that cost money. I cannot afford to ignore it. I must live up to it’s requirements, or like a child, it will shit all over me…with terrible stats, bad sleep, an an embarrassing tan line if I take it off and pretend it never existed…just to escape the wearing-shame.

…Don’t think I haven’t thought about it, don’t think I haven’t planned. I understand the responsibility now before me, I get the motivational heft…I have already turned down sodas, Costco muffins, Hawaiian chips, and fast food of every archetype, and that is only at work…since Monday.

(…Im pretty sure it’s Tuesday now. So…that might explain a major source of how I got so goddamn fat to begin with…but anyway, I digress…)

Point is: I smell/see/hear the taunting foods, I look down at m’damn wrist, I whisper, “oh shut up,” or “effe you,” and take another swig of water.

It may be only day two, but it’s better than ground zero.

…15,847 steps…and counting…

~D

(* In all seriousness, this gadget is pretty freakin sweet. Glad I joined the fad on this one…accountability is tops!)

Money Trickery

19 Jun

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I am a grown-up person, in America, without Savings or a Credit Card.

…I’m not bragging. This is just fact.

…And it gets worse.

…My desk job of 8 years, only barely covers my living expenses, and theatre pays dick…so other than my refund tax write-offs every year (for being a professionally poor artist), I accrue very little not already-spoken-for dollars.

…Spoken-for, kidnapped, sucked away, blown out my car’s ass…it’s all the same, really.

(…Which explains why I haven’t been on a real vacation since 2009…but, anyway.)

…The deal is, I need something like half a grand to do what I need to do this year, with my Super-Awesome-Goal-Reboot plan…Which in my world, might as well be half a million.

…I need headshots, and travel change, and gas bucks, and hotel fees…things not negotiable in “plan variance.” I mean, I’m a person who lives on a College kid budget of dollar menus and Safeway 10-for-10 deals. Which is fine, except when you obliterate a tire on the freeway, annihilate your last good bra in a show, they hike up the rent, or your phone dies.

Or you get a burr up your ass to get the hell outta here and really do something with your life.

Because there is no budget for these things, (and no plastic to charge it to)…I am forever playing “rob Peter to pay Paul,” in a sort of a never ending carousel ride of overdrafts and late fees. None of which, help.

…So today, with goal-time ever sneaking nearer, I paid the absolute essentials and opened a totally non-related, in no way linkable, super secret, far away account…which is so exclusively a pain in the ass to get to, or claim money from, that once I’ve written a check to myself and app-deposited it into the account…it might as well be in Switzerland.

…I mean, I did extra research to make sure it was as inconvenient as possible, on purpose.

…Which means I’ll be even poorer. The “Peter/Paul” dilemma will undoubtably arrise at one point or ten, but my closet account in Bocca-New-Zealand-Bucharest, will grow slowly, despite.

So that’s done!

Now, off to invest in bulk pasta, canned beans, and boxed rice!

How do you fund your American Dream©?

~D

Orange Is The New Orphan Black

17 Jun

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…You know those days when you’ve lived about three lifetimes before 10 a.m.?

…All week.

It’s Wednesday.

…I’ve been trying to escape to worse realities than my work-life, by hitting up “Orphan Black” and “Orange Is The New Black” Season 3’s respectively. Episode after episode, like a crack-junkie…complete with falling asleep, waking up to them still playing on my phone at 2 am, rebooting and falling asleep to them  again, because I can’t NOT watch them…even when I’m exhausted.

…I do this and tell myself, “Well, at least you aren’t sleeping on a mattress made of maxi pads…” “At least psycho militant clones aren’t out to harvest your uterus and fallopian tubes…” “At least you don’t make 65 cents a day sewing panties, with a side business flipping inmate-used ones on the internet. ” “At least you haven’t changed wigs five times today, to play other versions of yourself with your actual life depending on not fucking up who is which.”

…It’s so bad, I’ll put it on freeze to eat an egg sandwich over the sink as fast as I can, so I can go back and finish streaming Cosima cutting a scalp off and ripping out the brain, without vomiting all over my couch.

…It’s so bad, the dark shitty life of lock up, makes me laugh like I have an unrealistic bond with murders, and find watching their social politics as intriguing and All-American, as “The West Wing.”

…Anyway, it makes for surreal sleeping patterns, and stream-of-consciousness, at a slight delay of reality.

Case in point: Monday morning, when I pulled in and parked next to a Forensic Van in our sales lot.

…I mean, in the past 12 hours, people had been locked in desert jails, used gnawed off rib bones as keys, folded under the influence of talking scorpions, undergone experimental brain treatments, and got mysterious red-eye diseases that like a week ago would have REALLY freaked me the fuck out. Not to mention: survived face-crushing, and rape, committed multiple homicides, built shanks out of lollipops, brewed alcohol out of prison fruit, and attempted suicide with depression meds.

So what is a Forensic Van compared to that??

…Then I remembered: I don’t have a talking scorpion, genetic freak-mutation, or diseased eye-balls after all…and my street cred doesn’t depend on used underware and Raumen noodle spice packets. A Forensic Van on a Monday is prob’ly a pretty big deal. I mean: when you’re in a consignment industry.

…This did not stop me, however, from climbing the steps over piles of wall-pieces and crap all over the walk, and bracing myself for (hopefully) not a lot of blood.

…The thing being: I was prepared, totally prepared for blood. And possibly a dead body. Or maybe several. And pretty physically self-secure in the fact I could shove any improvised weapon into any body part with a dead-eyed fierceness, impaling without impunity…like they’d stolen my soap to use without asking, and left an errant pube on it. (That shit costs money! Commissary your own, bitches!)

…Like those idiots you scream at in horror movies…I was sucked into my dark fake TV world’s, and totally just kept on walking, as if it was no big deal…side-stepping all the signs pointing to the possibility that it might be. And also, this was “real life.”

…Because here’s the thing: Violence, well written black comedic irony, and Sci-Fi DO deaden your realistic reactions.

Obviously.

…I mean, it wasn’t even 8 a.m., and like some kind of animatronic idiot, I totally just went for it…for whatever I’d find , like those stupid cheerleader/babysitters in every scream-movie ever.

…Which ended (thankfully) at an anticlimax, finding only a robbery.

(…We’ll talk about how a robbery is an anticlimax, some other time.)

…Meanwhile, the Tuesday that followed was so awesomely terrible, even possible-homicide-Monday was better, so Wednesday had to win in the “less shitty” department…and how you know is: no one got arrested or punched in the face.

…Also, today is when I hit the amazing call-to-arms Piper panty monologue, (with heightened musical underscore, which I have dubbed the Henry V battle cry of 2015), and laughed so hard I had to watch it twice in a row, to actually hear it.

…Which quite possibly saved my entire day.

…Which, in context, is pretty tragic actually. But it’s better to laugh till you cry about underware, than accept an office day at face value.

…Also, “Can I go, now that I’ve watered your ego-flower,” is like my new favorite always-phrase. I shall use it constantly, when Corporate returns next week.

…Anyway, in my head.

~D

The One With The Diseased Eye

8 Jun

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By the time I finally work myself up enough to actually go to a Doctor, I might be almost dieing, and am for sure feeling like third week hairy left-overs in a fridge. My fear of those bastards and the wrong -smelling world they live in, is such, that I’ve for sure lost multiple days of sleep and might even be on the way to an Anxiety melt-down about some Google-disease I’m convinced I have, by the time I finally walk (or crawl ) into their doors.

…And so it was today, with my diseased left eyeball.

On day three, night two, of crap sleep ever since I woke up Saturday with a red veigney eye from outta nowhere…which no drop or salve seemed able to cure…I finally gave up today, and got an appointment to the eye Doc, where they poked, shined lights, poked, folded my eyelids back and scraped at em, poked, dropped fizzy hurt-drops in, poked, and ended up with the conclusion that they didn’t know what was going on, but there was no disease/object/infection they could find…so I should go home, and come back later, if it kept hurting and being red or got worse.

…Which (even with full medical) cost me $50. $50, so they could make my eyeball feel worse than when I walked in, with promise that I’d come back for more, if it didn’t start feeling better, totally on it’s own at some point in the next several days.

I effing hate that shit.

…I hate that they never give you cold meds on first doctor visits anymore. I hate it that they soak you with PPO fees. I hate it that whether they find nothing, or something, their prescription of “come back later” is mostly all you get.

…Come back and spend more money you haven’t got, when you are already feeling for-shit, else why the hell would you even be there to begin with?!?

…Me and my pinched-squinting, sandpaper, blurry-haloed eyeball are now both pissed and irritated, that I’ve farted away all my damn lunch money for the week, because like an idiot, I tried to be proactive (three days later) and maybe manage to save my eyeball from some potentially horrible disease-fate. Instead, I’m just poorer, and my eyeball thinks I’m a total asshole for putting him through all that extra stress and pain for nothing.

…Meanwhile, my backup glasses are two prescriptions old, I can’t read anything, and the TV is blurry from the couch.

…Also, it’s like REALLY EFFING UNREASONABLY HOT RIGHT NOW.

…Stupid “all the things!”

~D

If It Doesn’t Scare The Crap Outta You…

3 Jun

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I don’t like new things. 

You know this about me. 

…However, my post-BD, Super-Awesome-Life-Reboot requires new goals and new challenges in order to move forward and thrive, so I am actually surrounded by “new,” researching “new,” and actively hoping to bust my ass so hard, that my entire life will change within like one year.

…None of that is normal for me.

…In fact, frankly, it is downright terrifying. 

…If all goes well, the best-case scenario has me leaving my job, my apartment, my friends, my family…in fact the entire state, and relocating to a place where I know no one at all, but with freedom to apply 1000% of my being to art.

…And the worst case scenario is: I do all the same amount of work-prep, don’t get the gig, but still continue to slam my head against the “opportunity” wall, until I do.

…Which could be… I dunno…years?

I’m in a section of my life where basically, I’m just gonna be scared shitless no matter what I do, because it all comes with gigantic odds and gigantic repercussions.  And if I DON’T take the chances …right now…well, that comes with gigantic repercussions too.

…Mostly involving life-long depression, blatant alcoholism, and prob’ly a weight gain of like 500 lbs.  I’m sorta not too stoked about that life-version…which means I gotta do the other thing, and I gotta do it now, and I’m basically twitching with “oh-shit-ness” at the thought of whatever outcome pops up, either way.

Do you know what I mean?

Presently, we are in “prep,” the early Phase 1 of the plan…which is the only thing I excel in. Research. I am BANGIN’ at research.  Currently reading the world-over of scripted works…anything people will throw at me, pulling massive chunks of monologues, compiling, categorizing, and editing like a machine.  Phase 2 begins next week with piece-prep for Phase 3, which are initial Season Generals for Theatre #1.  Which is only really a grand-gesture-prep for Season Generals at Theatre #2: my actual ending goal, several months from now.

…All of which could be side-swiped at any time based on slot availability, willingness to see me based on resume and head shot alone, and…well…being up against a whole HELL of a lot of people for not a whole hell of a lot of casting slots.

…And in my head, I am all the while trying to balance the cheerleader, the reasoning practical entity, and the fall-out voice in my head…so as to be prepared for whatever occurs at whatever time…which for me, feels like saying goodbye forever to loved ones, before undergoing the knife in a basic surgery…just in case I die.

…Because that is how my brain works, friends.  It’s always all or nothing.  Which makes this new current Reboot downright fucking terrifying.

…Meanwhile, (in the real world)…today is  just a Wednesday in June.

It’s a lot of work, being me.

~D

Reboot

2 Jun

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Hi, remember me? I was this person you knew once…used to read my stuff, prob’ly cuz it made you feel like a normal put-together human who has way less issues than…well…me? Yeah, I’m still here.

My last fresh-start month wasn’t so fresh, so I decided to go dormant for a bit, sleep off the hangover it left behind (so to speak)…and now, look! It’s a new month again! Reboot 2.0! And I really mean it this time.

…Truth is, I’ve missed you. Ten or twenty times I could have used you as a good blow out exercise…but instead, I finished the show, made some new plans, went with Cecil on a mini Vaca, and came back with some super specific purpose.

I HAVE A PURPOSE!

…And now, it’s time to blog again.

…Mostly influenced by the reemergence of our friend, the home-challenged-cross-dressing-sex-working-substance-abuse-filled-office-neighbor* (*formerly known as “The Tunnel Tranny.”)

He came back today.

Retook up residence by the overpass tunnel, just outside our office. Cecil was excited, inquiring if he was “the” T.T. of previous blog-note. The WHS Pimp swears it is, and I suppose with the like-hours they worked in this space, he aughta know. Though for a while, I debated the fact. Despite his women’s tracksuit jacket, and proclivity to pose in random very specific postures, he would hold through out the day, as if for a photo shoot…or a ghost class of artists studying his form.

…Mostly I denied it, because the T.T. was never present and “about” during my hours of operation. And this gentleman very much was. In fact, across six hours today, (wherein he only moved from his spot just opposite our window once, during a momentary downpour), he was exceedingly present.

He was coversational…(to the air)…had several loud political debates (with a bug?), rehearsed his flirting and solicitation come-ons (with the fluted wall), and conducted his own dance party, during what we chose to take as our coffee break…so we could watch.

(…Dude had some mad hip-hop, Beyonce-bustin’ skills, is all I’m sayin’…)

…And as we watched him, sing his songs, direct from his probably drugged-out head, and get down with his bad self, grinning like a five-year-old kid, I turned to Cecil at her desk:

Me: Lookit this guy. He has no rent, no car, no credit cards, no bills, no job, no responsibilities… it’s 10 a.m. on a Tuesday, and he’s singing a song and dancing like a rockstar, while we dumbasses just watch from our hell-hole office, like animals in a cage. Something is super, super wrong with this picture.

Cecil: (with a sigh, and momentary glance of longing his way) Yeah…

…Which is to say, “there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio…” And if that guy can find ’em and make ’em work for him, so damn well can I!

The end.

~D

Dear Kid I Used To Know

27 Apr

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Dear Kid I Used To Know,

If life is like one giant road trip, with a series of sightseeing tours along the way, you are seeing what 34 years and 364 days looks like, talking back at you, right now.

…And I need you to listen to me.

Tomorrow is a big day for you. It was supposed to be this giant arrival on a certain shore of new world launching and possibility. But from where I sit now, in the drivers seat, looking back at you through the rearview mirror, I gotta be real, and tell you: “I know you planned far ahead and worked really hard to prepare for every contingency, but we aren’t gonna make that boat, kid.”

…We’re still miles and miles behind on an interstate in the middle of two towns called  “Somewhere” and “Somewhere Else.” But tomorrow when you wake up all excited in the back seat and ask, “Are we ‘There’ yet?!?!” I’m gonna have to say “no.” And you are really gonna be pissed about it.

…But that’s why I’m writing you this letter.

I need you to hear me out.

Back when you were…well, you.…when you picked this specific destination and this specific age, it was decades before GPS and traffic bing alerts on Smartphones. Back then it was just you, a paper map, and a fist full of highlighters, attacking it with gusto and specifying the route you wanted to take to get to this big destination.

..Like everything else in life…like the homework you always did immediately to get it out of the way like the overly long essays you wrote, like the month-long projects you did in a day…like all that prep and plotting would fill every contingency.

But then, you were just a damn kid.

…You didn’t even know how to drive, let alone realize the effects of pissing down rain on the roadways, or flat tires, rocks smashing your windshield, or rush hour. You had no way of knowing, with just your paper map, the fierce amount of road work, and detours taking you five miles out of your way, that would come up over and over and over again…not to mention accidents, (yours and other people’s) which would affect heavily your mileage per day average …until year after year, little by little, these life hazards and biways had inadvertently brought you to today: miles and miles still out from your x-marked spot, circled and highlighted all to hell, like it was the 4th of July on parchment.

…Well, kid…what I can tell from here, right now in this drivers seat, to you in the rearview reflection behind me, is that shit happens. Life doesn’t always pan out how you want it to, even if you preplan the hell out of it.

(…And had you learned THAT sooner, we BOTH would have had an easier time of it…)

…But I don’t wanna beat up on you about it…I can’t charge you for the landslide (or twelve) we hit on the way. It isn’t your fault. And it’s only partially mine.

I can take some of the blame, but I will not take all of it. I am only human, and I made some wrong turns and bad detours, but we all do. And this is me, telling you: Kid I Used To Know, I am tired of feeling like a failure because every green light wasn’t with us, and every day wasn’t sunny and clear with nothing but miles of open road ahead.

…Life didn’t turn out that way.

…But what at six years old and sixteen looks like some kind of end-all, be-all place forever away enough to have reached and figured all of life out (aka: age 35), looks a whole hell of a lot different in viewpoint when you look at it from 34 and 364 days.

…I don’t wanna scare the hell out of you, but the amount of shit that is gonna hit the fan for you, ‘tween then and now, is pretty significant and life-altering. But what you can take some solace in, is that you will have made it this far, and the motor’s still running…so we have that working for us.

…We may not have reached this sailing, but the trip isn’t over yet. I’m not done fighting to get there, and it isn’t the only boat, nor is a boat the only way to get where you and I wanna be. So let’s be a team in this thing, grant me some slack tomorrow…it’ll be hard enough to face…I need you on my team.

…Alright?

…Now get back to your book, we’ve got a lot of road to cover, and it’s a clear, sunny day.

I’ll tell you when we get there.

…Til then, enjoy the read. You always did.

~D

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