Archive | July, 2013

365, Then What?

31 Jul


Dear The People,

I have 12 days now to go before my year of blogging is up.  “Up”  as in the ticker on my “daily” will have been fulfilled…though “technically,” I’ll be going two days beyond  that, to make up for the two days of consecutive that I missed within the year. (Even though I made it up by double blogging the following day.)

…Because I’m OCD.

Then what?

That is what I’ve asked myself for over a month now.  Because I like to plan ahead. 

Then: what?

365 blogs in a row, every day?  What follows that? 

It’s been a journey of sacrifice, (mostly in sleep), as 2am, backdated postings are more than oft the norm. As are dressing room posts, and posts from bars, and bathrooms and beds and from time-to-time, even the office.  Posting anything, even the completely unextraordinary.  (Mostly that, in fact.)  The point was: could I do it?  Despite schedules. And two jobs, and late nights and a fairly unexciting life? 

…Listen, I’ve blogged about everything from Cheerios to poop to theatre to taking long walks. I don’t have the kind of lifestyle that is required for this kind of medium.  Nor the horrible enough childhood. But I stuck to it anyway.  Because I’m a stubborn asshole.  (We’ve met, this is not news.)  Point is: it did it’s job.  It was a mutherfucking challenge.  For a year. 

…So: now what?

Here’s the good side: Free therapy for an entire year.

…I bluntly shared 90% of my life with you people. And even more difficult than under the masthead of a total stranger, most of my readers actually know who I am.  I’ve protected the identity to all but the Facebook, (where Boss has been blocked.) A google search couldn’t link my name to this blog no matter how hard you try.  On total purpose. But I still know a lot of people. People who read this for reasons I will never understand. People who read this whom I barely know…patrons and one-time show cast members and people I’ve met on the side.  A disconcerting often reality is being actually faced with this.  When (for instance) after a show in the lobby, someone talks about a certain post…or out in the real world, crossing paths in the grocery store, a blog title will pop out from across the aisle, because they KNOW.


Like acting, writing is a naked art. Even the “unartful” kind.  Maybe especially, that kind.

Every. Single. Day. 

…I throw shit out there. Into the blogosphere.  For just ANYONE to read.  Sometimes it’s a basic “nothing.” Sometimes it’s more intimate than I’ve shared with my BFF.  That mental distance between me and a blank internet page is infinitely  (I’ve learned) different from face-to-face.  Let’s face it: for better or for worse…the “internet” is basically the toilet bowl of the world.  Anyone can cough out anything.  And that sort of strange autonomy makes it somehow easier.

…It’s “easier.”

…But I’ve learned, by doing it for a solid year…by reading others who have done the same…by the shared art of the “artform” …(which it very much is: an “artform.”)  I have learned it takes a certain talent to communicate the average Joe’s highs and lows to the world at large, and make it matter. 

I am not a master, by any means. 

…But in one year I have accumulated well over 12,000 reads, (where my last blog in three years time only had acquired 3,000.) 

I’m learning.

I’m growing.

It’s an artist’s job.

I’m doing what I’m supposed to.  But I don’t always know the “next” part. 

…We rarely do.

Huge part “fate,” huge part “luck”…my field runs this race as a general profession. 

I know it well. 

…I spring-train the fuck outta myself for it.

But you still never quite “know.”

…And I don’t.

What’s “next”?

Will I keep at it?  Will it be daily, or weekly, or monthly?

…Would anyone really care but me?

Listen, I’ve learned so much from you.  Just by the reading.  WHAT you read.  WHAT you comment on. And WHY.

…It somehow, has really come to matter to me.  And that was never the “intent.”  But as I watch my stat scores, it makes my mind wander…

…”So you had a bad day too?”, I think.

…”So you suck at dating as well?”

…”So Behind-the-scene theatre is a real-world curiosity?”

…”So ‘process’ is a through-line artistic goal?”

…”So a bad day…even worst…can still be ‘funny.'”

You have all taught me so very much this year.  I feel you deserve drop-cred on my resume.

And this is all  to say: Thanks. 

To the new friends, barely acquaintances and all. 

My Teachers (aka readers): I salute you.


Sleepy Times Shakes

30 Jul


Can’t. Keep. Eyes. Open.

…Spent my blogging time working on a guest writing piece for a theatre company.

Conclusion: It’s weird writing for someone else. Going back to academic essaying legit vs the SWAL voice I’ve been talking in for the past year: also weird.

…I really need to branch out more. Like, in general.

Meanwhile…how about that Julius Caesar?! Shakespeare: a real ballbuster, am I right?!


Miracle Cheerios

29 Jul


I have these miracle Cheerios at the office. 

…If I were to guess on the conservative side for their date of purchase, I would place it sometime last year.  For certain, no earlier than Christmas.  I know this, as it was part two of a Costco box, and that was the last time I frequented said bulk-everything establishment.

Now, I dunno how or why…but when I was forced to dip into the bag again today (as a default lunch), the fuckers still crunch as loud as ever they did, and are minus any kind of stale or strange other funk one would for sure expect by this time in it’s expiration date.  Maybe the plastic around said Cheerios is made of the same special preservatives as English skin….like whatever they dipped Helen Mirren in.  Or Sophia Loren’s boobs. Or peanut butter. I dunno. 

…I also dunno why God, (who sorta has a lot of things going on at the moment) would take time out of his busy day to miracle-dose, said bag of Cheerios, specifically…but he clearly has, and did.  At this point, they are just shy of the death-without-deterioration laws that the Catholics set aside as Incorruptible.

…They could practically be canonized.  Right now.

These Cheerios are special. 

…They have been set aside as a kind of on-going residual food-source, whenever I am in need of one, and even when handfuls are subtracted, seem to hold the same bag-filling volume, ongoing to infinity.

At this point: they are a supernatural wonder.  For which I am thankful.

…May they so continue in their ongoing quest of emergency nourishment.

Forever and ever…

…(or at least ’til I remember to buy a new one.)



Bookin It

28 Jul


Sleep was a total exercise in futility.

When everything hurts from moving 12 times your body weight across 9 or so hours…”rest” isn’t gonna happen.  Just throbbing fucking everything.

…By 7:30 am, I gave up, dragged my pillow to the couch and screamed as I sank into the couch cushions.  Then, I yelled again as I got up for tea about half an hour later, then again, about thirty minutes after that. By 10:00, I was exhausted further, just from hurting.  The actual act of “hurting.” 

Rejoining the world at-large, I managed to finally brush my teeth, and joined Ma at the town house to art direct one of her main bookcase walls in the living room.

…I do love me an architect who sinks a full wall of shelving into a home for the pure purpose of showing off as many sexy volumes of classic, bound text, in as many genres as you can fathom.  Directing that to look like just the cluttered, half-hazard home to an eccentric Lit Professor, takes time. Hours and hours of it. Luckily, its something I totally dig doing, and it was the right amount of light physical manual labor to help loosen the death-clutch of muscle seizure, but not influence anything further.

Done, and done.

…And so is m’day.

Off for some more “Studio 60,” and yelling in pain, as I flip flop back and forth on the sofa.

Being out of shape really blows, you guys.



27 Jul


You know when you realize that your eyelashes don’t hurt…only because they are the only things that don’t?

…Yeah. I’m there.

In about twenty minutes, I hope to have shut today down, and call it “yesterday.” 

…Meanwhile, Ma begins a new life in a new town house. A charming place in Old Towne…just on the waterfront…a location she’s only wanted to live in, the whole of her life.

Welcome home, Ma. And good sleeps to us all.

…Dear lord, how I hurt.


Attack Of The Eyeball

26 Jul


Accidentally slept in my contacts last night.

My eyes have been wrongish all day…constantly clouding over, dry and scratchy, and for the past hour or so…refusing to focus almost entirely. Finally taking the contacts out just now, felt like I was peeling my corneas off. 

…There’s a lot of bloodshotness there.

…They also feel like they’re packin’ 25 lb weights per lid, and keep creeping downward, even though it’s only 11 pm.

In this case, I feel I shouldn’t fight it. Tomorrow is Ma’s moving day, and that woman has more furniture, books and other 5 tons weight accumulators than most of the people you will ever meet.

…I already need coffee, just thinkin’ about it.


Vicious Cycles Of Don’t-Careism

25 Jul



Am seriously having the hardest time focusing today. 

…It’s taken me three times as long to do everything here at the office because from the moment I walked in, I have been sidetracked with not caring.

Now, you have to understand: I never *really* “care” about this place, or my job in it…but there *is* some strange form of satisfaction in flashing through a shit ton of paperwork and having that “to be filed” stack grow at alarming rate.  It has nothing to do with the pride in what I do here, and everything to do with the OCD sense of contented accomplishment at a full and messy inbox, being organized and processed into an alpha-ready stack in the outgoing pile.

…But today, even the OCD has taken a holiday.

I’ve spend countless chunks of time just staring out the lobby windows, for instance.  Every time I walk by them.  Just staring.  There is nothing out there to look at really…just a graffitied train tunnel to one side, and our cars cooking in the sun on the front lot, out the other.  But that doesn’t seem to keep me from looking anyway.

…Have been through all the coffee as well.  The entire pot, minus one mug’s worth, claimed by the WHS Pimp when he could manage to pry my fingers off the handle.

…Then, one of the WHS Pimps peeps went on a donut run…so that was more time spent doing nothing…staring into a box of fried dough while trying to mentally negotiate which of them would be “healthier than the others” based on weight-mass, and added sprinkle/icing content, versus the other ones.  You know…because of all that fitness shit I’m supposed to be caring about right now.

Then there was the FBing…across about three hours.

…Constant update alerts kept distracting me from the Open Order Report…which I felt obligated to attend to, as most of them were either featuring something I’d posted myself, or a comment I’d made on someone elses…when I should have been working earlier, but was too busy trolling streams at the time.

Vicious cycle.

…And now the excuse is: I’m freezing. 

It’s prob’ly 80 degrees outside (which feels, I dunno…110 to the average Washintonian)…so the WHS Pimp put the air conditioner on at like nine a.m.  I’m in flip flops and a t-shirt, with still damp-from-this-morning’s-shower hair.  I’ve been cold for 3 solid hours.  To combat this, I feel the need to get up from the desk and do “walk-abouts”…tours of the office, and lobby and whs to get my blood pumping.  Which then leads me (inevitably) to the windows, where I stare out in long chunks of time, before reloading my coffee cup, going back to the tablet on my desk to respond to a “ding” notification alert, and forget what I was doing before this last “mini-break” starting…about fifteen minutes ago.

…At this point, I feel it’s just futile, and I should give up.

Fuck it.

Clearly, the brain just DID NOT get out of bed today. It’s still at home under the covers…way more warm than I’ve been for the past three hours…reading a book maybe, while drifting lightly in and out of consciousness.

…Meanwhile, here sits my body.

…With four more hours of painful attempting to focus and give a shit, still ahead.

…Kinda like one of Ma’s brutal Holiday “Lord of the Rings” fests.

Dear Lord.

It could *actually* be worse than this.

(shakes head.)


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