10 Top 10s: 2007

Top Ten Books:
1. White Noise by Don DeLillo
2. A Million Little Pieces by James Frey
3. A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole
4. The Crying of Lot 49 by Thomas Pynchon
5. Quiet Days in Clichy by Henry Miller
6. The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan
7. Welcome to the Monkey House by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
8. Godel, Escher, Bach by Douglas Hofstadter
9. My Cousin, My Gastroenterologist by Mark Leyner
10. The Universe in a Nutshell by Stephen Hawking, Ph.D.

Top Ten Films:
1. Oldboy (2003)
2. Road to Perdition (2002)
3. Across The Universe (2007)
4. The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
5. Battle Royale (2000)
6. Sullivan's Travels (1941)
7. Paths of Glory (1957)
8. Withnail & I (1987)
9. Holy Mountain (1973)
10. 300 (2007)

Top Ten Documentaries:
1. A Certain Kind of Death (2003)
2. Air Guitar Nation (2006)
3. Born Rich (2003)
4. Z Channel: A Magnificent Obsession (2004)
5. Wordplay (2006)
6. Jesus Camp (2006)
7. Rize (2005)
8. Missing Victor Pellerin(?) (2006)
9. Ringers: Lord of the Fans (2005)
10. Devil's Playground (2002)

Top Ten Songs:
1. Icky Thump - The White Stripes
2. King of Carrot Flowers (Pt. 1) - Neutral Milk Hotel
3. Kick Push - Lupe Fiasco
4. Hang Me Up to Dry - Cold War Kids
5. Martha My Dear - The Beatles
6. Dashboard - Modest Mouse
7. Lazy Eye - Silversun Pickups
8. Stronger - Kanye West f/Daft Punk
9. Can You Feel It? - The Apples In Stereo
10. Hard Sun - Eddie Vedder

Top Ten Albums:
1. In The Aeroplane Over the Sea - Neutral Milk Hotel
2. Eponymous (The White Album) - The Beatles
3. Icky Thump - The White Stripes
4. Gadzooks!!! The Homemade Bootleg Album - Mojo Nixon
5. Infinity On High - Fall Out Boy
6. Bone Machine - Tom Waits
7. God Ween Satan The Oneness - Ween
8. This American Life 2006 Live Tour - Ira Glass et al.
9. The Wall - Pink Floyd
10. Pet Sounds - The Beach Boys

Top Ten Episodes of House, M.D.
1. The Jerk - Season Three
2. Three Stories - Season One
3. Pilot - Season One
4. Son of a Coma Guy - Season Three
5. Maternity - Season One
6. House vs. God - Season Two
7. Detox - Season One
8. Deception - Season Two
9. Airborne - Season Three
10. No Reason - Season Two

Top Ten Moments
1. Sitting on my rooftop listening to iTunes on random while the sky erupted in the most amazing electrical storm in history.
2. Watching Ms. Dork Femme become an honest woman to one of the coolest Canadian cats ever spawned (Love you Karen & Phil).
3. "Didn't I see you on TV?" -- A witness offering redemption after Blue Man Group became the biggest train wreck.
4. A long-lost friend, a brand-new Beatles movie, and the evening of conversations that made my whole year.
5. The slobbering, snot-nosed emotional semi-breakdown while making my grilled cheese, leading to my first therapy session.
6. The incredible yet subtle chain of events which ended up with my brief stint in the fashion industry.
7. Dropping Saks Fifth Avenue and picking up the actor's life again, all in the same day.
8. 1:30 am at the Des Plaines Police Station, detained by a noisy muffler, when hours earlier I portrayed one of the boys in blue.
9. Mr. Coffee Shop Owner offering me his venue after a reading of just one monologue of an (as of yet) unfinished one-man-show.
10. "Then slip, SLAM, right onto the brick."

Top Ten Lessons Learned
1. Speak your dreams to everyone.
2. Opportunities abound everywhere.
3. Talent requires direction.
4. You are never alone.
5. I Deserve Better
6. Imagine three steps ahead.
7. This does not belong to you.
8. Celibacy can be unavoidable.
9. It's like spinning plates.
10. Think for yourself or think for no one.

Top Ten Random Things
1. Ringing ear flare-ups
2. The square root of 3 (1.732...)
3. Saturn Return
4. Saturday Morning NPR
5. Plow pose
6. Gravity bongs
7. "Jus' sooth a' Glasgow."
8. Crawfish Monica
9. Grey goo and Xeno's paradoxes
10. The dumpster behind Staples

Top Ten People I Didn't Mention Enough
1. Barkme Laughing Wolf & Bridgit Wolf -- Though I resembled furniture whenever I came over, I thank you for not treating me as such. And Barkme: Thanks for encouraging my wacky side. Whenever, wherever, however.
2. Nicole Zurek -- We didn't communicate all too often but your presence was felt every day. Thank you for being the beacon of direction through the ebb and flow of the year.
3. Kate Lesciotto -- For the evenings out to dinner in Evanston, I can't thank you enough. For the fallout of the past two weeks, I can't ask for more forgiveness.
4. Jennifer Veselsky -- When in the name of god's green earth are you coming home sell the house pack up the kids grab jeff caravan all night come home we miss you right now right now right now.
5. Chris Isaacs & Dana Hannon -- Thanks for putting up with a crude glue-eating Scottish lad & for letting him wreak a little havoc at the beer tent. Miss you guys. Viva NOLA.
6. Hermann -- My beloved screaming-red '93 Volvo 850 GLT. Sputters to a start but never fails to turn over, with a yawp like a low-flying Cessna. Hail to the Prince of Cars.
7. Cortney McKenna -- I suck at returning phone calls, but that didn't dismay you from trying. A dedicated & talented actress, I'm honored to say I shared a stage with you.
8. Christine Strejc -- The only one who can get me dressed in fairy wings and knickers for an audience. Thanks for always giving me a role when no one else would. And here's to our new project together.
9. Jen King -- Actually, I did mention you enough this year. More than most. You survived the epic that was 2007. Good for you, Jen. Good for you. Hold on tight, though, next year's gonna rock.
10. Chelsea Knight -- For telling your story, for sharing your plight, for doing all you can with what you have to stay legit. Don't know where you are. Really wish I did. Think you deserve the best.

I Am Mine

This one's for you.
You know who you are.


The selfish, they're all standing in line
Faithing and hoping to buy themselves time
Me, I figure, as each breath goes by
I only know my mind

North is to South what the clock is to time
There's East and there's West and there's everywhere life
I know I was born and I know that I'll die
The in-between is mine
I am mine

And the feeling, it gets left behind
All the innocence, lost at one time
Significant, behind the eyes
There's no need to hide
We're safe tonight

The ocean is full 'cause everyone's cryin'
The Full Moon is looking for friends at high tide
The sorrow grows bigger when the sorrow's denied
I only know my mind
I am mine

And the meaning, it gets left behind
All the innocents lost at one time
Significant, behind the eyes
There's no need to hid
We're safe tonight

And the feelings that get left behind
All the innocence broken with lies
Significance, between the lines
We may need to hide

And the meanings that get left behind
All the innocents lost at one time
We're all different behind the eyes
There's no need to hide
We're safe tonight.


thank you, e.v.

Sous-marin

I have nothing worth writing.
Tons of ideas, plenty of drafts.
Nothing completed nor worth sharing.

I'm lost. And going dark.
What does any of this mean?
Why do I do what I do?
Where is this coming to?
Nothing.

Don't like this.
Bad scene.
Limp.

Going under for a little while.
Let you know when I surface.

About Time

When I make it big...

I don't imagine there will be a deluge of congratulations. There will be some hugs, a couple phone calls. The website will take a few more hits, and perhaps people will write more comments.
E-mail. Yay.
Maybe some more people will acknowledge me in the streets. More guys will posture nervously and more girls will bat me an eye when I walk by. My family and friends will be glassy-eyed, faces stuck in a smile.
I will get sick of the phrase,
"I am so proud of you!"
This will happen. But it's not that much. It's just Step 2 to my Step 1.

This, I imagine, will happen more.

There will be an immediate line of people, single-file. Each of them wear angry faces, sharpened eyebrows and upturned lips. One-by-one they step up to meet me.
A slap on the back.
Another slap on the back.
Hands smacking my back. A couple land on my head. My shoulders. Chest. Cheek. Someone punches. Hands grasp and grab. Throttle me. Choke. A slam to the gut. Fist in my balls.
Some heel strikes the back of my knee and I go down. And then the kicking. Base of the spine. Foot up my ass. Knocking the wind out of me. Their endless faces seething, fright wigs of disbelief.
I'll never stop hearing the phrase,
"It's about damn time!"

This won't happen. But I'll feel it. It's what keeps me from taking that step.

Got Nothin' Today

Got another IIDDI,WW story all in the works.

Didn't make enough time to get it all out.


See you in a couple days.

Cosmic Irony?

You be the judge.


The below stories are true.

24/October/2007
11:38 pm

I am sitting on a cold metal bench in an abandoned Police Station on the South Side of Chicago. It is the set of Chicago Overcoat. I am decked out in full cop regalia: Badge, nameplate, regulation blue shirt, utility belt, walkie-talkie, and even a replica 9mm pistol. I look good. It is the first film set I've been on all year and it feels like home. A bunch of us actors and extras sit in the "greenroom" area swapping glory stories of near-misses with celebrities and being spotted by random people. Most everyone is just scratching for screen time but I'm one of the very few who's collecting a paycheck. Craft services is overflowing with snacks, food, fruits and veggies, gum, and there's even a fully catered meal. There's no real name actors on set today, but rumors abound of Sopranos regular Frank Vincent and '50s crooner/Jersey Boy Frankie Valli showing interest and even possibly attached to the script. My group shoots two scenes, both involving a fight between two detectives, its climax a beaten-down water cooler splattering everywhere. The other two cops and me all ham it up in costume and the short cute blonde playing the secretary won't leave my side between takes. Cracking jokes with the casting director, the costume ladies, the lighting crew. Share some stories about actual run-ins with cops and how to talk yourself out of a ticket. We were supposed to be done at 3:00 am but we wrap two hours early, meaning I can actually go home and perhaps catch a nap before I open the store.

25/October/2007
1:43 am

I am sitting on a plastic chair in a waiting room of the Des Plaines Police Station. I am waiting for the cop who pulled me over to tell me if I can leave tonight. I took the Kennedy home and got off at River Road, like I usually do. Was driving down River Road in Des Plaines when I pass two cop cars on the left side of the road. I was driving the limit but one of the cars does a U-turn and begins to follow me. I keep myself at the limit but after a good mile the cop flashes his lights and pulls me over. A nice cop, he cites me for a very loud muffler and after tailing me he notices my licence plates are expired.
ASIDE: My car was purchased with an aftermarket muffler so loud I have had the profoundly Deaf ride in my car telling me, "This car's loud!", but I have driven it in the late, late of night and the wee, wee of morning, and this is the first time any cop has pulled me over for noise.
After asking for my licence and insurance he points out that my Driver's Licence is expired and he can't legally let me drive. I follow him to the station where he says with my compliance we can clear everything up for $75. I have $50 cash on me and no ATM card. Since I haven't been arrested ever, he tries see what he can do for me. The waiting room is locked from the outside. It contains a graffiti-scratched metal table, two busted plastic chairs, yellow-stained walls, trilingual metal signs, and a pay phone. Through the thin rectangular window in the door I can see myself hunched over in a chair, slightly rocking, on the Closed-Circuit monitor in the main office. How long will this take? Who can I call for $25 at this time of night? Will I get to work on time? Will I get out of here tonight? After what feels like a week the cop returns with a ticket for expired plates and expired licence. They say they procured an I-Bond for me. I sign a paper, they let me go. Court date's in December. Cop told me already he ain't showing up. He sees my army jacket and asks if I'm military. After I deny he says he could've cut me a better deal. I tell him I'm starting with the Green Berets tomorrow. I get home an hour before I have to leave for work.



SOOOOO relieved he never asked me to open my ashtray...

Into the Unknown

It has been six years since I started on my spiritual journey.

Seven chakras, a different chakra each year, in order from root to crown. Mix in gobs of assorted occult apocrypha, a degree in Psychology, a dash of Taoist interest, and a buttercream thick facade of Buddhism.

The What of Kevin.

Some things metamorphed immeasurably. Some not a bit.

Is this better?



I don't honestly know.



My mala broke weeks ago. I have plans for Barkme to reconstruct it, plans that will be ceased indefinitely.

My altar is all packed away. I knew I was right to get a steamer trunk. A hackneyed writing studio sits in its place.

My walk has remained untouched half a month. And so it remains.

My history is steeped in solid Roman Catholicism melted down into a static agnostic murk. Toying with the thought of going back to Church one Sunday.


Poo-tee-weet.

"If I don't do it, who will?": Hide-and-Seek

We grew up in Chicago, North Side, Ukranian Village, in the shadow of St. Mary's of Nazareth Hospital Center. A small yellow-brick bungalow, garage off the back alley, postage-stamped sized backyard with a swingset and no central air anywhere, nestled with six others between two shocking canary City signs plainly reading: DEAF.
Brian was bussed to a Catholic grade school with a deaf program, Jennifer went to St. Helen's just a couple blocks away. I didn't get the Parochial treatment 'cause I tested high enough to be sent cross town to a public school with a gifted program which, coincidentially enough, had its own Sign Language Club. Tim was so small during this time. My most vivid memory of him is my Mom giving him a bath in the kitchen sink. I marveled at seeing my brother getting scrubbed in a place usually reserved for dirty dishes, and I couldn't believe a human being could be small enough to even attempt that.

We'd play a lot of games together outside. Tag, water fights, Mother-May-I, Jennifer and I usually signing instructions for Brian because he was such an athletic and valuable player. We three had our own version of The Wizard of Oz we'd act out on the front sidewalk, all of us covering multiple parts but it usually ended up with Jennifer as Dorothy, me as the Tin Man, and Brian as the Cowardly Lion.

When it got dark or the weather was bad we were forced to play inside. Not many games we could all decide on for inside but Hide-and-Seek was always popular. When you're that small there are just endless amounts of nooks and crannies you can search out to get lost. No one would ever venture into the hall closets, which is where I'd usually be found 'cause I just got so damn predictable. Brian was always happy to play, but Jennifer and I had such an ulterior motive for always pushing for Hide-and -Seek.

The trick was to get Brian to be the Seeker early in the game. Then we'd all be holding glue, tell him to count, and we'd run off while he closed his eyes and did his thing. While Brian was out seeking, Jennifer and I would yell out our relative positions.

“Kev! Where are you?”
“I'm in the bathroom!”
“Why?”
“I thought I had to pee!”
“Need a book to read?”
“No! Thank you!”
“Where's Brian?
“He's looking underneath his bed!”
“Okay! I'm going downstairs to Mom and Dad's room!”
“'Kay! I'm gonna hide in your closet!”

We could keep this going on for a good half-hour. We could, if Brian weren't so quick and had such damn good eyesight. Actually, even with Jennifer and me playing off Brian's deficit, he was still a fearsome opponent. Throughout most of his life Brian was in competitive sports. He played hockey on multiple teams for decades. He was a four-letter Varsity athlete in high school. My Dad nicknamed him “Ox” because of his immense power and tireless drive. So, it wasn't even like cheating. If it were a level playing field Brian would have creamed our butts every time we played anything.

We had the last laugh, though. When Brian wasn't seeking it was always an option to stop playing and never let him know. Let him sit and stew in his cramped hiding space for who-knows-how-long. But we never did that.
Not often, at least.
That would be cruel.

"If I don't do it, who will?": FAQ

Here's answers to some questions before you even ask them. Anything I miss? Let me know. I'll answer it.

Is this story for real?

Absolutely. This is a picture of my siblings and me back in 1986.

Jennifer's on the left, Brian's on top and Timothy's on the bottom. If you can zoom in on Tim's face you'd be able to see he's wearing earpieces and a body aid, which was a much more common hearing aid style in the less-technology advanced '80s. If you've seen Mr. Holland's Opus, it's the same hearing aid Cole wears as a child, with a small box held in a pouch on a harness worn on the torso. Brian isn't wearing his because his hearing loss is so severe that a hearing aid makes little difference for him. This is something that has affected my life since I was born.

So what is the story you tell people when they ask?

It goes a little something like this:

“Both of my brothers are Deaf. My older brother and younger brother were both born Deaf. My sister and I are hearing, as are my parents, and all of us know sign language. They are the only Deaf people in my whole extended family.”

Okay, it's not quite two minutes long, but at this point people are generally engrossed and skip to their patented response anyway.

I can, indeed, relay this story in French and ASL as well.

How were your brothers born Deaf?

Strictly through genetics. Both my parents have a chromosome that carries the recessive Deaf gene and passed it on unknowingly. How it skipped over my older sister and me is purely through chance and circumstance. I have a large extended family and Brian and Tim are the only members who are Deaf. This whole situation is miraculous unto itself. All 6 of us participated in a study through Gallaudet University to see how the gene traveled. After a simple blood test it has been identified in both my sister and me, giving our potential offspring a 50% chance of being born Deaf. There are many congenital conditions that cause Deafness but the one most likely affecting Brian and Tim is a poor connection between the cochlea of the ear, which translates sounds into electrical impulses the brain can read, and the Auditory Nerve. Between the two of them, Brian and Tim have roughly 20% the hearing of an average person (Tim 15%, Brian 5%).

Can they hear anything?

Yes, but only very loud and very low frequencies. During their adolescence both Brian and Tim experimented with rap music with its booming bass lines. There's a famous family story where Brian and Tim took the family van to drive a few errands and Jennifer was out on the front lawn when they were driving back to the house. Jennifer could see both their heads bobbing rhythmically to some deliberate beat, looking at each other in silent recognition, heads nodding at exactly the same time. They parked the van and went inside the house. Jennifer just had to know what they were listening to so she went into the house to get the van keys and turned on the radio. The only thing that came out the speakers was static, loud hissing static. It's a great little story and I couldn't tell you what quotient of it is absolutely true, but it's a nice illustration of what kind of trials and tribulations Brian and Tim have had in the Hearing World.

In winter of 2006 Tim underwent surgery and received two Cochlear Implants which changed his and our whole perception of his Deafness. This is a very hot topic in the Deaf World which will be dealt with in detail later.

How did you learn how to sign?

I am a native signer. I have not had a conscious day of my life when I didn't know sign language. When Brian was born and was diagnosed as Deaf, my parents took it upon themselves to learn the language and everything else they could to understand Brian. You'd be surprised at how much of a rarity it is for families to do this nowadays. So, when Jennifer was born she was taught to sign and took to it so easily she began signing before she was speaking, leading some to think she was Deaf as well. When I was growing up I remember we had a collection of Signed English Fairy Tale books. Stories like “Three Billy Goats Gruff” and “Little Red Riding Hood” were printed with large pictures, very simple sentences, and illustrations of a person showing the sign for each word in Signed English. Every day, at every meal, every TV show, every public outing, every Sunday at Church, we were signing something. When I was in college I had completed my Language Requirement early and had some room for electives. University of Iowa is well-known in the country for a strong ASL Language program, so I decided to take classes there to brush up on my signing. Say this with me: ASL and Signed English are not the same language. Three semesters of ASL classes and two years working as a Teacher's Aide for mentally ill Deaf children helped boost my signing to very skilled proportions.

Jennifer, however, has had no formal training and her signing kicks my erudite ass. You think I'm good? She'll make you weep, she's so incredible.

Have you ever interpreted? Are you an interpreter?

Yes, I have interpreted countless times, some for pay but mostly not, however I am not a Certified ASL Interpreter.

Why not?

Stupid, isn't it? A natural talent in something so missing from our culture, yet I have not gone and exploited this resource. I've tried. I looked into Interpreter courses and researched the Testing Battery for certification. Even with my already-present ability, it would take a good 1-1/2 to 2 years of classes and preparation and three expensive tests before I receive a document telling me that the State recognizes that I can speak to/for the Deaf. For what I want to do with my life this hasn't appeared as a viable option. Without any hesitation I will sign for anyone Deaf at any time in any situation, and I use my signing most every day. I don't feel any need to wait for any Government to give me clearance to do that.

You sound bitter. Do you have any issues with this whole Deaf thing?

For the record, I am a deeply sarcastic person. A lot of my humor comes with my being inappropriate for the moment. This makes it difficult for many people to know when I'm being on the level with them. However, yes, there is a bit of bitterness written into that story. After talking with thousands of people and sharing stories about childhood, I've realized that my time growing up was uniquely different from just about everyone I knew. They look at me and consider me well-adjusted and compassionate. I look at them and consider them normal. And many times in my life I wished I was just normal.

I have lots of issues with the whole Deaf thing, all of which I want to confront and clear up in the process of writing this.

Why did you take offense at people calling you “cool” for knowing sign language?

Take a look at it from my point of view: If I didn't know this language, this whole lifestyle, I wouldn't be able to speak to or understand 1/3 of my family. I didn't choose this, it became me. Yes, it's cool to flaunt at the beginning but after a couple years you begin to wonder why people look upon this with such novelty. Is it cool to learn how to share, so much so that you'll stop and stare every time someone splits a sandwich with a friend? How excited do you get when you observe an immigrant testing their strained English on someone? Besides that, none of this has been easy. I make it look easy because it's natural to me, but nothing about this has been a cakewalk. The years of ostracism, the steady piercing stares, the lifelong guilt, the constant conscienciousness of the situation; all of this and then some reduced to someone calling you “cool”. I don't do this to be cool. I do this because there's no other way for it to be done.

I'm not nearly as bitter about this anymore, but I retain some skepticism. I'm much more open to the idea that any kind of awareness, even wide-eyed shock and awe, is still awareness and it's a good thing I can deliver it. But I'm always curious about why some people get involved in Deaf Culture when they don't have as direct a link as mine. “What made you want to interpret?” “Why are you teaching the Deaf?” Why do you bear the weight of this voluntarily when I was born with the responsibility? Shit like that fascinates me.

Do you ever wish your brothers could hear?

Yes. I used to, often, but not really much anymore. Above all else, it would make life so much easier. Basic daily communication aside, it would have really helped with searches for schools, trying to find a job, overall social skills. I don't wish for them to be hearing now. The shock of suddenly being able to hear everything would boomerang them backwards into silence. Even Tim turns off his Cochlear Implants because the sounds give him a headache.

On the flip side, Brian has told us all that he wishes we were all Deaf.

Will you teach me some signs?

Sure, I could. I'm usually not in the mindspace to do so, but if you catch me with some idle time I'd be happy to show you some conversational signs, mostly pertaining to what you like and what you do. I don't give formalized lessons, though, so it's up to you to remind me. If you take the time to think about it, you'll realize sign language is really a more focused form of pantomime. If you can act it out and express your emotions freely, you can say it to a Deaf person. Start with sports. I'll bet you'll come up with the natural signs for “baseball”, “bowling”, and “fishing” without thinking twice.

If you're really serious about pursing this as more than a novelty, I can direct you to a number of resources much more knowledgeable and less restrictive than me. Some of then are even free.

If you just want to know the dirty words, don't worry. We'll cover all that soon.

New Moon

Every week I get a horoscope e-mail from Rob Breszny (www.FreeWillAstrology.com). I've read his column since college. If you check him out you can see where I get some of my lofty-headed storytelling. He preaches the case for pronoia (the belief that the world is conspiring to shower you in happiness, i.e., the opposite of paranoia) and uses devices like Pyrrhic victories and name-drops koyaanisqatsi to get his point across. The e-mail usually makes its way into my Inbox every Wednesday, but Mr. Breszny was a bit precocious and too eager to share his news so I got it yesterday. This is what he has to say this week to us Libras:

LIBRA (Sept. 23-Oct. 22): "The future is already here," says science
fiction writer William Gibson. "It's just not very evenly distributed." Your
job in the coming weeks, Libra, is to locate hotbeds where the future is
concentrated, and put yourself in the midst of them. It's time, in other
words, for you to escape from the wan, sludgy places where the past is
masquerading as the present. You're ready to thrive on the delightful
shocks of the new.

Yesterday I was also delivered some news which made made Mr.

Brezsny incredibly poignant and eerily spot on: I am being

transferred. Starting next week I no longer work at the store

where I got my start and stayed on-and-off for the past three

years. Most of my good friends are there. A lot of customers I

built great relationships with, including my own Deaf contingent,

will remain there. People who are dear to me and much better

staff than me are being left behind. It sucks, but at the same time,

it's great. I'm working up the Corporate Ladder there, and this

move shows their trust in me to take on the next challenge. It's a

new store with new staff and new customers, so I can start over

completely fresh and new. All of my old jokes are relevant and

usable once again.


I'm being given a golden ticket yet again this year. Why must it

always be a difficult gift to receive?

"If I don't do it, who will?": Introduction

I went through a period as an incoming college freshman when I didn't want to let anyone know that I knew sign language. It's one of the ultimate trump cards. When you're talking about yourself nothing less than astrophysics or brain surgery can really compete, but sign language's easier to travel with. Proving the mass of the Milky Way or repairing Broca's area requires a lot of materials, extensive jargon, can get a bit messy, and tends to lose most everyone to boredom or sleep, but most people will stop what they're doing and stare when I drop what's in my hands to interpret a conversation. It looks so simple. A couple of hand movements, some weird facial expressions, and the world falls silent at your behest. When I engage in conversation with a Deaf person a line of spectators gather and watch as if it were the Wimbleton Title Match and they don't know a thing about tennis. Spellbound yet dumbstruck.

I didn't want that. Too easy, too confining. At worst you get permanently labeled as "That Guy Who Knows Sign Language". At best, everyone will be telling you how cool it is that you know that.
Everyone.
Without fail.
100% expectency.
This is the flow of the most frequent stock response:

"You know Sign Language? That's so cool! I've always wanted to learn how to do that!
The next sentence will include one, a combination of, or all of the following:
1. I have a (friend/cousin/friend of a cousin) [who knows a (friend/cousin/friend of a cousin)] who's deaf!
2. I learned the ABC's (in school/at camp/a long time ago)! (This is usually accompanied by a demonstration of said ABCs)
3. It's one of my ultimate life dreams to learn that!

"How do you know signing?"
At this point I relay a story about my family and childhood, by rote, tight and 2 minutes long. Well-practiced. I can deliver it in three languages. This is the trump card being played.

"Wow! So your brothers are deaf! That's so cool! I mean, not that your brothers are deaf, but that's so cool! It's really cool that you know sign language."
Sheepishly, I give my thanks.

It's all putty in my hands. It happens pretty much this way, most every time. If I'm talking to a guy, he'll fire a barrage of questions getting deeper into the situation. If a girl, she'll ask me to teach her some signs or even ask me to tutor. Either way, I've caught attention. I got nowhere to go now. Five minutes into meeting someone new and I've given up the coolest thing about me. How do I compete with myself? And why is it so cool that I know sign language? That never connected with me. In fact, I was offended for a long time by that answer. I still haven't completely accepted it. Whatever. It all gets very tedious and unspectacular. Downright idiotic. I wouldn't want to use that opening for anything in the world. So I won't. Ever again. I'm gonna stop talking about it right now.


And I can't stop talking about it. 'Cause when I get pissed off or deeply emotional or just don't want to talk, my hands start to move. Everything I don't want to say my hands do. They know exactly where to go, how fast to go there, what shape to make. I break down my thought processes, trying to make phrases out of ideas, and they manifest themselves into pidgin ASL flow. This kind of thing has happened everywhere: Public, privacy, arguments, with headphones on, after months of never seeing a Deaf person. I have spontaneously signed peoples' conversations for the hell of it. I have translated unsubtitled signing I've seen on sitcoms and network television for anyone listening. I could never not do any of these things. I could never not sign to anyone Deaf. I could never not be conscious of how to translate any thing anyone is saying. I could never just stop and deny what I've been taught as a baby to be normal and essential to everything.


Signed,
"That Guy Who Knows Sign Language."

No Such Thing as a Coincidence

So more stuff sprinkled into the wind this past week...

Y'all know I ain't been auditioning much this year.

And the Bars thing came out of the blue.

Between talking to people there and I-don't-know-what-else, I've been offered a part in a movie starring Armand Assante, am being sent a stage script for callbacks, and talked to two directors about participating in/starring in Children of a Lesser God.

And my agent called me today. Haven't paid them dues for months. Called about a beer commercial.

All of these gigs pay.

Something else I'm not supposed to know: One of my stories got read by someone at Simon & Schuster.


Don't know what this means.



Happy Birthday to me.

**NEW STORY COMING SOON**

Birthday Wishes

I wish life becomes more like the movies.

I wish to know what triggers people and how to wield that trigger properly.

I wish to spend quality time and attention to my body.

I wish to become closer to my meditation.

I wish to continue making smart decisions.

I wish to leave with less baggage and a sparkling memory.

Weather Forecast

We're more than halfway through this theater run and there's plenty of activity on the horizon this coming week.

Expect early sunrises and scattered afternoons resulting in a crepuscular end-of-day. We've got some relief mid-week with a bright Full Moon in the sky but if you're up before the rooster then expect total activity failure before midnight. Torrential bouts of oncoming drive-time rushes are foreseen, but they've become very common so there's no big threat. The week's gonna be hectic and exhausting, but it's all one small part of an ongoing global pattern.

Some new drama is popping up down the line. We've joined a system of new fronts, young unpredictable bodies operating on a different kind of sensuous plane. Things will start out slow, a bit turbulent at times, but will ultimately make a splash. A slight danger in things picking up prematurely or dispersing into so much wind, so proper timing, rhythm, and smart decision-making will prevail. It's less messy than it sounds, so we're gonna take the ride for all it's worth. And there's a flood of opportunity that just reared its head. Thursday night shows some action building in the City. A chance of a big bang, thunderous attraction, and even a fertile chance for change in the weather coming up. More on this as it progresses.

Plus, the big story gestating this week: Silence. A whole unexpected period of vital, vibrant, but restrictive silence lasting decades, even centuries. How do people deal with this? How can we help our loved ones? One man puts his perspective down on everything. Stay tuned.

And finally: What was the final result of this month-long theater run? Film in the 11th.

And The Reviews Are In...

I make it a point never to read reviews while I'm doing a show. Bad mojo. Did it once. Once. Their comments on my acting made me all self-conscious and screwed up my performance for the rest of the run. Not worth it.

But, I encourage you to read them. They sound very positive. Plus, leave a review of your own if you've gone to see it. I promise I won't read 'em until October.

Village Players' "Piano Girl" a very pleasant surprise

Enthralling "Bars" hits mostly right notes

Opening Weekend

**See Comments for Disclaimer**

Bubblegum and paper clips. This was the essence of my theater career up to this point. We didn't discuss things like "budget" because there was no budget. We actors made up the talent, stage crew, make-up, art direction, made sets, created costumes, even ushered our own audiences. Thing of it was, we all wanted to be there. Sure, we did shows that opened and closed on the same night, but we got to do a play. We got to act and feed an audience. Damn the fancy theaters and celebrity-inflated paycheck. We learned that drama, like religion, can happen anywhere to anyone at any time so long as one, or a whole cast and crew of people, had the will to make it happen. Hence the bubblegum and paperclips, 'cause that's what we used sometimes to keep the flats of the set together. Anything, so long as the story gets told.

I lost sight of that when I declared myself a professional actor because I felt, at that point, that my ability and experience demanded monetary compensation. Increased pressure from family and my girlfriend, a hundred failed auditions, and several auto-related incidents later, I couldn't do it anymore. I lost the love of performing because I didn't do it for fun, I did it for money. And all my money was spent before I earned it. That's why I stopped auditioning and spent my life searching out a career instead. And we know how that turned out.

We opened Bars this past weekend. Friday was our First Night, but Sunday afternoon was our Opening Night gala. First two shows we had no audience larger than 40, a tad intimate for a theater that can hold 150 or so, but they were lively and involved. Village Players Theater is undergoing a bit of a Renaissance under its new regime of artistic leadership. The lobby has been repainted and a new original show, our show, was slated to be the beginning of a new future. The set looks good, a visual collage of the different zeitgeists in which our stories take place under the roof of one rustic bar, a grand piano its centerpiece, and terraces in back to hold the band. Backstage is pretty meh, not much better than a Waiting-for-Guffman scenario, but you're also talking to a guy who's changed and performed in a Tulsa synagogue hallway, so it's halfway to heaven to me. Reminds me of the high school shows they never chose me to do. The theater really added some special touches to make us appreciated. First Night had champagne and chocolates waiting for us in our dressing rooms. French champagne. Two different kinds of French champagne. Three bottles, one of them cartoonishly large. Made a Magnum bottle look impotent. You looked like a Dionysian wine orgy steward pouring that bottle with both hands, which was the only way you could pour it. Opening Night brought out the bigwigs of Oak Park, a catered meal, and an ice scuplture. The piece de resistance: An ice sculpture of a bar from which they served more champagne and wine. Frickin' ice sculpture! And real Grapes-from-the-Champagne-region-of-France champagne, not that California sparkling wine sham-pagne! And we got two more weekends of this! And a paycheck to boot!

Needless to say, this is, to date, the most professional show I've ever done. Not quite as thrilling as perfoming on the Second City mainstage, but it swells me with pride.

Tickets still available
Runs through September 30

Local Press for Bars

So the nice people at the Oak Park Press did a nice little write-up on our forthcoming show.

Read it here.

...and notice whose names are conspicuously unlisted.

Get Laid

I have a wish for everyone who reads these words:

I hope you get thoroughly and deliciously laid.

I hope you get laid with a sweaty humid musk that lingers for days. I hope you ache from the waist up and down and have to walk funny for weeks. I hope you rediscover nerve endings and tiny muscles deep inside your naughty bits and awaken them with juicy tingling. I hope you invite more people, more accessories, and more positions into your boudoir than you ever imagined before.

You seen Amelie? There's that scene where she stares out the window and postulates how many people are having sex that evening and then turns to the camera and whispers something like, "Sixteen."? This past summer I spent many a night sitting on my roof postulating the exact same question. I am into month God-Knows-What of celibacy. This celibacy is not at all completely self-imposed; sometimes the heavens stack the odds against me. So I sit on the rooftops on the far Northwest Side of Chicagoland staring across bungalows and townhouses, sand traps and putting greens, pre-fab families and retirees, and hope to God someone's getting laid tonight. At work the parade of Wisteria Lane MILFs and back-to-school poptarts line up for their hourly fix, sharing their Louvre smiles and lascivious glances, and I hope someone is actually giving to them what my ribald mind has planned but my professional demeanor cannot. At rehearsal I flirt shamelessly on stage with women in a bar and joke dangerously with them on smoke breaks, and everyone can see the strings of my acting.

I'm not using my sexual energy. It's become a joke, a toy, a storytelling tool. Anything but a means to a loud, nail-shredding, arcing gooey orgasm. So I bequeath it to you. May you swim in the fallopian tubes of utter hedonism. Call a friend, call two friends, grab some lube and keep your minds open. Have sex so good it inspires you to sculpt, write, sing, make some art. Cause I'm not, and it'd be a shame for all this energy to go to waste.

What are you waiting for? Stop reading this, go out, and get some motherfuckin' ass.

Somebody's getting laid tonight.

Bars: The Girl on the Piano

WORLD PREMIERE! STARTS NEXT WEEK!

FEATURING THE TALENTS OF:

CORTNEY MCKENNA
STUART RITTER
KEVIN SWATEK

DIRECTED BY: ALISON HENDERSON

MUSICAL DIRECTION BY: ANDREW CHUKERMAN

SEPTEMBER 14 - 30, 2007

FRIDAYS & SATURDAYS AT 8PM

SUNDAYS AT 3PM

TICKETS $25/$20

VILLAGE PLAYERS THEATRE OF OAK PARK
1010 W. MADISON STREET
(866)764-1010
www.village-players.org

MAP & DIRECTIONS

Words to Think About

"From utter chaos thrusts brilliant light."
-- Somebody


Other words that drag off the tongue with awe and juicy rawness:

"I am Ozymandias, King of Kings! Look upon my works, O ye Mortals, and despair!"
-- Percy Shelly

"The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power
And all that beauty, all that wealth ere gave
Await alike the inevitable hour:
The paths of glory lead but to the grave."
-- Sir Thomas Gray

"I'm only one
But not alone.
My finest day
Is yet unknown."
-- Whitney Houston

"Before a brilliant person begins something great, they must look foolish in the crowd."
-- I Ching

"A lie can travel halfway around the world while the truth is putting on its shoes."
-- Mark Twain

"Henceforth, I ask not good fortune. I myself am good fortune."
-- Walt Whitman

"Never give in. Never, never, never, never."
-- Winston Churchill

"I burn the books in my bag, but the lessons written in my guts will never fade away."
-- Zen koan


BTW, the comments have been fixed. They should show up instantaneously instead of having to wait for me to log on and screw everything up.

L'esprit de l'escalier

So, this show...

Dropped out of the blue. I auditioned for this theater last year: The Buddy Holly Story. Totally looked the part but my singing looked less than authentic. Learned a valuable lesson: Bring sheet music. Never do a singing audition a cappella. It don't work.

Dropped it from my memory. Said they'd keep my info on file. When do they ever dip into that pool again? Never in my history. You can imagine my shock when they called. Callbacks for this show I never heard of. Thought I misheard the message, but no.

...

Y'know, I don't want to write this anymore. The story's been stuck in my head for days, the title affixed itself to me weeks ago. I sit to write this to finish it and I just get pissed off at the screen. It's not coming out spontaneously enough. I have to hunt for words, and when I do that I lose time. So forget it. I'm not gonna beat a dead horse.

I know I'm lucky. But not completely. The opportunity and I met each other halfway. Partly my ability, partly my availability. Yeah I got the chops to give the part justice, but I also was one of two guys young enough to fit the role who have nothing better to do for the next month. All I had to do was show up.

The show's got a lot of work to go through if we want it up in two weeks. The script's still relatively amorphous. It's an exploration of cabaret music through the past century. Each vignette is a diorama of underground clubs, smoky sirens, and the menagerie of patrons separated by the zeitgeist of decade and country. Sounds good, but it remains a work in progress. The decisions we make one night never stay concrete to the next. My best work's based in improv, so I can roll with the punches. My problem is: How serious do we want to make this? Time's of the essence. Everyone's talking "backstory", "throughline", "relationship", which is good and right and professional and so forth, but nothing gets hammered into shape. I'll just take a character, make some choices, and do my thing. It's called a "play", so let's play. Why throw so much labor into it?

We do have a name actor for the show. Lisa Zane. Heard of her? You probably know the last name. Good locally-born talent. I was delighted just to know her from her connections, but I got more impressed once I checked her out here. And here. And here. Gorgeous. I's impressed. Hell, if this show becomes a movie I might just have a smaller Bacon number.

That's all I really wanted to get out. No doubt I'll think of the right way to say things later.

A Letter to Tchotchke

You'll probably never read this, but I hope one day you stumble onto it.


There are three things that I keep as my memory of you:

1. I like you. I never didn't. Your brash, loud-talking Peppermint Patty demeanor got me curious about you from the day I met you. And for as much as your brashness kept a lot of people at bay, it allowed me to see what happened when your defenses went away, when you became sweet and generous and completely the opposite. Even when we were at odds and spoke in tension or not at all, I still liked you. Even now.

2. You were good for me. You taught me how to argue, how to present my thoughts and motives patiently in an organized and effective manner. I had to bring my A-game every time because I knew you would. And you deeply cared about what I did, in my career and in my life. You were my loudest cheerleader and my fiercest critic. And I know I would be nowhere near as dedicated in following my heart and my dreams had I not met you.

3. At some moments, you were absolutely the most perfect person at the perfect place with perfect timing. To this day I recall our trip to Paris as the best vacation I ever had, solely because I had the most perfect tour guide ever. You threw my first and only surprise party and succeeded in delightfully shocking me speechless. You took a stronger personal interest in Deaf Culture than any girl I ever dated, and that meant the world to me. And how many girls would sit in their man's broken-down car fending off cabbies waiting for the tow truck to come? I felt like a complete loser and you defended my loser-ness.

If you think I haven't been hurt this past year, you're wrong. So many things happened where I wanted you to be the only one around me, and I know I missed out on a lot of big events in your life, events I wanted to share with you.

I know you're seeing What's-His-Face now, and I'm sure you're having a wonderful time with him. Even if you're not seeing What's-His-Face, it's easier and better for me to believe that you are.

A good friend is a rare commodity and a priceless treasure, and I lost one of the best the day we stopped talking to each other. I understand why it is this way, but nothing can stop me from having hope.

Miss you lots. Would love nothing more than to meet up with you some place and catch up with everything.

Fade to Black

No doubt you've seen the news. Damn, that was some cool storms goin' on yesterday. Magic. Magnetic. The aftermath... not so much. People acting like it's Katrina when it's just an overbloated thunderstorm. Couldn't even muster up the bombast to become a tornado. Nevertheless, the power's out. Goin' on almost a day-and-a-half. And, I don't know if it's repair progress or Industrial Revolutionary wiring, but we gots the most jack-assed pattern of power outages here in the suburbs. Some neighborhoods yes, some not. Right now, from my candlelit loft, I can stare across the street of my subdivision at brightly lit townhouses like a Neanderthal peering into the future. Crazy, dude. I foresee this not lasting another fortnight. Could be sooner. The house could spring to life in an hour. Cool.

Had to charge my laptop at a Starbucks today. Just sat in the corner for hours quietly and inconspicuously draining a good outlet. Wasn't wasted, though. Broke in my brand-new journal (seventh in a series) and finished a novel. Reading one, not writing. Pynchon is a writer who one needs to just plow through, like a textbook. Very like an absurdist textbook. And I plowed through a good hundred pages between the gym and everything after.

Such an anti-climactic deus ex machina. Usually, at this point in the story, such an elemental intervention would shift our heroes' stories from Act II to Act III, the cataclysm of heaven touching earth and actions bending fate. She would fall in love with him, He would fuck her, Dad comes out of the closet, Aunt Mabel comes back to life. The kind of petri dish soap operas spawn from.

Instead it's crickets and candlelight. It's points of ellipsis, a tantric bath suckling the atmosphere. It's Prairie repression and Rumspringa's end.
Fermata.
An 8 on the Karmic Scale.

And there's work tomorrow morning.

How blaa.


...And, SCENE!...

What's Your Biggest Fear?

That every relationship I will ever attempt will result in complete obliteration.

That I will never again find that girl who makes me gooey inside, smitten and deliciously helpless.

That the biggest drawing power of my life will be seen as nothing more than a handful of parlor tricks.

Or, just the opposite, that some kind of monster I create runs wildly out of control.

That my brothers will never get to experience the full beauty and potential that life has in store for them.

That all of my dreams and wishes come true.

Closed Door/Open Window

So check this shit out...

Today: My last day at Saks.

Last week: Theater call out of the blue.

Monday night: Callback in West Suburbs.

After work: An hour to drive there during gridlock.

Three minutes before: Fuck it, go.

Later that night: "Wednesday's rehearsal is 7 to 10."

Check that shit out.

If I could...

If I could play any role, I'd play the male lead in Oleanna.

If I could paint anything, I'd have a canvas Rothkoized with Kandinsky sprays and a flute.

If I could write any book, I'd produce an amalgam of The Basketball Diaries, Barrel Fever, Generation X, Haunted, and The Tao of Pooh.

If I could live anywhere, I'd live in a Vancouver condo, or an Osaka hut, or a Belgian hostel.

If I could perform any song, I'd massacre the entirety of The White Stripes' Icky Thump. The whole album.

If I could make any movie, I'd make a short silent film of a man catching a fish.

If I could design any building, I'd create a three-story pentagonal office campus, complete with fitness center, game room, and hammock bay.

If I could wear any outfit, I'd wear a large grey long-sleeve T-shirt, a pair of Levis button-fly jeans, and black PF Flyers.

Witness: An Accident

Regina, Saskatchewan is a beautiful hamlet with a population of 200,000 nestled deep within the canola fields of a Canadian province located just north of Montana which has a total count of two million people. To fly over it is to bear witness of a colorful patchwork quilt of ya-hey-dere farmland. That isn't to say there's nothing but corn-like crops in Canada. Regina actually has quite an imposing skyline. A cluster of chrome-and-glass skyscrapers splay out into a small latticework of big-city sundries. Banks and shops, bistros and offices chunk off forming rehabbed brick beasts and plots of down-home ranches. These all empty out into a sprawling city park, a stone Veteran's Memorial, a technicolor polystyrene playground, all which stand in the shadow of the Hotel Saskatchewan, the majestic heritage manor where I stayed and where the wedding took place. This is indeed grand lodging. It has the kind of room where you don't touch anything for fear of devaluing it. The Queen has her own room there, only for her, though I'll bet Mick Jagger got his share of it when the Stones played here weeks ago. This ain't Vancouver, but damn, do they share genes.

From anywhere downtown the most eye-catching architechture in the sky belong to the HSBC buildings. These twin towers add a gender-bending twist to contemporary cityscapes. Their sleek skin of slippery glass, stretched tight around strong, firm, thick steel dowels, then sloped, a slice slit diagonally toward the center, velvety smooth and slippery into a tight, inviting, reflective V. Feminist architechture at its finest.

It was within this vulva where I found the woman.

She was old, squat, a gray tumbleweed. Dirty laundry hung around a rubber-ball frame with three blankets draped over one arm and a well-worn handbag hanging off the other. Between the buildings sits a brickstone plaza punctuated with metal benches and stone planters. I had just left a stroll through the Farmer's Market that erupted this morning right in front of the Hotel, tossing some loonies for the buskers and taking a snapshot of some Mounties. I was hunting for something to eat after my first night of drinking, and I wanted a place I could be alone. Didn't think much of the lady when she popped up in sight. She was at a planter in front of the Post Office, perhaps thirty feet in front of me, when she freezes. Her blanketed hand raises and guides her. Something's pulling her. I swear to God, it looks like she's being led by the hand, backward. Too fast, too far. Then slip, SLAM, right onto the brick. I was right there. I saw her fall.
That hurt.
People quietly start to talk.

"Ohmigod. Are you alright, miss?"

"Seizure. She had... that's a seizure."

"It looked like something pulled her."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I've been trained in CPR and I have seen people hit the floor unconscious, but nothing I've done in years has prepared me for this. A small scuttle of people clamor, staring stunned at their cell phones like they're light-based puzzleboxes. I find myself already down on one knee gingerly talking to the woman. She hit the ground hard, I'm not gonna move her. But I want to know how reactive she is. And how bad it was.

"Miss, are you okay, miss?"

She doesn't stir for a while. She doesn't respond to my poking. The couple behind me quietly quabble about calling someone or finding some cops or whatever. I tell 'em there were some Mounties at the Farmer's Market, go get them. The guy leaves.
She's shaking, once, abruptly. She's moving. Her head turns and everyone can see the red splatter on her forehead near her eye. She's so out of it. Her body turns and I can see a Medic-Alert bracelet.

"Miss, you have a Medic-Alert bracelet. Can I see it?"

"No I'm agah mumnumblah fumma."
Word salad. Not good.
"Miss, just stay down. We're getting help."

She's moved around a bit. She can get up into a sitting position. We're getting help now and she's staying down. Good. I can try and orient her.

"Miss, do you know your name?"

"No, I'm okay, I'm okay."

"Miss, do you know where you're at?"

"No, I'm okay, I don't need it, I don't need it."

"Miss do you know what the time is?"

"I don't need it. I'm okay. I'm okay."

I'm looking her in her dark eyes but not into them. Can't stop focusing on the blood spidering on her head, now on her hand. She's regaining, a little, but she can't tell me shit about shit. She looks homeless, or mentally ill. Most likely both. Goddamn it, what do I do? She's getting up.

"Miss, please stay down. We're getting help."

"No, I'm fine. I have to go home."

"No, miss, please, don't move. You fell hard. Just stay down."

She's up and walking jerkily. I don't want to touch her but, she's not supposed to move. Can't force her down. She's by the planter where she got struck, then moving on down the plaza. She's about to leave all our lives. Just down the brick path and gone. No. She fell hard. She doesn't know anything. She's got nowhere to go. I can't just leave her like that. So I follow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm walking down some street trying to talk to some woman who's old, decrepit, and got blood on her face. What does that look like? Everyone walking toward us spots her a good block beforehand and they're already partin' waves. There's some kind of tandem marathon or citywide scavenger hunt or something going on 'cause there's couples dressed the same in running gear with racing numbers on them popping up at random times going to random places. And I'm talkin' to the woman the whole time tryin' to get her to listen.
"Miss, please stop. You hit your head real hard. You're bleeding. Just sit down for a bit."
"No no no I'm fine. I just have to get home."
A lady comes out of a doorway. She's carrying a small package of Wet-Ones. I ask her for one for this woman so she can wipe her face. She looks at me like I'm a foreigner but the sweet lady hands me one, insuring me her hands are clean. I catch up to the woman with the Wet-One, telling her she can wipe the blood off. She thanks me, takes it, and keeps on walking. Nothing but walking. It's been blocks now and I have no idea what to do. I can't do this by myself. Who do I call? Fuck! Does 911 work in Canada? Seriously! Do they have other numbers to dial? I have no fuckin' clue! Oh shit! If I call someone, some emergency number, they'll trace the call. They'll totally trace it. Is that smart? They can totally check me out. They'll know I'm American. Who knows what else they'll know? Do I want that? Fuckin' PATRIOT Act! And I fuckin' hate phones! Shit, I have no clue. What do I do? What do I do?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I don't care.
"9-1-1 Emergency."
"I'm in... Regina... Saskatchewan. Can you help me?"
"What is your problem, sir?"
I give 911 the full rundown, as best I can: Woman fell, looks old, blood on forehead, not oriented, walking, blah blah blah. I'm looking at street signs to give them an idea where I'm at. I can hear the lady on the other side speak the words as she types them in. The woman drops a blanket. I pick it up and rush up to her to give it back. 911 transfers me over to Regina emergency. I'm waitin' at stoplights and crossin' streets, phone stuck to my ear, following this woman. We're coming up to a Fire Station.
"So you're approaching Halifax, right?"
"I can't tell... Um... Yes... We're coming up to Halifax right now."
Across the street are a taco stand, a second-hand shop, and a bench at a bus stop. We pass some people outside perusing furniture, two guys talking to each other from their bikes. She sits down on the bench. I kneel next to her, holding the phone out.
"Miss, I have emergency on the phone. Do you want someone to come help you?
"No, I'm okay. I'm only 2, 3 houses down. I'm fine. Thank you. Thank you."
"Sounds like she's refusing help," comes from the phone.
"Are you sure, miss?"
"I'm fine, I'm fine. Thank you."
I stand up. "Yeah, sounds like she's refusing help."
The phone conversation pretty much ends there.
I can't really move. Or I don't want to. That's it? But what about... No. I can't just leave her. She's carrying three blankets, she's got nowhere to go. But what do I do now? It's done. She refused help. No one's comin' for her. We're across the street from a Fire Station and no one's comin' for her. She fell real hard and no one's comin' for her. That's it. I offer to get her some water and she refuses and thanks me. And I walk off.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That's it. Nothing happened. All that sound and fury, signifying nothing. Goddamnit. I didn't do it. I failed. And the phone call. What was I thinking? What if they think I was fooling? Do they often get calls like this? Am I keeping them from more important calls? Will they check up on me, on the trace? Shit, what if they call Mom and Dad? I don't feel good. I feel like crap. I turn a corner, walk across the street and sit down in a parking lot behind a Vietnamese restaurant. I light a cigarette and call my parents. Oh my God, I feel horrible. They're not home so I spill everything out onto the answering machine, one syllable away from breaking down. I tell them I'm calling them before the authorities should try to contact them, but damn does it feel good to tell someone everything. And I'm done. And I'm so not hungry. And I'm nauseous enough to turn my stomach inside-out. I smoke two cigarettes before I start walking again. Wandering, walking back in the general direction I came from. The Farmer's Market evaporated as instantly as it erupted. I turn back through the plaza. I see the planter and exactly where everything took place. And I keep walking. I cross the street and enter a mall, loads of people everywhere. I take a lap around and find the Food Court on the second floor, buzzing, crowded. I get some teriyaki and then an spring roll from the Chinese place. I pull out the magazine from the airplane yesterday and turn to the crossword puzzle in the back. I don't react to any of the high schoolers passing me by or the custodial staff cleaning around me. And I am finally alone.

Winds of Change

Oy, so much coming up on the waterfront.

The weekend in Regina was phenomenal. A beautiful and emotional wedding, and an accident. I'm in the middle of a story about the latter, and I'm taking my time with it 'cause it's getting good.

My days at Saks are numbered. Less than two weeks now. Gotta get back into performing. So I'm gonna start my own Open Mic night somewhere...

Family issues coming to a head now: Sister's moving home sometime soon, one brother needs a new career, the other's heading into a rough season with his SO. It's gonna be my job to be the rock and the voice of reason. Hah.

I was telling someone a week ago that my life would be completely different in the next three weeks, and I prefer to live up to expectations.

So forgive me if I haven't written much lately. Soon will come a time when you'll beg me to stop.

Da Grate Wite Nort', Eh?

Good Day.

I will be gone this weekend, up nort' dere.

My bestest Canadian friend, Miss Dork Femme, is gunnin' to become a MRS. Dork Femme, and I'm headin' up ta give da bride away.

Not really.

But I am going to Saskatchewan.

For a weddin'.

Dork Femme's weddin'.

No, I am not giving the bride away.

But I should be. It'd be funny.

Sort of.

Not really.

See you next week.

I'm done.

Cell Phone Camera

Hell DOES Freeze Over...

After sitting in the can for over a year...

It's done.

The long-awaited Part 4 to the Uncle Freddy Pilot is completed. You can listen to it

here.

I won't bore you with the details of how it got done. I will say this, though: Thank you, computer geeks everywhere, for inventing USB ports and flash drives. And thank the universe they can cross platforms.

Anyhoo, enjoy. Let me know what you think, good or bad. There's only one part left. I'm hoping to get it out before the decade's over.

Novel Progressions

Let's get back to business...

I've been working hard, reading volumes of journals, scouring through pages of utter prepubescent bullcrap, reliving packed-away events and emotions avowed never to be reopened in perpetua, transcribing the creme of the crop of literary genius spewed forth from my brain into pure art and I've come up with

13 poems
14 essays/stories (of which all will not be used)
4 monologues

Put them all together and you got yourself a booklet. Yeah, buddy.

So what I need now is a printer. Not a printer like a computer peripheral but as in a printing house. Sure, I could Kinko's it but I'd like a production level a couple steps above a manga zine. Anybody out there help a brother out?

Sis -- I know you mentioned knowing someone in AMUN who I can talk to. I'll hit you up for info when you're in town this weekend.

Everyone else: If'n you got any advice, now's the time to speak up.

Thanks in advance.

Something Incredible Is Gonna Happen Today

Why, you ask?
Because.

Incredible things happen every day, every single day. Little miracles unfold in front of us all the time. Sometimes they happen to us, sometimes we are meant to witness them. Thing is, we're usually too busy or preoccupied with everyday life that we miss them. All the time. We're too focused on how much our job sucks, or how we haven't had a girlfriend in 10 months, or how we stopped chasing our dreams and left them by the side of the road miles ago. In reality, though, all that doesn't matter. Even the shittiest of days has at least one bright spark of wonder grace us with its presence. In fact, the shittier the day you have, the brighter that spark's gonna be. So be ready. Could be right as you wake up, could be right before you go to bed, or it could be lost somewhere in-between. You gotta be prepared for it. If you head into your day knowing it won't be anything but crap, all you're gonna see is crap. But if you want to see something truly amazing, you increase your chances to experience it exponentially. Lose your inhibitions, drop your expectations, and just know that it will happen.

Don't miss it.

I can see you

New Jersey, why do you keep knocking on my door?
I don't know anyone from Jersey, at least not personally.
At least, I thought so.
But now, you check out this site more than I do.
I'm flattered, really, but c'mon, Mt. Laurel, who are you? Are you a spammer?
I'd like to know.

Same for Jasper, Indiana. Don't know anyone from there, but all of a sudden you're keeping pace with Mt. Laurel there.
Are you a spammer?

Plenty of people from other countries. Canada, of course. Got Vancouver representin'. But Quebec and Nova Scotia? Cool. Alberta I can understand just because I'm a big Fubar fan and have been spreading the Word of Terry and Dean for years. Five other countries been callin' as well. France, Sweden, and Singapore (!) must've made a wrong turn at Alberqueque. I had family in Australia, so that's a gimme (Welcome home, Ms. Aimless). Spain came to call, and came back for more. :)

Arlington Heights, IL and Milwaukee... wazzup! You mah homies. We blood, what? Same goes to Houston, TX and Phoenix, AZ. Got some contact from an old friend by way of Plano, TX. Thanks, I missed you. And a BIG tip of my top hat to Cville, Virginia (Heeeeeeeyyyy!), Seattle, NOLA, and to all the Masons in the DC area.

And then there's this one dude (and I know it's a dude without the -ette 'cause,... well, let's call it a hunch) who's a complete mystery. Motherfucker's orbiting Uranus in a flying saucer or something. Freaky yet curious.


Are you a spammer?

Lionizing Each Other

I was pimped out in a blog written by a dear friend of mine from back when I lived in Iowa. Ms. Jen King, proprietor of scrambledaches.com, gave me a sweet little shout-out, and my only recourse is to put her up on a pedestal and fawn a bit.

Ms. Jen has undergone many changes since we first met each other working overnight shifts on the psych ward. She was addicted to "Jane" magazine, Matchbox 20, and deep stimulating conversation. She's a girl who can discuss Fight Club and Roe v. Wade with equal respect and wide-eyed drools. You can see how we got along so famously. While I left Iowa to go heal in Chicago, she stayed behind to keep the patients and await her impending marriage. Since then she's always seemed to be one step ahead of me. She's lived all over the Midwest and even moved to Canada before I did, living in Ontario with her Canadian artist husband. She's also got her book deal squared away eons before I considered self-publishing as a possibility. Since I've met her she has since lived in Ireland (as a scholarship-laden writing student at Trinity College, something I just learned about her), come out, redeclared herself for women's rights, returned to working in a hospital in Iowa, and writes all about her roller-coaster life with impeccable skill and heartbreaking wit.

You like me? You'll love her.


Thanks, Jen.
Scrambledaches.com. Give it a spin.

Everything she writes about me is true.

Locked Out

You have me to blame for the blog being restricted.

So, I came in to work last week Monday (25/June/07) and my boss wasn't in. Got into the office ready to do my morning routine: Make coffee, print up yesterday's numbers, collect faxes,... y'know, the usual. However, nothing gets done until I log on the computer, set up my Radio Stream, and check my e-mail. Priorities, of course. My computer was already on and logged up as it is wont to do from time to time. I shut down my computer every night but because there is no locked door on my "office" it tends to get used and misued, especially on the weekends. One time someone used my computer to register for a Passport. I used to get up at arms about it. Now I really don't care.

So the computer's already up and I'm hitting all my usual sites. Problem is, the web browser is not registering them as it usually does. Internet Explorer has this great function where you start typing an address in the Go box and a pop-down window appears with all the websites this computer has been to which closely match what you're typing. This time my computer was reacting like I was typing Chinese. Checked my blogs, same thing. Then I took the time to realize that the Desktop was completely different. I write a lot of office documents which I have either collected sparsely around the screen or, when I'm feeling guilty and orderly, placed in folders. This time the desktop was considerably less cluttered. A whole lot of head-scratching came into play until I went to the Start Menu to look up another document and saw that it wasn't me who was logged in to this computer. It was my boss. He apparently had been on my computer over the weekend, doing whatever, and didn't shut down at all. All of a sudden my heart went into my throat. I had been doing such a good job of keeping my Blue Man Group escapades out of Saks Fifth Avenue and strictly on my blog that now I felt there was a breach of security. Had he read my blog? Will he read my blog? Now that I just typed in all the frickin' addresses, including to the new one which barely anyone knows about, he's got everything he needs to just peer into my vast secrets. One of the entries on the new blog has me writing about my plans to phase Saks out of my life. He doesn't need to be reading that. So I freaked out. That night at home I tried to figure out a solution. How can I keep my boss from finding out all this stuff? Checked all the settings that this new blog has to offer (and there are quite a lot, believe you me), and found the easiest answer: Allow the blog to only be read by the author. So that's how I've kept it. It's nothing personal. I just wanted to keep my job.

Interesting postscript to that story: That Tuesday my boss ran out the store to catch his train and asked me to shut his computer down. First time that ever happened. I scoured his browser history to try and erase the addresses, but they never came up. Whatever I typed on my computer didn't register completely on his account. So, I don't think he actually read anything. I think it was all really in my head and I overreacted. Thing is, if he (or anyone in the store, for that matter) wanted to look me up online I'm not too hard to find. And he would've slipped something into conversation by now, which he hasn't. I even mentioned my being a Blue Man for Hallowe'en last year and he didn't bat an eyebrow.

And people tell me I think too much...

Witness

I got vindicated at work last Sunday. It was my first day back at Starbucks since the audition, and I knew I'd have a lot to answer to. I'd been hyping myself up there for almost as long as I had been training, so most everyone knew. Some even still from last year. The wounds were still open and sore, but I had gotten a lot of it out of my system. I just didn't want to have to field the sympathy from others. More than anything, I just wanted to continue moving forward. On the drive over I semi-justified it with myself that this was indeed the situation I was heading into: Deep sympathy. Quite honestly, it was exactly what I had been asking for. Cheer with me if I make it, share a round and curse the fuckers if I don't, remember that? I had buttered my bed, and it was time for me to sleep in it.

I got more than I bargained for.

No one mentioned anything to me as I entered the store. Even talking with Jon, the weekend Shift Supervisor, in the back room I had to remind him that I auditioned. I was beginning to feel like the shift was indeed going to be cake, that perhaps the hype died out before I even got there and normalcy would reign. Took my place as supervisor and began to count the safe. Not five minutes into the shift, a customer walks in: Female, large fashion sunglasses with a white frame, pink shirt, a pair of crutches and a bum right leg, and she's not a step into the store when she looks directly at me and blurts out,

“Didn't I see you on TV?”

Not to sound all braggy and boisterous and, quite frankly, actor-ly, but I have been asked that many times before, mostly under the concept of me introducing myself as an actor and the person wondering aloud if I've done anything they've seen, however occasionally my looks have gotten me mistaken for some other well-to-do actor with something respectable to show for their effort. On the other hand, in my defense, I did shoot a commercial and a training film in the past year, and although I haven't seen either of them in popular media, there existed a remote but distinct possibility she had been exposed to either one. So, honestly, I had no idea how to properly answer the question.

“Uh,... I don't know,”, I responded quite chagrined. “I hope so. Was it a commercial?”
“No, it was the news. You auditioned for that blue man thing.”

I just about lost my shit. My face exploded like a supernova and I started bouncing like a kid after too much candy.

“You saw that?”
“Yeah it was on the news last night. They showed the people trying out for Blue Man and I saw you up there drumming.”
Crutch still expertly tucked under her right arm, she pointed across the store to an imaginary TV set.
“I said to my kids, 'See that guy? That's the Starbucks guy! He's trying out for Blue Man!”

There was a camera. The memory of it got lost in the bile and therefore was considered moot, but there was indeed a camera. While we were sitting inside the theater, lining up one by one in a little corridor to the left of audience seating, open and free that you could see the pipes and tubes wound round the scaffolding, anxiously waiting for our chance to be on stage, a rather large man came by to address us. We were all bubbling with anticipation like lost ships at sea and he appeared like a big huge rotund lighthouse. He knew this and first apologized for being a tease since he had nothing to do with our impending judgment but then explained there was a camera crew there that was going to be filming us, that we wouldn't have an audience per se, but that some people would be watching, and to ask us to be quiet during the auditions. Come to think of it, there was a film crew shooting the outside of Briar Street while we were lining up outside as well. I had commented to the people around me, a wonderful little family who traveled all the way from Milwaukee to see the show and the son was auditioning as well, that last year a local news crew came by to get footage of the cattle call and even interviewed a female auditionee. This crew had no identifiable logos on any of their equipment nor on their staff, whereas last year it was plainly Channel 7 who showed up. It could've been Cable Access or even a well-organized prank set up by the Blue Men. The running joke in line amongst us shaky hopefuls was that they would use the footage during their performances, editing it quite tragically hilariously while still maintaining our dignity or perhaps creating an homage to their kindred soul Moby and his video for “Bodyrock” But no. They were on the level.

I couldn't stop bouncing. Or grinning like a complete and utter dumbstruck idiot.

“Oh my god, that's so cool! You made my week, miss!”

And she had. With all the crap I put myself through, the building myself up, the focus and training, the unashamed overhyping, it was nice to know I acutally got to reach someone, especially since I didn't get the gig. Y'know that thing people say? About if what they've done touched just one person's life, then it was worth it? It usually comes to mind as self-justification after undergoing some colossal blunder and, quite frankly, always sounded like the Token Speech for Second Place.

It's not.

It's true.

Thank you, Mystery Lady. Your timely intervention fueled the cockles of my heart for years to come. I hope your leg gets better.