Long Weekend, Long Post.

I’m not sure how to best go about this, dear readers; either as one long blog or a few short ones. What the hell, this is what paragraph breaks are for.

Long weekend. Looong. Weekend.

Friday night, I went to a costume party at Andra’s thrown by her and her roommates. She was one kickin’ Elasti-Girl, and I was a zombie complete with death-pallor, deep eye-sockets, and bits of blood on my person. All of which came from my Bill Nye make-up kit. Yay, theatre training. The looks I got on the metro alone made the trip worth it. Scared the bajeezus out of some poor woman on the way over. (I tried any number of spellings on bajeezus, none of ‘em were recognized. Anyone wants to correct me, they’re welcome to it.)

The party was great. There was karaoke, there was strong drink, there were ladies abound. Hope to have pictures from that night, soon. I returned home at an early enough hour to make the most of the next day, as Saturday was (and was intended to be) a long one.

Sara Joy, I *am* coming to see Ten Little Indians. Friday. I’m there.

I told Sara Joy that I would make it this past Saturday's matinee, but that proved impossible. The Comedy Pigs had our Halloween show that night, and we needed to rehearse as much as possible for the sketches we were doing. Like a genius, I neglected to bring my costumes to the rehearsal; as I thought I would have ample time to return home and get them for that night.

I was wrong. The delay was delicious, but I was wrong. After a lengthy rehearsal, about seven of us went out to dinner at this Greek Restaurant. Greek Salad with Lamb Schwarma: Mother of God. Delicious. There just is not enough tasty in the word to capture that salad. Homina Homina Homina. Great stuff. The problem became that we didn’t leave the restaurant until after 8, and I had two forty-minute drives ahead of me to get back to the theatre before 10:30.

I got back home, grabbed costumes galore, and also took a hot minute to get directions to Bill and Dany’s party later that night in Baltimore. (And no, Dany is not a typo. Dany is short for Danyela. So there.)

The show was good. Not great, but good. I arrived on time, which was a blessing. The audience was on the small side, which can be murder to a comedy show. No one wants to be the only one (or among the only ones) laughing, so even if they enjoyed themselves, it was a quiet crowd.

On to Baltimore. I knew it was going to be a drive, going in. I was not counting, however, on getting lost. I should have, though. I ALWAYS get lost, the first time I’m driving somewhere. It’s a written, set in granite law. “Casey will get lost on his way to anywhere the first time. So it is written, so shall it be.” Sazza Fragga.

In this case, I got lost on 48 East. I had my eyes peeled for a certain street that I never found. I had to get back on 695 on the far side of Baltimore to be talked through directions over the phone with Bill. This is because I am an idiot with no sense of geography what so ever. Sazza Fragga again.

That party was also fun. Granted, it was winding down by the time I finally got there, but fun was had. If you’re wondering what I went dressed as, I chose to arrive as a guy who just came off a show to drive an hour and a half to a party. We talked, we laughed, we hugged enthusiastically. I hadn’t seen Dany or Bill in months, seeing as how they live in Baltimore. It was a good time.

Willy Wonka had had a fair amount to imbibe, and was smacking people on the rear with his cane until it was taken away from him. He enthusiastically shook hands with partiers and said “You’ve got the Golden Ticket!” The fact that he’d said this to nearly everyone in attendance cheapened the sentiment, I thought. He was only supposed to be handing out five…

We slept, we got up, and we went to breakfast. It turned out that practically everyone was in showbiz, all in the same show, no less. The 80’s Prom, which I promised Dany I would come see. Assuming I can find the damn theatre.

Evidently, the man who was Wonka plays the token bad-ass in Prom. I was exhausted from the night previous, and so it struck me as incredibly funny. Punchy-funny. I couldn’t stop laughing for almost five minutes. Seriously, tears filled my eyes. I was in hysterics. It got contagious, and one of Dany’s friends, Tiffany, started laughing too. Good times.

I borrowed two CD’s of Dany’s: Dean Martin and Louis Prima recordings. SWEET. I made my way home, refilled the gas tank on Claudia (my car’s name is Claudia), and sat down for about an hour before I left for Winchester.

An old girlfriend, Samm, sang in a choir last night near our old stomping grounds of Shenandoah U. They sang Bach’s Mass in D Minor. It was hypnotic. The music was incredible, the singers were fantastic, the orchestra sublime. It’s also a bloody long piece, but well worth it. I also managed to run into some old friends and brothers of mine, which was a pleasant surprise.

After the recital, Samm and I went out to chat, and had a good long talk. It’d been over two years since we’d seen each other in person, but we’d otherwise kept in touch through email and phone calls. Motherhood is treating her well. We talked about a number of things. The word is: Therapeutic. Samm is a woman whom I trust as much if not more than any other, and just having her to myself for a few hours to chew the fat was wonderful. Then I drove home.

I had… an unpleasant dream this morning. I dreamt, not for the first time, that I was auditioning for Saturday Night Live. To say it went poorly is an understatement. Bill, a costar from Book of Days was there; I remember that very clearly. I wasn’t sure if he was there for moral support or what, but it was kind of nice to have someone else backing me up. Too bad I tanked the audition. I mean tanked. Yee Gods.

Well. I think that’s as good a place as any to come to a stop. Happy Halloween, people. Happy Halloween.

Oh, That's Right... It's Halloween!

Fuel Fun in Frederick

On my way to rehearsal Wednesday for the Comedy show this weekend (y'all are invited if you wanna come on Saturday night, by the way); something caught my attention. Something very funny to me.

I stopped at Sheetz to get gas, as the price was about $2.29 a gallon. I looked across the street at Lowest Price. Their gas was $2.57 a gallon.

The name of the place is Lowest Price. Lowest. More low than leading competitors, is the point I'm trying to make. And their gas was almost 30 cents higher in price. Right across the bloody street.

That made me shake my head and smile.

Mmm, Punishment! I'm A Glutton For It!

Last year, I heard about the NaNoWriMo for the first time. It’s short for National Novel Writing Month. A few thousand romantic fools are going to try their hardest to cram 50,000 words or more into the space of 30 days, starting November First. Each.

And I’m one of ‘em.

Now, I’m not saying it’ll be Tolstoy pouring off these fingers, but dang it, it’s too interesting a concept not to try. It’s a hell of an undertaking, and knowing that there are thousands of others committed to making it happen as well… That’s kind of encouraging.

Do I know what I’ll be writing about? Not yet, I don’t. Characters? Setting? Plot? Not a clue. Which, if I understand it, is the way it’s supposed to be. Isn’t to say I’ll be flying completely blind, I just don’t have anything lined up yet. I can’t commit one word to paper until Midnight, November 1, but what the heck? I’m in.

I’m totally in.

Could Be Worse, Could Be Juggling Chainsaws

It should come as no surprise that I’ve been doing my share of thinking lately. However, rather than over-thinking a particular topic, dear reader, I think I’ve managed to spread it around to a fair amount so that all the bagel chips get their own share of lox cream cheese. (What do you want? I’m hungry.)

I do a lot of writing. A lot. Of writing. And wise people have said that writers shouldn’t try to work on too many things at once; as it divides their attention to the point that they can’t work on any of the projects to any degree of productivity. That may be true. Certainly when someone is on a deadline.

I’m not on a deadline. Nope, no deadlines for Casey. Oh, sure, I may have personal due dates I’d like to keep myself to, but I can be pretty flexible when the occasion hits. It’s hitting me.

And this, this right here, is exactly why I love having a computer and a little zip drive that fits on my keychain. I can take my work with me without even carrying a pad of paper. Sweet.

Roughly two weeks ago, I started work on what is hopefully an original concept for a story. Completely vampire-free, which is an exclusion I hope to make more of in the future. Then, about five days ago, I hit a dry spell. I couldn’t start chapter four to start my life. There are things that are going to happen next plot-wise; and while I’m fairly certain I know what they are, I haven’t been able to make it happen.

There was a period of flummoxing. I was flummoxed (and I love that word! Flummox. Heh.). And then something wonderful happened. I found myself able to work on another project I started earlier!

I’m still hoping to write a good printable comic book one of these days, and to that end; I’ve been working on the first issue of All Fall Down. I’m not going to go into any kind of detail, but it too is 100% Nosferatu-less. (Let’s see that one become a word. Has great flow.) It’s a more traditional type of story, but still a hopefully original premise. I’m wrapping up the first draft of the first issue of the mini-series. Woot. That feels good. Once it’s complete, I can start the ball rolling on this venture all over again.

And I can go back to my other story. I can work on some other project that accumulated a millimeter of dust in the old grey matter. I really think it’s okay to juggle ‘em so long as I keep it reasonable, and I’m working earnestly on something. Here’s hoping, right?

Well, There Goes My Resolve

… Shit.

I ask you, dear readers, what am I supposed to do in the face of this? How am I to stand strong when they offer buy 2, get 1 free, at dirt cheap prices to begin with? With free shipping, no less? If my name were Achilles, DVD sales would be my heel. My kryptonite. My… undoing in general.

I’m no clothes horse, and my sweet tooth is so small it’s hardly worth mentioning. But over the last few years, I have become something of a shopaholic; and then only when it came to two things: Books and Movies. I love a good book and will read it again and again, if I enjoy it. The same can be said for my movie collection; just replace the word ‘read’ with ‘watch’.

The sale goes through the 30th. Y’all have got the better part of a week. Adios for now.

Of Course You Realize This Means War

It was bound to happen, sooner or later. It was inevitable, wasn’t it? As night follows day, as every river on earth flows south but the Nile… so must Oscar-Winning Actors Sharing A Birthday Meet In Glorious Combat!

Today, F. Murray Abraham and Kevin Kline must duke it out for ownership, once and for all, of October 24. Loser… has to find another date on which to celebrate their birth. Can Salieri defeat Otto? Can Ad'har Ru'afo survive against the Pirate King? Let’s find out!

Little known secret: hidden within each non-wartime Oscar award lies a deadly weapon, waiting to be unleashed. Okay, that isn’t actually true .The Oscar is pretty much a very shiny blunt object. Let the revels begin!

Kline is eight years younger than Abraham, and he’s always been known for being physically fit. Abraham’s years are going to cost him. What’s this? Oh! Kline is rooting through Abraham’s wardrobe and is pulling out his old Fruit of the Loom costume!

That’s right! Once upon a time, Signor Salieri played a bunch of grapes in FOTL commercials. It appears that Mr. Kline is trying to take him down by way of death-of-embarrassment. Abraham won’t be outdone… He’s sees Kline’s grape outfit and raises him the suit he wore in Wild Wild West. Oooooh. That’s going to cost Mr. Kline some points.

Of the weapons available to both, Kline has picked up the flail. With catlike tread, he sneaks up behind Abraham, who doesn’t appear to realize he’s there. Abraham ducks at the last possible moment! He catches Kevin’s wrist and judo-throws him over his shoulder. OH!

Fortunately, Kevin’s years of dance training enabled him to land in the least painful manner possible, and he’s back on his feet in no time. Abraham, wasting no time, GRABS HIS OSCAR and clubs Kline in the head! Kline is down! Kline is down!

F. is doing his best not to soliloquize over his fallen opponent, but old habits die hard. He casually, menacingly makes his way to the weapons table and picks out a short sword. This does not look good for Kevin. Get up, Kevin, get up!

Mr. Kline has played too many heroes not to know when to make a dramatic rise, and does so with aplomb. It looks like he’s holding the gun that saved the day in Silverado. He’s got it trained on Abraham, whose long list of villainous credits isn’t doing him much good at the moment. After all, how often does the bad guy really get away with it?

“Good bye, Kevin.”

“Good bye, F. Murray.” BANG.

F. Murray Abraham is down, but it doesn’t appear to be lethal. Mr. Kline left him alive! Still, I think it’s safe to say this fight is over! Phoebe Cates is coming out to congratulate her husband, and that’s the fight.

Tune in next time when Robert De Niro and the ghost of Marlon Brando duke it out for the right to bear the Academy Award for playing Don Corleone. Good night!

Think, Think, Think

It’s been a day for thought. Don’t always like those.

I was sent out earlier this afternoon to fetch half a gallon of Half-n-Half for the office fridge. The office fridge likes having Half-n-Half in its coffee. That the fridge drinks.

Driving in noon-time traffic gives one plenty of time to think, what with all the not-driving. And I found myself… angry. Frustrated. At what, I don’t quite know.

It occurred to me yesterday that the main protagonist of Nocturne may have one large flaw; in that she doesn’t have any flaws. Tahnima’s temporarily being corralled into ‘Mary Sue’ status. The trick, then, is to incorporate some good ‘uns that will humanize her a bit, without taking away too much from the rest of her. Although a) she isn’t human, and b) Sydney Bristow seems conspicuously Mary Sueish, and no-one’s complained about her. Being played by Jennifer Garner helps.

ANYWAY.

I’ve had stupid, asinine thoughts pinging through my brain all day; the greatest of which was about the neck-tie. Why do we wear ‘em? It’s basically just a cravat for some fetching lady to yank one into a smooch; which no-one seems to be taken advantage of. *Shrug* There was a girl I knew in High School who had a thing for neck-ties for that sole reason, not that we ever dated.

Why neck-ties? They don’t serve any purpose but to catch mustard, constrict breathing, complete the corporate uniform and say the world, “Look at the tie I picked out today, I can (or cannot) color-coordinate. And oh yes, it’s pointing to my pants.”

It’s worth mentioning that for a stretch in high school, I wore a tie most days at a school that didn’t require a uniform. I did this because I wanted to stand out in a way that didn’t require piercing myself, a strange hair-cut, or make-up. Not once was I yanked by the tie into a smooch. Pity.

Still waiting on that new knob, for my brain. This one’s stuck on 11.

Analysis of... Everything Just Below This

Cauldron: To see a cauldron in your dream, implies that you are undergoing some transformation, it also indicates destiny. Consider the symbolism of what is in the cauldron and its importance.

Magic: To dream that you are performing magic, signifies many pleasant surprises. It may also represent a creative mind and that events will turn out the way you had hoped for.
To see others performing magic in your dream, denotes profitable endeavors.

Apartment: To dream about an apartment, symbolizes a financial or situational state. To dream of a shabby and dark apartment, indicates misfortune and possible loss of a lover or money.

Frog: To see a frog in your dream, represents a potential to change or to do the unexpected. The frog may be a prince in disguise. Alternatively, the frog may suggest uncleanness.
To see frogs leaping in your dream, may indicate your lack of commitment. You have the tendency to jump from one thing to another. Alternatively, it may suggest that you are taking major steps toward some goal.

Walrus: To see a walrus in your dream, signifies protection and your display of dominance in some situation or relationship. You are always on the lookout for anybody who is trying to out-maneuver, out-rank, or out-wit you. Alternatively, the walrus may represent your thick-skin and how you do not let the comments/criticism of others get to you.

Stranger: To see a stranger in your dream, symbolizes the part of yourself that is repressed and hidden.

Car: Overall, this dream symbol is an indication of your dependence and degree of control you have on your life.

To dream that you car has been stolen, indicates that you are being stripped of your identity. This may relate to losing your job, a failed relationship, or some situation which has played a significant role in your identity and who you are as a person.

To see a parked car in your dream, suggests that you need to turn your efforts and energies elsewhere. You may be needlessly spending your energy in a fruitless endeavor. Alternatively, a parked car my symbolize your need to stop and enjoy life. To dream that you cannot find where you parked your car, suggests that you do not know where you want to go in life.

Red: Red is an indication of raw energy, force, vigor, intense passion, aggression, power, courage and passion. The color red has deep emotional and spiritual connotations.
Red is also the color of danger, shame, sexual impulses and urges. Perhaps you need to stop and think about your actions.

Table: To see a table in your dream represents social unity and the potential for a meeting or gathering. It refers to your social and family connections. If the table is broken or not functional, then it suggests some dissension in a group. Perhaps there is something you cannot hold inside any longer and need to bring it out in the open.

To dream that a table is walking or moving by itself, signifies that you will go through a series of new changes in your life as a way to relieve yourself from some dissatisfaction.

We May Have Reached A New Level Of Bizarre, Here

Greetings, all. Occasionally, a dream pops in my head that bears some sort of significance. Some deep, possibly meaningful message from the ol’ subconscious that, if I’m lucky, could even end up as writing material. (Feel free to ask about The Dancing Six…)

That wasn’t the case last night. Nope. Just batshit weird stuff.

I dreamt that a friend of mine and I (can’t remember his face) were in some slum apartment. We appeared to be making a familiar from scratch. A familiar is a magic-user’s pet, that (as I understand it) is supposed to perform any task you set to them. I think. Haven’t cracked a grimoire in years…

Anyway: we’re in the apartment. And we’ve got a small cauldron on a hotpad, bubbling away. My partner in crime decides that a frog would be a good familiar, so the boiling contents of the pot leap out into the air. What lands appears to be a frog the size of a basketball, made entirely out of liquid. Or very, very runny play-doh. In either case, it’s entirely self-contained, not leaking/spilling/whatever. It looks up at us, expectantly, with an expression of ‘Now what’? on its face.

The frog hops around the room a bit, taking in our crappy surroundings. My cohort then changes his mind. “How about a walrus?” he says. The frog obliges, mid-hop, by grotesquely swelling. He hopped up a frog, he landed as a 4,000 pound walrus. Right on the table. The table never had a chance. It looks at us, sheepishly. Or walrusly. Yeah, I know. I’m sorry, too.

I said to this thing, “Think you can weigh a little less?” The Walrus shrinks to about the size of a housecat. “And what about fixing the table?” This is where things get interesting: The cat-sized walrus just stares at the kindling that used to be a table, and it all reverse-smashes. Pieces of shattered wood seam back together, making the table effectively brand new. This gives me an idea to take the walrus outside and give my car a magic tune-up.

Well, I go outside, tiny walrus flapping towards me, into the parking lot.

My car is missing. I don’t take it well. At all.

Some time later, mini-walrus and friend completely forgotten, I find my car. It was stolen, given a new paint job (red!) and license plate, and re-parked only two or three spaces away. One or two guys are standing on their lawn, watching me steal back my stolen car. The key still unlocks the door and starts the ignition, and there’s this look on their faces that says there’s not really a damn thing they can do about it. So there. Jerks.

That has to be, far and away, one of the most bizarre dreams I’ve had in a long while. Interpret as you see fit.

HAH! Yeah, Right...

The Gentleman Deliberate Gentle Love Master (DGLMm) Steady & mature. You are The Gentleman. For anyone looking for an even-keeled, considerate lover, you're their man. You're sophisticated. You know what you want both in a relationship and outside of it. You have a substantial romantic side, and you're experienced enough sexually to handle yourself in that arena, too. Your future relationships will be long-lasting; you're classic "marrying material," a prize in the eyes of many. It's possible that behind it all, you're a bit of a male slut. Your best friends know that in relationships you're fundamentally sex-driven. You're a safe, reliable guy, who does get laid. In a lot of ways, you're like a well-worn, comfortable pair of socks. Your ideal mate is NOT a nut-job. She is giving and loving, like you, but also experienced. Avoid the The Battleaxe at all costs. CONSIDER: The Maid of Honor, someone just like you. Link: The 32-Type Dating Test My profile name: SiegeOwns

Guess I'll Have To Become Telepathic

All right. Let me say right at the get-go: I’m not criticizing or disparaging the party I’m about to expound on. Different is good.

I don’t understand people who don’t talk much. This is not to say I don’t understand what they say when they do speak. I just wish they’d go into more detail, longer.

I like knowing a lot about my friends. The more, the better. Laconic people… Huh. I get that still waters can run deep (Can, not do. Sometimes a puddle’s just a puddle.), I get that people have personal lives and secrets; privacy and all that. I don’t have to know everything about a person. But I’d occasionally like more info than I’m getting.

I wanna know ya. I want to know how your day went, if anything interesting happened during your day. And I’m not gettin’ much from some. It’s not that they’re especially tight-lipped, our bound to some code of silence (that I know of), but they just aren’t sharing. Which is fine, because this is America, dammit, and you have the right to remain silent.

I also want to point out that I don’t condone verbal diarrhea, in which every last thought gibbers out of your mouth so a guy can’t get a word in edgewise. All things in moderation.

The problem, however, with the quiet types, is that the first impulse is to open your big yapper and start talking to them. The second impulse is to talk about me. I’m trying to be better about it (thanks again, McCall), but if you’re not going to say much, how the hell am I supposed to know?

It fascinates me. It really does. The appeal of that which is unknown. The best part about all of this? There’s not a thing I can do about it. Not a blessed thing. People will either share what’s on their mind, or they won’t. And prying certainly won’t endear one to them. So I just live with it.

Glad I got that out of my system.

"The Gene That Controls Having Crushes Can't Do Math."

Truer words ain’t been spoke. Found this nugget of wisdom in a comment left by Leta on a blog she only recently pointed out, where the author is eloquent, cynical, and very worth reading. He hung up his keyboard, so naturally there is now only a finite amount of reading to do at his site. Wish I’d known about him while he was still writing… Dang.

In any case: That long paragraph is how we get to the title of this piece. That gene. Controlling crushes, or any other sort of initial romantic attachment.

Would that I could have it removed. That blasted gene has gotten me into trouble on more than one occasion, and appears to be in excellent health, the little bastard.

You can picture it as a cherub with a crossbow that got into the wine; buzzing around my head like those biplanes attacking King Kong atop the Empire State Building. The Monkey Just Wants To Be Left Alone, and they keep on strafing. Jerks.

I don’t regret my past relationships. Oh, I occasionally wish I had done things slightly (or not so slightly differently), but I could still walk away from them knowing firmly that a) Regret isn’t worth the sigh it’s printed on, and b) It’s not the worst mistake in the world if you learn something from it. In every case, with every woman, things were genuinely very good before I went and lost my head. Which I didn't always, just... most of the time.

But that pesky gene… He deserves some downtime. An extended vacation, perhaps. Now.

Anyone familiar with The Incredible Hulk (the show, not the comic) will know what can happen when someone deliberately tries to fiddle with their own DNA in order to nip or tuck their gene sequence. Feces hits the oscillating unit with such tremendous force they’ll name military procedures after it:

Operation: ShitStorm. “We go in, we drop about 200,000 clones of this guy (they point to a picture of me) and convince them to ask the locals on dates. The city will be completely doomed inside 8 months, tops. And he’ll even pay for the flowers!”

General Fiction then receives a commendation for the first gun-quiet hostile takeover in military history. Later on, after reviewing their notes, however, the boards that control such things strip his medals and stick him in the Hague for a trial on gross and inappropriate war crimes.

That’s as far as I’m going to take the tangent on that one. I’m getting better at knowing when to call it quits, in that regard.

Hooray for learning something.

Updating The List

It’s a gift when someone can read you, know you; regardless of how comfortable you are with it. Somewhere along the line I must’ve picked up the notion that it was desirable to be complex, or at least unpredictable (read: weird). And few things get under my skin like someone that knows me. Capital KNOWS. I don’t like being predictable, I don’t like being an open book. Well, tough shit. It’s just one of the romantic illusions about myself and life in general that can use some shedding…

McCall’s got my number. She’s not the only person who has it, but she’s the latest to acquire it: my number. The woman sees through me like glass; to my not-always-amused flummoxing. I like talking with people who can challenge me, who can keep me on my toes. Of course, I also like winning those little sparring matches, but that isn’t going to happen any time soon. With McCall it can be like fencing, en point. Not that I want to see ballet dancers with sharp objects, but you get my drift. Nor do I win my share of matches. But it’s good to scrap all the same.

I think what I’m trying to say is that I don’t appreciate her, like I ought to. Even when we haven’t seen eye to eye, we’ve been able to agree on points, at least. Parts of the whole. She keeps me honest. And that type of person is always good to have around.

As for the short list, the women that can shut me up… the management has made room for #5.

I Owe A Lot To Monty Python

I don’t know what possessed me to think on it, but here it is anyway:

I was walking down a hallway at work just now, on my way to pick up mail for my charges; when I started reciting an old Monty Python bit. One of my favorites from the two-disc soundtrack I keep in my car. It was radio theatre, performed by the mentally infirm. Idjits. They’re supposed to be performing this esteemed bit of melodrama, and the guys are just stomping around, running through the walls, all sorts of great stuff.

“Comb een!” (Actor proceeds to blast through door, great noisy SFX) “I meant open tha DOOR and comb eeen…”

“Sorray…” (Crashes through another wall.)

“Deuh! My bwain hurts!!”

“Sorray…”

It occurred to me, just reciting those lines of comedy gold, that I had slipped into my Nicodemus voice and stomped around a bit (in my head, not actually stomping in the hall. They frown on that kinda thing). Nicodemus from The Mystery of Irma Vep was more or less completely inspired by the Monty Python dunce characters.

I’d completely forgotten where I’d gotten the voice from in the first place.

The omnipresent expression of mildly aggressive confusion just came along with the rest of the package. Right down to a loud “Deuh!!!” on every single entrance through the upstage French doors.

I think Nicodemus could lumber into a room with those nitwits and feel right at home. Think I should write them a thank-you letter for the inspiration?

“Very loike… Very loike.”

Something Good To Compare To

The best actor to work with I've ever known has been Nano.

We had chemistry, we had an in-sync interaction that was just... right. On so many levels. And in Nano, I see so much.

Nano's got a natural talent for comedy. Natural talent. It's just... right. He does it, it fits, becuase it ought to. I've found myself comparing him with John Goodman and Robin Williams. Two of the funniest actors I know, who just tap on themselves to find the comedy in the scripts they perform.

Nano. It's all about the Nano. The man gives of himself so freely, and insists you take it. The guy rocks. He just rocks.

I'm fully aware that using terms like 'rocks' may sound fairly simple; but these days it's the highest compliment I can give. Nano rocks. And I pray I can work with him again.

Too Many Thoughts... Not Enough Brain

This one may be a long one. Just warning you ahead of time.

It’s been a heck of a week. I worked over time every night this week, and Saturday and Sunday as well. The upside (in addition to the money) is that it takes some of the edge off of tomorrow being Monday-- I’m not returning to the job, I never left it in the first place.

This weekend I auditioned for The Shape of Things at Silver Spring Stage. Callback announcements are tomorrow, the call-backs themselves will be Tuesday. I’m crossing fingers, but at the same time I don’t know if I could even do the show; it’s the same day as a friend’s wedding. No way I’m skipping that.

I’ve started talking to someone again I hadn’t seen in three years. We managed to meet up on Friday night, and I met some friends of hers. She’s doing very well for herself. She succeeded in what she set out to do three years ago; namely establish a medical career. There’s no feeling in the world quite like making a dream come true: An honest to goodness “I hope I hope I hope I can do/become/reach xxxx some day.” That much I can say from experience.

I started work on a new project this week, which I don’t want to talk too much about in case I end up not finishing it. It’s going to be a big one, and damn it, the last time I undertook something like this it took a year of steady work to reach any kind of solid conclusion. But I saw it through then, and I know I can do it this time. My writing style has evolved a lot since then. Novelists like Terry Pratchett and Christopher Moore have had time to leave a strong impact on my mind, and it’s been a positive one.

There are few feelings I have more dislike for, than not knowing what to do. I hate not knowing what to do. The aimlessness I felt last week has had time to ferment into something more attention-grabbing, and it switched trains of thought for good measure.

Now I know what I’m working on again, but that’s just another in a series of damned projects. Write a play. Get it performed. Act in one. Write a comic book. Get it printed and fail. Write a screenplay. Enter a contest. Walk another three miles. Get a voice-over gig. Write a blog. Write a poem. Write an article. Perform and publish and enter the contest and audition and exercise and type or make the attempts and fall flat. And do it again.

Incidentally, where does See Your Friends fit in the picture? Save Up Some Money?

And what is it for? What the hell is it for? I know I want to do these things, these creative things, and I’m doing them. But what are they amounting to? What’s the point? Something a friend of mine said last night… didn’t sit right with me. We’d just left a community theatre performance, and were talking with someone who was interested in auditioning. I said “Don’t call it a hobby.” My friend said that it was a hobby. And she was right.

I found acting when I was in High School. I can’t say I discovered it. Saying I discovered Acting would be like saying Columbus discovered America. Other people were there first. I found acting in High School. My parents were getting a divorce at the time. The biggest reason I stayed after school to work on shows, was simply not to be home. That, and I had absolutely no talent for sports. To think and focus on other things for a time. And it worked. It worked great, and I found that I was good at it. I embraced it, said it was what I wanted to do with my life. Acting was a lifeline.

I went to college for it, with two supportive parents behind me all the way. I studied for four years, learning technique and stage politics (ugh) and superstitions and the ins and outs. Acting was valid. It was a class. It was a school. It was what I did, it was my life.

I graduated and found work, amazingly enough, as an actor. I was a working goddamned actor, for a year. The company which could provide room and board and a nice per diem on the road couldn’t provide health insurance. Or money to pay college loans. Acting was a job, and a damn fulfilling one. It was still my life.

That was over two and a half years ago.

I haven’t been paid to act in a year. Oh, I’ve *performed* and been paid, on stage and behind a microphone, but that didn’t require acting so much as a flexible set of vocal cords. Acting is… a hobby, now. One I take very seriously, but to call it more than that… doesn’t necessarily fit.

Yes, I write. I write every week, almost every day if I can help it. People poke light fun at the compulsion, or the characters I come up with. Sometimes there’s a genuine interest. And all I’m doing with any of it… is seeking validation.

Validation for my place here. Evidence that I’m not wasting my or anyone else’s time by breathing valuable air. Since I was old enough to call myself a night owl, I’ve needed something to work on. Something to finish and polish and... I don’t know, put on the metaphorical shelf.

It’s something I’m going to have to think on a bit more.

More to follow. Definitely more to follow.

Not A Shabby Assessment

Being born on the 3rd day of the month is likely to add a good bit of vitality to your life. The energy of 3 allows you bounce back rapidly from setbacks, physical or mental. There is a restlessness in your nature, but you seem to be able to portray an easygoing, "couldn't care less" attitude. You have a natural ability to express yourself in public, and you always make a very good impression. Good with words, you excel in writing, speaking, and possibly singing. You are energetic and always a good conversationalist. You have a keen imagination, but you tend to scatter your energies and become involved with too may superficial matters. You are affectionate and loving, but sometimes too sensitive. You are subject to rapid ups and downs.

Fun, Fun, Fun, in the Sun, S- No. Wait. Rain, Rain, Rain

Last night was strange, teeming with countless events of heretofore unknown bizarreness. Okay, not countless. Two. Two events of heretofore unknown bizarreness.

Firstly, I’ve never experienced filmus interruptus at the theater before. I was watching Serenity, when just past the revelation of the Alliance’s forbidden secret, the screen *shuts off* and the lights come up. Someone pulled the fire alarm! We’re ushered outside and into the parking lot, where the employees apologize for the problem and begin handing out movie passes. There was no fire, it was likely just a prank, but the fire trucks pulled up in about five minutes anyway. Way to waste their valuable time, whoever you are. And oh yeah, I want to finish the movie. Sazza fragga.

So. I’m on my way home later that night, when my car runs out of gas. At midnight. In the pouring rain. I’ve never had that happen before either. Yes, the little light was on to tell me I needed more gas, but I was planning to do it today. I should have had a good 20 more miles in the tank, but noooo.

I called AAA, who informed me after a ten-minute wait that a tow truck would be there inside 90 minutes to tow me to the nearest gas station.

“Hang on a second. Can’t you just bring a gas can? Wouldn’t that be much easier than hooking up and towing my car?”

‘Your county doesn’t do that, sir. Would you like me to send the truck?’

“Well, why can’t they just pick up some gas? I’ll be happy to pay for it.”

‘Your county doesn’t do that, sir.’

“Okay, how about they pick me up, I buy the gas, and we bring it to my car? I’m trying to save you some work, here.”

‘Your county doesn’t deliver gas, sir.’

“No. I’m saying you can deliver me. I’m okay with it. It must be simpler than hooking up— How long did you say the wait would be?”

‘Ninety minutes, sir.’

“Got it. Uh, thanks very much, but I’ll cancel.”

I called my brother. He lived only ten minutes away, and was usually up at this hour. I woke him. Oops. Turns out he’d been going to bed earlier since he quit smoking (way to go bro!), and this was the first time he’d been able to nod off before 1 so far. He picks me up, and we go off to the gas station to buy a gas can. And, you know. Gas.

The attendant is less than helpful as he doesn’t understand what it is I’m asking for, but eventually points me towards the plastic container anyway. I put about a gallon and a half in it, and we get back to my car. Where I can’t get the thing to work.

The tank has that little lid on the interior that you press into (not the one that unscrews), and the can itself has a spring-loaded nozzle that won’t open evidently unless you hold it open. It has a lip of some kind, that should theoretically catch on the gas tank opening, and the gas should go in. Instead, the fuel spilled from the supposedly leak-proof can all over my hands, and down the side of the car. Suddenly I’m a bit grateful for the rain.

A good Samaritan stops by to give us a hand, as we have yet to figure out how the hell to get the gas from the can into the tank instead of just giving my car a good coat of the stuff. He figures it out and ten minutes of pouring later, my car has enough fuel to get me to the station. His name is Dave, and he rocks. As does my brother for answering the call.

I finally get home… much later than I originally intended to. And from now on, when my car tells me I’m running low on fuel, I’ll be sure to take notice sooner, rather than later.

Cause, you know. I’m smart like that.

On Bearings, And Lack Of Same

Hmm. I find myself… kinda lost in thought at the moment. Feeling a bit lost in general, although not to the point of any kind of worry.

Nocturne’s finished and sent. My latest efforts on the subject have just been in detail work. It’s important, but still it feels like a… finishing touch.

The script I’m currently working on stumped me when the characters have to order dinner. I haven’t been able to get past that chunk of scene three for a day now.

I found out yesterday that I’ll be working Saturday and Sunday of this week, at the office. I’m not complaining. I can use the overtime; and my weekends (when not performing) seem to be an exercise in wasting time, anyway.

Tonight, my family celebrates the birthdays of my sister-in-law Maggie, and myself. We were born only two days apart, and since she’s become part of the family we decided to celebrate them together, if we could. We’re having fondue, a treat I haven’t had in years.

I’m just not sure what to do next. I don’t have any voice-over jobs in the immediate future, and I’m still working on refining my narration demo before I send it to a certain someone. The Discovery Education show is still in production, but it’s miles from the finish line and I don’t have any further involvement with it.

I’m planning to see McCall in Bell, Book & Candle this weekend, I promised her I would and I intend to keep my word. No reason that my day job should conflict with it, come Saturday.

I think part of it is that I’m not sure what to do with my newly-rationed free time. I have more than I did while rehearsing for Book of Days, but less than I would if I weren’t working overtime at the office. I want to stay productive and busy, but at the moment I don’t have any more projects…

At least until Saturday. I’m auditioning for a show (not gonna spill the beans just yet). If I make the cast, great. If not, there are other try-outs coming up in the next month or so.

The other thing on my mind: I recently re-opened lines of communication with someone I haven’t spoken to in almost three years. It’s throwing some things into a sharper contrast.

Crap. Here’s the thing. It’s been a good year. Certainly what I’d call productive. Two shows under my belt so far (a lean number compared to ’04 and ’03), two scripts of mine have seen a stage, and the Ruby Griffith Awards have done a lot toward validating my place in the world as some kind of writer and actor. But accomplishments shouldn’t make me happy. I feel blessed to have them, but I’m not here just to achieve a list of tasks before I kick the bucket. There’s more to it than that. What it is… I’m not real sure on at the moment.

Damn slow days. Stupid brain.

Hey. Asshole.

There’s a word for people who cut you off, in traffic. They speed into your lane and bring things to a jarring, albeit momentary, halt. While it is unpleasant and thoughtless, it happens to millions of drivers every day. People are in a rush on their way to work, or to drop their kids off at school, so forth. It happens.

That’s not what this guy did. There’s a frequently congested intersection on my way to work that forks into two lanes only about 20 feet from the stoplight. It gets so that people are unofficially creating that second lane, several feet in advance. There wouldn’t be any *real* problem with this, if that single-lane road didn’t intersect with another road, right before the fork. So, in addition to faking a second lane, considerate drivers leave that gap so that people coming in the opposite direction can cross, if they need to, without jamming traffic the other way.

This morning, I was on gap detail, for all of 60 seconds. I wasn’t going anywhere, as there was really nowhere to go until the light ahead turned green. Then, the honking started. This asshole, immediately behind me, swerves into traffic to butt ahead in line. He (saw him, definitely a guy) didn’t just cut me off, he deliberately drove around me. Not that it did him any good. He just took up more of the road, effectively getting maybe 12 feet closer, including the length of my own car.

He’s lucky no one was crossing that gap when he did it, or he would have sideswiped. I don’t normally honk my horn, or give any other signals of anger when I’m driving. I pressed into my horn for a full ten seconds and flipped this f*cktard a flock of birds that would have made my friend Chris proud.

Now, in the asshole’s defense, he must have been terribly smart. Really. He obviously skipped kindergarten and advanced right to first grade, back in the day. That’s the only explanation I can think of for him not learning that you wait your turn in line. It’s one of the first things you learn, isn’t it? Maybe he didn’t skip the class, maybe he was just sick the day they covered it. And every day he would have had to stand in a line for a god damned minute and a half, up until today.

It got me good and mad. I’m over it now, but there was that nice serving of vitriol in my stomach, for the rest of the drive to work. Sheesh.

Asshole.

And Now We Wait

I just confirmed that my screenplay, Nocturne, was delivered safe and sound on Saturday. It got there quick! It’s safe in the hands of the Scriptapalooza people, and now I just have to wait.

*Twiddles thumbs*

Doo de doo de doo…

Um, is it February 15th yet?

Dead & Breakfast On A Sunday Afternoon

My second performed play, Dead & Breakfast, had its debut yesterday afternoon at Howard Community College. My friend Leta was even able to attend! Major gluten-free brownie points for her!

Bill, the director told me the show had the biggest crowd of the series (9 new scripts were performed in all). I guess the subtle nuances of a multi-layered plot can’t beat a bunch of movie monsters tryin’ to kill each other. Sweet. Leta reported that the crowd had a good time, and there was some lively feedback. I can’t *wait* to see the DVD. You think I kid.

Have a good one, people.

This Man Is My Hero

I’ve known about Emperor Norton I for a few years. Before today; I hadn’t delved too deeply into the sublime lunacy of the self-proclaimed monarch. The man was a genius. Stark-raving crazy (or just incredibly eccentric), but a genius all the same.

You’re walking down the streets of San Francisco in the latter half of the 19th Century. You wear a faded, likely smelly uniform, escorted by two mongrels and carry a rusty saber at your side or a walking stick or umbrella. The police salute you as you march by. If one of your esteemed canines passes away, Mark Twain pens the eulogy.

You’re accepted at the finest restaurants, whose business increases or wanes based on your approval. No theatrical show dares open without reserving balcony seats for you and your dogs. You have your own currency, accepted most anywhere in San Francisco.

***
Joshua A. Norton, aka Emperor Norton I, roamed the streets of San Francisco for decades in the 1800’s. He posted decrees for his nation, showed affection and concern for his city, and proclaimed himself monarch. Everyone went along with it. His Highness walked with the sort of madness that just swept you along up with it. He said he was Emperor, and he was treated as such. When his uniform had grown old and tattered, the city paid for a new one.

Not afraid of civil service, he stopped a riot in its tracks by kneeling between the mob and its target (a group of Chinese immigrants) and started reciting the Lord’s Prayer, over and over again. The would-be-rioters dissipated like a shamed fog.

I get him. I totally get him. Emperor Norton did something that no-one had ever done before him, nor can anyone do again. Not only would they be pale reflections; it’s doubtful they’d be embraced so patriotically in this day and age. People don’t seem to have the sense of humor for frivolity that they once did.

Norton was arrested once, to be committed. The public outcry against the arrest, in addition to the metaphorical SANE stamp he received from the Commissioner of Lunacy, ensured his speedy release. He was gracious enough to issue an “Imperial Pardon” to the arresting officer! Talk about class.

I think his lordship may actually be my new hero. He didn’t like the way things were done, and just… switched. He went crazy enough to allow for his own brand of rule, yet sane enough to be a benevolent, amiable fellow who seemed to genuinely care about his subjects.

Long live Emperor Norton!

On Mr. Whedon's Latest

I’ve been a fan of Joss Whedon’s work for years. That hasn’t changed. Nevertheless, I can’t confess I entirely like what he’s done with Serenity.

Spoilers below, if’n you want to see it, unsurprised-like.

I’m a writer myself. I’m all for a movie with a creative, original plot, unseen twists in the road, and a well-woven mystery. Throw in great dialogue and a terrific cast, and you can pretty much make my night. Despite the inherent quality of the movie, I’m a bit ticked off at Mr. Whedon.

I’m ticked off because of what he did to the characters. Namely, killing a few. I understand that certain characters have to die, in order to advance the plot. It’s part of the story. Hell, just look at Harry Potter! Characters have been dropping like flies in that series for the very solid reason that when Harry finally faces Voldemort, he’s going to have to do it completely alone. I’m cool with that. I may not like it, but I’m cool with it.

Since Buffy, Joss has been known for killing major characters. Jesse, best friend of Xander and Willow and first victim of vampires anyone might care about; would have been put in the opening credits if Whedon had the budget and time to shoot two sets of them. Jesse dies, plotwise, to illustrate what exactly happens when someone you know becomes a vampire. That’s more or less fine. Still, the lesson learned is: Don’t get too attached to characters if Joss Whedon is behind the script.

Whedon used the same moves in Serenity; killing Shepherd Book to advance the story. The Operative (very chillingly acted, well done Chiwetel Ejiofor), wipes out his entire colony to illustrate that the crew of the Serenity has no place to hide. It pushes the captain to hunker down and get (more) serious, and puts an edge on his determination to do what he needs to do. That works.

But Joss killed Wash. He killed Wash, the Pilot, only moments after successfully landing the Serenity on half a wing and a prayer, just sitting in the cockpit. I *liked* Wash. I liked him a lot. He had a sense of humor, he kept his head in a crisis, and he was in a successful, healthy relationship. He was a good character, run through with some sort of harpoon for absolutely no good reason.

Whedon has been drawing on Horror Movies for years, for atmosphere and nightmares to give the kiddies. That’s great. The thing about Horror Movies, Joss, is that your average cannon fodder character kicks the bucket because they do something wrong. They take the wrong moment to sleep with someone, or get drunk or high; and whoops, nothing draws Jason Voorhees like misbehavior. He's like a moth to the flame in that respect, only he carries a machete.

Even the captain, a man we know to be capable of killing when it needs doing; shows compassion. Or at least, mercy. He refuses to kill the Operative (a man who has done the lion’s share of evil work in the flick), but opts instead to show him the light. This moment of grace insures the survival of his crew, whether he knew it’d be the outcome or not, because the Operative is still alive to give the ceasefire moments later. You don’t have to kill. But Mr. Whedon does so anyway.

Was Wash’s demise supposed to heighten the drama? Didn’t. You already did that when you killed off Shepherd, another good man. We were already paying attention. If it was supposed to make his wife Zoe angry and sloppy enough to get herself killed trying to eke out some revenge, didn’t do that either. She survived. All it really accomplished, was to piss me off.

I’m aware that objectivity got thrown out the window, here. Don’t care. You’re a jerk, Mr. Whedon. You’re a jerk for killing a great character for no reason at all, but to show that you could.

I’ll get over it. I know I will. It’s only a movie for pete’s sake. But I’m giving you the evil eye, mister. Ho, boy.

Grrr. Argh.

You Learn Something New Every Day

Last night, I learned that those little keychain zip-files made by the fine people at Staples (and other manufacturers) are waterproof.

I’d accidentally left it in a pocket of a shirt that went into the washing machine.

Heh heh… Oops.

Waiting On Thin Ice

One of the only drawbacks to having a birthday (aside from the threat of random disaster) is the restaurant song. As an ex-waiter who sang, I’m aware that on some level I may still be paying karmically for it, but I hate having a bunch of strangers file out of the kitchen and sing whatever song their restaurant decides is entertaining for your birthday. It’s just embarrassing. (An actor avoiding attention—go figure.)

I went out with my Dad and Elaine last night, and our waiter was not the slickest guy in the place. He was coming across as a bit abrasive, and I don’t think it was his intent. I felt for him. He had some sort of bandage on his forearm; he might have accidentally burned himself by carrying a few hot plates, who knows.

Regardless: He wasn’t winning us over with his charm. Matter of fact, he was kind of annoying.

And he noticed presents at the table.

He asked about the gifts, I told him we were celebrating Rosh Hashanah. He didn’t buy it. My dad had ordered bacon on his burger. Dang. I told the waiter that the bacon-eater had married my mom (Elaine in this clever ruse) and that explained the bacon. He joked that the chicken on my salad wasn’t kosher, I told him I was destroying it by eating it. He didn’t buy that either.

He came back to check on us a bit later, and said dessert would be out shortly. Free birthday dessert, with a small swarm of employees. I told him I’d pass, that I didn’t want any dessert (Which was true. I don’t have much of a sweet tooth.) He said he’d already ordered it, and I should accept it on behalf of my folks, for putting up with me the rest of the year.

I knew what he was going for with that crack, but it didn’t fly. It garnered an ‘ouch’ from the parentals instead of a laugh. I chuckled, and told him he “was really racking up the tip.” A nearby sarcasm detector politely exploded.

A few minutes later, he came back with our check, and the makings of a brownie dessert in a to-go box. He had tactfully cancelled the singalong. We paid the check (leaving a good tip), and got outta there. I offered Elaine and Dad the dessert, none of us wanted it. When I saw the waiter wasn’t looking, it went in the trash.

Because She Is Who She Is

Every so often, I get the urge to wax all poetical-like about any given friend of mine. I got it again. These are the people who are important to me, and if you’re interested enough to read these things, more power to you.

Samm is a young woman I’ve known since my senior year of college. She’s the woman I previously mentioned that is now married, and has a two-year-old son, Will. Samm has had as strong an influence on me as any woman I’ve known… leastways those not related to me.

She gets me. She completely gets me. Samm has a talent for knowing and understanding just about every thought in my head, which is occasionally no small feat. (I’m not saying the thoughts are profound or anything, just numerous and opposed to rationalization.) The marvelous thing, even above that, is that she stayed around anyway.

As much as any other part of it, there’s an inherent *trust* with her; which, if you know me, is crucial to any kind of relationship. A certain woman in my past did a magnificent job of annihilating that trust, and I’ve been cautiously picking up the pieces since. You can think of it as once bitten, twice shy; only in this case she bit something off.

It’s a lucky man that has someone like Samm in his corner of the ring.

She dropped me a message last night, to wish me a happy birthday. We chatted about old times, and we both had to smile. It was nice to hear from her.

Okay. I think we’re good, here. Have yourselves a good one.

Happy Birthday To Me

As previously stated, there have been bad ones, and there have been good ones. Today was a really good one.

I woke up and went to work, nothing special there. My parents, grandparents, and brother all wished me a happy birthday and called to do so. Sweet. I got emails at work from Bill and Leta, which felt great. Got through the day and came home in time to catch up with Nano! Woot! I haven’t seen him in weeks, and he comes up and gives me a bear hug that makes my whole damn day.

We went out to dinner and ended up at Howard Community College *right* on time to catch Bill, the director. Most of the cast was on hand (the rest will be there Wednesday), and we read through the entire thing. Nano was kind enough to read for Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde, which I’ve known for months he would be terrific for; and I read for Igor.

It was great watching the actors react to each other, to hear the lines I’d written spat back and forth in real-time and just… made more real. Tangible.

Nano and I talked about all sorts of things; including a few slices of Irma Vep flashbacks, which was just as good. Nano was working as an extra on a movie a few weeks ago, when one of his co-stars *recognized* him from that show. He was grinning to beat the band.

We got back early enough that I could go for a nice 3-mile walk, something I haven’t had time for since Book of Days began. Got a good chance to clear my head and think.

Now, I’ve been reclining and watching Constantine. Writing a blog and chatting with someone I haven’t heard from in a while. Life is good.

Cheers, people.

Strictly Deviant Behavior

Well. If anyone’s interested (it isn’t compulsory), I’ve started an account at www.tuxxer.deviantart.com, where you can find a number of slam pieces I’ve written over the years. People have been reading them from as far away as London, God only knows how they happened upon it. Does that make me an international sensation of some kind? I kinda doubt it.

But it’s out there now, for your perusal, and a heck of a lot easier than trying to fit them on this page. They’re in no particular order, but if you ever find yourself with a spare five minutes, feel free to check them out.

That’s all I got at the moment. More to follow.

Quarter Of A Century Man

Well, it's happened. I’m 25. Turns out I share my birthday with the likes of Lena Headey (rrrowr), Clive Owen, Seann William Scott, Maribel Verdu ('nother rrrowr), Greg Proops, Ian McNiece, and Sting (rrrowr-- just kidding).

There’ve been some good birthdays, and some bad ones. I’m hoping this one’s a good one. To celebrate, I’m going to Howard Community College to see the rehearsal read-thru of Dead & Breakfast. They’re an actor short tonight, so I’ll be reading the part of Igor—unless Nano wants to do it. Which would be fine with me.

It’s been a pretty good year, he said introspectively. And it isn’t over yet. Did my first cartoon voices (and hopefully not my last), and took other steps on the path to some kind of voice-over career. I’ll keep you posted, as always. Have a good ‘un.

*Blows out candles*

It's The First Of The Month

Bunny Bunny.