The Neighborhood and Ennui

Edgewater, the little chunk of town I call home, was best described by my roommate JT as "a nice mix of gay, straight, and Ethiopian;" apparently the enormous neoclassical high school down the street boasts speakers of 45 different languages from 65 countries. The cacophony as they stream past the window at 8 and 3:30 every day doesn't betray this rich cultural heritage, and might be best, if euphemistically, described as "urban-sounding." Urban means black.
One of the little chuckles of my life in Chicago, given how specifically selected it was to avoid New York and Los Angeles, is that I live three blocks from the intersection of Broadway and Hollywood, an intersection that almost every Chicagoan I've met here would describe as "way too fucking far north to go to." As a result, if I want to spend time with my friends, I have to either throw a party or meet them somewhere convenient for them. It's been a distressing realization that my sparkling repartee, while it was enough to get dudes across campus, fails to motivate across a Chicago winter.

The 'acting lifestyle,' if there is such a thing, can be described as a process of hurry up and wait. The last week-plus has had mostly the latter. I'm heavily scheduled - probably overcommitted in fact - through December and January, but the last few days have been gaping chasms of free time to be filled with World of Warcraft and drinking too early. There's nothing wrong with that per se, and I've been trying to enjoy the experience in anticipation of the hard work to come, but whenever this happens it's a confrontation with my deepest dread: dying alone. No, just kidding.

I have a very real and identifiable inclination towards laziness. I'm also ambitious and inclined towards a profession which is totally unforgiving. My greatest fear is not that I will not succeed, as I frankly have very little control over that, but rather that, having failed, I will know deep down that I didn't really try. The hours that tick by drinking the wine my parents bought me for the holidays and trying to get my Paladin's mount could have been spent writing a one-man show, looking for auditions, or even getting a real job (for fuck's sake). I am always aware of that, and the potential of each moment is a constant reminder that if I don't start moving I'll never get there. It's scary.

But, honestly, things are going well. Navy Pier has invited me back for their Christmas 'event,' called Winter WonderFest; I will be playing Barry the Holiday Cop, handing out tickets for late shopping and insufficient expression of the spirit of the season. Sadly, as a corporate 'holiday' affair, they focus on the Santa and Snowman aspects of the season and neglect the Jesus. Not that I'm a huge fan of Jesus, mind you, but He does have the best carols. I have decided that Barry will be an incarnation of the necessary rigorous fastidiousness behind every successful Christmas party - the mother bustling and cleaning behind the scenes so that everyone else may take their ease - and an enormous Cubs fan. Essentially I will wander around the Fest for 10 - 12 hours a day throughout December and into the first week of January. That last week will, I'm sure, be hilariously anticlimactic.

Well friends, I'll close with a couple plugs. This Sunday has another triumphant return of The Richard Tatorship to Amphora. January will have me in a puppet show musical performance art piece with my friend Seth and a few other people I don't know. And most importantly, next Saturday, December 8, will be my birthday party, celebrating my 24th year. The real day is the 6th, and I lost my gloves, so. Hint.