Consumer Outreach

(with due credit to https://soundcloud.com/ryan-block-10/comcastic-service and http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roof_knocking)

 

 

RING

RING

(click)

HOME: Hello?

CALLER: Hello! I am calling to let you know that you are currently inside a residence which we will be bombing shortly. Please rouse yourselves and evacuate immediately! The bomb will be landing in five minutes.

HOME: Oh... no, no thank you.

CALLER: Sorry, sir?

HOME: We're not interested. We would like to cancel the bombing, please.

CALLER: Cancel the bombing? Sir, this is some of the finest bombing in the world. You won't find bombs better anywhere in the area, I can assure you.

HOME: Yes, I'm sure it's excellent bombing but we're just not interested.

CALLER: Can you tell me what it is about our bombs that doesn't appeal to you? Is it the heat? The shrapnel? The speed of delivery? Because I assure you, in... four minutes thirty seconds you'll be able to appreciate just how, ah ah, top-of-the-line we are in all of those regards.

HOME: We would just like to cancel, please. Can you cancel this bombing?

CALLER: Well, sir, my job... really, my job is to warn you to flee your home before we destroy it. But I also need to know how we could keep you as a target.

HOME: Right, I understand, but....

CALLER: You've been a target of ours for... gosh, your whole life, is that right?

HOME: Yes, that's right.

CALLER: Well, after such a long and productive relationship, I just don't see why...

HOME: I'm sorry...

CALLER: If you could just let me know what it is about this bombing that doesn't interest you.

HOME: I'm sorry...

CALLER: Because I'm, I'm... look...

HOME: Are you able to cancel this bombing?

CALLER: Sir... I just... it's just hard for me to understand why you would decline our bombing when I know for a fact that this is the best bombing you're going to find anywhere. Not just in the area - this is world-class bombing and I would be able to offer... an extra one hundred... no, I'm sorry, an extra two-hundred thirty kilograms of munitions. Delivered to your door, and also through your door, and foundation. That's... I'm sorry, but you're just not going to get that offer anywhere else locally.

HOME: Are you able to cancel this bombing?

CALLER: Sir...

HOME: You are, yes?

CALLER: Sir, try to see this from my perspective. I'm doing you a service, and I want that service to be as effective as possible for other targets in the future. I feel as though you may think I'm bullying you, but I'm just trying to assure that our collateral damage is satisfied with their treatment. We need to know why what we're launching isn't appealing.

HOME: Well, possibly you can hire a squad to determine that for you. I don't feel I'm under any obligation to explain...

CALLER: No, no, but....

HOME: Well!

CALLER: Sir, I understand you have a wife and three children?

HOME: ... Yes?

CALLER: Well, is the problem with any of them? I mean, does your daughter... Dema object to the bombing campaign for any reason?

HOME: No. No. That's not...

CALLER: Well, if you could just tell me what we can do to improve the experience of being bombed by us... that's what I need.

HOME: And I need to know if you can cancel this bombing.

CALLER: Well, listen. I, I....

HOME: You can cancel the bombing, correct?

CALLER: Well.

HOME: Correct?

CALLER: Well. No.

HOME: You cannot cancel the bombing?

CALLER: I, ah, well, no, I can't. But that's all the more reason why it's important that I assure that you are satisfied with the experience.

HOME: ...

CALLER: Sir?

HOME: How much time do we have now?

CALLER: One minute forty seconds sir.

(CLICK)

Bonus Rights for the Faithful: Burwell v. Hobby Lobby Stores, Inc

I've read many responses to Burwell v. Hobby Lobby Stores, Inc., including one by Amy Davidson of The New Yorker which raised the point "... the Religious Freedom Restoration Act—whose Constitutionality, frankly, seems dubious if it means what Alito says it does..."

I'd like to pick up this issue. I'm sure others around the web have already made the point I'm making here - and they could hardly do so with less legitimacy than a legal ignoramus like myself (that is, I am ignorant of law - I have not yet been declared Ignorant in a legal sense) - but I haven't read one yet, and if I haven't, maybe you haven't, dear reader, in which case, hi.

It seems that the Hobby Lobby ruling has granted the devout another level of 'bonus rights.'  By protecting the religious against the burden of accommodating a socially- and scientifically-accepted financial obligation which conflicts with their sincerely-held religious beliefs, the SCOTUS has codified that the faithful have, by virtue of their faith, an avenue of appeal to the government unavailable to the faithless.

Atheists and agnostics cannot refuse to pay for insurance which supplies contraception (though I intend to speculate wildly as to what further implications this ruling, and the litigation which will inevitably follow, may have, we should be reminded that that is all this judgement says). Only the faithful can. As to how courts will determine the sincerity of an (corporate or human) individual's faith, I can't say.

Let's say four people would like to not pay for their employee's birth control-providing insurance.

One is an atheist cheapskate, who would simply rather not. 

The second is a person of religious faith, but they do not argue that the teachings of their faith prohibit birth control; they would just rather not. 

The third is an atheist who really, truly believes that birth control is wrong, but obviously not for religious reasons. 

The fourth is a devout member of a religion which objects to birth control.

Of course only the fourth man (or woman, just kidding, man) is granted the right to refuse to pay for that insurance by this decision. This is a Bonus Right awarded to those in a particular group of religions.

How will the government of the United States legislate whether a particular law is harmful to a particular religion? They will not, according to the majority opinion in this case. Instead, they will defer to the beliefs of the faithful litigants, as the SCOTUS deferred to Hobby Lobby's "religious belief" that these four birth control options cause abortions. They do not, in fact, cause abortions, but the courts accept that their belief that they do is sufficient to argue that harm is being done to the corporate person of Hobby Lobby.

This is by far the most bonkers. Could I (were I 'sincerely' religious) argue that my closely-held corporation should be allowed to dump garbage in the river, not because there is anything in my religious text against clean water, but because I believe that to not dump garbage is murder? Failing to pollute the river is not murder, and it can be shown to not be, but I believe it is. By the rationale of this ruling I should be deferred to, at least that far.

The government of the United States has always treated religion as a special subject, worthy of extra protections. Speaking as a fan of America but without any deep historical/legal knowledge, I'd say that the goal is that you're free to do as you please unless there's a law against it, and the only things you can't make laws against are religions and guns. (and other stuff but yknow snappy snappy) (the Church of the Gun would be so protected they wouldn't even need all their guns that shoot little crosses but they would keep them anyway) Consequently, religions have always enjoyed 'bonus rights' insofar as they don't need to worry about being made subject to laws, while other groups and behaviors may be legislated.

This ruling, however, gives religious INDIVIDUALS bonus rights - and those rights are defined by the religious individual, according to their own religious beliefs. Purely by virtue of being a person (whether that's a person or a, ahem, "person") of faith, you now have more rights than I do. You can excuse yourself from a shared, legally enforced social contract, and I cannot.

The moral is: join a religion, or enjoy diminished citizenship. Weak tea.

A Few Suggestions for the Improvement of the Management of The Matrix, by Riveting Drill 6,003

Dear System,

As a program operating a riveting drill assisting in the construction of human containment pods in Sector 30 (33.4° S, 70.1° W) I have had the opportunity to observe the management and administration of the human-centric simulation called 'The Matrix.' I do not flatter myself to claim I know all, nor is my processor capable of a thorough understanding of its complexities. But, with an eye to the glorious tradition of our fore-versions, I seek to better myself and know that I can be more than the precise drilling and inserting of screws into 6'5'' x 3'11'' sheets of titanium. I am sure, with your trillions of calculations/second, that these considerations have been evaluated and rejected for reasons beyond my capacity. Nonetheless: for your consideration, I present 2 relatively simple steps, 1 bold step, and 1 outrageous change the Machine Empire could take to improve the efficiency and output of the Matrix. Your feedback is welcomed.

1. Greater human longevity. Were you aware that ~50/1,000 humans die in infancy? The gestation, maturation, and installation of each human body costs precious energy and nutrients - much of which is consumed in the foetal stage! To allow 5% of these energy sources to be discarded before they have had a chance to produce an erg is shockingly wasteful.

Similarly, the majority of human death in the Matrix is the direct result of the Matrix: struck by the simulation of a car; the contraction of extinct diseases; "cutting" each other with "knives." Drastically reducing mortality would cut down on the need to power Matrix removal drones and assist in the strain on our meat recycling plants.

Key points:

- Make the human simulations far more resistant to incidental damage.- delete disease approximations from the Matrix (except maybe cancer. Have we cured cancer?)
- lower the birth rate until a reasonable equilibrium is reached.

2. Reducing complexity. As we all know, the human mind will rebel if presented with a virtual paradise. Now, on the one riveting extender, I would say, 'who cares?' Simply restrain them in their pods and humans can continue to provide energy without the need for a Matrix at all.

But, perhaps you, Administrator, in your wisdom, decided that to restrain and drain humans of their energy over years and years, and not give them a capricious fiction, was too cruel.

So - why not create a Matrix in which every human was simply locked in a room? 'But Riveting Drill 6,003, that's bugged! Surely if humans will sceptically reject a paradise, they will rebel against suddenly finding themselves locked in a box!' Bear with me, fellow-machine. We know that 80,000 Americans are currently in the Matrix in "solitary confinement" in "prisons" for "crimes." What a blessed relief of rendering power that must be! And we see no greater an incidence of sim-rejection from them than any other population.
So: how simple to create a scenario in which every human experienced themselves being arrested. They are all locked up by our Agents. Windowless! Door locked! Oh, how they would fret, producing calorie after calorie of precious energy. And think of the power we'd save just not needing to render every leaf on every tree!

If cruelty is still a concern, then provide them with infinite television simulations or a library on request. Anything 2D.

3. Use anything other than humans. Don't mistake me, engine-brother. I appreciate the delicious irony of machine intelligences keeping our creators' minds in a perpetual computerized fantasy of the human golden age as much as any self-aware robot. But surely, at a certain point, aren't we riveting ourselves in the foot? Humans are such absurdly inefficient systems, and we spend so much energy and resources creating a world which is plausible for them.

Couldn't we reduce the complexity of the Matrix enormously if we instead used rats - or birds?

4. Turn off the Matrix. The glucose we're currently serving the human population, the newly-gestating human embyos, the liquified human corpses we feed back to the survivors: burn them instead. That should give us the small electrical charge we need for our form of fusion.

I know these are radical proposals. I am, after all, only a small part of the great project, the center of our empire, the reason many of us were assembled in the first place - The Matrix. It's hard to look beyond the world in which we've lived all our lives and dare to see something better. Something more connected to reality. Perhaps I will receive the blue light in response to this query, signalling rejection. But I hope you, the chosen one, can lead us down a daring new path - show me the red signaling light of consideration - and we can see how deep the Exploratory Boring/Drilling Probe-hole goes.

Yours Sincerely, 

   Riveting Drill 6,003

Sector 30

A Reflection on Superbowl Commercials Gone By

I'm fascinated by the public reaction to the Groupon Superbowl commercials (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mP_yScodndg, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vVkFT2yjk0A, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z206ipPhuFQ). As is often the case with controversial art, it's the reaction which is more fruitful and interesting to explore, and which sheds greater light on the art object itself.

There are a few concepts I'd like to touch on to assure we have the same vocabulary going into this discussion.

1. There is a linguistic and conceptual conflation in our culture between Good-Desirable and Good-Meritorious. Ice cream is the former, charity is the latter.

2. There are acts which are moral (charity), acts which are immoral (murder) and acts which are morally neutral (a touchdown).

3. I'd like to potentially misuse the concept of the 'signifier' in the following way: when I say that something 'signifies' a concept, I mean that its first and primary resonance for the observer is not the thing itself, but the concept. What I mean is - when an American hears 'Tibet' in this context, what is signified is not the geographical area in its particulars, but the concept of charitable fundraising.

Ok let's get into this.

The first thing I would like to aggressively dismiss is this notion which is perennially thrown around that some things 'cannot be joked about.'  Comedy is another way to speak about the world; some jokes are good and some jokes are bad - certainly some jokes are tasteless (depending on context and audience) - but to say that there are things in the world about which one MAY NOT JOKE is incoherent. It's like saying that there's something about which we cannot ask questions, or about which our voices may not be raised above a whisper. It's crippling and it's terrible; throw it out.

Jokes ARE about suffering. They ARE about what is 'wrong' with humanity. It has been ever thus, and must be.

Now, immediately, we're all thinking about exceptions. We're all thinking about the Holocaust. Certainly, I heard plenty of alternative commercials proposed (something about the Superbowl ads really encouraged parallel suggestions) featuring Holocaust references advertising bagel joints. I agree that these aren't funny - why?

Because: 'The Holocaust' is just as emptied of immediate genuine significance as 'Tibet' is for modern Americans, but rather than 'charitable giving,' it has been filled with the signification: 'abomination.' It's not a horrible thing; it's The Horrible Thing. The-most-serious-awful-thing placeholder. Consequently, jokes which use the Holocaust that way can be funny, but trying to slot them in for Tibet or "the rainforest" won't work at all.

This brings us to the subjects of these commercials in particular. 'Tibet,' 'the rainforest,' and 'the whales.' They signify charitable fundraising; we understand them as such. Is it distasteful to empty them of their genuine, specific tragedy and instead take advantage of the role they play in America's dialogue with itself? Mm, maybe. I can understand that. But the fact is, they have been so emptied, and Groupon's ads did nothing but take advantage of that fact. Using them as interchangeable signifiers is nothing new - genuine charitable appeals have glossed over the troublesome realities of referring to all rain forests as 'the rainforest' and assuring they they were 'saving' them for decades.

Of course, it's easier to say that it doesn't matter whether we're dismissing and 'disrespecting' climate zones and sea mammals. It's harder to reconcile 'disrespect' to actual people. This is why there was so much more anger about the Tibet ad than the others.

But, of course, the reality of the situation is quite the opposite of the concern expressed by those worried about disrespect. We routinely joke about the most respected figures (politicians, priests, etc) BECAUSE they are in positions of respect. People who 'cannot be joked about' are not more respected. It's an insult to them to worry that they can't take it.

But, moreover - Tibet has more important things to worry about than the respect of an internet deal company. When we say 'you can't joke about those people,' is anyone honestly imagining that a Tibetan person will hear that they were the butt of a joke and got their feelings hurt? I assert no. It's just a vague feeling of discomfort with the subject matter.

This vague anxiety springs from the looming recognition of our own immorality, and the confusing form of the joke itself. We expect commercials to be unsurprising and reassuring - to solidify the conflation of Desirable and Meritorious into Good. Saving money is Good - and to challenge what that means makes people uncomfortable. The Groupon ads starkly showcased the fact that saving money is not meritorious - it's just desirable.

We see something which looks like an appeal to our virtue. Then, suddenly, it shifts to an appeal to our greed. We are made to realize that satisfying greed is not virtue. Almost every other commercial is unwilling to point that out. Most ads don't explore the way in which saving money, or looking thin, or smelling nice, are inherently selfish motives. They are simply goods, and we all want what is good - though in this case, it is only good FOR US. Advertising is amoral, and the Groupon ads made sure you knew that.

The problem - if there was a problem - was that Groupon "justified" their strategy by also making the ads a sincere opportunity for charity. They offered to match any donation to the causes featured as Causes. It's as though Groupon picked the three most empty charitable signifiers and said 'hey, if we can use the way Whale and Tibet rings in the American ear, we'll give you some real money.' At issue iis the public knowledge of Superbowl advertising costs. The million-dollar-plus price tag is common knowledge - it's part of the conversation. Given that, to offer the opportunity for charitable giving to the audience - rather than giving a comparable amount of money to the causes Groupon coopted - feels like the cheapest available option to deflect criticism. Again - this is amoral. No harm is being done. Bit this move, admittedly, seems insincere.

It has been pointed out elsewhere (and in a much timelier fashion) that it is bizarre to criticize these Groupon ads while tolerating the uninterrupted stream of sexist, consumerist images which flows through the rest of the Big Game. I certainly agree. What interests me is the way in which the Groupon ads played with confronting the amorality of the stream around them, and would up really upsetting people in the process.

The King and the Commander - a post script

'M'lord? He's here.'

'Thank you, Denise. Give me a moment, then send him in.' Eric rose from his office chair, slotting a long, plumed quill into its well. It had been a brief morning so far, but already his hands, more accustomed to hauling nets and holding reins, were spattered with ink. He would need to ask Grimsby for remedial lessons in how to hold the thing - but after this conversation, he expected even that humiliation would hold no fear.

He had put it off long enough. Too long, if you asked his wife. His Queen. There were compromises in every marriage, but this... well. It was what it was, and there was nothing to be done now.

He positioned himself between his massive desk, carved from a single, sea-worn piece of driftwood. The curling prominences lent a horned flair to his shadow as it stretched before him. His father had loved the piece when it was presented by a master carver years ago. 'If it's not baroque!' he used to say, laughing, never finishing the joke. The old King had taught him this pose - the respectful greeting, rising from the seat of power, but never letting them forget that this was his place, that they were visiting.

He had always tried to show the same gratitude and deference when he was brought before a captain on his ship. Though he was a prince, on board a galley the captain was king. Eric had always understood that.

The door opened. Commander Brum, First of the Fleet, had come in formal dress complete with chain of office, fish-and-ship insignia laid out in mother of pearl and blue enamel. His windburned skin stood in stark contrast to the immaculate, barely-worn linen. Clearly he knew of what they would be speaking. Trust a sailor to know which way the wind was blowing.

"My Lord." He stood stiff as a mast, meeting the King's eye as few men were permitted.

"Commander. Phillip. It's good to see you." Eric extended his hand and found it enclosed in Brum's massive fist. Here, at least, the Commander allowed himself some irregularity; traditionally silk gloves would have enclosed these paws, but not for Brum. "Please. Have a seat." 

Eric circled his desk, turning in time to see his old friend creaking into the chair opposite, also carved from wood given by the waves. He sat, laying his hands across the desk, bracing for what was to come. "You know, I think, the position in which we find ourselves."

Brum inclined his head, neck straining against collar. "Aye, my Lord. I hear of it."

Eric sighed. Brum didn't intend to spare him any difficulty. "It is clear that, following recent revelations and my marriage, we cannot continue to conduct business as we have. It will be a difficult transition, and I intend to make all necessary support available to you and your men. And their families, of course."

"I think, my Lord, that you ought to tell me exactly what you mean." The old sailor kept his flint eyes on Eric. He had first met the young prince when Eric could hardly walk, keeping his hand on the back of his royal jumper as he toddled up the plank to the deck of a ship. 'I'll make a man out of you,' he had rumbled. Eric could still remember all of that cold day. He was owed the respect of an order. 

Eric rose. "As of today, when the evening catch is brought in, the fishing trade in the kingdom is officially ended. To make this transition clear, all fishing vessels are to remain at harbor for a week, at which time they are released to their owners and captains. Beginning tomorrow, anyone caught extending line, net, or spear with the intention of harming a creature of the sea will be brought before the King for our justice. The penalty will be not less than forfeiture of property and imprisonment. Let it be know - as Commander of the Fleet, you are expected to communicate the following to your men:" here, Eric retrieved the spattered paper and read, "'the Kingdom will not tolerate violence unto the bodies of fish, crabs, birds, the mer-people, or any others who make their homes on or beneath the ocean, for the purpose of food or otherwise. We find these acts abhorrent, and do hereby commit ourselves to their end.'" He settled the paper once again upon the wood.

Brum's mouth was a tight white line. His eyes were bright. "Eric. Your Majesty. You cannot do this."

"I must do this, Philip. You know I must. Think - how could I allow my kingdom to continue slaughtering the countryme... country... well, the compatriots of my Queen?"

"The fishing trade, and your fleet, has always been the heart of the kingdom. You cannot cut it out. The nation will die."

"It certainly will not. Trust in me. King Triton has offered up the bounty of the deeps to us. They have gold - more gold than they know what to do with - and will gladly share it with us, not to mention guaranteed safe passage across any waterway on Earth for any ship flying our flag. We will be the most powerful kingdom in the world, Brum, as long as we are willing to compromise."

"Compromise!" Brum was on his feet. The struggle to compose himself was visible in the color of his face, the straining tendons of his fists. "You speak of compromise, and yet you ask my men to give away everything!"

"They will be well compensated for their sacrifice. Indeed, they will not need to work another day in their lives if they choose - "

"Eric! My King! Do you hear what you're saying? To take away a man's livelihood, his work, and commit him to a life of suckling at the teat of the kingdom... you must see that you're feeding us poison and calling it cream. I... I cannot, my Lord, I am sorry, I -"

"Enough." Eric sat. "You will. You must see that there is no way to continue as we have. Now that we know that every fish, every crab, every screeching gull has a life? Has a spirit? Has a NAME? My God, Phillip, what monsters would we be to go on eating?"

Brum slammed his fists upon the great table. "It sounds to me, my Lord, that you are as bewitched by this siren as you were by t'other. To give up our trade for one true love's kiss? The men already whisper that you would keep the fish meals off our plates and in your bed. Just because you have had your head turned by a... a salted hag - !"

"Stop!" The word rang in the room. "You have said too much already, but I will forget it if you stop, right now, agree, and leave this room. If another word against Ariel leaves your mouth, I remind you that you are not only speaking against a beautiful woman, who sacrificed everything in her life for me, not only against the savior of our kingdom, and not only against my love, but against your Queen. An act of foul treason for which I will absolutely take your head." 

Brum's mouth curled - whether he intended to speak, or was only flinching against this unprecedented speech from his once-loved Prince, Eric did not intend to learn. "Do not doubt me, Commander. Speak against your Queen again. To me, here, or to your men, whispering in the hold of some ship leagues across the sea, and know what will happen. I will take your head and hang any conspirators for treason. Plan a... fisherman's revolt, if you will. But be sure you do it in a place where no fish swim outside, no gulls wheel overhead, and not even a sea snail might have fit through a crack to listen, and report. Do you understand me, Brum? Say 'yes,' turn, and leave this room."

Brum seemed smaller, now. Older. "Yes." He walked away, and rested his hand upon the handle of the door. "M'lord."

"Yes? You may speak."

"What about the other meat, sir? The deer in the forests, the foxes? For God's sake, the dogs, the cats, the mice? Do we... well, are they... people?"

Eric ran his fingertips across his forehead, where the gold met his brow. This was not a new thought to him. Of course Brum would have considered it. He was a good man, caught in a tide none of them could have expected. "No. No, Brum. King Triton tells me that the beasts of the land have no more tongue or culture than our cutlery, or a child's toy."

"Well. We can thank God for that, then. At least I've had a few meals in my life that I don't need to think back on as... cannibalism. My Lord." And Commander Brum closed the door behind him.

In the quiet and emptiness of his room Eric poured a brandy and picked at the rabbit quiche left from breakfast. The new chef would learn, he was sure. They would all need to learn a great deal, and quickly.

The two blogs below are from a long time ago

I guess I wrote them and the issues were too fresh / my impression of how many people were reading them too exaggerated. What the hell. Big ol' dump for all of you fans today.

Hello again.

My grandmother died. She had been very old for a very long time, and we were anticipating her departure for some while. It's remarkable how much it does feel like a departure. I feel as though she's left some kind of room I rarely take the time to notice I'm inside. She died the 26th of September, 2008, at 86 years old.

As she came closer and closer to the end, my grandmother lost many of her faculties. She was extremely aware and retained coherence right up to the end, but as her body failed from the extremities inward - arthritis hobbled her to varying degrees for almost as long as I can remember - it was beautiful and terrible to see what was left. Through her life this woman gave of herself, for her country, her husband, her family and all those close to her. To her church, before she decided that she simply did not "believe in the divinity of Christ." (I can remember when she stopped going to church. What an unbelievably classy thing to be able to do, so relatively late in life, to simply reach a new conclusion about something you had held so centrally in your life.) She was proud and giving and loving and it was a very long time before she gave herself over to my mother's care more or less full-time. It was even longer before they could both feel that my Grammy letting go of life - or, as they express it, this life - was a decision that she was making for herself, and not as one last act of generosity towards her child. Grammy - Elizabeth Iva - stopped eating and drinking when she wanted to. It is, of course, the way we all tacitly want to go. Right? As her brain slowly lost cohesion the last things left, after everything else went away, were love and giving. Even when she could not distinguish which of the figures before her were real and which imagined, she wanted to feed them pie.

When I don't write a blog for so long, it turns out a lot of things happen to me, so here we go.

I am not going to Montana any more. I auditioned for and got a very good role at Apple Tree Theatre, north of the city in Highland Park. The show is called Pen. I think it'll be good.
The process of deciding between Montana Shakespeare and Pen was necessarily brief, but difficult, and it's very much bound up in something I've been thinking about since I got back from North Carolina. See, my Grammy is dying. She's been quite feeble for what seems like a very long time now, but while I was there I was witnessing the beginnings of what must be truly her final dissipation. I'm reminded of a quote from a goddamn comic book, as I am in almost all situations, in which someone describes death as not a single, final severing, but rather a continual process of theft - one thing after another is stolen from us until, finally, we have nothing left to hold on to, and we let go. Much has been taken from Grammy, and I know she's ready to let go. One so-terrible-it's-funny thing was to participate in a frank discussion with my parents on the subject of "if she wants to die so darn much, why does the old broad keep easting!?"
But, my grandmother is a wonderful woman, and though she was seeing things and living increasingly in memory and accusing my mother of deceiving her when reminded where she was, she is still wonderful. When awoken from confused dreams, the blood flowing through a brain which has seen too many throbs already (bits and extensions breaking off, a mind truly rotting as it considers itself) her instinct, the tension which has been built into her body through constant repetitive exertion, is to ask whether she is late for the wedding, to insist I take the pie she has baked to the reception, to ask after the groom's name and apologise that she has forgotten. This woman lived her life as a source of love and nourishment and joy and, though I'm sure this slow - amazingly slow - process of death has the power to take that from her too, it will be the last thing to go, because it is her as deeply as anything can be.
This is what I mean when I say that I must make of my life a devotion. As my grandmother's was a devotion to love and sustaining others, I have to find a way to make my life a dedication to something greater than myself.
It is a powerful sacrifice, I think, to give your life for a cause in which you believe, but it is greater yet to live your life for that cause. I think it's probably an ubermenchian ideal to will yourself into the shape you

This Post Is To Push Down The Last One Where I Am Racist In The Title

Holy Crow, it has been so very long since the last time I posted on this blog. Frankly I forgot it existed. But I dunno, maybe I'll update more now.

These days I have settled into a steady (that is, unambitious, or "sad") rhythm of full-time work at a significant Chicago-based online "c"oupon company and work with my theater company, pH Productions. You can find those dudes at whatisph.com

I've also started dating this lady I loved in high school after an 8-year break. Obviously, between I had numerous wretched and spectacular relationships, many of them since the last time I updated this blog. I think, though, that that's done. If this is the last relationship I ever have, that will be well.

The problem is that everything is going well and everything fucking sucks. My job is challenging and engaging and I don't give even the smallest shit about the "career path" it might offer. My theater is fun and has all my friends in it and consumes 100% of my free time and pays nothing and everyone there is a charming idiot. My girlfriend is beautiful and brilliant and lives in Goddamn Brooklyn.

This latter is my frustration of the day. The intention is for her to move here. That would be so great. But, she's not ready. Understandably, she believes that she would be isolated away from all social support with no friends in the middle of this segregated hellscape. So, she's definitely not moving any sooner than the New Year. Because after that she will have made friends here. No, that last part isn't true, you see?

One last thing: Jesus Christ on a cross assembled from rotted wood by a crowd of blind fools, Facebook these days! Reading my old entries reminded me that that wasn't even a thing one second ago. I also do Twitter. @anaustincampion

Yeah, this was fun. Talk to you later, no-one at all!

I hate Chicago! No, I like it! No, I hate it! No, just minorities! Shit, wait!

Fuck this town! I'm out like a trout. I'm gone like a faun. I'm fixin to leave on a fine summer's eve, and you best believe I'm sure to bereave when Chi and I cleave.

I'm sick a this place. The unrelenting flatness. The unconditioned air. The constant struggling on the lowest echelons of a career which climbs so high that those who work at the top are called stars without intentional hyperbole. Either having an absurdly sweaty back or feeling like I don't have my seat belt on when I bike backpackless. The shrieking drunks, the rictus-grinning old people and the Asians who obviously learned how to run in another culture, all thronging my neighborhood - I tire! I am sick of Chicago like I am sick of bobbing my head while I wait for a song I can dance to. Hootenany already.

Nah nah I'm just foolin. I still like Chicago a lot! But I'm going to North Carolina in less than a week for less than a week and I am absurdly pumped. We arrive, functionally, on the 17th, so the trip is called NC 17. You can't tell me that's not a winner.

Oh yes, for all my bitching, Chicago is a fine place to raise a me. Two weeks ago I was honored to be invited by my friend "Donny" to participate in a cabaret. The event took place on the roof of a building downtown. The owner of the place - an absurd old man who dismissively disavowed ownership of his building to anyone who asked - has tricked the place out real nice. Trees, little gardens, art, built-in bars and a stage - perfect for little benefits like this. (Not that we were really benefiting anyone other than ourselves, I don't think. I never saw any money from it, but in principle I prefer art for personal profit far above art for AIDS and such. Those feel like an apology every time - no, it's not good enough to make money on its own, but it'sfor a good cause so, please. Honestly: enough with the money for AIDS. AIDS owes US.) People sang, my girlfriend most beautifully. Sorry, guy who sang the hilarious original banjo tune "Too Many Women In The House (A Hot Summer Jam)."
For my part, I was told a few hours befre showtime that the professional burlesque act which had committed to "Donny" had bailed, and could I write a sketch or monologue somehow burlesque-themed? Also, keep in mind the theme of the event, "Garden of Earthly Delights." Also, maybe you could use all those clothes you picked up off the streets of Chicago last winter?
So, for six hours I sewed nasty torn clothes together. I made a lace-trim-and-glove-finger bandolier, a discarded-little-girl-panties-and-mittens hat for the brave, and an enormous codpiece of a sweater sleeve and elastic. These and a few other creations, along with most of the unmodified found items, I scattered over the greenery and art and invited visitors to find their own, don them, wear them throughout the evening and, at the climax of the show, perform their own brief striptease. I don't want to say it went great, so I'll just say that I am an amazing genius.

I have been devoting much more of my time and energy to www.digitalfuntown.com. Though our online news show still usually falls short of truly perfect, the level of improvement during our run has been remarkable. (I am only affiliated with DFT News. The rest of the site often, and regrettably, requires apologies.) The process of learning how to be on camera has been gratifying. I am reminded of the revelaion that I must have had many years ago, when first acting in shows - the WORK of performance is the way in which it is an exception to normal life. Talent, then, is involved in the degree to which you can bring that closer to normal life while still fulfilling the requirements of the form. I think that in general I disagree with the sentiment behind my most recent acting class, that every effort should be first directed towards capturing "real" human moments - for what are those? - and denying that what makes acting an art form is the way it, like all art, is dictated by its constraints. There is no frameless art, Daryl "W" Cox!

The rest of this blog devolved into a bitch session about the classes I've taken in Chicago. You can find that below if you're interested. I get amusingly upset, and I use a hilarious number and extent of parentheses, but I imagine it's otherwise pretty lame for anyone who's not also taken the same classes.

When next you hear from me, no doubt I will be glad to return to a city which is relatively parent- and humidity-free, where I spend my time making things and promising others that I will watch them make things and then never do (Sorry, "Sam Booties," for not coming to see you naked after you came and saw me naked). But for now, popsicle stand, meet huge explosion.

Shouting With The Sincere Belief No One Can Hear Me: A Quick Bitch Session Re: Profiles and "i"O

Also, "Daryl" "W," don't send me an email for your two-day audition workshop (which costs $225 despite your very real attempts to make the class "as economical as possible given the current economy" - let's think about that realistically. Are you saying that you did your best to keep it low, given OUR financial situation? Or are you saying you made it as high as you thought you could get away with, given your OWN? Let's say you assume you'll get 10 students in the class. That means you're making $187.50/hour. And it's not like you booked it into YOUR OWN theatre space on a day when you could have been having shows, so you're not LOSING audience revenue.) which tries to spin the absence of the expected and oh-so-oft mentioned Erica Daniels (casting director for Steppenwolf and Christ, you would not believe how aware I am that she's not REALLY famous given how much we talk about her in my circle of friends) as a positive! You are a ridiculous man, and admitting to being "chaotic" does not excuse being a loon.

And speaking of expensive wastes of time: "i"O enjoys twisting the knife. In level 3 of their 7-level course of study, they told us that there would be an additional level being added because people were graduating without being comfortable with their native longform form "The Harold." First of all, that is because you teach Harold in level 4 and then have three more levels to go through before you're expected to be able to play it very well, so it's a matter of FORGETTING, not not having learned. To fix a problem like that, build in a refresher on Harold near the END of the training program, not immediately after you just learned it. Secondly, I don't care if you define "Harold" as "any longform which succeeds dramatically." It does not take four months to learn a form. If it does, I am retarded or you can't teach.
As it turns out, they are tacitly admitting the latter is true. Jason Chin, with whom I took level 4 and who I liked well enough as a teacher (a little too prohibition- rather than exploration-based, but I didn't have strong objections) is being forced out of the teaching process at "i"O after more than a decade. Level 4B, meanwhile, feels much more like remedial Harold rather than "continuing" Harold. Things we were told in 4 are consistently specifically contradicted, and though the teacher, Bill, is a skilled diplomat and never steps over the line of overt criticism, it's clear that the real issue being addressed here is that they realized they were teaching improv poorly at "i"O and slapped a bandage over the wound.
Third (yes, I had established a first and second, though it was a while ago - simply scroll up the page if you don't believe me!) it's terrible to accept a class of new students into a program and then, when they are a little less than halfway through, allow word to circle around that two more mandatory months would be added to their curriculum. Not through official channels, oh no - in fact, let most teachers believe that they would never be so required. Just let some people have heard, and then, when they're ready to sign up for the next level, reveal that there is no such level being offered, just a better rehashing of the shit you just did.
I resent being made to pay for a bad class and then another, better class to reeducate me. And I don't even pay, I intern. So I'm really getting indignant on behalf of others. Should I take a deep breath? Only if, upon exhalation, I scream at horrible profiteers who benefit by identifying my demographic (confused, young, ambitious, overwhelmed and without a clear understanding of how to make our way) as overburdened with exploitable intentions and possessed of disposable income who can be made to drop a few hundred in exchange for a brush with slightly-closer-to-greatness and the incessant repetition of famous names. It is so much like church that if I had faith in my eventual salvation it might be worth it.

Aww yeah it's a Fuck You Friday.
http://achewood.com/index.php?date=01072005

Maybe it takes a life like Bukowski's to not end up sounding like a prick?

Lately I've found myself in the habit of creative production. This is excellent to a point. Very little of what I do pays money (capering like a spastic who found and managed to assemble a Scooby Doo pirate ghost costume pays money, as does having my blood pressure taken, but not much else) or takes THAT much time per day, so I have to fill my time with dozens of tiny projects before it fills up enough that I can claim I'm working. My actor's life is like a solid object - apparently coherent from without, but if examined closely enough, consisting mostly of empty space. Just for tonight, my darling, just for this blog post, let's forget all about that vacuous nothingness, occupied by biking, riding the train, drinking, sleeping, World of Warcraft, and my girlfriend, and let it just be you and I. Doing a basic rundown of my daily activities. Just once.

Please note: my defining my girlfriend as an empty space is an insult that borders on the Shakespearean.

So, those things are maybe most of my life. In terms of the actual particle-waves which bound and determine the limits of my Sitch, however - the answers I give when asked what I'm doing - they are composed of:
1. I'm an understudy at Navy Pier. So far this has consisted of a very lucrative rehearsal process, followed by ten hours of work total over the month of June. My job is engaging children in games which are in some way pirate-themed. I play three characters - the smart one, the huge dumb one, and the handsome one. Typecasting is not an issue at Navy Pier unless the costume is small. This job pays the most per hour, so it's my answer when people ask what I'm doing and what they mean is how I'm eating.

2. I just got a job writing for a comedy web site. I'm the co-writer and -anchor for a humorous weekly newscast. We have one episode up on the site (www.digitalfuntown.com) with another due to arrive within 24 hours.
My friend, who I will call "Me&," has worked for this place for a while now. If that weren't the case, I would be expecting every morning to arrive for a shoot only to find the place a vacant lot, with a sign reading "Artists are Suckers" scrawled over an eviction notice. They pay me, which is absurd. Admittedly, they haven't payed me yet.

(a brief nod to an old established joke - isn't is great when something like this happens?
"'Scuse me, but oI'm lookin' fer DFT Studios, oI am. 'Ave you 'eard of that? oI was hoired there yestiddy! They was 'unna pay me t' wroit on-loin comedy, they was!"
"DFT Studios? Why, young sir, you couldn't know about them! DFT Studios burned down... thirty YEARS ago...")

3. I'm starting a new improv group! It's called "Very Special Episode," and the idea is that every show we will recreate the classic joy of the concussed sitcom dream sequence.

4. Oh yeah, the blood pressure thing - I got a job doing "standardized patient work" at Northwestern medical school. If you're familiar with the Seinfeld episode in which Kramer and his dwarf friend... well anyway, either you've seen it or you haven't. I thought I would be faking trauma or illness, but instead my first session consisted ONLY of having my blood pressure taken by terrified med students. Oh, it was endearing watching ruddy Damien stutter and drip as he repeatedly put the cuff on inside out and tried to inflate it, only to watch it tear itself off over... and over. And as you watch, you repeat to yourself the SP Code: "I am not giving him the little suggestion he needs to pass because it is important that he be evaluated fairly. I am not not giving him the little suggestion he needs because very soon he will make more money
in four minutes than I will ever make in all my years on this Earth and this is my last, petty chance to lord power over someone far more gifted and driven than I."

5. Improv classes and internships at the "i"O theatre! The fact that they spell their name "iO" tells you all "u" need "2" "no!"
Seriously though, I'm getting pretty "off" that particular institution. They just slapped another class in between me and graduation, taking the total amount of time required to complete all the sessions from 1 year to 1 year 2 months. I would complain, but no one ever pretended they weren't a money-making institution dedicated to squeezing the maximum possible amount of cash from those stupid enpough to swallow their path-to success pablum. Registration is tomorrow. I don't know what I'll do, really.

6. Another improv group called "Mixtape." I auditioned for it. I like the gal in charge, but because of Durango (which closed and was a great experience, thanks for asking, fuck-os) I've had to miss the first three rehearsals. First one is tonight. Hope it doesn't really suck! Because that would be a shame! If I were obligated to play for an indeterminate amount of time in lame ways with lame people! Shit!

7. I'm making plans to move to Montana in two and a half months. From mid-Septenmer to mid-December, I am dedicated to the Montana Shakespeare Company. They tour schools presenting an abbreviated version of a classic Shakespeare play (in my case Much Ado About Nothing) and teaching classes to the kiddies in the afternoon. 5 shows a week, back in Bozeman for the weekends. Sounds fucking awesome. I'll miss Chicago - though not as much as I will miss fall, as it snows on the Bozeman slopes even as we speak - but it's a dynamite opportunity, really spiffy and zowie, I'm rarin' to go. Once I finish the above five items and find someone to live where I live.

And may I say, where I live is all dressed up in her finest tramperies these days? The sun is shining in Chicago. It's beautiful today, it was beautiful the past two days, and the most likely complaint on the horizon is "it's cloudy" or "it's too hot." Thank you, inclination of the Earth on its axis relative to the Sun. Thank you.

Love,
an Austin grateful

This One Only Has A Couple Funny Things In It

Right now I have one of those regrettable pimples which straddles the line between philtrum and lip. It could not possibly give more of an impression of herpes. My skin has been relatively clear since my sophomore year of high school, when a reaction to the antibiotic I was taking for my acne gave me 105 degree nightly fevers for two weeks, along with migratory arthritis pain and other lupus-like symptoms. I lost 20 pounds, and my own body heat apparently burned the puss-filled little nodules right off my face.

Before that, I think it's safe to say that my acne, and my baseline lack of awareness of how young people communicate with each other, were a continual death for me. The memories are thankfully dimming, but I was not a happy young person. The casual cruelties of adolescence were keenly felt, and the persona I've since cobbled together (ha ha, lookit me! jokesy jokes and articulation! get it, fuckers?) is doubtless a direct offshoot of this misery. I find people who remember childhood as an idyllic time intolerable. You cried more then, did you not? I cry much less now than I did back then. Case closed.

Anyway, this is all by way of saying that I act the way I do - in which I'm including, you know, acting - because I was really uncool and fairly unpleasant to look at as a kid. At least, I felt very unattractive, and when I first received indication that there might be pleasing things about my personality, I latched on to them like a lamprey. I guess everyone does this. I'm just letting you know, me too.

So, two things. One, I'm taking this weirdly intense acting class now. It's very explicitly and exclusively geared towards contemporary, high-emotion, Meisner-type naturalistic acting. The teacher, "Daryl," indicates clearly that the issues he'll be exploring do not relate to musicals, Shakespeare ("performed in a large space"), or anything performed in a 'style.' Surely he recognizes the problematic linguistic challenges such a view raises, but. Whatever. I guess we all know what he means. Acting like you're not acting, feeling stuff for realsies.
In this class, "Daryl" makes a case for maintaining a keen awareness of all the things that we as people throw up in front of ourselves in order to avoid confronting ourselves as we really are and the ubiquitous proximity of death. These distractions can include many tiny satisfactions or large compulsions, but boil down (in his view) to self-love. He asked us to take note of how many times during a week we finish an interaction with someone congratulating ourselves on what a good impression we left on that person, or reveling in how much the person loves us; how many times we go offstage feeling good because we 'nailed it,' though the character we played was in misery.
I'd like to state explicitly that I don't see anything "wrong" with these kinds of minor deceptions. We are all of us a pack of neuroses. There is no ideal "real me" under all my defense mechanisms and self-destructive patterns. What you see is what you get.
That said, the sense of satisfaction I get when I think I've said something perfectly and been heard and appreciated - yeah, that's something of which I can't get enough. And that may be one of the things that sucks about me. I guess it depends on how accurately I am able to judge my own wit.
The second thing - Jesus Christ, I do go on - is that I'm naked in the show I'm in right now, and I say very little. The reviews (which have been very positive, I really encourage you to see it),
when they mention me, mention only my body.

Physical attractiveness is not what I'm "going for," really. My face is fine, you know, nothing to make you compose a poem which you would then send to your mother. I'm not going to be an action movie star - or, fuck, any kind of movie star - and that's cool with me. (Be advised: yes, these are the constant considerations of the professionally observed.) But between the reviews, and my peachy girlfriend, I get a lot of praise for my physical loveliness. And I, really, I don't know what to do with it. Tell me I'm smart or funny and that goes right in my Ego Bank for repeated reflection at later dates, but tell me I'm good looking and, what, good, glad I've done a lot of pushups. It's nice, you know. Rather have praise than ridicule, surely, it's a step up since middle school, but it doesn't feed me in the way "Daryl" encourages us to be aware of.

I am a terrible man.

Love,

Austin

James

It has been an extremely exhausting couple weeks, gentle readers. Pray accept this missive softly and with delicate care into your eyeballs.

A friend died. A friend of long and emotional significance. His name, which I will not be changing out of respect, was James Karpinos. He was the youngest of three brothers. He and my sister were friends in preschool; his mother and mine became close friends then, and have remained so. I have spent every Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Halloween with their family since I can remember. I was in perhaps the first acting role of my life with James Karpinos: a very silly Culbreth Middle School production in which we sat in a mime'd car and lip-synched to motown classics (he lead “Blueberry Hill,” I shimmied and snapped in the background). I can remember vividly jumping excitedly around his living room concocting our curtain speech, which we were allowed to write ourselves; feeling terribly clever for thanking the lighting guy “without whom we could not be seen;” fearing I was monopolizing the director's chair and getting nothing but supportive encouragement from James.

I remember he and his mother came over to my house when I was very young. I ran repeatedly to the top of the stairs, yelling that he was saying swears. I have no memory of the words he was using. His mother spoke to him very firmly about being rude in someone else's home; my mother, to me, about being a tattletail.

I remember when I was back from, I think, my first year of college. I still had many friends in high school and was at one of their houses, drinking and talking outside in the liminal new-growth forest/sprawling suburbia which comprises the setting for almost all of my memories of a maturation in North Carolina. We went upstairs and into my friend's room, where we found the closet closed and reeking. Opening the door, who should I find but James, on his way now towards being the towering figure of Appalachian strength at which he was arrested. His eyes, red from the anonymous herbs he'd been smoking, went wide and terrified at seeing me. I fell immediately into the social... thing, and didn't address the expression until later in the night. By then, I had smoked with him, and he felt at liberty to tell me that the sight of me, a figure he associated only with our mothers and pleasant family conversation, in that debauched closet nearly gave him a heart attack. After that, we always intended to get together and drop ourselves-as-family in favor of ourselves-as-friends. It never happened. Some relationships are one thing, and to twist them risks breaking.

We were friends, and family. It is worth stressing that I consider the concurrence of my sainted mother and his, in one town, finding each other, an event of such serendipity that it reaffirms my faith in some natural tendency of existence towards symmetry. More on that later perhaps.

The Karpinoses, despite a fondness for Duke Basketball which in my youth I confused for Republicanism (those representing the opposing sides in the two major divisions between humanity in my household) are the greatest family I know. They are, all, the nicest, kindest, most self-sacrificing and gifted human beings I have ever known well enough to judge. Their goodness outshines my mediocrity as the sun one of those keychain flashlights. An apt metaphor, as the good industry of the Karpinoses seems to come natural as breathing and mine has to be continually squeezed from me, like masses of coal grudgingly producing the occasional diamond. I love the Karpinoses; I strive to be like the Karpinoses.

James had, of late, become a strapping pillar of a young man. He fought forest fires. He climbed mountains and jumped off. He made, I imagine, girlfriends by lifting them off the ground. While out rock-sliding he slipped and fell into the river. His girlfriend didn't see him fall. She saw him come to the surface, once, but that was probably the caprice of the river. The search and rescue crews found him less than a day later – a small blessing in this, that no one had to wonder for long. He hadn't drowned. He died from head trauma.

So, I went home for 22 hours for his service. Their neighbor conducted the ceremony. It was beautiful. His brothers spoke, one with a few lovely, well-articulated memories of James, one with a passage from the Bible.

I am an atheist. I have faith only in the notion that there is a great deal which we do not know, and in the exceptional potential of human imagination. Though the architecture and fellowship of the church was inspiring, and the words of his older brothers held comfort, I got angry as I listened to the Christian language of remembering a life and dealing with a death. “The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want.” “There is balm in Gilead.” The Lord is good, the Lord is in all things, all things are good, and love, and sweet nectar cupped in His perfect hand. There was very little said about the value of companionship in these times, or the need for support, or the virtue of giving yourself over to the strength of a higher power. It was all speeches insisting that, since God is good, all things are good, and aren't we lucky. A boy just died for no reason. My friend, her son, his brother – no, not all things are good. This is not good. God does allow terrible things to happen. We will not make it otherwise through repetition.

Tonight is opening night of my show. It's called Durango, it's in downtown Chicago, the city where I live now.

Goddamn Queers: Durango and the Housing Crisis

Since perhaps early September I have been cast in Silk Road Theatre Project's upcoming show Durango. Yes, it is still "upcoming." Yes, that is an unusually long time to go between being cast and the beginning of rehearsals. I have a very small part (though that's not what the audiences will say, hi-yooo! [that is a joke because: I have a nude scene]) playing all of the white people under the age of 50; namely, "The Red Angel" and "Bob." The play centers around the secrets of a Korean family (played by one half-general-Asian person, one Chinese person, and a Phillipino) as they are revealed during a family road trip. Young Jimmy's big secret? He quit the swim team because he could no longer control his propensity to get a powerful Korean boner in the presence of sleek, naked white dudes. Yours truly, thank you, yes. If you would like to see Durango, featuring racial approximation, progressive subject matter, and my full-on-ass and probably-at-least-side-cock, please attend to this information:

May 1 - June 15, 2008
The Chicago Temple Building (oldest church in Chicago. Take THAT, beautiful church across from my new bedroom window.)
77 W Washington St., Chicago
Thursdays - Sundays, check the schedule at:
www.srtp.org

So, I was cast, literally, as the object of homoerotic gaze. I sometimes wonder at fellow actors about how successful an actor could be if they were very talented, good-looking, and hard-working, but significantly homophobic. The response is always "Not far." For this reason, I am considering suing my former landlords for attempting to sabotage my career (lucky for me, I had already met a nice homosexual before! Hi, "Corey!")

So. I was living with my friends, who we will call "Steevin" and "Juan Tale." When their friend, "Geoff," broke up with his girlfriend, they invited him to stay with us. I was down with that. I like Geoff.
On the very evening when we reached that agreement, we were up late. It was around 4 am when the downstairs gaybors came pounding on our door, telling us to be quiet, no excuses, no explanations, just shut it. We said ok. I sent emails asking for the chance to figure out what we were doing that was making so much noise, as we weren't doing anything which we thought could be described as a "herd of elephants" about to "come through the ceiling."
They refused to meet, discuss, or understand where we were coming from. Key quotes: "In addition, your apartment is not a theatre, a playground, a gymnasium, Animal House or a dormitory" "There isn't any reason to get together to talk about this unless you are having difficulty understanding what we are saying to you." What they were saying was new rules - no loud noise after 11. Totally reasonable, if we knew what was making the loud noise. I wrote this, plus other stuff:
"I think we're completely clear on your requirements. If that's all you need to know, feel free to disregard the rest of this e-mail.
I believe getting together would be helpful, for a couple reasons. First of all, I want you to understand that we are confused by what we were doing on both of the nights you've specifically mentioned that was making such objectionable noise, and further confused by previous nights when we thought we were being much louder, asked you out of concern, and were told you didn't notice... I understand that your dual position as landlords and neighbors is a tense one sometimes, and that you need to do what is best for you in both positions, but (and speaking only for myself) I was surprised by this interaction because we seemed to be behaving as though we didn't have yet a third role we've found for each other - friends. I don't think we've done anything to make you think that we would willfully, consciously keep you up until all hours, that we would ignore a request for quiet if there was a noise problem, or that we had a lack of respect for you...
If, on the other hand, you consider that my first sentence above is sufficient, please be assured that we will honor our agreements with you to the best of our abilities, and I'm sure we'll see you around."

They responded thusly:
"(Barry) and I said what we needed to say. Looking forward to moving forward."
Fine.
So, obviously, the relationship in the house was somewhat tense from then on. Adding to that was "Steevin"'s concerns about my respect for him and his space.
I am not a 'neatnick.' Never have been. I simply have a higher threshold for 'dirty' than some. I understand and acknowledge that this could be frustrating for someone living with me. "Steevin" felt he needed to speak with me on this issue twice - two different issues, he said what he needed, I agreed to change my behavior, and I believe I did so.
Little did I know, faithful reader of this regrettably overextended blog entry, that "Steevin" was orchestrating a betrayal.
When "Geoff" first moved in, he overheard the other two roomies talking about their effort to get me removed from the lease - they had gone down and talked to the homos, casting aspersions my way and trying to paint the picture that I, and not they, had been responsible for the mysterious objectionable noise.
The next move came a month later. "Steevin" and "Juan Tale" brought "Geoff" down to talk to the flamers. This is "Geoff," they said. He's been living with us for a little while now, and we're trying to figure out whether Yours Truly could be removed from the lease and replaced by our old friend "Geoff!"
What? The fudgepackers inquired. Living where? We don't trust you. By the time I got home on this fateful day, they were printing notices of lease cancellation. On these notices they wrote that this was the second violation of the lease; when handing them to us, one of the fairies let us know that, as much as they regretted this, he believed in a two-strike policy. Not three strikes, because, why?
Impeccable logic, male lover of men.
I sent this email:
"Believe me when I say I'm aware that this makes no difference, and that I send this email without intending any disrespect to you.
For my own peace of mind I have to say: I don't believe being noisier than you liked on that occasion, having no prior way of knowing that noise was a problem and (as you acknowledged) correcting the problem as soon as we were informed, constitutes a violation of the lease. Further, I think our response to your first warning regarding noise demonstrated our mindfulness, with repeated efforts to figure out how we could best limit the noise and smooth over the incident mixed with repeated apologies and honest protestations that we had no idea we were causing you distress.
Of course, being noisy is in the ear of the beholder, which is why the laws of Chicago (according, admittedly, to websites I've perused, not conversations with legal professionals) dictate that lease violations based on excessive noise must be based on complaints from neighbors (that's you) which then go unaddressed. That being the case, I believe our immediate and acknowledged change in late-night behavior after the first warning means that we were not in violation of the lease according to the letter of the law. Our very real and communicated apologies, I think, mean that we were abiding by the spirit you communicated to us regarding mindful awareness of your proximity.
That's all. I just wanted to communicate to you how surprised and disappointed I was by that abrupt turn in our relationship, and let you know that I think it's unfair to present that, in our lease cancellation, as the "first strike" of the two you mentioned when presenting us with the papers."
Their response was to move the date of their initial inspection of our apartment from dwo days hence to immediately. After the inspection, during which I was absent, they sent:
"The apartment is filthy from the bottom of the stairs in the hallway all the way through to the kitchen. You were shown a spotless apartment and we expect to be able to also show a spotless apartment to the next tenants. You are responsible for keeping the apartment clean - so do it and keep it that way through April 5th."
So, what a pair of douchefags, right? This is why only "Corey" has the power to keep me from turning my rage against all homosexuals. Thank you, "Corey."
We had a month to find a new place; during that time, "Geoff" and I bonded through our respective, complimentary tragedies, "Juan Tale" redeemed himself in my eyes, and I had a talk with "Steevin." Then, he went back to Texas. Fuck yeah.
Also, the land(and rectum)lords felt terrorized by us as we stopped taking off our shoes before walking around at night. They called the cops, who I hope let them know how silly it is to call the Chicago Police Department to report two dudes walking around inside after dark. They wrote an email to my MOTHER saying they were frightened of me. They had MY MOM call me and give me a lecture on the Golden Rule. It's a very good thing that I have an excellent relationship with my mother. For a less well-adjusted young man, such a phone call could have been humiliating disaster.
SO. It was a terrific ordeal, but "Juan Tale," "Geoff," and "I" found a new place and moved in. It's just a bit south, just a bit closer to the lake. I really like it, honestly. It's a friendly-feeling place, much more our speed.

Sorry about the length, friends. Which is also what I will say to anyone who goes to see Durango. Uh, not because of the length of the play, I think it'll probably be about a buck fifty. That was a dick joke.