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.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Break The Ice
Attention, ladies I used to nail: I got a new girl now, so quit calling me.
No, no, but seriously, I have a new girlfriend and she's a peach.
As you will notice, it's been a very long time since I wrote a blog update. Since that time I've been in shows, had my lease canceled, lost one roommate and gained another in the move, worked various little jobs and been looking for others. The other day, the lady and I were brought in on a Microsoft commercial; I slapped a strawberry milkshake out of her hands. It exploded! Then she tried to slap a bowling ball out of my hand, but instead she hurt herself. There were people whose job it was to come up and make sure out clothes were nice. Acting on camera is weird.
I just want this update - which I'm writing offstage during a five-hour Saturday rehearsal for "Durango" by the Silk Road Theatre Project - to just get the ball rolling. If I don't write the first update in months, I can't write any other new ones. So dang much has happened, it's hard to know where to begin, so I shan't decide now. This blog is a fair representation in miniature of my general big problem with the artist-whatever lifestyle. The other day I spent about four hours collecting names of agencies, writing cover letters, and mailing out invitations to my show. It was a necessary next step, and it was easy, but I'd been planning to do it for weeks. Once it was begun, suddenly I was capable of working for hours, all self-directed and shit, full of what is called "passion" - as distinguished from those other essential intangibles, "Talent" and "connections" - but the first step! My God. Auditioning - going to auditions - preparing for auditions - none of them pose as great a challenge to me as looking up the audition in the first place.
So. This first blog back is about how I can't do things like write this blog. My life these days dedicated to summoning up the phlegm to spit in the eye of my own laziness; this missive is another drop.
Next time I'll write about my new place, and about how my former landlords' behavior has caused an accepted renaissance of the humor of homophobia in my friend group.
No, no, but seriously, I have a new girlfriend and she's a peach.
As you will notice, it's been a very long time since I wrote a blog update. Since that time I've been in shows, had my lease canceled, lost one roommate and gained another in the move, worked various little jobs and been looking for others. The other day, the lady and I were brought in on a Microsoft commercial; I slapped a strawberry milkshake out of her hands. It exploded! Then she tried to slap a bowling ball out of my hand, but instead she hurt herself. There were people whose job it was to come up and make sure out clothes were nice. Acting on camera is weird.
I just want this update - which I'm writing offstage during a five-hour Saturday rehearsal for "Durango" by the Silk Road Theatre Project - to just get the ball rolling. If I don't write the first update in months, I can't write any other new ones. So dang much has happened, it's hard to know where to begin, so I shan't decide now. This blog is a fair representation in miniature of my general big problem with the artist-whatever lifestyle. The other day I spent about four hours collecting names of agencies, writing cover letters, and mailing out invitations to my show. It was a necessary next step, and it was easy, but I'd been planning to do it for weeks. Once it was begun, suddenly I was capable of working for hours, all self-directed and shit, full of what is called "passion" - as distinguished from those other essential intangibles, "Talent" and "connections" - but the first step! My God. Auditioning - going to auditions - preparing for auditions - none of them pose as great a challenge to me as looking up the audition in the first place.
So. This first blog back is about how I can't do things like write this blog. My life these days dedicated to summoning up the phlegm to spit in the eye of my own laziness; this missive is another drop.
Next time I'll write about my new place, and about how my former landlords' behavior has caused an accepted renaissance of the humor of homophobia in my friend group.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Fighting!
Too long, folks. Too long. No excuse.
I've been busy. I had a lovely Christmas and New Years season. My parents and sister were here visiting me from the 27th - 30th. I usually get along well with my family, but this visit was exceptionally pleasant. I think being in Chicago, a brand-new place, eased what could have been a difficult transition: from parents-children into a model more closely resembling lifelong friends. It was a wonderful time.
New Years brought the first of two incidents, the retelling of which led my friend Jason to call me the Forrest Gump of violence. While riding the El at 3 am New Years Day, I was sharing the car with a young couple when a big pack of kids flooded in. They were hollering, blowing noisemakers, grinding up on each other, and generally having a high-spirited New Year. I started singing Auld Lang Syne, all was merry. The big group left the car at the stop just above mine, and as the last young man was stepping off the car, he cracked the dude who had been on with me originally, sitting next to his lady right next to the exit. The aggressor moves out, doors close, train starts moving; I get up, both out of drunken concern and the knowledge that I'll be getting off shortly, to see the girl laughing in surprise and asking whether he's ok and his nose gushing blood, spattering and beading on the moisture-resistant carpet substitute native to the CTA. He nods stoically, so I leave at my stop.
About a week later, I'm fulfilling one of my blessedly concluding commitments as an intern at iO Chicago. I don't remember whether I've mentioned it before, but iO (formerly, and preferably, Improv Olympic - and yes, it is specifically little i, big O, an aesthetic choice which I feel is infected by the neighborhood - read on! for my thoughts on the surrounds!) is the improv club I've chosen to work my way through first. I had been assigned the Saturday 9 pm - 2 am shift, so I finish work at exactly the time when all the Wrigleyville douchebags are expelled from their evening of drinking. Actually, you know what, I'd like to refocus that statement. It would be more descriptive to say that 2 am is the douchebag, the opening bar doors are vaginas, and the hordes of identical pricks with their bellies full of Old Style are the mixture of hygienic brine and lady-juices.
I'm nearing the Addison stop, wading through the attractive women unable to rise from the ice-slurry gutters. Rounding the corner I must have just missed the punch, but I see a dude sprawled against a taxi cab, a woman clinging to the aggressor screaming 'Michael! Michael!' and another young man holding his cameraphone triumphantly aloft shouting "I got the whole thing, man! You're going to jail, dude, you're going to jail, dude, you're going to jail!" Thinking with the alacrity of fourteen beers, the puncher snatches the phone and whips it onto the roof of the 7-11 across the street and strikes a jaunty pose. I move past.
What strikes me about these incidents is that, for some, trying to beat someone up is part of a fun evening. Nothing could be more foreign to me.
What's a fun evening for you? May I recommend watching me in a play? I'm in the Method to Madness festival at Links Hall this weekend. Last night I watched certainly the most insane performance I have ever seen. I'll describe it in my next update, along with more of a discussion of artistic passion in general, and it'll be coming much sooner than this one did, so stay tuned. Have faith in me.
At any rate, there is no way such a perfect collusion of lunacy could happen twice, but the evening is fertile ground for unique experiences, and my piece Hansel and Gretel is sincerely a very tight, fun, interesting show. Check it out.
I've been busy. I had a lovely Christmas and New Years season. My parents and sister were here visiting me from the 27th - 30th. I usually get along well with my family, but this visit was exceptionally pleasant. I think being in Chicago, a brand-new place, eased what could have been a difficult transition: from parents-children into a model more closely resembling lifelong friends. It was a wonderful time.
New Years brought the first of two incidents, the retelling of which led my friend Jason to call me the Forrest Gump of violence. While riding the El at 3 am New Years Day, I was sharing the car with a young couple when a big pack of kids flooded in. They were hollering, blowing noisemakers, grinding up on each other, and generally having a high-spirited New Year. I started singing Auld Lang Syne, all was merry. The big group left the car at the stop just above mine, and as the last young man was stepping off the car, he cracked the dude who had been on with me originally, sitting next to his lady right next to the exit. The aggressor moves out, doors close, train starts moving; I get up, both out of drunken concern and the knowledge that I'll be getting off shortly, to see the girl laughing in surprise and asking whether he's ok and his nose gushing blood, spattering and beading on the moisture-resistant carpet substitute native to the CTA. He nods stoically, so I leave at my stop.
About a week later, I'm fulfilling one of my blessedly concluding commitments as an intern at iO Chicago. I don't remember whether I've mentioned it before, but iO (formerly, and preferably, Improv Olympic - and yes, it is specifically little i, big O, an aesthetic choice which I feel is infected by the neighborhood - read on! for my thoughts on the surrounds!) is the improv club I've chosen to work my way through first. I had been assigned the Saturday 9 pm - 2 am shift, so I finish work at exactly the time when all the Wrigleyville douchebags are expelled from their evening of drinking. Actually, you know what, I'd like to refocus that statement. It would be more descriptive to say that 2 am is the douchebag, the opening bar doors are vaginas, and the hordes of identical pricks with their bellies full of Old Style are the mixture of hygienic brine and lady-juices.
I'm nearing the Addison stop, wading through the attractive women unable to rise from the ice-slurry gutters. Rounding the corner I must have just missed the punch, but I see a dude sprawled against a taxi cab, a woman clinging to the aggressor screaming 'Michael! Michael!' and another young man holding his cameraphone triumphantly aloft shouting "I got the whole thing, man! You're going to jail, dude, you're going to jail, dude, you're going to jail!" Thinking with the alacrity of fourteen beers, the puncher snatches the phone and whips it onto the roof of the 7-11 across the street and strikes a jaunty pose. I move past.
What strikes me about these incidents is that, for some, trying to beat someone up is part of a fun evening. Nothing could be more foreign to me.
What's a fun evening for you? May I recommend watching me in a play? I'm in the Method to Madness festival at Links Hall this weekend. Last night I watched certainly the most insane performance I have ever seen. I'll describe it in my next update, along with more of a discussion of artistic passion in general, and it'll be coming much sooner than this one did, so stay tuned. Have faith in me.
At any rate, there is no way such a perfect collusion of lunacy could happen twice, but the evening is fertile ground for unique experiences, and my piece Hansel and Gretel is sincerely a very tight, fun, interesting show. Check it out.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Safe Words
What is it to be an adult? Obviously this is a silly question, since if you've met any number of adults you know there are as many answers as there are grown-ups, but it's the sort of dilemma that founders many of my generation and social position who are held suspended between adolescence and adulthood by education and inclination. Right now there is a box of birthday presents from my mommy sitting on my bureau. I considered that it was the final test of adulthood to see whether or not I would be able to resist opening them until my actual birthday tomorrow. My friend offered the opposing view that the final test of adulthood was to be able to open your presents whenever you pleased. Ultimately, I think, I'll know I'm an adult when I don't have a box of presents from my mommy, but I'm in no hurry to grow up THAT much. Anyway, as a delayed-gratification aficionado of long standing - I haven't opened any of my Advent calendar chocolates yet in anticipation of a birthday gorging - I believe I will abstain.
When coming to adulthood in the biological sense, however - which is now at least a decade before people in my situation are expected to actually be adults - one of the most potent lessons is that words can hurt. In the numerous painful episodes which have constituted my relationships with women it has often seemed essential to put names to what was going on, to define 'where we were' precisely. I'm sure this is a common enough phenomenon. "We're not 'going out,' but we're 'seeing each other;'" the reluctance, or overwhelming desire, to nail oneself down with the label 'boyfriend.'
As an actor one of the most satisfying revelations, which I have had over and over, is the thrill of taking an ironic stab at a line, trying to play its 'opposite,' and learning again and again that the truth of the moment lies in its literal honesty. To make the decision that the character means precisely what he says - what a joy. And when that honesty can also so effectively 'get what you want from the other' - when it is not just sincerity for sincerity's sake, but genuinely railing at your partner's stubborn refusal to see YOU - that's good theatre.
So the point is, words are extremely effective. This point was driven home to me this morning, in the last day of my 23rd year, when two Secret Service agents rang my bell. They were following up on a post I had made two days ago on the message board of a Facebook group in which I... well... said I intended to kill the president. Rest assured I was making a point! The point, in retrospect, seems pretty stupid: that we don't really expect shit we say on the Internet to be taken seriously or go anywhere. I was responding to the case of this guy who had made assassination threats online and was now facing the possibility of 35 years in prison. Everyone on this message board, titled "Stay In Iraq Until The Job Is Done," seemed to be of the opinion that the guy should have seen his punishment coming; I was claiming that we don't, and therefor he had no reason to. So, I wrote what I did, which I'm frankly too nervous to reprint here, and it was hyperbolic and used the phrase 'rhetorically' twice and specifically claimed that I was saying what I was 'to make a point' once. I was pretty confident that even if it were brought to anyone's attention it would be immediately obvious that there was no reason to waste manpower on such a claim. Clearly I was mistaken, though wouldn't it be a better world if I hadn't been?
Anyway, they were very nice and understanding. They asked what I had meant by the post, what 'facebook' was, where I was from, my travel plans, whether I had any survival training (ropes courses do not count, evidently), whether I liked the Tar Heels, and generally tried to ascertain whether or not I was a genuine threat to national security.
Listen: obviously this was my fault, and in retrospect it seems obvious that something like that could get me in trouble. On the other hand, Jesus!
So, if the Secret Service has the resources to send two nice guys with similar haircuts and North Face jackets to the apartment of every dude who threatens the president (and his or her family and cabinet... sheesh that post is less funny now that I reread it) I can only conclude that they might keep an eye on me for a while. So, I've probably tripled the readership of this blog.
Yaaaay, happy birthday to me!
When coming to adulthood in the biological sense, however - which is now at least a decade before people in my situation are expected to actually be adults - one of the most potent lessons is that words can hurt. In the numerous painful episodes which have constituted my relationships with women it has often seemed essential to put names to what was going on, to define 'where we were' precisely. I'm sure this is a common enough phenomenon. "We're not 'going out,' but we're 'seeing each other;'" the reluctance, or overwhelming desire, to nail oneself down with the label 'boyfriend.'
As an actor one of the most satisfying revelations, which I have had over and over, is the thrill of taking an ironic stab at a line, trying to play its 'opposite,' and learning again and again that the truth of the moment lies in its literal honesty. To make the decision that the character means precisely what he says - what a joy. And when that honesty can also so effectively 'get what you want from the other' - when it is not just sincerity for sincerity's sake, but genuinely railing at your partner's stubborn refusal to see YOU - that's good theatre.
So the point is, words are extremely effective. This point was driven home to me this morning, in the last day of my 23rd year, when two Secret Service agents rang my bell. They were following up on a post I had made two days ago on the message board of a Facebook group in which I... well... said I intended to kill the president. Rest assured I was making a point! The point, in retrospect, seems pretty stupid: that we don't really expect shit we say on the Internet to be taken seriously or go anywhere. I was responding to the case of this guy who had made assassination threats online and was now facing the possibility of 35 years in prison. Everyone on this message board, titled "Stay In Iraq Until The Job Is Done," seemed to be of the opinion that the guy should have seen his punishment coming; I was claiming that we don't, and therefor he had no reason to. So, I wrote what I did, which I'm frankly too nervous to reprint here, and it was hyperbolic and used the phrase 'rhetorically' twice and specifically claimed that I was saying what I was 'to make a point' once. I was pretty confident that even if it were brought to anyone's attention it would be immediately obvious that there was no reason to waste manpower on such a claim. Clearly I was mistaken, though wouldn't it be a better world if I hadn't been?
Anyway, they were very nice and understanding. They asked what I had meant by the post, what 'facebook' was, where I was from, my travel plans, whether I had any survival training (ropes courses do not count, evidently), whether I liked the Tar Heels, and generally tried to ascertain whether or not I was a genuine threat to national security.
Listen: obviously this was my fault, and in retrospect it seems obvious that something like that could get me in trouble. On the other hand, Jesus!
So, if the Secret Service has the resources to send two nice guys with similar haircuts and North Face jackets to the apartment of every dude who threatens the president (and his or her family and cabinet... sheesh that post is less funny now that I reread it) I can only conclude that they might keep an eye on me for a while. So, I've probably tripled the readership of this blog.
Yaaaay, happy birthday to me!
Friday, November 30, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Blike, or Big - the Bike Blog
Chicago is an ideal city for biking. Not only is the public transportation a constant frustration to be avoided, but it is famously and completely flat - the only time I even consider changing gears is immediately before and after a bridge - and there are enough streets with big, well-marked bike lanes that it is only occasionally that I feel the claustrophobic terror with which I imagine NYC bikers must live constantly. I tip my helmet to you, east coast brothers.
Because of the nature of biking, which requires constant vigilance but minimal attention, my mind wanders. When I'm on the lake shore bike path (only 7.5 miles from my street to Navy Pier with the wind off the water much more pleasant a month ago) I feel comfortable wearing headphones, but on the streets it's not to be advised. As a result, I find myself revisiting the same themes over and over again, dredging up old slights and failures and reconsidering them with the miserable leisure of time. Mostly these have to do with women, because there is something about girls that convinces me that they and I are significant.
On my friends' recommendation I got my bike from Working Bikes soon after arriving in the city. Their shop is open twice a week for around five hours. As an institution they are an outfit dedicated to fixing and shipping bikes to developing nations. To fund this initiative, they sell bikes cheap to Chicago hipsters. As soon as they open, the line outside crushes in and everyone makes a mad dash for any bike that they believe might fit them, drops off their drivers license or other form of insurance of eventual return, takes a quick spin, and returns either to purchase or reassure themselves that they'll have another chance later in the week. I got there absurdly early, as I had not yet mastered the bus system (it is impossible to master the bus system) and in exchange for half an hour of moving newly refurbished bikes into the store from their shop space down the street, I was given first pick. My sweet little brown thing has skinny tires, but not too skinny, and it cost $100. Like I like em.
The Richard Tatorship, the improv group I formed with my roommates and their college friends, performed again last night, along with an extremely attractive trio from Loyola. I thought the show was good, I think the other dudes in the 'ship were less enthused. Possibly this has something to do with the fact that I talked a whole lot right at the end of the show. The next time I'm on Bikey II I'll have plenty of opportunity to pick my own performance apart. Especially if I'm imagining how the pretty Loyola girls were watching me steamroll my groupmates. This is how an actor prepares.
Tomorrow is the first read-through of The Glass Menagerie with the Oak Park Players, and my chance to get used to taking the crappy train all the crappy time. Stay tuned.
A correction: my roommate Stephen clarified that he didn't JUST make out with my friend Liz.
Heh heh, elbow elbow.
Because of the nature of biking, which requires constant vigilance but minimal attention, my mind wanders. When I'm on the lake shore bike path (only 7.5 miles from my street to Navy Pier with the wind off the water much more pleasant a month ago) I feel comfortable wearing headphones, but on the streets it's not to be advised. As a result, I find myself revisiting the same themes over and over again, dredging up old slights and failures and reconsidering them with the miserable leisure of time. Mostly these have to do with women, because there is something about girls that convinces me that they and I are significant.
On my friends' recommendation I got my bike from Working Bikes soon after arriving in the city. Their shop is open twice a week for around five hours. As an institution they are an outfit dedicated to fixing and shipping bikes to developing nations. To fund this initiative, they sell bikes cheap to Chicago hipsters. As soon as they open, the line outside crushes in and everyone makes a mad dash for any bike that they believe might fit them, drops off their drivers license or other form of insurance of eventual return, takes a quick spin, and returns either to purchase or reassure themselves that they'll have another chance later in the week. I got there absurdly early, as I had not yet mastered the bus system (it is impossible to master the bus system) and in exchange for half an hour of moving newly refurbished bikes into the store from their shop space down the street, I was given first pick. My sweet little brown thing has skinny tires, but not too skinny, and it cost $100. Like I like em.
The Richard Tatorship, the improv group I formed with my roommates and their college friends, performed again last night, along with an extremely attractive trio from Loyola. I thought the show was good, I think the other dudes in the 'ship were less enthused. Possibly this has something to do with the fact that I talked a whole lot right at the end of the show. The next time I'm on Bikey II I'll have plenty of opportunity to pick my own performance apart. Especially if I'm imagining how the pretty Loyola girls were watching me steamroll my groupmates. This is how an actor prepares.
Tomorrow is the first read-through of The Glass Menagerie with the Oak Park Players, and my chance to get used to taking the crappy train all the crappy time. Stay tuned.
A correction: my roommate Stephen clarified that he didn't JUST make out with my friend Liz.
Heh heh, elbow elbow.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Texas
It took me a while to choose a title, and honestly it's not perfect, because Deadwood is in South Dakota... but there's a feeling evoked. I'm sure you sympathize.
My parents were here over the last couple days. As always it was wonderful to see them. I'm the result of the union of two of the most energetic good-hearted people in the world - myself I can only attempt to explain by theorizing that their coupling was performed on a bed of lazy self-interest - so they were no sooner in my place than they were cooking and rearranging my house. Admittedly, it needed it, and it is a great deal easier to type with my laptop on this Target brand computer desk (and bookshelf set, $69.99), but to spend two solid days with your parents is an exhausting proposition, I don't care who you are.
The Richard Tatorship had their premier last night at Amphora Restaurant. In general, and particularly relative to how it could have gone, it went very well. We're a young troupe, and we've practiced about twice as often as we've performed, so I wasn't expecting miracles, but there were a couple. I think that we as a group will run more quickly than most into the eternal improv question: popular vs artistic; and the perennial improv conflicts: long- vs short-form,
but given the auspicious start I am inclined to give us the benefit of the doubt. On the other hand, I'd hardly be likely to criticize the group publicly in a venue which also serves as publicity, would I?
Deadwood is my favorite television program ever. (sigh.) I'm sorry, The Simpsons, Star Trek: The Next Generation, and Batman: The Animated Series, but your various outstanding episodes cannot compare to the nearly uniform flawlessness that is Shakespeare With Tons Of Cursing. Except for the main character! Honestly, in the third season I believe they have started to accept the fact that no one can like Bullock by writing him as a complete prick.
Tonight serves well to illustrate a moment in the life. Today I was called to see whether I could take down lights at the American Theatre Company, yesterday someone called to ask whether I could move The Snow Queen set into Victory Gardens. As a result, my leisurely evening and morning must be canceled, and this blog briefened.
It's not surprising that Firefox doesn't know the word briefened, but insisting on the spelling "theater?" Come on.
My parents were here over the last couple days. As always it was wonderful to see them. I'm the result of the union of two of the most energetic good-hearted people in the world - myself I can only attempt to explain by theorizing that their coupling was performed on a bed of lazy self-interest - so they were no sooner in my place than they were cooking and rearranging my house. Admittedly, it needed it, and it is a great deal easier to type with my laptop on this Target brand computer desk (and bookshelf set, $69.99), but to spend two solid days with your parents is an exhausting proposition, I don't care who you are.
The Richard Tatorship had their premier last night at Amphora Restaurant. In general, and particularly relative to how it could have gone, it went very well. We're a young troupe, and we've practiced about twice as often as we've performed, so I wasn't expecting miracles, but there were a couple. I think that we as a group will run more quickly than most into the eternal improv question: popular vs artistic; and the perennial improv conflicts: long- vs short-form,
but given the auspicious start I am inclined to give us the benefit of the doubt. On the other hand, I'd hardly be likely to criticize the group publicly in a venue which also serves as publicity, would I?
Deadwood is my favorite television program ever. (sigh.) I'm sorry, The Simpsons, Star Trek: The Next Generation, and Batman: The Animated Series, but your various outstanding episodes cannot compare to the nearly uniform flawlessness that is Shakespeare With Tons Of Cursing. Except for the main character! Honestly, in the third season I believe they have started to accept the fact that no one can like Bullock by writing him as a complete prick.
Tonight serves well to illustrate a moment in the life. Today I was called to see whether I could take down lights at the American Theatre Company, yesterday someone called to ask whether I could move The Snow Queen set into Victory Gardens. As a result, my leisurely evening and morning must be canceled, and this blog briefened.
It's not surprising that Firefox doesn't know the word briefened, but insisting on the spelling "theater?" Come on.
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