Wednesday, September 18, 2013
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.
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
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!
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!
Friday, July 11, 2008
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.
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
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
Thursday, June 19, 2008
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
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
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