The following is only based on true events. Based on. That means that any percentage of it may be true, and any percentage of it may be false. You decide. I just felt like it'd be fun to write it down.
.....................................................................................
Well, fuck.
I do that. I curse for no reason. I consider it my right as an American citizen to use whatever language I choose. I have my limits, rest assured, but they are a little further out than the limits that other people have. Other people are a little more limiting, I find. I am also always careful of the company I'm in and the context of my language, as well as my surroundings at any given time. I'm aware of other people's limits, and respect that when necessary. Nevertheless, I have my limits, too, and sometimes I can snap.
I'm also a children's performer. Now, you may be wondering why I preface that comment with a paragraph promoting expletive language. Well, I just needed to make a point about how kid's performers (clowns, magicians, etc) are human. They are human beings with lives outside of what you see when they're "on". If only I could share half of my real life with the people who hire me to perform.
I'm a children's performer, but I don't work for myself. I work for a franchised company that performs educational based entertainment for schools, clubs, and birthday parties. Within my branch, I tend to levitate as often as possible away from birthday parties, and toward the larger shows. The big houses. School assemblies, and large gatherings of that sort are more my "thing" when it comes down to the performance aspect of the job.
I took the job a few years ago, and the performance aspect was essentially my reason for taking it. I figured it still counted as performance (even if it wasn't "acting" per se), and I figured that money was a really useful thing to have when hungry. I really love to eat, and I've always been kind of a natural at it.
I also need to admit that I frustrate easily in general and, more importantly, that I frustrate really easily with children. Ah, yes, children. The small, snotting, whining, noisy, stupid couriers of our future. Well, until the future gets here, fact is I'm bigger than them, I can drive a car, I can eat cookies for breakfast, and I can go out on school nights.
About two years ago, I was driving to a gig. I use the term "gig", because it sounds much cooler than the words "heading to a church to be a party clown". Oh, but for the record, I'm not a clown. I do birthdays, but I'm not a clown (and the kids are usually way more excited when they see a clown). I do however, use the term “party clown” in a self deprecating manner to get cheap laughs, and because it’s the easiest way of describing to people what I do.
“What do you do for a living, Brendan?”
“Eh. I’m a party clown.”
That kind of thing.
I'm heading to the gig, and there's a guy driving behind me. He's tailgating me, and flashing his lights on and off real fast. He does this every minute or so. He doesn't beep more than a few times, but he keeps flashing his lights. This bugs me to no end. I mean, it really pisses me off. I'm on winding roads, in an area I'm unfamiliar with, looking for a place I've never been before, and I am obeying the speed limit as best as possible since I don't know where there may be cops hidden.
We're in a single lane for a while. The road seems to go on and on and on, with no hope of ever splitting into two lanes, it seems. The guy behind me continues to tailgate, and flash his lights. I ignore him for a while, but then it really begins to piss me off. Then, it moves up from 'pissing me off', to 'getting on my nerves'. Then it goes from 'getting on my nerves', to 'really getting on my last fucking nerve'. It continues to escalate from there.
The road, finally, does split into two lanes. The busy bee behind me zooms out, and enters the left lane. As he does this, I beep my horn and I give him the finger and shout an expletive or two. It's nothing too over the top. He sees me. I see him. He drives on. He cuts me off, gets back into my lane and takes off, engine roaring. He does this as if to teach me a lesson. If the lesson was supposed to be "I'm an impatient, rich asshole, and I have a faster car than you", he accomplished it.
He takes off, and I resume my hunt for the church. I finally arrive, I find where I'm supposed to go, and I begin unpacking my stuff. The people there were very cool. They were gracious and had everything set up for me. They offered to help load in my stuff, which doesn't happen all the time, so they also earned some points for that. I'm not there to do a show that day. Instead, I'm just there to run a kind of "booth" for a few hours. It's an indoor-carnival atmosphere, and people are just going to walk up and try a few things, and then go about their day. There are other booths with carnival games, snacks, etc. It's more of an opportunity to promote the business than anything else.
I'm doing my thing for a while. Children are coming up and checking out the booth. Parents are walking away with flyers and party info. All is going well, until I notice a guy in the background, helping prep food or something. He looks oddly familiar.
Actually, I'm bullshitting you with the "oddly familiar" line. I recognize him right away. It's the guy from the car.
He's there, working with the church, talking directly to my customer (the lady who booked us for the booth). I'm looking right at him, and he's glancing at me every now and then. I don't know if he recognized me. Don't know if he told my customer about how the kid's performer shouted at him and flipped him the bird. Either way, the fact is that I don't think we've been back to that particular function since.
Flash forward a year or two, to last night. I'm driving to another gig; this time, a library in Morris County.
My car is packed to the brim with equipment, and I'm having some claustrophobia issues. It's been a long day, and I have one show to do at 7pm, then I can go home. I've been stuck in the office since 10am, getting as much done as possible, and it's been a really long week, so I'm a little burnt out.
I'm on the road, almost at my destination, when I come to a stoplight. Now, let me reiterate my disposition. I'm tired. I'm busy. I can barely see out my windows. I'm very, very grumpy.
I'm at the stoplight. There are three lanes, and I'm on the far right. The road is at kind of a fork, allowing for the right lane to turn onto the next road. The problem is, there are two big SUV's blocking my line of sight, so I can't see whether there are cars coming or not. Therefore, and this is important, the fact that I can turn right on a red light is of no use, because I can't see oncoming traffic.
A car pulls up behind me. Beeps. I'm trying to check if there's any traffic coming. Every now and then a car zooms by, proving my need to know that there is no oncoming traffic before I turn. The car behind me beeps again. Now I'm getting angry. I can see the driver in my rear view mirror. I see the silhouette of a suited man, waving his arms and wondering why I'm not turning. He's yelling at me to turn, and gesturing. I get angrier. I can feel my face turning red, and my eyes are starting to sort of "tighten".
The light turns green, and I start to move, but in one last effort to get nominated for the "Ultimate Prick" awards, the guy behind me beeps again.
I slammed on the brakes a minute, holding him up. Then I move forward. He pulls out from behind me and heads toward the next light. The light is red, and I see that he's going to get stuck behind a couple of cars, whereas in my lane, I have clear passage straight to the light. I stop right next to where he's going to land, with my window rolled down. When he pulls up along side me, his window is down too. He's already looking at me. We're both ready for words.
Without a seconds’ hesitation, I began pointing and barking.
"It was a red light, I couldn't see what was comin', and I have every right to wait! Keep fucking with me, asshole, and see what happens!"
He jumped in somewhere around there, yelling some nonsense about making a right on red. He was obviously not heeding my very reasonably debated argument points. He was an older guy. Not too old, but "older".
When he started yelling back at me, something went off. Some fuse inside my head broke, and I might as well have blacked out for the amount of control I displayed next. A seizure victim has better control than I did.
"KEEP TALKIN', ASSHOLE!" I threw my car into park, opened my door, and began to step out, still cursing. I don't know exactly what my plan was. I don't think I had one. I think I was pretty much just making things up as I went along at this point. I do know that as I unbuckled my belt, I glanced around my car for a quick second, seeking any kind of hard, blunt object. There were none.
No sooner than I stood up, still between my opened door and my car, the light turned green, and he sped away. I felt bad for the cars behind me that I was holding up. I think they were a little perplexed by whatever was developing in front of them. Nobody beeped. I got back into my car, and pulled into the next parking lot I found, fuming. I was so angry (in fact, my head aches now even as I type).
A few minutes went by and I pulled back onto the road and went to my destination (the town's library). Once there, I needed to vent. I called up my girlfriend and recounted the situation. She was less than pleased.
"Are you crazy? You never do that! Oh my God, Brendan, what were you thinking?" Things like that.
She's right. I lost it. Had he not sped off, that could have resulted in a really bad day for one of us. What's worse, is that it could have resulted in a really bad day for me.
She's right, and I know that I'll hear the same from others. People get killed that way, etc. I know, I know. Bad, Brendan, bad.
I finish up on the phone with Laura. I head into the library to set up. They have a little table. They have a section of floor for kids to sit on, and seats in the back for adults. The librarian tells me about how they put up a few hundred flyers around town, and that they're hoping for a good turn out.
People don't realize the power that one wields when you get a group of about a hundred kids on your side. When I do a good show, these kids hang on my every word. They are clamoring to come up and volunteer for tricks. I become the coolest person on the planet, and they become my snotty, dirty, screaming minions. It's a really interesting thing. It's just a matter of knowing how to get them going, how to get them riled and excited. Eventually, I hope to graduate this ability to adults.
I do my show. All is going well. Parents are laughing. Kids are laughing. I'm shouting in a library, which is fun in and of itself. I'm about to wrap up the show. I'm giving my closing speech, thanking people for coming out and having a good time. That's when someone walks in the door.
It’s my traffic friend from down the road.
He walks in, and he sees me. How could he not? The commotion is huge, and it's not a big place. He stares for a second in disbelief. I fall silent as he stares. The roar of the children slowly falls into a deep silence, too. Then they turn and look at him.
The silence is deafening. I keep mentioning it, because it seemed like an eternity of silence.
One of the librarians sees him there. "Oh, Mr. So and So" she's says.
Oh, Christ. He's with the town. He's with the library. I never learned my lesson. How is it that these people are always with my customer?
I can't let them know that though. No, it's too good of a possibility for further business. Before the librarian can walk over to speak with him, I let out the biggest shout I can.
"GO!" I shout. Just one word. "Go." Then I point at the suited man.
The children's eyes blaze red. They all start screaming, and then as one they rise and charge. In an instant I can no longer see the suited man. The mass of screaming children envelopes him. Parents shield their eyes. They know better than to interrupt nature. The children are wild with the transferred rage of my car incident, and when they clear there is nothing left. No blood. No body. Only a suit; empty, and on the floor.
I walk over to the empty suit, and I stare down at it.
"Keep fuckin' with me, asshole. I’m a mother fuckin' party clown."
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Underpants.
We had a small party the other night. A gathering of sorts. A shin-dig.
At least, it was meant to be a gathering, a shin-dig. It was never really intended to be a full fledged, full blown "par-tay", that's just what came about. The party grew, organically, out of the small, rushed "movie night." It grew very quickly, learning and growing at a geometric rate, like The Terminator. Maybe that's what it was. It was the "Terminator" of parties. It was certainly strange, but things started, calmly enough, with all of us downstairs playing games and watching movies.
Myself, my girlfriend, my brother and sister, a friend of my sister's, a friend of mine, and the dogs, were all present and accounted for, and were the only few who had shown up to honor the commitment of said shin-dig.
We played Clue, while watching Jaws, and gorged ourselves on pizza, chips, and soda. It was a fun time. There was much merriment and Simpson's quoting (particularly during the too short-lived round of "Simpson's Scene It"). Good times were had by all, despite the somewhat small turn out. People started getting ready to leave around midnight, but that's when things took a sudden turn for the different.
While in the bathroom, I discovered that I had accidentally put my underpants on backwards.
Now, it's an interesting thing, but people don't realize what happens when one accidently puts on their underpants backwards and then discovers the mistake. It's a realization that is so strong and suggestive, that it opens up a rift in time and space, and everything you know to be true and constant in the cosmos changes until you reverse the backwards boxers.
Let me explain.
You see, there are certain things in life that you take for a certainty. They will always be there for you to put your trust in (you hope). When you wake up for instance, you put a lot of trust in the floor. You trust the floor to be there when you get up. You don't check for floor before stepping out of bed. You just get out of bed, and floor is there waiting for you. That's a lot of blind trust, if you ask me. It didn't work out too well for a good friend of mine in elementary school, who stepped out of bed only to find that the floor had gone to the local pub for fish and chips that day. He fell when he went to leave his bed, and is likely still falling.
Now, your underpants are similar in many ways. You put on your own underpants, so you do have some control in their reliability. They get worn and are eventually replaced, but they are always there to do the job they've been given (though I'm not entirely sure what that job is). Despite all of this, they still have that same amount of trust put into them. You put those babies on and whamm-o, you are set for the day.
Well, not this time. I put them on backwards.
At first, there was no change in anything. I noticed the backwards underpants, but decided not to address it. I stepped through the door, and I immediately noticed that things were different. That is to say, things weren't quite right. My washboard stomach was a dead giveaway that things were about to get very backward. You see, normally, I don't have a washboard stomach.
The strangeness continued.
Next thing you know, the mild shin-dig went extravagant. The inside of our house was filled with techno and strobe lights. My girlfriend conversed with my friend Jason, who was now one of the bouncers at the door. A line of people waited to gain entry into our little house, which was now the most happening place on the block.
My brother shredded away on an electric guitar, melting the brains of every square within a nine-hundred foot radius. The squares yelled and shouted, holding their ears, "I can't hear my iPad! I can't hear my iPad!" and soon after they would fall to the floor unconscious.
My sister had found a soapbox, and was standing on it, shouting, and recruiting. She had a cause, and in droves the partygoers joined her. They would not rest, she said, until they freed every captive dolphin in Idaho, and replaced each of them with a Mr. Potato Head wearing scuba gear.
Things were getting very backward indeed, and when I stepped out of the house, to observe the rest of the world, the strangeness continued and grew even stranger.
Dogs were meowing and cats were barking. Fish and bird married and lived wherever they liked. Recycling helped the environment. The wasting of paper meant the cutting down of rainforests, and the ozone had a dangerously big hole in it.
The police became very interested in serving and protecting. The people began electing the most appropriate candidates to government with a disregard to money or slander, and the politicians were for the well being of the people, the truth, justice, and the American way. Santa Claus, and The Tooth Fairy released statements opposing the war, and that ever hazy grey line regarding who is with us and who is against us was more solid and clear than any line I've ever seen.
Hardcore Christian's behaved hardcore Christ-like, following in his teachings, accepting people, feeding the poor, things like that. Church collection plates went to the needy. No one raised an eye when a priest took an interest in kids (not only that, but they had no reason to). The Pope was actually able to commune with God. Church and state remained completely separate, and the state took no interest in trying to define "marriage".
The media was reporting the facts, leaving the audience to opine for themselves. Computers uncomplicated our lives. People didn't use their cell phones when it seemed rude. Nobody talked during the movies, and worst of all AC/DC did not rock.
At this startling revelation, I realized something had to be done. I rushed to my room, and switched my underpants back to the correct wearing style. My head began to swim. The cieling opened up, and the most vibrant colors entered the atmosphere around me. The colors swirled and danced, and every time a streak of blue scraped by me, it would sooth my very soul. I looked up as the stars all became comets, and fired across the sky like beautiful marbles of light. Then my legs lifted up off the floor, and I levitated there a moment, just to enjoy the serenity of the scene, before slowly blacking out.
When I woke up, I reentered the shin dig. The small gathering was over, and people were leaving. I was back in Kansas again.
“Later, Brendan. Thanks for having us,” they said.
“Later. Thanks for coming,” I replied. They left.
All was quiet. Things were back to normal, and thank God they were. Thank God.
Thank God, because normal is normal, and because that’s the way that people want it.
At least, it was meant to be a gathering, a shin-dig. It was never really intended to be a full fledged, full blown "par-tay", that's just what came about. The party grew, organically, out of the small, rushed "movie night." It grew very quickly, learning and growing at a geometric rate, like The Terminator. Maybe that's what it was. It was the "Terminator" of parties. It was certainly strange, but things started, calmly enough, with all of us downstairs playing games and watching movies.
Myself, my girlfriend, my brother and sister, a friend of my sister's, a friend of mine, and the dogs, were all present and accounted for, and were the only few who had shown up to honor the commitment of said shin-dig.
We played Clue, while watching Jaws, and gorged ourselves on pizza, chips, and soda. It was a fun time. There was much merriment and Simpson's quoting (particularly during the too short-lived round of "Simpson's Scene It"). Good times were had by all, despite the somewhat small turn out. People started getting ready to leave around midnight, but that's when things took a sudden turn for the different.
While in the bathroom, I discovered that I had accidentally put my underpants on backwards.
Now, it's an interesting thing, but people don't realize what happens when one accidently puts on their underpants backwards and then discovers the mistake. It's a realization that is so strong and suggestive, that it opens up a rift in time and space, and everything you know to be true and constant in the cosmos changes until you reverse the backwards boxers.
Let me explain.
You see, there are certain things in life that you take for a certainty. They will always be there for you to put your trust in (you hope). When you wake up for instance, you put a lot of trust in the floor. You trust the floor to be there when you get up. You don't check for floor before stepping out of bed. You just get out of bed, and floor is there waiting for you. That's a lot of blind trust, if you ask me. It didn't work out too well for a good friend of mine in elementary school, who stepped out of bed only to find that the floor had gone to the local pub for fish and chips that day. He fell when he went to leave his bed, and is likely still falling.
Now, your underpants are similar in many ways. You put on your own underpants, so you do have some control in their reliability. They get worn and are eventually replaced, but they are always there to do the job they've been given (though I'm not entirely sure what that job is). Despite all of this, they still have that same amount of trust put into them. You put those babies on and whamm-o, you are set for the day.
Well, not this time. I put them on backwards.
At first, there was no change in anything. I noticed the backwards underpants, but decided not to address it. I stepped through the door, and I immediately noticed that things were different. That is to say, things weren't quite right. My washboard stomach was a dead giveaway that things were about to get very backward. You see, normally, I don't have a washboard stomach.
The strangeness continued.
Next thing you know, the mild shin-dig went extravagant. The inside of our house was filled with techno and strobe lights. My girlfriend conversed with my friend Jason, who was now one of the bouncers at the door. A line of people waited to gain entry into our little house, which was now the most happening place on the block.
My brother shredded away on an electric guitar, melting the brains of every square within a nine-hundred foot radius. The squares yelled and shouted, holding their ears, "I can't hear my iPad! I can't hear my iPad!" and soon after they would fall to the floor unconscious.
My sister had found a soapbox, and was standing on it, shouting, and recruiting. She had a cause, and in droves the partygoers joined her. They would not rest, she said, until they freed every captive dolphin in Idaho, and replaced each of them with a Mr. Potato Head wearing scuba gear.
Things were getting very backward indeed, and when I stepped out of the house, to observe the rest of the world, the strangeness continued and grew even stranger.
Dogs were meowing and cats were barking. Fish and bird married and lived wherever they liked. Recycling helped the environment. The wasting of paper meant the cutting down of rainforests, and the ozone had a dangerously big hole in it.
The police became very interested in serving and protecting. The people began electing the most appropriate candidates to government with a disregard to money or slander, and the politicians were for the well being of the people, the truth, justice, and the American way. Santa Claus, and The Tooth Fairy released statements opposing the war, and that ever hazy grey line regarding who is with us and who is against us was more solid and clear than any line I've ever seen.
Hardcore Christian's behaved hardcore Christ-like, following in his teachings, accepting people, feeding the poor, things like that. Church collection plates went to the needy. No one raised an eye when a priest took an interest in kids (not only that, but they had no reason to). The Pope was actually able to commune with God. Church and state remained completely separate, and the state took no interest in trying to define "marriage".
The media was reporting the facts, leaving the audience to opine for themselves. Computers uncomplicated our lives. People didn't use their cell phones when it seemed rude. Nobody talked during the movies, and worst of all AC/DC did not rock.
At this startling revelation, I realized something had to be done. I rushed to my room, and switched my underpants back to the correct wearing style. My head began to swim. The cieling opened up, and the most vibrant colors entered the atmosphere around me. The colors swirled and danced, and every time a streak of blue scraped by me, it would sooth my very soul. I looked up as the stars all became comets, and fired across the sky like beautiful marbles of light. Then my legs lifted up off the floor, and I levitated there a moment, just to enjoy the serenity of the scene, before slowly blacking out.
When I woke up, I reentered the shin dig. The small gathering was over, and people were leaving. I was back in Kansas again.
“Later, Brendan. Thanks for having us,” they said.
“Later. Thanks for coming,” I replied. They left.
All was quiet. Things were back to normal, and thank God they were. Thank God.
Thank God, because normal is normal, and because that’s the way that people want it.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
A Short Think While Watching TV
Watching Poltergeist II on a Sunday morning. This is the way things should be.
Astonishingly enough, i've never watched the whole movie straight through. I've seen pretty much from beginning to middle, and then I always end up falling asleep, or leaving, or changing the channel or something. We even have it on dvd, and yet...
The story revolves around a family who's experiencing some (haha, "some") paranormal phenomena that is centered around their youngest child, Carol Anne. This family escaped certain peril in the first film, but now the haunts are back to scare some ticket sales out of the moviegoing public once more. It was, I think, a mediocre box office success.
Despite not having seen the entire film, i've seen enough of it, and I know enough about the backstory to be interested. The first one rocks, too. Anyone who enjoys these movies needs to check out the E! True Hollywood Story. They did a two hour episode about all three movies, and the weird circumstances that surrounded their filming.
I always enjoy those behind-the-scenes documentaries. I always have. I'm the guy who watches movies with the commentary more than once, and bases his dvd purchases on the special features. I think it has to do with seeing that these films, these stories, are man made. When you watch them, they seem so impossible. They seem so other worldly. We know, deep down, that these actors are people, the effects are computer generated, and that it took an army offscreen to get it all on film, but nevertheless, you never really accept that these people are actually flesh and blood. They're like giants.
In Poltergiest II, our family meets a native american shaman named "Taylor". He is played by an actor named Will Sampson, who was best known for playing Chief Bromden in the film version of "One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest".
As it turns out, Will Sampson got the job for Poltergiest II, partly because he was good friends with the films' star, Craig T. Nelson. The great part is, that if you watch some of their scenes together, you can really tell that they're having fun. They have great chemistry (despite playing opposing character types).
That's one thing that I have to say, I enjoy about theater. The collaboration is part of what makes the experience. To work opposite a friend is really pretty cool. You're comfortable with each other, you respect each other, and yet there is enough good natured competitiveness to keep you both climbing the ladder.
It's fun.
Astonishingly enough, i've never watched the whole movie straight through. I've seen pretty much from beginning to middle, and then I always end up falling asleep, or leaving, or changing the channel or something. We even have it on dvd, and yet...
The story revolves around a family who's experiencing some (haha, "some") paranormal phenomena that is centered around their youngest child, Carol Anne. This family escaped certain peril in the first film, but now the haunts are back to scare some ticket sales out of the moviegoing public once more. It was, I think, a mediocre box office success.
Despite not having seen the entire film, i've seen enough of it, and I know enough about the backstory to be interested. The first one rocks, too. Anyone who enjoys these movies needs to check out the E! True Hollywood Story. They did a two hour episode about all three movies, and the weird circumstances that surrounded their filming.
I always enjoy those behind-the-scenes documentaries. I always have. I'm the guy who watches movies with the commentary more than once, and bases his dvd purchases on the special features. I think it has to do with seeing that these films, these stories, are man made. When you watch them, they seem so impossible. They seem so other worldly. We know, deep down, that these actors are people, the effects are computer generated, and that it took an army offscreen to get it all on film, but nevertheless, you never really accept that these people are actually flesh and blood. They're like giants.
In Poltergiest II, our family meets a native american shaman named "Taylor". He is played by an actor named Will Sampson, who was best known for playing Chief Bromden in the film version of "One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest".
As it turns out, Will Sampson got the job for Poltergiest II, partly because he was good friends with the films' star, Craig T. Nelson. The great part is, that if you watch some of their scenes together, you can really tell that they're having fun. They have great chemistry (despite playing opposing character types).
That's one thing that I have to say, I enjoy about theater. The collaboration is part of what makes the experience. To work opposite a friend is really pretty cool. You're comfortable with each other, you respect each other, and yet there is enough good natured competitiveness to keep you both climbing the ladder.
It's fun.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Happy Birthday, Psycho
Almost two years ago, my girlfriend and I fulfilled one of my life long dreams. We brought home a puppy. It took some arguing on my part, and a lot of anxiety and secrecy (people thought we were crazy, and probably still do), but in the end we both agreed that it'd be fun. I couldn't wait.
We had been looking to adopt from a shelter (not only because we are what the Chinese call "foo king poor", but also because we felt that it was better to rescue a dog who needed a home). We had gone to a shelter in East Hanover, and I think had checked out one or two others elsewhere, too. Nobody seemed to have what we were looking for. We had to be very specific, as I am allergic to many forms of animal hair/dander. Certain breeds were automatically out. Also, we wanted a medium/small breed, and a dog that was no more than a year old.
I have to say, Petfinder.com is the place to go. Animal shelters upload their files of what they have, and include vaxination info, histories, pictures, etc. We had a few leads with this website, and checked it regularly.
One day in August, out of the blue, I took a glance at petfinder while at work. I can't remember what day it was. I saw that an animal shelter in Landing had some puppies. They had a bunch of "puggles", and one mini schnauzer puppy. The schnauzers were on our list of approved breeds.
I left work early, and went to Petsmart. I walked around, and nervously thought. I brainstormed. You have to understand, I had wanted a dog my entire life. From about the time I could say the word "dog", I wanted one. It simply hadn't been an option, though. Now, I was living with my girlfriend, we had agreed on taking care of one, and we could afford it. Okay, that last bit about "affording it" is a complete lie, but we told ourselves that at the time and just agreed to believe. I mean, come on, sometimes you just have to believe!
I bought a leash. The petfinder ad had said to bring a leash. I kept telling myself, "You're just going to check it out, you're not getting a puppy today."
What if they didn't mean to bring a leash just if you were getting a puppy? What if you needed to present a leash for admission to the kennel, even if you were just looking?
"You're NOT getting a puppy today, Brendan."
"I know that, Brendan. I'm just buying the leash anyway. For, um...for fun." I bought the leash.
I called Laura. She met up with me at Borders, Rockaway. I told her about the ad. "So, do you wanna just go check it out?" She agreed, and we were off.
When we got to the pound, we let them know that I had seen the ad on Petfinder. A woman in scrubs led us down a concrete hallway, lined with enclosures that housed older dogs. Some very big. Some very old. All very loud. At the end of the hall was a door, and behind the door were two small rooms. To the right, kittens. To the left, puppies.
There were cages stacked on top of each other. These were huge cages, that were big enough to house a number of puppies each. In the top cage was the bunch of puggle pups that I had seen also advertised on the Petfinder page. They barked and barked and wrestled and barked. In the cage below was a little black mass. She didn't bark. She stood and came to the edge of her cage and peered out. She was tiny. Petite. Her hair was wiry and unkempt, with dirt and bits of 'whatever else' throughout. The lady in scrubs opened the cage and pulled her out. She placed the puppy on the floor, and the pup immediately started exploring the area around her, including the barking puggles. After a few minutes of listening to them bark at her, she barked back. She had some spunk. I lured her over and picked her up. She looked straight into my eyes. Laura scratched her ears and talked to her. After a second or two, the pup relaxed in my arms, and rested her head agains my chest. I looked at Laura, with my heart pounding. "Yeah," I said, "She's it. She's the one."
To this day, at two human years old, Libby still likes to be held.
We had been looking to adopt from a shelter (not only because we are what the Chinese call "foo king poor", but also because we felt that it was better to rescue a dog who needed a home). We had gone to a shelter in East Hanover, and I think had checked out one or two others elsewhere, too. Nobody seemed to have what we were looking for. We had to be very specific, as I am allergic to many forms of animal hair/dander. Certain breeds were automatically out. Also, we wanted a medium/small breed, and a dog that was no more than a year old.
I have to say, Petfinder.com is the place to go. Animal shelters upload their files of what they have, and include vaxination info, histories, pictures, etc. We had a few leads with this website, and checked it regularly.
One day in August, out of the blue, I took a glance at petfinder while at work. I can't remember what day it was. I saw that an animal shelter in Landing had some puppies. They had a bunch of "puggles", and one mini schnauzer puppy. The schnauzers were on our list of approved breeds.
I left work early, and went to Petsmart. I walked around, and nervously thought. I brainstormed. You have to understand, I had wanted a dog my entire life. From about the time I could say the word "dog", I wanted one. It simply hadn't been an option, though. Now, I was living with my girlfriend, we had agreed on taking care of one, and we could afford it. Okay, that last bit about "affording it" is a complete lie, but we told ourselves that at the time and just agreed to believe. I mean, come on, sometimes you just have to believe!
I bought a leash. The petfinder ad had said to bring a leash. I kept telling myself, "You're just going to check it out, you're not getting a puppy today."
What if they didn't mean to bring a leash just if you were getting a puppy? What if you needed to present a leash for admission to the kennel, even if you were just looking?
"You're NOT getting a puppy today, Brendan."
"I know that, Brendan. I'm just buying the leash anyway. For, um...for fun." I bought the leash.
I called Laura. She met up with me at Borders, Rockaway. I told her about the ad. "So, do you wanna just go check it out?" She agreed, and we were off.
When we got to the pound, we let them know that I had seen the ad on Petfinder. A woman in scrubs led us down a concrete hallway, lined with enclosures that housed older dogs. Some very big. Some very old. All very loud. At the end of the hall was a door, and behind the door were two small rooms. To the right, kittens. To the left, puppies.
There were cages stacked on top of each other. These were huge cages, that were big enough to house a number of puppies each. In the top cage was the bunch of puggle pups that I had seen also advertised on the Petfinder page. They barked and barked and wrestled and barked. In the cage below was a little black mass. She didn't bark. She stood and came to the edge of her cage and peered out. She was tiny. Petite. Her hair was wiry and unkempt, with dirt and bits of 'whatever else' throughout. The lady in scrubs opened the cage and pulled her out. She placed the puppy on the floor, and the pup immediately started exploring the area around her, including the barking puggles. After a few minutes of listening to them bark at her, she barked back. She had some spunk. I lured her over and picked her up. She looked straight into my eyes. Laura scratched her ears and talked to her. After a second or two, the pup relaxed in my arms, and rested her head agains my chest. I looked at Laura, with my heart pounding. "Yeah," I said, "She's it. She's the one."
To this day, at two human years old, Libby still likes to be held.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
The Pros and The J-E-R-K's
I recently finished performing in a children's play, based on the books "The House On East 88th Street" and "Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile." I was excited to audition for this play in particular, because I remember being a big fan of the books when I was a kid. I was also interested in the role, because I had never worked with this theater in particular, and had auditioned there in the past.
Well, sometimes your gut is right. This was by far one of my favorite experiences in theater yet, and it was a much needed refreshment after coming straight off a show that I wasn't so nuts about. Maybe I'll talk about that show another time.
"Lyle" was, to put it mildly, an absolute blast from beginning to end. It was the longest running show I've ever been in, with 3 weeks of rehearsals followed by 6 weekends of performances. In the end, after snow-days cancelled a number of rehearsals, it ended up being a total of 4 rehearsals plus tech-week before we opened.
This alone was awesome. Add to that the team of professionals I had the pleasure of working with (both on and offstage), and you have what was an almost perfect experience. My biggest problem with theater is, believe it or not, the types of people that you run into. People that think they know everything. People that think they are God's gift. People that think they are Broadway stars, despite their working in a theater that has "community players" in the title. These people are so many, and so pretentious, that they can actually have the affect of making a person consider giving up theater altogether. It is usually to spite these people that I persist. This cast had not a single bad apple. It was instead a fellowship of artists in every regard, helping each other toward one collaborative goal. That, to me, is what it's all about.
It was also fun, simply for the text itself. The play was written (or adapted) by Kevin Kling. Kling is a well known monologist, story teller, author, and actor. He has been featured on NPR, and also has a series of albums available both on iTunes and through his website. Since first learning of him (through this production) I've become a big fan, and have listened to a number of his recordings. His adaptation of the "Lyle Crocodile" books was another great pleasure, since the style was more PG than G rated, and made the show fun for adult audience members, as well as children.
Some people can't handle that though, and it never seems to be the kids that the PG rating is protecting.
A costar and I played various New Yorkers in our production. We didn't have names, we were just 1 and 2. In the first scene, we were Moving Men 1 and 2. Later, we were Firemen 1 and 2. Later, we were Zoo Crocodiles 1 and 2. We were the only speaking characters with costume changes, and those costume changes were rapid. Essentially, our jobs were to recreate the characters of New York City. The play does this, by giving the two of us these sort of "tough guy" attitudes, which we would display by calling each other "jerks" all the time (even when our characters were being nice to each other). Think of Bugs Bunny calling someone a "maroon". It was along those lines. It was a running gag that we all enjoyed, and often enforced further when backstage.
After every performance, the cast of "Lyle" would parade to the lobby of the theater and there greet the exiting audience members, and sign children's programs to give them the full theater experience. Hey, what actor doesn't enjoy signing an autograph? Besides, as far as the kids were concerned, we really were stars.
Often, parents smiled and said "thank you" as we signed their kids' books and programs. Some kids were more outgoing than others, and some even told us their favorite parts of the play. It was obvious from the first performance that people were really enjoying the play.
One day, after heading back to the dressing area (which was just one big dressing area behind the stage), the actor playing Lyle came back with an interesting comment an audience member had given him. I'll do my best to recreate the jist of the conversation they'd apparently had.
LYLE CROCODILE: (to one of the kids) Hi! Did you have fun?
KID: Yeah.
LYLE CROCODILE: Alright! (signs autograph)
KID'S MOM (HEREAFTER REFFERED TO AS MOM): Are you aware of all the j-e-r-k's in the play?
LYLE CROCODILE: I'm...i'm sorry?
MOM (HEREAFTER REFFERED TO AS THE JERKLADY): Are you aware of all the j-e-r-k's?
LYLE CROCODILE: What?
JERKLADY: The j-e-r-k's.
LYLE CROCODILE (Now just playing dumb and fully aware of what she's talking about) I'm sorry, I don't understand what you mean.
JERKLADY: The j-e-r-k's. If you say it as a word.
LYLE CROCODILE: (pause) Oh...Ohhh, yeah. Okay. Right.
JERKLADY: Well, isn't there anything you can do about that?
Hope that gives you an idea. I really wish I could get the stony pretention across in her sentences. Supposedly, it was that straight-faced, disgusted, condescending kind of attitude.
Now, we can argue back and forth about what's appropriate and inappropriate for kid's to listen to, but in the end it'd be irrelevant to this conversation. What astounds me is the idea that a grown woman, old enough to have and understanding of words and the levels of harshness from one to the next, could actually not be able to say the word "jerk" even as she spoke against it. It's a word. It's a word. Words are only as powerful as you make them, good or bad. Even a so called "bad" word needs intent behind it to make it "bad." What kind of halfwit gives the word "jerk" such power that she can't even use it in a sentence? Even a sentence like "Well, I didn't like that they said the word 'jerk'."
Even if you do have a problem with the word "jerk" in our play, that's the perfect opportunity for a dialogue between you and your kids. We've provided you with a great excuse to re-enforce your simple minded ideas that there are good words and bad words in the English language.
Worst of all, who are you to ask someone to take the word out of the play? Okay, I know she probably doesn't realize that actors can't change the words of a playwright, so I'm not saying this from a theater artist's perspective. What I'm saying is how dare you try to censor another person? If you have a problem with what someone is saying, you have a right to disagree, you have a right to walk out, and you have a right to complain or speak out against it. I may be disagreeing with her disagreement, but in the end I know she had every right to do so. What you can't do is seek to silence the opposition. You can't ask people to change their words, or stop saying what they're saying. This play used the word "jerk" to comically display the stereotypical New York attitude. We were cartoon characters. If you feel the need to protect your child from our dangerous cartoon characters, then do as you will. Don't ask us to stop. That's my opinion. That's all. It's also funny, that in six weekends of full houses we had exactly one complaint. Just one.
You all know me though. I'm not at peace until somebody is complaining about something. The jerklady wasn't a big deal by anyone's standards. She was a blip on the screen. I just had nothing else to complain about with this production. Yep. It was that damn good.
Well, sometimes your gut is right. This was by far one of my favorite experiences in theater yet, and it was a much needed refreshment after coming straight off a show that I wasn't so nuts about. Maybe I'll talk about that show another time.
"Lyle" was, to put it mildly, an absolute blast from beginning to end. It was the longest running show I've ever been in, with 3 weeks of rehearsals followed by 6 weekends of performances. In the end, after snow-days cancelled a number of rehearsals, it ended up being a total of 4 rehearsals plus tech-week before we opened.
This alone was awesome. Add to that the team of professionals I had the pleasure of working with (both on and offstage), and you have what was an almost perfect experience. My biggest problem with theater is, believe it or not, the types of people that you run into. People that think they know everything. People that think they are God's gift. People that think they are Broadway stars, despite their working in a theater that has "community players" in the title. These people are so many, and so pretentious, that they can actually have the affect of making a person consider giving up theater altogether. It is usually to spite these people that I persist. This cast had not a single bad apple. It was instead a fellowship of artists in every regard, helping each other toward one collaborative goal. That, to me, is what it's all about.
It was also fun, simply for the text itself. The play was written (or adapted) by Kevin Kling. Kling is a well known monologist, story teller, author, and actor. He has been featured on NPR, and also has a series of albums available both on iTunes and through his website. Since first learning of him (through this production) I've become a big fan, and have listened to a number of his recordings. His adaptation of the "Lyle Crocodile" books was another great pleasure, since the style was more PG than G rated, and made the show fun for adult audience members, as well as children.
Some people can't handle that though, and it never seems to be the kids that the PG rating is protecting.
A costar and I played various New Yorkers in our production. We didn't have names, we were just 1 and 2. In the first scene, we were Moving Men 1 and 2. Later, we were Firemen 1 and 2. Later, we were Zoo Crocodiles 1 and 2. We were the only speaking characters with costume changes, and those costume changes were rapid. Essentially, our jobs were to recreate the characters of New York City. The play does this, by giving the two of us these sort of "tough guy" attitudes, which we would display by calling each other "jerks" all the time (even when our characters were being nice to each other). Think of Bugs Bunny calling someone a "maroon". It was along those lines. It was a running gag that we all enjoyed, and often enforced further when backstage.
After every performance, the cast of "Lyle" would parade to the lobby of the theater and there greet the exiting audience members, and sign children's programs to give them the full theater experience. Hey, what actor doesn't enjoy signing an autograph? Besides, as far as the kids were concerned, we really were stars.
Often, parents smiled and said "thank you" as we signed their kids' books and programs. Some kids were more outgoing than others, and some even told us their favorite parts of the play. It was obvious from the first performance that people were really enjoying the play.
One day, after heading back to the dressing area (which was just one big dressing area behind the stage), the actor playing Lyle came back with an interesting comment an audience member had given him. I'll do my best to recreate the jist of the conversation they'd apparently had.
LYLE CROCODILE: (to one of the kids) Hi! Did you have fun?
KID: Yeah.
LYLE CROCODILE: Alright! (signs autograph)
KID'S MOM (HEREAFTER REFFERED TO AS MOM): Are you aware of all the j-e-r-k's in the play?
LYLE CROCODILE: I'm...i'm sorry?
MOM (HEREAFTER REFFERED TO AS THE JERKLADY): Are you aware of all the j-e-r-k's?
LYLE CROCODILE: What?
JERKLADY: The j-e-r-k's.
LYLE CROCODILE (Now just playing dumb and fully aware of what she's talking about) I'm sorry, I don't understand what you mean.
JERKLADY: The j-e-r-k's. If you say it as a word.
LYLE CROCODILE: (pause) Oh...Ohhh, yeah. Okay. Right.
JERKLADY: Well, isn't there anything you can do about that?
Hope that gives you an idea. I really wish I could get the stony pretention across in her sentences. Supposedly, it was that straight-faced, disgusted, condescending kind of attitude.
Now, we can argue back and forth about what's appropriate and inappropriate for kid's to listen to, but in the end it'd be irrelevant to this conversation. What astounds me is the idea that a grown woman, old enough to have and understanding of words and the levels of harshness from one to the next, could actually not be able to say the word "jerk" even as she spoke against it. It's a word. It's a word. Words are only as powerful as you make them, good or bad. Even a so called "bad" word needs intent behind it to make it "bad." What kind of halfwit gives the word "jerk" such power that she can't even use it in a sentence? Even a sentence like "Well, I didn't like that they said the word 'jerk'."
Even if you do have a problem with the word "jerk" in our play, that's the perfect opportunity for a dialogue between you and your kids. We've provided you with a great excuse to re-enforce your simple minded ideas that there are good words and bad words in the English language.
Worst of all, who are you to ask someone to take the word out of the play? Okay, I know she probably doesn't realize that actors can't change the words of a playwright, so I'm not saying this from a theater artist's perspective. What I'm saying is how dare you try to censor another person? If you have a problem with what someone is saying, you have a right to disagree, you have a right to walk out, and you have a right to complain or speak out against it. I may be disagreeing with her disagreement, but in the end I know she had every right to do so. What you can't do is seek to silence the opposition. You can't ask people to change their words, or stop saying what they're saying. This play used the word "jerk" to comically display the stereotypical New York attitude. We were cartoon characters. If you feel the need to protect your child from our dangerous cartoon characters, then do as you will. Don't ask us to stop. That's my opinion. That's all. It's also funny, that in six weekends of full houses we had exactly one complaint. Just one.
You all know me though. I'm not at peace until somebody is complaining about something. The jerklady wasn't a big deal by anyone's standards. She was a blip on the screen. I just had nothing else to complain about with this production. Yep. It was that damn good.
What A Really Great Man Freud Was
On The Subject of Nightmares, Dwarves, and The Moon...
Last night I was a member of a lunar landing party that included my girlfriend (Laura), a latin american father and his young son, a rather attractive female african american photographer in her early twenties, an older fellow leading the expedition, an abnormaly tall, thin man, and then there were one or two others whom I can't quite solidify from my vague memory.
It would dawn on me later the racial diversity of this group, which will in a very vague way play into a dilemma later in the dream.
We landed on the moon during the night. We did the whole "skip around the surface, get used to the gravity, look at the Earth, draw in the sand" thing. It was ever so magical.
I remember the tall man dropping something and having to step off the moon to get it. That's when I noticed how outrageously tall he was. In dreams, nothing makes sense, and at this point I remembered "oh, yeah, Neil Armstrong was a giant." In real life, no, Brendan, no he wasn't.
So the tall man steps off the moon and lands in space. Space, as it turns out, is a wet sticky goo that makes you feel, well, bad. I determined this, based on his immediate reaction to standing knee-deep in space water. You knew there was something very wrong inside.
Next thing you know, it's daylight. Yes, daylight. It's daylight, and the moon is now a desert-moon of sorts, and SURPRISE, there are more people. Everyone is generally talking and having a blast as we wander about, exploring the moon. We're like a party of tourists (which is accurate, I suppose, since we're not from the moon). Photographer chick takes pics. Latin-dad talks with leader. Latin-dad's son climbs rock formations. Everyone's just having a very chill time. Eventually, though, as time goes on, the dreaded space dimentia begins to affect members of our party. They begin getting angry. They get aggitated easily. Everyone gets hungry and tired. It's time to eat and get off this rock.
We find ourselves inside of a kitchen found in the kind of facility you see in movies like Avatar and Aliens. Gray pegboard interior, fluorescent lighting, etc. There are windows, and that's good because I can see outside. Everyone's cleaning up, and I suddenly start to realize something that nobody else finds puzzling. If we're the first people on the moon (which, by the way, we are supposed to be), then where did thsi facility come from? Why is this kitchen fully stocked? Most importantly...the silverware. Why is there so much silverware? There's plenty of silverware. Plenty of silverware for plenty of people. I'm very fixated on the silverware's existence. Finally, reaching the verge of lunacy, I announce "Hey! Where'd did all this silverware come from?"
Everyone stops.
Things get quiet. Very quiet. Everyone is overwhelmed with a sudden realization and dread. Nothing should be here. There should be no facility. We're the first humans to step on the moon in years. We don't even seem to need spacesuits.
Now we hear a rumbling. I turn and look out the window. There is a dust cloud in the distance, and it's moving toward us very quickly. Not too quickly, but quickly enough to be unsettling. My long distance x-ray vision comes in handy for the first time in my life and I zoom in to see just who, or what, is coming this way.
The moon is inhabited. Inhabited by dwarves. Yes, I said "dwarves". Oh, but rest assured, these are not just any dwarves. These are bad dwarves. Oh, and these are not just any bad dwarves. Oh, no. These are evil dwarves. These dwarves...are an extention...of the Ku Klux Klan.
[Insert reminder of earlier statement regarding racial diversity of our group here.]
The racist cannibal dwarves (oh, and they're cannibals now, too) don white robes, and pointy hats. They resemble very closely the KKK, with one exception. They wear the pointy hats, but no hoods or face coverings. Instead, they have white face paint, and in fact (in case this dream isn't bad enough a trip yet), they all look like the lead kid from the movie "Children of The Corn".
It was time to go.
We rush out of the room. From here, the dream becomes hazy. I wish I could have typed it all out this morning when I woke up, but the call of job-security and hourly wages sometimes outweighs the awareness of the fading memory of a good nightmare. We run from the dwarves, and they remain right behind us in pursuit, but just out of sight. We come to realize that they are cannibals. Not good news. I remember the latin-dad and his son getting seperated. I remember the photographer getting hurt. I remember something about an infant appearing and needing to be protected. I remember being terrified, and I remember something about my girlfriend dissapearing for a while, then returning in a daze. Her eyes were glazed over, and some green liquid was staining her lower lip. It worried me. It worried me enough to call her when I woke up (she leaves the house about 2 hours before I do in the morning), and it also worried me because she had strayed from the group to do some noble selflessness. I know this, despite not remembering the act itself.
When I did wake up, I was shaken. I was so unnerved that I went about my morning routine looking over my shoulder, checking behind corners, and constantly calling my dogs for what simple reassurance their company could offer. This post-nightmare fear is a rarity for me. I have a lot of nightmares, and i've come to embrace them. They always prove interesting. On the rare occasion, though, they can be intense. As silly as the dream may seem in retrospect, the experience was less ammusing. And it WAS an experience. I lived this. I could see these people, I could smell the enviroment of the planet. I could hear the enemy approaching, but I think the worst part was and always is, that I could feel the terror in everyone. I could feel the rush and the adrenaline. I could feel the dread of an impending death, and the desperate need to get this group away from it. I woke up with these emotions intact. The scariest nightmares always have that affect, and I think that's what makes them the scary ones. A sub-par nightmare ends in a snap. It's like turning off the tv, or closing a curtain. The intense ones - they stay with you. They stay. They cross over a little bit into reality.
And if the emotions can do that, what else can cross over?
Last night I was a member of a lunar landing party that included my girlfriend (Laura), a latin american father and his young son, a rather attractive female african american photographer in her early twenties, an older fellow leading the expedition, an abnormaly tall, thin man, and then there were one or two others whom I can't quite solidify from my vague memory.
It would dawn on me later the racial diversity of this group, which will in a very vague way play into a dilemma later in the dream.
We landed on the moon during the night. We did the whole "skip around the surface, get used to the gravity, look at the Earth, draw in the sand" thing. It was ever so magical.
I remember the tall man dropping something and having to step off the moon to get it. That's when I noticed how outrageously tall he was. In dreams, nothing makes sense, and at this point I remembered "oh, yeah, Neil Armstrong was a giant." In real life, no, Brendan, no he wasn't.
So the tall man steps off the moon and lands in space. Space, as it turns out, is a wet sticky goo that makes you feel, well, bad. I determined this, based on his immediate reaction to standing knee-deep in space water. You knew there was something very wrong inside.
Next thing you know, it's daylight. Yes, daylight. It's daylight, and the moon is now a desert-moon of sorts, and SURPRISE, there are more people. Everyone is generally talking and having a blast as we wander about, exploring the moon. We're like a party of tourists (which is accurate, I suppose, since we're not from the moon). Photographer chick takes pics. Latin-dad talks with leader. Latin-dad's son climbs rock formations. Everyone's just having a very chill time. Eventually, though, as time goes on, the dreaded space dimentia begins to affect members of our party. They begin getting angry. They get aggitated easily. Everyone gets hungry and tired. It's time to eat and get off this rock.
We find ourselves inside of a kitchen found in the kind of facility you see in movies like Avatar and Aliens. Gray pegboard interior, fluorescent lighting, etc. There are windows, and that's good because I can see outside. Everyone's cleaning up, and I suddenly start to realize something that nobody else finds puzzling. If we're the first people on the moon (which, by the way, we are supposed to be), then where did thsi facility come from? Why is this kitchen fully stocked? Most importantly...the silverware. Why is there so much silverware? There's plenty of silverware. Plenty of silverware for plenty of people. I'm very fixated on the silverware's existence. Finally, reaching the verge of lunacy, I announce "Hey! Where'd did all this silverware come from?"
Everyone stops.
Things get quiet. Very quiet. Everyone is overwhelmed with a sudden realization and dread. Nothing should be here. There should be no facility. We're the first humans to step on the moon in years. We don't even seem to need spacesuits.
Now we hear a rumbling. I turn and look out the window. There is a dust cloud in the distance, and it's moving toward us very quickly. Not too quickly, but quickly enough to be unsettling. My long distance x-ray vision comes in handy for the first time in my life and I zoom in to see just who, or what, is coming this way.
The moon is inhabited. Inhabited by dwarves. Yes, I said "dwarves". Oh, but rest assured, these are not just any dwarves. These are bad dwarves. Oh, and these are not just any bad dwarves. Oh, no. These are evil dwarves. These dwarves...are an extention...of the Ku Klux Klan.
[Insert reminder of earlier statement regarding racial diversity of our group here.]
The racist cannibal dwarves (oh, and they're cannibals now, too) don white robes, and pointy hats. They resemble very closely the KKK, with one exception. They wear the pointy hats, but no hoods or face coverings. Instead, they have white face paint, and in fact (in case this dream isn't bad enough a trip yet), they all look like the lead kid from the movie "Children of The Corn".
It was time to go.
We rush out of the room. From here, the dream becomes hazy. I wish I could have typed it all out this morning when I woke up, but the call of job-security and hourly wages sometimes outweighs the awareness of the fading memory of a good nightmare. We run from the dwarves, and they remain right behind us in pursuit, but just out of sight. We come to realize that they are cannibals. Not good news. I remember the latin-dad and his son getting seperated. I remember the photographer getting hurt. I remember something about an infant appearing and needing to be protected. I remember being terrified, and I remember something about my girlfriend dissapearing for a while, then returning in a daze. Her eyes were glazed over, and some green liquid was staining her lower lip. It worried me. It worried me enough to call her when I woke up (she leaves the house about 2 hours before I do in the morning), and it also worried me because she had strayed from the group to do some noble selflessness. I know this, despite not remembering the act itself.
When I did wake up, I was shaken. I was so unnerved that I went about my morning routine looking over my shoulder, checking behind corners, and constantly calling my dogs for what simple reassurance their company could offer. This post-nightmare fear is a rarity for me. I have a lot of nightmares, and i've come to embrace them. They always prove interesting. On the rare occasion, though, they can be intense. As silly as the dream may seem in retrospect, the experience was less ammusing. And it WAS an experience. I lived this. I could see these people, I could smell the enviroment of the planet. I could hear the enemy approaching, but I think the worst part was and always is, that I could feel the terror in everyone. I could feel the rush and the adrenaline. I could feel the dread of an impending death, and the desperate need to get this group away from it. I woke up with these emotions intact. The scariest nightmares always have that affect, and I think that's what makes them the scary ones. A sub-par nightmare ends in a snap. It's like turning off the tv, or closing a curtain. The intense ones - they stay with you. They stay. They cross over a little bit into reality.
And if the emotions can do that, what else can cross over?
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Walking Sucks For Fat Guys
Alrighty, so in an effort to really get this weight loss" thing goin', i'm posting a nice, embarrassing video of myself trying to do what the elite call "walking".
You see, at work we are only allowed to park on the street for 2 hours a day. Then, we have to move our cars up a hill to a small parking lot. Now, it's not so much the distance of the lot, as it is the steepness of the hill. I'd just like for you to bear that in mind as you watch my painful gasping.
What's funnier is that despite deciding just days ago to attack my weight loss goal, i've already fallen off the wagon twice. Hopefully, this'll help me mentally somehow.
Just remember, "steeeeeep hillllllll."
You see, at work we are only allowed to park on the street for 2 hours a day. Then, we have to move our cars up a hill to a small parking lot. Now, it's not so much the distance of the lot, as it is the steepness of the hill. I'd just like for you to bear that in mind as you watch my painful gasping.
What's funnier is that despite deciding just days ago to attack my weight loss goal, i've already fallen off the wagon twice. Hopefully, this'll help me mentally somehow.
Just remember, "steeeeeep hillllllll."
Friday, April 9, 2010
Funny, the barking has stopped now.
It's morning. I'm getting ready for work. Okay, I "should be" getting ready for work. I'm beginning the process of getting ready for work.
The dogs are in the next room. Barking. A lot. I've asked them politely to stop, but they won't. They refuse.
Little do they realize, that my request is not for my own comfort or sanity, it's for their safety. The barking is loud. Echoing through the cavernous funnels on the sides of my head. The bark travels through the waves in the air, into my ears, and quickly touches my brain. But when it gets to my brain, I no longer hear the "bark bark bark woof woof bark" that most human beings hear from my dogs. I hear something far different.
I hear the voice of Sam Kinison. THE Sam Kinison. But not pre-death, Sam Kinison, this is a post-death, in-shape Sam Kinison. And while his weight may bear no relevance on the sound of his voice, channelling through my dogs vocal chords, I know it to be true.
"HEY," screams Sam. "HEY! YOU! YEAH YOU! LISTEN! LISTEN! LISTEN TO ME! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING IN THERE? IT SEEMS TO ME LIKE YOU MIGHT BE WASTING YOUR TIME GETTING READY FOR WOOOORK! What'dya need work for, huh? It's a boring day, man, a boring long day where you repeat mind numbing crap to benefit a company that in the end would step over you as soon as look at you, man. Besides, if you go just for the money, think about it, what do you need that money for? Survival? Food? We're right here! The two of us! Come on! Me and Libby! We're right here in the next room, barkin' up a storm! I know that we're cute and cuddly, but dammit we're your dogs! We are here to serve you, my master! If you are sad, we will cheer you up. If you're in danger, we will protect you. If you are hungry...
...well, i think you see where i'm going with this."
So, listen. Get ready for your day, then hop on your computer and take a look at all the good stuff that you could be chowing down on right now. Then, whatever the recipe, just replace some of the meatier ingredients with the words 'man's best friend', and you will be in-the-money, man!"
And maybe Sam Kinisondog is right. I'd like to think he's not, and i'd very much like to resist his advice, especially since i'm not hungry in the least.
But good God, they are barking loud.
-B
The dogs are in the next room. Barking. A lot. I've asked them politely to stop, but they won't. They refuse.
Little do they realize, that my request is not for my own comfort or sanity, it's for their safety. The barking is loud. Echoing through the cavernous funnels on the sides of my head. The bark travels through the waves in the air, into my ears, and quickly touches my brain. But when it gets to my brain, I no longer hear the "bark bark bark woof woof bark" that most human beings hear from my dogs. I hear something far different.
I hear the voice of Sam Kinison. THE Sam Kinison. But not pre-death, Sam Kinison, this is a post-death, in-shape Sam Kinison. And while his weight may bear no relevance on the sound of his voice, channelling through my dogs vocal chords, I know it to be true.
"HEY," screams Sam. "HEY! YOU! YEAH YOU! LISTEN! LISTEN! LISTEN TO ME! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING IN THERE? IT SEEMS TO ME LIKE YOU MIGHT BE WASTING YOUR TIME GETTING READY FOR WOOOORK! What'dya need work for, huh? It's a boring day, man, a boring long day where you repeat mind numbing crap to benefit a company that in the end would step over you as soon as look at you, man. Besides, if you go just for the money, think about it, what do you need that money for? Survival? Food? We're right here! The two of us! Come on! Me and Libby! We're right here in the next room, barkin' up a storm! I know that we're cute and cuddly, but dammit we're your dogs! We are here to serve you, my master! If you are sad, we will cheer you up. If you're in danger, we will protect you. If you are hungry...
...well, i think you see where i'm going with this."
So, listen. Get ready for your day, then hop on your computer and take a look at all the good stuff that you could be chowing down on right now. Then, whatever the recipe, just replace some of the meatier ingredients with the words 'man's best friend', and you will be in-the-money, man!"
And maybe Sam Kinisondog is right. I'd like to think he's not, and i'd very much like to resist his advice, especially since i'm not hungry in the least.
But good God, they are barking loud.
-B
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Journeying On
"Well perhaps you're a man who's in search of his heart. Journey on."
-Tateh
Ragtime: The Musical
Corny? To quote a line from a musical and use it slightly out of context to fit my topic? Maybe. But it's not your blog, is it?
I've begun work on a community (volunteer, free, pro bono, no moola) production of William Shakespeare's KING LEAR. I hadn't really intended on auditioning, and I've been very much trying to excel to the next level of my path, whatever that may be. However, the ghost of a good friend decended from the heavens of a place called "oh-hi-oh", and convinced me that while I search for that next progressive step, I should continue to hone my craft with LEAR and try to enjoy myself in the process.
Then he beamed back to his alternate universe. Tricky bastard.
You see, i've come to view community theater as a sort of "simulator". A training course. If properly used, it can help you to train and practice, but that's all. You can't excell. You can't climb the ladder. It's not the real game. It's reach is short and it's audiences small, and repetetitve. Don't get me wrong, the productions can be good. Hell, the productions can be great. I've been a part of some productions in community theater that I think were of a caliber that puts some professional productions to shame. But sadly, in the end it's still considered "just" community theater. It's still the simulator.
So, here I am, back in the simulator, but ready to embrace the training. I will be playing the Duke of Cornwall. The challenge here will be to break from the usual overdramatic villainy that the audiences i've previously performed for must be very very sick of by now. I'm setting some vague goals for myself with this character.
Goal #1) To bring an element of comedy to the role. I read a long time ago a bit of advice in villainy that i've yet to take. A funny villain is a villain that people enjoy watching. If you think about it for a second, you'll agree. I wish that I had applied that to my Richard Gloucester. I was really dissappointed in my performance of that role, and in retrospect, he would have been the perfect test subject for this comedy theory.
Cornwall will be a little tougher to do this with, and I'm aware that I may fail, but that's going to be my starting point. To be a likeable villain. Then, when i'm ripping out another man's eyes later in the play, it will hopefully be all the more affective.
Goal #2) To lose weight.
Okay, this is less Lear related and a little more general health, but i'm using Lear's schedule as an outline so get off my back already, okay? A few years ago, I managed to drop about 50 pounds total. I've since put every ounce back on. I was able to lose it once, I must be able to do it again. Do I expect to lose 50 by Lear? No, that would be unhealthy and awesome. However, i'm keeping this goal simple and attainable. Maybe i'll "Lose 10-20 pounds by opening night." It's important not only to my health, but more importantly to my ability as a performer. Fat actors have less options. Fat actors have less capability.
...and that's really it. 2 goals. Not bad, i'd say. Will I succeed? I don't know. We'll find out I suppose, but I think they're both good ideas and worth striving for.
It's the continuation of (if not a complete return-to) a journey of self-improvement. A meditation, if you will. There are plent of reasons "why" to do Lear and not enough reasons "why not". I'll keep searching for the key to the next door I need, and in the meantime i'll hopefully sharpen myself a little and have some fun.
Get the quote now?
Still corny, I know.
But it's not your blog.
-Brendan
-Tateh
Ragtime: The Musical
Corny? To quote a line from a musical and use it slightly out of context to fit my topic? Maybe. But it's not your blog, is it?
I've begun work on a community (volunteer, free, pro bono, no moola) production of William Shakespeare's KING LEAR. I hadn't really intended on auditioning, and I've been very much trying to excel to the next level of my path, whatever that may be. However, the ghost of a good friend decended from the heavens of a place called "oh-hi-oh", and convinced me that while I search for that next progressive step, I should continue to hone my craft with LEAR and try to enjoy myself in the process.
Then he beamed back to his alternate universe. Tricky bastard.
You see, i've come to view community theater as a sort of "simulator". A training course. If properly used, it can help you to train and practice, but that's all. You can't excell. You can't climb the ladder. It's not the real game. It's reach is short and it's audiences small, and repetetitve. Don't get me wrong, the productions can be good. Hell, the productions can be great. I've been a part of some productions in community theater that I think were of a caliber that puts some professional productions to shame. But sadly, in the end it's still considered "just" community theater. It's still the simulator.
So, here I am, back in the simulator, but ready to embrace the training. I will be playing the Duke of Cornwall. The challenge here will be to break from the usual overdramatic villainy that the audiences i've previously performed for must be very very sick of by now. I'm setting some vague goals for myself with this character.
Goal #1) To bring an element of comedy to the role. I read a long time ago a bit of advice in villainy that i've yet to take. A funny villain is a villain that people enjoy watching. If you think about it for a second, you'll agree. I wish that I had applied that to my Richard Gloucester. I was really dissappointed in my performance of that role, and in retrospect, he would have been the perfect test subject for this comedy theory.
Cornwall will be a little tougher to do this with, and I'm aware that I may fail, but that's going to be my starting point. To be a likeable villain. Then, when i'm ripping out another man's eyes later in the play, it will hopefully be all the more affective.
Goal #2) To lose weight.
Okay, this is less Lear related and a little more general health, but i'm using Lear's schedule as an outline so get off my back already, okay? A few years ago, I managed to drop about 50 pounds total. I've since put every ounce back on. I was able to lose it once, I must be able to do it again. Do I expect to lose 50 by Lear? No, that would be unhealthy and awesome. However, i'm keeping this goal simple and attainable. Maybe i'll "Lose 10-20 pounds by opening night." It's important not only to my health, but more importantly to my ability as a performer. Fat actors have less options. Fat actors have less capability.
...and that's really it. 2 goals. Not bad, i'd say. Will I succeed? I don't know. We'll find out I suppose, but I think they're both good ideas and worth striving for.
It's the continuation of (if not a complete return-to) a journey of self-improvement. A meditation, if you will. There are plent of reasons "why" to do Lear and not enough reasons "why not". I'll keep searching for the key to the next door I need, and in the meantime i'll hopefully sharpen myself a little and have some fun.
Get the quote now?
Still corny, I know.
But it's not your blog.
-Brendan
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Review
The Boss: Brendan, can you come in here a minute?
Brendan: Uh...yeah. Sure.
The Boss: (Sighs) Have a seat.
(Brendan sits)
The Boss: You know, Brendan, i've been looking in your file, doing my usual review, and based on what i'm seeing, you're not working. At all. I mean, you've done absolutely nothing for the past three weeks or so. Why is that?
Brendan: ...Oh, um...well. Um... ...Nothing at all?
The Boss: No. Nothing.
Brendan: Um... Well, wait a minute, what about that bit I did about being thirsty?
The Boss: Brendan, a two line blurb about being thirsty in the middle of the night is NOT progress.
Brendan: Oh.. Oh, i see.
The Boss: Now listen, buddy, i'm not trying to "come down on you" or "stifle your creative freedom", but not having any rules doesn't equate to slacking off. We're gonna need some real results in the future, and that means seeing something tangible in this blog. It doesn't need to be brilliant, it just needs to take up space. That's all we're looking for. Okay, champ? That's not so hard, right?
Brendan: Um...sure.
The Boss: Thanks. Okay, that's all I needed to hear. Hey, how was that vacation, by the way?
Brendan: Oh, uh, it was good. Real good. A lot of fun. Actually, you know, we went to...
The Boss: That's great! Well, we'll talk again soon, okay? Thanks.
Brendan: Uh...yeah. Sure.
The Boss: (Sighs) Have a seat.
(Brendan sits)
The Boss: You know, Brendan, i've been looking in your file, doing my usual review, and based on what i'm seeing, you're not working. At all. I mean, you've done absolutely nothing for the past three weeks or so. Why is that?
Brendan: ...Oh, um...well. Um... ...Nothing at all?
The Boss: No. Nothing.
Brendan: Um... Well, wait a minute, what about that bit I did about being thirsty?
The Boss: Brendan, a two line blurb about being thirsty in the middle of the night is NOT progress.
Brendan: Oh.. Oh, i see.
The Boss: Now listen, buddy, i'm not trying to "come down on you" or "stifle your creative freedom", but not having any rules doesn't equate to slacking off. We're gonna need some real results in the future, and that means seeing something tangible in this blog. It doesn't need to be brilliant, it just needs to take up space. That's all we're looking for. Okay, champ? That's not so hard, right?
Brendan: Um...sure.
The Boss: Thanks. Okay, that's all I needed to hear. Hey, how was that vacation, by the way?
Brendan: Oh, uh, it was good. Real good. A lot of fun. Actually, you know, we went to...
The Boss: That's great! Well, we'll talk again soon, okay? Thanks.
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