Whatever and Ever, Amen

Dead Blog

2008-05-23T23:46:00.005-05:00

This blog is dead. Because there are things I want to write that I don't feel comfortable writing about knowing who some of my readers are. There are just somethings I would like to say that I don't feel like exposing to the people that know me.

I want to be free to write whatever the hell I want.

If I don't actually know you IRL, and you want a link to the new blog, I'll gladly provide it. For more entertainment, read the blogs on the blogroll on the right of this page, they are all worthy of your time.

-C.

Pride Goeth Before the Fall

2008-05-05T03:51:00.004-05:00

It's four in the morning and I can't sleep. Again.

Even a city as big as Chicago is quiet around this time of night. Every now and then you can hear the sound of a car driving by, or the El rumbling in the distance. But for the most part - the city sleeps.

I am scheduled to wake up in four hours to get ready for work. Another day in a job that won't reward me for the things I do. I think that since they know I can't leave, they feel free to take advantage of me.

In November I was told I was going to get a promotion. Then I heard nothing. It is now May and I am still working for them and not making near enough. I was told in April they were working on it again, but it is taking time.

I don't think they realize that time is the one thing I do not have. I am swimming in debt and bills that I can't afford to pay. I have student loans, rent, and two maxed out credit cards, plus a third that is slowly getting there. I don't spend my money on frivolous things. This month I bought a sweater and a pair of shoes. It was the first time I bought any clothing since October. The sweater was for the hell of it, but the shoes I needed.

Every now and then I'll spend a few dollars on a movie, or a few more on going out and drinking with my friends. But I've never felt the need to spend forty some dollars on a DVD set, or three hundred on an X-Box. If you look in my room, you'd be surprised by how little I own. I own clothes. I own a computer that is almost eight years old and is dying on me. I own a TV and I own a DVD player. And I own a few books.

I do not own jewlery. I do not own a video game system. I do not own an iPod. I do not own a bed. I was recently given a desk and a shelf of drawers for Christmas by my roommates - something I considered extravagant.

I'm not a materialistic person. I don't need things. Sure, there are things I would love to have. But I don't need them. And I know I can't afford them.

I've been reading a new blog, Fabulously Broke in the City. While I skim over the sections of the blog that detail women's fashion, I found her writings on finances intriguing, as was her steady climb out of debt. She talks often about how her friends complain that they never have enough money and then go out and buy some thousand dollar designer purses.

I could only wish I had that much money. When I look at my finances every month, I am honestly unsure how I manage to get through the days. Under thirty hours a week at work. Eight dollars an hour. I am lucky if I bring home 250 dollars a week. Out of the less than 1000 I get a month, 450 goes to rent. Another 450 goes to credit card bills.

That leaves me with less than a hundred dollars to spend on food. Some months (this month for instance) - I only have twenty-five dollars actually budgeted for food - so I am forced to rack up more credit card debt in order to survive.

I'll be reading the blogs of people as they work their way out of debt, or those complaining about lack of money and I'll think to myself. Christ, if I could make 10 dollars an hour...

Fabulously Broke in the City brings home well over a thousand a week. I always think to myself, good God - I don't even know what I would DO with that much money. Over 4k a month? I've never even had 4k in the bank.

The problem is, of course, the fact that companies aren't hiring me. The good ones, at least. I could get a job at McDonalds for another 8 bucks an hour to supplement my current one. I was yelled at by my roommates recently for turning down a temp job because I felt it was beneath me.

"You need the money!" they said.

"I know," I replied. "But I can't do that to myself."

I have an IQ of 154. I have the creative spark of a Greek muse. I know computers. I type fast. I am charismatic. I am good looking. I have never been fired. I always work hard. I have great references from all of my bosses I've worked for previously...

And it seems the only jobs that will accept me are the ones that want me to sit at a table for eight hours and open letters and remove the contents so the people that make a thousand dollars a week don't have to paper-cut their delicate fingers.

Why?

Because I am deaf.

I'm not really deaf though, I am hard of hearing.

There is a difference that people don't seem to understand. Deaf people CAN'T HEAR YOU. Hard of hearing people like me can function perfectly well in a hearing society, deaf people struggle far harder to do so.

My only flaw is, I can't hear on the phone.

My only problem is, that the jobs that require the use of phones are the ones that bring home the thousand dollars a week.

I've been pigeonholed by genetics, bad luck, and stereotypes to spend the rest of my life doing the shit jobs no one else wants to do. There's a reason you always see the old deaf guy sweeping up the movie theaters. Or the deaf woman working as a janitor. Or the deaf kid flipping burgers.

I refuse to lower myself to that standard and that stereotype. I have an IQ of 154, I'm not going to slum around for 10 bucks an hour opening letters for rich people that I am smarter than.

Pride goeth before the fall, the saying goes. You better swallow your pride before you choke on it, people tell me. Pride is a sin, my priest once said.

Sure.

But what you perceive as pride, I perceive as honor. There is a quote from a play called Cyrano de Bergarac that I absolutely love. "I may not climb high, but I will climb alone."

I fancy myself a Cyrano in more ways than one (his nose = my ears). And like the hero of that play, I won't kow-tow to what others want me to be.

When I die, and it is time for me to be judged by whatever supreme being is out there, I want to be able to look directly into the eyes of God when he asks me, "How did you live your life?"

I want to be able to say, "With honor."

So I continue to apply to jobs. I spend an hour each morning and an hour in the middle of day and an hour at night on the internet applying for jobs. I walk the streets at least once a week and hand out resumes. And I receive nothing in response.

I looked over my roommate's resume recently. And I saw all the great things she had done. All of her accomplishments she achieved at her jobs. I looked at the resume and saw a whole list of things I was never even given the chance to attempt.

That job she currently works for and hates? I would kill for that job - but it requires phones. My other roommate had another job as a glorified receptionist in an office that he loathed as well. Ten dollars an hour. Forty hours a week.

I want that job. But it requires phones.

Any job that gives you anything above eight dollars an hour - those are the jobs I am never given the chance to do. Or those are the jobs that are beneath me.

If I wanted, I could get a job as a trash collector. A sanitation engineer. A plumber. A sewage worker. All of these pay well over fifteen dollars an hour.

But I know I am smarter than those sort of things. I want a job that is worthy of me. I want a job that pushes me to try things I have never done. I want a job that challenges me. A job with obstacles to overcome.

I don't want a job opening letters for rich people. I don't want a job flipping burgers or sweeping up movie theaters.

I want a job I can be proud of.

And maybe you'll say, "You are struggling to survive, right now. You need to accept whatever job you get."

No. No, I don't. Or rather; no, I won't.

I have spent all my life battling the sort of prejudices my disability has saddled me with, and I am not going to stop now. When I was in middle school, I was put in the 'lower-division' courses because they felt I wouldn't be able to hear the teacher properly and understand/comprehend on the level of the other students.

When I was in high school, they told me I didn't have to take a foreign language. I knew I'd probably flunk it, but I demanded to take it anyways.

When I was in college, they offered me all this support. They said I could take tests in a private room all by myself. They gave me someone to type up whatever the teacher was lecturing on a computer screen. They offered me more powerful hearing aids, fancy gizmos that served as microphones directly from the teacher to my hearing aids.

They told me I needed help to exist on the same level as the other students.

I bristled, I fought, and while I was defeated on some of those issues - others I triumphed. I refused to take tests by myself. I refused to have teachers give me different tests.

When I took Theatre History, the entire class would spend weeks agonizing over the tests. They would spend weeks coming up with answers to the essay questions the professor proposed on the study guides. There was a girl in my class who was blind. She loved being blind. She talked about being blind all the time. She reveled in the fact that she was blind.

"Look at me," she seemed to say every day, "I am blind! I deserve your attention and your pity."

Everyone else in the class had to answer two essays questions on the Theatre History exam. Some would fill up two or three blue books with their responses. The study guides had four possible essay questions. We never knew exactly which ones were going to be on the test, so we studied them all.

This girl, she had only to answer one. She told me she knew which one it was beforehand.

This girl, she would then lord over the fact she got a better grade than anyone else in the class. This girl had an unfair advantage just because she was blind and used it to get whatever she could.

Me? I was offered the same thing as her when I registered for the college. The disability department said they could help me out in similar ways with my teachers and my tests.

No thanks, I said.

You should take it, they told me, make it as easy for you as you can.

Screw you, I said. I will not be treated differently than anyone else.

But I am. People do treat me differently because of my hearing, and I hate it. I hate it with every fiber of my being. I will never, ever, ever grow to accept the fact that I have a hearing problem. I will always demand to be normal. I will always hope that one day I will wake up and be magically cured. I will never lower myself to the level of that girl in my Theatre History class, using her disability to get whatever advantage she can.

This girl, by the way, was also black.

On top of that, I am pretty sure she was a crack baby. She would talk for hours (and no one would listen) about her home life. Her mother was a lesbian, she said. Her family had drug problems, she said.

She was a walking minority, she said. Pity me. Please.

Screw you, I would think when she would go off on her rants.

At least you can fucking hear.

Which is worse? Being deaf or being blind?

When you are deaf, you are cut off from the world in a way you are not when you are blind. Communication is the foundation of our society. Remove that aspect of your life, and you are alienated. Take away your phones, your radios, your gossipping friends. Take away your ability to just sit and meet new people and network. Take away your own ability to speak as fluently as you like.

When you are blind, you live in a world where the lights are permanently turned off.

This girl, she wasn't fully blind. She could still see shapes and colors.

Me? I can still hear things.

We weren't at all that different, disability wise, if you really think about it. We both had our disabilities, but they weren't severe as other people we knew.

This girl, she is currently in California, riding the coattails of her minorities as she claims to have partied with famous stars. She is working on becoming a film director, last I heard. This blind girl, who says she needs help in everything because she can't see, this blind girl is trying to make it in a medium that requires visual acuity. This blind girl is getting help and pity and support wherever she goes because she is blind, black, and a crack baby.

And me?

I could be having the same success as her, if I wanted. There are organizations all over the country that would help me the way they help her.

But I won't do that. Or rather, I can't.

I will not be that girl.

And so I sit here, at five in the morning, stressed out about money - making far too little at a job that won't give me the promotion I deserve. Constantly applying for jobs that won't even look at me.

When I die and I go before God to be judged, He will ask me: "Were you happy with the way your life turned out?"

"No," I will respond. "I was not happy with the way it turned out."

"But," I'll add, "I am happy with how I lived it."

There's a Face I Know Too Well...

2008-04-30T00:01:00.002-05:00

Sometimes I awaken in the middle of the night from a dream that I can't remember anything about. I remember the feeling of it though, whether it was a happy dream or a sad dream or a dream designed to tap into my inner fears.

I'll wake up sometimes in a cold sweat, my shirt drenched with ice. I'll wake up with a shiver running down my spine. I'll wake up with a feeling of euphoria. I'll wake up with an immense sense of dread. I'll wake up feeling insignificantly small in the scope of things.

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and roll onto my right side. Even in the dark, I can see my reflection in the mirror by whatever ambient light seeps through the window from the city.

Sometimes I'll get up and walk to the mirror and take a good, long, close look at myself.

Most times I do not like what I see.

I see the beginning of crow's feet at the corner of my eyes, I see my eyelids beginning to sag. I see my skin becoming rougher, my fingers more calloused. I see the root of age burying into my veins. I see my eyes, so judgmental towards others - even moreso towards myself.

"Who are you?" I hear myself asking. "Who are you and what have you done with my youth?"

As the nights roll on by, I sleep and I dream. I dream of my past, and my present, and what could be. When I dream of the past, I dream of things I wish I could change. When I dream of the present, I dream of things that I wish would happen.

But when I dream of the future...

I see myself standing in front of the mirror in ten years, my fingers tracing over the outline of my face in the dark. I see those crow's feet set deep into my weathered skin. I see my lips, cracked from age and not nearly as full as they used to be. I see my breath shallow and ragged. I see my hair, once thick - now thin. I see my eyes, tired and lifeless.

When I dream of the future I see myself as I hope to never become.

Sometimes when I wake up and look in the mirror I see those parts of me - the crow's feet, the eyes, the skin - I see myself slowly becoming that which I fear most.

I fear becoming one of those faceless forty-somethings that you only see in the carpool lane. I fear becoming boring, stale, and tired. I fear, more than anything else, becoming forgotten.

When I look into the mirror at night, the longer I look, the more my features drain away into the darkness. The first to go is the outline of my face and slowly everything blurs away until I am left with only my own eyes to gaze upon.

My reflection gazes back at me, eyes soulless and empty.

"What have you done with my youth?" I ask him.

"What have you done with mine?" he replies.

"Your youth has been wasted," I answer, "With mistakes and missteps."

"As has yours," he retorts - his eyes starting to fade away with the rest of him.

People say you learn from your mistakes, but what people never tell you that you never get a chance to correct the mistakes you made.

Those wrong paths you took, you never get a chance to backtrack and do them again.

Those four weeks you wasted on someone who wasn't right for you, you'll never get them back.

Those six hours you spent doing nothing but watching shitty reality TV, those are gone.

So you look back at those moments in your life that you ruined, and while you look back you waste even more time.

My time on this earth is finite. Like everything, it will eventually come to an end.

This is what I see when I look at myself in the mirror. I see myself getting old and becoming useless, and I never want that to happen. I never want to be put in a nursing home. I never want to be that old guy that someone has to take care of. The day I find myself needing the assistance of others to get around is the day I will close the chapter on my life.

And this is on a good day.

The Run

2008-04-27T09:06:00.006-05:00

"Let's go for a run," she said, her eyes glinting in the moonlight.

She was my perfect girl.

She had beautiful brown hair that flowed in waves. Deep brown eyes that always seemed to be laughing. She had flawless skin and was just the right height for me to crane my neck down to kiss.

We had dated for a year, she and I, both of us revelling in the first -REAL- relationship either of us had.

"Let's go for a run," she said.

And so we ran. Our strides aligned; mine longer and able to cover more distance, hers shorter but quicker. For every step I took, she took two. For every relaxed exhale I berathed, she inhaled twice. She always worked harder than me, finding reserves of strength during her races that I never could. I was the natural talent, able to easily place in the top five or ten.

But she always won.

But tonight we weren't running to win or lose, we were just running to run. And so we ran.

We ran across the streets, the soles of our shoes thudding softly against the asphalt. We learned from my uncle long ago that running on the sidewalks was a big no-no. The concrete of sidewalks was harder and tougher on your bones. We always ran on the streets where the blacktop was softer and easier on your legs.

Clay was the best surface to run on, we were told. Then dirt, then grass, then asphalt, then wood, and last was concrete.

We turned off the street towards the park, she slipping slightly as she stepped onto the gravel road. Me steadying her as I reached to grab her arm.

We were different, she and I. We had our different running styles. She liked to go all out from the gun, beating her opponents into submission through sheer strength of will. I prefered to hold myself back, out thinking those that set a blisteringly fast pace on the first lap - only to tire out on each successive one as I got faster.

I was from California, she was from Israel. She studied hard, I slacked off. She spent her free time volunteers, I played video games. I ate whatever the hell I felt like, she maintained a strict diet. She was rich, I was sort of wallowing around in the middle class. I liked rock music, she was a classical pianist. She was Jewish, I was a lapsed Catholic.

There was no logical reason why we should have found ourselves attracted to each other. But we were sixteen and young and impulsive and stupid. The thing that brought us together - this girl from Pennsylvania and this boy from Ohio - was our love of running. On the weekends she would come, shoes on and ready to escape whatever was bothering her during the week.

And so we'd run. Shoulder to shoulder and stride for stride. Our lips would exhale bursts of crystalline air in the hours before dawn. Beneath out feet, the frozen dew on the grass would crack and crunch from our footfalls. We'd run across the streets and into the park. And from there we'd vanish into the woods. Our trail was the old dirt path with the massive oaks fawning on either side, creating an archway that blocked out all light.

But we didn't need light to run these paths, as we had run them so many times before. Eighteen paces into the woods there was a tree root that jutted out on the right side of the trail. Twenty paces from there - a rock sharp enough to cut through our shoes. Further on there was a massive groundhog hole to avoid, and beyond that - the thorn brush. Keep on going and you hit a little inlet from the creek you'd have to jump over. Past that - the low hanging cedar bough.

We'd duck and dodge in harmony, never speaking a word, through the darkness of the woods in the wee hours of the morning. We'd run until we reached the edge of the woods, where the path abruptly ended in a massive ditch - and beyond there was nothing but the winding creek.

We'd turn around then, retracing our steps back home.

Her parents never approved of me. I was never good enough for her.

I was the kid who never lived up to his potential. Never worked hard in school. I was the kid she'd vanish at random times of the night to see. I was the kid who got her hooked on running when they would rather have had her wholly dedicated to school. I was the kid who wasn't Jewish. Eventually they gave her the ultimatum. Stop seeing me or they wouldn't pay for her college.

She obliged, but only for a little while. We were sixteen then, young and dumb and stupid. There was no way we'd actually listen to our elders.

On the weekends she would sneak out to see me - and I would sneak out to meet her. Our parents never knew.

The last time I saw her, we ran our usual path - and as we entered the woods it began to rain. It wasn't the cold rain that chills you to your bones, no matter how many layers of clothes you were wearing. It wasn't the downpour that fell so fast that it stung your skin.

It was a warm summer rain, the kind that falls when the sky is still clear. It was a soothing rain that cleansed your skin and freed your mind.

We both loved running in the rain like this. It felt almost as if the heavens were reaching down to enfold us in its embrace. Rain like this always made us run faster, push ourselves harder.

And so we did, we run faster through the woods that warm May night than we had before.

When we reached the creek, I turned around to head back - but she stopped me, her hand on my arm. "Wait," she said in between quick but easy breaths. "I want to tell you something."

So I stopped, never able to hear her voice - my eyes on her as she spoke, reading her lips to catch every word. "I --" she hesitated, uncertain, as I saw the anxiety in her face.

"I think I love you," she finally said, the first person to ever say that to me and mean it.

My heart swelled and beat a new rhythm - and there we kissed in the middle of the May rain.

For sure, there is nothing on this earth that can possibly come close to feeling the way you feel when you share a kiss in the rain.

She was the first girl I loved, even if it was just your typical high school "I got a thing for you" sort of love. But you never forget your first love, no matter how long you live.

When we broke the kiss, she smiled and I smiled, and together we turned away from the creek and ran on through the rain.

Two weeks later she was dead.

Her parents never liked me. I was the kid she always snuck out in the night to see, even though we thought they didn't know. I was the kid who got her hooked on running.

She would train in the evenings after school. After her high school practice, she would go home and run some more. We followed the advice of my uncle's book, and the wisdom of runners in the past. We never ran on the sidewalk - the concrete was bad for our legs. We always ran on the asphalt road when we could.

The night she died, she was out running, doing what she loved the most. It was a beautiful May night - and the skies was clear. The sun was setting somewhere in the horizon in front of her, and she never saw the truck barrel into her from behind.

The man was drunk, it would later come out. And now he is in prison for vehicular homicide.

The girl laid in the hospital for a week, tubes attached to her to help her breathe. She wasn't supposed to last the night. She wasn't supposed to reach the morning of the first day. But she did. She was the girl that would go all out from the gun and beat her opponents into submission.

She made it through a week and a half before she could fight no more.

I never got to see her in the hospital and I never got to go to her funeral.

Her parents never liked me. I was the slacker kid their daughter liked. I was the kid who got her hooked on running when all they wanted her to do was study hard. I was the kid that taught her never to run on the sidewalk, always on the asphalt when she could. I was the kid that got their daughter killed.

I eventually came to realize that her parents were wrong, that it wasn't my fault. But getting to that point took time. From the day she died it took two years to stop blaming myself. From that point it took another two to start dating again. And every girl I've always met since then is compared to her.

This week one of my friends yelled at me because I was too picky with girls. "Why do you always put people down?" my friend said. "Nobody is perfect!"

Wrong, I almost said, I knew a girl once that was.

But I stopped myself. Because my friend was right, nobody is perfect.

That girl I loved so long ago, her skin wasn't flawless - she was a teenager, it couldn't have been. She was a little tall for my tastes, to be honest. She never volunteered out of the goodness of her heart, but because it was required for one of her classes. She was never the best runner in her division, she wasn't even the best runner in her school. And she hated classical music.

Time blinded me, it seems.

I had created this perfect picture of what I imagined my first love to be. I didn't look at her imperfections after a while, I created this imaginary person who never existed. Because people aren't perfect, no matter how much you want them to be.

My friend told me, "People are beautiful not because they are perfect. But because they aren't."

She said, "You need to stop looking for that perfect girl, and look instead for the girls that are beautiful because of their imperfections."

It's something that has been told to me before. But it's something that never really sunk in until now.

What have I been doing all my life?

There have been plenty of girls that I've known that would have dated me. But I'd always find some minuscule flaw. That girl's nose is a little too big, that girl's fingers look a little old, that girl is too tall, that girl is too short.

"Yes," my friend said to me, "Physical attractiveness IS important to any relationship. But you're never going to get a supermodel."

That girl is too thin. That girl is too fat.

"And maybe she won't like the same things as you, but that's okay."

That girl doesn't like my music. That girl is a vegetarian.

"You need to stop looking at people's flaws and picking them apart. You need to start looking at what makes them beautiful."

And so I will. I don't imagine it will be easy. My instinct is to pick people apart as soon as I meet them.

That girl wears ugly glasses. That girl's shoulders are too wide.

But I'm going to try. I'm going to stop holding everyone I meet up to this fake ideal of perfection that I've created. I'm going to stop judging people the moment I lay eyes on them.

I'm going to try the best I can, for real.

...so we'll see how it goes.

When I Was Young

2008-04-24T23:04:00.001-05:00

When I was young I had a best friend named Nicholas. Nicholas was more of my best friend because we were next door neighbors (or backyard neighbors as it were) than for anything we had in common. When I was young I was a book reader, Nicholas was not. When Nicholas was young, he was a gifted athlete, I was not. I think Nicholas was always jealous that I was smarter than him.

One time Nicholas made a bet with me. It sprang from his belief that he knew everything about baseball, and my belief that I knew everything about everything. Nicholas said for some reason or another, that you had to be dead to be in the baseball Hall of Fame. I corrected him and explained that Mickey Mantle was not (at the time) dead.

So we made a bet. His prized Jose Canseco baseball card for my prized Julio Franco.

I won in convincing fashion after Nicholas dragged me to his father for the answer - and his father backed me up.

That was the beginning of the end of our friendship.

Some time later, I remember riding my bike to Nicholas' house and seeing him in the garage with his mother. He hurriedly waved his mother over and said something to her. She came out to greet me and said that Nicholas couldn't play because he had to clean the garage.

I was young, but not stupid.

Since then I've never felt particularly inclined to randomly go over to people's houses and see if they are in. I always call and ask beforehand.

When I was young, I realized I could kill someone easily.

Nicholas and I got into a fight some years later. I do not remember what it was about, but I am sure he deserved it. I don't remember who pushed who first, but I do remember Nicholas' mom coming out and yelling at me as he tried to pry my fingers off from around his neck.

I remember distinctly the feeling of elation and power I had as Nicholas struggled to escape my grasp. He would punch, and he was a strong person. But when I get mad enough to fight, I get mad enough not to go down. It wasn't until his mother came out to see what the commotion was that I realized what I was doing and stopped immediately.

Some years later, a similar incident happened in middle school. Near the end of my junior high career I was in gym class and we were playing soccer. I accidentally tripped a young boy by the name of Greg. He didn't take too kindly to it and yelled at me. The gym teacher gave me a penalty flag, and rightly so - as even though it was an accident - it was still an illegal move.

After gym class was over, I was walking through the halls of the school and Greg shoved me roughly. I didn't even think, I spun around and grabbed his throat in my hands and squeezed as I slammed him up against the wall. Greg swung, he connected with my ribs solidly. He swung again and again trying to dislodge me. Eventually his swings stopped as he tried to yank my fingers loose.

The gym teacher rounded the corner, and I let Greg go and walked away as he collapsed to the ground.

No one ever picked a fight with me then - someone told me later that I never even blinked as Greg struggled. They said I was lost in my own little world where there was nothing but me and Greg's life in my hands.

In high school, I knew a kid named Mike. Mike was several years older than me. Mike wasn't cool, though he tried to appear like he was. One day before cross country practice, Mike jokingly tried to stuff me in a trash can.

By now I had learned to control my rage somewhat, and didn't choke him. Instead I swung - I connected with his eye and he yelled, "Get him off! If he does that one more time I'll --" I swung again and Mike never completed his sentence. My teammates pulled me off of him and he grabbed his stuff and fled.

Mike came to school the next day with a black eye and he never bothered me again.

I always fear that one day someone will push me over the edge and there won't be anyone there to stop me. That this time I'll go too far. That I'll do something I'll regret. I've been able to control my rage since high school, and haven't had any incidents of the sort in college - though there were many that had the possibility of becoming one.

When I walk to the El train on my way to work, sometimes, especially when I've had a rough day - I'll hope that someone will attempt to rob my place of employment. I hope that he will have a knife or a hammer or a gun and threaten my friends. I hope this because sometimes I feel all this untapped rage within me begging for release.

I'll imagine him stabbing me, or connecting with the hammer, or shooting me in the stomach. But I still keep coming, because I do know I have an abnormally high tolerance for pain. I imagine the look of panic in his eyes as I take away his life for daring to threaten me and mine.

I'll have these thoughts in my head, rage ready to explode if I am accosted by some mugger or unlucky homeless man begging for change. I wonder what I must look like to others - the guy with the permanent scowl on his face as he makes his way through the streets of Chicago. People usually don't sit next to me on the bus if they can help it - the old women will walk all the way to the back rather than risk it.

It is an rather alarming feeling to have, that of knowing that if you really wanted, you could end someone's life at your whim. We all have the ability to weigh whether or not someone is worth breathing in the same air as you. We can all purchase a gun, pick up a knife, or use our bare hands. But we don't.

Every day I glance at the newspaper headlines as I walk by the stands and see one person or another on trial for a violent crime. I wonder sometimes what pushed these people to the brink. Was it faulty wiring in their genes? Is it the product of society?

When I was young I had a relatively good life. Sure my parents divorced, but I never wanted for anything as a child. I am smarter than your average violent criminal, so it can't be idiocy of the brain. But then I remember how close I could have come to killing Greg or Nicholas if someone wasn't there to snap me out of it. And I realize that it could happen to any of us if we're pushed too far for even the smallest reasons. That little girl sitting next to her mother on the bus could be the next Aileen Wournos. The young man in the business suit reminds me of Patrick Bateman. The old man with the cane could be the Zodiac killer.

We all have the potential for evil in us - some of us more than others. But something always stops us from acting out our animalistic impulses. Maybe it is God, holding us back. Or even society doing good for once. I don't think I'll ever know for certain.

All I do know is that I never got my Jose Canseco card.

Fuck Temp Agencies

2008-04-18T09:23:00.002-05:00

In the end, I decided not to go to this job. In fact, after I informed the temp agency - they sent me an angry e-mail about only having to stick it out for a week, so I made the right decision. Lied to and decieved at every turn by these people.

"Open-ended," they said.

"How long does that mean?" I asked.

"We don't know," they responded.

But they did know. Just like they probably did know it wasn't data entry when they told me it was.

I made the decision around 3am last night. I went to bed at 10pm and couldn't sleep, I tossed and turned all bloody night dreading going to work in the morning (and I have probably given myself an ulcer - as my stomach hurts today). As soon as I fired off that e-mail at 3am, *CONK*, right to bed.

Anyways, I'm heading out into the city around noon to do the walking-thing and find myself something. I figure I'll hit Wrigleyville and Fullerton today - and tomorrow I'll check out the Roscoe Village area or someplace else tomorrow.

One thing I know for sure is that I will -NEVER- align myself with any temp agencies ever again. I've been screwed by four of them now. So fuck them. I'll find the job hard way.

Just Can't Win

2008-04-17T19:00:00.005-05:00

Well, this has been a rather up-and-down couple of days.

Obviously Tuesday was a pretty bad day. Then it just got weird.

On Wednesday the Temp Agency contacted me and said the job was open again (she didn't specify why, though I have my theory below). Data Entry job. 11 dollars an hour? I'm there.

Of course, this time I was a bit cautiously optimistic (as opposed to the completely enthused mood I was in Monday night). E-mails between me and the temp agency flew back and forth and I went in this morning for the job.

Well, folks, I just can't win. The job is not a data entry job. It is, in effect, a glorified mail sorting job. I don't even touch a computer except to clock in and out. Here is what I do.

Step 1: Open an envelope.
Step 2: Take out the check and the receipt within.
Step 3: Put the check and receipt in seperate piles.
Step 4: Create a stack 25 high.
Step 5: Count the total money in the check pile and the total money in the receipt pile.
Step 6: Put a stamp that says in essence, "VERIFIED!"
Step 7: Put the piles in separate but larger envelopes.
Step 8: Repeat.

I -SHOULD- be happy. I -SHOULD- be grateful. But I'm not. I feel like I did the day I landed the job at Panera Bread when I got out of college. I felt demeaned to be working with people who probably never graduated high school. These people are literal IDIOTS. If you ever ride the El-train and see one of those portly black women with three snaggle teeth and mangy dreadlocks - those are my co-workers. Or you may see the black gay guy stuck in the 70's wearing a blindingly bright blue silk shirt and matching blue silk pants. He's my co-worker too.

Then there were your white-trash mullet-wearing white girl with the coveralls and the hairlip. Yes. My co-worker.

Not a single one seemed to possess an ounce of intelligence. The woman training me kept fucking up all the math she was doing. I don't even know what the fuck stamps Im supposed to use when stamping things because she was so fucking out of it.

And this, my friends, is at a pretty big bank.

Yes, rich-people everywhere. Your money is in the hands of a bunch of half-wits exiled to corner of the top-most floor.

I was feeling somewhat like, "Is this the kind of shit Im destined for? Because I can't do phone-type jobs I have to work with people with the intelligence of a retarded rabbit?"

By the time lunch break rolled around, I was incredibly miserable. Knowing I did NOT fit in there and trying to force myself NOT to run away. I stood at the top of the subway entrance for twenty minutes trying to decide whether or not to just skip out and not return.

I seriously, truly, honestly, considered it. At this point I didn't care about the money. I cared about my dignity (what little of it there was left). I was furious that I was lied to. Told I'd be working data entry and instead forced to work this stupid check-stamping job.

I didn't decide to return from lunch break until literally one minute before it was over. I sighed, my shoulders sagged, and I trudged back into the building to sit around for another three hours while my trainer proceeded to ignore me for the rest of the day. I think, in fact, she only trained me for one hour out of the eight hours I was there. Everything else she did, she told me that I wouldn't be doing.

Now I am faced with the choice. Do I go back just because I am desperate for money? Do I whore myself out as cheap labor when I deserve better?

On a more realistic note, the big issue is this. If I go back, I won't have time to apply for other jobs. In essence, I'll be trapped there for certain. I've found I've gotten better hits from jobs if I actually turn in resumes as opposed to e-mailing them. And by better hits, I mean - ONE PERSON called me today. But one person is still better than NONE.

But if I don't go back, I'm shortchanging myself 11 bucks an hour and I will probably never be placed again by that temp agency.

Jesus Christ.

So the week has gone like this: YAY JOB! NO JOB! JOB AGAIN? YAY JOB! JOB SUCKS! GO BACK TO JOB? HATE JOB WITH THE PASSION OF A THOUSAND FLAMING SUNS TRAPPED INSIDE A SINGLE LARGER FLAMING SUN - THE FLAMES OF WHICH ARE ALSO ON FIRE. NOT GO BACK TO JOB? RISK MONEY AND MOVE BACK TO OHIO WHICH IS WORSE THAN THE DEEPEST CESSPOOL YOU CAN POSSIBLY THINK OF.

Choices. Goddammit. I hate these fucking choices.

My roommates say GO BACK. It's eleven bucks an hour! You need the money!

My friends say DONT GO BACK! It's not worth it if you're contemplating jumping out of the fucking building every second you are there.

And just for the record, this isn't the usual: "Oh God, first day on the job, this sucks." kind of blues. This is the, "Oh God, this job will NEVER GET BETTER WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING HERE?" blues.

Hate. Life.

Seething. Rage.

Unending. Fucking. Misery.

Make. It. Stop.

Also, I burned my tongue this morning and now everything tastes like fuzz. WHY GOD, WHY?!

Life is Nothing but a Cold and Broken Hallelujah

2008-04-15T09:39:00.006-05:00

You know.

You try to be a good person. You try your best to lead a good life. You modeled yourself after those old knights in the fairy tales you used to read when you were young. You tried to live your life with honor, You've done my best to be a chivalrous as possible. If people need help, you lend it. If they need comfort, you give it.

You work your ass off at every single job you've ever had. You always tried to live up to your potential.

You do everything you possibly can so that when you die, if there are Gates to Heaven, you will enter.

You've done everything you possibly can...

As of 5:00pm last night, I had a job. It was an open-ended temp position that was going to pay me $11/hr. I was happy. I was stress free. No more worrying about the rent. No more stressing out about not being able to do art. I could finally feel that elusive happiness within my grasp. Finally, at long last, it was within sight...

And then at 8:00am this morning I lost that job. Apparently since I got home at 5pm, after the temp agency closed - and was unable to call and confirm that I was going to be able to accept the assignment, they gave it to someone else. They did not e-mail me or call me or text me to let me know.

I went to the place where I was to be assigned, sat in the lobby for a while until at 8:05 I was informed by my temp agent that she gave the job to someone else because they couldn't get hold of me in the two hours I was away from my computer yesterday.

So here I am, once more watching hope torn brutally away.

And right now I really honestly truly don't see the point of life. If the purpose of life is to be happy and I never will, I'm not even sure why I should still bother.

And that scares me.

I'm sitting here at my computer, absolutely and completely numb because this is not the first time this has happened. All through my life I've been so close to finally achieving that 'moment' where everything seems right in the world and every single time I've had it cruelly yanked from my grasp by events I couldn't control.

I've watched jobs taken away from me because they found out I was hearing impaired and wouldn't be able to answer phones. I've watched dreams of high school championships fade because of broken bones. And I watched a girl I loved in high school, that first love you never forget, taken away from me because her parents didn't like the fact that I wasn't Jewish. And then she because the world felt that wasn't cruel enough to either of us, she died not longer after.

I've seen my dreams of joining the Marines crushed because I didn't meet their physical standards because of my hearing. I've watched acting roles taken away from me because I had that slight accent that tended to slur some consonants together.

I've seen myself go through two years without really kissing anyone, seven years without a significant relationship and ten years without love.

I watched friends abandon me because I didn't fit into a clearly defined 'clique'. I saw teachers routinely underestimate me because of my hearing despite the fact I was far smarter than they ever were. I've seen my parents separate twice before finally making it permanent the third time.

I've been rejected from grad schools because I wasn't good enough for them. I was nearly expelled from college for daring to think differently.

I've been through my whole entire life without achieving anything worthwhile.

When I die I know I will be forgotten. People will have me in their minds for a short while. But time will pass, the world will turn, the seasons will change, and eventually I will no longer be remembered.

And so I look up to the heavens, choosing this time to believe that there is a God and that I am Job. And like Job, I ask: "Why me?"

And God will respond like he did to Job: "Were you there when I laid the foundations of the earth? Were you there when I created the moon and the stars? Were you there when I peopled the earth?"

But Job was chastened by this, I am not. Job felt shamed, I am not. Job never had his question truly answered, I demand to have mine. I demand for God to stop dancing around the question and answer me.

People keep telling me, "It will get better."

I ask, "When?"

People tell me, "Things will look up."

I inquire, "How?"

People tell me, "God wouldn't give you anything you couldn't handle."

I respond, "Then I guess God doesn't know me too well."

I think I've met him once, God I mean. Not face-to-face, but in dreams. I'm a firm believer that dreams are the window to the soul. The subconscious memory is what drives us, the concept of imagination and fantasy is what makes us human. What differs us from the apes and the lizards and the fish.

God doesn't exist in a physical way, nor in the metaphysical way we think of when we imagine heaven and a giant throne and a pair of scales where souls go to be judged.

God is our subconscious, our soul, yours, mine, ours, everyone's. We, altogether, are God.

The homeless man you passed on the street begging for change is God. The woman you sat next to on the subway with the thousand dollar power suit and the iPhone in her hand is God. The little girl you saw playing skip rope in the school playground is God. The woman walking through the hordes of protesters to the abortion clinic is God. The unborn baby that will never draw breath is God.

The politician who lied and cheated his way to a position of power is God. The soldier bleeding to death on foreign sands is God. The hungry waif in Africa eating food made of twigs and clay is God. The vicious dictator raping and pillaging his way to genocide is God.

We are all God, you and I.

And when one of us dies, another is born. For every life lost there is another ready and willing to take his place. If I die, who will take mine? Who would even want to?

Who would want to step into my shoes and trudge through the world for twenty-some-odd years never knowing a single ounce of happiness? I blame God for this.

That is to say that I blame you, I blame everyone, and I blame myself. I blame the world and the universe and fate and everything that is and was and will be.

I blame the threads of time that are spun by the three Fates into the tapestry of my life. I look in the mirror and see the creases in my face, the lines beginning to appear on my forehead, the slow sagging of my eyes, and the eternally weary look that I seem to bear. And in those lines, the weary look, the sagging eyes, I see the story of my life.

The tapestry of myself is not a pretty one to look at, and my life is not a nice one to remember. Oh, there were the usual things that everyone goes through. The teasing all kids go through at school, the fights you got into, the rejection of that popular girl you asked to the dance.

But there are some things I see woven in my life that I don't see in the faces of others. The first girl I loved and lost so cruelly. The humiliation that I went through during the divorce. The friends I lost in a war that should never have been fought in the first place. The complete and utter destruction of my dreams.

When I was young, I remember a teacher comparing all of us to a blank canvas. She said we were full of potential and that we had the brushes and the ability to paint our lives however we wished. I know people who have everything they've ever wanted and more. They are the Monets, the daVincis, the Picassos of the world today. Rich, successful, happy, and in love.

And here I am, with my once-blank-canvas, now covered with ugly splashes of black and red. Red for blood and memory that pushes feelings of wrath, bitterness, and jealousy to the surface. And black for the vast emptiness I feel. From deep in the hollow in my chest to that lonely space at the back of your eyes that you feel when you want to cry but there are no tears left to come.

I thought Chicago would have been a place to paint that ruined canvas white again and start anew. But I've found that no matter how many times I try to-repaint my life, those old colors and memories of the past keep bleeding to the surface and ruining any hope I'll ever have of crafting my life into something memorable.

I want to be remembered when I'm gone, that's all any man can ask for. I do not want to be forgotten. I fear the day when I am spoken of in the past-tense. "Cleric was this." Or "Cleric was that." Because that means my life only had an effect on people in the past and that I will have none in the future.

But right now, it seems as if that is what I'm destined for.

I feel my time rapidly approaching. It's morbid to think about, but it is true. It could be anything, really. A random attack by a drug addict on the street. Tripping and falling in front of a train. Some cancer I will be unable to beat. At some point in the future, however near or far it may be, I will cease to exist. The part of me that makes up God will be lost.

And I will quickly be forgotten.

If then, this is true. If no matter how hard I try, no matter how much effort I put into it, no matter what I do - I will never be remembered. Then truly, really, honestly what is the point?

You can regurgitate your 'darkest before dawns' or your optimistic thoughts or your encouraging words, but it doesn't answer the Question.

And the Question is: what is the point?

If you have no chance of succeeding whatsoever, is it worthwhile to even try?

If life is a race and you are guaranteed to lose in humiliating fashion, would you still run it?

If your existence was futile would you resist it?

You can tell me that life is worth fighting for, to which I ask - why? If it is certain, and absolutely so, that you will -never- be happy. Then why bother? You can scratch all you like trying to claw your way to the top - but if the mountain is impossible to climb - would you even attempt it?

"Don't give up." will be the commonality said to me. "If you keep trying you'll make it." "It will get better." "Things will look up."

So I ask, how long until it does? How long until it gets better? How long must I keep trying and failing? Is twenty-six years of struggling to get through the days not enough? How much more can a man take?

Consider this: I have been alive 26 years. Which is over 310 months. Over 1,300 weeks. Over 9,450 days. Over 226,800 hours. Over 13,608,000 minutes. Over 816,480,000 seconds.

Have you ever stopped to break down your life like that?

Imagine. 816 million seconds of your life you have been breathing and living and searching for happiness. And not the kind of happiness that you get when you wake up Christmas morning to find presents underneath the tree. Not the happiness of a birthday surprise. Not the happiness of your first kiss in the rain. Those moments of happiness aren't the kind of happiness I am talking about.

True Happiness is what I seek.

That one single moment where everything is as perfect as it will ever get. The stars have aligned, the moon is full, and the sun seems as bright as it was on the first day the earth was formed. That one moment where you stop in your tracks as time freezes around you and you say, "This is it. This is my perfect moment. This is my time." And that moment seems to stretch on for eternity though it eventually ends. What felt only like a second seemed to last for days in your mind.

That's the happiness I want.

One moment in time. One second. Just one.

Now count to ten. Each number you speak is a second or a fraction of a second or a fraction of that fraction.

Now imagine counting to 816 million.

Imagine how long that would take. Imagine never having that one single moment. That one second where everything seemed so right. You've counted one-by-one to 816 million and have never had that one perfect moment.

And now imagine after you have reached 816 million, you have to count again. You have to count another 816 million seconds. And imagine knowing full well that at the end of this second long count through life, you will still never have that moment.

That is what I have to look forward to. Another 816 million seconds. Another 816 million lonely beats of my heart. Another 816 million breaths I will take.

And now tell me, if you knew those next 816 million seconds were going to be the same as the first. Would you even bother counting to ten?

Come On God, Do I Seem Bulletproof?

2008-04-11T07:28:00.006-05:00

I don't know if I can do this anymore. I am very very very close to just giving up. It's an absolutely awful feeling to watch your dreams die and to realize that you are basically nothing but a giant failure.

Failure failure failure failure failure.

Failure.

=~=

Dear God,

I have serious doubts you exist, though I choose not to completely rule out the possibility until someone proves otherwise. But if you do, I am pretty sure you don't care. But for Christ's sake, I'm begging you, I need a break.

Give me something to hold on to. That's all I'm asking.

Just give me something. ANYTHING.

=~=

I kind of realized last night that outside of my friends, I have not got one single GOOD thing going on in my life right now. Even the things that SEEM good are horribly shitty things.

I'm stuck in a job that I can't get out of, partially out of loyalty (which is something that should be a good trait but somehow ends up being one of my major flaws) and partially out of the fact that I can't get a fucking interview to save my life.

I hate this. I hate this. I so fucking hate this.

I'm in a great city that I'm pretty sure I'd love if I had the money to do things.

I'm in a great apartment that I can barely afford. And last night I listened to people talk about how they pay 900+ a month in rent and I can't even scrounge up HALF that for mine.

EPIC FAIL.

I have great friends, but I am constantly aggravated by them because they all have at one point or another wandered off to make out or hook up with someone while I trudge back home with the Buckley version of 'Hallelujah' in my head.

Well maybe there's a God above...
But all I've ever learned from love...
Was how to shoot somebody who'd out drew ya...
And it's not a cry that you hear at night
It's not somebody who's seen the light
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

I don't fault them or anything, its good that they're doing whatever makes them happy. I just fault myself for reciting the same old verse: WHEN WILL THAT HAPPEN TO ME?

Christ. When did my life switch from being one of hopeful promises into an epic failure?

There isn't ONE aspect of life that I am succeeding in right now, and seriously, I am having a hard time trying to rationalize why I even bother. It's almost May, and I'll have been in Chicago for a year. This is what I was supposed to have accomplished:

1. 9-5 Job: EPIC FAIL
2. Auditioning: EPIC FAIL
3. Ability to pay the bills: EPIC FAIL
4. Significant other: EPIC FAIL
5. Working on grad schools: EPIC FAIL

EPIC. FAIL.

Failure failure failure failure failure failure failure....

I could write that word a thousand times over and a thousand times again, and it still wouldn't express the magnitude of how I feel about my life.

Someone needs to TELL ME something reassuring. ANYTHING. I beg and plead and cajole. PROVE TO ME that my life isn't a failure. That I'm not just a disastrous waste of oxygen in this shitty world.

FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD AND HOLY - HELP ME.

Jesus Christ.

I wish I was spiritual - then I could look to God for comfort. But I'm not. So all I've got is myself. And when I look up in the mirror in the morning, do you know what I see?

You guessed it. Second verse same as first.

I slept only four hours last night. Woke up with this hollow feeling where my heart should be. You know the one. The same one that happens when you lose someone you love, or when someone breaks up with you, or when you realize your life is totally meaningless.

I woke up and I sat in my bed for two hours trying to rationalize my existence....

Why am I here on earth? What is my purpose? Do I even have one? Or is life just a series of random possibilities and impossibilities that you wallow through as best as you can?

If my destiny has been preordained, whoever preordained it has a twisted sense of humor.

If my destiny is not preordained and is determined by the choices I make, then I must have fucked up real bad sometime in the past to get to this point.

What the hell am I doing wrong? Why can't I push my life towards a better place? What the FUCK is the point of it all if I can't scrounge up one measly morsel of happiness?

And on those rare occasions that I do SOMEHOW find myself starting to feel happy, WHY is it whenever I hold out my bowl with my little waif hands and ask politely, "Can I have some more, please, sir?" I get the living shit kicked out of me?

So fuck you life, fuck you destiny, fuck you God(s), fuck you choices, fuck you happiness, fuck you world, fuck you universe, fuck you all up your stupid fucking ass.

I hate what I've become, some miserable man whose only solace is...

FUCK IT. I don't even have a solace anymore.

Yesterday (All My Troubles Seemed So Far Away)

2008-04-07T23:03:00.005-05:00

Long Entry. You are warned.

I've been thinking a lot about my situation lately, and how tired I am of my life. I'm stuck in a rut. The same rut I've been bitching about for as long as I remember and I'm still as tired of it as ever.

When I first decided to move to Chicago almost a year ago, it was because I was tired of Ohio and the lack of opportunities there. I never was going to get a better job than the one I had for Things Remembered. And while I loved that job, as it was incredibly easy (it was just data entry) - I am not the kind of person that can settle for a life of mediocrity.

I like to think I am smart (and my IQ tests prove that I have genius level intelligence - and yes, I am bragging - you would be too), so I believed that I deserved more than just sitting at a desk all day and then heading to a play rehearsal at night and performing some role that is beneath me. I remember when I first graduated college and the only job I could find was at Panera Bread - and on the first day I nearly had a mental breakdown because they had me scrubbing the floor tiles.

I was better than that, and I quit after only three or four months on the job (which was three or four months too long) - and was unemployed for the next two months before I landed that Things Remembered job. And I loved that job, but I knew I never was going to get a promotion or raise - and because of that I knew I was never going to be able to move out of my mother's house. And I didn't want to be that twenty-five year old college grad who still lived with his mother.

So I made the decision to move in with two of my friends in Chicago, smart capable people who put up with more shit from me than they should. But while I didn't expect it to be EASY to live on my own for the first time in my life, I did not expect it to be as hard as it is. I hate that I have to struggle every month to come up with the cash to pay for my credit card bills (two which are maxed out from college) and rent. I hate that I will never get a promotion at my job, and I'm not sure I would take one if it was offered to me.

Because truth is, while I enjoyed working there the first few months, things have been changing. The great people I knew when I started (Josh, Megan, Eddie) have all moved on. There's just a few people left, and my boss just quit to move to Budapest with her fiancee. Amanda was one of the reasons I liked working there so much, and already the whole feel of the workplace is different now that she's gone. And I'm not sure if I like it.

As of right now, my other boss - Shannon, is the primary reason I haven't just up and quit and found a wageslave job at McDonalds or something. I'll admit that it sounds that I hate my job, but I don't. I just hate what it has become - both in terms of the new people that have arrived (some of who are just obnoxious or loud or obnoxiously loud) and in terms of the feeling of being held back from bigger or better things.

I am interviewing for a different position within the company soon, however, and hopefully that will pan out - as the position is more office based. Unfortunately, from what I understand it is only 10-15 hours a week, so it would supplement my current position and give me some extra money (perhaps easing my money stress) but it wouldn't be exactly what I am looking for.

Ideally I'd like a job where working where I am now would be the 'supplemental' portion of my income as opposed to the primary source of money. And to be honest, after being here nearly a year, I thought I would have found one by now. It is incredibly fustrating to me to constantly be searching for jobs and either not finding anything (because far too many job requirements include the use of phones) or not being qualified for them (because what CAN you do with a degree in Theatre?) or just simply never hearing back from the companies.

I'd like a job that challenges me, but above all - I'd like a job where there are opportunities for me to advance along the hierarchy. I'm just tired of being the low rung on the ladder. I don't like it when people who I've been working longer as get promoted and I don't. Though I must quickly add, at the current job I have now - I do understand WHY (as I can't use the radios required for the job) - but that doesn't mean I have to LIKE IT.

Anyways, Sunday was the closing party for Othello at work - and I left early because I just needed to get out of there and get some fresh air. It was such a nice day outside, and I didn't want to be cooped up inside. So I took a walk up from the Navy Pier and through downtown Chicago in the evening, and I watched the sun disappear behind some of the buildings as I walked along - just enjoying the relative freedom of the city and trying to figure out what to do with my life.

Doubts have been seeping into my head a lot more frequently these past few weeks than ever before. Doubts that I made the right decision in moving to Chicago for a better job, and the chance to act, and the chance to maybe - just maybe - meet someone special.

Doubts that I made the right choice in majoring in just Theatre instead of somehow working up the money to stick it out for another year and getting my English degree to complement.

Doubts that I even should have majored in Theatre in the first place, and I should have gone with something more practical - computers, history, theology, whatever.

And I realized that some of the doubts I've been having stretch all the way back to high school and earlier. If I had done this instead of that in high school, how much different my life would be now. I don't know if it's normal to still fret about things that far back in your past, but I still do. I'll be walking down a street sometime and I'll be hit by some memory of something I did in high school, and I'll just start mentally kicking myself. I'll usually utter 'FUCK' out loud and startle passerbys or little old ladies with their dogs, and then just stomp my way to wherever I was going.

I dunno. Sunday I walked through the city with the intention of resolving some of these issues I've been having, wondering if I should just give up and move back to Ohio, because I don't think I have a chance to succeed here at all. And if I go back to Ohio, maybe I should head to a technical trade school and pick up a Associates Degree in some sort of computer related field so that I'm not struggling constantly to get out of whatever lackluster job I am in.

But all I could come up with is this:

1. I like Chicago more than Ohio. I like the freedom I have here that I was never afforded back in Ohio. And I like not living with my mother like some creepy serial killer. I like not having to hear her outshout whatever point I'm trying to make. I like being able to stay out late and not have to phone home like I'm some high schooler asking permission to stay out past curfew.

2. I like theatre and acting too much to ever really quit it. I hate that job prospects are few and far inbetween for a theatre major (to say nothing of a hearing impaired one) - but I can't imagine life without it.

3. For the first time in a good, long while - I am not infatuated with any girls I know. It's a little refreshing to be free of that sort of need to impress whoever at work or at school or at play.

Finding someone right now is not as important to me as I sometimes think it is. I am happy with my friends - and my constant whining that I need to find a girl sometimes makes it seem like my friends aren't good enough for me. They are. I love their companionship. And while I would LOVE to find that special someone, I don't think I will. I think, more than anything, she will find me. (If you're out there, would you please let me know? Thanks.)

4. My parents divorce affected me a lot harder than I sometimes let on. I think it is primarily because the kids I grew up with all had both their moms and dads, and I only had my mother as my father only occasionally made appearances in my life. The problem was, I always felt closer to my dad than my mom - just for the reason that he liked the same things I did (sports, etc.) and I could talk to him about some things I couldn't talk to my mom about (mostly the fact that we both had that hearing impairment).

I also don't like that I'm not as close to my brother as I'd like to be. But I've always been emotionally distant from people. I hate that the person I've always felt closest to isn't even a family member. I love her like I love a sister, even though we never get a chance to talk anymore - and I miss it.

5. I realize that I don't trust easy. There are things that I've gone through that no one really knows, there are thoughts I think that I won't ever say. And it is because I value my privacy so heavily. If I tell someone something, I want it to be in the utmost confidence. I don't want them to tell anyone else.

In the early years of my parents divorce, my mother had me in therapy to help me out. Which was fine, until I figured out the therapist was telling my mother a lot of the things I said. Sure, she probably had my best intentions at heart - but it was still a violation of my private thoughts that I shared. I remembered when I first dropped out of college at Malone, I didn't want to tell my mother the real reason and only gave her an abridged version. Rather than leave well enough alone, she brought in a friend of hers to talk to me. This friend opened up by making assumptions about me based on what my mother had said, all of which were horribly wrong. Since then I know I can't tell my mother anything.

Once my trust is broken, it can't be fixed. I hate that the one person I've found myself closest to here in Chicago, I don't feel like I can tell her everything I'd like because we work together and I don't want these other co-workers to know the things I said. I don't think she would actually TELL them anything, but I just can't bring myself to trust as much as I'd like.

And that's that. Three hours of walking and all I could come up with were six things, none of which were the answers I sought.

A new job, an acting role, a significant other, or whatever would just be a quick fix. I fully realize all of the issues I have (both the ones I have mentioned in this blog - and the ones I won't) aren't 'quick fix' issues. They'll take time and effort. I sometimes think my romantic ideal is for someone to help me with those same issues in some sort of sappy romantic comedy sort of way that may or may not be narrated by Morgan Freeman.

Best Day Ever?

2008-03-29T21:21:00.003-05:00

I don't often post twice in a day, but I wanted to.

Because today has been the best day ever! Not for any real reason, but...

I mean, I woke up this morning and I said to myself: "Goddamn! I feel good-looking today!" And it just went up from there! My bus arrived on time, left on time, I got to work on time, the bookstall has been running smoothly...

And everyone else is having such a shitty day it's unbelievable. And you know what? That just makes this day even BETTER!

I probably just jinxed myself though, as I have yet to ride the El back home.

Flog the Blogs

2008-03-29T16:07:00.006-05:00

Because so many of my friends are theatre people, it is with great pride I embed the following youtube video.

Improv Everywhere (www.improveverywhere.com) is the single greatest improv troupe to exist, IMHO. It bests established troupes like Second City, the Upright Citizen's Brigade, and others for one very simple reason. The 'performers' are regular people and the audience is completely unaware things are going on. Instead they are treated to the sight of people offering guided boat tours at the Union Square fountain (in a little rubber dinghy no less) and such spectacles as the Food Court Musical I posted above. It is well worth the read to go through the website and read through the missions.

(Anton Chekov mission is another favorite of mine, because I'm such a theatre nerd.)

It does remind me of the Gorilla Theatre Project I did with Mike that one Black Friday at the mall... And kind of makes me want to do something similar again.

In other news, Angela has ranked me one of her 10 Excellent Bloggers!

I'd rank people, but honestly I don't think I know 10 blogs that AREN'T listed as private/locked.

I think private/locked blogs kind of defeat the whole purpose of the blogging experience. Why would you write a blog on the internet and restrict access to a few? If that's what you want to do, just e-mail people. The whole idea of internet blogging is so that people who you don't know can read and enjoy and connect.

But for the hell of it, anyone listed under the 'Blogs Worth Reading' section on the right can be considered 'Excellent' by me. Especially Alisa, Angela, and DS's blogs - which are the three I look forward to reading the most.

See? This is a good point. I never would have connected with DS if she had her blog locked/restricted. (And I never would have found it without Angela's help).

In essence, private blogs are lame.

On Obama

2008-03-19T20:14:00.006-05:00

By now, everyone has heard of Obama's speech of race and everything.

You can read it HERE.

It's a brilliant speech, and will definately be fodder for Communications/Speech classes in the future. But at the same time it underlines my biggest problem with Obama, and why Nader will probably be getting my vote come November.

It's all rhetoric.

At one point, he says the following: "And if we walk away now, if we simply retreat into our respective corners, we will never be able to come together and solve challenges like health care, or education, or the need to find good jobs for every American."

He goes into great detail about how the poor, white and black alike, both suffer underfunded health care, crappy schools, and unemployment. He delves deeply into what the actual problem is with racial tensions in this country. I particularly found it wonderful to finally have a black man explain why white middle class Americans aren't too fond of Affirmitive Action in positive terms.

But, in the end, Obama did not say HOW he would go about performing this great change he has been preaching on the campaign trail. He said, essentially, "We have to come together." This isn't a new concept. People have been saying this for years.

But he did not say HOW he was going to bring us together. Delivering moving speeches isn't enough.

So, unless he starts giving us some concrete ideas at the Presidential debates (because it's pretty much certain that after that speech he'll get the nomination) - I will be voting for someone else.

And it won't be McCain.

Top Ten Saddest Songs

2008-03-17T00:07:00.002-05:00

I've been in one of those funks lately, so naturally I've been listening to wholly depressing songs. So I figured, for this blog entry - these are the Top Ten saddest songs to ME.

I'm sure many of you have others that I've never heard of, and probably like some I don't, feel free to post with your own favorites.

Top Ten Saddest Songs

Songs that just missed the cut: "Adam's Song" - Blink 182, "Tears in Heaven" - Eric Clapton, "No Surprises" - Radiohead, "Letting the Cables Sleep" - Bush, "Miss Misery" - Elliot Smith, "Yesterday" - Boyz II Men, "Here's To The Losers" - Frank Sinatra, "Wake Me Up When September Ends" - Green Day, "Who Am I?" - Smashing Pumpkins, "Black Hole Sun" - Soundgarden

10. "Jesus Doesn't Want Me For A Sunbeam" - Nirvana

I was brought up Catholic and had the whole Jesus Loves Me thing implanted deep into me at a young age. I remember distinctly having to sing "Jesus Wants Me For A Sunbeam" at my First Communion. So Nirvana's twist (actually, the Vaseline's twist) on it strikes a deep chord with me.

9. "White Trash Beautiful" - Everlast

Okay, before you knock me for digging an Everlast song, take a moment to watch the Music Video. I lost someone close to me in a car crash, and that is one of the reasons this song makes the list. Though it is bested by a much more powerful car crash song later on...

8. "Last Kiss" - Pearl Jam

This is what bests that Everlast song for fairly obvious reasons.

7. "Inflatable" - Bush

Because being cheated on fucking SUCKS. And there's just something about the way Gavin Rossdale's voice seems to crack when he sings: "And it's like we've come undone - but I've only just become..." As a side note, if it wasn't for Bush, I'd probably still be listening to crap like C&C Music Factory. They were my introduction into the alt-rock-grunge-punk-whatever scene, and they will always hold a special place in my heart for that.

The video itself gets to me as well, because when I was a kid the number one thing I wanted to do was join the Marines (or barring that the Army) but was unable to do so on account of my hearing. So this song (and Green Day's "Wake Me Up When September Ends" get to me on a 'Coulda Shoulda Woulda' level).

6. "Brick" - Ben Folds Five

No explanation necessary for this one. Coldplay basically rips this song off on everything they do. I'll admit I don't really have a 'personal' connection to this song (it would be incredibly depressing if I did) - but it still ranks among my top songs...

5. "Creep" - Radiohead

As of right now, at this very moment, as I lie here in my bed staring at the ceiling, this song sums me up.

4. "Shame" - Smashing Pumpkins

Pretty much everything off the Pumpkins' Adore album is so fucking melancholy, but this one wins easily...

3. "Everybody Hurts" - REM

Jesus Christ. We're heading into the territory where you can't possibly listen to these songs without tearing up a bit. I dedicate this one to my good friend K. because I feel this song sums the both of us up.

2. "Hurt" - Johnny Cash

Oh Christ, you can literally see Johnny Cash dying slowly as he sings this song. It's fucking heart-wrenching. And THEN June Carter Cash shows up in the middle of the song to lend her support to her man and you just fucking lose it then and there...

1. "Hallelujah" - Jeff Buckley.

(The embedding on the video has been disabled - I highly suggest you go HERE to watch it.)

....fuck.

It surprises me how many people have only heard the Rufus Wainwright version of this Leonard Cohen masterpiece. But honestly, the Jeff Buckley version is vastly superior. I mean, you can't possibly think a song that appeared on the fucking SHREK soundtrack can hold a candle to this version...

If my life was a movie, this song would be the soundtrack. Which is actually feasible, since the original version has FIFTEEN verses (and like 18 choruses...

But Jesus. This one gets me going every goddamn time.

I Wanna Be A Fake Rock God

2008-03-16T09:15:00.006-05:00

I am currently beginning of week two of an e-mail correspondence with Comcast Customer Service reps to try and get them to caption programs they claim are captioned (but are not). Essentially, they are just sending me form letters and neglecting to read previous e-mails that explain the situation in more detail.

I've also stepped up the job search to the 9th degree by signing up for two more job search engines (USAJobs and Workopolis). It's a little tricky, because I keep fearing that I might accidentally apply to the same job twice now that I am on five different search engines.

One of my friends recently quit her job and within two weeks found another one (a better one nonetheless) and I'll be honest and say that I was pretty pissed. Frankly, I still am. I just don't think it's fair at all that I have been working my ass off to find something better since, essentially, MAY, and have shit to show for it.

It did motivate me to search a little harder, though, and hopefully that will pay off. As usual the temp agency that I signed up for hasn't found me anything. It's frustrating, annoying, and rage inducing. I honestly don't know what the hell else to do except for whoring myself out on the corner of Michigan Ave.

I've also been scouring the Sun Times' Help Wanted section for jobs every Wednesday and Sunday, as well as the Reader and chicagoplays.com, and countless other shit. It is incredibly annoying to see that pretty much EVERY job that I would be qualified for (that isn't a warehouse job, or food service, or selling body parts) requires telephone usage.

Have people not heard of e-mail? Do they not realize there is a section of the population that would probably rather talk to customer service agents via IM than on the phone? Using IM would cut down on telephone hold times dramatically as Customer Service reps could talk to multiple customers at the same time, but nooo....

Jesus Christ.

I'm also working ten straight days at Chicago Shakes, which is probably going to cause me to go crazy by the end of the week. Tomorrow is going to be the worst as I am essentially sitting at the front doors for eight hours to guide auditioners to wherever they need to be guided. The problem is, the Pier is also hosting America's Got Talent auditions that day, so I just KNOW I am going to be deluged by random cross-dressing idiots without an ounce of talent (or pride) in their body asking where the hell they are supposed to go to humiliate themselves on national television.

In happier news, the roommates got a new dog! His name is Dodger (as in Artful) - and he is a white lhaso opsi, which has to be the worst name for a dog breed ever. What the hell IS a lhaso opsi?

But Dodger is cute, furry (VERY), friendly, and extremely laid-back. He is currently wearing one of those cone-shaped collars to stop him from chewing his neutering stitches open again. The result being that whenever he tries to crawl under the ottoman or couches or chairs, he fails miserably and ends up standing with his head stuck under the chair and the cone pressed against the top trying to figure out why he can't fit.

Random fact of the day: I can beat all songs on Rock Band on hard (except one) - and have begun working my way through the expert level. There's just something zen-like about playing Rock Band for me. It calms me down in an entirely unreasonable way.

Since Ron Paul obviously isn't score the nomination thanks to the media bias (does anyone even realize he is STILL in the race running against McCain? No. No one will MENTION IT...) I've had to look at the other politicians running for president and don't care much for any of them. McCain and Hillary seem to be the same sort of beast and Obama talks a good game but doesn't seem like he has the balls to back any of it up.

So I was a little sad that I was going to be forced to vote for Obama, just because his rhetoric is prettier than the others - until I realized Nader threw his hat in the ring again. So, Nader 2008! You've got my vote!

Babble Babble Babble Babel

2008-03-11T05:03:00.004-05:00

I will start out this post with the same old refrain: I wish I could post more, but my life is boring and I have nothing to talk about.

Anyways, I'm up at 5am right now due to the return of my insomnia and need to try and wear out my brain. What better way to do that than to ramble incoherently on my blog for a while?

I'm still suffering from the same three problems I have been for the last several months.

1. Crappy job.
2. Single.
3. Not acting.

At least I've gotten myself registered with a temp agency that -SEEMS- good. As opposed to that Seville place that never found me ANYTHING in the three months I was there. So hopefully I'll be getting something temp-to-permanent soon so I can start with the acting.

I've been wondering recently if I made the right decision in moving out to Chicago, as if I was in Ohio right now - I would be achieving two of the three things that would make me happy without any doubt. It is wholly depressing to be in this fantastic city with great friends and roommates and not be able to do everything that I want to do.

For example, there was a Karaoke bar thing the other night a friend of mine was hosting, and while I wasn't planning on singing - I did want to head up there just to hang out with people, but at the same time I knew that money was just horribly tight and I couldn't afford to spend anything.

Not only that, but my job's hours prevent me from going out when other people do. Almost everyone I hang out with in the city has a 9-5 job and I have a 5-11 job so I never get to have fun.

I don't understand what the problem is, to be honest. I have data entry experience, blisteringly fast typing speed, impeccable references, and everything... So why is no one calling me? I was talking to a friend recently, and he said it was too bad I didn't live in Canada as the job market there is much, much, MUCH better. I mean, he just got a job that pays him 80k a year...

And he didn't even go to college.

I had this idea for a play recently as a criticism of utopia - and the individual rights we would have to give up to achieve true world peace. It was set in the future and it revolved around the death of the last living American as everyone else on the planet has become slaves to conformity due to genetic manipulation and blah blah blah.

I sat down to write it Monday morning, and just stared at my computer for the better part of an hour before I gave up. Dan keeps telling me I should write longhand as it is more conductive to the creative process, but I can't bring myself to do that as I have never written anything longhand. I mean, I remember distinctly typing up essays when I was in third grade on the typewriter.

...wow, that made me feel old.

Some nights when I get off work, I just deliberately take the wrong el train just so I can sit for a hour or two and listen to music on my MP3 player inappropriately loud. People glare at me sometimes, but I'm just like: Fuck you. I just worked ten hours at a job I hate in a life that sucks and if I want to play my goddamn R.E.M. on the loudest fucking volume, then live with it! Besides, at least Stipe's lyrics actually MEAN something - unlike that shitty Flo Rider shit.

Or whatever the hell its called.

Though I admit, I like Travis Barker's drum remix of that song. Search for it on youtube. Or better yet, his remix of that stupid Soulja Boy "Crank That" song.

I wish I was a rockstar. I've always wanted to do the talent/gong shows in high school and then just completely blow everyone away with a face melting guitar solo or something. My greatest fantasy was I'd launch into an absolute brutal guitar riff and the entire school would be shocked for a moment before the bleachers sprang to life in some sort of homage to "Smells Like Teen Spirit" as the teachers vainly tried to maintain control.

But nothing could stop the chaos of my rock power.

Back to the original three things that I'm suffering from, since I'm working on the job front - we'll skip ahead to the other two. Acting I can't do much about without a better job, but I was extremely happy with the last productive meeting of Blackbird Theatre Company, and am looking forward to starting work on the second and third plays. I've been fiddling around on photoshop some, playing with some effects - and I've got ideas for the marketing materials. Which is nice, since I have more than a week or two to think about it this time...

As for the third thing, I am supposedly being set up by two of my friends. Danielle introduced me to this girl a few weeks ago that I thought was utterly fantastic, and I'm hoping to get to know her better in the future - and Shannon wants to set me up with one of her friends. And I'm pretty sure that there's a girl in the box office at work who has been flirting pretty openly with me.

I could be wrong though, I've never been really good at judging the motivations of the opposite sex. Actually, that's a lie - I've been downright awful. And I realize that, which probably doesn't help my reluctance/shyness to actually ask someone out. I mean, I haven't asked anyone out since Summer of 2005 - and she turned out to be a lesbian.

And on that note, I'm going to attempt to get some more sleep.

WHY? DEAR GOD, WHY?

2008-02-24T13:07:00.004-06:00

Oh sweet baby Jesus, what the fuck did I get myself dragged into last night!?

Let me explain something right off the bat - I will never EVER EVER say that I won't go to Sidetracks again, because that bar is a TAME gay bar. The gay bar that I got dragged to last night was anything but.

I got off work last night and the roomie told me some people were going out to some bars and would I like to come? After the long exhausting day of work, I said yes because I needed a drink, not knowing at the time what the hell I was getting myself into.

"It's not a gay bar, is it? I don't really wanna go to a gay bar...."

"No," she assured me, "It is not. The first bar is sort of a hamburger/bar joing called Hamburger Mary's. The second bar is going to be a lesbian bar."

"Lesbians?" I said to myself, as my mind filled with happy thoughts.

So I went.

We get to the hamburger bar, and it is, in fact, a gay bar in Andersonville. But it wasn't too bad, as I met a bunch of new people that all seemed pretty cool. I just chilled, drank a couple whiskey sours when one of the girls said to me, "We're heading to the other bar now, are you coming?"

"It's not a gay bar, is it?" I asked. "I've already
been gay cruised at least five times since I got here."

"No," she said to me, "It's a mellow place." Apparently the word mellow doesn't mean what everyone thinks it means.

We walk across the street to this place named Atmosphere, and that was when I started gouging my eyes out. It was most certainly NOT a lesbian bar, as there were one-too-many topless men prancing about. And as I showed my ID a STRIPPER got up on stage and started, well, stripping.

So I turned away as fast as possible, because, quite frankly, that's the last thing I want to see. I looked up on the TV screen where a title placard came up: "GIRLS GONE WILD." Hooray!

Yeah, no. Apparently GIRLS GONE WILD makes a gay edition starring men who flop their penises about aimlessly. So I couldn't look onstage, which is where everyone else was looking, I couldn't watch television, and there WERE NO LESBIANS!

But, oh, the night had just begun.

At various points the following occured: A straight guy made out with a gay guy. A gay guy made out with a straight girl. A straight girl made out with a lesbian, and a straight girl (married) made out with a straight guy (married as well, but not to her).

And then the straight guy decided to hop up onstage and strip.

At some point during the night, I was like: "Oh God, I need a shot." So I went up to the bar (manned by some topless guy in too-tight jeans) and asked for the hardest shot they had. So he mixed something up and set it on fire.

"Finally!" I said, "This is manly!" And then he put his hand over the glass so the fire ran out of oxygen and the glass was now attached to his hand by suction. At which point I had to yank the glass off his hand (and spill it all over my own hand) and quaff the concotion. It was a good hard drink, and I was happy until the bartender took a rag and started cleaning my hand off while staring deep into my eyes...

Yeah.

I should have worn my "I SUPPORT THE PERFORMING ARTS" shirt with the picture of the (FEMALE) stripper on it. That might have helped things some.

So, to everyone at Kent - I apologize for never going to the Interbelt when you asked me to - 'cause, frankly, I bet the Interbelt was tame compared to last night. And I will NEVER EVER complain about Sidetracks again.

Now, if you excuse me, I have to try and convince the people in the pub to spike my drink so I can ERASE THE MEMORIES.

TOO MANY FLOPPING PENISES! TOO MANY FLOPPING PENISES!

ARGGH!

Second Verse, Same as First.

2008-02-23T20:26:00.005-06:00

So, as many of you know - I work at Chicago Shakespeare on the Navy Pier. I quite like the building I work in, as there is a great view of the city and there was a great view of the recent lunar eclipse the other night.

My interest in the eclipse lasted all of ten seconds. Because, frankly, nothing was happening. So the moon went dark, whoop-de-do. Everyone was standing in awe and amazement and all I could think of was, "Ah. I'll just catch the highlights on youtube." Vicki remarked that it was amazing that a couple thousand years ago, people would be absolutely inspired by the whole process of it.

My response was quite simply, that people a couple thousand years ago were idiots. It is a testament to how far we've come scientifically that we no longer think of an eclipse as some great harbringer of doom. On the other hand, science has displaced our sense of wonder in the universe...

Anyways, as I walked to work today, through the lower level of the pier, I was confronted by the usual annoying tourists that moved far too slow or clustered together in such a way that it was impossible for anyone to go around them...

In addition to those annoying tourists, the Pier was filled with cheerleaders. We're talking girls from the age of 10 to 16 - and while I would LOVE to make some sort of awful perverted comment about it, it was rather disgusting.

Here we had 10 year old girls walking freely through the Pier in too much makeup, with halter tops that were way too tight, and little cheerleading skirts that were way too short. Since when did cheerleading shorts get SO short that you could actually see their fucking spandex cheerleading panties?!

Not to sound prudish or anything, but in MY DAY (which wasn't THAT long ago, goddammit), the skirts were short - but Jesus, they at least covered up SOME thigh.

The pier must have been a pedophiles wet dream today, and while teenage me would have taken some demented pleasure in it, adult me wanted to beat the shit of the parents of these girls for turning them into pre-pubescent sex objects.

Don't think I'm going all women's lib on you or anything, I'm just saying that YOU SHOULDN'T DRESS YOUR DAUGHTERS LIKE A PEPPERMINT SKANK!

Sigh.

Well, February is almost over. Job search still going on with ZERO leads.

Actually, I did have a lead - a hotel on the Mag Mile was hiring last week on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I picked up the paper Wednesday and found out about it, so I was all set to go on Thursday to apply for a first-shift job there, but instead I sat in the living room of my apartment from 8am to 6pm (when I had to go to work) waiting for the fucking Comcast cable guy who NEVER CAME.

I checked the Sunday paper today and the job listing was gone. So goddammit. Fuck the universe, fuck February, and fuck Comcast.

FYI: Did anyone know the Sun Times prints out the Sunday paper Saturday evening? I didn't. I felt like I was in an episode of Early Edition when I picked it up at the convienence store during my evening break...

Doesn't this defeat the purpose of a Sunday paper? What if something big happens Saturday night?

Superwoes (Ha! Isn't That Clever!?)

2008-02-03T14:46:00.001-06:00

Hello blogosphere. It's been a while. But as usual, I have a litany of excuses prepared, not the least of which is Blackbird Theatre. I spent a lot of time on the computer this past month working on photoshop/publisher to get everything done on time. And it seemed to work!

On the actual production end, the show was brutally hilarious and funny and touching and everything it should be. And, of course, it depressed me because I really need to act in a play sometime SOON.

And by SOON I mean NOW.

The job hunt is ongoing as it always is, this desperate search to be a 9-5 wageslave just so I can start to work on what I really want to do (act, duh). And I don't feel like I've accomplished enough theatrically to make it in grad school, so I need to get at least a year of Chicago Theatre under my belt before I'll even think of applying anywhere.

Although, I'm starting to grow on the idea of DePaul as a possible location to attend graduate school at.

I've also been contemplating school in a non-theatrical fashion. Doing all that stuff for Blackbird Theatre WAS kind of fun, I just wish I could do it better. So I'm looking into the possibility of graphic design or something similar - but I'm a noviate in the field, so I'm not sure it would be worth my time. But I would like to know HOW to do things better. Especially more advanced Photoshop techniques. But as always, money is a factor in preventing me from looking too deeply into the concept of 'technical school' or whatever.

February 8th is rapidly approaching, and I'm not sure how to feel about it. On one hand, I have made plans with several groups of friends (which I never usually do) to go out and celebrate. And on the other it is still my birthday and that fucking depresses the shit out of me.

But today, friends and enemies, I am missing the Superbowl because I fucked up. For some reason I thought there was only ONE show at Chicago Shakespeare today at 2 and I'd be done by 4, with enough time to make it home to watch the game and gorge on fried chicken and beer.

Turns out that there is THREE shows (2, 3, and 7:30) and I have to miss one of my favorite times of year. If only I had DOUBLE CHECKED the schedule, I probably would have noted this and could have asked for the day off.

IDIOT.

So here I am, in work, unprepared for a 10 hour shift. I am hungry because I was not planning on eating anything until I sat down to watch the game. And annoyed because I know no one will buy anything for the 7:30 show.

STUPID STUPID STUPID STUPID.

Let me just state, for the record, that I am rooting for the Giant because I friggin' hate that arrogant asshole otherwise known as Bill Belichick. And goddammit, it is my right as a Cleveland Browns fan to do so.

So screw him and his pansy-ass pretty-boy quarterback to high heaven.

An Entry In Which I Remember How To Spell Big Words

2008-01-18T19:06:00.000-06:00

I am eagerly counting down the days until Fragments premieres at CST. I just want to be able to brag (though it will be a HUGE stretch) that I've worked with Peter Brook. Technically we ARE working for the same theatre at the same time for the same show!

So, I've got that going for me.

Still no luck on the second job front so I can audition for shows... There was a brief moment when I thought I might have a temporary job through the month of February working for the Writer's Theatre during the daytime, but that fell through and I'm S.O.L. again.

I've also developed a bit of a crush on the blonde girl who works at my favorite Chicago food place on the corner next to my apartment. I feel like a 5th grader when I use the word crush. And also like a girl. So from now on, I'll be referring to "crushes" henceforth as "lustbunnies".

I coined the word a long time ago, and I just need to make a conscious effort to use it more in an attempt to get other people to use it and thereby making my mark in Webster's Dictionary. I think if you want to be known as a writer, you need to make your mark in one of two books: "Bartlett's Quotations" and "Webster's Dictionary" or any other dictionary for that matter.

So while other people may write to change the world, or to make an impact through the use of verse or prose or whatever, I just want my name in "Bartlett's Quotations".

Anyways, back to Fragments. I've bemoaned many many many many times that I have never seen a play that has made me go "Wow!". I've seen lots of good plays (Au Revoir, Parapluie being the last), and several mediocre plays, and far too many bad plays (and I've been in my share of them as well). So I figure, if Peter Brook directing works by Samuel Beckett can't sway me, then I will probably never derive any sort of viewing pleasure from a play on the level I can from acting in it.

I blame my teachers for this. More specifically, I blame Dr. Bank for teaching me how to critically analyze a play to the point where I can't hear any of the dialogue as my ears are inundated with the sound of Dr. Bank lecturing us on gestus or sturm und drang or verfremdungseffekt (it has to be italicized!) and other related words that give me a headache trying to spell. So thanks, Dr. Bank for cluttering my mind with knowledge and thus deriving me of the simple pleasure of being a stupid audience member who cheers wildly at the conclusion of such awful tripe like the Snow Queen.

Who is Jordan Spitzle?

2008-01-14T03:25:00.001-06:00

Random thought at 3am when waking up from a really weird-ass dream:

Who the fuck is Jordan Spitzle and why is she so important to me?

This dream was WAY to specific in basically telling me that I should know her in my real non-dreaming life.

I mean, she didn't look like -anyone- I've ever known. But she said I knew her and have known her for a long time, and that I should know who she is. So who the fuck is she?!

When I dream, the people in my dream are usually people I know. Whether they are celebrities or friends or associates or whatever. I have never had a dream where some stranger popped up in my dream and told me I should know who she is.

And now I can't go back to sleep because this is driving me crazy.

Nerd Alert!

2008-01-12T20:10:00.000-06:00

I'm currently on hour 9 of my 10 hour workday, drinking hot water with lemon rinds in it (because I hate the taste of tea and coffee). I don't really have anything to post other than Rock Band is a great party game. Except after one-to-many rum and cokes, you tend to lose any sort of ability to play the drums.

Also, if you play the drums and get drunk, the morning after you will constantly have the beat to Maps by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs stuck in your head like a bad migraine. Only my migraine's got rythmn, baby.

In lieu of posting anything noteworthy, especially since my last several entries have just been downers - I decided to randomly collect my thoughts on some subject or another. Topic for today's blog post is the hiding of geek cred.

You may or may not know I am a massive geek hiding under the veneer of a cool guy. Don't laugh, but I like to pretend it is so. I don't dress in your typical geek outfit. And no, I don't mean pocket protectors or whatever. I mean wearing Spider-Man shirts and carrying a armful of comic books.

Yeah I read comic books a lot when I was younger, and I have a fairly sizable collection at home (I think at last count the value of that was around 6-7 thousand. The value of my baseball card collection probably exceeds that...) But I no buy them anymore simply because it pains me to see editors try and 'create something new' by blaspheming on all the great stories I grew up on.

For a modern not-quite-geeky example. It would be like if someone decided to write the sequel to Hamlet only this time Hamlet has a machine gun and a bottle of naplam that he chugs every now and then because marketing shows it sells. And Hamlet didn't really die, he was only unconscious because the poison was the same poison that Juliet drank to fake her death (character crossover courtesy of Friar Laurence).

Actually, I'd probably go see that play.

But the point is, Im always constantly upset at two things.

1. That people currently running the comic book industry like to take gigantic shits on the stories and characters I grew up on.
2. That people don't realize there are comic books that AREN'T superhero stuff.

Because that second one is the stuff I like to read. And believe me, some of them have been turned into movies that you probably didn't even realize WAS a comic book. Examples: History of Violence, Road to Perdition, From Hell, 30 Days of Night, etc. etc. etc.

The point is, people need to wise up and take the medium as real literature. The industry HAS developed a lot since the old men-in-tights days. I mean, I think Watchmen and V for Vendetta are fantastic pieces of LITERATURE. Not just fantastic comic books, but LITERATURE.

I always wanted to write an English paper on the subject of comic books as literature. More specifically I wanted to compare Superman (good, strong, invincible, etc.) to the way America sees itself and draw the comparison of that to Batman as the way the world sees America (dark, vengeful, etc.). Alas, it was never to be. Instead I wrote papers entitled: "Dude, Where's My Malapropism?" for Shakespeare class and "The Advanced Semiotics of Toenail Clippings" for English II.

Anyways, that's my little rant of the day. On the personal front I'm still struggling to find a 9-5 job so I can audition places, but am unable to find anything good that (a.) doesn't require phones. (b.) isn't horribly demeaning.

I remember when I finally graduated college I had the same problem and had to take a job at Panera Bread. For those unfamiliar with Panera, it's basically a glorified fast food restraunt masquerading as a fancy bistro/sandwich shop. The first day they made me scrub out the edges/corners of the cooking area and I nearly broke down and quit because, well, fuck. I just graduated from college - the last goddammned thing I'd expected myself to do was scrub floors for a living.

Thank God I was hired at Things Remembered's offices otherwise I probably would have been forced to slaughter my co-workers with scalding hot soup and razor sharp sandwich knives.

So, remember when I said I was drinking hot water with lemon slices in it? It tasted good at first, and I was congraulating myself on the innovative idea. But after it sits for a while, the lemon flavor is slowly replaced my rind flavor and that's not so good. It's bitter and awful but Im far too lazy after working 9 and a half hours to go up and get something else.

And goddammit, after staying up past 2 to play Rock Band with a bunch of people I don't know (all of whom were awesome, in any case), I deserve to be lazy today.

I also deserve a raise or god forbid, a promotion. But what crackpot would give me either if all I do is sit around and bitch on my blog?

Adore

2008-01-11T12:06:00.000-06:00

It's weird how a single thing can instantly pluck you out of your doldrums. Especially when it is something you think would make you sink even lower.

So, you know how when you're all melancholy all you want to do is listen to emo music or something? Well, I don't actually -own- any emo music, so I went to the next best thing - the Smashing Pumpkins' Adore album. And I'm walking home from the Addison stop last night when the song Shame kicks in, and I was just like, well, how appropriate.

The first two lines that echoed in my head as I walked down the street at 11 at night were:

"You're gonna walk on home...
You're gonna walk alone..."

I love this song just because it always struck me as a song purely about loneliness. But then the next two lines threw me for a loop, 'cause I guess I never really listened to them.

"You're gonna see this through...
Don't let them get to you..."

This was my wtf moment last night where I stopped in the middle of my walk to start the song over again. I can't believe in the many many years that I've owned the album (since 1999) I never NOTICED that the song was actually kind of positive in its meaning.

So I'm listening to this song in the middle of the sidewalk as random people walk around me as Im rooted to the same spot. And I dunno, I just felt... better. Not happy, of course - since I still want all the shit I mentioned in the last two entries. But better because I'm not sulking around brooding anymore.

So I am in a much better mood, for those who care. And I will remain so until February, which is gonna suck. My birthday is the 8th and then less than a week later is Valentine's. Two of the most hated days for me. Both days I've already requested off from work so I can barricade myself in my room and just ignore everyone and everything until it is over.

Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness

2008-01-10T11:30:00.000-06:00

I am so tired of it all right now.

It's been several days since my last entry, and while I am no longer filled with that all consuming rage that I was before - I feel so melancholy. I just wish I had something in my life right now that I could be positive about. I mean, thanks for everyone who offered me kind words of support and everything...

But, I dunno.

I just feel totally crushed and exhausted and, well, melancholy.

I wouldn't go so far as to say that I'm depressed, or anything - but, whatever. All I can do is plaster a smile on my face at work and go through the motions, because I really lack the motivation to do anything right now. I always hated those analogies about being stuck in quicksand or a tar pit and things - but that is really how I feel at the moment.

Anyways, I went through some of my old writings from high school and college the other day. And it only made me more melancholy because I can't even muster up the creative spark to write anything anymore.

So that's my 'reality' at the moment.

As far as my 'other life' - my requiems and daydreams and night-thoughts - I've started to notice a somewhat interesting trend. When people dream they usually dream that they are the heroes and the lead characters of their stories. My subconscious won't even allow me that much anymore.

These days I dream that I'm the villains of the stories. Case in point, a few weeks ago I dreamt that I was Sylar, the brain-eating serial killer of Heroes. And when I woke up after having munched on several super-powered brains - I felt happier than I have in weeks.

I wonder if that is a sign that people should start keeping a very close eye on me whenever they're alone in the room with me.

But my dreams don't seem to be limited to being villains. I also end up dreaming I'm the eternal loser of whatever story I find myself in.

Thats right, folks. I can't even be happy in my dreams anymore.

I'm going borderline crazy at the moment, just sitting around with this giant chip on my shoulder hoping, nay begging for something good to happen in my life. I honestly can't remember the last time I was happy (other than dreaming about eating peoples brains). The closest I can think of is when I did the Laramie Project at Kent. But even then, I still remember that distinct feeling of emptiness.

Sigh. I dunno.

It's not too much to ask to have one good moment in your lifetime to hold onto, is it? A minute is all I need. Just one minute in my life where everything works out fine, where the stars align, Venus is in tune with the moon, and Jupiter is waxing full with Mars in retrograde and yadda yadda yadda.

That's not too much to ask, is it? One minute. Hell, at this point I'd give anything for thirty seconds of pure unadulterated happiness.

...and I've come to the conclusion while writing this that its not really me not acting thats bringing on this melancholy feeling - because Ive had it even while I was onstage.

It's just that I'm so fucking lonely all the time. I mean, I love all my friends to death (except that Ernie guy, for whom I share a mutual hatred). But I crave real companionship. There's that great Chuck Palahniuk quote I love...

"What I want is to be needed. What I need is to be indispensable to somebody. Who I need is somebody that will eat up all my free time, my ego, my attention. Somebody addicted to me. A mutual addiction."

Okay, so that's a little drastic. But the point is the same. It's not just that -I- want someone. I want someone to want -me- too.

This blog entry has gone on for far too long about me being miserable and melancholy and whatever. So I'll go wander off and do something pointless to get my mind off of things.

Fuck You World

2008-01-07T20:09:00.000-06:00

This isn't going to be a happy entry filled with wine and roses. If you're looking for your usual fix of sarcasm and melancholy wit, look elsewhere. This is a rage-filled entry and you have been warned.

I had a slight breakdown today. And by slight I mean I nearly threw myself off the balcony of the show I was watching in all-consuming rage.

So there I was watching Saint Joan (which is one of my favorite plays, and was looking real good from what little I saw) and I suddenly realized that Joan achieved everything she wanted (that is, France's independence, the Dauphin's support, yadda yadda yadda) and I have achieved nothing.

I'm sitting there watching the scene where she meets the Dauphin and all I could think of is - what the fuck am I doing here? I am not who I want to be. I am not where I want to be. I am not doing what I want to be doing. What the fuck is the point of this all. At this point I just got up and walked out of the theatre because I can't bear the sight of seeing other people onstage anymore.

I am so fucking SICK and TIRED of settling for less than the best just because I can't possibly achieve anything better. And I HATE this fact. I fucking HATE the fact that I can't hear. It is the one quality of me that brings on consistent self-loathing and narcissistic rage towards everyone and everything. I HATE that I can't get a decent job because they all require the use of phones.

I HATE that I can't get a promotion at work because it requires the use of walkie-talkies.

I HATE that because I can't get a better job I can't act which is what I really want to be doing.

I HATE that if I ever do get the chance to act, I'll be given P.O.S. roles (or even nothing at all) just because of this goddamned hearing problem and the stupid fucking accent that comes with it.

And I absolutely fucking HATE the fact that there is nothing I can do about it. It's stupid fucking fate that dealt me this lousy goddamned hand and I can't do shit. So right now I just completely and utterly hate the world and everything in it. I hate myself for being unable to do anything about it.

And I really hate people who tell me: "You can do anything you put your mind too." Because you know what? NO, I FUCKING CAN'T.

It's a lousy P.O.S. life and I hate it right now. I moved to Chicago hoping a change of scenery would change my outlook, but I still have the same goddamned problems I did before.

I HATE that I am too goddamned insecure about my hearing that I can't ask girls out anymore because I know that they like to talk on the phones and I can't fucking do it.

I HATE that almost everything I hate about myself is tied to that one solitary thing that I can't change.

I HATE God right now. No matter what form He exists in (if He even exists at all), I'd like nothing more than to give him a swift punch to the face.

I HATE that I'm lonely all the goddammned time because of my stupid fucking insecurities.

I HATE everything and everyone.

So fuck you world. Fuck you up your stupid fucking ass.

Second Place is the First Loser

2008-01-05T13:41:00.001-06:00

No one likes to play second fiddle. And that's all I'm going to say about that.

The job search continues in haste, with not a single response to the several dozen emails with my resume that I've sent. Much the same as it was when I first moved out here. It's wholly depressing to think - "Well, shit. This is it. I cannot get a job better than the one I currently have.

So I've been taking my mind off it enjoying video games on my roommates new Xbox (Rock Band rocks my world), or watching movies, or basically just sitting around doing NOTHING. I start work for CST again next week and am not really looking forward to it, as its just going to be more of the same and I am dying for a challenge.

I love the people there and the atmosphere, don't get me wrong, but I just want to be pushed to do something NEW.

I really don't know what else to write in this blog entry, so I decided to end it with my Top Ten most anticipated movies of 2008.

10. Choke
09. Pineapple Express
08. The Incredible Hulk
07. Hellboy 2: The Golden Army
06. Get Smart
05. Wall-E
04. James Bond
03. Iron Man
02. Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull
01. The Dark Knight

Honorable Mentions: Cloverfield, Where the Wild Things Are, Fanboys, Be Kind Rewind, the Spiderwick Chronicles, Wanted, the Lovely Bones, the Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspain, the Fighter, Zach and Miri Make a Porno, Synecdoche New York

Dishonorable Mention: In the Name of the King: A Dungeon Siege Tale (Uwe Boll should be beaten with a stick).

From this list you can clearly see that I am a geek of the highest order and revel happily in it.

Resolutions are Made to be Broken

2008-01-01T23:22:00.001-06:00

2007 is over with. It marked the beginning of a new stage in my life as I moved to Chicago - and strangely enough many of the problems I had in the 'old stage' followed me to the new one. So here they are, along with my New Years resolutions to fix it.

Im a little tired of being single. I know when I started this blog I said I'd stop bitching about it - but I can't help it. Nothing makes a guy feel lonely like walking down the streets of Chicago in the winter and see all the couples bundled up and huddled together to stay warm. I don't really get the chance to meet that many girls, so I really don't have anyone to blame but myself for this. Not only am I ridiculously picky about the -type- of girl I like, I've also come to the inevitable conclusion that when I DO find a girl I like - I'm far too goddamned shy to actually MAKE a move.

RESOLUTION: Get a date, goddammit.
LIKELIHOOD: Slim.

I still haven't acted in a play that I would consider myself 100% proud to be a part of (the only one I can think of that comes close is the Laramie Project in 2005). In fact, I haven't auditioned for a single thing since I moved to the city. I'm partly put off by a lot of the talent I see here (Blackbird Theatre's auditions only reinforced this) and partly because my job doesn't allow me the time to audition for anything.

RESOLUTION: Audition.
LIKELIHOOD: Moderate.

I have a love-hate relationship with my job. I enjoy the people, but not so much the work. Because I NEED more responsibility. I don't like being the happy worker bee who just puts his head down and follows orders. I want to be the one that does things that the underlings don't get to. I like leading, but at the same time - I know CST will NEVER give me the opportunity to do that. So the job search begins again.

RESOLUTION: Find a 9-5 job that pays well.
LIKELIHOOD: Moderate.

Money, money, money. I suppose a new job could potentially cure that problem - but still - there are too many things I NEED that I don't have. Example: the ability to eat HEALTHY meals.

RESOLUTION: Stop wasting money on fast food.
LIKELIHOOD: Slim-to-none.

Lack of creative spark. I miss being able to write creative stories, plays, poems, songs... The last thing I wrote was a quick song called "Green Eyed Girl" and that was just a simple series of verses that had been running through my head for years. All I did was finally put them down on paper. And the last -REAL- thing I wrote was that 40 page turd of a play for Advanced Playwriting I just churned out to get the assignment done. I wasn't proud of it at ALL.

RESOLUTION: Just write SOMETHING.
LIKELIHOOD: Zero.

I have seen remarkably little of the world. I'd love to go to NY again, since the last time I went was pretty much just for business (grad school auditions) and I didn't get to do anything or see anyone except Grace (who I still miss dearly). I have friends scattered all over the U.S. and across the globe, all of whom I'd love to visit. But as is the common refrain, I lack funds.

RESOLUTION: Win the lottery.
LIKELIHOOD: About the same as me getting a date.

Now that I have a desk, as I mentioned in the previous entry, I can blog more often - which is a phenomenally good thing for those of you that care. Although I went so long without blogging I don't think anyone actually KNOWS that I started blogging again. So you should comment on my blog just so I don't feel like I've lost my entire audience.

RESOLUTION: Blog more.
LIKELIHOOD: High.

And now, just because my blog isn't long enough (I have dreams of one day matching Angela's output) - a survey to commemorate the end of the year.
2007 comes to an end...

1) Where did you begin 2007?
At Aileen, Ryan, and Yolanda's place - which was also the first time I ever visited Chicago.

2) What was your status by Valentine's Day?
Same as it always is. Miserable.

3) Were you in school?
Nope.

4) How did you earn your money?
Chicago Shakespeare Theatre (Front of House, Bookstall) and Things Remembered Fulfillment Center (Data Entry Specialist)

5) Did you have to go to the hospital this year?
I took Danielle there once.

6) Did you have any encounters with the police?
Yes. The infamous singing incident at Perkins where Danimal and I nearly got pistol whipped for singing a Bloodhound Gang song.

7) Where did you go on holidays?
New Years I went to Chicago, and after I moved there - this Christmas I went back home to Ohio.

8) What did you purchase that was over $1,000?
The apartment, I suppose.

9) Did you know anybody who got married?
Darvin, Alistair, and Kayce.

10) Did you know anybody who passed away?
No. First year I was spared that.

11) Did/Do you like someone?
I always do.

12) Did you move anywhere?
Ohio to Chicago!

14) What concerts/shows did you go to?
Too many to list in Ohio - but in Chicago: the Snow Queen (AWFUL), the Toy Chest (okay), How Can You Run With A Shell On Your Back (good), Taming of the Shrew (good), Cymbeline (good), Passion (okay), Farewell Umbrella (good), Tao (great), and Wicked (good).

15) Are you registered to vote?
No. This will change in 2008!

16) Who did you want to win Big Brother?
I didn't watch it. But if I did - I'd root for the hot girl.

17) Where do you live now?
Chicago.

18) Describe your birthday?
Ugh, let's not.

19) What's something you thought you'd never do but did in 2007?
Move to Chicago.

20) What has been your favorite moment?
May 19th, the day I finally moved out of Ohio.

21) Where did you go on vacation?
Chicago and Ohio, I ping-ponged between the two all year, basically.

22) Any new additions to your family?
Nope.

23.) What was your favorite month?
May.

24) How much have you partied?
Surprisingly more than I have in Ohio.

25) Made new friends?
Yes. Special shout-out to Kerry - the best friend I've made in this city.

26) What did you do for 4th of July?
Had a party at the apartment.

27) Favorite Night out?
Lot of great nights out - but not one that sticks out in my mind.

29) Are you in a relationship with someone you met this year?
Sigh.

30) Name something you did in 2007 that you really enjoyed.
(second verse, same as first) Moved to Chicago.

The Inevitable Return of the Great White Dope

2007-12-28T10:02:00.000-06:00

My last blog was posted November 22nd. It is now December 28th. Over a month without blogging! But I have an excuse, faithful readers (many who have probably stopped checking this). I have an excuse, however lame it may be.

When I moved to the apartment I had no desk, table, chair, whatever - so I was forced to type lying down on my bed. It's one of the most awkward positions to try and write from, and I eventually just quit doing it because I would lose the motivation to do so.

BUT! My roommates, to prove their awesomeness (or perhaps to further entrap me in their web) have given me the best Christmas Present - a DESK and a chest of DRAWERS.

I cannot tell you how stupidly excited I was to find out that I had DRAWERS. After months of keeping my clothes in cardboard boxes - I have DRAWERS.

But I also have a desk, which means updates will be more forthcoming.

I do have lots of things I want to write about, but right now - I gotta get my ass out the door and do some errands before the predicted 5-8 inches of snow blankets the city.

Merry Thanksgiving!

2007-11-22T12:43:00.001-06:00

As tradition holds, while everyone else is putting up "Things I Am Thankful For" lists up on Thanksgiving, I instead have chosen the past four years to instead blog about things I am NOT thankful for.

1. People not communicating important things to me (at work, at home, wherever).
2. Bill Belichick.
3. The media's continual labeling of Ron Paul as a "longshot candidate" despite his ridiculous fundraising numbers.
4. The media's continual ignoring of other candidates that represent different (but VALID) viewpoints (Dennis Kuchinich, Mike Gravel, etc.)
5. Hillary "Aryan" Clinton.
6. Rudy "9/11" Guiliani.
7. CTA.
8. Work just being stupid.
9. Not acting.
10. Lack of money.
11. Lack of furniture.
12. Lack of good food (today being an obvious exception).
13. Stupid landlord and her stupid policy on heat/radiators.
14. The shower that continually switches from hot to cold to scalding to freezing whenever I'm trying to relax.
15. Stupid people.
16. Dumb people.
17. Idiotic people.
18. Banjo players.
19. President Dick Cheney and Vice President George W. Bush.
20. And as always, my last thing I am not thankful for: Women. Because you are all black hearted temptresses after my pure white innocent soul.

Ten Things I Think I Think

2007-11-17T23:44:00.000-06:00

1. Porthouse Theatre is doing Alice this year. Those familiar with me know my obsession with Lewis Carrol's book and now I am seriously considering auditioning for it. The only downside is that I moved to Chicago to get OUT of Ohio, so it seems a bit contradictory to go back... It would only be for two months or so, though... I'll have to think on it.

2. I absolutely positively need new headshots. I refuse to audition for any plays until I get them.

3. Sometimes I feel my obsession with getting new headshots is more of me being a little too scared to audition in Chicago. Truth is... yes, I am. I'm incredibly paranoid about the discrimination I will face, and after the disaster that was Othello - I completely lack any sort of confidence in my acting ability. It didn't help that I don't feel I've done anything GOOD since Autobahn/God of Hell.

4. Cleveland Browns will make the playoffs. It is entirely conceivable they can finish 12-4. Yes, you read that right. Cleveland Browns. 12-4.

5. Come January I'll be looking for a second part time job. Mostly because I need some way to pay for those headshots. I can't look for a job now simply because I'm heading back to Ohio for Christmas. I just feel I need something to supplement the little income I'm getting from CST. And also because if I ever AM cast in a show in Chicago, I won't be able to work evenings at CST... And therefore will go broke quickly.

6. The neighbors downstairs are having a party and they are blasting the bass. It is loud. If it is loud to me... My roommates didn't really bother to update me on anything that goes on in the complex so I was completely confused when the party started. I will exact my revenge on them somehow! My roommates, not the partygoers.

7. I wish I was at the party.

8. I have finally found a great Chicago friend who is NOT from Kent. This makes me happy. What also makes me happy is Shelby and Adam moving to the city next month. More drinking friends!

9. I'm a little pissed at Daryl being fired from the bar at CST. He was one of my favorite people there, and it was always great fun hanging out with him. I also feel like a dick for not going to either of his "Daryl got Canned" parties. Being sick/hungover/both sucks.

10. I have been hungover more times in Chicago than I ever was in Ohio. This means Chicago is a much better party town than anyplace in Ohio. Which means its just a better place overall. It also means that people at CST are all alcoholics. And I am too.

11 (Bonus!) . Dennis Kucinich's retort to the follow question/statement at the debate was genius. Moderator: "You voted against the Patriot Act --" Dennis: "That's because I read it."

Ron Paul is Money

2007-11-06T20:09:00.000-06:00

Ron Paul raised 4.2 million dollars online in a single day yesterday. This is more than anyone else. Ever. I'm proud to be one of those donors. I have NEVER donated to ANY candidate EVER. This is how much I believe in what Dr. Paul stands for.

Only Clinton has a bigger single day total at 6.2 or something. I think Barack might have a bigger single day total as well. But these were
both raised at fundraisers sponsored by the campaigns. Paul's 4.2 million dollar money-bomb was a grassroots campaign.

Thats right. The so-called "Ron Paul Spammers" all got together, and we all gave as much as they could to the campaign. The campaign didn't organize it. We did. We, the so called Paulities who won't give him any real support other than ranting on message boards.

I think the official count of number of donors was somewhere between 35-36 thousand.

Yeah, we'll see what happens now. I hope, at the very least, Paul is given a fair shake at the next debate instead of being tossed by the wayside with two minutes while pandering politicans like Guiliani play to the masses with their fifteen minutes of time.

Ha. Like that'll happen. Fucking media.

Come November 12th when I have a week off from work - I am going to register to vote. As a Republican.

I never in my life ever thought I'd vote as a republican. But Paul (and his message) have instilled a hope for American politics in me - and I can't let it go to waste.

Even if Dr. Paul doesn't score the Republican Nomination, and chooses NOT to seek out a third-party nomination for the presidency, you can bet I'm writing his name in.

I'm also still trying to find a copy of Dr. Paul's new book...

In other news, it's all but certain that I'm getting a raise at CST. Go me! The delay is apparently because they are trying to come up with a sufficient 'title' for me.

I've been bugging the boss about letting me do some of the more boring things she does for her. Stuff like weekly spreadsheets, inventory, etc. I still have a lot of free time, but I'm hoping to get more things to do. I start training some other people to work the bookstall this week as well. Mostly in case I get sick and have to call off.

I'm naturally a little paranoid about it, as I dont want to give up my hours and I vastly perfer doing bookstall to any sort of FOH duties. VASTLY.

I've been writing for NaNoWriMo during my excessive free time at the bookstall (but too annoyed with the general slowness of the website to update any further) - and have hit a roadblock. Why am I not surprised that less than a week into it, I've hit writer's block? At least I have more than six pages this time (my last count was 14).

Guy Fawkes Day came and went, and I didn't celebrate it. I felt like I should have. Maybe next year for Guy Fawkes Day I'll copy the legions of television fans that send in random food items to the networks to save their cancelled shows and try and get a couple thousand people to send boxes of tea to Not-My-President Bush.

I'll probably get arrested and end up being waterboarded, but it'll be worth it if I get to say: "Can I have a crumpet?" in the middle of my torture session.

I'll probably break soon after, but what the hey.

I keep ignoring the Greenpeace people that bug me whenever I walk down Broadway - because they all smell like hippies. If Greenpeace wants me to sign something, they need to hire some people that don't look like stoners. I like to tell them, "No thank you, I support industrial pollution." just to see what their faces look like as I pass them by.

Radiohead's In Rainbows was fantastic. For those of you that don't know, they are offering it on their website for FREE. Well, actually, you can pay as much as you want. From $0.00 to whatever. Trent Reznor has followed suit, and I plan to download that album as soon as I get a chance.

Especially since In Rainbows rocked.

I've kind of realized my writing style has gone to shit. I just don't feel that it is as sharp and biting as it used to be. I also find that I am not cursing as much.

I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad one.

Lastly, for my Ohio readers, I'll be back in the state around Christmas. You should plan parties in my honor. You know you want to.

The Revolution Will Not Be Televised

2007-10-27T13:14:00.000-05:00

I'm currently sitting at work typing on the computer because there are long periods in which I have very little to do. I know I've mentioned in this blog that I would like a raise or a title - but I think I would also like some more responsibility. Amanda and Martin have been great about giving me things to do, and I really don't think there's much else they can give me to do.

It's just that I finish things fairly fast and then end up sitting on my ass for the next six hours waiting for intermission, post-show, pre-show, whatever so I can sell things. At first glance you might think: "Hey! You get paid for doing nothing!" And that is cool.

But then you realize that you do nothing for inordinate amounts of time. For someone like me, who needs to be DOING things (whether it is watching TV or what-have-you) - this job can get tedious real fast. Which is why I like days like Thursday when we get new shipments of books that I can enter in.

So I pass the time on the internet, watching game scores update on espn.com (which is no substitute for real televised games) and wishing I was rich enough to afford one of those fancy new cell phones that gets satellite TV.

I joined NaNoWriMo again. This time Im planning on writing more than six pages. You can track my progress here. We'll see how long I last this time... There isn't anything now because it doesn't start until November. 50,000 words in one month. Can it be done?

Probably not. But Im hoping it'll at least kick me out of my writer's block so I can write plays again. The fact that I haven't been able to write any stories since Perdition might hurt me, but in the long wrong I think I'll be okay. If nothing else, I'll use my trick of repetitive sentences to prove my point.

Because it proves my point.

See what I mean?

Workouts at Bally's have been intense. My personal trainer, Dave (who looks like Captain America) seems to take an almost sadistic pleasure in watching me slowly exhaust every single muscle in my body. Not that I blame him. If I was a personal trainer I'd be doing the same thing.

But I'm already starting to see results - my pecs look slightly more defined - and I'm beginning to see some definition in my abs again. So I guess it is working. Even if it means I am unable to lift my arms over my head for two days after working out, it'll all work out in the end.

There's been a lot of hub-bub in the news media, across conservative and liberal websites, and whatnot about the Ron Paul Revolution being a bunch of computer savvy morons who just spam polls.

I am here to state that I do not spam polls, and I truly do believe in what Ron Paul stands for in his less-is-more stance on government. Somewhere along the way the true meaning of "conservative" was lost and it got hijacked by liberals who took it and warped it for their own purposes. And now we're left with fascimiles of what "liberalism" and "conservatism" means.

And somewhere along the way politicans forgot to read the Constitution of the United States of America. Ron Paul (or Dr. No as he is known - for voting against anything that is contradictory to the Constitution) seems to me like a fresh start and a great new beginning for American Politics.

Only one problem. The media, is run by Republocrats or Demolicans who stand to gain NOTHING from a Ron Paul victory. So they refuse to give him equal time in debates and often don't even invite him. And yet, when Colbert decides he's running - they all go up in arms about unbalanced screen time.

Bravo Colbert, for pointing out hypocrisy in your most satirical way. I hope you win the Presidency and show the politicians how utterly pointless their jobs are by making a mockery of this fake Democracy we currently possess.

Bravo for Dr. Paul for sticking to his guns and refusing to cowtow to the mass media or the ill-advised rants of the masses of political lemmings.

And Bravo for anyone who supports Dr. Paul (or Colbert, even in satire).

But a big hearty BOO for the media for failing to realize that the internet, in all its unfiltered glory is where the future lies. Sticking to your talking-head opinion news will be the death of you, no matter how much you try to sanction or censor the last bastion of free speech we have left. You old fogeys, you baby-boomer culture, you who don't recognize the true power of the internet - your days are numbered. You don't have to televise the Ron Paul Revolution - we're gaining steam without you.

And we may not win this year, but every year we will gain new followers of disenchanted true red-white-and-blue Americans and you will find yourselves left behind coughing in the smoking exhaust of the new millenieum as it passes you by.

For those of you not in the know, I won't pretend to be a political expert. But I urge you to instead use the internet to find out your own information instead of listening to Matthews, or O'Reilly, or Rivera, or Hannity, or whoever else you watch on your late-night news source. I ask only this:

Google Ron Paul

Absorb what the man stands for and then make your own decision. There might be one or two points you might not agree with, and that's fine. But look over his position as a whole - don't make knee-jerk reactions to something you hate.

"Think, pig!" -Waiting for Godot

Hang On Sloopy, Sloopy Hang On...

2007-10-23T00:53:00.000-05:00

There are three things in this world that are certain. Death, taxes, and Cleveland breaking my heart.

But I take solace in one thing: Cleveland fans are the greatest fans in the world.

You can shout all you want in favor of Boston or the Cubs. But it's just simply not true. For one, Boston has had the Patriots and the Celtics to ease the passage through winter. Chicago has had the Bulls and Da Bears to do the same.

But us Cleveland fans... what do we have?

We have the Drive, the Fumble, the Shot, the Shot II, Red Right 88, the Helmet, Jose Mesa, Art Modell, Bottlegate, the Catch, and now we can add whatever awful moniker Sunday night's Game Seven is going to acquire.

The Double-That-Never-Was? (Kenny was safe, as the replays clearly showed. But how fitting that it was Kenny who had to suffer through it. Our Kenny, the last remaining link of the Choke in '97.)

To be a Cleveland fan means heartache and misery beyond what any other sports fan will know. And that is why Cleveland fans are the best fans in the nation. We're loyal to a fault, almost to the point of insanity. I am convinced that God hates Cleveland sports.

There's not other rational explanation for it. God hates Cleveland sports.

I mean, he gives us the next Michael Jordan in Lebron James. Who promptly shows up to a Cleveland Indians game to support that team.

Here he is. The face of Cleveland sports, and look what he wears with pride.

I'm not sure what Cleveland ever did to God to deserve this, but frankly - it's no longer funny.

So this is my plea to the supreme being, who is probably much too busy to read my blog - but dear God, I would like to see Cleveland win sometime before I die.

I don't care what they win, as long as Lebron has no part of it. I was on the fence with the kid before, since I knew of his allegiance to the Cowboys, but supporting that team pushed me over the edge. I don't want him. The people I want in Cleveland are the ones who care about the city, and understand the fans. Joe Jurevicius, LeCharles Bentley, Kenny Lofton, those guys...

Those are the players that understand what the city is all about, and why being a Cleveland fan is so hard.

But I am proud of Cleveland fans. We're not bandwagon jumpers, because we've never had a wagon to ride. We're the fans that stick with our teams through thick and thin (mostly thin) and we know our time is coming. Because it HAS to come soon. God can't hate us that much, can he?

Can he?

Our hope for this year now lies in the hands of Derek Andersen and the Cleveland Browns - off to a 3-3 record, and thinking playoff shot. Can they do it? I believe so.

I believe because I am a Cleveland fan.

But I'm damned if I'm ever going to root for Lebron again.

On Temporal Warp Zones and Crazy Old Men

2007-10-21T09:01:00.001-05:00

Random Chicago Crazy moment of the week.

Last night, working in the bookstall at Chicago Shakespeare Theatre - I met up with a man who was both rich and crazy, therefore putting him above the echelons of the normal street crazies you run into any time of the week.

Here I was, helping people out (and selling a new record amount of merchandise) - when the old guy comes up to me with a pair of books. I ring them up and take his credit card. Swipe goes the credit card.

Machine doesn't accept it. Says the date is entered invalid.

Swipe. Same thing.

I check the date and it expired in November of 2006.

"Sir," I say, "Did you know your credit card is expired?"

"No it's not," comes the reply.

"Yes it is, it expired in November of last year."

"No it didn't." He replies and snatches the card from my hands and looks over it. "See? It doesn't expire until November of 2006."

"Sir, it's 2007."

"No it isn't."

"I'm afraid it is, sir."

"No it isn't!" Here is where it gets weird because at this point he starts GROWLING at me and then switches to a language that may or may not be ancient Aramic. "NGRUINGIRENGGR!" he says.

"Pardon?" quoth I.

"GNRIUNGRIIRN!!! All the other stores take it! Therefore it hasn't expired!"

"I'm sorry, but my credit card reader won't accept it..."

"GRKRGKPORGEPGR!" He growls at me again.

"Pardon?" quoth I.

"RAAAAAAAARGH!" He slams his fist on the counter and stomps off leaving me slightly confused and bewildered. Especially because he was absolutely convinced in his logic that other stores take the credit card, so it must be 2006.

So maybe I come from the future and my job is a temporal warp zone... Because some days it sure feels like time slows down. Or maybe I can bend time and space. That would be awesome.

Brand New Day

2007-10-19T21:14:00.000-05:00

If you search through the interwebs, you will most likely come across one of at least seven different blogs I've maintained over the past five years. As of today, I have made the decision to close the last one down - my livejournal will no longer be updated - and transition over to this; a new (and hopefully final) blog.

So, to all my loyal readers (all three of you) from livejournal - welcome to my new blog. And to all new readers - welcome to this little slice of my life.

It is fitting in a way, as this new blog marks a new chapter in my life. Under normal circumstances I would say the new chapter in my life began in May when I moved to Chicago from Ohio - but in reality it began three days ago when I have come to some important conclusions about my life and the way I am going to choose to live it from now on.

First came the assigning of priorities. I moved to Chicago in May to act, and other than one audition to see what the heck 'movement auditions' were, I have done NOTHING to achieve my goal of gaining experience in acting. That ended two days ago when I decided that the ten dollars that I was putting aside with each paycheck would no longer be going towards purchasing furniture. Owning a bed and a dresser would be nice, but it will not help me achieve my goal.

Instead, the three hundred+ dollars that I had saved up for a bed went straight to the local gym where I signed up for a two-year membership as well as the services of a personal trainer. Anyone who tells you that "it shouldnt matter how you look" is woefully deluded. Theatre, over all other possible jobs - your appearance matters more than anything.

Plus, I miss my abs. I used to have gloriously Norton-in-Fight-Club-esque abs. But they are all but gone now. I will soon be getting them back, however, by working with Dave (my personal trainer than looks like freaking Captain America) - and by also taking it a step further and returning to the Navy SEALS training plan that had me at my healthiest during my last year of college.

I attended my first personal training session on Friday, as a matter of fact, and I don't think I've ever had a harder 15-minute workout in my life. A combination of cardio, resistance, and yoga methods - my arms and shoulders feel like they are going to shrivel up and die.

No pain, no gain.

Second, after the assigning of priorities comes to realigning of my mental attitude. The past month I've been extraodinarily miserable and overly dramatic about it. I don't know why, but I haven't been adhering to my life philosophy: "Drink life as it comes - straight no chaser."

That is - just take life as it comes at you - don't stress out over things you can't change. Live passive and relaxed and nonchalant and your life will be better. Worry and stress and other such things are pointless to the extreme.

So, I'm rededicating myself to being that guy who can't be fazed by anything that is thrown at him.

I am going to be the motherfucking Fonz again.

Cool as all get out, no?

And, yes, this means I am going to quit being a little bitch and whine every five minutes about my lack of a significant other. If it's meant to happen, it will happen. That's all there is to it.

And it will eventually happen. You know why? Because I'm going to be the motherfuckin' Fonz. And the Fonz always gets the girl(s).

Thirdly, I've been spending far too much time inside my apartment watching television. I usually wake up at nine or ten and don't have to be at work until 6. That's over seven hours where I've just been sitting and brooding and watching shitty television.

The Contemporary Museum of Art is free until mid-November, from the way I understand it. So I am planning on spending some time there or doing something else fun and cheap. I need to get OUT. I live in one of the greatest cities in the world - and I have yet to experience any of it outside of a few small tourist spots.

So, my third goal is to get my ass out into the world.

The last of my decisions revolves around my job. I like what I do and I like the people I work for. But as of right now, despite all their talk - they have yet to give me a title or a raise. If, by the time we return after the month-long break in December, I have yet to hear anything new about either a title or a pay raise, then I will be forced to start searching for something new.

Which saddens me, because Chicago Shakespeare Theatre is a great place to work (and not just because of free champagne Thursdays) - and I don't want to leave. But I will have to. My roommates pay far more rent than I do, and I need to be able to pull my weight there in addition to being able to do all the things I need to do. Like gym memberships. And headshots. Boy, do I need new headshots.

So there it is, friends (and enemies). The start of a brand new blog on a brand new day with a brand new attitude designed to make me happy and content.

At least until some asshole ruins it.