Wardrobe

I have a feeling a feeling that very soon, my wardrobe will consist of nice clothing for formal events (Meaning, some button-down shirts, a few nice pairs of pants, and some jackets), and then a collection of Natalie Dee, Married to the Sea, and Jinx t-shirts.

I'm becoming the man I was always meant to be.

September 15th. Trip back to NYC

Just past midnight on the 15th of September. Sitting on the curb of a parking lot near a restaurant called "Baxter's" in Bloomington, Illinois. Jeans. Shoes. Three layers of shirts to keep my warmth in place. Crickets chirp and Drunks cackle. I'm not sure where either is coming from.

I'm waiting for the airport to open at 3:30am. I've never heard of an airport closing, but I've never lived in Bloomington, Illinois. So fuck me. I was hoping to get some sleep in the airport before my flight, but that's not happening. Maybe an hour or so. For now I am just sitting here watching an insect I don't know the name of trying to climb up the curb and falling backwards on his ass every time.. It beats Glenn Beck.

Glenn Beck. You undigested wad of animal fur, bone, and feces.

3:50 am (ish) (4:50 am NYC time)

Close to 3:50 am, sitting in the now open and ostensibly god-forsaken airport. Bought a 3 Musketeers and a pop-tart. Washing it down with my bottle of Diet Mountain Dew. Getting strange looks from the staff. You know, because I'm probably here to bomb the shit out of the place. Right. I'm doing a poor job of blending in if that's the case. One of them, an older gent with a beer belly and a sour puss is up on the balcony level, watching me. I waved at one point. He gave me a half-nod and a turn away that whispered "fuck off". Just a whisper though, so maybe I'm merely going crazy again.

4:19 am (5:19 am NYC time)

Just checked my bag. Waste of $20. Also just saw some old lady totally get owned by a self-check-in machine. Everyone else did perfectly well when put up against said machine. This only further proves my theory that machines aren't out to destroy all of mankind. Just the old people.

4:50 am (5:50 am NYC time)

Made it through the cacophonous maelstrom that is airport security pre-5 am in Bloomington, Illinois. Day's just begun and already the security staff are being yelled at by a crazy. I pretend that the unfortunate display of immaturity isn't happening as I scrutinize a shrine to the "Eureka Capture +" vacuum cleaner that has been placed for my easy-viewing in the middle of the small collection of gates.

Pukishly pristine plastic encasing dozens of small moving parts all designed to break down within a year or so. Pearl white trim outlining the unyieldingly yellow body. Every inch of its existence bellowing, "I AM YOUR GOD. AND BOY, DO I SUCK."

8:06 am (NYC time from now on)

Mid-flight. Bye bye Bloomington. Hello, Detroit. Am I the only person who looks at the aftermath of blowing his nose into a tissue? That's weird, right?

9:45 am

There is a tunnel underneath a airport in the city of Detroit, Michigan. It is said that this tunnel is a passageway used by women and men alike to traverse from Concourses B and C, to Concourse A.

Well, what is said and what is the truth can sometimes be oh so different.

In reality, this tunnel is home to the world's most awkwardly located gay bar. Simply called The Fuck-me-tron. Where the sounds of campy electronica rush at you like a drunken European football crowd and the walls trade flashes of creeping yellow, dominating red, sobering blue, calming green, and fucking pink. The only drawback to this wonderland of color and potential homoerotica, is having drunken pilots constantly crashing the party. But then again, the night isn't complete unless you've taken home a drunken pilot. Right boys?

I'm serious, this place exists. I have seen it.

10:48 am

Saw that Patrick Swayze had died while I watched Good Mourning America in Detroit's airport.

H&P

JOIS

Oh, hey, there's people on the porch.

She opens the porch door and hovers in the doorframe.

Hey people on the porch.

A few "Hey's", "Hi's", and a "What up?" are heard.

...are you guys freshmen?

FRESHMAN

Yeah.

JOIS

Ah. I'm Jois.

FRESHMAN

Hi Jois.

JOIS

Great. See ya later, Freshmen.

FRESHMAN

Bye, Jois.

Jois walks back inside and closes the screen porch door.

JOIS

Who the fuck ARE these people?! Why are there so many God Damned freshmen here?

September 10th. Trip to Illinois

Wandering through JFK on no sleep. I see piles of humanity laid across tables snoring their way through the tedious clean of the marble floors. The pale light of the men's room. The grumble of the crowd waiting to get on the plane.

Everything pulses and blurs as the touch of my shoes sounds alarming reverberations around me. I yawn. My eyes close. I snap awake, sitting down near my gate, refusing to allow myself the stupidity of missing this flight.

And it's all worth it.

It's 2:47 pm. Detroit, Michigan. I've convinced a not-at-all-belligerent worker at Einstein Bros. Bagels to sell me a sandwich. Egg, sausage, and cheese. That and the hour or so of sleep I stole on the plane have perked me up enough to enjoy the muted CNN on the TV screen across the aisle. Which is a sad, sad state of affairs.

3:21 pm (4:21 pm NYC time)

Each time we land whenever I ride a plane, I'm hit with the realization that I should have been shitting myself the entire time. Somehow I never understand how thin the line is between me, inside a metal tube, and a horrible death. Until we are safely landed and I'm on my way.

It's 5:51 am. I'm packing items into a suitcase too large for a 5 day trip with shards of this song ripping through my attention span.

Dance Music - The Mountain Goats

Not that that's a bad thing. Those guys are fucking epic. I can't remember having such a visceral reaction to a band before. John Darnielle's lyrics are simple, honest, and gut-wrenching. And I could listen to them all day. I mean, damn. Here's another one for you to listen to once and make a split-second judgement of.

Sax Rohmer #1 - The Mountain Goats

I head off to Illinois in approximately 3 hours. My flight is out of JFK at 12:30pm, but I'm leaving my apartment at 9am because I really don't want to miss this flight. I'll have a lay-over in Detroit where I hope not to get shived repeatedly, but instead, have a nice sandwich or something. Chances of either happening are pretty much the same.

Quit my dayjob officially a day or two ago. I'll be on the road doing another TheatreworksUSA tour for october, november, and december. Hopefully, I won't need to go back. No me gustan los dayjobs. Los dayjobs son crap.

Up to number 79 in my 101 things to do in 1001 days. I'm almost there. I could fill the rest of it up with stuff I don't actually care about, but what's the use of that?

Currently watching the copy of High Fidelity I rented from Blockbuster 3 years ago and never returned. Oh John Cusack, teach us once again the way from boyhood to manhood.

And the sun rises once again over the hope-filled, urine-stained alleys of Harlem. The time is currently 6:19am

Ryan LaMont and Chris Norwood are...

KITTY JO & THE TWATWAFFLING WEREWOLVES

With their self-titled debut album featuring the tracks:

-Lukewarm & Tepid

-Big Spoon, Little Spoon, Let's Have Sex

-Hipster Dinosaur

AND

-If You've Got a Fork, You Can Tap It

That one's own district is unsophisticated and unpolished is a great treasure. Imitating another style is simply a sham.

A certain man said to the priest Shungaku, "The Lotus Sutra Sect's character is not good because it's so fearsome."

Shungaku replied, "It is by reason of its fearsome character that it is the Lotus Sutra Sect. If its character were not so, it would be a different sect altogether." This is reasonable.

-Hagakure

"The country was in peril; he was jeopardizing his traditional rights of freedom and independence by daring to exercise them"

"Someone had to do something sometime. Every victim was a culprit, every culprit a victim, and somebody had to stand up sometime to try to break the lousy chain of inherited habit that was imperiling them all."

-Joseph Heller

Give and Take

So, Monday night comes along and I get home from a night shift at work. I'm ready to go home, enjoy a sandwich, some chips maybe. Who knows?

Enter my apartment at 10:45pm and walk over to the door of my room. It's locked. Which is an impossibility in my mind seeing as there is no official key to that door. I'm able to shimmy the lock open, congratulations lock, you're useless. And step inside.

My windows are wide open. Shit is moved around in my room. And some key items are now missing. Like a PS3, a PSP, a case of DVDs, and my laptop with everything I've written over the past month and a half on it. Gone. Fantastic. Long story shortened, the police come, take fingerprints. I file a report. All that. A detective called and talked to me today about it. Very nice man. Very nicely told me that I'd never see these items again. Which is exactly what I expected. So yeah, that was fun.

BUT

That day I also received some wonderful gifts. Look at them below!

The first is a portrait of myself drawn by my friend Greg. I think he was overwhelmed by the pools of mystery and romance that are my eyes. So he drew them closed. Oh well.

The second is a little note my friend margarette gave me after learning I'd been robbed. How sweet. Thank you Margarette.

So yeah. The day takes, the day gives. What else can I expect?

Monologue (?)

Have you ever had one of those moments when you can feel everything? Your entire being is hit with what feels like a shovel to the head and you're left there, mezmorized. Every breeze, every sound feels like the beginning of the world and you're the one person lucky enough to be in the middle of it all.

I'm not sure if I've ever believed in God. Or any of those other higher beings who I've been too lazy to check out. But I know, I really believe that there is something happening here that I can't understand. Or, if I can understand it, I'm sure I'm not ready to handle it.

Once, when I was nine, my mom and dad were arguing and I went downstairs to the kitchen to nuzzle myself into this make-shift hiding place I had created under our sink. But, on the way I noticed that the back door was partly open. That door was never open. We even had bits of bright orange tape on the floor, encircling it. I would sit at the kitchen table some mornings and stare at that tape. It was like a ward. Every glance at that little semi-circle of tape made my heart beat against my ribs like a caged gorilla. And now, there it was. There was light coming through. I could feel the air coming in and brushing up against me. I awkwardly waddled over, reached out my hand, and grabbed the edge of the rotting wood door. It was weightless. I took a breath and stretched the opening further and further until there was nothing between me and the world.

I had never seen the sun before. Not like this. There was nothing beyond that doorway but sky. I could look straight down and see the Harbor splashing up towards me. I got hit with that shovel and couldn't do anything but breathe. No distractions, no wounds, not even any excitement. Just an overwhelming feeling that I was in the center of the world. That......whatever it is that's out there...was watching. It was living in front of me, breathing with me, showing me something achingly beautiful. Telling me that it was, and still is possible. That it, whatever it is, was there. And, even though I haven't felt it since then, I hope that it knows how grateful I am for it.

Favorite Quote of the Evening

"I think the trick is to not read a blog about cakes for more than one hour at a time."

-Dylan Thompson

Yay

Work today = snobsville

Population - Those assholes

Fucking Ghosts.

Slumping

walk walk walk. Take in the sights. Watch the people skip along. Wish you could take a picture to prove you were really there. Listen to that song for the 34th time. Pick yourself up. How many steps do I have to take before I sweat out this bile?


"Somedays aren't yours at all. They come and go as if they were someone else's days. They come and leave you behind someone else's face. And it's harsher than yours. And colder than yours."

It's Time

I'm going back to D&D next week. It has been far too long.

WATCH THIS

Tommy Carpenter

He stared as the life was siphoned out of him. From where he stood he could feel the world turning about him, using him as an axis for it's own purposes. That's how it had always been. Tommy Carpenter wasn't the fighting type.

Until he felt the urge to breathe. Churning up from the very pit of his stomach, the need to suck in sweet oxygen took his body forward towards the air in front of him. His heart rang in his ears as the plastic formed its seal around his mouth; the condensation took shelter around the bridge of his slight nose, behind his round ears, and inside the dark mediterranean circles under his brown eyes. If he had hair, it would have been drenched with sweat, but as it was, his pale head just glistened with moisture and regret.

His mind clashed with his body. There was nothing else outside of these two unimaginably powerful titans fighting for dominance over him. The veins in his arms pulsed, muscles contracted, eyes blurred, lungs burned, toes gripped, and legs gave out. He didn't feel his body hit the floor, he couldn't feel the gray-blue rug rub against his pale skin, all there was was the urge to breathe, the fear of breathing, and the plastic bag wrapped around his shimmering pale head.

His fingertips found the area where his open mouth should have been and began their desperate assault. Digging, tearing, ripping. His hands flew to the back of his head and grasped the edge of the plastic as his vision began going black. His muscles ached. His hands moved on their own around his skull until finally the plastic peeled off, the air filled his lungs and then left in a coughing fit.

He remained on the floor on all fours breathing for a full minute as the tears ran down his red cheeks to join the pool of sweat and saliva collected on the gray-blue rug of his bedroom. For the rest of the night, he wept like a lost child.

First

He woke to the sound of breath. The sheets draped over him like good thoughts and warm embraces. His eyes took in the feel of the room. They sipped on the honeysuckle light that tentatively dripped in through the large window. Across from him were posters of old movies. Films that changed the world in their own very unique way. Eraserhead. Harold and Maude. La Dolce Vita. A wild chaotic scrapbook of genius that could have overwhelmed almost anything. Except for the soft breathing nearby. The sound of those breaths reverberated throughout his entire being. He rolled over in bed and looked toward the light.

She stood with a blanket wrapped loosely over her slight frame. Strands of hair flowed up and over the ridge of cloth and goose feathers. She bathed in the morning as he slowly got out of bed and walked over to her. She didn't need to turn around. He didn't need to wrap his arms around her. She didn't need to hear him say that he loved her. But they did it anyway. She looked up at him with Egyptian eyes and when she kissed him, the honeysuckle light rejoiced with envy. Then, they both turned to the window and watched as the sun created reflections of people on the windows of the building across the street.

She smelled of green apple and first love. She tasted of peaches and wildfire.

She opened up the blanket and brought him inside. His hands brushed over her contours like prayer. He took hold of the blanket as she curled herself into him. Whispering through his chest, into his core. They didn't want love; They wanted each other. They hadn't lost their virginity; They had found something sacred. Again, she looked up at him with Egyptian eyes.

"We're in trouble, aren't we?" She asked.

"...Yeah." He replied.

Thank GOD

You spend the beginning of a summer wondering if anything interesting is gonna happen. You spend a spring freaking out because it feels like worlds are falling apart. You spend long days and nights wondering what you've learned from all of the events of the past 6 months. Then, you realize that it's all just too big to understand until you've lived it. You look at where you are at this exact moment:

In the living room of an apartment you signed a lease on less than 3 months ago. You're typing on your computer while sitting on the couch that has now become your HQ. The suitcase is lying about 2 feet away full of all your clothes. You're thinking about all the shit you have to move out of here in a very short time. And then you realize that you don't actually own very much of anything. Just your soul. And finally. FINALLY, that means something to you. That actually feels like enough. Everything is a mess, but you've realized that you'll be ok. You always are...even if you're not.

For a while there. I thought the world was just full of crazies. Not surprisingly, I was wrong. There are actually solid people in the world. Many of them are my friends. Damn, you guys are great.

Saw a production of Shaina Taub's The Daughters, on Thursday evening. Great time. I couldn't hear all of the lyrics all of the time, but it was a crazy setup. And, I mean, when you're performing anything just in front of music stands, you never get the whole grasp of a piece. It's just this raw being, ready to be molded. Good stuff.

I think I've found somewhere to live starting in August. Thank GOD. I was beginning to think that I was straight up screwed. But it's on 181st and Fort Washington in Inwood. Or is it still Washington Heights. Doesn't matter. All I know is that I love it up here. Things are looking up. I'm excited. let's get going.

"It was ever in the desert that the truthful have dwelt."
-Thus Spoke Zarathustra

The Barricade Part 2

Ok, so the building is still here, and I, a little drunker than when I first started the day, am back inside of it. I'll be honest, I half expected the building to be an absolute mess when I got back tonight. But oh well, enough drama for one day.

Went to work. Had a crazy day there. Then went out to this place called The Coliseum, which is a hang out for the staff at the restaurant I work at after our shift is over, usually at night though. Solid times shootin' the shit.

On the way home, I was listening to Garbage. I haven't listened to that band since I was in 8th grade. I think one or two of their songs may actually sound good on acoustic guitar with the style slightly twisted. I should give it a try.

I am currently working on a few things when it comes to theater. One is a new round of TheatreworksUSA auditions that have suddenly fallen into my lap. TheatreworksUSA is a good company. I really enjoyed my last tour with them. You are technically an Assistant Stage Manager as well as a cast member, but hey, it's a job. I'm happier doing that than I am waiting tables. I also may be in Wisconsin this July in a production of Little Women. More on that if it actually happens.

As for the writing. I am talking to a new theater company in Astoria Queens about producing my first one-act entitled, The One Where the Dad is Dead. The play deals with questions of Identity, mostly revolving around family and how people view their role in a family. And also the question of what is my family?

I also just finished the first draft of my first full-length play entitled Carpenter's Son. If someone were to ask me what that play is about, I'd say "Responsibility, in the existentialist sense of the word." How our choices actually affect the world around us. How even running away from your choices is a choice. Plus, it's a love story. My version of a love story, anyway. I'll be tweaking that one until I can put together a staged reading sometime soon. Thinking about possible casting, my friend Joanna comes to mind playing the mother. Joanna writes a blog called Cozy Josie's Brooklyn Beat. She's great. I don't know if I'll be around enough this summer just yet, but I would love to have it read out loud and get feedback. Last time I had a feedback session, it went really well and some good rewrites were produced from it.

The new project I'm working on is under a folder in my computer titled Lonely Hearts. But I don't think I'm gonna be using that as the title. Just doesn't click for me. But then again, it was the first thing that came into my head. This one-act is inspired by the idea of loneliness in NYC. Two people thrown together with two different ways of dealing with their isolation. Thinking about it right now, I can see how Brilliant Traces by Cindy Lou Johnson could be a big influence on this one-act. I'll have to see if I can bring something new to the very basic concept of two people finding each other in a sea of onstensibly hostile faces.

"'This is my way; where is yours?' - thus I answered those who asked me 'the way'. For the way - that does not exist."
- Thus Spoke Zarathustra

Barricade

The NYPD are currently right outside the apartment across from mine wearing full riot gear. They are attempting to coax a man out of his apartment before they have to bust the door in. I've been watching on and off for about an hour now while I try to write. I hope something happens before I have to get ready for work. If there's a door being busted in, I wanna see it. Weeeiiiird.