christastrophe

This is so dumb. Do you know why this is so dumb? I will tell you, and then there will be tears.

This is dumb because it is a livejournal entry that I am writing because a discussion kind of flared up in the comments thread of a Facebook update and I felt like I needed more room to express myself. I swear to God if my grandfather understood any of this he'd slap me silly. I don't think he's ever once pulled "in my day" bullcrap, but I just feel like this would be the thing where he tells me about how things used to be when Men were Men and then The Slapping Begins. Actually, I think he would just break down in violent sobs.

Anyhoo

The thing is, I haven't seen The Hangover, not out of some outright boycott or anything. Just didn't interest me. The whole "wacky outrageous gross-out" thing just isn't my total cup of tea. I will cop to my elitism here. We Netflixed Spalding Gray instead of The Hangover this weekend. So it goes. Of course, we're also winding our way through True Blood, so it's not like Spring and I are pretending we write for the New Yorker or anything. Just, y'know, yeah. We'll get around to it.

But something that always annoyed me about it is that Mike Tyson is in that movie. Not that I've been boycotting it because Mike Tyson is in it or anything, but the first time I saw him in a commercial I felt a little uneasy. Really, the only way I was going to be amused by a Mike Tyson cameo was if they walked into some Vegas hotel room and he's all embarrassed and, "Sorry, gentleman, but I'm in the middle of raping a woman. Do you mind shutting the door?" IT'S FUNNY CUZ IT'S TRUE.

Now, I'm no prude about these sorts of things, which I say not necessarily as a point of pride but more just to provide context. I don't give half a crap, say, about Tiger Woods. I don't give two shits about how many women he fucked and how old his kids are or his wife or any of that crap. I don't watch Tiger Woods play golf because I respect his family life. I watch Tiger Woods play golf because I'm insufferably boring, and I find it entertaining to watch him play with such skill. He could be the absolute worst human being on the face of the planet and I would still not care one teeny tiny bit. Does he still play golf really well? Awesome.

Wait, Gilbert Arenas brought a gun to the locker room? Did he shoot me? Oh, good. Play ball.

I recognize that I am a part of the problem here, part of society's problem, where I probably ought to look at these public sports figures as role models and take it very seriously when they do things that will poison our children's minds, but I just can't. Maybe it'll be different when I have kids of my own. Sure, I suppose I can cognitively spout all the talking points, that basketball players have a responsibility to their fans, particularly those fans already immersed in a culture of gun violence and crippling poverty, to be true role models and not glorify a gun culture already run rampant. Sure, sure. Anyway, now let's watch Arenas play some serious ball. Don't get injured, Agent Zero!

But Tyson is a whole other ball of wax. I can't even humor it. The guy was convicted of rape. And seeing him onstage at the Golden Globes, along with the rest of the cast and screw of The Hangover, was just a bizarre sight. What other convicted rapist, who was not good ol' Iron Mike, would be welcome in the spotlight? "And most of all I'd like to thank my Uncle Gary, who was convicted of rape but served his time. This one's for you, Gary! Come on up here, Gary and take a bow. We're going to the Vanity Fair party" (Wild applause?)

To be fair, I haven't wiped Mike Tyson from my memory banks or anything. I still think back with awe to that vicious beast that terrorized the boxing world when I was a kid. I've even referenced him a few times on this journal quite reverentially. I didn't care about him biting Holyfield's ear off. And, frankly, I knew about allegations that he abused Robin Givens but didn't care, maybe because I was too young to really process it. But the rape conviction came when I was old enough to understand what was going on, so there you go.

Basically, I've put Tyson in the same box as Michael Jackson. "Yup. Sure do love Michael Jackson for everything he did up until...when did that first kid surface? '93? OK, up until '93. Wait, when did 'Scream' come out? Oooh, tricky."

And, OK, he served his time and good for him. And, for all I know he's totally rehabilitated and if so, great. I've got no problem with him trying to put his life back together, maybe finding some decent work or something. Bouncing, whatever. But the whole idea of the spotlight just seems wrong.

Of course, it hasn't kept me from watching Rosemary's Baby or The Pianist, so what do I know?

Plus, underneath it all, there's the simple fact that he's not a renowned philosopher or economist or whatever: he's a boxer. He earned his fame in polite civilization's last widespread head nod to Roman-style barbarism. We can dress it up in all kinds of flowery prose, but the sole purpose of boxing is watching two dudes punch each other until one of them is knocked unconscious. All the pads and trainers and short stories and DeNiro movies in the world can't remove that simple fact. It's brutal and stupid and violent and excites our bloodlust and, hell, I love to watch it.

But for every funny, articulate Foreman, Ali and De La Hoya there are thousands of idiot brutes bashing skulls and that's it. Maybe that's why we so love George Foreman, because he removes the brutality from it. We see cuddly George Foreman and forget that boxing is a cock fight with humans. We do not face such an illusion with Tyson. He is all beast. So, in a way, we were in on it the whole time. Maybe it's totally disingenuous to act with such shock when his violence spills over into sex, to cheer him giving brain damage to dudes he fights but get out the smelling salts for domestic abuse and rape. Which is not to exonerate him, but maybe to indict myself for being a ninny about the realities of this (which is not to say that all boxers are potential violent rapists or anything, but that Tyson's behavior was all fun and games until, suddenly, it wasn't.)

Or maybe it's just that the Wacky Celebrity Cameo as Pop Culture Reference Joke is so totally fucking tired. I already saw Paul Rudd hanging out with Lou Ferrigno earlier this year. How many years has it been since Gary Coleman showed up on The Simpsons? So tired.

Anyway, like I said on the old FB, the important thing is that you never ever ever abuse a dog, because people will hate you forever. So, if you violently rape a lady, be very respectful of her dog on the way out, because you've got a reputation to think about after all.

Fears of being broken, of the fact that I've always been broken, never really "fixed" (if such a word is even applicable, which I know it isn't) of years gone by, of ten years, fifteen years, of bad news, of bad bad news, of old ghosts that come calling, of nooses and nightmares, pills I don't want to take, of the snow outside my window, the Redemptive End of a Movie Snow outside my window, and watching it come down and all of the things I have to say before I can even pretend to think straight again...

The snow is thick and fat and falling straight down.

****

One year and three days ago I sent an e-mail to my good friend Leigh, who had asked everybody for a list of New Years Resolutions for 2009. She was collecting them from friends all over the country, and putting them up in a window display in the boutique where she worked on Dunlavey and Westheimer in Houston, Texas. I obliged happily.

I resolve
to not lose my temper and blame it on my new job
to keep off the weight I've lost, and lose more, and do it for the right reasons
to record and release an EP with my band by the summer
to finish at least two plays I've been lazy about writing
to be smart and considerate with my money
to criticize Obama when he has it coming
to not take my friends for granted
to be generous with what I have, and not lament what I don't have
to stop keeping it to myself when it gets too hard
to stop thinking about what might have been

Obviously, looking at this list, and imagining Leigh posting it on a wall at Dunlavey and Westheimer in Houston, Texas, gives a few of these resolutions a completely new, devastating meaning.

*****

I kept as many of them as I could, Leigh. I'm sorry if I let you down. Some of them, the last one in particular, got a little too hard to keep.

*****

Others were not so hard. I've enjoyed yelling at the TV when Obama is on when he's done something that's pissed me off. Spaniard finished their EP over the summer, and I did my best to be generous with my money, my theater, my time, my sweat. What's mine is yours. I never blamed the theater for losing my temper, that I can remember. I've kept off the weight. Hell, I bought some skinny jeans. It is odd to be wearing tight jeans after years of wearing what my Slacker Rock and Hip-Hop Overlords assured me were the hippest baggy pants out there.

But it all goes back to the same place, to the same gaping chasm. 2009 was the End of it All, the year I lost You. So many members of my extended family packing up moving vans and heading out. And still more moving vans left to pack, and then just a small, fractured contingency left to pick at the pieces while everyone excitedly moves on to new things. And the impact of that has been harder than I let on, so I guess I have one last chance to keep one of these resolutions, Leigh, and on the last day of 2009 I have to admit that it's too hard. It's too hard and I'm breaking.

*****

The snow is still coming down, continuously, rapidly. Accumulating on the roof across the street, on the elevated playground directly across from my bedroom window. I have so much to do today, so much to do for my theater, my poor aching theater, trying to batten down the hatches and make it through a tough couple of weeks with no money until the next show kicks in. I am in over my head. Just concentrate on the snow, on the Reset button accumulating outside your window.

*****

No interest in moving back to Texas. Just scared, is all. Just can't make sense out of any of this on my own. Just grew up my whole life surrounded by a big family, so made a new big family everywhere I went, and then that big family is suddenly gone, and my real family is getting so old and so frail, and I'm not ready. I certainly wasn't ready to go to a funeral yet. I'm certainly not ready for the funerals yet to come.

*****

(Big sigh. Stretch out. Keep another resolution, at least. Thankful for the things you have. Yeah. Got a lot to do today. Gotta dig my snow boots out, wherever they are. Lost and gone forever, oh my darling Clementine.)

*****

It is two days ago and Sleazy is texting me from Houston, where he and Donelan are drinking at Poison Girl on Westheimer and he has shown Donelan Leigh's ghost bike there at the corner at Dunlavey. They are sad now, and they are drinking, and there is a memorial picture of Leigh on the wall there in Poison Girl, if memory serves. At least I hope there still is.

I tell him that, oddly enough, I am sad too because we are watching 28 Days Later and I can't stop thinking about that first time I saw it with Leigh and Dru (and Helen? Was Helen there that night?), and how Leigh and I spent the entire night zombie attacking each other and hers was way scarier than mine. She put her whole body into it. I just didn't commit.

Spent almost an hour yesterday trying to find the LJ I wrote after that. Just wasting time, in a business sense, but at the time it felt like it was more important than breathing or food or water. So hard to concentrate lately.

*****

The snow has stopped falling.

*****

Oh no. Its still going. Just smaller now. Almost imperceptible.

*****

Maybe, in the end, it's my fault. Oh, who am I kidding - in my head it's always my fault. I built this all up so much, and believed it so much, that I just wasn't prepared for the inevitable end. Stupid kid stuff. They don't call it Show Friends, and all that. And, in the midst of it, this feeling like I'm lagging behind, like I'm alone in this, like everybody else has moved on or isn't as affected, or isn't a big enough asshole to show it or talk about it all the goddamned time, but I have to be that asshole because, sadly, that's how my brain was made. I get hurt. I get hurt over things that happen, that are supposed to happen, that we all go through, that we're supposed to go through.

I would not have fared well in the Old West. I would have cried every time somebody needed to go into town for supplies. But then, sometimes I am gruff, sometimes I am downright cruel, and I feel absolutely nothing. Sometimes I just absolutely do not give a fuck.

*****

This year I recorded a really nice sounding EP with my band, one that the engineer has offered to remix for free after being bowled over by our final performance. I took over a children's theatre, which is totally satisfying in every artistic and spiritual sense, and directed two hit shows that I was really proud of. I met all kinds of wonderful new people. I am married in a good apartment that we've finally furnished in a way that feels like home. I am physically healthy for the first time in my life.

This year my band broke up after playing together since forever and ever, and the guys are moving far far away. And then a bunch of other people I love so much moved far far away. And the people who are left I never see anymore, because we lost The Glue and my phone never rings anymore, anyway. The theater's financial situation keeps me awake at night. The new people in my life are nice enough, but no substitute for old friends lost, and they don't exactly blow up my phone anyway, either. I am sad and broken in a way I haven't been in years, even though my trip home for Christmas was a life-saver.

So there it is.

*****

Just gotta figure out what's next. I like to pretend that I'm good at that, and I guess I have been in the past, but I've lost that fearlessness I had ten years ago. I lost that spirit of adventure in the face of certain defeat. Too much defeat. Just want certainty. Just want comfort. That warm feeling when I see your face in the crowd, and everybody else disappears, and I move toward you wherever you are, and we hug and say, "It's good to see you."

*****

So much to do today.

*****

There's no getting around it; I'm going to cry for a while and burst into a million pieces tonight, and hopefully that will be the beginning of the end of it. Don't know why calendars matter so much, because they really truly don't at all, but perhaps this is why we invented them in the first place. They give us permission: they give us definitive beginnings and ends. I will still be sad on January 2nd; I know this. But it helps, in much the same way I've come to realize that I don't believe in God or in Heaven, but I still light prayer candles.

I don't believe in God or Heaven but I still feel like Leigh is watching us.

It'll all make sense someday.

But no matter what, no matter how many years pass and how many new roads and phases and chapters and whatever else we embark on together and separate, 2009 is the year that we lost Leigh. That's all it is in my head. This was the year that They took Leigh from us, and the intrusive therapist in my head is always breaking this down, always trying to figure out who I'm "really" mad at, and the truth is I'm not mad at anyone. Just so fucking sad, especially when I hit those moments where I just feel like I can't take the strain anymore, and I think about whose voice would be the most soothing right right now, and it's a voice that we'll never hear say another new word again for the rest of our lives.

God, she was great at that. Two words from Leigh and I came off the ledge every time.

Don't know why she had that power. She just did. I never once doubted her when she told me it was gonna be OK. Just the way she'd say "Alonzo", and it was like she was irritated at me for not realizing it was gonna be OK in the first place.

Well, we have to soldier on, even if I'm not a great soldier, even if I'm a terrible soldier, even if I'm blind to the love that's all around me right now that I know is there, even if it's so far away in Texas and California and Arizona and Canada and Alabama. Gotta keep going, because it can't always be this hard. It has to let up and get easier. There are worse things in the world, worse situations in the world. My aunt is battling cancer. Who the hell am I to get all weepy and emotional about all this?

But that's wrong. It's real.

Above my head a framed picture on my wall of Sleazy and I playing guitars together. Above that a framed picture of the UT tower lit up after Vince ran it in on 4th and 5. A framed poster from one of my one man shows in Austin.

What I need is new things to put in new frames on my wall.

*****

One resolution I broke was about the two plays I was supposed to write. I made no progress on them. But I did finish a different one.

I wrote an adaptation of The Velveteen Rabbit for my theater. We're starting rehearsal in a couple of weeks. I'm slowly assembling my cast out of people I know, people I've worked with before. No strangers.

I use this framing device to tell the story. It's these two adult brothers, and they're packing up their childhood home for their widowed father. And they come across an old copy of The Velveteen Rabbit and start re-enacting it with each other (and their wife and girlfriend, respectively) until they become the characters in the book. And at one point, while oscillating back and forth between realities, this happens:

CAITLIN
And I like the book. I don't remember liking it this much. I don't remember it being this exciting.

GEORGE
That's all my Mom's influence, Caitlin. You met her. But you didn't know her back then. When we were kids -- before -- she had so much energy. I never knew where she got it from. Always chasing us all over the place and playing games and singing songs and just, she was the most fun person I've ever known. Such a great big huge laugh. Everybody talked about her laugh, about her smile. It was pretty much impossible not to have fun around my mom when she wanted you to.

CAITLIN
That's sweet.

GEORGE
Yeah. Anyway, we should get back to reality.

CAITLIN
Yeah. Limbo's no fun anyway.

Yes, this will be long and yes, this will be self indulgent. Welcome to the internet.

( Death to Ghost Runner! Long Live Ghost Runner! )

Wowwee everybody sure did take to that Facebook, huh?

*****

I think I have a mental problem, in that I'm becoming obsessive about things to a degree I no longer find charming. Maybe it speaks to a larger emptiness I'm feeling, or a future that I am for certain tripping, but I am definitely spending way too much time on IMDB and Metacritic.

It's a ritual I've had for a while, but I really started feeling ashamed last night when I was doing it after watching "Away We Go", that Dave Eggars movie where Jim from The Office takes the nice black lady from Saturday Night Live and they set out across the country to prove that those awful people we all know are, in fact, awful people. It's like a National Lampoons vacation movie, but everybody reads The New Yorker.

Anyway, I excused this sort of behavior for, say, Star Trek or something - movies with tons of interesting trivia and technical specs and inside jokes and references for die-hard fans and whatever else - but I realized I was really scraping the barrel last night reading the IMDB trivia page for "Away We Go", for reasons that aren't immediately apparent, to gain knowledge that absolutely nobody anywhere ever would need or ask for. I will never have a conversation where, during a lull, I can save us all an awkward moment by offering that Toni Collette was originally slated to play the flaky college professor, but had to drop out due to scheduling conflicts.

I make things even worse by then high-tailing it over to metacritic to get an idea of what my favorite movie reviewers had to say about the film, while cross-referencing those reviews with user comments and message board arguments on IMDB. I never participate in these, mind you: I just read all of them in case it comes up later, which it never will. If I'm really feeling saucy I look to see if the stars did an interview with The Onion AV Club in promotion, because those are always really good and detailed. Then, if it's getting super desperate, I have to find out if there's any info on Wikipedia about critical response, audience controversies, international distribution, maybe rumors about trouble during filming. David O Russel movies are good for this sort of thing. George Clooney movies always have info about the pranks he pulled on set. Sci fi movies detail all the references to the original source material, and which stars from the original movie/show were brought back to play, like, bartenders or somebody's Dad.

This is my roundabout way of saying that my life used to be a lot wilder.

*****

It's hard not to mourn the past these days, and even harder not to celebrate the past as a coping mechanism, but I don't want to write about that.

*****

Everything's in flux and my heart is broken and confused and totally filled with love and ridiculousness, and it's not all bad. Just different, which is always hard to get used to. What's right and what feels right aren't always the same these days, and that's taken some getting used to. I'm actually not used to jack shit yet. Just playing it by ear. Nothing else to do. No map.

I keep thinking and planning that my time in New York will be over sooner than later, but there are many things to consider. And, within it all, just the simple fact that I don't want to leave for any reason other than money. I love it here. Yeah, it's too hard to do the kinds of things I want to be doing all the time, and if I moved somewhere else I could fill my whole life with the art and music I'm supposed to be making, plus have more money for a larger house for little feet to eventually pitter-patter through. But, goddammit, I ride two bridges a day on my bike, admiring the New York skyline twice a day, calling out to my neighbors on their stoops. I like it here. I've wanted to live here since I was a kid, and (other than the lack of any sort of world domination) it's been exactly what I always dreamed of.

Funny to be watching "Away We Go", which is a movie about two thirty-something weirdos trying to decide what city to live in when they have children.

*****

I am wrestling with my cell phone, which I have to replace because of water damage, and my old one is almost functional but not quite. I'd rather have it be just totally fucked up and dead, but it still shows everything and still occasionally works totally perfectly. Just sometimes it starts randomly pressing its own buttons, flashing all over the menu. When I put it on the camera function, it breezes through all the pictures one by one without settling on any of them. All these pictures that I can't get to anymore, all these moments and memories beyond my reach now. Toasting with bacon before heading to Leigh's funeral. Mia singing into a mic for Rock Band. Spring dressed up like Little Edie, which is the picture that pops up when she calls.

Actually, I'm going to miss all those the most. I love the pictures I've assigned to you all:
Spring: Little Edie, complete with scarf and head pendant
Eric: That amazing Bacon-wrapped bacon loaf
Kate: A beer wearing thick cat-eye glasses
Jeremy: A Beatles-themed birthday card with two mop-toppers singing "All you need is cake"

And so on.

Thankfully, I had texted a few of these pics to my e-mail before the phone got all water damaged. A few of Mia, some of Coney Island with Bug and Devon. Sad to have lost a few of Spring and I in Times Square and Rockefeller Center. But, most importantly, I was able to save a picture of Leigh and I that my brother took. It was in Houston, when he came up to see Ocean. He took it with his crappy cell phone cam and sent it to my phone.



That's one of her nephews between us. I love that you can't see faces, but if you know us it's quite clear who you're looking at.

I'm sitting here with both phones on either side of me and the new, empty one charged and ready to go while the old one, with all the numbers and texts and pictures and memories, just flashes around helplessly, totally without function. And I am, of course, in no hurry to wipe the old phone and get started on the new one. No, it is not a sophisticated metaphor, but it's real, and it's what LJ is for.

*****

I am on schedule to start Year Two at the theater, and it's been a good year so far. Our first show of the season, which I directed, has outsold the last few season openers and it's a personal (artistic) triumph. I love this show, and it looks totally fantastic. Boss Lady came to town and she declared it inspirational. I just call it a good time.

I actually had to sub for one of my actors a few times, the most recent one being this morning, and it's a fun show to perform. The kids giggle their way through. Then I need to decompress to get around to working on the budgets, making sure that we have enough money to pay our staff and our rent. Stressing our nascent fundraising, and the reading we're having tonight of our fourth show of the season, which I just finished writing.

I might need to get another job to supplement my pay, which I'm still uncertain about. I'll see. I'm nervous, to be honest. I'll figure out a way; I always do. But it's hard not having any real plan. I don't even know if this theater is going to survive past this season, if we'll be able to extend our lease here, or move somewhere else. I won't know until my fundraising efforts succeed or fail. So far, I've succeeded in bringing in a small sack of money, but nowhere near enough to Save The Town. We will see.

*****

The distance between nights and days.

*****

It was nights like this, even though I was sick. Nights with Eric and Laura, and Sophie is wondering around playing with Devon and Junebug. Ethan brought the good whiskey, and Colleen's legs are dangled over the arm of the futon while we all watch It's Always Sunny and laugh and occasionally pick at the enormous plate of ribs in front of us. I will have to go soon, because I am sick with whatever has made Spring bedridden, whatever has taken Sleazy to the mat as well, but Sara will be home from work soon to join Willie. But I have to call it quits early, so I ride my bike home in the cold and I take the Hottest Shower Ever and eat good food and soup and juice and put Spring and I to bed early, and overnight my fever breaks and I make a comeback. And before I know it I am again sitting up late at night, unable to sleep with a million worried thoughts in my head. The laptop on my belly while I lay in bed. TV on, whispering to us both. She is asleep, and I am reading the trivia section of the IMDB page for 'District 13', and I am impressed to learn that the lead bad guy actually wrote it, and I can't wait to tell someone.

(Uh, imagine something really bombastic and awesome, like "Latin Thugs" or "Shadrach" or, I dunno, "A Fifth of Beethoven". Or, OK, alternately, a music box filled with ants. Whatever. Think of something that is wonderful.)

My website has gone live, with a few weeks worth of old posts that have been retroactively published. Check it out, tell your friends! Make it your favorite website ever. Rock and roll and the attendant hoochie-cooing.

One time in high school I got really bored and dropped a whole lot of powerful acid and drove down to the golf course to hit a bucket of balls. I had recently acquired my trademark fedora on a trip to New York and, at the time, wore it everywhere I went. I also constantly wore wraparound fake Oakleys.

Anyway, the acid hit really hard on the drive over and I stopped into a gas station to get my head together and snag some water and cigarettes. As I was waiting in line, tripping my nuts off and attempting to keep my brain in my skull, this tiny Mexican woman nudged me from behind and asked me if I was Michael Jackson.

This is the sort of thing that they show on commercials for LSD.

I had no idea how to react, so I just politely said I was not Michael Jackson and turned away, thankful that she couldn't see my eyes behind my sunglasses (because they'd turned into rotating beach balls by that point, of course, to match the rising and falling oceans of blood behind the counter). But she was a sweet little woman of a certain age, and I pictured her listening to Jackson Five records on the floor of her bedroom, possibly on a tiny plastic record player like the one we had at home that we listened to "We Are the World" on over and over again.

I was about to start running from the Dragon that was stalking the gas station aisles when I heard her little voice again. "No, I know it's you" she playfully insisted. I turned back to her.

Then she did something that will stick with me absolutely forever, particularly since it was so sweet and awesome it broke through all the drugs to absolutely kill me. With the most adoring look in her eyes and the sweetest little goofy smile she said, "I love you, Michael."

Now, all these years later, I honestly couldn't tell you if this woman really thought she was talking to Michael Jackson. Probably not. But there was something so real and sweet and vulnerable in that moment, and I don't know that there are all that many people who have ever lived who can engender that kind of feeling in people they've never actually met. 'Thriller' was the number one album in the country for 37 weeks. THIRTY SEVEN.

I left the gas station and headed out to the golf course completely discombobulated, and not by the drugs. There was something so sad and sweet and honest in that moment that just really crushed me. Maybe if she had been goofy about it I would have just walked away. But for a teeny tiny instant I was some kind of surrogate for Michael Jackson, and saw for a teeny tiny second the way that people look at you and genuinely love you when you're Michael Jackson, and it was no small thing to behold.

So then Michael Jackson left the gas station with a tiny wave to his fan, who lovingly watched him climb into his beat up Dodge Van, and then Michael Jackson bought a bucket of golf balls at the the par 3 course, but Michael Jackson's LSD was too strong and it got way too hard to hit the ball because the ground kept undulating so he kept hitting them all over the place, and at one point a guy came up to Michael Jackson and said "Are you the guy selling the golf clubs?", and it took Michael Jackson almost a full day to realize that he'd just totally gotten burned.

I will not say who, for national security purposes, but I applied for a an Associate Editor position with a popular internet weblog and they actually bothered to read my stuff and actually said that they liked it! Who knew?

So they threw a couple of topics at me and asked for some sample stories, and here they are. Because really, when you're on a job interview it's best to bring your friends along so they can stand behind you and go, "Hey good work, bro." "You should totally get this job." "You were great in there."

The one problem I had (of course) was sticking to a word limit, but considering that I usually throw down 5,000 words on the subject of "this one CD I used to listen to a lot but don't anymore", this is pretty miraculous. LJ tells me I've opined on the events of the day over 1,600 times; here's hoping I can grab a little walking around money for continuing to do so. Sha-boom!

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Your Bodega Guide to Mexican Beers in New York


Of the myriad indignities visited upon Texan expatriots in the Big Apple, few sting as viciously as paying $7 for an "imported" Mexican beer that's basically given away for free on any street corner in San Antonio. In these trying economic times it's best to save your money and drink at home, but what to do with the limited selection at your average New York bodega?

We here at Christastrophe believe in our responsibility to The Public at Large, so we grabbed all the Mexican beer we could get our hands on at our corner bodega in Bed-Stuy. FOR YOU. Here's your handy guide to building your own at-home cabana on the cheap:



Most Mexican beer in the US comes from one of two distributors: FEMSA or Grupo Modelo. As luck would have it we found two from each brewery, plus a cousin of the Modelo family.

TEAM FESA: You do not seek out Carta Blanca: you drink it because it is there. Better to skip this bland, watery concoction and go straight to Czech-influenced Bohemia. This lager has a surprisingly sweet aftertaste that the average beer-swiller hasn't come to expect from a Mexican beer.

TEAM MODELO: Hey, everybody knows our friend Corona! But bodega mishandling left our bottle skunky and burnt, so the crown goes to much tastier Modelo Especial (pilsner step-brother of Christastrophe favorite Negra Modelo). If you like Corona's light, crisp taste but wonder what else is out there, this one's for you.

TEAM BUDWEISER: Anheuser-Busch owns half of Grupo Modelo, which probably explains why they thought it was an OK idea to squirt some sickly-sweet flavoring in a Bud Light, slap a "BL Lime" wrapper on it and call it a day. Buy this as a joke. Once. Know your world. Then stop being lazy, buy a real lime, and never walk this path ever again.

*****


"Rampage" Jackson ex-manager sues Tito Ortiz, Yahoo, various MMA websites, Keyboard Cat, a song on the radio, ten boxes of nails because hey why not?


So last September UFC legend Tito Ortiz did that thing he does where he gets all hilariously mouthy (in this case, about Rampage Jackon's manager over-charging for his services), and then the internet did that thing it does where it goes and tells everyone, and now said manager Juanito Ibarra is doing that thing that Americans do when they can't think of what else to do: he's suing the crap out of everything that moves.

The whole dumb spectacle stems from an interview Ortiz gave Punch Drunk Gamer in which he acknowledged the open secret that the Jackson/Ibarra split was mostly about money. Namely, Rampage was paying $65,000 to train with Ibarra, a full $30K more than Ortiz himself charges. The quote was carried far and wide, Ibarra denied it in SI.com, and that, it seemed, was that.

Which makes this defamation lawsuit all the more confounding. Ibarra has to prove (a) that he doesn't over-charge and (b) Ortiz knew this and said it anyway. Further, he has to prove that all twenty six defendants, most of them blogs and websites (including Yahoo----YAHOO) did the same. It's next-to-impossible to prove, and Ibarra has to know it.

So what's going on here? Is Ibarra trying to monkeywrench Ortiz now that he's an unrestricted free agent? Is this just naked publicity? Moreover, does he really think every random blog needs a research team to verify every block-quote? We at Christastrophe eagerly await having our RSS feeder sued by Ibarra for even telling us any of this happened.

*****


Bloodless Bullfighting: Manolete rolls over in his grave, PETA still unimpressed


Believe it or not, bullfighting is still perfectly legal in these United States of America (at least in "California") as long as the bullfighting is in the Portuguese bloodless tradition and is presented as a part of a religious observation. And other than the continuing animal abuse and occasional bursts of violence it's still a totally noble way to pass the time!

Now, we here at Christastrophe aren't about to liberate animal testing facilities or picket the circus or whatever, but bullfighting is really one of those things best left to an overly-romanticized memory, like the Civil War. In the abstract, the image of the graceful, august matador in a flowing cape and torero is mesmerizing when related by, say, Ernest Hemingway or Bugs Bunny. But the blood and guts reality feels a little anachronistic in the age of the iPhone, even with a kinder/gentler version of the "sport".

This recently came to a head in San Joaquin County where two men were arrested after assaulting a nosy animal cruelty investigator. It seems the velcro targets used in the bouts had been (allegedly) enhanced with metal spikes because ha ha did we say "bloodless"? The investigator ended up getting choked and beaten by an organizer, and another man was arrested for fighting with sheriff's deputies trying to calm the situation.

So, if you're in the neighborhood, head on down to Our Lady of Fatima Society Portuguese Hall for the next bout on June 19th where animal control officers will be closely monitoring the situation. Or, y'know, for the love of God, don't.

*****


If You Want to Take to the Streets in a Riotous Bloodbath, There's an App For That


Last week's Apple Worldwide Developer's Conference provided much exciting news about Snow Leopard, Safari 4 and Steve Jobs himself (back at work in June!) but for iPhone users The Day You Knew Was Coming is finally at hand. Starting June 19th, that iPhone you bought for $600 two years ago is officially better in every way and only costs a hundred clams.

The new iPhone 3G S is two-to-three times faster than last year's model with many exciting new features (voice control, better camera software with video capability, digital compass, Nike+ jogging log, etc) but if you're looking at upgrading it might not be as simple as you'd hoped. Mike Musgrove explains in today's WaPo:

Just about everybody will have the option to pay $299 for the device, but iPhone owners who bought the then-new 3G phone last year will have to pay $499 for the now-new premium version of the device. It's not as profitable a proposition for AT&T to offer the same customer a deeply discounted phone two years in a row, so the company wants more money from last year's buyers.

Whoops! And, OK, this is the nature of the technology beast, and Jobs himself correctly opined, "If you always wait for the next price cut or to buy the new improved model, you'll never buy any technology product." But this feels extra special bunk (as the booing hordes at WWDC will attest), and somewhere John Hodgman is settling in to a nice scotch because, for once, he has won the day.

(upon seeing a hipster girl at our grocery store)

"Wow - either Amy Winehouse looks great or that girl looks like shit."

I never go out on Saturday nights anymore. I've never been a big fan of going out on the weekend, preferring instead to rock it out in the middle of the week, when you can own the bar. There are very few places in this city that are worth dealing with huge crowds on a Saturday night. Really, the only places I can deal with any more are small bars in the neighborhood. Or nothing at all. This is especially true now during the great drying out.

It's actually been a lot easier than I expected. It's usually not that hard for me to sober up for a month or so here or there, but my newfound obsession with riding my bike everywhere has made it even easier than usual. I've stopped craving the booze at all because I'm looking forward to my next ride. I'm looking forward to feeling even stronger and faster and sharper than I did the day before, to the weight I'm losing, to the newfound energy. I'm riding around ten miles a day (including two bridges a day), and logged around 33 miles on Wednesday when we did the Ride of Silence for Leigh.

So I'm sitting here sober on a Saturday night, in my apartment, watching Saturday Night Live as I usually do on Saturdays, because I hate going out and dealing with people on a Saturday night. I'm sitting here by myself and SNL is over and now the TV is just background noise and I want to go to sleep but I can't.

*****

Lonely.

*****

My relationship with the Yeah Yeah Yeahs is a bit strained, but I ultimately enjoy them. Really, it's Kelly's fault. She and Amy were obsessed back in the day, blaring 'Fever to Tell' every day for breakfast when Spring and I were dating and I never got over the association. Karen O kind of bugs me, but not enough to where I can't appreciate them (Nick Zinner, for my money, is pretty much the greatest guitar player to emerge in the last few years, when you consider that he's doing all of that all by himself.)

Anyway, I'm sitting up by myself watching this SNL rerun and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs are there and I've already seen this one but nothing else is on and I'm still annoyed that the Nuggets couldn't pull it out in the end and for their second song they decide to play 'Maps'. I put the computer on the floor so I can concentrate just on the TV.

I choke up listening to it, which is funny to me because I never really gave a fuck about that song. Never really cared about it. I remember that the last time I watched this performance I was bawling. I look it up to be sure, googling the original airdate. Sure enough, it was April 11th. Seeing the date in pixels in front of me sends an immediate kick to my gut.

Saturday April 11th at 12:10 PM. This is a fact that I have memorized, for some horrible reason.

*****

It strikes me as odd, with some distance, that I would have been so affected by the Yeah Yeah Yeah's performing 'Maps', even given what was happening. I don't even really associate it with Back in the Day. Maybe it was the whiff of it, combined with an unexpected sentimentality and beauty of the song. Something so achy about it, where my brain just wanted to associate it because, why not? It's a perfectly decent song to release yourself into when you want to cry about your dead friend. I mean, it's no 'Tuesday's Gone', but it'll do in a pinch.

Oh man. Now all of a sudden I DO want to drink again, just so I can get drunk and listen to "Tuesday's Gone" and just fucking cry. IT'S SATURDAY NIGHT IN NEW YORK CITY!

*****

It's weird because it's not like I would, in a situation like this, just up and call up Dru or Eric or Laura and ask them what they were up to on a Saturday night at 1 in the morning. But knowing that they're gone makes me feel lonelier for some reason.

I mean, let's be honest here. If nobody told me that Leigh had died I wouldn't know the goddamned difference except that I'd be wondering why she hadn't updated her LJ or Facebook in a while. It's not like I was up and calling Leigh at 1 on the morning on Saturday to see what was up. So why do I miss her so much at 1 in the morning on Saturday? Maybe it's just comforting to know that the people you care about are somewhere, and that wherever that somewhere is they're happy. Maybe it is just an energy. Maybe that's what love really is - this thing that allows you to connect in some metaphysical way in the absence of direct contact.

Or maybe that's just something you tell yourself when you're sitting up by yourself at one in the morning on Saturday and you feel lonely.

*****

Just this feeling when you part ways with people you care about, people you love. "Get home safe." "Take care." "Be good." Go back out into that world away from me, and come back to me soon and in one piece. Come back with fun stories, and let's make some fun stories of our own. Come back with a tan, some back with a new job or a new adventure or your hair different. Just come back at some point.

Come back.

*****

I blame the internet. Fifty years ago this whole idea of a global network that you kept tabs on would just sound silly. Now, thanks to the miracles of modern machines, I can see that...uh...hold on. Ryan is in Houston and he has the sniffles. SharOn is excited about her new mattress. Good to know. Josette is exhausted in San Antonio, and Amy caught fireflies with her daughters. These are tiny nubs, and they create stories instantly in my head. There are stories everywhere.

Or is it cheating, in the way that our grandparents would say its cheating? "Real" interaction replace with a poor, lazy substitute. But that's too simple and too dismissive of real connections that happen in this way.

Of course, when I'm thinking about the things I miss about my friends who have come and gone it is absolutely never anything to do with the internet. It's the big hug, the awkward way you walk, the laughing until I can't catch my breath. It is all there.

*****

I'm actually, these days, feeling a lot better than this journal would make it seem. I actually spend a lot of my day smiling. I love my job. I have fun every day. I'm writing again, and have an exciting new project in the works.

Anyway, the point is that I don't know what to do with myself anymore. I'm healthier, more energetic, in better spirits, more full of life than I feel like I've been in years. And I'm looking this way and that way, all of the world laid out in front of me, and I'm frozen in place. These hands, this brain, this body, this soul. What to do with it now?

All of this sadness.

Truth be told, I never liked Houston. I'd visited a few times, had a couple of adventurous road trips in college on top of a few little mini-vacations growing up, and something about it never jibed with my whole deal. Too congested and gross and overblown and humid. Mostly the humidity. Occasionally stranded. There were a few good memories here and there, but growing up my brother and I delighted in our decision that Houston was a cesspool, the way that when they do David Paterson on SNL he's obsessed with knocking New Jersey.

Really, it's my fault for never going anywhere other than the Arboretum. And, OK, the art museum. Still.

(And, OK, goddammit, that one terrible year that David Robinson won the MVP but Hakeem took him to pieces in the Western Conference Finals. I am petty.)

When we were kids my dad took us to see the Oilers. But we weren't there to see the Oilers. I was obsessed with the San Francisco 49ers. I have a bunch of great pictures of Joe Montana that I took with my shitty plastic camera, that we thought was the absolute greatest back then.

It wasn't until last year when I stayed with Leigh that I finally got it, got that thing that you forget and sometimes run from. There are cool people everywhere. It shouldn't have surprised me that there were so many like-minded artists in Houston, such a cool little community of scrappers and weirdos, but the Austin-to-Brooklyn snob in me let it be so. And now there it is. I could live in Houston. I could live in Montrose and have a happy little life.

This has, obviously, intensified since the funeral. For the first time in my life I hear the word "Houston" and I do not immediately spit on the floor. I feel warm. There are people in Houston right now that I can call my friends. And, barring some enormous geological upheaval, there is a good friend of mine who will always be there, who is still on my mind every day and everywhere I go.

I thought about this a lot today riding around on my new bike. Tearing through the streets and then around Prospect Park. These solitary moments, whizzing around other cyclists and couples pushing strollers, pushing and pushing myself until my heart was ready to burst and I had to stop and lay in the grass, staring straight up at the sky. Holding it together. Wanting to stop at the lake but thinking better of it, pushing further.

Tearing down Fulton to grab some Thai food and the sun is setting and it feels like the wind has been in my face all day and I want to think she's here with me, I want to hope that she's here with me. I certainly can't stop thinking about her when I'm on my bike. It's certainly better than thinking about her every time I see a fire engine.

It's sweet to me how everybody is so "no joke" about me wearing a helmet, and how I am too. Not that a helmet did her a lick of good. But, y'know. Love.

*****

Standing at that corner, a few feet from her ghost bike. Staring down the direction she was heading on her bike. Trying to see it through Leigh's eyes.

*****

Writing this while wearing a Brooklyn Lager hat that I got from the Brooklyn Lager lady having a final drink with Eric Motolove "Alan" Scott, the last drinks I'll have for a month because all of this has not been good for my liver or my mental constitution. Pricing plane tickets to Austin, just because I'm curious. Still hurting, but getting used to the idea of life here without the Scotts, who were such good friends for so many years. It hardly seems possible. I've never known a New York without them, without their apartment on Nassau. Every iteration, every adventure, every misbegotten theatrical suicide mission. Three in the morning at Under St. Marks drilling Jimmy because he can't remember his lines. Good times. Jimmy the Lollipop. Good fucking times.

And, yes. Our weddings. Mine on the bridge, with Eric and Laura right up there with us. And theirs in Houston, all of us gathered on the bus and awed by the sight of the lake as we pulled up. My brother driving up just so that we could see each other. I hadn't been in New York long, and we still had intense separation anxiety, and when it was time for him to go we hugged and started crying and as he turned away he said, "Of course it's in fucking Houston."

*****

What really sells it for me is the way that Fred Armison leans forward when he says, "New Jersey!" and holds for applause that never comes. Like, none of the jokes are actually funny, but that bit gets me every single time.

*****

The Spurs were a wash this year and had been for some time. Pretty much anyone who knew anything about anything could see that, so I didn't much care when they were eliminated. What are you gonna do? Manu is necessary for their success and there really wasn't anybody to fill that hole. And, y'know. Other things on my mind.

So the point is now I'm a de facto Rockets fan. Blame it on Leigh's step-brother Mario, who I took a real shine to while we were there. Sure, there's the thing where I Hate OHHHH HATE the Lakers so very much. But also I find myself wanting to return to Houston, wanting to stay there for a while. Maybe take in a Rockets game with Mario, not talk about anything serious for a few hours. I'd have given anything to be with him for today's massacre, jumping up and down and celebrating the insanity of Aaron Brooks going nuts and hitting everything he threw up, even with his eyes closed.

But no. I watched by myself.

At one point, feeling Sports Guy Lonely I called Sleazy for his raised-in-Houston expertise. The Rockets were, at that point, up by 27 late in the third quarter.

"Am I supposed to be nervous? If it were the Spurs I'd be nervous. What do the Rockets do in this situation?"
"Well, if they're up 27 I don't think you'd have to be too worried. But I would advise against getting too emotionally attached to the Houston Rockets any year no matter what."

Gotcha. Noted.

*****

One thirty in the morning and clean out of sleeping pills.

Keep writing this and keep locking it up because I just can't get it Right.

Uhohherecomes Intrusive Therapist

IT: Right? So, presumably there is a wrong way to go about this?

Yes. Yes there is. For me anyway.

IT: You seem to put these things on yourself. The Right Way. Perfection. Why do you feel like everything had to be Right and Perfect?

I dunno. Because there's no such thing as perfection, so I can continue setting myself up for failure and disappointment with myself, to the point that it boils up into full-on self-hatred of my personal and professional shortcomings, and I spend every day kicking myself over the things I should have done and that I should have done better, which then feels justified when it spills over into displacement and acting out on those around me that I care about.

IT: Uh...OK, good.

( But let's see. I think if I put my mind to it I can get it right. )

Once again I extend the warmest thank you to everyone of you that has been following Leigh's condition.

The last 24 hours have been rough on Leigh. She is having serious setbacks and the swelling has returned and may be unmanageable. The doctor for the first time has called into question whether she will be able to survive.



Thank you for your prayers, kind thoughts and good vibes.

*****

It is a few weeks ago, the Friday before my 31st birthday and I am cursing my body for failing me yet again. I pulled my back at the gym a few days before, but decided to go out dancing anyway. Hadn't been out like this in forever, and Annie (the set designer for my show) is the sort of person who can get you to dress up to go out goth dancing even though you know better.

Spring and I have had a decent enough night, mostly hanging by the bar and getting drunk enough to join this gang of weirdos on the dance floor. We converse with an intense young guy dressed like The Joker who has just returned from Afghanistan. He describes friends who were blown to pieces with an eagerness and and intensity that begins to wear on me. He cuts sharply across my belly to illustrate exactly where this kid was sawed in half by the explosion.

We dance for a bit, and my back starts to nag. Before long I am in a booth massaging myself, feeling old and stupid, and I leave early while Spring and Annie and Annie's boyfriend dance the night away. I sit alone with a massager and beer, watching television. I am worthless.

*****

When I wake up on Monday, the day before my birthday, the pain is getting intense. My back has seized up entirely, but so have seemingly all the nerves in my body. And I'm running a Super Fever. And I've somehow chewed the inside of my cheek raw. And my tooth hurts.

Jeremy takes me to get a nice shave for my birthday, but I'm feeling horrible. Still, it's good to be sitting across from my friend, even if we have to eat at Hale and Hearty Soups. I spend the rest of my birthday in bed and begin hallucinating from the intense fever.

*****

It is Tuesday, the last day of March. The past week has been fucking torture, but the nasty little bugger that gave me pericoronitis has been pulled and I can finally pull my head on straight after a week of pain and delirium. Somewhere in there I played a show with Spaniard and hosted a birthday party at the theater for our beloved Sophie Scott. None of it made sense.

I have no dental insurance anymore, so instead of going to some fancy dentist I go to the nearest clinic in Bed Stuy. They say the oral surgery I'll need is too complicated for them so they send me away to another place within walking distance, a converted brownstone (like Cliff Huxtable's office). I pay whatever, I sign whatever, OK OK I might lose my sense of taste due to the proximity to the nerve whatever just get it out.

When they put me under I have terrible nightmares until I'm awakened.

******

It is Tuesday, the last day of March and, as I say, the last week has been fucking torture.

My phone rings and it is Eric and he is delivering bad news. And on this, the first day I've been able to think straight and sit up in over a week I am now sitting up and thinking straight and slowly sucking on jello and eating pain pills and antibiotics and reading everything I can get my hands on to try to figure out how on God's green earth my friend Leigh could possibly be involved in such a strange freakish accident and now be in a coma fighting for her life.

My jaw hurts and I don't care anymore, all of a sudden.

*****

We are all texting and e-mailing and chatting back and forth like crazy. We do the only thing we have the power to do, which is to get together and drink.

Of course, things don't go according to plan because they never do. I want to sit in this dark bar and talk to my friends about our mutual friend Leigh, who we love so so fucking much it hurts and we need to make some sense out of this because it is horrible and rotten. And it is impossible to do this properly because the chosen bar may have Leigh Significance, but it also has trivia night tonight, so I can't get it together enough to say, "I wish with all my heart and soul that Leigh will be OK", because the trivia master is giving out the clues and we know that the answer is that they are all acting teachers because this is what we all went to school for.

Trivia ends and we gather and we talk and I stumble home and I am miserable.

*****

I wake up the next morning and check my e-mail, check the Facebook group, and no, our night of drinking didn't instantly heal Leigh, which some ridiculous part of me hoped would happen.

I roll over.

*****

I've never been in this situation before. Never known anybody in a coma. I've lost friends and family. Never the long drawn-out process of the coma. The uncertainty.

It is frustrating and I hate it. I assume we are all doing the same thing, separately, and I hate that we're apart. When you have a friend in a coma they should come around and get you and put you up in this huge Real World-type loft where you can all be together all the time and talk about your friend and check on each other. If someone starts crying, you can immediately go to them and hug them and say, "It's gonna be OK. She's gonna pull through. You know her, how much of a fight she can put up." And then whoever's crying can say, "I know. I just, I hate that I can't talk to her and tell her it's going to get better." And then you say, "I know. Me too. I hate it."

You can do this or variations on this all day long, occasionally playing pool or looking at the fish tank or getting in the hot tub. You walk in on everybody watching a movie, but you can tell that nobody's really paying that much attention to the movie.

You'd go out on the porch and somebody's smoking and you bum one. And you admit that you catch yourself feeling guilty for thinking about yourself. For thinking about regular day-to-day stuff and love and pain and sex and money, because you feel like every second you spend not thinking good thoughts about Leigh is a second wasted. And your friend who bummed you the smoke says, "You know your life can't just stop. You have to keep going. Just keep her in your heart and know that you have such love for her, and trust that somewhere she knows that." And then you start crying softly again because you feel so fucking helpless and this cigarette tastes like shit.

Occasionally the people who brought you here (a government agency? Yes! Something Obama made up), they bring new supplies of food and alcohol and videos from high school and college, and you all watch them together and laugh and tell stories. And sometimes you say "Yayyy!!" just like Leigh and you catch yourself doing it and you have to leave the room.

But mostly you just sit and wait.

It is exhausting, but at least you are doing it together. It is not this thing where you are at work wherever you work, say at a non-profit theater, and a song comes on Pandora that reminds you of parties on the roof, and you pull up a picture to show the educational director and say, "That's her! There's our Leigh. We're doing karate in front of the Sam Adams statue." And they look at the picture of this stranger in this place and this situation they've never been in or seen, and they try to look sympathetic, and it's close but its not the same.

No, this huge Loft for Collective Coma-Fighting Good Vibes and Hugs is the only way to go.

*****

I have my own problems, and sometimes they are important and sometimes they are not. Today, with this latest pronouncement, they are not.

This could not be the last word. It probably is not. It has been so exhaustively up and down so far. It drains.

All I can think about is running and giggling with my friend and how I yearn to do it again, how I know that I'm going to do it again, how I absolutely HAVE to do it again. We have to celebrate again. We have to dance and shout and pass out with the music blasting.

Still. So few words. So stark.

Just have to pray. Just have to think about good times and beg and plead. Somebody out there is listening. Somebody out there has to be listening. Somebody who can tell her.

What drives me crazy, what drives all of us crazy (I'm sure) is that this is so intangible. It's not about putting together a blood drive or finding a liver donor or raising enough money or getting somebody to donate a free weekend at the spa or whatever. It's just the mysterious workings of the brain, and there is pretty much nothing anybody in the world can do but hold hands and pray. Centuries of medicine and the cure is still Wait and See and Hope for the Best. And I would do anything for Leigh, and so would you, and you know that she'd do the same. But it's hard to donate Thoughts and Love.

I just wish that somebody, some dark spirit, would appear and say that Leigh will come out of her coma as soon as we can find 700 copies of 'Back to the Future' on Laserdisc. And we would all scour the earth looking for every last copy of 'Back to the Future' on Laserdisc, wherever it may be, because that's what we would do. We would find copies on the lip of a volcano. We would outsmart evil Russian super-agents and steal the three copies they keep in their bungalow. You know we would. And then we'd all come running back to Houston with all the laserdiscs under our arms and count them all up and YAYY!! we did it!!

That's not how it works, of course. It is not fair, the way that it actually works. But it is how it is. So we wait. And we pray and hope and look at the floor a lot. And we'll celebrate soon. We have to.

You know what I want right now? Like, right right now or I'll scream?

It's a dumpy rainy bloopy fucking day in New York and I'm cranky and I think the only thing that could totally make me happy right now is a breakfast taco.

Not a regular breakfast taco. All of you who are all "Ooooh Cabana" or "Ooooh Mama Margies" please stop insulting me with the horrible words.

I want a motherfucking breakfast taco from a San Antonio municipal golf course is what I want.

Seriously. There's something nuclear about those. I can't quite explain it. But if you've been there, you know. There's just a certain way a breakfast taco even smells different, tastes thirty times better, when you're eating it on a municipal golf course at seven in the morning and you're already starting to fuck with each other and the day hasn't started yet. That first breakfast taco, sitting greasily in the tin foil, sitting at a picnic table outside the club house or in the golf cart with your foot up.

That's the business. That's what I need right now.

Anyway, like I've been saying

The weekend cast of my show has already opened, on Saturday. Today is opening day for the weekday group that performs for just school kids. It's an operation that's grown exponentially over the years. Back in the day we'd do three or four of them, just tagged on to the shows we were already doing on the weekend. Now they do about 25, which necessitates a second cast. Which means, for the past month, I've been simultaneously directing two different versions of the same show with two different casts of six.

It has been, well, let's call it a journey.

The technical elements of this show are as numerous as they are rewarding (I just heard a group of schoolkids "oooh!" excitedly about bike helmets flying in from the sky, an effect which gave my TD a minor heart attack when I demanded it, but it was the lighting designer's fault for suggesting something so awesome in the first place).

Anyway, even after opening over the weekend we are still tinkering. I got here at 8:30 this morning to build and paint more crap. We can't stop adding crap to this show. Still have some work to do after this round of shows. But if it means the ringing bicycle bell thing gets attached to the back platform to make the shadow puppetry scene easier, it's worth the extra coffee.

So I get here at 8:30 in the morning and my SM rolls up and we're sawing and drilling the morning away. And, oh crap, Chrissie has food poisoning so I have to handle the front of the house by myself. No problem! I am a genius after all. I am very proud of my skill as an all-encompassing Theatrical Handyman, so I'll just unplug the jig saw, dust myself off, and deal with this invoice that needs to be faxed.

When you are in charge of a place you get used to hearing people say your name pretty simultaneously. Years of being a waiter have taught me how to prioritize my time. But sometimes they're hard to untangle, like when the first busload of kids arrives a half hour early, while the actors are still warming up, and one of them informs me that the toilet is clogged and she cannot fix it herself. And my SM is upstairs sewing velcro onto a dress for a quick change and doesn't have a free hand. And also the phone is ringing.

I stuff the phone in my back pocket while the first group comes in and the actors are clearing the stage. And then I start panicking. Because my book with the reservation information is upstairs, but the toilet is downstairs, and several minutes of plunging have done no good because, apparently, this actress only eats rocks and bricks or something. And there are children knocking on the door who, unlike the adults, are not so polite about saying, "I'll hold it" when they see the hastily scrawled "Out of Order" sign.

It is at this point, with my sleeves rolled up, bailing out toilet water, sifting through the fecal matter of one of my actors, whose every flat note and dropped line I am suddenly fixating on, that I remember:

Laura's back in town.

She's just visiting, taking care of some immigration problem. (She wants to stay away from the theater for personal reasons, for "my baby in someone else's hands" reasons, but she wants to see the show this weekend).

It is at this point, when I am again plunging with all my heart, peering through the clouded brown water for any sort of encouraging sign, that I start to question everything. Because there is still another group of schoolkids on their way, and I still haven't gotten the payment from the first group, and our SM is messaging me that some other small group of mothers that I wasn't told about has just showed up, and a voice over my shoulder is asking me if the velcro has been attached to her dress yet, and I actually consider it. I actually consider calling Laura and asking her to come in and help me out.

Wait, wait wait.

I consider the encouraging words of my brother when I started here and something went wrong. 'What, are you gonna lay on the floor and cry?'

No. No I'm not.

One last forceful plunge and the water recedes. Alright. Gotta find bleach and clorox wipes. Your dress is almost done; I've asked the SM to pre-set it after fitting it on you. Hi I'm Chris I'm the Managing Director here I can take your money. I'll be right back with some change (I'll grab my reservation book and scissors and tape while I'm getting the change so I can re-do the pre-set that I forgot about). Here are some more books to read to the kids while we wait on the next group to arrive. OK, here you guys are we were waiting for you go right on in while I send this e-mail to Time Out New York.

And we're off. And the screaming child who was red-faced and kicking in the lobby is now transfixed, and the kids are eating it up and screaming with laughter. When the 11:45 group shows up an hour early I am unfazed. And when I have to direct traffic with them, getting one group out, letting a smaller group eat their lunch, and escorting a third group in while restoring the set for the second show, I am cool as a cucumber.

I never lost my shit.

I am smiling, in fact. I am loving this.

The kids are completely losing it. They are laughing their little asses off. I have the sense of humor of a five year old, apparently, and it's paying off handsomely this morning.

This is from Christmas. If I still worked at Pfizer I would have posted this a month ago.

My beloved father-in-law Larry shot this in his living room. I'm playing a Ghost Runner song with our friend Brennen. Afterwards, Larry said he was always amazed at how musicians just pick up instruments and play together, even if they've never met. They just know each other through music. Brennen didn't know any of the songs I threw at him and I didn't know his either, but we just jammed. I never really thought twice about it. But it blew Larry's mind. And it's stuck with me, and I appreciate it for the everyday miracle that it is.

Anyway, things are awesome, is the point. And my Dad is doing pretty good. He gets to eat pizza! Bless his soul.

I'm losing weight, but for the wrong reasons. I keep forgetting to eat, because I get too busy. I've never in my life forgotten to eat. I've lost fifteen pounds in the last few months, most of it from working out, but that last five pounds or so is just from directing a cast in the afternoon, getting busy with admin crap, directing a cast at night, and getting home without any food in me. Laura was stick thin and I'm starting to understand why.

Gotta pick a song that sounds like roller coasters. 'Scuse me.

* I am currently thrilled with my actors, all six of them in both casts (12 total). I direct one in the afternoon and one at night. I use my free time to handle theater admin shit, which...well, fuck. I'm never on here any more if that's any indication.

* I had a great day today. I won't go into any specifics, because who cares, but I handled a pretty wide variety of problems with the landlord, a group of autistic children, invoices, actor issues, ED appeasement, designer issues, and running two rehearsals with simultaneous shows going in completely different directions.

* Did I mention I'm the musical director as well? And that I deferred a portion of my salary so the lighting designer and the choreographer got more money? And that I should be hung on a cross?

* Also, for what it's worth, I'm totally on Team Bale. If Harry Knowles' version is to be believed, all reasonable avenues had been exhausted (discussions with the director, discussion with the DP directly) and, eventually, you just gotta chew a motherfucker out.

* I don't mind admitting that when I first heard The Bale Tape, all I could think was, "He sounds great. What a great voice." When I get that pissed my voice gets all pinched.

* The dance remix is my favorite new song.

* An actor made a suggestion and I took it way further and OMG I'm so excited about tomorrow. The script calls for an impromptu sword fight between two characters. This has grown, in our insane minds, into a full on complete replication of the light saber fight choreography of the 'Luke, I am your father' scene from "The Empire Strikes Back". I have sent the actors the appropriate YouTube links, and tomorrow we have set aside a full hour to perfect it.

* At rehearsals tonight, I accidentally said that the scene was from 'Return of the Jedi', for which I got a swift rebuke, for which I really love this cast of dorkatrons I've invited into my theater

* One cast member is, by day, an astrophysicist. I tried to talk to her about superstring theory in the audition, but she quickly told me that she thought it was bullshit, and she was immediately cast.

* I use this astrophysicist to map out the various realities I'm setting forth. I want everything to be dramatically and physically justified (such as "What happens when you walk through a door into another theatrical universe but then utilize that same door again to a different end? Do you go further in or does your frame of reference reset?")

* (hint: it re-sets. I didn't know this, but it totally makes sense to me now.)

* (Oh Christ. I am directing a children's theater show that stops every few minutes to make sure that the ghost of Oppenheimer won't destroy everything.)

* Meanwhile, Ghost Runner has embarked on a totally new set of music, with the latest batch of songs based around the conceit of "International Space Treaties" and all that implies, and I shouldn't be this amazed at this point, but I'm totally dumbfounded by what we can come up with when we're feeling good and crazy.

* Anyway

* The point is

* I didn't write about this, because

* But my father just had surgery and he's come out perfectly healthy

* By all indications

* And that trumps every insignificant thing I've written here

* I interrupted rehearsal the other day to cry

* At the sight of my father in his hospital gown waving to me (us) in a cell phone pic

* I cried my eyes out

* While Jessica was teaching the dance

* And thanked everyone for being so great

* And said, pretty much, "My father has survived cancer, so you have no excuse for fucking up this harmony, so let's take it again from measure 26."

* And, God bless 'em, they fucking nailed it.

Jake Tapper is interviewing Magic Johnson and the subject, of course, turns to basketball. And Magic declares that he would be honored to accept an invitation to play against the President at the White House. "We can get together, throw some elbows..." And he says that Michael Jordan and Larry Bird would probably love to come, too.

And there it is. Forget about everything else. Whatever, nuclear codes. Whatever, laws and policy. When you're the President of the United States of America, you can up and decide to have a pickup game with Magic Johnson, Michael Jordon and Larry Bird, and those motherfuckers will show up. Those motherfuckers will be nervous to meet you. That's cool.

I've been watching coverage since this morning at 8:30, because I couldn't sleep. I ran two general audition sessions yesterday and I've got another two today. I'll be at the theater late tonight making decisions on who to call back and when. I'll be exhausted. But I don't care. Had to get up early because it is Christmas Morning.

My favorite is all the elderly Black men and women in wheelchairs. You made it. You got to see it. OK, that made me tear up. Christ, I'm gonna be crying all day, all through auditions. "No, go ahead with your monologue. There's something in my eye."

Alright. I decided, out of respect, that I'm going to wear a suit to watch the inauguration, and keep it on all day, so I gotta go shower and shave and iron my shirt. Spike Lee's wife just said that the sun is gonna shine today. And Spike Lee looks like he's gonna cry and then everybody starts making fun of his Yankee hat. "When have we had two days like this, back to back, in the history of this country?" MLK to Obama. And then they cut to a homemade sign that says "January 20th, 2009 - MISSION ACCOMPLISHED." Ha ha ha ha.

It's gonna be a good day. It's gonna be a good four years, God willing. One way or another, I've got a pinstriped suit and a bottle of champagne that says it's going to be a good afternoon. This is a good country, and the joy on all these faces is incredible. Two million people don't care that it's 25 degrees out. Today is a good day.

I really really love that the Biggest Hero in America, the humble bad-ass who's more Hank Hill than Evel Kneivel, the salt-of-the-earth cool-headed professional motherfucker who landed a motherfucking airbus with no engines in the middle of the Hudson River, the only place for miles where such a landing was possible, clearing the GW Bridge by a mere thousand feet before unloading his entire plane and crew and being the last off because the captain goes down with the ship, and when he was finally dragged off the plane his uniform was still impeccable...

I really really love that this guy's nickname is "Sully", which we usually use as a verb but occasionally as a sweet-intentioned term of endearment.

Seriously, though. Sully is the baddest motherfucker in the world. And as much as I love Obama, I think we should go ahead and swear Sully in as President. Of course, his solution to everything will be picture perfect landings in the middle of the river, but could it be any worse than anything Bush did on purpose?

*****

Meanwhile, I'm terrified that my Pandora radio station is somehow connected to the NSA or something, because I didn't put ANYTHING on it, I mean I just put my name and my e-mail and fired it up and it knows exactly what I like and it's freaking the fuck out of my brain. I mean, maybe the default setting for Pandora is "lovely alt-country rock for the office", but I'm still totally spooked. It just served up Silver Jews, Wilco, and Belle and Sebastion all in a row. I half suspect that they have access to my webcam, and they just took a look at what I'm wearing today and were like, "Oh you're THAT guy. Well, here's some Meat Puppets B-sides you wuss."

We turned around the theater in six days, as we always do, and now a new show is in the space. They opened for the general public over the weekend and the second cast had their first show for a huge school group this morning. I've realized that, as many years as I've been doing children's theater, I've never gotten over the hair-raising panic, the Aneurysm In a Box that is that moment when a character is hiding, and the other character giving chase wonders aloud "Where did he go?"

If you haven't been around a large group of children who are dead certain about WHERE HE IS I cannot describe the feeling to you. It's primal, like when you know there's a moose somewhere near and he wants to mate with you. It is chilling.

This guy Tim used to work here a lot as a musical director, and he and I always gabbed about how we loved this phenomenon, how we were basically torturing these children, and they had no idea because they were convinced our mothers had raised fools. "You imbeciles!! He's behind that bush! I CAN SEE HIM WITH MY TINY EYES WHY CAN YOU NOT??"

"OH GOD WHY WON'T YOU LISTEN TO ME TELL YOU WHERE HE IS????"

What I never got over, what I talked about this morning, was remembering when I played Robin Hood, and I was hiding out in disguise from the Sheriff of Nottingham. And at one particular performance the kids actually ratted me out. These were children who were rooting for Robin Hood to be arrested and hanged in town square. They were rooting for Robin Hood to lose. They will grow up to play for the Philadelphia Eagles and they will be scumbags.

Anyway, now they're in the middle of an acting class for tiny little kids, which is heart-breakingly adorable. I keep clutching at my pearls every few minutes. Kids fucking rule.

But I can't concentrate on the work I'm doing, all the stuff with our online account and the grant we just got and scheduling for next week's auditions, so I'm drowning it out by listening to the Cypress Hill CD I just bought with a gift card from my Aunt Moochie. Thanks for these infectious Latin rhymes, Mooch!



Also, we're totally obsessed with Cakewrecks right now, having been introduced by our fondit-avoiding costume designer/local baker Jen. This one is my favorite, because there are terrifying deer on fire.

I'd write something more substantial, bigger, more literary, more over-reaching, but I don't really feel like I need to. Not like in past years, not like before, not this thing of building myself up in words because I needed it, because I needed my own reassurances. My own little pep talks.

I sent Leigh a whole bunch of resolutions, and they're good ones, and they're ones I'll keep in mind, but the biggest problems in my life are lifting. And, most importantly, I'm dropping that horribly annoying thing I do where I get really drunk and I cry about what a failure I am. And nobody can convince me I'm not, no matter what. It is the most annoying thing about me.

Well, I don't feel like that anymore. I am not a failure. And I don't care if this only lasts for a year or less, and I have to go scrambling away somewhere. This is what I was meant to do, and I feel like lucky to be able to do it if only for a short time.

I am sitting here in the office loft overlooking my theater and underneath me our TD is listening to Duran Duran and creating the stage left circular platform. I have a stack of checks to my side, portioned off by production, and a stack of cash portioned off by performance. I'm preparing a deposit, using a spreadsheet that I fixed when I started working here because it was a mess. Thanks, Pfizer.

Once I drop off that deposit I'll finish work on our new Flickr account (or maybe Picasa; haven't decided yet) and put the finishing touches on the little widget I created for the next show. I've written to my set designer, confirmed with my lighting designer, re-ticketed that group from last week, and filed the IRS paperwork.

I am drinking a beer and wearing a t-shirt and jeans.

Gotta design the back page of the program. Try to get that done before ducking out for New Years.

This feels so good, man. This feels so right. I'm good at this shit. I love this shit. I have fun putting together deposit slips for this place, because it's this place, because it's just this good.

So Happy New Year. Happy new everything. Happy new day off tomorrow and then production meeting on Friday, then taping the show this weekend, then load out/load in on Sunday night, then tech week, then auditions start in a couple of weeks for the next one that I'm directing. Things are still scary, and I need a minute to sit down and do some math, but that's a side note. This is about a mission. This is about a life unwasted.

There's this story that showed up in 'Carrot and Stick' from back in the day in Austin. I was at this Mr. Fabulous gig, with the infamous Dino Lee (a friend of Eric's, I was later to discover). And his band sounded great and he sounded great but the small crowd just wasn't feeling it. And we smoked cigarettes together and I asked him about it, and he compared it to some great warrior who trains for an opponent, and you train and toughen your fists up by punching bags of rice.

"And this crowd," and looks back in, "This crowd is a bag of rice."

What I say, when I am that drunk and I am that crying, is that I've wasted my life, wasted my talent, wasted all this time and I have nothing to show for it. And now, for the first time in years, I actually feel like there was a reason for it. For ALL of it. For all the weird jobs, all the weird paths. They all make sense here. And wherever's next. I have no earthly idea what 2010 is going to be like. In 2009 I work in theater and make inspired music with my best friends, and I have a loving wife to support me in my endeavors. It is snowing cats and dogs. It is all good.