I was a little nervous this weekend before I walked into my friend's 30th birthday party. We used to work together and neither one of us has been really good about keeping in touch. As often happens you drift apart, and some people are less understanding than others. This friend however was great. Her face lit up, and she was genuinely glad to see me. She kept saying that she wasn't sure if I would make it because I didn't respond to the Evite, which I seldom do. Then other familiar faces started to show up, old friends and acquaintances that I haven't seen in years. Updates were given, congratulations handed out, sympathies offered, etc. All in all it was a pretty fun evening.
Sunday was a completely different story as I began to feel slight twinges of pain in my lower back. As the day progressed the pain became worse until the all too familiar realization hits me. My kidneys. Here we go again. Over the next 24 hours the pain washed over me in waves; ebbing and flowing. I couldn't sleep. I had a hard time walking. I'd almost forgotten. It has been 6 years since I've had to deal with the medical problem, and I finally have health insurance. I should probably look into seeing a doctor before I end up hooked to an IV and draining fluid out of my back... again.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Friday, March 31, 2006
Dig It
Today I was out walking the dog and decided to go a different route. The wind was out of control, and I half-expected my dog to be blown away. As we turned the corner, near a cemtery, I notice a worker pushing a wheelbarrow and a shovel. No mystery as to what he might be up to but then it hits me, I don't ever think I've seen someone dig a grave except in the movies. Good Fellows. Kill Bill. Young Frankenstein.
This guy didn't even use a back hoe. Just a shovel and a wheelbarrow. He walked up to the plot, which was marked of with stakes and a rope, and casually started digging the shovel into the ground along the edge; not much, just the tip, to outline. Watched for a while.
Got a rejection letter in the mail, regarding one of my scripts... and life goes on, graves are dug, and flowers are delivered.
This guy didn't even use a back hoe. Just a shovel and a wheelbarrow. He walked up to the plot, which was marked of with stakes and a rope, and casually started digging the shovel into the ground along the edge; not much, just the tip, to outline. Watched for a while.
Got a rejection letter in the mail, regarding one of my scripts... and life goes on, graves are dug, and flowers are delivered.
Monday, March 27, 2006
The Glitz & Glamour.
Well, I can't really feel too bad about this Monday hangover. I earned it.
Last night I attended the Opening Night Performance of Urinetown:The Musical. My girlfriend is in the cast and the show, which we love, was hysterical! The audience seemed to really enjoy the show, and the cast worked it's collective butt off. I think this show will be a real success, again.
After the show I attended a opening night party with the cast and crew, members of the press, and producers, etc. It was all very different then the storefront theatre, cast party keggers I'm used to. My girl was in her element, chatting with friends, receiving compliments from patrons, and snapping pictures like mad woman. I was her arm candy, that's right. Having nothing whatsoever to do with this production my only purpose was to smile, be supportive, and when people would tell me how talented my girlfriend was I would just grin and reply, "I'm her biggest fan," then chuckle. Oh, the life -
Hail Malthus!
Last night I attended the Opening Night Performance of Urinetown:The Musical. My girlfriend is in the cast and the show, which we love, was hysterical! The audience seemed to really enjoy the show, and the cast worked it's collective butt off. I think this show will be a real success, again.
After the show I attended a opening night party with the cast and crew, members of the press, and producers, etc. It was all very different then the storefront theatre, cast party keggers I'm used to. My girl was in her element, chatting with friends, receiving compliments from patrons, and snapping pictures like mad woman. I was her arm candy, that's right. Having nothing whatsoever to do with this production my only purpose was to smile, be supportive, and when people would tell me how talented my girlfriend was I would just grin and reply, "I'm her biggest fan," then chuckle. Oh, the life -
Hail Malthus!
Monday, March 20, 2006
News
Read this...
KabulCrap!
A man converts to a different religion and is facing the death penalty... for changing his religion? What, are we living in the middle ages? What's next? Are we going to do next, burn witches at the stake?
It's amazing to think that stuff like this still goes on in the world. We all sit in our own little corner of the world and think that we have things figured out. Then I read an article that completely knocks me on my butt.
KabulCrap!
A man converts to a different religion and is facing the death penalty... for changing his religion? What, are we living in the middle ages? What's next? Are we going to do next, burn witches at the stake?
It's amazing to think that stuff like this still goes on in the world. We all sit in our own little corner of the world and think that we have things figured out. Then I read an article that completely knocks me on my butt.
Monday, March 13, 2006
Um... Excuse Me...
... I don't want you to think I'm insensitve. Well, not to your plight, I mean. I understand times are tough. We all have to do what we have to do to survive and all of that jazz. I just wonder if you could move your shopping cart? Please. I'd like to go inside now. Look, I don't want to be a jerk but if I came over to your place and was digging through your trash I wouldn't block your door with my cart. Now, get out of my dumpster and move your crap so I can get into my apartment building... please. Have yourself a pleasant day.
Friday, March 10, 2006
WTF?
"I'll have a Miller Lite... Bottle," announced the unattractive, trashy blonde who probably was once kinda attractive and less trashy.
The bartender looked up from his cocktail-mixing and gave the women a curious glance. "You mean in addition to the wine you're already drinking??
"And give me a glass," added the thirsty, unattractive, trashy blonde .
The bartender obliged the request then went back to his other duties. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the unattractive, trashy blonde pour the majority of the beer into the glass then push the glass away; forgotten. Then he notices the slight bulge underneath the woman's bottom lip.
Tobacco!
The beer was ordered not for the great taste/ less filling refreshment that it offered. No. The bottle was the prize. The unattractive, trashy blonde needed somewhere to spit her Skoal-laced saliva, as if she wasn't unattractive and trashy enough before the dipping!
* Any Tobacco-Dipping Honeys out there who have a problem with this post, and don't feel that this disgusting habit makes them unattractive or trashy should stop... count to 20... okay, um, count to 10... can you count to 3? You know what? Just forget the counting. It'll distract you from the Monster Truck Pull you were watching on Spike TV anyway.
The bartender looked up from his cocktail-mixing and gave the women a curious glance. "You mean in addition to the wine you're already drinking??
"And give me a glass," added the thirsty, unattractive, trashy blonde .
The bartender obliged the request then went back to his other duties. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the unattractive, trashy blonde pour the majority of the beer into the glass then push the glass away; forgotten. Then he notices the slight bulge underneath the woman's bottom lip.
Tobacco!
The beer was ordered not for the great taste/ less filling refreshment that it offered. No. The bottle was the prize. The unattractive, trashy blonde needed somewhere to spit her Skoal-laced saliva, as if she wasn't unattractive and trashy enough before the dipping!
* Any Tobacco-Dipping Honeys out there who have a problem with this post, and don't feel that this disgusting habit makes them unattractive or trashy should stop... count to 20... okay, um, count to 10... can you count to 3? You know what? Just forget the counting. It'll distract you from the Monster Truck Pull you were watching on Spike TV anyway.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Hello Again
Sometimes I get to the point on a script where I feel the need to step away. I'll just leave it alone - for a few days, a few weeks, a couple months. Get some distance.
Then there are those scripts that I've been 'writing' for years. I'll misplace the script, realize that additional research is needed before I try to complete the piece, get frustrated and shelf the work, or even just get so distracted on other projects that I'll completely forget about the other scripts.
Recently I found a script that I started working on when I first moved to Chicago in 98. I revised it a few years later, and then again a year or so ago. I remember what it was supposed to be about when I originally conceived the idea. Not surprising is the fact that over the years my perception of the central conflict has changed.
The protagonist was given a raw deal. Ambition and promise were not allowed to blossom into reality. The unfairness of it all was tragic. Somehow the hero would find his way. Somehow the Prince would come into his own and save the day. Now, the wizened sage I have become, sees it a little differently. The tragedy is still there but now the truth of the matter is that the protagonist exacerbated matters. He let himself to be victimized. He took the raw deal and allowed it to run his life. He was probably even grateful to have the control taken away from himself. It's so much easier to accept mediocrity when it is someoneelse's fault.
Then there are those scripts that I've been 'writing' for years. I'll misplace the script, realize that additional research is needed before I try to complete the piece, get frustrated and shelf the work, or even just get so distracted on other projects that I'll completely forget about the other scripts.
Recently I found a script that I started working on when I first moved to Chicago in 98. I revised it a few years later, and then again a year or so ago. I remember what it was supposed to be about when I originally conceived the idea. Not surprising is the fact that over the years my perception of the central conflict has changed.
The protagonist was given a raw deal. Ambition and promise were not allowed to blossom into reality. The unfairness of it all was tragic. Somehow the hero would find his way. Somehow the Prince would come into his own and save the day. Now, the wizened sage I have become, sees it a little differently. The tragedy is still there but now the truth of the matter is that the protagonist exacerbated matters. He let himself to be victimized. He took the raw deal and allowed it to run his life. He was probably even grateful to have the control taken away from himself. It's so much easier to accept mediocrity when it is someoneelse's fault.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Now You Tell Me...
Monday, February 27, 2006
Juror Number Stupid!
Words to the wise -
If you are ever in Jury Selection and, while being interviewed, you are asked if you've ever been arrested on criminal charges and you have... just admit it. My Jury Day started off with the first prospective juror claiming to have no prior arrests, but after a side bar it was revealed that the guy had, indeed, been arrested. 3 Times! It was so surreal.
The Judge gave the man several opportunities to change his story, and admit the truth. He didn't. The Judge reminded him that he was under oath and asked him again. The man said, "No, Your Honor." The Judge checked again to be absolutely positive. The man insisted that he didn't remember ever being arrested.
Didn't remember?
The Judge then held up police reports and one by one went down the guys sheet; 3 prior arrests. After each one the guy said, "Oh, yeah. I forgot about that." Well, he won't be serving on the Jury because I'm pretty sure he's being charged with 3 counts of Perjury.
I, on the other hand, was selected as Juror and now must track down to the Southside for the next few days and sit through the trial, and get paid for my civic duty. $17.20 a day.
If you are ever in Jury Selection and, while being interviewed, you are asked if you've ever been arrested on criminal charges and you have... just admit it. My Jury Day started off with the first prospective juror claiming to have no prior arrests, but after a side bar it was revealed that the guy had, indeed, been arrested. 3 Times! It was so surreal.
The Judge gave the man several opportunities to change his story, and admit the truth. He didn't. The Judge reminded him that he was under oath and asked him again. The man said, "No, Your Honor." The Judge checked again to be absolutely positive. The man insisted that he didn't remember ever being arrested.
Didn't remember?
The Judge then held up police reports and one by one went down the guys sheet; 3 prior arrests. After each one the guy said, "Oh, yeah. I forgot about that." Well, he won't be serving on the Jury because I'm pretty sure he's being charged with 3 counts of Perjury.
I, on the other hand, was selected as Juror and now must track down to the Southside for the next few days and sit through the trial, and get paid for my civic duty. $17.20 a day.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
A Westside Story!
Sometimes I leap before I look. It happens. You live you learn, you move on to your next potential blunder.
Several weeks ago I found a listing in the paper for a writing competition, or more specifically a monologue-writing competition. Interested writers and actors were asked to mail in a postcard with their information and the first however many would be contacted. Several days later I received an email from the organizer. I was in; I was to be one of the featured writers in the 3rd annual Monodogs of War Monologue Competition.
Here's how it works - On the evening of February 18th, all involved parties were to show up at this Arts Center at or around 5:30. The organizer, Mr. Happy, we'll call him, was then to randomly select an actor who would then randomly select a writer who, in turn, would randomly select a quote. The actor and writer would then have 35 minutes to collaborate and create a monologue. The 16 pairs would then present their work to a panel of judges, the field would be cut into half and then a second round would determine the top 3 winners, all of whom would receive prizes for their effort.
Sound simple enough?
Here's the reality - The arts center is a lovely little church which was bought by the city and used for community activities. It is located on the corner of As Far West As I've Ever Been Without Hitting An Ocean! & Where The Hell Are We? This group, this theatre company feels that the Eastside of Chicago gets too much action. They're going to start a quality theatre scene on the far, far, far, far Westside. Good for them. I'm not a geographical snob. I have no gang affiliations which would force me to 'hate' on those outside of my 'turf'. I am, however, a rider of public transportation and an 80 minute, round-trip bus ride in sub-zero weather would suck the creative enthusiasm out of the most eager of camp counselors.
We arrive and the other participants stroll in as close to 5:30/6:00 as possible. Mr. Happy makes many jokes about the punctuality of actors, which are appreciated immensely by the gaggle of Theatre-Geeks who have been selected for this endeavor. Pew after pew of Theatre Geeks. Anyway, the evening begins. Pairs are selected. 35 five minutes fly by* and we all reconvene in the church. 16 monologues are performed. Some good. Some bad. Some incredibly detailed, and lengthy for the amount of time allowed. Some, I suspect, were even improvised on the spot. (Call me cynical but when you perform a brand new 5 minute monologue without looking at the script once ore even turning 1 page I think you're cheating.)
So did I make it to round 2?
Did I stand atop the podium at the end of the night; triumphant?
No. I left before the second round was even announced. 3 hours had passed since I first walked through the doors, and I was bouncing off the walls. 3 hours and we still had another round to go. 3 hours and the end was nowhere in sight. I couldn't take it. I turned to my incredibly loving, supportive, and patient girlfriend and said, "We're out!" We were, indeed. out.
I'm not too worried about it. My monologue wouldn't have gotten me to the next round anyway. My actress and I both agreed we had tried to do too much. 35 minutes is the blink of an eye when you're trying to collaborate, develop backstory, character, etc. Before we knew it we were being hustled back into the competition. My piece? A young woman, called into the rest home of her ailing father, and forced to wait for answers, contemplates her father's recent decline and his love of chess. It was to be funny, moving, and, above all, longer than the 4 paragraphs that I managed to scratch out for my unfortunate actress.
I did it to myself. It was a writing 'competition' so I took it too seriously. I wanted to create. I wanted to flex my artistic muscles. I wanted substance.
I would have been better off with celebrity references, bodily functions and dwarf jokes. Don't get me wrong. Some of the pieces were quite good. There were three, in fact, that I was both truly impressed by and jealous of the writing. I gave my actress 4 paragraphs of exposition, and never even penned the monologue I was planning.
I should have known things weren't going to meet my expectations when the 'prizes' were revealed to be stuffed animals, writng pads, pens, and assorted sundry. Also, for the third year of a 'production' there was a lot of wasted time. A lot of in between. A lot of spinning our wheels. Call me ADD but I like to get in, be entertained, and get out. I don't need Mr. Happy standing up and cracking private jokes with company members, or repeatedly talking up the North Westside which only reminded me how long it was going to take me to get home again in the freezing cold.
So it was a disappointing night. That's my incredibly long post about my incredibly long night. Be glad you are only reading about it.
* During the 35 minute writing process the audience, a few parents & a handful of significant others, were 'entertained' by a musician and a stand up comedian who, according to my sources, was the complete, and total opposite of funny. I'm thankful none of my friends showed up to support me just because they never would have forgiven me.
Several weeks ago I found a listing in the paper for a writing competition, or more specifically a monologue-writing competition. Interested writers and actors were asked to mail in a postcard with their information and the first however many would be contacted. Several days later I received an email from the organizer. I was in; I was to be one of the featured writers in the 3rd annual Monodogs of War Monologue Competition.
Here's how it works - On the evening of February 18th, all involved parties were to show up at this Arts Center at or around 5:30. The organizer, Mr. Happy, we'll call him, was then to randomly select an actor who would then randomly select a writer who, in turn, would randomly select a quote. The actor and writer would then have 35 minutes to collaborate and create a monologue. The 16 pairs would then present their work to a panel of judges, the field would be cut into half and then a second round would determine the top 3 winners, all of whom would receive prizes for their effort.
Sound simple enough?
Here's the reality - The arts center is a lovely little church which was bought by the city and used for community activities. It is located on the corner of As Far West As I've Ever Been Without Hitting An Ocean! & Where The Hell Are We? This group, this theatre company feels that the Eastside of Chicago gets too much action. They're going to start a quality theatre scene on the far, far, far, far Westside. Good for them. I'm not a geographical snob. I have no gang affiliations which would force me to 'hate' on those outside of my 'turf'. I am, however, a rider of public transportation and an 80 minute, round-trip bus ride in sub-zero weather would suck the creative enthusiasm out of the most eager of camp counselors.
We arrive and the other participants stroll in as close to 5:30/6:00 as possible. Mr. Happy makes many jokes about the punctuality of actors, which are appreciated immensely by the gaggle of Theatre-Geeks who have been selected for this endeavor. Pew after pew of Theatre Geeks. Anyway, the evening begins. Pairs are selected. 35 five minutes fly by* and we all reconvene in the church. 16 monologues are performed. Some good. Some bad. Some incredibly detailed, and lengthy for the amount of time allowed. Some, I suspect, were even improvised on the spot. (Call me cynical but when you perform a brand new 5 minute monologue without looking at the script once ore even turning 1 page I think you're cheating.)
So did I make it to round 2?
Did I stand atop the podium at the end of the night; triumphant?
No. I left before the second round was even announced. 3 hours had passed since I first walked through the doors, and I was bouncing off the walls. 3 hours and we still had another round to go. 3 hours and the end was nowhere in sight. I couldn't take it. I turned to my incredibly loving, supportive, and patient girlfriend and said, "We're out!" We were, indeed. out.
I'm not too worried about it. My monologue wouldn't have gotten me to the next round anyway. My actress and I both agreed we had tried to do too much. 35 minutes is the blink of an eye when you're trying to collaborate, develop backstory, character, etc. Before we knew it we were being hustled back into the competition. My piece? A young woman, called into the rest home of her ailing father, and forced to wait for answers, contemplates her father's recent decline and his love of chess. It was to be funny, moving, and, above all, longer than the 4 paragraphs that I managed to scratch out for my unfortunate actress.
I did it to myself. It was a writing 'competition' so I took it too seriously. I wanted to create. I wanted to flex my artistic muscles. I wanted substance.
I would have been better off with celebrity references, bodily functions and dwarf jokes. Don't get me wrong. Some of the pieces were quite good. There were three, in fact, that I was both truly impressed by and jealous of the writing. I gave my actress 4 paragraphs of exposition, and never even penned the monologue I was planning.
I should have known things weren't going to meet my expectations when the 'prizes' were revealed to be stuffed animals, writng pads, pens, and assorted sundry. Also, for the third year of a 'production' there was a lot of wasted time. A lot of in between. A lot of spinning our wheels. Call me ADD but I like to get in, be entertained, and get out. I don't need Mr. Happy standing up and cracking private jokes with company members, or repeatedly talking up the North Westside which only reminded me how long it was going to take me to get home again in the freezing cold.
So it was a disappointing night. That's my incredibly long post about my incredibly long night. Be glad you are only reading about it.
* During the 35 minute writing process the audience, a few parents & a handful of significant others, were 'entertained' by a musician and a stand up comedian who, according to my sources, was the complete, and total opposite of funny. I'm thankful none of my friends showed up to support me just because they never would have forgiven me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)