Gonna wait til the midnight hour.

The curse of being a night owl used to be no one to share it with. Now it feels a little crowded here in the living room.

Just call me Bing Crosby.

Today is the day before the day before christmas. I have spent a great deal of the last few months, (or maybe decades) thinking that perhaps the world was a place full of assholes. States exhibit A: Me. To lessen this feeling, there is always watching the news around christmas time. There's always a great story about someone giving all their time and money to those less fortunate. This will often temporarily suspend my pessimism.

Today someone gave 1 million dollars to the people made homeless by the huge apartment fire in Burnsville. That's $17,500 per household. Then there was a story about a woman who has put together an organization to make homemade cookies for soldiers abroad. (She has now added hand knitted hats and cast covers for wounded soldiers traveling to germany)

Thanks everybody for letting me hang out and watch you be good at this "human being" thing.

If only I had a crime to commit.

Oral surgery has made me look like a who just in time for christmas. And pain has made me kinda grinchy.

Lunch breaks

This picture is a city street in the middle of Mankato's residential area. Note the complete lack of houses. This is, perhaps, the greatest place in the world to eat your lame drive-thru lunch on your way back to work. Thank you Jim Mankato or whoever planned this town.

Back in the saddle. . .

I haven't run a show in close to 5 years. Because of a dip in tech students in the freshman class, there are not enough people to go around. So here I am, in tech for our fall dance concert running lights, sound and a few other sundries as if I have stepped back in time. I have learned two things. The black clothes still fit and lighting designers, like parents, just don't understand.

Good night

I went to a party tonight. It was the gathering and "take what you want" party for former employees of Theatre de la Jeune Lune. That place is such an important part of so many pasts and no futures. I hope everyone who witnessed its beauty held on to their own little piece. I took a radioactive glow stick. Yay me.

Vote early, Vote often. -Al Capone, et. al.

I sit at my desk this morning below the picture that I sometimes forget is posted on my bulletin board. It is a picture of American soldiers inside the belly of a C-130 airplane strapping down the flag draped coffins of dead american soldiers. I keep this picture near me to remind me of what younger, braver citizens are doing for me every day around the world. I am sometimes left-wing, sometimes right-wing, depending on which issue you approach me on, but above all that, I am dedicated to the ideal of democracy. We have fought and died for the right to choose. Well, here we are on an historic day (as are all elections in my opinion) during which we must all exercise that right. I received an email today from my 67 year old mother, which I will publish a portion of here:

I was number 158 to vote today at 7:30 this morning. Afterwards I sat in my car with tears running down my face, realizing that I had gone to school as a fourth grader in a segregated school system where I had few friends because I would not engage (thanks to my wonderful parents) in the after school game of going by the "colored school" and yelling the N word. I voted for the first time for JFK, (the first and only to date practicing Roman Catholic who it was said couldn't be elected because of his religion) and for the first Japanese American Senator - Senator Daniel Inouye. I graduated from college in the middle of the civil rights movement which finally brought about the voting rights act, yet despite that, blacks still had a real tough time voting. I went from undergraduate school [at the University of Hawaii] where I lived in a multicultural reality (with Barack Obama Sr. I might add) then on to graduate school where the reality was just beginning to move toward equality but surely wasn't there yet.

And today I had the privilege of voting for a man who happens to be, in reality, bi-racial, but in the minds of people, an African American, who announced yesterday with his biracial Indonesian sister, the death of their white grandmother. Wow!

I never thought I would be able to say that in my lifetime. I don't care how you vote, but please don't forget to vote. Whoever you vote for, you will have voted in an election I never thought possible.

-Mom

If the deaths of young men and women, and the lifetimes of struggle for equality that have defined this nation do not move you to vote in today's election, then please, vote for the simple reason that if you do not speak, you may as well not have a voice.

Stop by if you like apples.

Apparently dropping off a box of your extra apples from your tree makes me crazy. I am already fat enough, but two apple pies and an apple crisp will surely make me a little sassy too. Right? Anyone? Dammit.

Across the fields, like old men, appear. . . .

So, Fall. This is my favorite time of year. I have always hated the heat of summer, and the muddy, crappy, messy life of spring is not exciting to me. It probably doesn't help that I have an enormous dog with enormous feet to deal with when my 9 acre yard is composed of 8 acres of mud and 1 acre of buildings. Winter is great but does mean I have to watch idiots drive SUV's into the ditch and then expect me to care as I drive by unconcerned in my 14 lb Dodge Neon.

So, Fall. The death of vegetation and the increasingly cold air make me feel alive. The cold I have always liked, partly as a gentle reference to the shattering cold of January, which always makes me feel like life is actually a struggle and there is a fight to be won, (against homicidal mother nature) instead of what our advanced society generally makes me feel. It makes me feel that any idiot, no matter how incapable of rational thought or common sense, can have anything they feel they deserve. Everyone gets a college degree, everyone can have a job in the financial sector and ANYONE can be president. But smallpox? Nobody gets THAT anymore.

So, Fall. There's a great song by Charlie Maguire called "Fall is Here." It's a little a capella folk song about the signs of fall that make me think of the things I love in the world. Children, hunting, seeing the farmers in the field, and even the occasional cow. There's nothing about going up north to see the leaves change or Christmas shopping. Just the simple life in the country and how fall changes things. The ebb and flow of time seems so much more apparent as the combines come out of the shed and the tall corn starts disappearing from the land around me.

So, Fall.

Now that's an anniversary.

HOBBIES.

So, I hate working. I don't hate my job, I just hate to work. This is confusing. I'm a hard worker, I am not afraid of physical labor. (In fact I rather like it) But I hate that feeling of "I must do this now." Interestingly, many of my hobbies could be jobs. I like to work on cars. I like to turn trees into firewood (only if they had the idea 1st by dying). I like to build things, etc. One would think, "Awesome. Do one of those things for a living and you will be happy." Nope. I've tried. It just makes them un-fun. I love to read, but assignments when I was in school and things I need to read for my job now make me run screaming in the other direction. How does one solve this? I am at a complete loss. It makes every day full of things I enjoy doing into drudgery. Maybe I should stop cashing my paychecks. Or better yet, learn how to counterfeit. Oh, wait, no, that would just make it feel like work to "make money." Dammit. I'm sure everyone feels a certain amount of this, but I am often overcome by it. Maybe I can get people to pay me for things secretly. You know, ask me to volunteer, and then give my wife a bunch of money. Hello, state of minnesota? Could you "pretend" to fire me? That'd be awesome. Thanks. Fuck.

Fall

I want to write this great blog entry about how the Renaissance Festival is over for the year and I'm sad, blah, blah, blah but all I can type is something dark and moody. Suffice to say that it is the greatest part of my professional life and has been for 17 seasons now. I will miss it more than ever before and will yearn for its beginning again so that I can truly feel a part of something great. It is the purest form of entertainment I have ever found and that gift to ones audience is the one I have always wanted to give. I hope a few people forgot about everything bad and just laughed at the giraffes in love, the childhood started in a rail-yard singles scene and a few other startlingly funny moments. Thank you all.

Closing of a weekend

A view of the sun going down as the end of another season of the Renaissance Festival approaches. After next weekend we all go back on the shelf for another year to await our coming in glory. The beauty of the sky at 7:00 always makes me aware of the end of our little harvest festival. I'm just not ready for it this year.

My car.

I wrote this blog awhile ago. Forgot to post it.

I used to dream of someday having a lamborgini countach. A black one, just like the poster in my room. Remember that? Then, later I dreamed of a camaro. Maybe an '82 Z28 like Travis' mom. When I was in college, I started to realize that I really loved the feel of a huge car with a huge engine. Not a luxury car like that '81 Parisseane Damian's mom had. You know the one. You felt like you could swing the wheel in 2 complete circles with enough pressure from your index finger to turn the page of a novel, and when you did, the car would calmly change lanes. No, I wanted a muscle car, but the oversized version with enough room for a bunch of shriners to drive in circles on the floor mat.
Well one day, as I was reading the car for sale ads in the local shopper (i still do, even though I need no car), I saw an ad for a 1968 Impala SS convertible. It said it had a 396 cubic inch engine(the original one) and they were asking $1750 for it. Depending on the condition, I knew that might be a steal. Or it might be robbery. But what I was positive about was that it had just become my car, no matter the condition. I got my big sister to co-sign on a loan, took a cab the 45 miles into North Dakota and drove it home. Well, most of the way. The tow truck finished that for me. Now, 15 years later, that very car sits, almost completely disassembeled in my shop waiting for me to finish what I told Bob would take 7 years of ownership to do. Make everyone else see what I see. A dream.

Ahhhhh. . . . Sunday drivin'

Here is sit in tech rehearsal for the first show of the season already tired of the show, and this is actually quite good.

I got up early today, put on 3 shirts and went to the renaissance festival. I rarely have a good day when butch is gone. Not because I love him, but because the majority of my work as an entertainer is in reaction to him. Today felt different. I connected with people, helped a young entertainer learn to juggle and even had a nice moment with my hero out there.

got cold, left early and drove straight to work. On the way I got a call that proves I am getting old. A friend called and asked if I had seen "Big Trouble in Little China." Do I feel old because it's an old movie? Is it because she clearly is upset about the 2 hours she will never get back? Perhaps the maligning of Kurt Russel's magnum opus? No. It is because friends of mine are watching movies at 6:00 on a sunday. Well at least they'll be able to make that 8:30 bedtime.

back to rehearsal. Fuck I'm tired. . . at 9:15.

Now THAT'S a lunch break. . .

Once last year, on my lunch break, I just started driving, not sure where I would go and saw a sign for a county park. Lake Washington County Park, in LeSeuer County, to be exact. Shanaska Creek runs through the park and the only remaining active* bridge from the 1856 DOT system is in the park. (Shanaska Creek Bridge, surprisingly) Last week I took my camera with me on my lunch break and went back. I have been there 3 times and I have seen beavers, frogs, deer, a great Blue Heron, and even what I believe was a Great Grey Owl in this park. (Great Grey Owls are not generally native to this area) This is the only part of my personality that I KNOW I learned from my father. When I didn't go home for 3 days when I was 16 and my Mom called Dad to straighten me out, he took me to the local state park to sit me down on a rock beside the river before he told me how little my Mother deserved to be saddled with a pain in the ass like me. Just up and going somewhere wild is a part of the package with me and I can't tell you how thankful I am for that. Maybe I should become a park ranger. . . . .

* apparently "active" includes foot traffic. No roads in there anymore.

What you have wanted your whole life is never quite what you expected.

I have said for many years to anyone who would listen that all I want in a President is an intelligent person who is a good speaker. I think the presidents job is largely national cheerleader. Present a pretty face to the world, (an by that I mean an intelligent person who can understand the problems before them and not appear befuddled or ignorant) and get all of us whipped up into a patriotic fervor when necessary. If they are wise enough to hear others opinions and have a solid grasp of right and wrong, I think we are safe. As you may have guessed, this particular opinion has become more important to me in the last 8 years. This however does not really take into account my very strong feelings about Iraq, gun control, abortion rights, etc. I am firmly planted halfway between Barack Obama and John McCain. I'm against more gun control, but I would give my life to ensure a woman's right to choose. I think if we walked in and destroyed a country and attracted many terrorists there as a place to fight their chosen battle, we should not just pack up and leave and get to claim we are doing what's best. But I also feel like I could use a tax break. So where does one find in all this, a candidate to support? I am lost dear readers, but as I was reminded last week, Obama sure can put a few words together. Wonder how McCain will do tonight. . . . .

Welcome back.

Went I went to grad school, there were 3 other students who entered the program at the same time. There were no returning students that year, so we were a tight knit group. One of that group, Bev, was a woman who had had a daughter and spent her life raising her and was now going to finally be what SHE wanted and get her MFA in directing. She is a really fine director and had started making a career for herself in Chicago when, a year ago Sunday, she was hit by a bus while walking across the street. There was severe brain damage and she has basically been re-learning everything about who she is and the world in general. On the anniversary of her accident, her daughter and she were riding a bus down the street where she had lived before the accident and that part of her place in the world all came rushing back to her. As the bus rolled past the places she had visited, shopped and lived she started to remember where she fits in the world. In her own words, as transcribed by her daughter in a blog, "I feel like I've been away for a long time, and I finally just got back."

I have failed, in this year, to go and visit my friend. Partly because I shy away from these kinds of moments, partly because I allow myself to be driven by my schedule, and partly because I was afraid to see this, one of the smartest and most vibrant people I have ever known, brought low by her injuries. I am saddened by my own inactivity, but feel that at least the prayers of me and many, many other people have been answered, and Bev is coming back. Maybe now I can find my own way back to her, even through all my whining.

Whining is MY national pastime.

One of my students said to me the other day: "You're really organized this year." While ignoring the fact that this is certainly not true, I do feel as if I am getting a handle on the craziness of this job. The part that scares me is that I just took a bunch of vacation time. What if I get tired and start falling apart later? How do normal people who have an innate ability to do things because they need to be done, rather than because they were supposed to be done, keep going? I just want to feel like I'm riding the wave all the time. Sure, there are moments where you're afraid the crest of the wave will collapse and you'll get wet, but it's different than coughing and spitting while wondering if there will be sand if you try and put your feet down. Ahh, extended metaphors. I thank god for all the bad fiction I read as a child every time I spit one of those out. Anyway. Here I sit blogging when I should be paddling my board ahead of that wave. . . .

How did Dad do it? Oh yeah, he's a fucking genius.

Here I sit in my office waiting for the first day of a class I've been pushing to teach for awhile. The class is very specifically in my area and I feel like I have a good handle on the field, but class prep has never been my strength. I can put together a nice looking syllabus and give a lecture and lead a discussion, sure. But I'm always just waiting for that enormous flaw in the order of topics or assignment/lecture coincidence that I always seem to produce. The worst part about this particular class is that it has a couple students who are quite sure that there is nothing they need to learn, they just need to get minted as graduates so they can start earning a little 401k. Now, I know how much they could learn, but it's like heading to your neighbor's house to babysit the kid you know is going to make up rules his parents never gave him to just try and manipulate you into a near death experience. The longest walk my little feet have felt since the first one 32 years ago across a bunch of hippie rag rugs in my parents living room. Those things need rubber backing.

My real job.

The Renaissance Festival starts tomorrow. This will be my 17th year working at the festival and throughout it all, I have never thought of leaving. I have wished for others to leave, and I have thought of giving up the rest of my life and going on the circuit of ren fests. But I have never wanted to give it up. This job is what taught me what jobs are supposed to be if you follow that touchy-feely American ideal of loving your job. Let me dispel some rumours. It is not easy. It does not consist of hangin' out with cool people all day. It is 10 hours on your feet trying to wring some laughs and joy out of a hot, tired, overcharged audience with every kind of talent you may or may not possess. But that is what makes a job satisfying. If you have ever worked an easy, lame job like convenience store clerk or, god forbid, anything in a cubicle, you understand. Hard work is it's own reward. No job I have ever had has been as punishing for my body with the possible exception of bee keeper, and no job will ever be as good.

I find myself unusually unprepared or at least not nervous/excited about the festival this year. I'm not sure if it's because I have been actually taking a bunch of time off the last few weeks or what, but I'm just laid back. I took the time today to get everything together, boots oiled up, and extra underwear packed and found myself finding a groove there. I hope to find the same groove on the streets tomorrow morning. (probably worn between bad manor and the cage) This is the beginning of the best part of my year and I hope I can make a few people in the crowds feel the same way.

My first year out there was selling seafood near the stage where Puke and Snot performed. Butch and I met there and hawked shitty food together and on one clear day, hawked so loud that the mighty Mark and Joe (puke and snot) stopped their show, leaned on their swords for a moment and waited for us to shut up. Joe passed away this week after spending my entire lifetime on the streets and stages of the Minnesota Renaissance Festival and when I miss him, part of me will wish I could see their show one more time*. . . and stop it, but only for a moment.


* The show will go on, but without Joe. Come out and see Mark show us all what theatre is really about this weekend.

Start Seeing Motorcycles. And write down their plate number.

I just got a phone call from my good friend Dan Smith. Dan is one of my few close friends whom I have not known since childhood. Dan teaches High School in my home town and we met about 6 years ago when he was new there. Dan is an avid bicyclist and rides over 2000 miles a summer in various rides, races and other craziness. Fucking exercise. Dan called me because he didn't want me to hear on the radio that on Tuesday night, while riding past Camden State Park a wonderful human being on a black Harley Davidson decided to try and shoot through the pack of bicyclists in excess of 60mph. He failed. He struck Dan at full speed throwing him a great distance and then when Dan struck pavement and slid, he channeled the entire U.S. Men's olympic gymnastics team and tucked his head, drove his shoulder into the ground, poppped up into a back flip/twist and landed on his feet. His left elbow was destroyed and he will go through a couple surgeries at least but he was otherwise mostly okay. The awesome Harley ridin' stud slowed, looked back at the carnage, and gunned it, leaving the scene. They cannot identify him, so they're not sure if he will be caught. I'm not really sure how to react. I want to go buy Dan a beer to go with his morphine, I wanna hunt and kill this guy, and I just want to sit and shake a little. As Dan said, at least we're not all together drinking to his memory. Thanks Harley guy for not killing him. I hope you get hit by an SUV and suffer horribly before the ambulance arrives. Then I hope you get better and walk everywhere in fear of motorized transportation.

Air hockey

A dream of mine since I was child visiting my cousins in missouri. I now have my own air hockey table IN MY HOME. I mean, my KIDS have an air hockey table. . . Yes. Thanks to butch for paying it forward and joe for just paying for it.

Early morning storms.

Apparently the storm that has me and my chainsaw reunited grabbed an airplane out of the sky and, like an angry god, threw it to the ground, killing 7 people. Losing the limb that held my tire swing doesn't seem so bad.

Time waits for snowmen.

My Dad came down to visit Tuesday. My Dad is 71 years old, has mild emphysema, and has spent some time in the hospital for random old people trouble. So it is no shock to me that my father is getting old. While he was here, occasionally it seemed something was different about the way Dad was sitting. We were chatting as he sat on the piano bench, facing away from the keyboard and it finally occurred to me. He was sitting on his hands like a little kid. Then, at one point he left his hand in his lap and I saw his hand shake with that palsy that is old age. He's no Michael J. Fox, or anything, he's just 71. But it was still kind of a shock. As I said, Dad has his illnesses and all, but he's still a strong man and no one ever would believe he is as old as he is. Parents get old, I know that. The other day, I actually had an overwhelming urge to be 20 years older and be marrying off my kids and living the old mans life. But this all seems very strange. My Mom still hasn't even retired (she could have, she's just a sucker). When did all this happen?
On the other side of this coin, Dad and I took the kids fishing yesterday. I had been meaning to get out and do this with some of my free time, but Dad being here made me do it. Fishing was really the only constant with Dad when I was a kid. He would take me fishing a few times every summer and would only buy lime mineral water for me to drink. So yesterday we grabbed the rods and went down to the boat landing on the Minnesota River that is a couple miles from my house. Dad didn't catch anything. I didn't even get a nibble. Nick had a few fish playing with his bait, but he's 4 so it was hard for him to set the hook on anything. Here's where it gets weird. Charlie caught a 4 or 5 lb catfish. Seriously. The rod I gave him from my childhood could barely handle the fight. It was too heavy to really land with that rod and no net, so we let it go. I figured that would be enough action for our short trip, but no. Hannah, who casts like a pro by the way, reels in a small mouth bass that must have gone close to 2 lbs. He swallowed the hook, so we brought him home and made some fish chowder out of him for dinner. Seriously. I've never caught any bass in my life. And catfish? I don't even know how to cook them. What a strange, wonderful little trip. It could have lasted forever if I hadn't forgotten the mineral water. We got a little thirsty.

Vacationing near home.

One begins to feel that it's impossible to get away. Especially when there's summer theatre, new jobs, and dogs that don't actually fit in a car. Well here we are camping in a secluded campsite 100 yards into the woods. How does one manage? Well, you drive 12 miles to New Ulm, and on the south edge of town, there is a state park with an awesome manmade swimming pond, the cottonwood river and a little slice of freedom, all close enough to run home, feed the dogs, and grab the swimsuit I forgot.

The people in my living room after my wife goes to bed.

I like to watch late night talk shows for the genuine moments from people who don't suck. The subtle implication there is that many of them do. Rosie Perez is a terrible guest. She's fucking annoying. Many people are just boring morons that may or may not be good actors/athletes/whores, but once in a while, the guest turns out to be someone super fucking entertaining, just as themselves. If Patton Oswalt is the guest, you must watch, if only for the good of the country.

So here's the odd part. So even those bad, dumb, lame, shallow guests can be fun because the host is good at this. That's why they get the job. (Except Carson Daly. Seriously, what the fuck? Even before he ignored the writers strike, thereby making me positive I wouldn't watch 2 seconds of his terrible fucking show, even if his guest list was Jesus, my dead grandfather I never got to meet, and Brooke Burke naked, he was the worst host I could possibly imagine) But David Letterman, Craig Ferguson, Conan O'Brien, these guys will at least mock a bad guest in a quiet little way that makes it worth my time.

So if you are an idiot like me who stays up all goddamn night for no reason, you may know that they replay Oprah late at night. I don't usually watch it unless she's giving away a naked hooker, 'cause Oprah couldn't interview a newspaper, but I was flippin' around the other night and Oprah's guest is DAVID FUCKING LETTERMAN. Letterman's sense of humour is often questionable, but he can interview. This man knows how to steer any lame ass into a relatively entertaining moment. Things bode well for this episode of Name dropping rich lady, but David Letterman answers questions like he's afraid someone might be listening. What the christ does this mean? My faith is shaken. My heart is a little broken. I may never love again. Did you ever write a blog that you didn't know how to end on an entertaining note? I feel a little like David Letterman.

More god. . .

Faith is hard to find sometimes. . .

My dog.

When I saw my friends post about putting her cat to sleep I was reminded of the fact that my dog, Chulain, was also getting old and frail and I would probably post something similar soon. I did not think this soon. This morning I put my dog down and buried him under a shade tree in my grove. He was the best dog I ever owned, and I've had my share. 10 years ago I went to a breeder by Brainerd shortly after buying my first house. At 9weeks old he weighed 33lbs and rode all the way home on my lap. After re-establishing blood flow to my legs I brought him in the house. He used to not let people near Hannah's room when she was sleeping, he scared off car theives on September 11th, 2001, and he loved me no matter what kind of a dick I might be. I miss him already and am glad that he won't have to be in any more pain and suffer the indignity of being too old to do the things dogs do. Rest well.

The barn party that has never in the barn.

Saturday we had our 6th annual "I only see my friends once a year" party. I have always been known as an inattentive friend, but moving to the country and working in an over-active theatre department have only magnified that. So this once a year occasion is always awesome. This year was no exception. Jason Schaefer always comes early and leaves last, or second to last. Jason is not really my friend, he is my brother. He was at the hospital when I was born, we were in the same playpen as infants and no matter what happened, we have never not been close. We always manage to squeeze in a game of golf when he's over and that time is as close to childhood as I ever feel anymore. The two of us outside doing stupid things like drinking alot of beer in the hot sun. Wait, that was me, and we didn't do that when we were kids. Tyler always comes as well, if for a shorter time. He and I met in kindergarten and even through me calling him Optimus Crime when he had a grade school penchant for stealing transformers, we have remained friends. I never fail to be happy to see him with his wonderful family. I was never really sure a girl would date him, much less bear his children. Bob Erickson is another steadfast friend who I have known since the fourth grade. I, more than with any other friend, have given Bob plenty of reasons to not like me, as he is the only poor bastard who lived with me. (That I can still call a friend anyway. . . .) Butch almost never comes. He's a dick. There are more friends and their MANY children who come and we always have a good time that I think about the rest of the year. Thanks everyone for making me feel loved, even though I never call.

I am an artist. I think.

I have always wanted to be an artist. I played the cello for 8 years. I took piano lessons for one year. I have owned a guitar for 20 years (thanks Mom). I have a bachelor's degree in acting. I have written some, and even had a boring essay about my work on a show published in a boring compilation. (you won't be able to find it, since I can't) I have many sketch books full of not very good sketches and I even have a few sculptures of my own creation. Or rather, my mom has them, as I did them when I was in school. All these things are supposedly secondary to the fact that I make my living as a designer in the theatre. I have designed sound for 24 productions, designed the set for 10 and designed lights for a handful. I consider being a technical director an art (many do not, long story) and I have served as technical director for 24 productions. So why is it that I have never really felt that I am an artist? I feel, alternately, like a working man, a father, a jerk and many other normal things, but never an artist. In dark times, this makes me feel like a failure. In lighter times, this makes me feel motivated to create. But it never makes me feel satisfied. When does satisfaction come? I can make the fuck out of a pizza. I was the best delivery driver in Fargo. I was really good at making pig-feed. I can build the hell out of some scenery. But I can't draw. I can't write music. I can't write stories. Having goals is not always a good thing. Just sayin'

4th of July

I'll show you independence.

Nerd Vacation

Sitting in The Brave New Workshop after quite a past 24 hours. Picked up Joe Bill, founder of the Annoyance Theatre from the airport, made our slow way to the theatre to see a FULL evening of awesome fucking improv. Seriously, I felt as if I had had a festival full of awesome moments, all on the first night. If you are reading this and you aren't going to come down for some shows in the Twin Cities Improv Festival , you are completely incapable of learning. Partied, had some pizza and beer, hung out with the guys from Pimprov, and got a good nights sleep. Came down to uptown, had a long lusted after and dreamt about Golooney's sandwich and am now in a roomful of improv nerds all sitting at cafe tables with laptops "learning about the world" by not looking out the window. The silence occasionally shattered by a random thought, voiced by a need for peer review. Thank you whoever invented this tiny little world for me.

Memories of tuna salad subs and orange gatorade.

Theatre de la Jeune Lune announced yesterday that it is closing. 11 years ago, or so, I got asked to come in there and do a seating move. (the crappiest job ever) I ended up working there for a little over a year, or maybe it was two, I can't remember exactly. When I started, there was a guy from New Zealand, an actor, who was in the current show as an intern (read: unpaid whore) who worked in the shop with us to make a little money. I can't remember his real name because he always referred to himself as "Gorgeous Cindy." He is one of those first memories of what made me love that place so much.
When I first left college to make a living in the theatre, I really wasn't sure what I was doing, I just wanted to have enough money to get my own pager. Butch ruined that part for me, but I did figure out my path a little and the many theatres on that path all pale in comparison to TJL. The sense of collaboration and friendship in that place was greater than anyplace I have ever worked, in or out of the theatre. I remember the entire tech staff and artistic company, including the two men who would later be knighted by the French government, yelling my name in unison to wake me up at the end of lunch break. (I worked nights too and often fell asleep over lunch) I remember Dan (the Technical Director) coming into the kitchen one day and asking who knew how to break the steering lock on a car. I allowed as I may have misspent my youth a little and we succeeded in pushing a car into the theatre from the street to turn into a set piece for the next show. (We got to make it look like it had been in a bad car accident. Theatre rules.) I built a pool there, I helped fly people there, I threw fake birdshit at the waggled ass of the dark haired girl from the background of the adrenaline-needle scene in Pulp Fiction there. I hope that in my career as a teacher, I can give some of the joy and love of theatre that that place gave me to my students.
I'm getting a little nostalgic and weepy, I know, but if you ever saw a production at Theatre de la Jeune Lune, then you understand a small part of what fun I had there. As if to prove to me that I would never find a better place to work, the reason I left was because of a call I got from the Guthrie. It kind of felt like getting called up to the majors, but I didn't want to go. I went to Dan (Lori, the TD again) to ask his advice. He told me to get the Guthrie on my resume. I could always go back to TJL. While he was absolutley right and that one piece of advice got me where I am today, I hated every minute of working at the Guthrie. It showed me the other side of theatre, where you just punched a clock and picked up your tools like everyone else. Even now, the worst of my days remind me of one theatre, and the best remind me of the other.
I hope that whatever is reborn from the ashes of that place gives us all the opportunity to go have a little more fun.

Taco Coins help man find peace.

I'm a little down these days. I've decided all doctors are fucking idiots. All dentists, chiropractors, legislators and everyone who seems to have any kind of mandate in their lives to help others, is a fucking idiot. My 71 year old father with emphysema and general fragility is held overnight in the hospital to be thoroughly tested because he had severe pain in his chest and left arm. Everything sounds great, right? They send him home with, "hmm. we don't know what it is. You should be fine though." My history with dentists is long, but suffice to say since the screaming bout of testosterone fueled rage that my last dentist and I had in his busy waiting room, I am down on those guys too. Doctors continue to look at me as if I'm retarded or a hypochondriac when I tell them that there's something wrong with me, and maybe they should actually check before they give me an unfounded diagnosis. (I don't have some big health problem I'm currently fighting, this is the story EVERY time I go to the doctor. Well except that whole post-coital headache thing. THAT they took seriously.)
The world of government continues to make me want to cry every time they do something. I am reminded of what my father said when I told him Paul Wellstone had died in a plane crash. "He was our last, best hope." At the time, I wrote that off as the pessimistic doom-saying that comes from all great tragedies, but is later forgotten. Now I'm not so sure. At least he could have been a voice for integrity and, in my left-leaning opinion, reason in these times of absurdly machiavellian or completely moronic public policy. So what's left for me? How can I continue to slog through the miasma? (to overuse my vocabulary)
A good friend who deserved not to be forgotten yesterday asked if I had seen The Daily Show's first day back after September 11th. I had not. So I went HERE and watched it. There could be a great deal to say about this video, but let me focus on one thing that he said. Jon Stewart asks, "Do you know why I mourn, but do not despair?" That question is everything I want to be able to answer and on the best of days, I can. But today the answer comes a little easier, and in words more eloquent than I had. And they have something to do with cottage cheese and sitting under your desk. Thanks Jon Stewart, and you, nameless, forgotten friend for giving me some cottage cheese. I have a big desk if you guys ever need somewhere to hide.

I begin to copy others when I am empty of brain.

I forgot I had a blog.  Dammit.  I was sitting at home last night, sated with the weight of mexican food and Dairy Queen, when it suddenly occurred to me that I had started this new blog and hadn't posted, (or been online for that matter) for 3 days.  Well, now I have to catch up. 

 All the blogs I read have had a significant amount of stuff about parenting and fatherhood the last few days, and I want to lend my perspective to the clutter.  My father moved out when I was 5.  He was a raging alcoholic at the time, so that was probably a smart move.  He gave up drinking on his own, with none of the support systems that the world has given us (I do not recommend this, by the way).  Because of his slow recovery and realization that he had been a complete asshole to ALOT of people, (that part is just coming through now.  Seriously) I didn't see him alot for the next 10 years or so.  About the time I was 14 or 15, he started showing up enough to do some of his jobs.  He taught me how to drive an automatic transmission, (Mom taught me manual when I was 13), told me I should start buying condoms and using them (I didn't lose my virginity 'til I was 18, but thanks for the thought Dad) and just generally started acting like my Dad.  My Dad had, at that time, screwed up 2 marriages and moved out on 4 kids.  I was the only boy, and the youngest.  This particular set of facts made me lucky.  Dad probably had a good idea how to relate to boys, seeing as how he has his very own penis, and I had the benefit of time.  Dad had time to heal and pull his head part-way out of his ass by the time I needed someone to straighten me out a little.  He would take me fishing, (if you are visualizing that, we shore fish, and catch almost nothing) take me out to dinner, take me down to Missouri to visit his family and my two half-sisters. (my "whole sister" went away to college and immediately stopped going on the Missouri trips)  Dad and I had alot of time together.  It gave me the chance to figure some stuff out.  The only thing Dad really knew how to do was love his kids.  I think he probably really fucked up with my oldest sister at some point, because they do not get along well, and the other 2 are sort of in the exasperated middle ground.  But he loves all four of us more than anything in the world.  And for that, plus a few good books he has given me, I am grateful.  I am far from an awesome father.  I yell at my kids when they are bad, and sometimes when they are not.  And I, perhaps, could do a far better job of understanding my daughter, But I make absolutely, goddamned sure they know how much I love them.  I just hope that's enough.  'Cause I suck at everything else, other than shore fishing. . . 

Jesus and his grammar. . .

Waves Accumulate

I would like to tell you a story of a man named Engrid.  Engrid lived in a small town on the prairie, west of where he was raised.  His chief occupation was in the field of labor relations.  Meaning he started fights, and occasionally ended them.  Like many men, his occupation tried desperately to define him, but Engrid was quietly defiant on that one particular point.  He was more than a toady for the union.  He (he often told himself, silently) was a mathematician.  Numbers were the language native to his soul.  As he threatened strike as a recourse for every dispute, he was distracted by his urge to calculate the possible losses to the worker, in terms of 401k contributions, sick leave accumulation and tangentially, salary.  On the surface this seems helpful, but you have not spent any time inside the head of Engrid.  Numbers fly around inside the cavernous expanse of his intellect like the arrows of an army of blind, disoriented morons.  In fact, mathematics so distracted him, that it would often get in the way of his accomplishing anything at all.  That is to say, Engrid was a single man.  But he longed for the warming presence of a mate.  He was not a picky man.  Labor negotiations had taught him that you often get what you want without realizing you were asking for it, or conversely, asking for what you want would almost ensure you would not get it.  So in the category of women, Engrid saw value in everything.  Or, as the years advanced, anything.  

One fine day, Engrid walked into the local cafe.  Engrid always sat right in the center of the cafe where, he hoped, his presence would hint at a service workers strike and engender better treatment for the staff.  But today, his automatic calculation of floor joist deflection seemed to hint at his sitting in the corner, far from the action.   It was here that his life changed.  Here in the corner of the room, there was not only a potential for greater silence, allowing him to focus on finding patterns in the floor tile and convert them into haiku-like mathematical structures, but he also discovered Muerta.  Muerta was a woman of great size and promiscuity.  She disrupted the movement of everything around her with her great buttocks and her keen sense of where to place them to greatest effect.  Engrid, in between 5's and 7's, was distractedly smitten.  After finding the requisite 575 unique tile arrangements within the apparent repeating pattern, he asked her for an iced coffee and a doughnut.  She spun on the balls of her considerable feet, lightly brushing his casually placed hand with her best feature.  His heart raced at a pace previously unknown to him.  He hurried to finish adding up the wattages of the lightbulbs in the room so he could, perhaps, stare at her for a free moment, undistracted.  That moment never arrived, because as she was gliding back his way, hot coffee mistakenly in hand, his greatest fear was realized.  The vast preponderance of numerical evidence hit him squarely in the heart.  In a world where thirty-one 60-watt lightbulbs would overload a 15 amp circuit, Muerta could never love him.  She was too much woman for a distracted union rep with a head full of numbers.  She needed more capacity for affection than he could ever supply.  His heart was shattered while his brain started laying the groundwork for some very interesting load-bearing calculations related to table legs and beef commercials.  He drank his dismally hot cup of coffee, took two bites of his poorly glazed doughnut, and left a 15.27% tip for his failed aspirations.  Counting sidewalk cracks he recklessly stepped on, he went home to count aspirin.

power in the hands of a worker. . .

Occasionally, my job is just sitting in my office and listening to music. For Many hours.  This may seem awesome, and in some ways it really is, but man.  When you're not getting what you want it will make you weep like a recently abandoned puppy.  For those who don't understand or even know what I do, besides teaching sound design for the theatre, I design as many as 10 shows a year.  One of the parts of that process that few understand  (including many designers) is that the music that is heard pre-show, as underscoring, or even as you leave the theatre is not just some crap that you throw together, or, as some people have asked, written into the script.  I spend a great deal of time reading and re-reading a play and finding the themes that I want to explore musically, and then either finding, or in some cases (very rare for me) composing the music that is needed.  Listening to a piece of music and being able to understand the "emotional content" of the music and attach it to a scene, or even just the broad feeling of an entire play is a daunting task, especially when coupled with the period, style, and locale for that particular production.  A play set in the 20's rarely is improved by your inclusion of some awesome song by a modern grrl rocker or bumpin' techno beat.  So today I am searching for the perfect piece of music to communicate the empowerment of some developmentally disabled guys living together in an apartment.  I'll get there, but I like to think that what makes me good at this is that I am very picky.  I see action and emotion in every piece of music that I listen to.  I like to think of it as my particular version of synesthesia.  Then I get to figure out a way to have a kitchen timer tick away in the kitchen of the set, and have it "ding!" at exactly the correct moment, no matter how the actors decide to pace the scene each night.  All while sounding like a real kitchen timer actually in that location on the set.  Oh and we should probably be able to see it count down too.  And to think, there are people in cubicles right now. Wahahahahahahahaha!  YOU FOOLS!

. . .got the time, time tickin' in my head. . .

I find myself wanting to blog for the sake of blogging, not because I have anything useful to say.  This must be what high school counselors feel like.  I was listening to a re-run of This American Life this morning called "Quiz Show" in which they explore three stories of peoples experiences in the world of game shows (or a dork competition at MIT, in one case)  The first story was about an Irish fellow who has dedicated his life to being that awkward, self-loathing, effeminate guy who lives with his mother.  But his mother died, and then he won 250,000 pounds on the Irish version of Who Wants to be a Millionaire.  (I believe it's called Who wants to win a wee spot of money, pour me a pint of the black stuff)  And after the original airing, went on to win a gold medal for Ireland in tennis in the Gay and Lesbian olympics.  The only luxury he has afforded himself with his new-found wealth is a strange sounding piano.  Don't ask.  Anyway, there was one part of this whole story that got me thinking about my own prejudices.  The guy has a high, feminine voice.  That alone, did not make me think he was gay.  He told a story about how, when he was 18, he became very close friends with an elderly man who sexually abused him for A YEAR.  It never entered my head that perhaps he was gay.  It just seemed one of those horrible realities faced by people who do not have the self respect to stand up for themselves.  They seem trapped by their own lack of self-worth.  This all made sense to me.  But then, at the very end of the story, when they mentioned his gold medal at the gay and lesbian olympics, my first though was, I am ashamed to say, "was he really being abused?  Because if I was sexually abused by a man, I think I might not find men attractive after that."  This is horrible, I know, shut up.  So is this just founded in my own lack of understanding?  Why am I an asshole?  I have spent my entire life around every possible minority or social group you can imagine.  My mothers closest friends were either black, gay, disabled or just old hippies.  I grew up in a town with a large immigrant population, largely because of the turkey plant down the street and all the Schwans corporation plants in town.  My chosen career path is not exactly peopled with a bunch of white, republican men.  (well, there's one guy who's a libertarian, but who likes to talk about them?)  So what's wrong with me?  Maybe nothing.  Now I am, of course, aware that there are reasons for this type of sexual abuse being common among people who are gay.  Abusers have brains, if a bit fucked up, and some are able to convince themselves that these relationships are consensual. And fucking a straight guy in the ass is pretty hard to pass off as consensual, in one's diseased brain.  So I can intellectualize all this shit, but I still have those thoughts.  "Was he abused?"  Well of course he was.  So I think what's wrong with me is what is wrong with everyone, to a certain extent.  As a puppet once said, "Everyone's a little bit racist."  We all have horrible thoughts that come, unbidden, to our tiny minds.  Stereotyping the seemingly single mother at Walmart with her 6 kids, a feeling of fulfilled expectations when the news talks about another young, black, male suspect in a murder investigation, or another WASP CEO on trial, for that matter.  When my 71 year old father was in the hospital for 2 days this week, I started researching funeral arrangements.  I am not proud of my dark thoughts, ever.  But it is what we do with them that makes us good people.  One can not ignore the stimuli our society gives us.  But a healthy mind is one that takes it all and uses it as ammunition to fight back against racism.  Against homophobia.  Against planning your father's funeral.  So there.  I guess I wanted to blog today.

You know, that one guy?

So my 6yr old has found discrimination in the world and I can't help but feel proud that he has joined the ranks of the different. One simple haircut, (and the willingness to stand out) is all it takes. When I was 13 or so I decided to grow my hair out. There was this guy who showed up in my school that year that used to mock me mercilessly. We'll call him dude, since I cannot remember his name. I was, at that age, about 5'4" and 125lbs. I had braces and a short haircut much like all cleancut boys have had for the last 40 years. Now, I was raised by hippies, so it's not like I was just trying to be what my parents wanted. I wanted to fit in. This guy that showed up though, had alot of hair in what can only be described as what happens to your afro if you don't take care of it. There were not many black kids in my town, but the ones that were there all managed to fit some stereotypes so that all the racism would be better hidden. Dude, however had unruly, untamed hair, a gift for riding a skateboard, and an undying love for metal. While he was pushing me out of my conformist ways by pointing them out to me, we had alot to talk about as I had, for the last year or so, been becoming increasingly obsessed with Metallica, Megadeth, Exodus, and any music that kicked alot of ass, and did it quickly. By the end of that school year I had enough hair to piss off my grandmother and a new found understanding of speed metal. What does all this have to do with anything? Well, I had spent my whole childhood on the fringes. I was kind of chubby at times, always out of shape, and the only sport I was good at was european and not played in my dumb school. (bitterness recedes slowly) Finding my way into the world of outcasts and drunks gave me a place. And when my hair engendered discrimination, it just confirmed for me that I was different from everyone else, and I was ok with that. Buck up, little mohawk wearing boy o' mine. Soon you will have a life others only dream of. One of drugs, booze and the occasional "you're different!" beating.

. . .were all learned with workers' blood.

I'm here to discover if my blogging reticence is related to the format.  I spend my time reading many blogs, some funny, some to-do lists, some heartfelt and some just stupid (Mark). 

I, however have many thoughts that never see the light of day, partly because of self editing, partly because of my sense of privacy, but mostly because I'm lazy.  I once took a creative writing class in college and all the stories I wrote were just actual stories from my life.  The professor always said, "wow, your dialogue is terrific!"  Yay memory.  So I will see if telling stories can get me started.  Maybe I'll continue to tell stories, maybe I won't.  Find out with me, won't you?

When I was 15 years old, I was spending my time drinking with my sister's boyfriend (he was in his 20's) or doing theatre.  I had an old friend who I'd hung out with off and on since kindergarten who I would occasionally go play video games with.  He was a video game fanatic, which was more rare in 1989 than it is now.  He had made friends with the proprietors of the local computer store and would go there after school and play games like Battle Chess and Leisure Suit Larry in the Land of the Lounge Lizards. (yay puberty) One day I went with him and then after a few visits, his other friends started showing up.  There was a guy named Bob, who I sort of knew because we both played cello in grade school. (I stuck with it, he's a big quitter)  There was another guy named Travis. Every group of friends has that center.  The nougaty bit that holds everyone in.  Travis immediately became that guy.  They always seem to be Scorpio's.  I know that's dumb, but they do. Travis would later become the only person I would plan to murder.  I stood outside the door to his apartment with a french gothic mace trying to decide how to beat him to death without waking up his girlfriends' baby.  Babies fuck everything up.  Back to being 15.  Those 3 guys, Travis, Bob and Tyler (the video game afficionado) became my entire life until the end of High School.  If we went to a party, one of us drove.  If we didn't sleep at home, we slept at Travis' house.  If one of us got a buyer, we all got liquor. (except Tyler, he already had a vice) When we talked of forming a band, it was just us.  Tyler on lead guitar, Bob on bass, me on rhythm and Travis would get the chicks.  I'm not sure if he played drums or not, the chicks were more important, and he had a gift for that.  We all listened to the same music and wore the same clothes.  About the time I turned 16 the group of friends had been cemented. There were hangers on of course, but the four of us were always together.  We drank together, got in trouble with the law together, broke into cars together, saw Metallica together, got stuck in Sioux City together and yes, played D&D together.  Then Travis ruined everything, Tyler met a girl, Bob squirted out a million kids and I. . . kept playing D&D.  Man I miss Leisure Suit Larry.