I've been wondering this for months.
There's a statistic count that comes with www.blogger.com that shows traffic sources. I can view who looked at my blog using what operating system, or web browser, or country.
The bulk of my readers are American. I assume they're all my personal friends, as I myself am American.
Two people in Canada read my blog. I've met them.
Three people in England read my blog. I can only think of three people I know who live in England, and I've met them, too.
Sometimes I get hits from Slavic nations, like Ukraine. On rare occasion there have even been hits from Russia, and I have myself BEEN to Russia and made some friends there.
Some of my hits are coincident with unusual reference sites, which (when I visit them) are obviously spam sites. When I visit them my virus detection software flares up more alarms than my mother did on prom my night.
But there is one source that kind of boggles me.
It is a country. I have never been to this country. I don't recall meeting anyone who speaks its dominant language. I don't know if I know anyone who has ever been there. Yet nearly every time I post a post there is one reader who is supposedly reading my blog from this particular European nation. Every time I post a new post, there is one - and only one - attribution to this particular country. When I view the all-time breakdown views by country, your country comes in at #2 behind the USA. In the last 24 hours, you've nearly doubled your viewings of my blog.
I see this statistic, and I ponder: Who are you? Have we met? How did you discover my writing? Is it a matter of an IP address being misattributed?
And I wonder whether I actually want to know, or would I rather keep the mystery alive?
So I proffer this plan.
Contact me. Tell me any amount of information you wish to tell me. If you can read this post, you have access to my email and my phone number. Send me a message, and tell me which country you're from, and - pretty please - how you found me.
If you send an email, put the title of this post in the subject line. Also, do include in which country you live for verification's sake. I have other plans to prove it's you, and we'll get to those as time permits.
But really, for the record . . . I love the idea of having a conversation with a stranger. Especially one who seems to enjoy my writing.
Monday, April 8, 2013
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
Laws, Sausages, and Porn
Two things you never want to see get made are laws and
sausages. Yet we consent to someone
doing our dirty work for these things because – even though we may have
different definitions of this – everyone loves a version of civil justice or
some tasty, tasty pizza, even in their cheapest possible versions. Maybe you wanna spend an afternoon sucking
down Papa John’s during a Judge Judy marathon.
Go for it! But at least have the
decency to peek behind the curtain and see who’s pulling what in order to
satisfy you.
For example, last week the reactionary reality-TV version of pornography called Girls Gone Wild declared bankruptcy after running for 15 years, and frankly, that’s surprising. Not surprising that they went bankrupt, mind you, because who the hell pays for porn anymore? People quit buying newspapers around 2008 thanks to the internet. And now the preponderance of internet subscribers have speeds fast enough to make full use of free resources like RedTube, XTube, ExtremeTube, YouPorn, PornHub, PornMD, SpankWire and Peeperz, just to name a few. Yet Ironically, the existence of these entities seems to have nothing to do with the reason GGW founder Joe Francis took the company into Chapter 11.
Rather; the hand trying to flush this turd comes in the form of lawsuit after lawsuit, the biggest ones coming from Steve Wynn, a multi-billionaire Las Vegas hotel and casino owner. There’s been some back and forth as to allegations of unpaid multi-million dollar gambling debts, but the real victories have come in the form of slander suits Wynn filed against Francis for talking about angry emails supposedly sent by Wynn.
Francis claims to fear for his life when he was emailed a death threat written "In all caps, and then exclamation points – like a crazy person's e-mail”. He then tried to give credence to this claim by invoking the name of Quincy Jones as a witness to the message.
First of all Mr. Francis, you seem to have no concept of what it’s like to argue on the internet. If someone threatens, as you claim, to hit you in the back of the head with a shovel and have you buried in the middle of the desert, caps lock and exclamation points are not the dividing line between crazy and rational.
Second; there’s already a generation of people who know to call bullshit when you say something like, “No really, don’t take my word for it, Quincy Jones saw it, he’ll vouch for me.” It’s an email. All you had to do was print the email.
Finally; heads up, jackass. You’ve been raking in millions of dollars exploiting the knee-jerk, drunken reactions of people’s sisters, nieces, and daughters since 1997. If you’re trying to give the impression that this is your first death threat, you’re as ignorant as you are evil.
Now – why evil? Aren’t the people in these videos consenting adults, whether explicit or implied? Don’t they know what they’re getting into, and isn’t it their fault for making a bad decision on the spot?
Consider this; one woman, Tamara Favazza, with her full knowledge and consent was dancing in front of a Girls Gone Wild camera crew. While being filmed, a member of the crew lifted up Tamara’s shirt while Tamara could be seen mouthing the word “No.” The video was published and sold anyway. She sued the company and was awarded $5.8M but only after the judge gave her a re-trial after the first jury sided against her in spite of what the judge called a “preponderance of evidence.”
Now consider this – in 2000, while on Spring Break, one particular woman bared her breasts on camera for two men who offered her beads to do so. Then those men sold that footage to GGW. GGW not only used the footage in their video, but put her face on promotional materials. She was recognized not only by fellow students, but her teachers and coaches. On the one hand, yes she made a dumb mistake she later regretted. On the other hand, dumb mistakes later regretted are regularly made by 14-year-old middle schoolers.
That’s right – the woman in this example is named Lindsey Bullard. On her Spring Break trip in 2000 she was 14-years-old, and not yet in high school. She’s been trying to sue the company since 2004 claiming she never gave her consent for its commercial use. Lawyers on the other side of the case are arguing no wrongdoing, she did give her consent at the time, and because it was in a public area, they didn’t violate her privacy. All they did was purchase a video somebody else took.
The case is being argued in the Georgia State Supreme Court because federal law proved too vague for a clear verdict.
Girls Gone Wild has declared bankruptcy now, but not becausethey’re out of cash. A statement from GGW equates their company to American Airlines and General Motors, filing Chapter 11 to seek reorganization to “re-structure its frivolous and burdensome legal affairs.”
“Frivolous.”
With knowledge and forethought they’re making profits off the ill-considered actions of drunk people at parties. Sometimes they’re violating those people for the purpose. Sometimes they’re purchasing and re-selling child pornography. They only face consequences when they get caught, and only then when they lose the argument, which they can only do when the law is clear and specific enough to tell them how they’ve done wrong.
Perhaps Steve Wynn will use the nearly $50M awarded him in judgments – and maybe some of his own extra billions – to fund a lobby that creates a law that doesn’t make it so easy for Joe Francis to reap rewards from the exploitive shame of others. Certainly there are large numbers of mothers and fathers, aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters and cousins and friends and allies who wouldn’t mind watching that particular law get made.
You’re on your own with the sausages.
For example, last week the reactionary reality-TV version of pornography called Girls Gone Wild declared bankruptcy after running for 15 years, and frankly, that’s surprising. Not surprising that they went bankrupt, mind you, because who the hell pays for porn anymore? People quit buying newspapers around 2008 thanks to the internet. And now the preponderance of internet subscribers have speeds fast enough to make full use of free resources like RedTube, XTube, ExtremeTube, YouPorn, PornHub, PornMD, SpankWire and Peeperz, just to name a few. Yet Ironically, the existence of these entities seems to have nothing to do with the reason GGW founder Joe Francis took the company into Chapter 11.
Rather; the hand trying to flush this turd comes in the form of lawsuit after lawsuit, the biggest ones coming from Steve Wynn, a multi-billionaire Las Vegas hotel and casino owner. There’s been some back and forth as to allegations of unpaid multi-million dollar gambling debts, but the real victories have come in the form of slander suits Wynn filed against Francis for talking about angry emails supposedly sent by Wynn.
Francis claims to fear for his life when he was emailed a death threat written "In all caps, and then exclamation points – like a crazy person's e-mail”. He then tried to give credence to this claim by invoking the name of Quincy Jones as a witness to the message.
First of all Mr. Francis, you seem to have no concept of what it’s like to argue on the internet. If someone threatens, as you claim, to hit you in the back of the head with a shovel and have you buried in the middle of the desert, caps lock and exclamation points are not the dividing line between crazy and rational.
Second; there’s already a generation of people who know to call bullshit when you say something like, “No really, don’t take my word for it, Quincy Jones saw it, he’ll vouch for me.” It’s an email. All you had to do was print the email.
Finally; heads up, jackass. You’ve been raking in millions of dollars exploiting the knee-jerk, drunken reactions of people’s sisters, nieces, and daughters since 1997. If you’re trying to give the impression that this is your first death threat, you’re as ignorant as you are evil.
Now – why evil? Aren’t the people in these videos consenting adults, whether explicit or implied? Don’t they know what they’re getting into, and isn’t it their fault for making a bad decision on the spot?
Consider this; one woman, Tamara Favazza, with her full knowledge and consent was dancing in front of a Girls Gone Wild camera crew. While being filmed, a member of the crew lifted up Tamara’s shirt while Tamara could be seen mouthing the word “No.” The video was published and sold anyway. She sued the company and was awarded $5.8M but only after the judge gave her a re-trial after the first jury sided against her in spite of what the judge called a “preponderance of evidence.”
Now consider this – in 2000, while on Spring Break, one particular woman bared her breasts on camera for two men who offered her beads to do so. Then those men sold that footage to GGW. GGW not only used the footage in their video, but put her face on promotional materials. She was recognized not only by fellow students, but her teachers and coaches. On the one hand, yes she made a dumb mistake she later regretted. On the other hand, dumb mistakes later regretted are regularly made by 14-year-old middle schoolers.
That’s right – the woman in this example is named Lindsey Bullard. On her Spring Break trip in 2000 she was 14-years-old, and not yet in high school. She’s been trying to sue the company since 2004 claiming she never gave her consent for its commercial use. Lawyers on the other side of the case are arguing no wrongdoing, she did give her consent at the time, and because it was in a public area, they didn’t violate her privacy. All they did was purchase a video somebody else took.
The case is being argued in the Georgia State Supreme Court because federal law proved too vague for a clear verdict.
Girls Gone Wild has declared bankruptcy now, but not becausethey’re out of cash. A statement from GGW equates their company to American Airlines and General Motors, filing Chapter 11 to seek reorganization to “re-structure its frivolous and burdensome legal affairs.”
“Frivolous.”
With knowledge and forethought they’re making profits off the ill-considered actions of drunk people at parties. Sometimes they’re violating those people for the purpose. Sometimes they’re purchasing and re-selling child pornography. They only face consequences when they get caught, and only then when they lose the argument, which they can only do when the law is clear and specific enough to tell them how they’ve done wrong.
Perhaps Steve Wynn will use the nearly $50M awarded him in judgments – and maybe some of his own extra billions – to fund a lobby that creates a law that doesn’t make it so easy for Joe Francis to reap rewards from the exploitive shame of others. Certainly there are large numbers of mothers and fathers, aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters and cousins and friends and allies who wouldn’t mind watching that particular law get made.
You’re on your own with the sausages.
Thursday, February 21, 2013
Be Not Proud
I’ve always considered myself lucky that death tends to stay
pretty far from me. I could probably
name a dozen or so people I’ve known who later died, but it was someone from
whom I had been estranged for a number of years. Even then it was never someone I knew very
well.
A few weeks ago I awoke to a message from my oldest friend:
“So my car wouldn't start this morning, and also one of my oldest friends (and first serious girlfriend) died of cancer early this morning. You probably remember Kristin.
“Is it too early to start drinking? Can I get a ruling?”
My first reaction was, “I would have that drink, but only if you do not - for one second - pretend it's because the car wouldn't start.”
I do remember Kristin, and well. I first met her when I was 16; she was dating a newfound friend, and when I became adopted into his social circle, naturally she was one of them.
She was certainly the most unique of the group, and not simply because she was the only girl. This was the mid ‘90s, when paper and dice role playing games still got most of us socially ostracized by the smart, attractive, ambitious, and female. Yet here she was amongst us, playing Rifts with all the humor and imagination at her disposal. She was fiercely competitive, too. Watching her play Risk or Magic: The Gathering made me wish those were games one started by picking teams so I wouldn’t have to go against her.
She was just beginning college, studying to become a chemical engineer. Most of my memories of our social time included her bringing an armload of books, pouring over them with the utmost determination while the rest of us talked and joked. It would be another two years before I started at the same college myself. I remember the days of sitting around The Flying Tomato with the most diverse group of people I had ever known, and the late night study sessions at IHOP with much of the same company.
Her drive was so fierce that she once attended two different colleges – in two different states – in the same semester. She would take Monday/Wednesday/Friday classes in Texas, then drive to Oklahoma on Monday night. She’d take class on Tuesdays and Thursdays in Oklahoma (skipping her Texas Wednesday class), then drive back to Texas on Thursday night and attend her Friday class. Then she would wait tables all weekend to support herself.
Not only did she succeed with this schedule, she got a full ride to graduate school where she finished a 2 year program in a year and a half.
In my second year of college we saw a play together. At the end of it she told me she was proud of me for choosing to become an actor and sticking with it, because she recognized that wasn’t an easy goal to reach. I was stunned at the notion of what this woman would consider to be “not easy.” That statement from her was one of the most defining moments in my life. I saw value in myself reflected in her eyes, and I knew I was on the right path. In this way she helped shape who I have become every day since then.
I didn’t know her exceptionally well, and certainly not lately, but I was always awed and impressed by her. I was lucky to be a guest at her wedding in late 2002, and I don’t think we ever saw one another in person again. There was sporadic Facebook contact, but most of that was passively reading status updates and seeing pictures of her children.
I have always regretted that I never showed Kristin the side of myself that was a substantive human being. For some reason I only ever put on my most goofball persona in her presence. I can only justify that I loved hearing her laugh, and I could do that often enough, but I always felt I was costing a deeper relationship by struggling to make the joke.
I may have been a bit wrong about that. Last June I hit a rough emotional patch, and I reached out through a Facebook status post asking for support. I was overwhelmed by the response – some 50 or 60 people sent me either public or private messages of support, and Kristin was among them. She wrote simply, “Wish I had your number and could help. You always helped me.”
Of all the messages I got, this was one of the most encouraging, and absolutely the biggest surprise. My first thought upon reading this was I don’t remember doing that. But clearly I had been there for her in a positive and memorable way many years ago. Apparently she had better memories of me than I had of me. She gave me her number, and I texted her a response that was lost when I lost that phone a few weeks later. It wasn’t much, but it amounted to “Thank you, and we’ll talk again soon.”
Soon never came. In October she was diagnosed with cancer. In November there was a Facebook page set up called Team Kristin – No One Fights Alone. She, her husband, and their three sons moved back to their hometown to be closer to families. At the end of January she died.
I never even knew she was sick. I found out all of this only after the fact.
When I was in need she reached out to me and made me feel so much better with the simplest gesture. I’m hurt and I’m angry that I never got the chance to repay that gesture. I’m sad that I lost touch with her for so many years. I’m embarrassed and scared to even post these words where her family and close friends can see them because a part of me feels like I didn’t know her well enough to have the right to speak for her.
Yet she is the first person I ever met whose death moved me to tears. I have to say something.
I just wish I had said any of this to her when I had the chance. So I entreat you, if someone is truly important to you, even a little, tell them how you feel. This experience is going to cause me to reach out to three (off the top of my head) I haven’t spoken to in years, though I think about them all the time. I never again want to wake up and learn it’s too late to share something positive.
A few weeks ago I awoke to a message from my oldest friend:
“So my car wouldn't start this morning, and also one of my oldest friends (and first serious girlfriend) died of cancer early this morning. You probably remember Kristin.
“Is it too early to start drinking? Can I get a ruling?”
My first reaction was, “I would have that drink, but only if you do not - for one second - pretend it's because the car wouldn't start.”
I do remember Kristin, and well. I first met her when I was 16; she was dating a newfound friend, and when I became adopted into his social circle, naturally she was one of them.
She was certainly the most unique of the group, and not simply because she was the only girl. This was the mid ‘90s, when paper and dice role playing games still got most of us socially ostracized by the smart, attractive, ambitious, and female. Yet here she was amongst us, playing Rifts with all the humor and imagination at her disposal. She was fiercely competitive, too. Watching her play Risk or Magic: The Gathering made me wish those were games one started by picking teams so I wouldn’t have to go against her.
She was just beginning college, studying to become a chemical engineer. Most of my memories of our social time included her bringing an armload of books, pouring over them with the utmost determination while the rest of us talked and joked. It would be another two years before I started at the same college myself. I remember the days of sitting around The Flying Tomato with the most diverse group of people I had ever known, and the late night study sessions at IHOP with much of the same company.
Her drive was so fierce that she once attended two different colleges – in two different states – in the same semester. She would take Monday/Wednesday/Friday classes in Texas, then drive to Oklahoma on Monday night. She’d take class on Tuesdays and Thursdays in Oklahoma (skipping her Texas Wednesday class), then drive back to Texas on Thursday night and attend her Friday class. Then she would wait tables all weekend to support herself.
Not only did she succeed with this schedule, she got a full ride to graduate school where she finished a 2 year program in a year and a half.
In my second year of college we saw a play together. At the end of it she told me she was proud of me for choosing to become an actor and sticking with it, because she recognized that wasn’t an easy goal to reach. I was stunned at the notion of what this woman would consider to be “not easy.” That statement from her was one of the most defining moments in my life. I saw value in myself reflected in her eyes, and I knew I was on the right path. In this way she helped shape who I have become every day since then.
I didn’t know her exceptionally well, and certainly not lately, but I was always awed and impressed by her. I was lucky to be a guest at her wedding in late 2002, and I don’t think we ever saw one another in person again. There was sporadic Facebook contact, but most of that was passively reading status updates and seeing pictures of her children.
I have always regretted that I never showed Kristin the side of myself that was a substantive human being. For some reason I only ever put on my most goofball persona in her presence. I can only justify that I loved hearing her laugh, and I could do that often enough, but I always felt I was costing a deeper relationship by struggling to make the joke.
I may have been a bit wrong about that. Last June I hit a rough emotional patch, and I reached out through a Facebook status post asking for support. I was overwhelmed by the response – some 50 or 60 people sent me either public or private messages of support, and Kristin was among them. She wrote simply, “Wish I had your number and could help. You always helped me.”
Of all the messages I got, this was one of the most encouraging, and absolutely the biggest surprise. My first thought upon reading this was I don’t remember doing that. But clearly I had been there for her in a positive and memorable way many years ago. Apparently she had better memories of me than I had of me. She gave me her number, and I texted her a response that was lost when I lost that phone a few weeks later. It wasn’t much, but it amounted to “Thank you, and we’ll talk again soon.”
Soon never came. In October she was diagnosed with cancer. In November there was a Facebook page set up called Team Kristin – No One Fights Alone. She, her husband, and their three sons moved back to their hometown to be closer to families. At the end of January she died.
I never even knew she was sick. I found out all of this only after the fact.
When I was in need she reached out to me and made me feel so much better with the simplest gesture. I’m hurt and I’m angry that I never got the chance to repay that gesture. I’m sad that I lost touch with her for so many years. I’m embarrassed and scared to even post these words where her family and close friends can see them because a part of me feels like I didn’t know her well enough to have the right to speak for her.
Yet she is the first person I ever met whose death moved me to tears. I have to say something.
I just wish I had said any of this to her when I had the chance. So I entreat you, if someone is truly important to you, even a little, tell them how you feel. This experience is going to cause me to reach out to three (off the top of my head) I haven’t spoken to in years, though I think about them all the time. I never again want to wake up and learn it’s too late to share something positive.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Either Lay Down and Whine, Or Stand Up and Fight
I spent the month of January in Southern Illinois filming a movie. While I was there I put on 40 pounds – five
pounds more than I lost from March to
December of last year. There was a Gold’s
Gym nearby and we had free day passes, but I didn’t go very often. There were also free breakfast sandwiches in
the hotel and the on set catering was both plentiful and delicious, and I took
part in these things VERY often.
Noticing I was a bit bummed about the way I’m looking and feeling, someone very important to me sent me this:
I don't judge myself based upon who I am or what I look like. I judge myself based upon what I DO weighed against what I'm CAPABLE of doing. It's an ever-shifting dynamic, and I hope to perpetually endeavor to keep up with the shift.
Noticing I was a bit bummed about the way I’m looking and feeling, someone very important to me sent me this:
“Don’t worry about your body. It isn’t as small as it once
was, But honestly, the world needs more of you. You look in the mirror like
you’ve done something wrong, But you look perfect. Anyone who says otherwise is
telling a lie to make you feel weak. And you know better. You’ve survived every
single day, for as long as you’ve been alive. You could spit fire if you
wanted.” ~ Clementine von Radics
I get this. I respect this. But this is not for me.
From March to December of last year I exercised and I dieted
to unprecedented levels. Not only did I
lose weight, which was the goal, but I also invoked my sense of discipline,
sacrifice, accomplishment. I set a goal
and I met it. I took August and September off from the gym and I didn't
backslide, I didn't gain any weight, and I thought I'd entered a new phase of
my life. Especially when I went BACK to the gym.
This new phase allowed me to run my
first 15K. This new phase gave me the ability to carry out some awesome fight
choreography during A Klingon
Christmas Carol. This new phase gave me what I needed to be able to carry
out an amazing burlesque duet. This new
phase allowed me to put something back into the world, to help create something
for others to enjoy. Believe me when I say I could not have run so far, leapt
so high (literally), or lifted or spun Hedy around had I been at my previous
physique.
This whole January I lost all discipline and control. Almost
every morning I had a breakfast of sausage, egg, and cheese croissants until I
nearly burst, then I went back to bed. Every time I had the catering I filled
myself until I was uncomfortable because the food was just too delicious to
pass up. It was so easy to excuse myself away from the gym, so I stayed in my
hotel room and watched TV and played video games and gained literally
everything I lost last year. I wish this was an exaggeration, but it's just
not.
The whole reason I started exercising last March was to fit
into a vest that now no longer fits again. It was a present, and when I first tried
to put it on I realized I needed to lose at least four inches off my waist
before I could button it. By July it
fit. I put it on in November and it was loose on me; I could button it and slide a hand into the
gap between my gut and the fabric. Yesterday I couldn't do more than one
button. I tried the second one, but it would have broken before it met the
other side.
When I get fatter I lose confidence because I don't like the
way it feels on me when I move around, or even when I'm sitting still. I hate
the bloated feeling. I hate that I don't move through the world as easily,
which is to say that it's harder to even stand up or walk around. Grace
evaporates. My muscles haven't lost any of their strength, but now they have to
haul more weight around. Weight which also moves my center of gravity forward,
makes me feel off-balance. Also my back injury hurts more.
I don't understand the statement "The world needs more
of you" as justification for gaining weight. When I'm bigger the world
gets less of what I'm capable of putting into it. I look in the mirror like
I've done something wrong because my weight gain was a result of losing
discipline. Because I kept taking from the world in the form of delicious
meals, which inhibits my ability to put anything back into it, and my net value
as a human being drops.
This isn't to suggest that nothing good came of January. I
had a hell of a career opportunity which paid off wonderfully. And I was a part of
creating something for others to enjoy. But I also quit writing in spite of the
fact I still had things to say; I just didn't have the energy to string my
thoughts together. I blame this lack of energy on my hedonism and inability to
sacrifice ANY temporary comfort for self-improvement more than I blame my wonky
schedule.
Yes, the shooting schedule screwed my sleeping hours around,
but I know better than to have let that become my excuse. It's not like I got
back in February, looked down, and suddenly said, "Holy shit, where did THIS
come from?!" I felt it happening as it was happening, and I knew the
cause, and I knew I was going to hate it, and I made the choice to do nothing
about it.
Now
I choose to go the other direction. I'm back to the grocery store purchases and
gym habits that gave me my previous physique. I don't even write all this to
lament my position or to fire back at the above statement; I write all this to
re-sharpen my writing voice and get back to SAYING something. To DOING
something. To improve myself so I can put something into the world rather than
merely taking from it.I don't judge myself based upon who I am or what I look like. I judge myself based upon what I DO weighed against what I'm CAPABLE of doing. It's an ever-shifting dynamic, and I hope to perpetually endeavor to keep up with the shift.
Monday, January 7, 2013
Almost Not
Originally posted on www.cbtheatre.org
There’s one thing about working on A Klingon Christmas Carol which amazes me more than anything else.
It’s not the people, though the people have been wonderful.
It’s not the audience, though the audience has been terrific.
It’s not the fights, the music, or the humor. It’s not the copious amounts of wish fulfillment or realized dreams.
It’s that I almost skipped the audition in the first place.
June was a very difficult month for me. I had just finished getting my terminal degree. I had no job, no prospects, and – the very day before the audition – had my heart broken in a particularly shocking way. I was devastated and scared. I could barely tear myself from the couch long enough to drown my sorrows at the bottom of another glass. I had signed up for the obstacle race Warrior Dash for the first time ever (after a two year wait), and secured a rental car for the day, yet I didn’t have the heart to go.
I relied on a good friend to pull me out of my anguish, and a day-and-a-half later I forced myself up and out of my apartment to get to the audition. It took every ounce of will I had left to get down there that evening. All I really wanted to do was curl into a ball and weep into a pillow. Instead, in a single deep breath of focus and determination, I got up, got dressed, and got out.
I pulled myself together for the ninety minutes it took to have a language lesson, read a couple of sides, and learn and execute some basic fight choreo. I kept reminding myself that pain heals. I held on to the knowledge that one day I would Get Better, and beyond that day would lie the rehearsal and performance process for this play should I be fortunate and talented enough to be accepted.
It’s been over six months from that day to the time of this writing. This play has been a part of my life for more than half a year, which is easily twice as long as any production with which I’ve been involved from first casting to final curtain. The time in between has had some of the most life-changing growth since puberty. I’ve been presented with personal and professional opportunities I never would have dreamed of, and now they’re a part of the history and legacy that has defined one of the most important calendar years of my life.
I owe it all to the lessons I took from Klingon culture beginning more than half a lifetime ago. Being a Klingon means living with honor and with self-respect. It means never surrendering to fear or to grief. It means taking responsibility for yourself, for your career, for your family, and for the lives of those who surround you. It means maintaining responsibility for the ones whose livelihoods are dependent upon you, and for the ones whose very lives are dependent upon them.
I will remember this year as a year in which I persevered in spite of intense emotional distress, though not for the first time. Certainly not for the last.
I will remember this year as a year in which I fulfilled the most important dream of all: to educate, to entertain, and to inspire an audience in the same way – and to the same dynamic level – as I have been affected by my favorite artists and storytellers.
But more than anything else, I will remember this year as the year in which, but for the grace of Kahless, I would have rotted in stagnant complacency, a coward curled up in my bed, hiding away from the world. This is the year I avoided becoming SQuja’. I witnessed, accomplished, and took part in so very many wonderful things this year, and I appreciate them so much more when I realize how close I came to never having any of them.
And if I’m very, very lucky, I’ll get to take part in the saga next year as well.
Until then. Qapla’ batlh je.
There’s one thing about working on A Klingon Christmas Carol which amazes me more than anything else.
It’s not the people, though the people have been wonderful.
It’s not the audience, though the audience has been terrific.
It’s not the fights, the music, or the humor. It’s not the copious amounts of wish fulfillment or realized dreams.
It’s that I almost skipped the audition in the first place.
June was a very difficult month for me. I had just finished getting my terminal degree. I had no job, no prospects, and – the very day before the audition – had my heart broken in a particularly shocking way. I was devastated and scared. I could barely tear myself from the couch long enough to drown my sorrows at the bottom of another glass. I had signed up for the obstacle race Warrior Dash for the first time ever (after a two year wait), and secured a rental car for the day, yet I didn’t have the heart to go.
I relied on a good friend to pull me out of my anguish, and a day-and-a-half later I forced myself up and out of my apartment to get to the audition. It took every ounce of will I had left to get down there that evening. All I really wanted to do was curl into a ball and weep into a pillow. Instead, in a single deep breath of focus and determination, I got up, got dressed, and got out.
I pulled myself together for the ninety minutes it took to have a language lesson, read a couple of sides, and learn and execute some basic fight choreo. I kept reminding myself that pain heals. I held on to the knowledge that one day I would Get Better, and beyond that day would lie the rehearsal and performance process for this play should I be fortunate and talented enough to be accepted.
It’s been over six months from that day to the time of this writing. This play has been a part of my life for more than half a year, which is easily twice as long as any production with which I’ve been involved from first casting to final curtain. The time in between has had some of the most life-changing growth since puberty. I’ve been presented with personal and professional opportunities I never would have dreamed of, and now they’re a part of the history and legacy that has defined one of the most important calendar years of my life.
I owe it all to the lessons I took from Klingon culture beginning more than half a lifetime ago. Being a Klingon means living with honor and with self-respect. It means never surrendering to fear or to grief. It means taking responsibility for yourself, for your career, for your family, and for the lives of those who surround you. It means maintaining responsibility for the ones whose livelihoods are dependent upon you, and for the ones whose very lives are dependent upon them.
I will remember this year as a year in which I persevered in spite of intense emotional distress, though not for the first time. Certainly not for the last.
I will remember this year as a year in which I fulfilled the most important dream of all: to educate, to entertain, and to inspire an audience in the same way – and to the same dynamic level – as I have been affected by my favorite artists and storytellers.
But more than anything else, I will remember this year as the year in which, but for the grace of Kahless, I would have rotted in stagnant complacency, a coward curled up in my bed, hiding away from the world. This is the year I avoided becoming SQuja’. I witnessed, accomplished, and took part in so very many wonderful things this year, and I appreciate them so much more when I realize how close I came to never having any of them.
And if I’m very, very lucky, I’ll get to take part in the saga next year as well.
Until then. Qapla’ batlh je.
Monday, December 31, 2012
Odd Man Out
The Vulcan narrator for A Klingon Christmas Carol 2012 is named Brendan, and one night Kevin accidentally called him Brandi. Then we started singing ("I say Brendan, you're a Vulcan, what a good wife you would be..."), and I felt compelled to come home and write the whole song. It was a fine way to spend an afternoon. Feel free to use the video link to sing along, especially if you want to appreciate to its fullest how hard I worked to make the songs match: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N-tRXewCAmU
Note: the lyrics are a leetle different from what was originally posted on Facebook, but I'm allowed to do that if I want to 'cause I wrote this, so suck it.
There’s a stage, where we set our play
And we serve a hundred folks a day
A little story, 'bout the Klingon way
To spend their ram nI’ bam
And there’s a man in this little town
And he speaks, layin’ the story down
We say “Brendan, let’s start another round”
He knows the best way to start.
The Klingons say “Brendan, you’re a Vulcan” (you’re a Vulcan)
“What a warrior you would be” (such a Vulcan)
“Yeah your eyes, they’re breakin’ the fourth wall stoically”
Brendan wears a purple robe
With a centerpiece made of flashy gold
Those symbols say his heart is cold
But we know what Brendan loves
He auditioned on a summer’s day
Bringing comic skills from his Improv ways
But he made it clear he couldn’t fray
‘Cause fighting’s not his style
EVT he said “Brendan, you’re a Vulcan” (you’re a Vulcan)
“What a Klingon you would be” (such a Vulcan)
“But your life was made to tell stories passively”
Yeah, Brendan always soaps his eyes
When he tells our Long Night Story
He can feel the blood wine in our cries
As we fight each other for glory
But he’ll never hold a bat’leth, truth, Lord he has an empty hand
And Brendan does his best to understand
At night, when SQuja’ knows the score
Brendan stands by the exit door
He wants to march to Sto’Vo’Kor
But he knows what Chris would say.
He hears him say “Brendan, you’re a Vulcan” (you’re a Vulcan)
“What a SuvwI' you would be” (such a Vulcan)
“But your life was made to tell stories passively”
He hears him say “Brendan, you’re a Vulcan” (you’re a Vulcan)
“What a warrior you would be” (such a Vulcan)
“But your life was made to tell stories passively”
Note: the lyrics are a leetle different from what was originally posted on Facebook, but I'm allowed to do that if I want to 'cause I wrote this, so suck it.
There’s a stage, where we set our play
And we serve a hundred folks a day
A little story, 'bout the Klingon way
To spend their ram nI’ bam
And there’s a man in this little town
And he speaks, layin’ the story down
We say “Brendan, let’s start another round”
He knows the best way to start.
The Klingons say “Brendan, you’re a Vulcan” (you’re a Vulcan)
“What a warrior you would be” (such a Vulcan)
“Yeah your eyes, they’re breakin’ the fourth wall stoically”
Brendan wears a purple robe
With a centerpiece made of flashy gold
Those symbols say his heart is cold
But we know what Brendan loves
He auditioned on a summer’s day
Bringing comic skills from his Improv ways
But he made it clear he couldn’t fray
‘Cause fighting’s not his style
EVT he said “Brendan, you’re a Vulcan” (you’re a Vulcan)
“What a Klingon you would be” (such a Vulcan)
“But your life was made to tell stories passively”
Yeah, Brendan always soaps his eyes
When he tells our Long Night Story
He can feel the blood wine in our cries
As we fight each other for glory
But he’ll never hold a bat’leth, truth, Lord he has an empty hand
And Brendan does his best to understand
At night, when SQuja’ knows the score
Brendan stands by the exit door
He wants to march to Sto’Vo’Kor
But he knows what Chris would say.
He hears him say “Brendan, you’re a Vulcan” (you’re a Vulcan)
“What a SuvwI' you would be” (such a Vulcan)
“But your life was made to tell stories passively”
He hears him say “Brendan, you’re a Vulcan” (you’re a Vulcan)
“What a warrior you would be” (such a Vulcan)
“But your life was made to tell stories passively”
Monday, December 24, 2012
Senior Year
Originally posted on www.cbtheatre.org
We can see the end without a telescope.
This show has a longer run than any I’ve done. We’ve just finished number fourteen out of eighteen performances over a four week period, which is at least twice the length to which I am accustomed. All this and we still have another week left, four more shows to do. Four more houses to fill. Four more times to don the costumes and the ridges, to excite and enlighten and entertain our audiences. Four more post-show photo opportunities. Four more chances to enjoy the company of my castmates and crew.
I don’t want it to end.
The attitude of everyone involved in this production is heartening. Frequently by the end of a run a group of people is just tired by all of this. We’re ready to be done with it already and move on to the next phase of our lives, the next show, the next gig, or taking a couple of weeks off to recuperate, but I’m sensing none of that with this cast. We’re still enjoying the process, from the moment of arrival at the theatre to the last person to leave the building as our stage manager locks up.
The dressing room is still alive with energy both before and after the show. We still talk and joke and take pleasure in one another’s company. We still play and try to make each other laugh backstage. We still seek (and find) chances to spend time together outside of our responsibilities.
And it is a testament to the talent and dedication of this cast and crew that we’re still striving to improve the show. As we run through fight call, our Fight Captain continues to watch and give us notes. He’ll tweak a bit of choreography here and there to ensure that we play it safe, appear to be dangerous, and keep it exciting. I can also spot minor variations in other of the cast performances, such as different lines being ad-libbed. This last bit is particularly impressive as none of us speaks the language. It means that the actors are trying to keep things fresh and interesting for themselves (and thus the audience) by researching different things to say, practicing the pronunciation, and making it come off naturally.
Theatre is a living, breathing, holistic entity. It is comprised of multiple interactions both overt and subtle. If one actor changes his words or actions, however slightly, like ripples in a pond the rest of the cast is affected, and thus so is the audience. The audience provides the greatest variable, because they don’t go through the same dance as the rest of us each night, thus they have the greatest potential to change what happens on stage.
We affect you so that you’ll affect us. It’s a cumulative reverberation that enlivens everyone under the roof. This week I have been, once again, both proud of and honored by my fellow cast and crewmates who show up each week to breathe on this hot coal to produce a flame that consumes us all.
This show isn’t a chore. It is an honor, and it is a pleasure. If you saw us early the run, you’ll catch a slightly different one now. You’ll see a show with tighter choreography, a cast with less anxiety and a greater sense of play. Come on closing night, and you’ll even see Il Troubadore perform with us again.
But more important; this week is the last time you’ll be able to see the show in its current incarnation. This is the seventh year of performance, the third in Chicago, yet it’s not the same from one year to the next. The cast varies, some years more than others. The director changes, the stage differs, the fights are restructured, and the costumes are modified. This show, like any other, is a symbiotic construction involving the talents and capabilities of everyone involved, and we all work very hard to ensure it’s a worthwhile endeavor no matter what side of the stage you’re on.
There are four lights. Make the most of them.
We can see the end without a telescope.
This show has a longer run than any I’ve done. We’ve just finished number fourteen out of eighteen performances over a four week period, which is at least twice the length to which I am accustomed. All this and we still have another week left, four more shows to do. Four more houses to fill. Four more times to don the costumes and the ridges, to excite and enlighten and entertain our audiences. Four more post-show photo opportunities. Four more chances to enjoy the company of my castmates and crew.
I don’t want it to end.
The attitude of everyone involved in this production is heartening. Frequently by the end of a run a group of people is just tired by all of this. We’re ready to be done with it already and move on to the next phase of our lives, the next show, the next gig, or taking a couple of weeks off to recuperate, but I’m sensing none of that with this cast. We’re still enjoying the process, from the moment of arrival at the theatre to the last person to leave the building as our stage manager locks up.
The dressing room is still alive with energy both before and after the show. We still talk and joke and take pleasure in one another’s company. We still play and try to make each other laugh backstage. We still seek (and find) chances to spend time together outside of our responsibilities.
And it is a testament to the talent and dedication of this cast and crew that we’re still striving to improve the show. As we run through fight call, our Fight Captain continues to watch and give us notes. He’ll tweak a bit of choreography here and there to ensure that we play it safe, appear to be dangerous, and keep it exciting. I can also spot minor variations in other of the cast performances, such as different lines being ad-libbed. This last bit is particularly impressive as none of us speaks the language. It means that the actors are trying to keep things fresh and interesting for themselves (and thus the audience) by researching different things to say, practicing the pronunciation, and making it come off naturally.
Theatre is a living, breathing, holistic entity. It is comprised of multiple interactions both overt and subtle. If one actor changes his words or actions, however slightly, like ripples in a pond the rest of the cast is affected, and thus so is the audience. The audience provides the greatest variable, because they don’t go through the same dance as the rest of us each night, thus they have the greatest potential to change what happens on stage.
We affect you so that you’ll affect us. It’s a cumulative reverberation that enlivens everyone under the roof. This week I have been, once again, both proud of and honored by my fellow cast and crewmates who show up each week to breathe on this hot coal to produce a flame that consumes us all.
This show isn’t a chore. It is an honor, and it is a pleasure. If you saw us early the run, you’ll catch a slightly different one now. You’ll see a show with tighter choreography, a cast with less anxiety and a greater sense of play. Come on closing night, and you’ll even see Il Troubadore perform with us again.
But more important; this week is the last time you’ll be able to see the show in its current incarnation. This is the seventh year of performance, the third in Chicago, yet it’s not the same from one year to the next. The cast varies, some years more than others. The director changes, the stage differs, the fights are restructured, and the costumes are modified. This show, like any other, is a symbiotic construction involving the talents and capabilities of everyone involved, and we all work very hard to ensure it’s a worthwhile endeavor no matter what side of the stage you’re on.
There are four lights. Make the most of them.
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