Mallrat

I need a good old-fashioned shopping day.

(I could insert the obligatory caveat about materialism, what really makes one happy, bla bla bla.  Let's take a break from that type of thinking, shall we?  The best shopping days are an escape anyway.)

I could use one of those great days where you don't necessarily go hog wild, but you treat yourself.  Maybe you pull the trigger on that one thing you've been picking up and putting back down or visiting a few times a week online.  Maybe you don't just buy the shirt, but the pants, belt, and sweater to match.  And you stock up on some staples, retiring a few pairs of the old socks and underwear that have lost the elasticity of their youth.  Then there is the surprise, the hat or the scarf you're not sure you can actually pull off, but what the hell, you take the risk.  

No shopping day is complete without lunch.  On a day such as this perfect shopping day, I like to avoid the food court and go to that white linen place that looks a little too nice for a mall.  The temptation here would be to indulge in a beer or a glass of wine, but I will shock you when I say I would abstain.  You have to keep your energy up, not slow it down.  

It's late for the true go-getters, but a little holiday shopping in October is still ahead of the game, I say, which means the pressure is not yet dialed up.  You can relax and let the gift ideas come to you.  On a day like this, they usually do.  It's shopping as a crossword puzzle rather than a fever pitch scavenger hunt.  Isn't it great to knock out the toughest person on the list on a day where you're not even officially trying?  Your arm and hand strength is probably sapped what with all the bags you're carrying by now so why not make a run to the car.  You lighten your load, get some fresh air and head back in with renewed vigor.  

At this point, you splurge on a coffee and a chocolate (I'm a See's man, but I have no problem with your Godivas, your Leonidas).  You're worth it, damn it.  Then there is always that one last store, the one whose window display has been a splinter in your mind all day, but which you would only go into once you were done with everything else.  Well that time has come.  It's nice to find something new for the home too, I think, candle, pillow, whatever.  I have held back until now, but I will announce now that we've reached the home goods leg of the journey that I am a deft sale shopper.  My restraint in staking out price reductions is on par with legendary hunger strikes or spiritual fasts.  I will wait these stores out and then, when they lose heart and break, I strike like a cobra.  I find home goods can be the safest genres of sale shopping in that returns rarely come into play.

The great shopping day is capped off most enjoyably with the post-shopping movie.  The two were practically made for each other.  You're there, you've worked hard all day, but you're tired.  Why not rest and take in a flick?  Popcorn is mandatory, of course.  Something about the escapist vibe of the mall renders all but the most rudimentary of nutritional standards moot.

Yessir, there is nothing quite like the classic all American shopping day.  Say what you will about the conveniences and advantages of online shopping, which are valid, I agree, but you cannot compare it to the full sensory comfort of a great mall shopping day.

Dog Days

I've been feeling a mental malaise these last couple of days.  Pardon me if I whine for a bit, I just find it easier to type than to listen to myself on matters such as this.  Plus, Conrad* is still in Atlanta so it's not like I have my buddy here to gripe to anyway.

There's a litany of contributing factors and I can't really put my finger on any single one of them being the main reason for being in this funk of aimlessness, if not sadness.  Let's face it, my fall playlist, which I cherish, is comprised largely of sad music and it's all I've been listening to for over a month.  I'm sure that seeps in.  There's the natural drag of fall itself in that as much as I love this time of year, it's things like staying home in sweatpants and reading, driving through the country, or sitting by a fireplace anywhere that I am compelled to do, but so rarely able to actually do.  It wears on me, I think, to always have my heart and mind someplace else.  In that same vein, when my mindset is rainy days and nippy nights and my actual environment is relentlessly sunny and warm, it gets aggravating.  It can provoke a feeling of being trapped, a la "The Truman Show."  Then I start thinking about moving to a climate with a little more ebb and flow.  But what would I do there?  Well, what are you doing here that's so great?  What about your family and friends?  You're already far from one side, are you going to move away from both sides now?  What about my acting?  What about it?  Are you doing anything to make that anything more than a hobby and, if not, is there not theater in any town in America?  Are you going to have kids?  How the hell are you going to have kids with the job you have now and its limited time flexibility and zero vacation days?  If you know this job will prevent you from living the life you want to live, how much longer are you going to do it?  Well, what the hell else am I supposed to do then?  It doesn't help that I've just read "Death of a Salesman" for class.  That alone could inspire a person to take another long look at their work, their family, and their life, but when you're already tossing it all up into the air, it only scatters all the more wildly.  The good news is I should have no trouble connecting to this Biff character, but God help me if I someday find myself talking to the ghosts of hopes and memories like Willy Loman.  That's a legitimate fear.  I look at the calendar, both the literal calendar of the next few months and the big metaphorical calendar of life, and it's depressing in a way to see it almost completely filled, with maybe a couple of hours free here and there, weekend to weekend.  It doesn't really matter what occupies the time, whether it's joyous or mundane; it's the realization of "this is what's going to happen and you have limited opportunities with which to do anything else."  Of course, that's massively naive as life can shatter your calendar at any moment.  The angst I'm describing just breaks down to mortality, I think.

If only I could hit the pause button on life, stemming the constant flow of obligations, responsibilities, and time itself, long enough to truly sit and think, maybe I could figure some of this out.  Not only that, if I could freeze time (but not people), I would have time to do all the things I want to do and, most importantly, to be the person I wish I could be to everyone I want to be it for.  I wouldn't lose touch with people.  I wouldn't have the ping of guilt when I realize how long it's been or how I've forgotten important details of someone's life. Doesn't everybody feel that way?  Life in this way is kind of like juggling knives while yodeling on roller skates, isn't it?  I know this is something you adults fully get already, it still baffles me sometimes.

What to do about it.  This verbal purge helps a little, luckily.  Looking back and seeing how far I've come and how all the questions of earlier days got worked out one way or another gives hope and comfort.  There are no easy answers or solutions, obviously, but I think the one thing that ends up working best is to take my eyes off the damn horizon.  There are immediate joys and trials to be met, like coming home late to find my lovely wife has made me my favorite meatloaf, seeing old friends this Saturday, celebrating my grandpa's birthday the after that, and finally getting rid of the damn moths in the spare bedroom.  I do think it's ultimately a good thing to unplug yourself from The Matrix every once and a while, perturbing as it may be.  I just hope that these small steps that bring solace are not leading in a circle**.


*That's a shout out!  I know you're reading!
**Although I realize it mostly is.  If I weren't too afraid, I am sure I could go back through this blog and find entry after pathetic entry over the years that are bemoaning the same things this one is.  Oh God, I need to go outside and take a walk.  Sorry, folks.

Wide Open Spaces

I'm redecorating my cubicle.  Well, to a degree.  It's already all decked out for fall, but I am working to organize it more cleanly, free up some space, and class it up a little.  I've 86'ed a printer I barely used which has freed up what feels like fifty percent of my surface space.  I am befuddled as to make tasteful use of it while still maintaining a neat, uncluttered space.  Perhaps a nice table lamp and some interesting art/coffee table books?  Should I put the special coffeemaker for our quadrant there?  No, I don't want people all up on my back getting coffee all the time.  Zen garden anyone?  How about a wet bar?  That would be my first choice, assuming I could get away with it, of course, which I can't.  What if the bottles remained sealed or didn't actually contain alcohol?  What if I installed a Mad Men-esque bar that was for decorative purposes only.  I will occasionally need to use the space, of course, for my holiday arts and crafts or (gasp)....filing.  Come Christmastime, I figure it's an ideal place for a gingerbread house, bare minimum.  We're talking about approximately 2.5 x 4 feet of untapped potential here.

I And Love And The Avett Brothers

I use Facebook status posts almost exclusively to talk about my experience with acting class, but, while tangentially related to acting, the ol' blog feels like a more appropriate venue to talk about The Avett Brothers.

I remember when I was in film school, people would ask me if studying film had changed the way I watched and appreciated movies.  It never really did.  I don't mean to necessarily draw meaning by the comparison, but since I have begun taking these acting classes, I absolutely see acting performances in a different way, which is just to say that I am in awe of everybody.  Stupid TV commercials that I would never even think about before, I watch now and think "I can imagine what that looked like on the page and he really did a great job with it.  Awesome work, brother!"  You can imagine what a great Paul Giamatti performance can do to me.  However, as much as my mind is blown like never before by great acting, it's not often inspirational to me, in terms of making me want to get to work on acting*.  To me, the best inspiration to work harder comes from music and concerts.  (Spoiler Alert: I am nearing the part where I get to the friggin' point)

There's a few that equal it**, but no band's music or shows give me quite the stir that The Avett Brothers do. Music journalist Stephen Thompson, writing on the NPR Music app which is currently streaming their forthcoming album,  describes The Avett Brothers as "gorgeous roots music...alternately stompy and swoony music that's rooted in a desire for self-improvement...a makeshift guide to life and to being fundamentally decent in the pursuit of something even better."  I love that.  Here's a line from their song "Head Full of Doubt / Road Full of Promise" that I keep written on the chalkboard in our kitchen:

If you're loved by someone, you're never rejected.  Decide what to be and go be it.

Here's another one from "Murder in the City," which, no matter how many times I hear them sing it, still makes me well up (and in concert, forget about it):

Always remember there was nothing worth sharing like the love that let us share our name.  Always remember there was nothing worth sharing like the love that let us share our name.

The first time I saw them in concert, I had no idea what I was in for.  I was casual about it, I'd been listening to their album "Emotionalism" for a while and saw they were coming to LA so I figured I'd "check it out."  I ended up going alone, straight from a USC game, and didn't even get a ticket until I arrived at the box office. If you haven't been to the Orpheum, it's just what you would expect with that name, a grand old theatre with the red velvet curtain and the side balconies.  I had never before nor have I since seen a concert go full throttle so fast.  In a span of five seconds (max.), the lights cut off, that massive red curtain flew up like a window shade on a roller and the band launched into a fast-start song like a rodeo bull when the door opens.  Ever since that moment, I have to see them whenever they're in town.  They play so hard they frequently break strings, stagehands running back and forth to bring them new guitars (or banjos) mid-song.  Their cellist, Joe Kwon, holds a bow that looks like string cheese by the fourth song of the night.  They sing and dance and stomp with an open-hearted passion that is uplifting and incredibly freeing.  It could very well be just another day at the office for them, but with the spiritual zest they pour into it, you'd never know they were not living and breathing in these songs for the first time.

That's how they inspire me.

As you might have guessed, I was at an Avett Brothers show last night.  And tonight...I have my acting class.  I'm coming in hot, folks!

*But watching great actors on "Inside The Actor's Studio" definitely does inspire.  The Hugh Jackman episode stayed on my DVR for a long time.

**Others include: Stephen Kellogg, Brandi Carlile, Jackson Browne...

I'm Weak? YOU'RE WEAK...

I hate it when I create a new password and the bitchy website tells me it's "weak."  Where do you get off, I say.  There are at least a quarter of a million words in the English language and you're gonna tell me that the completely random word (and potential combination w/numerals) I have chosen is "weak" in its security?  Let's try again then.  I'll delete that password and pick another one of seemingly equal strength and you guess what it is.  Crack the code for me, smug genius.  I'll give you two thousand guesses.  I'll give you a clue, I actually misspelled the word (..portion of the potential combination of case-sensitive letters and numerals)!  "Weak" password...How dare you, sir.

So yeah, where was I...

Approximately nine and a half months since my last blog post.  I could have gone through an entire pregnancy in that time.  But I did not.  Anyway, I am not sure if I remember how to do this so please bear with me.

It's not like I've had nothing on my mind, nothing to say.  It's just that I haven't been able to align my inspiration to gab with my opportunities to actually put fingers to keys.  Like the Colin Haye song says, "When I'm done (drinking coffee), I feel like talking.  Without you here, there is less to say."  I usually feel like writing something up as I'm on my way to work in the morning.  I tell myself I'm going to take twenty minutes when I reach my desk, but, inevitably, the work tends to converge on me upon arrival.  And then at 4 o'clock when I am having my tea and can maybe spare the time, I'm over it by then and feel only like checking in on my fantasy football team.  And yet we're 1-3.  Such is life, right?  Never the time to do what you want to do when you want to do it unless you have a Jerry Maguire moment and make time.

Speaking of tea, I discovered one of the finer teas I've ever tasted yesterday.  And it's bagged.  Trader Joe's Harvest Blend Herbal Tea with the fox on the box.  It's like drinking an autumn Yankee Candle (which I've also deployed, of course) out of a friggin' mug.  It's potpourri for your taste buds.  I'm having some now, actually.

Speaking of having less time to do all the things you want to do, I am re-reading a novel for maybe the second time in my life, "Juliet, Naked" by Nick Hornby.  It's fantastic, obviously, but I guess I felt that if I can only squeeze in 15 minutes a day before I collapse into unconsciousness, I might as well spare myself the burden of following an unfamiliar plot.

I've been thinking about New York a lot lately.  Given that we're wading into fall, it's no surprise that my mind should go there, but I haven't been skimming over the romantic, postcard images this time around.  I've been recalling the minute details of my New York, be they pleasant, bitter, or unscented.  I know I have bemoaned this before, but I find it interesting how New York, more than any other city, seems to inspire such feelings of personal ownership, whether a person has been there three weeks or thirty years.  Everybody has their New York.  Some of the things I've been going back to...the sight of fish guts being hosed off the sidewalk on the lower east side as I walked to the public school where I was a reading tutor for a semester, the kid there, Adam, who was kind of a misfit in the class, but whom I kind of bonded with...the seeping self-consciousness I felt most of the time I was living there..the music I discovered while I was there and the exact place and circumstances where it affected me most...the first time I encountered East Coast snobbery in the form of an asshat who scoffed at me for wearing the so very unbecoming shoes known as flip-flops...the way my dorm was set up as three towers surrounding a central courtyard and the way it was like a prison riot (in a fun way) when we were all watching something in unison like the 2001 election..the things I wish I would have done differently...and the Chinese food, oh God, the Chinese food...

I think that's all I got for today.  But I'm back baby.

Christmas Giving

As you might already know or suspect, I decorated my cubicle to the nines for Christmas.  Trees, snowflakes, twinkle lights, garland, and ornaments abound.  I've even got a laptop dedicated solely to playing a fireplace DVD and snow in the corners of the cubicle wall window panes that otherwise look like a prison visiting room.  It's my little 5x5 winter wonderland.  As a part of this celebratory setup, I switched out my usual coffee mug for a Christmas mug with which to sip my seasonal teas and coffees.

On this, the morning of our last day at work before Christmas, I was walking with my usual balancing act to the kitchen and I accidentally dropped my Christmas mug.  It actually flew out of my hand and shattered quite dramatically on the concrete floor.  All I could do was stand and watch.  There were four or five people standing behind me watching my mug (and heart) break.  Of all the mornings, it happens on the last one, the pinnacle of the holiday season at work?  Word spread quickly amongst my coworkers, many offering me their condolences.  Then, about an hour later, as I finished my last sips of holiday chai out of an impersonal and wasteful paper cup, a new offering appeared on my desk.

I looked over to find a red and gold cube-shaped box and a small brown paper bag.  As I turned, I saw one of my coworkers, Michelle, standing there.

"Now you don't have to drink out of a paper cup," she said. "And I got you a muffin too."

With those two sentences, my day (and season?) was effectively made.  I opened the box to find a beautiful, brand new creme and gold Starbucks Christmas mug.  I'm no Grinch so it's not like I was sitting there pouting and decrying Christmas, but even with my holiday engine running on a full tank, I was truly touched by this thoughtful, surprising gesture.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

Hola

Wow, over two months and nary a post.  I'd give you the full boring rundown of what I've been doing while NOT blogging, but to share my reasons would be to make excuses out of them.  I will say I've been in a creative drought of cracked-earth proportions.  Last night, however, I was dancing in my living room and I don't know if it was the caffeine, the Christmas spirit, or both, but I heard the hushed roar of a flash flood of inspiration approaching.  I don't want to get ahead of myself though so I think I will post someone else's thoughts before proclaiming to have any more of my own.  At least the subject is topical.

Leisure

By W.H. Davies


What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare?

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait til her mouth can
Enrich that smiler her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care,
We have to time to stand and stare.

Mail

 I was watching "You've Got Mail" last night, a Fall tradition.  For the first time, I realized just how technologically dated it is, which probably reveals me as pretty dated myself if I'm just now catching on.  I had always huffed at the sound of the modem connecting and how abbreviated the timing of it was, but I had never really picked up on the social aspect of it, how it's set in a time when the internet was still a new and novel thing.  Many of the online jokes fall flat now that the internet is so tightly wound into our social fabric, but there was a pleasant nostalgia for the element of innocence in those early days as well.

I was taken back to that time when as Meg's character says "my breath catches in my chest until I hear three little words, 'you've got mail'."  Remember when you could log into your email account and NOT necessarily have anything new there, much less fifty emails you have to sift through?  I remembered anxiously waiting for one.  Please tell me I have mail!  Even though conveyed by that robotic voice, those three little words were like a colored greeting card envelope in your mailbox, a jolt of excitement and anticipation before the who and the what were revealed.

I guess that's it.  Just a quick Remember When.

TGIM

Well I just had a punch-in-the-nuts kind of a weekend.

Now this is not on the level of things that actually matter in life or anything.  I am healthy and not in trouble of any kind that I am aware of.  No, we're just talking about sports, which, if you care about them you know, can be ALMOST as exciting, joyous, heartbreaking, and devastating as many things that do matter.  It's all about how much you invest emotionally.  Let's just say I am an all-in type of guy in this department.

Please allow me to give you the rundown of the worst sports weekend in recent memory that had me looking to a Paul Thomas Anderson movie as escapism and counting the minutes 'til Monday.  In the order in which they occurred...

--My beloved Angels, who have been trying to send me to the insane asylum throughout this rollercoaster season, blew a 2-0 lead in the bottom of the ninth on two home runs and lost a crucial(!) game in the Wild Card race to the (friggin') Kansas City Royals.

--My proud USC Trojans, ranked #2 in the nation and a popular favorite to win the National Championship as well as the Heisman Trophy for its quarterback, suffered a shocking, demoralizing, emasculating defeat at the hands of the Stanford Cardinal.  The loss doesn't make championship impossible, but it's improbable.  And it was their fourth straight loss to this team.  Joe and I discussed driving up for the game and can only thank the heavens we didn't because I would probably be in jail right now for suspicion of murdering a tree.  Thanks to the brilliant blogger at Lost Angeles, I feel a lot better about this loss now, but at the time, I was bordering on catatonic.  My solution was to drink and go see "The Master," which was just weird enough to disrupt my waves of depression.

-- I am eliminated in my Survivor League when the Patriots lose their home opener to the Arizona Cardinals of all teams.  I hate the Patriots.  The one time I ever align myself with their interests, the one time I am NOT rooting for them to lose, that's exactly what they do.  And, of course, they did it in dramatic fashion.  Down 8 late in the 4th quarter, they scored a touchdown, but failed to complete the 2-point conversion.  So now their down 2 and the Cardinals have the ball and can seemingly run out the clock.  Except they fumble it, giving it right back to the Patriots somewhere around the Cardinal 30-yard line!!!  "It's a miracle!" I thought, "Finally, a Patriots miracle I can celebrate!"  But no.  Their veteran kicker inexplicably shanked an easy field goal that would have won the game and, thus, now lost the game.  This is after they had a touchdown called back for Holding by the way.  If you saw the confusion on the face of their owner, Robert Kraft, following the kick, you know how I felt.

--My New York Jets lose to the hated Pittsburgh Steelers in classic fashion, giving up a go-ahead touchdown when Ben Roethlisberger miraculously avoids getting sacked just long enough to throw a bomb on third and long.  There was also the obligatory stinkage of Sanchez and the erosion of both offensive and defensive lines over the course of the game.  I tell you what, there is no more disheartening way to lose a football game than to watch your linemen get bullied over and over and over again.

--Both of my fantasy football teams lose.  I joined a second league this year to diversify my emotional investment, hoping that one team's loss could be offset by the other's victory.  In this case, fate had me doubling down on defeat.  These losses are incredibly painful because you personally watch them develop slowly over a course of 12 hours of an entire Sunday.

Good thing the Lakers didn't play!  Seriously, T.G.I.M.

Although I still have two of my fantasy players in tonight's Monday Night Football game.  Why do we do this to ourselves, men? 

UPDATE, Tuesday 9/18:  As it turns out, I didn't lose in both fantasy leagues after all.  Entering Monday Night Football, I was down single digits with my kicker left to play versus his Julio Jones.  Somehow, the improbably happened and my team pulled off a sensational rally to win by 2 points.  The hex of the weekend was broken and I look ahead hopefully to a better week.

Dog Days

I might not be able to declare it to be Fall just yet (by law, it cannot arrive prior to Labor Day), but nothing can stop me from dubbing the next seven days Fall Prep Week.  Yankee Candles will be scouted (new scents, you know), and hopefully purchased.  The Playlist will be updated and freshly curated.  A new Blu-ray upgrade of the fireplace arrived Friday.  New menus of soups, stews, and chillies will be researched and planned.  One change involves the Fall's signature beverage. As I was saying over the weekend, while I still intend to celebrate the arrival of the Pumpkin Spice Latte at Starbucks, I can't be held hostage by their schedule anymore.  When it's time to go, it's time to go.

This year, Fall could not come at a better time.  I gotta say, August has been weird.  As my beloved Angels have gone into the proverbial toilet in August, I too have been mired in some sort of doldrums.  I can't really pinpoint it as being due to one single thing or even a combination of any two or three, I've just been down lately.  Let me tell you, there is nothing like a hangover to make you take a long look at yourself and not like a lot of what you see.  These last, clinging days of summer have been dog days indeed.

Still, I sent the summer season out in style over the weekend, visiting the Andersons in Arizona.  We took their boat on the lake (our first time) and soaked in one last blast of sun and heat, hopefully absorbing enough for a lasting glow.  Andy cued up the ipod with the Miami Vice Theme and punched the throttle.  As we skipped across the surface of the water, I swear, for just a few fleeting moments, I felt like Don Johnson.  I needed that.  Also, I went tubing.  I'm a tuber.  I tube.  Dragged behind the boat at 30 mph, literally gripping on for dear life, I screamed and hollered like I was freefalling with reckless abandon.  It felt really, really good.  It would never occur to me so be so direct in my treatment of the blues.  Normally, I would ride it out over time, using music, comfort food, and movies to keep me afloat as I eventually drifted back to shore.  As it turns out, an adrenaline-riddled ride on an innertube is much more efficient.

While I am still feeling more down than up, I can see that the harsh light is fading and the crisp sentimentality of fall is rolling in on the horizon like the marine layer that has returned to envelope my neighborhood in the evenings.

And if all else fails, as of Saturday, we've got football.  Happy Fall Prep Week everyone.

Head Space

So I've been meditating lately.  Yeah I said it, meditating.

Before you conjure up images of sitting on the floor, legs angled into an impossible pose, hands opened upward, with guttural humming, let me just say it doesn't have to be like that.  I would guess it can be for certain styles or disciplines or what have you, but it's not required.  My experience has been guided not by a Tibetan monk in the Himalayas, but, rather, by an iphone app created by a former monk.  There actually is an app for that (actually several).

I am not going to tell you how it's radically changed my life, blown my mind, and transformed me into a zen master.  Not because I fear your eye rolls, but because, let's face it, it's only been 12 days I've been doing this.  That being said, I have noticed an ever so slightly greater sense of clarity and ability to observe my emotions without being enslaved by them.  If you know me at all, at some point you've surely chuckled at my ineptitude with the latter.  I dare say I feel a touch more peaceful and less worrisome than I had been.  That was bound to pass anyway, it's just not my natural state.  I'm not so gullible as to say the meditation is the sole reason for this spark of a difference or even a certain contributor, but what does that really matter?  I am at least pleased enough with the small taste of personal change to continue exploring the meditation on the off chance it is the impetus.

Some of you may very well be thinking, "Just get it over with man, go full circle.  Move to Venice Beach, start wearing loose, flowing pants and stop using deodorant and shampoo.  Become a yoga instructor and casually reference your aura and chakras as if you're talking about the weather."  I get that.  And to be honest, I had a sample of that with this relaxation yoga living social deal I had last year.  First of all, the positions were impossible for my legs and joints, but also the spiritual side was tough to reconcile and to integrate into my daily life.  Where as this simple meditation is not about imagining my inner glowing life force pulsating out my rib cage (not so far anyway), just about a greater awareness of my mind, what's going through it, and the idea of letting whatever it is pass on through.

I am going to continue.  I'm not sure if I am ready to commit beyond the free trial period, but I will leave that tab open in my browser for a bit, metaphorically if not literally.  Hey, look what it did for Phil Jackson.

P.S.  May The Force be with you, my fellow earth children.

A Tale of Two Yogurts

I've been suffering a bit of blogger's block recently or hadn't you noticed.  There have been times when I stare at this blank screen and can think of nothing to write.  Nothing that goes beyond the obvious, universal truths know to all, such as "I really love peanut butter."  As much as I could wax poetic about peanut butter for 200 words (I'm averaging a jar per 1.5 weeks), I hardly think anyone cares to read it.  If I stoop that low, I might as well start tweeting my daily breakast.  KRN-flakes, yall!  SO Taste-y!

Rather, I'd like to tell you a tale about yogurt.  Trader Joe's Peach Soy yogurt.  The small plastic foil-covered basin first appeared to me in the company fridge, seen fraternizing with my peanut butter.  This was about a month ago, but you would have thought it was the day after Thanksgiving given all the leftovers in the fridge that day.  It was this same image of dozens of plastic containers crammed in against each other that first inspired my idea for the reality show "Tupperware Wars."  But I digress.  After making a routine piece of peanut butter toast, I went to return my PB jar to its rightful throne on the second shelf.  I had something (I'll never say what) in my other hand so when I found there not to be enough room for the jar, I had to use a little measured force to squeeze it in.  What I didn't know was that there was a Trader Joe's Peach Soy yogurt perched precariously on the edge of this same shelf a couple of containers over, hidden from my view.  We'll never know for sure whether this soy yogurt was pushed off that ledge or whether he made a well-timed choice to jump.  Either way, with witnesses behind me, I was clearly responsible.

At first, I thought he might be okay.  I picked up the yogurt thinking we might all get out of this thing on the cheap, no worse for the wear and a vital lesson learned.  When I lifted the little guy from the floor, however, and saw his yogurt guts dripping, I knew there would be no neat resolution.  I tossed him into the trash can, wiped up the remains, and left the following note on a post-it note inside the fridge where the yogurt had been.

SORRY, BROKE SOY YOGURT BY ACCIDENT.  WILL REPLACE. HELP SELF TO PEANUT BUTTER IN MEANTIME.

--JOHN K x4691

And that's exactly what I did, I replaced the yogurt with an exact duplicate approximately one and one half weeks later.  My original note, while lasting for several days, had by then been removed.  I placed the replacement yogurt in a spot similar to where its fallen bretheren had come from and stuck another post-it to it that read simply, "Replaced!"  I had heard nothing from the yogurt's owner after having broke the first one and I heard nothing more when I replaced it.  For a week, that new yogurt sat there, note and all, and not a peep was heard, nor the yogurt consumed.

Then it happened again.  You would hope that I would have learned from my mistakes, but you would be wrong to assume I would learn so quickly.  I found myself in the same situation, my hands full, innocently trying to put my peanut butter back, and lo and behold, I knocked the soy yogurt off again.  Once more, its feeble container was cracked, its sad, milk-less, orange hued insides spewed out on the concrete floor.  Oddly enough, I found myself joined by one of the very same witnesses as the first time, a coworker we shall call Meghan.  Only this time, Meghan was not a witness to my humility and embarassment.  No, this time, while flummoxed that this could happen twice, I held not the least bit of shame.  I tossed the fallen yogurt into the trashcan** and went on my merry way.  If no tears were shed for the first yogurt, and no appetite apparent for the second, the joke would surely be on me were I to bring a third yogurt into this fridge.  Clearly, the Trader Joe's Soy Peach yogurt was not meant to be.

**The real tragedy of this story is that my company does not recycle anything but cans and I suspect even those bins are for only for effect.

Editor's Note: This post is dedicate to Bill Brasky.

Calgon Take Me Away

I just friggin' love this photo.  I was gonna wax on and on about it, but it really speaks for itself.  To give credit where due, the photographer's name is William Eggleston.  Apparently he's quite good.



Lighter Fare

When I stepped outside this morning, I thought I was crazy.  It had to be wishful thinking, projecting on my part, surely.  Yet as the morning developed, my feelings were further confirmed.  It felt like a Fall day.  What a glorious reprieve.

The light seemed a little softer, the breeze a little chillier, my mind drifting to chili and football.  We all live in our own worlds anyway, right? so why not allow my world to be somewhat of a fantasy for a day.  It was quite lovely.

When I strolled into work (on time!), a comrade noticed my Jets hat.  I had to explain why I was sporting football today and she said she had just been saying the same thing.  So there you have it, autumn in June.

I'd like to think I appreciate each season for what it is and represents, but let's be honest, I abide summer, but I don't really like it all that much.  Give me two, two and a half weeks of real summer and I'm good.

Anyway, that's all.

Coming up for air

A funny thing happened on the way to acting class or work or weddings or child births or weekend trips out of town...I forgot how to blog.  Cue sarcastic gasps and guffaws.  Hey, I'm not looking for any sympathy here, but let me tell you, I was busy as a mofo bee for a good stretch there.  Something finally had to give and I temporarily tapped out of acting class (this will be another post in itself).  It's been just over a month since I reallocated those 8 hours per week and took some time to breathe.

My first exhale actually came the week prior to my last class.  'Twas the day of Kory's son's birth and since the young man's arrival into this world was scheduled, I was able to make my own arrangements around it.  That fine Thursday morning, I worked from home.  Friends, I'm telling you, it was the most glorious thing in the world.

I slept in that extra forty minutes my body so badly craves every day.  I read the morning paper and went through my usual workout without worry or hurry.  I showered and dressed without checking my watch or yelling at myself to pick a damn shirt and move, move, move(!).  I prepared a sensible breakfast, opened all the blinds and windows to let the draft breeze casually through, tuned in to my favorite sportstalk radio TV simulcast, sat down and took a comforting sip of coffee.  Then I got to work.  I really did work.  In fact, I dare say I was more present, more efficient, and more active than I would normally have been in the office.  Who wouldn't be, working from their couch with a cat on their lap and natural light on their face?  I sent off a salvo of emails and whirled through the usual miscellaneous home busyness as I waited for replies.  It felt a lot better than slouching further and further into an office chair and cruising espn.com, I assure you.

After a few hours of tangoing my way through work, I set out into the world, journeying to the foreign land of Newport Beach to meet my new non-biological nephew.  It always feels unmistakably different to be not at work on a work day, but this was the first time in a while that I could say it felt decidedly good.  Usually, I would only be home if I were sick and when I wasn't focusing on the misery of that state, I would be feeling guilty for wimping out and wondering if everyone believed me.  Now I was catching a glimpse of what I had only known as Weekend World did with it's all its spare time, which was the same damn beautiful things.  There was a sense of freedom and it whet my appetite in a dangerous way.

It was just too nice.  The next day, I found myself asking those big questions where the answers only lead to more questions and frustration.  What was I doing with my life?  Isn't life too short to spend 40+ hours a week indoors, chained to a desk?  Wasn't it true that I wasn't even working to live, but merely working to get by?  I liked my job fine for now, sure, but what was I doing that was so much more interesting that it was worth sacrificing paid vacation time and light at the end of the Big Picture tunnel?  What use was the wisdom of appreciating the forest of life despite the trees if I didn't have the balls to act on it?  And why didn't I?  Did I ever?  Or was I just a misguided dreamer who should be happy to be employed, married with cats and access to premium cable?  What should I do, what should I do, what should I do?

The most frustrating thing about moments such as these is that no matter how many times I return to them, no matter how many times I find myself needing to make a change, I never have the time to fully think it through as to what shape that change should take.  It's like a dream where I find myself standing at the edge of a diving board.  I stare at the crystal blue pool below, I smell the bouquet of chlorine, water, sunscreen, and pavement.  I bend my knees and hold my breath and take a big bouncing step onto the board, preparing to commit myself to the dive...but then I wake up.  I return to the dream every night, but it always starts from scratch at the standing position and ends before I've even made the instantaneous decision to bounce again or lean into the dive, much less feel the cool piercing of the pool.  It's a replaying dream always awakened by the alarm of responsibility, the tractor pull of maintaining the idle hum.

I am not naive enough to think mine is an original dilemma.  I feel as if I've read about it a thousand times, but it's usually the setup to some one's success story, how they managed to achieve their wonderfully balanced, thriving lifestyle.  I can only hope that someday I can cut and paste this post before the next chapter about the happy happenstance of what followed.  I know what I have to do the next time I find myself at the edge of the diving board.  I know the answer is to not look, not bend, not take a bouncing step, just fucking jump.  I know that.  However, it's Thursday so I might as well finish out an even week before quitting my job to walk the earth.

So in the meantime...I can at least take solace in that I am not miserable.  I am generally quite happy, smelling the roses, gawking at the majesty of the cornflower blue sky and what not.  My impatience for vacation has been appeased by a couple of recent weekenders.  Those are the pictures I've sprinkled throughout here as they help me maintain sanity as I live and write this stuff. Inner peace and joy despite the constrictions of practical life is most important and I am very thankful to have that.  Even if that peace is teetering as it taps its wristwatch and stares at me as if to say "okay, nice little nap, now get back to acting."  Which I will, but, like I said before, that's another post for another day.  One can only afford so much open-ended hodge podge in a day.  If you're still with me all the way down here, thanks for listening.

WTF

I know I haven't really been coming around much lately.  You have been getting my checks though, right?  Heh heh heh...

But seriously, I am on the verge of coming back bigger and badder than ever, but in the meantime I have a question that may just sufficiently blow your mind until I can post something really worthwhile.

Levi's 501 Shrink-to-fit jeans.  For my size range, they tell you to add 3 inches to your normal size to allow for the shrinkage.  Fine.

But why then do they still only sell inseams in even numbered sizes?

I have been hemming and hawing over this one for weeks because it's not like you can return them if you get it wrong, ya know?  It's driving me insane!

The Summer Reading List!

By popular demand, I give you My Summer Reading List. Okay, let's be honest, I will be lucky if I actually get through 1.5 of these books. No, scratch that, I shall achieve my goals and finish 2 of them. Anyway, here are the ones I will be choosing from.

"Cyrano de Bergerac" by Edmond Rostand, translation by Brian Hooker (link takes you to a different translation)

"The Art of Fielding" by Chad Harbach

"Lust For Life" by Irving Stone

"Everything Beautiful Began After" by Simon Van Booy

"A Visit from the Goon Squad" by Jennifer Egan

"Little Bee" by Chris Cleave

Warming Up

--Given my slouch and increasingly sore back, I have decided to take action. I lowered my chair to a comically low height, but it's allowed me to scootch under my desk and be upright when typing at my computer, not hunched over. It's also got my elbows about letters-high (baseball reference). I'm telling you, I feel like a new man already. I'm gonna be two inches taller by June.

--I know there are women who stop by this blog and, ladies, I must call on your expertise. I need to start taking better care of my skin. I'm currently using this Neutrogena scrub that has that nice little roughness to it. Then Neutrogena 55 spf Faces sunscreen. At night, I steal some of the old lady's Estee Lauder night repair whathaveyou. I don't have acne problems, but I have more blackheads than I'd prefer. I had a red spot on my nose that appeared and never went away (I think it has been checked out, hmmm...). Basically, I want to protect my youthful good looks and have healthy skin. Here's where you come in. How do I do it? How do I determine what are the best products? If I go to department store counter, they're just going to sell me whatever happens to be at that counter, right? Who can I trust?

--As the days get longer and the weather warms, I can't help but look ahead to the summer. I'm never very inspired to make New Year's resolutions, but, rather, seasonal goals. The following is a working list of things I would like to make a point of doing this summer:

-Sand and restain my adirondack chairs (no offense, Conrad)

-Cook more. And I don't mean opening a couple Trader Joe's packages and putting them in a pan. I'm talking about actually cooking. I'd like to plan out a weekly menu and try some new things.

-Revitalize the Summer Patio Film Series. Attendance was down already last season when we had to cut it short due to scheduling conflicts. I need to come up with something, even a small touch, to kind of hit refresh on the affair.

-Ditch the blinds and get curtains up in the living room. We have been thinking of doing this for so long. It's time for some action!

-Camp. Every summer, I think about getting a camping trip together and it never happens because we have those BS jobs that offer zero paid vacation days. You end up eating a few unpaid days to take the necessary trips and there's just never any leftover flexibility for camping. This summer doesn't project to be any different, but, screw it, I'll do a one-nighter. We'll get up early, head down to someplace like Carlsbad and spend the whole day at the beach and have one nice night around the ol' campfire. Life is too short.

-Read, read, read. Is there anything more relaxing than laying in the warm sun with an engrossing book? I've gotten so behind on my reading since I started "The Lay of the Land." I'm enjoying it, but it's not a fast read by any stretch and it has consumed my literary life for too long. I aim to finish it this weekend and get to work on the summer reading list, tout de suite.

-Make it to 10 Angels games. We got Pujols, we got CJ, we got a real shot at the World Series. Arte and Jerry put up, now it's time for me to shut up and get down to see my team! What's more American summer fun than a baseball game?

-Get an actual tan. I'm not talking Jersey Shore here. I'm talking au naturale, like the old days when I used to just casually acquire the California golden glow. I realize this could potentially conflict with my call for skincare help earlier, but surely there has to be a compromise? I'm not talking about sunbathing per se, just saying I want to spend enough time outside so as to not look like a ghost.

-Go to one of those free sunset concerts at the Getty. Always wanted to. Never have. I might have to suck it up and just go when the evening is free, rather than waiting for an artist I recognize.

-Make more wine. My very thoughtful father-in-law gave me a wine making kit last year and after cutting my teeth on the first batch, I never got to work on a second batch. I mean, we had 30 bottles to get through before there was available space to make more, but that's no longer an excuse.

-Grow tomatoes. Evie's got some going over in her garden along with various other herbs and color me inspired. Tomatoes seem like a reasonable goal. And rosemary. And cilantro. Have I mentioned how much I (pardon my French) fucking love cilantro? I can't breath or eat enough of it. ARGH!

-Save money. Amid everything prior on this list, this may seem like a joke, but I believe it to be possible. The truth is I am not very forward-thinking when it comes to money and I know that will bite me in the ass someday, possibly soon. It's time to develop a savings plan and stick to it. Ha, I guess I should throw rolling over my 401K into the mix here as long as I've got myself growing tomatoes and chasing a golden glow. Sure, maybe this will be the year.

-Oh come on, I can't end a summer to-do list with "save money." That's weak, if not sad. One more thing to wrap it up...hmmm....Okay, I got one.

-Blog more.

Well, it happened again...

Last night in class, as part of our warm-up we were told to turn to the nearest person and do some repetition, an exercise where you stare at the other person and make observations about them. I get this guy Joe, whom I've had pleasant conversations with about NYU and what not. I wouldn't say we are buddies yet, but we're certainly not strangers and we have not an ounce of bad blood between us. So what is the first thing uttered between us in this exercise?

"You are smug."

I shit you not. My knees buckled. I stayed in the exercise which calls for me to repeat what he's observed, "I am smug," but on the inside I was screaming in exasperation, "I am NOT fucking smug! I am SMILING! I am just looking at you and SMILING because I am--get this--HAPPY!"

I give up, friends. Smug is as smug appears to your acting class classmates. I are smug. I take solace in the images above, obtained as top results in a Google image search for "smug."