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."

A Case of the Mondays

I went to the dentist Monday afternoon. But wait, there's more!

When I started the new job up here in the valley, I thought I would need to find a new dentist, leaving behind the one I really like in El Segundo. I had handled my dental affairs over a lunch break. Then my boss pointed out what would probably be obvious to most people, why switch? Monday marked my first time working the ol' leave-work-at-three-o'clock-and-don't-come-back deal. I hadn't really thought about it until I found myself out in the free world on a work day, not sick, not rushing to get back, but this was unfamiliar territory for me. Unfamiliar at least in the last 15 years or so. The first thing that came to mind, in fact, was back in high school. I remembered how even working around tennis and drama, there were still these great long afternoons to work with. I remember going to Knott's Berry Farm sometimes on a Wednesday. It was not complete freedom, mind you. There was still homework to be done and the next school day to get ready for so it was hardly like a weekend. Yet, in those few hours when the light was golden or the falling rain could be heard above anything else, there was a slowness, a sweetness, and a stillness that, in hindsight at least, was very precious. Being older and having not experienced this, okay, magic in so long, I could really appreciate it and savor it as I lived it.

I got the dentist out of the way. No cavities, impressive gum regeneration, yada yada yada. Then I went and got a hair cut. She took a little too much off the back, but it was my fault, I was egging her on. I look like a cross between The Dutch Boy and He-Man, but it'll grow back. Next, I went shopping, or tried to anyway (I was disappointed in the color of the khakis). By then, it was high time for The Richmond, which is where I was always so tempted to go after the dentist, but, alas, had to go back to work. It took me switching to a job 18 miles away to finally do what I wanted. I don't need to tell you how much I enjoyed The Richmond. Couple pints, turkey sandwich, and a great peace of mind.

I was utterly exhausted that night. I went to bed at 9:30. Was it from the beer? You could make that argument if you wanted to be obvious and boring :-P. I would venture that I had enjoyed a great release, a relaxation of mental muscles I had been unknowingly clenching for far too long and was flooded with emotional free radicals. Whatever the case, I slept good and hard. I wish I could say I woke up feeling peaceful and not ornery, but that's another story.

I love the dentist. If not for the cleanliness of teeth and mouth, then for the day pass into the beauty and possibility of a weekday afternoon. See you again, July 3rd at 3:20 pm.

"Queens!"

It never really occurred to me, but I just realized, I love looking at maps.

We were having a meeting at work, going over our tentative schedule and route for the rest of the season. As the discussion veered into matters which are not relevent for me to comment, I let my eyes wander (mind still fully present, of course) the giant US map on the wall. I could have stayed there another hour. It's such a delight to come across cities or points of interest you've always heard of and maybe had a general sense of geographically, but to really pay attention to them and get a sense of their proximity to this or that. Quite fascinating really. It inspires daydreaming of possible travels, which is, as you know, one of my favorite daydreaming topics.

Still Got It!!

So in case you didn't realize it, yesterday was Valentine's Day. I had class until 11, but I knew it was a special day because when I got home, the wife was still awake! She had just gotten home from a painting excursion and we met in the kitchen for a well timed smooch just before I scrounged together some turkey meat balls. Classic romance. Get this though...and please forgive me for getting graphic...when we went in to kiss, we got zapped. Electricity, folks! Lit-trally. Sparks actually flew. And we're not talking wall-to-wall carpet where this kind of thing would happen all the time. No sir. Hardwood floors, baby. Hardwood floors and non-vinyl tile. That electricity came from nowhere but the spark plugs of our hearts, my friends. Still got it!

The Cock of the Walk!

In three different acting classes, with not a single classmate in common, I have been called "cocky" or some synonym of the word. It's always come out in the context of an exercise, but in only one instance could I pretend they were saying my character was cocky, not me. The first time, I thought it was funny. It was the first night of class and the guy didn't know me from Adam so I didn't take it personally at all. I thought it was hilarious that someone could be that far off in their judgment. By the third time, however, I think it's a little past laughably dismissible. At some point, you have to look in the mirror, right? So what the crap, am I cocky? I don't feel cocky, I really don't. I'll own up to being occasionally smug. My sense of humor can sometimes be dry and deadpan, which I can see as playing as superiority. My boss called me a "cheeky fucking git" once, which was so great I had to accept it as truth. The bitch of it is, the three people I have heard "cocky" from were people I had barely talked to for more than a couple of minutes each, I am certain none of which were spent boasting (about what?) or condescending. I think I must give off an air of cockiness at times visually, despite whether I'm actually thinking about how great I am or whether I'm fretting over the Lakers' needing a good point guard. Which sucks. As much as anybody says they don't care what people think, I don't think anyone likes it when the outside world's perception of them is negatively different from their self-perception. Especially when the outside world is so inferior to you. Heh heh heh...
I'm trying not to dwell on it, but it has gotten in me in my head a bit. I second guess everything I say socially in class, examining how it might be perceived as cocky. It's maddening I tell you! On the other hand, I don't get the impression that anyone dislikes me. Everyone is still very friendly and supportive. I guess if I were truly cocky or if they really believed that was me, they would probably not be nice to me. Ah screw it, the more I try to be not cocky, the cockier that must make me seem. How about I just be myself and let the chips fall where they may? I like that plan. See what a genius I am?

Awkward

First of all, I'm at work. Just now this girl came by our little quartet of facing cubes to say goodbye because today was her last day. There were several pregnant pauses where it seemed she was waiting for someone to stand up and give her a hug, but no one did. Finally, she walked toward one of the other guys and initiated the hug. At this time, I rose up out of my chair to be prepared when my turn came. She moved to the next guy, fine. Then she skipped me, walked right past me. Like I wasn't standing at all! I remained on my feet, either to play it off like I needed to stretch or to hammer home the fact that, hey lady, I stood up for you.

I'm not insulted by this. It's actually not surprising at all and quite representative of our dynamic in my 2.5 months on the job. We'd always attempt to exchange good humored small talk whenever our paths crossed, in the kitchen or for business reasons in an office. More often than not, I walked away feeling like she thought I was an idiot. Which is not an altogether pleasant feeling. There was no professional motivation for her not to like me. Our paths didn't cross enough for me to even be in a position to affect her job in any way. It was always just puzzling or just interesting the awkward, opposite chemistry between two strangers.

And now, we have the perfect punctuation. No hug, no deal!

Everything, Everywhere, at the Same Time

You know me and my rainy days. I was going to write a poem about my feelings on this gloriously rainy morning, but I lost the patience for composition and decided to just explain it directly.

I am paralyzed and terrorized by choices. I get one rainy day and yet I want to spend it six ways from Sunday. To live in sweats for the day, to read, listen to thoughtful music, and to stare out the window or close your eyes and imagine every place you've ever heard the rain pattering. To run in it, splash in it, taste it as it runs off your lips. To laugh when you realize it's just in that moment that it's soaked through the last dry stitch. To keep walking in it anyway. To put on something fancy and show off that dapper new umbrella by walking the downtown streets taking black and white photographs, stopping in for soup and a beer. To drive up the coast, to see it peppering the ocean waves, turning the sand dark. I want to do it all. Yet there is only one choice that can be made, of course. Sometimes that simple truth is hard to accept and the satisfaction of living one of them is lost for not living all of them. Then there's mornings like this one where there is no choice at all, where I sit in a line to exit the freeway for work while the coast-bound traffic whooshes by, calling to me to swerve from obligation.

In other news...

We cashed in my birthday present yesterday, up close and personal seats to the play "Our Town," by Thornton Wilder, starring Helen Hunt. I say up close and personal rather than front row, because of the unique setup of this show. There was no stage. The play was performed on the floor of the theatre, with bleachers for seating behind us lucky folks sitting in chairs lining the performance area, inches from the actors and the action. At one point early on, Helen Hunt was standing directly behind me, over me you might say, addressing the audience. Yes, my heart fluttered. The house lights barely dimmed. This was in-your-face theater, literally. The intimacy was not just a gimmick. This was "Our Town," this was about Us, so there we were, seeing ourselves and the play, seeing the play in ourselves. Can you tell yet that I was a bit floored? It's over twenty-four hours later and I am still feeling affected by it. The third act, about death, was nothing short of profound. (Spoiler alert: If you plan to see (or read) the play, read no further)

It opens in a cemetery, with the dead speaking from their graves, welcoming the newest arrival, Emily, a character we have seen develop from a child, to a young woman in love, to an adult afraid of growing up, and now, into the afterlife. She realizes she can go back, she can relive any day she wants, and she is told that, yes, this is true. But she is also warned not to do it, that it's not what she expects, and that she will only turn and come back. Of course, she goes anyway. Suddenly, the Stage Manager (Hunt) pulls back a curtain at one end of the theatre and this sparse production that has thus far used primarily our imaginations for its props and scenery, gives way to an amazingly realistic set, a quaint kitchen and dining room with working stove. Emily's mother is there making bacon and when the smell reaches you, you're there too. The richness of this set contrasted with the starkness of everything we'd seen up to that point was like a nail into the heart. Her mother is there, her father as well, and even though they can see her and hear her and speak to her, it's not the same. Now that Emily has witnessed beauty on an extra-worldly level, it's too difficult, too confusing for her to exist with those who can't see it. I think she has a line about no one having time to look each other in the eyes long enough. She says goodbye for good and returns to the cemetery.

As I laid in bed last night, my mind was occupied with this third act, giving way (any topic thought of in bed always gives way to a dozen others) to thoughts of death, or more specifically, the afterlife. Let me just stipulate right from the beginning that I don't believe it's possible for us to comprehend what the afterlife actually is. I think it's beyond our abilities as humans to understand. And yet who can help but to ponder the possibilities. What if my rainy day conundrum speaks in some way to what it means to move on after death? Maybe it means that you don't have to choose where to go or what to do because you are everywhere at once. Every place you could ever be, you are. Every experience you could possibly have, you are having, simultaneously. The question of where are you, what are you doing holds no meaning. What if the most beautiful, joyous moments we'll ever know in this world are merely a view through a pinhole to a flickering candle in the next room? Perhaps what awaits us is to become the fire itself. Maybe to leave our bodies is not merely to lose shape or to fade to black, but to lose the separation between the inner consciousness and the outer world. We would no longer give love or receive love to and from the others we meet, we would be love itself as it exists among everything that ever was. If God is love, we would be ultimately united. I don't think I could walk away from that either.

Forgive me for getting all mystical. I assure you, I am not under the influence of any controlled substances, unless by way of flashback. I hope you can at least appreciate my inspiration, if not where it led me. I believe that art at its best inspires us to better understand ourselves and our world, provoking questions if not providing answers. "Our Town," to me, most certainly did that. Not bad, Mr. Wilder. To be fair and to perhaps diffuse my effusiveness, I didn't walk out of the theatre with my hair turned white. I wasn't bawling or walking on air. In fact, as we drove away from the theatre, towards the sun setting into the seeming eternity of the Pacific Ocean, we decided to go shopping. I know.

So this is the new year...

Blogging is a lot like sex. Sometimes, even in the absence of true inspiration, you have to do it just to prove to yourself that you still can. Here goes nothin'...

Tomorrow night marks my return to acting class and I could not be more excited. It was an unexpected and unexpectedly long hiatus since my last class ended and I could not be more excited to get back. I think what I look forward to most is the feeling of being completely open and unguarded, which I think I can say with some confidence, is essential. It's a feeling of freedom, a sense that while successes bring elation and joy, even the failures are equally potent reminders that I'm alive and giving myself to something. I compare it, as I do so many things, to standing in the ocean and braving the pounding of oncoming waves. Whether you time your jump and ride the rising water like a zero gravity trampoline or whether your legs are swept from beneath you and you're sent tumbling ass-over-head into the sand, you're having fun regardless. I can't wait to just be out there. So there's that.

As much as I love Christmas, there is something refreshing and relaxing about January, a month that really isn't under any obligation to mean anything. I guess there is the pressure of the fresh start, the new year's resolutions, but in January, nobody is really holding you accountable for those anyway. Do people even really still make new year's resolutions? Anyway, as much as I love the sentimentality and nostalgia of Christmas, January makes for a crisp, glowing morning after. Call me a cockeyed optimist (really, please do), but I feel good things lay ahead in 2012.

I'm not the least bit stressed, I've just had an incredible vacation, but damn it I could use a long drive. I need to trace the coast, watch a sunset, and eat dinner at some place I've never seen before, just because it looks good. "Smell the sea and feel the sky, let your soul and spirit fly into the mystic" as Van Morrison wrote. It's the same old feeling, I realize. Even an exhausting, thoroughly satisfying vacation begets the adverse cruelty that so much beauty exists in this world, but is unavailable but for those precious, carefully budgeted periods. I just typed that and already I disagree with myself. Vacation and travel is a state of mind, of course, but I know what I meant. It's disappointing to realize you'd like to do so much, but can only do so much. Then again, what an inspiring realization that you'll never be able to do it all.

I know what I am going to do. I'm going to take a step outside this building and take a deep breath*. I'm going to cue up some vacation music for the ride home. I'm going to drink wine. I'm going to grill something. I'm going to celebrate.

*It's become sort of a tradition of mine with the new job. I don't really get to go out for lunch so most days I am inside for ten hours straight, albeit with a great view. Still, that first scent of the real, night air is energizing.

P.S. Another thing about my new office, I'm on a new floor where the paint is barely even dry. The place looks great, but you can tell construction was rushed as little errors pop up. For example, the back hall is carpeted and there are these bubbles where the glue didn't take and the carpet is coming up. I go out of my way to walk down that hallway and I can't stop myself from stepping on the carpet bubbles. It feels good under the foot and makes a nifty little noise. I can't decide if this is OCD or living life to the fullest.

(BLOGGER IS APPARENTLY PUNISHING ME FOR MY DORMANCY BY DENYING ME MY RIGHT TO USE PARAGRAPHS. BLAME THEM, NOT ME.)

Mixed Bag Monday

--Has anyone tried this new series, "American Horror Story" on FX? I only made it about 11 minutes into the first episode before I could take no more. First of all, it was a ridiculous, jumbled mess that was just throwing every horror trick/cliche in the book at us in those first 11 minutes, hitting us over the head like an ax. But really what pissed me/turned me off was their despicable use of Down Syndrome as a scare tactic. If they say that wasn't their intent, they are lying. Whatever the relevant organization is should be all over Ryan Murphy like hair on a bear.

--File under: Power of Music...I did not sleep well at all Thursday night. I woke up a dozen times and had really weird dreams. About an hour or two before my alarm went off, I senses how tired I was going to be when I had to get up and I was already in a bad mood about it. Then the alarm actually did go off and my mood was instantly flipped from foul to fantastic. The song? Stevie Wonder's "I Just Called to Say I Love You." Say what you will about the quality of this song in the context of his expansive catalog, but I just love it. Clearly, it affects me on a gut level because I was smiling and dancing prostrate. Thank you, K-Earth. To boot, any possible cases of the Mondays was stopped in its tracks this morning by "Stayin' Alive," my alarm clicking on a half a second before the first note.

I Left My Heart in New York

You know those annoying people who talk a mile-a-minute and have no internal editor, explaining everything in the painstaking detail of their actual thought process? For example:

Normal Person: Traffic sure sucked coming in today, didn't it?

Abnormal Person: It totally sucked. I normally just take the 170 to the 101 to the 405, but even the 170 was completely jammed so I got off and took sidestreets to the 101 which was also a parking lot. So then I took Ventura instead but so did everyone else. Plus, there were like 2 accidents and then when I finally got to the 405...

And on and on. Anyway, forgive me for becoming that person for the length of this post because I have not the energy or will to compose this post properly (I kind of already started down this path, didn't I).

I was back in New York last weekend. Sigh. It was really nice to be back although I was reminded again how whenever I go back there is always a tinge of sadness lingering in there in the background. I went through some tumultuous times in New York. Nothing close to the proverbial shit millions of people around the world wade through every day, just to keep things in perspective. But for a privileged American male like myself, they were absolutely some emotionally mucky times. Since I left a mere days after graduation and have only been back maybe eight times since, I don't think the city and I ever got full closure on those times. Don't get me wrong, it doesn't affect my ability to enjoy the trip, not even close. If anything, the old memories enhance my experience for their added texture and context.

On Thursday we zigged and zagged through the charming West Village, my favorite neighborhood. It's an area I didn't see much of when I was in school despite it's close proximity. I think that's because there's no attraction to really draw you there, with the exception of shopping which I never had money for and Magnolia Bakery, which hadn't blown up yet then, if it even existed. To me, the West Village is for strolling, just walking and absorbing for the sake of doing so. I don't think I did such things in college. There was this one block where Commerce Street dead-ended into a curve at the end with beautiful old brownstones lining either side, a full canopy of trees overhead. Near the end of the block, was the small, but character-rich Cherry Lane Theatre. It was one of those scenes where you can't help but just stop and stare. And then right there on this whisper of a street, singer-songwriter Ben Taylor walks right in front of us and into one of the buildings. I'm not sure most people would have noticed, but I'm a loyal fan so it was that weird, random kind of cool.

Thursday night was the Indigo Girls concert at the Beacon Theatre on the Upper West Side. I love coincidences that feel like more and this show had the makings of such a night early on. I'd always wanted to see the Indigo Girls (go ahead, make your pithy jokes, punks!), but had never seen them come into town until a recent show at The Troubadour...which I could not go to because I had a class that night. I was really bummed about that. I was trolling the concert listings a few days before we left for NY, just looking for something remotely familiar that we could make an evening out of, when I saw the listing. The show was sold out by the time we walked in, but somehow I was able to get great seats in the 6th row. Also, come to find out, our friend Marjorie lives literally around the corner from the Beacon. We met for dinner and pre-show drinks, had a grand ol' time. I haven't even gotten to the actual concert yet. I may have already used up all my powers of description for concerts because I now find myself searching in vain for the words. It was really, really good. It occurred to me as I sang along to songs like "Get Out the Map," "Power of Two," and "Closer to Fine," that I was just discovering a lot of their music when I was there in college. I remembered the comfort and inspiration I drew from it then as I was navigating all that confusion, uncertainty, and self-doubt. It felt right that I would finally see them live for the first time in New York. New York, home of the finest concertgoers I have ever shared a standing "O" with. Nicole has been bemoaning the LA concertgoer as passionless and drab for years, and I always defended them. Not anymore. At the best shows I have ever seen in LA, there is always a slight sense of self-consciousness, a withholding. If the band says sing along, people might do so, but only at a level where they will be safe from anyone hearing their voice individually. I am guilty of this myself. I am prepared to own it, we Los Angelenos are, generally, a tame, laid back species. Even when we are truly excited to be at a show and having the time of our lives there, we keep it inside. We let it all out when we get back to the anonymity of our cars. On this Thursday night, the people of the Beacon showed me how it's supposed to be done. When we were called on to sing along, we did not slowly build momentum as we fought back nerves; we belted proud on the first cue. We were not cordially encouraged to sing one chorus, we were assigned entire verses of intelligent lyrics and we answered with gusto, loud and united, an acoustic choir raining down from the highest seat in the balcony. At the end of the show as they were taking their final bow, one of the Girls, I forget which one, said, "Thank you! We fuckin' love New York City!" I could see why. As the lights came up and we began filing out, half the theatre was dancing to the recorded exit music for crying out loud.

As we stepped out into the humidity of the intermittent rain, I was reminded of my favorite quality of New York. I will keep it brief because it's a total cliche, but it's the inherent, inescapable energy of the city. There is electricity in the air. Walking the streets, going to dinner, running out for paprika--everything you do feels like an event. It's invigorating and inspiring. I feel more alive there. I feel like my mind is more active, my neurons firing like the crack of sparks from that pole at the back of a bumper car that conducts its power. I'm sure this can't be right, but I don't recall ever finding myself with nothing on my mind there. I recall nary a dinner where any of us looked at each other blankly. It's like being on drugs, usually for better, sometimes for worse (My mental server crashed one night way back when, I melted down).

And on Friday, we shopped. I don't have anything to say about that part really. It was just shopping. Although I did get a peanut butter and jelly donut from Dean & Deluca which turned out to be a failure in my expert opinion. It was really a jelly donut with peanut butter coating the outside. It didn't taste bad but it didn't live up to expectations. If I am going to have such an indulgence, I want it to be worth it. What they should have done is inject the peanut butter into the middle, co-mingling with the jelly and then coated the outside of the donut in sugar. I am confident that donut would have delivered. Ah well.

Our efforts at Broadway were meek and non-committal other than to confirm we would certainly see something. We ended up at TKTS taking whatever they had that we had not already seen in movie form (Sister Act, The Musical? Seriously?), i.e. "Godspell." We had no friggin' clue what "Godspell" was until hours later. We were less than enthused going in, but it actually turned out to be a very entertaining show. The storytelling was a little dense but the staging, modernization, and performances were all outstanding. So there. After the show, we went back to Brooklyn, the hipster part of which I still had never visited. I found it very welcoming on this night. We were pretty sure the bartender had a crush on me because he kept bringing us free drinks. I'm a team player (and a ham) so, what the hell, I played ball.

Saturday we met my other former roommate, whom I hadn't seen in years. We ended up eating at a restaurant right on the corner of our old dorm, a place I had always seen but never felt cool enough to visit (perhaps I had self-esteem issues). He had been studying medicine in Israel and just recently gotten married so it was one of those weird, "wow, I guess we grew up" kind of visits. It's amazing to feel mostly the same and then suddenly realize how far you've actually come, isn't it? Then again, he did also draw me detailed instructions on how to pick a padlock, something he had devoted a lot of time to recently.

Central Park on a Saturday afternoon, one of my favorite places in the world. It's the one single thing I just have to see every time I am in the city. It's where I used to escape to when I felt like I needed to figure things out. I don't think I ever did, but I at least felt a little better whenever I was there. The leaves hadn't really begun to change but plenty were still falling and had fallen, giving me the taste of Fall I had been fantasizing about since booking the trip. I haven't looked at the photos yet, but I swear I got one looking through hanging branches onto a leaf strewn field with some guys playing football (get your mind out of the gutter), the quarterback's arm raised, just about to throw. That's the other thing about New York, production value. Everywhere you look, it just feels like you are living in a movie and it usually feels like a pretty good one. Does this metaphor work...In LA, I feel like the actor, but in New York, I feel like the character? I know, I'm laying it on thick and cheesy now. I'll get some tea and take a break.

Saturday night, Chirag...Wait, I can't believe I haven't mentioned Chirag until now. We stayed with my old roommate, friend, and groomsman at my wedding, Chirag and his wonderful fiance Kristen. They are fantastic hosts and great friends. Now then...So Chirag and Kristen took us to this Italian place in Brooklyn that had to have been there for a hundred years. One of those places with waiters in tuxedos and a wise guy behind the bar. I was compelled to order a martini immediately. That kind of place. It was awesome, and the food was some of the best, freshest Italian I've ever tasted. After dinner, Chirag and I climbed (there was a ladder) to the roof of his building for a manly cigar and talk, with the Manhattan skyline as our view. You can't beat a good man-to-man talk on a rooftop, I tell ya. We used to have long, philosophical conversations back in room 6-E as I recall. Granted, one of us was probably high most of the time which probably contributed to the length and philosophical nature of them. What I wouldn't give to be a fly on the wall now for one of those sessions.

Sunday was our last day in town and we spent the early part of it in classic fashion, shopping for knockoff purses on Canal Street. This was a first for me, and quite the experience. It's illegal, of course, so there is a whole dance of a process you have to go through to avoid The Law. First, you tell them what you're looking for and then they show you a photo grid of everything they have that fits that description. You pick which one you like and then they lead you on a 3-block pilgrimage to some other corner where their people are or where they have deemed to be safe. You negotiate a price, they send a runner to go get the bag. In the meantime, three or four other sellers will gauge your interest in a Rolex watch or a wallet. I looked at a Rolex myself, but it just wasn't my style. Then they bring your item in a black bag so inconspicuous it's conspicuous. Money exchanges hands and you parts ways. It was really fun, almost like a scavenger hunt or a murder mystery dinner but with real players. At one point a cop car pulled up, an officer getting out on foot and suddenly thirty people scattered like rats. As it turns out, he was getting some gum at the newsstand and we avoided a ride in a police car.

We finished off the trip with a massive pastrami sandwich at Katz's Delicatessen, home of the famous Meg Ryan faux-gasm scene from my favorite movie of all-time, "When Harry Met Sally." I'm a dork and I actually do get excited to see locations from movies that mean something to me. The pastrami there is the best I've ever had too, so it works out. As I think about it now though, the sandwiches they are eating in the movie look nothing like what you actually get there. They are eating these tiny little sandwiches that you might get at some bistro somewhere, not the ginormous mounds of meat they give you now. Anyway.

Just like that, it was time to say goodbye to the city once again. Halfway through Day One, I mostly-jokingly told Nicole to think about moving there. I checked in on Day Two and was not surprised to hear she had ruled it out, but stipulated that we should visit more often. I'll take that.

See you again in May, old friend.


P.S. We flew Virgin America, my first experience with them. At first, I was skeptical. The purple lighting and spacey entertainment stations reminded me a lot of Space Mountain which is hardly the type of ride I am looking for on a commercial flight. On the ride home though, the ability to order drinks on demand won me over.

I'm alive, but is my blog dying?

I think it might be.

The posts have been few (very few) and far between. At first, I was just insanely busy with class and work and squeezing normal life in between. Now I've got plenty of time, but do to a shitstorm at work, I dare not blog for how it will look in my daily productivity report. Consider this very post a quiet act of rebellion on a beautiful rainy day wherein I am feeling sentimental and carefree.

Where do we go from here? I feel my blogging muscles have atrophied. Do I have anything to say for myself?

--Isn't it sad when you someone you've known for years suddenly seems flimsily two-dimensional and utterly fucking annoying to you? I'm not even talking about someone I would call a friend. I can only imagine what it must be like for people to feel this way about a girlfriend or boyfriend, anyone they love. I wonder if anybody's ever felt this way about me.

--If there were ever a day to call in sick, it might have been today. A truly gloomy, rainy day in the heart of Fall? Good lord, it took everything I had not to throw the sweats on today, curl up on the couch, and try for my best sick voice. Alas, the timing for such a ploy could not be worse and inevitably, I end up wondering all day whether or not I pulled it off. I think if I got fired right now I actually would not be the slightest bit stressed about it until the morning, so happy would I be to get to go home and enjoy this afternoon. I would make beef stew and beer bread.

--Why is no one up for Oktoberfest this year? I know last year didn't go exactly according to plan with the party bus crashing and someone puking on my lederhosen, but I thought the during part was good anyway.

--Bill Brasky, if you're reading this, I miss your musk. It's been too long. Give me a call.

--Call me crazy but I love Disneyland in the rain. The lightweights stay home and it's just the pros and the tourists with the run of the park. It reminds me of the old days when all you had to do was go on a weekday to avoid the crowds. Last time I went on a rainy day, we did every relevant ride at least twice, including CA Adventure, and still had plenty of time to squeeze in those special times at Disneyland where you just sit and take it all in or even try something you've never bothered with before. Wow, we even did Tarzan's Treehouse that day. What I wouldn't give for a coffee, a churro, and a haunted mansion right about now.

Well, alright, time to look busy.

Confessions of a Junkie

Well, I caved. I just couldn't hold out any longer. It wasn't a full cave though, just a toe-in-the-water cave. I got out the pumpkin spice candle. I know! It's still August! More than a week 'til friggin' Labor Day! In my defense, it was not a fresh one, but, rather, the scant remnants of last year's candle. I think I killed it with one burn so it was a merciful act more than anything.

Here's the thing, I saw a red leaf on the ground this week. The leaves, (one by one) they are a changin'. Not only that, but football is back. My pops goes to Starbucks every morning; I got him on Pumpkin Spice Latte Watch (still not back). Today I got an email from BB&B advertising their fall-scented Yankee Candles.

I just can't take it anymore. I'm ready already. Of course, Mother Nature has responded with the hottest weekend of the summer, but I care not. I am hardly announcing or celebrating the arrival of fall (not even my imaginary one), but merely getting my autumnal ducks in a row. I'm getting the fall boxes out of the attic and making sure all is accounted for, so to speak. But know know this, my friends...Come September 5th, I go balls to the wall for Fall. Mark it, Dude.

Reasons I Love Portland

Brew Festivus!

I think they have Captain Morgan everywhere, but still...

The Boys at Brewfest!

--Architectural and geographical dynamism. I love a city that is visually compelling. I like old buildings, whether they've been renovated or left alone. I like waterfronts and bridges, of which Portland certainly has plenty. I love tree-lined streets. I also need some sort of backdrop. It doesn't have to be anything big, just not flat. When I lived in Sherman Oaks, I could look out my kitchen window and see "The Hill," with it's many houses looking down on us. It was not even a mountain, but it did the trick just fine. I need something in the distance. Portland is a double whammy in this department. The city extends up and into foothills in the immediate and the imposing giant, Mount Hood watches from afar.

--Walkability, compactness. On Saturday, we were on our feet all day at Brew Fest, walked all the way to the Timbers game on the other side, then ended up at an Irish pub back across town. We parked the car when we got into town, picked it up when we left, and didn't touch it in between. And we didn't even use the convenient streetcar or Max Lightrail system. I also love viable mass transit that's not a bus. Nothing beats the New York subways, but the spirit of the subway is alive in all train/metro systems.

--Along those same lines, I love Portland for it's small town intimacy intertwined with big city invigoration. Take the Timbers soccer game for example. The open, street-level concourse, the friendly, small scale of the forest green enclosed concourses and the field itself all lent themselves to a feeling of being at a minor league baseball game or a big high school football game. Yet the size and passion of the crowd would rival that of any NFL team in the land. Another example...On Friday, we went to an upscale brewpub where we had four fantastic local micro brews and an "artisan**" pizza (city), but the total bill was a mere twenty bucks (small town). One last example...Portland is home to Powell's City of Books, the largest independent bookstore in the country and one of my absolute musts for every visit. It's three or four stories and takes up an entire city block (big city). Just outside one of the entrances, in a column sculpted to appear as a stack of books, however, are interred the remains of two of Powell's most loyal and passionate customers (small town--albeit a slightly creepy one).

--The beer. They take great pride in their beer in P-town. Home to one of my favorite breweries, Widmer Brothers, Oregon is also the national leader by far when it comes to percentage of local craft brew consumption. Approximately 11 percent of the beer consumed in Oregon is made in Oregon, a significant number when compared to the national average of 3.4 percent (source: New York Times). As a beer lover, I know what I like, but half the fun is being surprised by the beer you'd never heard of. Portland is Beer Mecca. And their wines are pretty damn good too!

--The coffee. The best coffee I've had in America comes from Portland's Stumptown Coffee Roasters. I brought the bigger suitcase just so I could load up.

--I love that I have my Portland staples that I never get tired of, but also the feeling like there is still so much more to explore. Forest Park! The Grotto! The brewpub movies! Fine dining! The Kennedy School! Ringside Steakhouse! When are we going back?

--The weather, as I imagine it anyway. To be fair, I have only been during the summer, when it was sunny and hot and the days were long. However, who loves grey, rainy days more than me? I think I would relish the precipitation. I could stand for average October temps to be a tad lower than their 63, but by November and December, we're talking 52 and 45. Now that's just perfect sweater weather, my friends. With only 3.8 snowy days per year, it's the perfect novelty without any of the hassle. I admit my experience is completely superficial, but for now at least, mark me down as liking if not loving the weather.

--Last but not least, I love Portland because it's got my two buddies Zach and Bill Brasky!

**Can someone please explain to me what the fuck "artisan" really means in terms of bread and pizza? Please.

Tick tick tick tick tick tick...

Okay, 4th of July is over. Is it Fall yet? Please? Can we bump it up a little at least?

Mixed Bag - Carmageddon Edition!

--The main thing I hate about going to the dentist is that I can't make any jokes with someone's hands in my mouth. Good stuff, never to be heard. Then again maybe that's why people go into dentistry.

--Carmageddon!! IT IS REAL! I visualize it in one way as one of those black-border motivational posters, a satellite image of gridlocked streets with the caption reading "Clusterfuck, USA." Yesterday's mess was clearly a precursor to Carmageddon. I can only imagine what awaits for tonight's commute to North Hollywood. Since it hasn't officially begun, I can at least appreciate the unity it has brought to an ordinarily detached populace. There is something fun, a slight comraderie that comes with an entire city all talking about the same thing. I remember in hindsight that being one of the things I loved about New York, so much more often are there city issues that everyone is talking about. Anyway, I plan to board the doors and sit in the dark with my music, my whiskey, and a shotgun, watching disaster movies all weekend. Seriously though, I cannot fully express how much I am looking forward to a day or more of being at home and doing absolutely nothing. Or having nothing planned anyway. I have class in NoHo again Sunday night so, in theory, I will be braving the mean streets at some point.

--You know what I don't get? Cheesesteak. The name "cheesesteak" would imply that it's some sort of specialty meat that has been injected with cheese or is otherwise cheese-tasting. In fact, it is simply steak with cheese on top. It's a chopped steak sandwich with cheese on it. It sounds ludicrous, but it is actually possible to have a cheesesteak sandwich sans cheese. That ain't right. "Cheesesteak" is no more cheese-steak than any average cold cut sandwich is a "cheeseham" or a "cheeseturkey" sandwich.

--My state of being yesterday could best be described as emotionally volatile. Stepping out of my car at work, I was feeling on top of the world. And yet a switch was flipped in a matter of minutes as I got to my desk. My coworkers were back after being on location for two weeks. I greeted one of them with a boisterous "good morning!" Nothing. Silence. I repeated my greeting. Long pause, then a quarter-hearted "good morning." "So! What's happening?" Again, dead silence. "Really, that much going on already?" "I'm doing something!!!" I made an angry-cat noise and went to fill my water cup. I won't bore you with the rest. The point is this rudeness and negativity really pissed me off and ruined me for half the work day. I answered the negativity with my own. Finally, I realized how ridiculous it was to do so. I wrote myself a little letter, a pep talk if you will. Then I went outside, took a deep breath, felt the sun on my face, called my wife and all was fine again. I shot a short video (posted below) on my wine excursion last weekend that was intended for these exact moments. Maybe next time I will remember to use it and save myself the huffing and puffing.

--Speaking of my lovely wife, she's out of town. A man always learns things when his wife is out of town, aside from how much he needs his wife. You learn where things are kept. You learn the joyous freedom of being able to fart at will without persecution or condemnation. You learn that it can be an interesting challenge to see how long you can survive off the food on hand, without breaking down and going to the grocery store. You learn that her alarm clock has a projector (?!) built into it that creates a scary, giant, red, LED clock on the ceiling. Yeah, try seeing that for the first time out of the corner of your eye as you are knodding off. It set me back a few minutes. Anyway, that's all.

In the words of Neil Diamond, "Hello again, hello."

I wish I could say my blogging absence was prolonged by a recent trip to Bali or something, but, no, I've just been really busy. I had the occasional fleeting thought to blog, but nothing came to me that was worth typing. Then I remembered that was hardly my specialty anyway. So screw it, let's blog, baby!

You know what I love? I love being wrong. I love the constant evolution of taste and opinion. For instance, I didn't discover olives until I was maybe 28 years old. And now? Love em. Devour them. Praise olives, I say! I also got a shirt for Christmas that I was not altogether taken with at first. I didn't think it was a color I would feel comfortable wearing. And now that summer has arrived, my fashion sense has thusly warmed and I am having to discipline myself to wear this shirt just often enough that it is not considered a uniform. I can be a man of strong opinions and convictions, most often on topics that are massively insignificant and/or annoying to others. I get great delight from looking back at a past proclamation, a real fist-shaking moment, and realizing I was just wrong. Some other things I was wrong about:

--Owen Wilson. Not willing to celebrate his entire catalog, but I now realize he's a good actor and can be quite endearing in the right role. I don't know who might have been better in "Midnight in Paris."

--Hefeweizen beer. Still not my favorite. Still not something I will opt for often. Yet I am willing to admit that, on a hot summer's day when beer may be imbided, it has its place. I favor Widmer over Pyramid or even Paulaner.

--Bon Ivar's "For Emma, Forever Ago." I'm pretty sure I railed against this album. I remember I was put off by the fact that no one could talk about it without mentioning the cute little story about how he holed up in a winter cabin and did the album himself. I think that maybe soured me a little and then the often unintelligible lyrics and falsetto just put it over the edge. All that stuff is still true, but I've come to really enjoy the album. There are some great melodies, which is the most important thing to me in music anyway.

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You want to know what the most maddening sound in the world is? Silence. Not across the board, of course. Believe me, I value silence as much as anybody and believe we need a lot of more it these days. No, the silence I speak of is very specific. My desk at work sits in a sort of bullpen area shared by my two female coworkers and an empty desk. Back in the old days, we had a grand old time. All day long, we laughed, we argued--we talked. I don't know what happened but these days I may as well be sitting here alone. That would be okay, actually. If there were no one sitting five feet away from me, I would not expect conversation or acknowledgement of existence. However, when there are two people within 49 sq ft of me but neither of them utter 6 words all day, it drives me insane. They both put their little earbuds in and are lost in their own worlds, worlds that are only connected to each other via Instant Messenger. What are they giggling about? I have no friggin' idea. Do I really want to know? Not particularly, but I do think it's rude to carry on as such. You would at least expect that if I initiate a conversation, I would get something back, right? Even if it's a brush off, you would expect that they would at bare minimum say SOMETHING. Wrong. "What are you guys doing for lunch?" Silence. "How was your lunch?" Silence. "After sitting on hold for the last 15 minutes, they just disconnected me. Can you believe that?" UTTER, FRICKIN' SILENCE! I know it's not personal. I know they are not purposely ignoring me due to a grudge of some sort. I honestly don't think they think of me enough at all to muster such feelings. It's like the old saying about how the opposite of love is not hate, but indifference. Well, I believe that to be true and their silence is a screaming torrent of indifference. I am starting to learn to cope, but it's a struggle.

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And now for the Acting Report.....It's going well. Still having a ball, still taking classes, still working on it. I'd like to think I've made some real progress, but I couldn't say for sure. What am I saying, of course I have. But it is very frustrating because it's a series of small successes followed by failures. And I'm just talking in terms of feeling like you did what you wanted to do in the scence, etc. I thought I had some nice momentum going into this week's class, but then I totally blew it. I was nervous because we had "industry guests" so I was all fired up and over-prepared and just choked, basically. As frustrating as it is though, it is not truly disheartening because every failure really is a learning experience and I always feel the desire to keep working until I get it right. Unfortunately, I don't always get the opportunity to go again because, alas, there are other people in the class too. Anywho, I just started in the "advanced" class which is arbitrary but something, I guess. I've got another class beginning Sunday so then I will have this going four nights a week again at two different places so I should really be rockin' it, so to speak. I also just got my first headshots last weekend. It's a small thing, but it was a big deal for me because that has, for some reason, always been a mental block for me. Maybe I never allowed myself to do it because that would be a way of saying I am really doing this, I am really hanging my balls out there. I think I was afraid to do that. Well, here I am now, balls out.

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My mood these last couple days has been indomitably sunny. Coworkers stone wallin' me? Let 'em keep their earbuds in; that just means I can play my music louder! I did two solid hours of Billy Joel yesterday and I was lovin' life, my friends. The skies are blue, the birds are chirping, the flowers are receiving their due smelling. Add in the music and wine and I am just happy, I tell ya.

I am planning to ride this Spartan spirit straight on through a beautiful 4th of July weekend. My playlists shall abound at parties and home time both! I can almost hear the Bruce(!), smell the BBQ, taste the beer, and feel the sun and pool as we speak. Not to mention Fireworks. I make my return to Vets Stadium this year, hosted by the good ol' Long Beach Fire Department. Their DJ can't be counted upon anymore though so I'll bring my own Lee Greenwood.

Bless you, my friends! Cheers! U-S-A!

Little Things

Do they mean a lot? Of course they do, sometimes. Then there are other times where they mean absolutely nothing, except to bored minds such as mine.

--Our parking lot at work is wide open. There a couple of reserved spots, but those are not relevant to this little nugget. Still, despite there being virtually no reserved or assigned spots, people tend to park in the same place everyday. That's to be expected, I think. However, one of my coworkers sometimes carpools with another woman whom apparently lives near her. I noticed this morning though that when she drives with her carpool buddy, she parks where the buddy normally parks. When she drives solo, she reverts to her normal spot. Neither spot offers any obvious advantage of shade or proximity to the door. I brought it up to her and she had no explanation or reasoning for this behavior. How does this extend or translate into other areas of her life, I wonder?

--While visiting the kitchen-ish area to wash my morning mug, I noticed the receptionist washing an orange. It occurred to me that I had never heard of a person washing an orange before. Obviously, the orange has a thick protective peel so I've considered there to be a need for washing. Am I alone on this? Has everyone else been washing their oranges outside the net of my awareness?

The Sounds of Summer, Part Deux

Yes, I'm talking about one of the greatest voices in the history of popular music, Mr. Sam Cooke. Is it fair to dub a collection of music approximately 50 years old as The Album of the Summer? Sure, why not. I never said it had to be something new.

I picked up "Sam Cooke: Portrait of a Legend" while at Best Buy to replace my alarm clock and I have since been convinced that that alarm going bad was an alarm going off! It was telling me that the time for Sam Cooke had come! There's thirty songs in this collection with such hits as "Cupid," "(What A) Wonderful World," and "Another Saturday Night,"and others you've never heard before that are every bit as beautiful. You can't not sing along to this music. This is spirit-lifting, soul-jump-starting stuff. It's ice cream cone from Thrifty's music. It's making out at the drive-in music*. This is bike-riding music. It's Sam Freakin' Cooke!

Do yourself a favor and go buy this album, post haste. If you are actually thinking about it, hell, I'll send you a copy. Just get these songs into your ears.

*Can I tell you how proud I am to be a part of the last generation to make out at the drive-in? I weep for these kids that know nothing but multiplex.