Two Wrongs Don't Make a Writer

The Snowstorm that Ate Tokyo

2007-03-05T09:45:00.000-08:00

So the Department of Transportation politely informed me that driving would probably lead to my death on Friday. So I listened. And Pete Yorn played on without me. Very sad.

Curses! Foiled again.

The concert would have been spectacular. But there is a new hope.

A Golden God and a bluegrass-siren laying down some tracks together? So it seems.

Ou'sont les neiges d'Minnesota?

2007-02-27T18:01:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was my first of many sessions with a vocal coach for Urinetown.

I will be the first to admit how much a great singer I'm not. This role came as a great surprise, and it's going to amount to a lot of work.

So, as a reward to myself, I'm going to take this evening to do nothing but have some good, clean, quiet fun catching up on some reading, some music, and, if time permits, a little writing.

So a little bird told me to expect the largest snowfall that Minnesota has seen this side of the millennium. Normally I wouldn't flinch--I don't mind shoveling, and I don't mind being stuck at home with something warm to drink and something good to read or watch. But this weekend, of all weekends, is going to mark my first time at First Ave in Minneapolis to catch Pete Yorn in concert. I've seen him live before at the Basilica Block Party, and it was exceptional. A second viewing is simply a must, come hell or high snowbanks.

It should be an interesting trip. I hope I make it back. Someday.

How To Fail in Business Without Really Trying

2007-02-26T10:36:00.000-08:00

I failed. I tried, it is true. But life hardly makes note of effort. And I have failed.

The Arkansas Shakespeare people emailed me today. It's a safe, polite, email with no sharp edges. They thanked "me" for auditioning (I think all the other failures got this message, too) and encouraged "me" to audition next season.

I'm a little down. I should have tried harder. I could have prepared further in advance. But, well, I guess I didn't.

But it's healthy to be humbled, too. Maybe it can be good to fail.

I'm tempted to go home and turn on "Everybody Hurts" by REM and mull over the things I could differently. But there is no time to wallow--there are stories to read and critique and others to write and music to learn (I did manage to snag the a principle role in the University Spring Musical).

I guess what I'm saying is obla-di, obli-da.

You know the rest.

Night Terrors and Other Things That Are Not Scary in Retrospect

2007-02-24T08:34:00.001-08:00

I had a terrible dream last night. The funny things about nightmares is immediately in their wake, they are the most terrifying scenarios we could possibly fathom. Then we fall back asleep. Then it's morning, and the shadows and bumps in the night slink away like beaten dogs. And we think "that dream wasn't even scary. I guess I am a wuss."

Last night I dreamed of dead bodies in bathtubs, and strange figures lurking in the bedroom. The worst aspect of our brief stays in Nightmare Country is that our waking body is asleep--rendering it completely useless. And our sleeping brain recognizes this, and pretty soon our dream legs can only run in slow motion and our lips move but our voices are silenced.

I think I sand a little extra loud in the shower this morning to make up for it. I think I'll take a few real-time-paced walks today, too. I think I'll just feel a little better.

I discovered over the years that my nightmares are often induced by caffeine--specifically when it comes from Dr. Pepper. Why the sensitivity to the most delicious high-fructose corn syrup Elixir of Life? I couldn't tell you. But we have a long history, the good Dr. and I, of bad dreams. They typically involved (I use the past tense because I rarely drink sodypop anymore, hence I rarely have these dreams) unseen devils and sudden, involuntary bouts of flight in which I am not in control.

Flying, normally one of the most coveted of dream hobbies, is scary when your dream parents have to attach a metal chain around your waist because some strange magic is at work trying to carry you away.

I guess, for now, it's good to be awake.

Night Terrors and Other Things That Are Not Scary in Retrospect

2007-02-24T08:34:00.000-08:00

I think I sand a little extra loud in the shower this morning to make up for it. I think I'll take a few real-time-paced walks today, too. I think I'll just feel a little better.

I guess, for now, it's good to be awake.

Sometimes this feeling catches me by surprise...

2007-02-21T16:00:00.000-08:00

I miss you, Oxford.

Spring, Sprang, Sprung.

2007-02-21T10:31:00.000-08:00

It's not exactly Paris in the Springtime, but I'll take it--the temperature has crept well above freezing for the last several days. The trickling remnants of winter that accumulate in the sides of the streets and at the ends of driveways remind me of childhood for some reason; of me and Dad shedding our coats and shooting baskets in the driveway in our shirtsleeves, of walking home from school and soaking up the long-absent sun.

I like when the seasons hint at changing, despite the fact that this may only be a tease. But teases can be nice, too.

I'm coming to understand how much I miss my parents. They moved a few years ago, and since then our visits have been limited to a few times per year. Just when you grow up enough to start to enjoy them as people--poof. Isn't life funny like that?

I admittedly have a difficult time letting go of childhood. I still like to pretend. I still make up stories. I daydream.

What's the harm.

Return to Normalcy and Other Bad News

2007-02-20T07:38:00.000-08:00

I'm back from Arkansas (The "Natural State," whatever that means. It seems to imply that the other forty-nine are somehow "unnatural" or "supernatural." Perhaps the Arkansans are right.) I hope the trip was worth it.

On my way back to Minneapolis from Little Rock, I sat by a woman whose step-grandson graduated from BSU some years back, and was actually kind of a big deal in the theatre and music departments. Which leads me to my next topic: the Budget Crisis that Ate Tokyo.

BSU has proposed to cut the theatre major, reducing it to a minor. Why? Here's what they claim:

there are low numbers of enrolled Theatre majors (true enough)
the department is too exclusive, and does not permit non-majors to participate in shows (this is starting to sound a little crazy)
the department does not need so many classes, since the stage can be used as a classroom instead. productions will not suffer by cutting available classes (this is ludicrous. Macbeth would not have been possible without our Acting Shakespeare seminar course.)

Bemidji State University is changing. The personality is moving from a service to a business, where supply and demand dictate our education.

Disheartening, really.

Dixieland or Bust!

2007-02-16T07:01:00.000-08:00

I realize it's not as exciting as if I were going to Disneyland, but I'll take what I can get.

Monologues are memorized. Bag is packed. Pants are peed.

I think I'm ready.

Don't worry.

I'll be back.

Cupidity

2007-02-13T14:05:00.000-08:00

Seven years ago tomorrow, I took one small step for boy, one giant leap towards girl.

And she's been mine ever since.

Sure, the pink store windows and every kiss begins with Kay advertisements make me want to go all Oedipus on my eyeballs. But there's something deeper going on here. It doesn't have to be so ridiculous, does it? Can't we just take a day to celebrate love in all its shapes? Can't we be happy for love and for lovers and for friend-love and brotherly love and parental love?

Of course we can't.

I should have known.

To absent friends, returned

2007-02-11T11:42:00.000-08:00

I was afraid Bemidji would never feel quite like home again.

Last night, in the company of friends old and new, I was proved delightfully wrong.

I was not born here; I'll probably not grow old here. But I learned to be young here, and that's a lesson I never want to forget.

It's nice to know you'll never walk alone.

Who Will Blog the Blogmen: Part III

2007-02-09T13:27:00.000-08:00

For my third, and final, trick, I will now blog about this little gem.

Let's begin with the title: The Beat: The News Blog of Comics Culture. Isn't that interesting? It's not a blog necessarily about what Spiderman's new costume will look like next month, but it suggests a commentary on the culture of comics. What is comics culture, then? Pasty, socially malnourished teens slinking about in basement comic bins, searching for Amazing Fantasy No. 15? Hardly. The world of comics has turned hip, thanks largely to the string of successful blockbuster films based on comics (even lesser known comics have been turned into pretty killer flicks, such as Road to Perdition, A History of Violence, and American Splendor). Comics have grown up, and have acquired a much-needed sense of humor, seen here in the ABOUT section of the Beat:

Born in a tiny grass hut in Nepal, The Beat studied wu shu and Carl Barks at the
Shaolin Temple before boarding a tramp steamer and arriving in the US sometime
before the fall of the Berlin Wall. Assembling a team of high level operatives
from every walk of life, The Beat has since become dedicated to fighting the
sinister influence of Doktor Kaos and his minions, disseminating coded messages
to her worldwide network via her blog postings, and ensuring liberty for all.
The Beat can currently be found at her headquarters, Stately Beat Manor, where
surrounded by the latest in internet tubing and technology, she gathers
intelligence, only occasionally leaving her island refuge to protect the weak
and innocent and maintain the eightfold path of righteousness.

The steam behind The Beat is probably its links to other sources, marking as a strong filter site. There's really nothing personal within the posts, although some opinions manage to sneak out. For instance, when the staff of Wizard Magazine--a long-lived source of comics news, gossip, humor, and collecting resources--underwent a dramatic changing of the guard, the writers at the Beat were clearly a little shocked, and a little upset.

So it could be said that the Beat is a part news source, part industry monitor. Several posts concerning various comics based films being made are balanced with posts such as this, in which we get an "exciting" peek at the world of sales. That suggests that fans are not the only people browsing this blog, and that several professionals are probably doing their share of looking around.

The Beat covers topics that are important in the world of comics--posts on censorship appear a few times, for instance. Alan Moore recently published a graphic novel called Lost Girls, which has seen its share of challenges. Why? Apparently, the comic brings together three notable female characters from literature: Alice, Dorothy, and Wendy. They exchange stories about their fantastical adventures, which contain some pretty heavy sexual content. So much so, that some fear it could be labeled as child pornography, despite having only hand-drawn art. The Beat is right there, on the front lines of every battle comic book writers, artists, and publishers are fighting.

Since personal views are not really expressed, this blog fits into something like a "professional filter blog." The Beat serves as a hub of comics buzz, and connects to several other spokes in the wheel of the comic book industry. The site boasts a sidebar chock-full of other comic book related sites.

Who Will Blog the Blogmen: Part II

2007-02-09T09:54:00.000-08:00

I love London, I confess. And since blogs give us permission to live vicariously in other places, I love blogs about London. What I found was this, the blog of a Londoner. What's more, an 29 year-old American Londoner, called Monica. The concept of blogging during such a pivotal, transformative time in your life is just fantastic. Of course she will take great pleasure out of revisiting these posts, but there is also a great pleasure in reading them as a stranger. Her experiences abroad surprise and delight her, even seemingly trivial things like discovering differences that she had not expected.

The charm of this blog is its immediacy and honest, human style of reporting. Rebecca Blood challenges us to create blogs that are "moving targets," and this blog does just that. Moodiness is a large part of the human condition, and moods are subject to change without notice. Monica reflects this in her blog. For example, here is an excerpt from an entry during a time of frustrated bewilderment:

.... I could say I've not written all weekend because I was too busy out having
fun, but that is not the case. It was a really slow weekend actually, and now
I'm feeling a bit homesick and I forgot to buy a phone card today so I can't
call anyone in America now. I can't buy one now because every single place of
business in the entire country is closed, as it probably has been for much of
Sunday. So bizarre. In America, shopping is done weekends so places will be open
Sundays because they figure that's when you'd like to shop. They close early, an
ancient religious relic from the times families would like to eat dinner
together on Sunday nights, but they'd be open most of the day. Everything's been
closed all day! In America, if a shop has the slightest inclination that they'd
make just one sale, they'd stay open all night. We're so entrepreneurial and
capitalist that we'd do anything to get ahead, even if it meant losing money in
the short term.

The greenness of our narrator is refreshingly interesting in that she is writing in the moment. Each word is one small step, and one giant leap all at once. Also, the fact that she is a PhD student is doubly refreshing--despite her education, she appears to still be learning a lot about life.

She also shares snatches of a playful side, in which we learn about her favorite haunt--a pub called The Rose--and about the people she is meeting, such as her fellow workers at the office who are perhaps as different from her as different gets (one is a gay male of Asian descent, who speaks with a Welsh dialect--a mixture of traits Monica quite enjoys).

Why does Monica keep this blog? It seems she is in fact writing for herself. I found no links in her actually entries (aside from an occasional link to a previous post, to establish continuity where it is needed), leading me to believe she is keeping this blog strictly as a "journal." Without the burden of an audience, her entries are free to wander from thought to thought, from experience to experience. I am certain she has kept this blog to document the great changes in her life, though friends and family from the states have enjoyed following her many adventures along the way. Also included are photographs she took while buzzing about Europe.

This blog, if we assign it percentages of Blood's journal/blog/filter-o-meter, clocks in at 100% journal. Her purpose is not to insight a reader's interest in other sights, and so she makes no effort to point us in another direction except toward the goings on of her life in London. It's a fish-out-of-water story, but this is a fish that learns to breathe, swim, and thrive in new environments, making for a compelling, interesting blog.

Have Monologue, Will Travel

2007-02-08T15:14:00.000-08:00

I tend to talk myself out of things more often than not.

Despite this fact, I have called and scheduled an audition time with the Arkansas Shakespeare Theatre. 11:15, 16 Feb--the due date for a would-be career as a stage actor. I hope I don't miscarry.

This is the part of the movie where I start to pee my pants a little bit.

Who Will Blog the Blogmen: Part 1

2007-02-07T12:46:00.000-08:00

Neil Gaiman, aside from recently becoming one of my personal writer heroes, has been keeping a pretty keen blog for a number of years. Unlike many "celebrity" blogs--and I must use the term celebrity very loosely here--Gaiman's blog was undertaken for a unique purpose, rather than for vague, promotional intentions. While writing a book, Gaiman began to keep a journal detailing the process, and allowing fans to give comment and input. This portion of the journal remains intact, and has spawned the current incarnation of his blog.

First, who is this Neil Gaiman.

He is an English-born writer who began his career as a journalist, but soon stumbled into American comics. Assuming the helm of some smaller, safer, lesser-known titles, Gaiman in fact proved something of a remarkable talent. DC Comics then gave him, excuse the cryptic pun, the job of his dreams. Gaiman took the golden age hero, The Sandman, and transformed him into Morpheus, the Dream King. What followed was a two-thousand page story with elements of horror, fantasy, and realism. Gaiman's run on Sandman earned him several awards, including this one, that has since changed its rules so no comic book can ever win it again.

Since earning fame in comics, Gaiman has written several novels, collections of stories, and books for children.

So what does he blog about really?

Gaiman knows his audience--they are sympathetic (more like fanatic, but you see the point), eager, and pre-interested in what he has to share. His gregarious, oft familiar tone makes the reader feel they have been pals with Neil for some time. Who doesn't want to be chums with a hip English writer, really?

Something that may surprise some readers is his sense of humor. Notorious for horror-writing, his blog is surprisingly light hearted. He particularly enjoys poking fun at himself, and pointing out when others have done so with success. Gaiman blogs thematically about topics such the goings on in his writerly, his busy schedule, his curious children, his family life in the American Midwest (he lives near Minneapolis now), links shared with him by his friends and/or readers, what various other writer's have caught his attention, and, my favorite, musings on how silly his life really is. He also lets people drop him a line, and he often drops right back. I was also interested to find that while he has written about his daughters, Holly and Maddy, and his son Michael, his wife only graced his blog on one occassion, after which she told Neil that it made her feel uncomfortable. She has been a mysterious woman in the shadows ever since, and I like that a husband would respect his wife's wishes.

The entries I most enjoyed were the more personal, insightful ones. Occasionally, older writer-friends of his have died, and he will respectfully blog about that person and their significance to both him and world of literature. Many of his entries often end up on the side of filters, dealing largely with various venues through which his work is appearing. I also found that he is not above championing people's causes by forwarding links they have sent him. While the many his links may seem like blatant self-promotion (because that is precisely what it is), Gaiman often produces the kind of fan that more or less worships him as a god, and thus appreciates just that kind of thing.

Okay, in summation:

Blog type: I'd say 50% journal, 35% filter, 15% blog.
Audience: readers of his work, fans.
Tone: friendly, familiar, casual.
Purpose: keep fans up-t0-date on his career, with snatches of his personal life and interests interlaced between.

"Return of Blood Pudding," or "Who Are You (who who, who who)"

2007-02-07T09:57:00.000-08:00

Who are we? Who are we when we blog?

The question of identity is not easily answered, as we discovered in class today. Western culture--especially here in the US--is ego driven. We are not only self-absorbed, but we are self-obsessed. Individualism is one of our most sacred values. We want to the original, unique, special. We also want to be authentic--to reflect and represent our "self" for others to enjoy.

Rebecca Blood delivers a sermon on delivering authenticity to readers. She assures us that we cannot not sound like ourselves, so long as we are formulating our own thoughts.

My girlfriend is a student of sociology, and we have oft discussed the nature of the self. Sociology would argue that the self is actually a collection of concepts. We are shaped and reshaped by a hundred-thousand external forces; our personality is pushed and pulled in every direction. The self is malleable, and we temper it according to certain situations. A conversation with a professor and a conversation with a friend sound very different (with the exception of the occasional professor). Are we being inauthentic by adapting for an audience? I doubt it. So it could be argued that without an audience, blog, or any writing, is useless--merely a tree falling in a virtual forest. Even a journal, the private, intimate recordings of our thoughts, is written for an audience. We expect our future self to stumble upon it years later, and be moved or amused or both.

Our relationship with an audience is maybe underrated. Blood warns against whoring ourselves to gain "hits" on a site, and I think that's a noble ideal. But maybe what I'm saying is that writing for yourself is impossible. We depend on others to develop our self. It sounds backward, but I think it's true.

I struggle with the idea of authenticity. It's something I value and search for and appreciate in others. Maybe consistency is more fitting? I'm not entirely sure. But we have permission to be inconsistent--that's what makes us dynamic and interesting.

Maybe this is all about me being afraid of being the falling tree.

Maybe I'm afraid.

Blood Pudding Strikes Back, or The Wizard of Blogz

2007-02-06T20:23:00.000-08:00

Ms. Blood poses questions in chapter four that I think are important, mostly concerning your blog's identity, voice, and authenticity. Her mantra is "write from yourself, write for the joy of writing." I think I can hear writer's everywhere nodding their heads and shouting "hip hip."

To make a blog compelling, Blood suggests creating what she calls a "moving target." I like to think of this as the way of the lizard--run fast, stand still. Be sometimes grave. Be sometimes whimsical. Always be dynamic.

While some of us would rather the little girls from Kansas not pay attention to the man behind the curtain, we cannot forget that readers of blogs are often seeking contact. Sure, a blog can be a vehicle of information. But there is a soft, breathing, human weaving these designs we are drawn to. That soil, she argues--the soil where we spread out our experience and insights and passions--is the richest, and may yield the most fruitful crop of inspired entries. In other words, it's okay to get personal.

Once inspired, we readers of blogs sometimes emerge from our chrysalis with dreams of writing our own blog. Blood encourages this, as long as it stays inspirational and not competitive. Hell--the greatest blues shouters begged, borrowed, and stole from each other all the time. It kept things dynamic and pushed everyone forward to create something even better. She even goes so far as to suggest--in the event of a slump--to assume the voice of a blogger you admire. Write a post as them. Write another, if you want. And, for good measure, throw in a third. But be warned--its a ruse. You won't be writing as them at all, because that stubborn personality of yours will be irrepressible.

Oh, and Rebecca says it's also okay to be boring once in a while. How's that for letting the pressure off?

So be it. Run fast. Stand still. Have fun.

Blue Ox Blues

2007-02-06T08:07:00.000-08:00

After the recent chills, it seems that spring has sprung. It's amazing how a few degrees above zero can feel so wonderful. I struggle with the idea of relativity, but times like this certainly help.

Meanwhile, I have plenty to do while keeping warm under various blankets and drinking various cups of hot drinks. I've got plenty of writing to catch up on, and I need to prepare two monologues for my audition coming up on 16 February. I'm almost nervous. Give it time, and I'll be shaking in my britches.

Also meanwhile, there's always the pub to turn to in such dire times. Last weekend a few pals and I happened upon a young bluesman from Walker who was playing Blind Willie McTell just like a-ringin' a bell. I do love me some blues, and they're scarce to come by in these parts. Nothing will warm you up quicker than a little lightning in a bottle. If there's a sweatier, lustier, more aching music out there, I'd be a little shocked.

After his set, he came and chatted with us for a while. We talked about the death of Robert Johnson and how to make a real bottleneck slide. It never ceases to amaze me how ripe the arts/music/theatre scene is in this town--a delightful surprise that I wish more people would appreciate. We have successful writers and artists and musicians in our midst, and we should take a little time to honor them.

Sometimes I think I could make a home of this First City on the Mighty Mississip'. There seems something about it that is difficult to turn your back on--people I know leave and return more often than not. Or they don't leave. I know why.

This town is a Siren. Who can resist her song?

If we stay will we drown?

It's Looking Grim

2007-02-05T07:22:00.000-08:00

This is essentially what I'm dealing with this morning.

Why do we live here?

The world may never know.

I hope my car comes back from her frozen grave soon.

Too Cool For School

2007-02-04T10:24:00.000-08:00

It's cold. This means a couple of things: it's time to make the pizza places bring us food because it's too cold for us to go to the grocery store or even to cook (I'm guilty--Giovanni's hit the spot last night); and it's story time.

I'm equally excited for both.

Okay, since there has been snow for some weeks now, I suppose storytelling season is already ripe. But I'm a little behind, I suppose. I recently finished a short story for a writing fiction class, and now I sit with a small pile of my classmates stories stacked on my knee. I can't wait to read them. I like to hear stories.

I wish we still gathered around hearths, kept warm by steaming drinks, a glowing fire, and the yarns spun by lulling voices. What could be more satisfying?

I had a conversation with my roommate yesterday about childhood and stories. She was a voracious little reader--she still hold a record in her old elementary school for the number of books she devoured in first grade. The Boxcar Children and Little House books thrilled her, along with Goodebumps and Fear Street.

My literary teething years were spent reading these. Was it a misspent youth? Some might say it was, but I will defend the comic book to my dying breath. I like to think they are our modern pantheon--Zeus and Ares and Hermes with capes and cowls, really. Ask the average person on the street what it was that made Achilles vulnerable and how he came to be that way, and you may get an occasional correct response. Ask the same person what is Superman’s weakness, and they will almost certainly get it bang on the nose. Heels and kryptonite aside, I think this experiment is quite meaningful. While speaking volumes about the dilapidated literary background of our culture, it also speaks volumes for the comic book—it has evolved from its humble roots as pulp entertainment to a Parthenon of modern literature. The comic book has given us a new mythology.

It’s true that in its early, primeval stage, the comic book crawled forth from the muck without much to say. Two-dimensional stories centered around war, zombies, cowboys, and commies were rampant in those days. However, around the forties, comic books hit puberty with the advent of the masked heroes we have come to know and love. Sure it was an awkward time, but what kind of a puberty would it be otherwise, right? Some parts grew too fast and others too slow, and the voice was full of charming cracks; still there was something about them that caught the eye of young people. They recognized something in the characters—like a house of mirrors that distorts the features of its viewer. Behind the masks and capes were people with real lives and real struggles. They were merely ourselves magnified by our greatest dreams.

Clark Kent. Peter Parker. Bruce Wayne. We know them because we are them. Some of us know them better than we’d like. Let’s take Mr. Kent, for instance. Stripped down, what is he? He came from a place where he was doomed to die, sent by parents who wanted his future to be brighter than theirs. His real world creators, Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster, were the children of Jewish parents who came to America to escape the hopelessness of Europe. As the unwashed, huddled masses poured into Ellis Island, they were often stripped of their identity and culture, and Anglicized so as not to stand out any more than was necessary. Itzhak Weiss becomes Isaac White. Kal-el becomes Clark Kent. Superman is an immigrant, orphaned in a world that will never understand his situation. It is also no slight coincidence that there is a Superman parallel within Jewish legend. Creatures called golems, human figures sculpted from earth and animated by the light of the sun, play prominent roles in several stories, doing good deeds and saving those weaker than them from harm. Superman, who also receives his power from the light of our sun, is really a golem in a red cape.

I guess I still believe a man can fly.

Blood Pudding

2007-02-02T09:21:00.000-08:00

Wow, Rebecca. Who'd have thought.

Never judge a blogger by her book, I guess.

Regardless, I think I owe her a little attention. Here goes.

Her three, neat categories used to discuss what it is exactly you're looking at has been helpful. I think, as a reader of blogs, I prefer the notebook, described by Blood as "sometimes personal, sometimes focused on the outside world, [they] are distinguished from blogs by their longer pieces of focused content." This sounds like a healthy middle way between the self-indulgent, episodic Blog and the cold, filtered, er, filter (not the kind of cold-filtered that goes smooth over everything, but the impersonal harbinger of other websites and links of interest).

Why blog? That's a good question--one that more bloggers should ask themselves before exposing themselves to the digital world. Blood explains that blogs are useful for sharing perspectives and information--and I couldn't agree more. Though I do enjoy the two ingredients in the same tasty meal.

I like the idea that any common maven can give insightful commentary on their various interests and knowledge. On the other hand, as the world turns postmodern, we are separated by our connectivity. Our technological narcissism peels us away from human contact. We order Big Macs from speaker boxes; we browse for books online; we text-message each other despite holding a phone in our hands; we email our roommate to tell them we are upset with how messy they are.

Blogging has a similar dichotomy--it expands our connections both exponentially and anonymously. On one hand we share intimate details of our lives, but on the other hand, most people who read the blog are unable to directly affect tangible outcomes. You can offer an apology over the Internet, but an embrace? A gentle touch? Eye contact? Hardly.

The more time and energy we spend extraverting electronically, I fear the more our person to person relationships will suffer.

But technology has its usefulness, and bloggers will happily bog about their day, their life, or their causes. Whether it is a false sense of togetherness--artificial relationships forged in HTML--or merely a new variety of community, time will tell.

We Now Join "Our Hero Stares At the Mailbox Hoping for Rejection Slips," already in progress.

2007-02-01T17:59:00.000-08:00

I've made my feeble entrance into the life of prostituting my words. Until recently, timidity kept me writing like the Dickens, as my mom would say. More like the Dickinson, really. But even she couldn't keep her art a secret. Some things are inevitable.

And so I wait. Not for Godot or Lefty or even to Exhale. I just wait for the rejection.

I'd rather watch paint dry. At least there's something to watch.

So this is what its like to a writer. Hm.

I'm Your Density.

2007-02-01T13:22:00.000-08:00

I remember browsing the bookshelf my parents kept in our basement, filled with books that maybe they never read or would rather forget they read. But A few spines stick out in my minds eye: Erma Bombeck's If Life is a Bowl of Cherries, What Am I Doing In the Pits?, another book on Di and Charles during their happier years, Jonathan Livingston Seagull, and others. I remember one called God is My Copilot.

The title intrigued me, even as a little boy. The only copilot I had ever encountered was Chewbacca. I understood Star Wars. God was another story.

I've thought of it recently, that idea of a copilot. It implies we are in control. But Joaquin Phoenix has a question for you:

Are you a "chance" man or a "miracle" man.

I guess I'm torn.

"Men are sometimes masters of their fates:
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,
But in ourselves, that we are underlings."

We may be masters, but it seems we have help; a navigator, a deckhand, even just someone to talk with on the road trip of our Life. Why an omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent being would play second fiddle while we wreck the car I may never understand. But there have been times where things fell into their right place inexplicably. I suppose we need to feel that we are not alone. I admit I find the idea of an unseen helper very satisfying.

Maybe I should read the book. Just for the sake of curiosity.

My mom believes in fate. My dad believes in chaos.

I believe in Chewie.

Let the Wookiee win.

Two-Face

2007-01-31T05:35:00.000-08:00

This month belongs to Janus--the two-faced master of portals. He is able to watch the past and the future without straining his neck. I'm a little jealous, you could say. Yet I can also relate. I have a difficult time staying in the moment. My nostalgic eyes mist up at my Yesterdays, and my dreamy eyes sparkle at Tomorrow. Ergo, my Today is often neglected. You don't want to make a habit of neglecting Today, because that's the only tangible thing we've got.

But January wanes, and February is waking up. I guess Eros is probably picking out a brand new blindfold and sharpening a few arrows.

I recently read Neil Gaiman's collection of fiction called Fragile Things. There is a story in it called "October in the Chair," in which the twelve months gather around a campfire to tell stories. Quite a lovely story. Gaiman's dedication of the story reads "To Ray Bradbury--who would have written this better."

Ray Bradbury was my first love. Something Wicked This Way Comes pickled my skin on chilly October nights of my youth. I found myself drunk and warm off Dandelion Wine. I devoured every word he wrote and marveled at his literary Midas touch.

But I suppose I've grown up. I recently picked up a collection of his stories and re-read a few. I'm not sure if my memory failed me, or if things were just distorted with the grease of nostalgia, but his words just weren't the same.

I guess you can't ever go home after all.

I've often thought of writing Mr. Bradbury a letter. If there is anyone alive who understands the plight of Janus, it's him. But Old Ray probably doesn't mind--I think he lives in a place called Yestermorrow.

Also, like January, his month is running out of days. Maybe I'll write him soon.

The name is Whelmed. Over whelmed.

2007-01-30T13:39:00.000-08:00

This semester is off to a jerky start.

Aren't they all.

If only I had a dog named Shithead.

To Be or Not (fig. 2B)

2007-01-29T17:32:00.000-08:00

I'm not good at making decisions. I'm not good at taking leaps of faith.

I think I'm about to do both. While chatting it up with mom and dad, they mentioned this little idea. While Conway, Arkansas is certainly no Globe Theatre, working in a Shakespeare company sounds like a ridiculously good time. I'd have to fly down for one day just to audition, and then possibly fly down for another day in the unlikely event of being called back.

(chews fingernails pensively)

There's a line from a fine American film called "Risky Business" that comes to mind.

A character (played, incidentally, by "Booger" from another great piece of cinema) gives Tom Cruise's character the following advice:

"What the fuck. If you can't say it, you can't do it."

In lieu of having my mouth washed out with Liquid Dial, I will say this:

WTF.

Now let's see if I can do it.

What the fast tomato said to the slow tomato.

2007-01-29T14:06:00.000-08:00

Easier said than done, it seems.

After a week at the Kennedy Center American College Theatre Festival, I am at once energized and drained. It is a thrilling thing to be in the company of so many like minds. Of course, when you gather several thousand young actors, directors, designers, and technicians of the theatre, it's easy to become overwhelmed. You can almost pick out a so-called 'theatre person' from a lineup, I suspect. There's a look--something in the eyes, I think. It probably comes from a long history of being outcast. This is probably typical of most artists, really. It has been said that we are the antennae of society, the sensitive feelers that alert the body of news both good and bad. But the antennae are some distance from everything else, so there we stay in our lonely but happy space where we create and pass along our dreams and intuitions.I see writers and actors as kissing cousins in the creative family tree. We both ache to tell truths by telling lies. Writers make things up. Actors transform from one person to another. Yet both strive for honesty in this sort of play.

Truth, lies, dreams. What an intoxicating elixir to swirl over one's pallet.

But the mundane world tugs at me. I'm a week behind in my classes--a fantastic way to begin a semester. So ketching up it is.

And I am a very slow tomato.

The Old Grey Whistle Test

2007-01-29T08:16:00.000-08:00

Just because you never can dream too much, let's pay a visit to the Dream King.