The Snowstorm that Ate Tokyo

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?

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

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

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

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.

Sometimes this feeling catches me by surprise...

I miss you, Oxford.

Spring, Sprang, Sprung.

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.