White Heat

Write what you know.

Write about what makes you angry.  

Well, okay.  Here goes.

1) Doors that are heavy and close on their own. 

I am an adult.  I am capable of closing a door behind me.  I don't need you, oh apartment building administrators (et al), to rig it so that as soon as I stop pushing on the thing with all my might, it snapdragons back at me like a venus fly trap, closing with a "thud" or a "bang" or a "slam," usually on my rear bike derailer*.  I understand security, but I'd also like to be able to buy groceries and move things in and out of my home.

Furthermore, every door should be open-able with one hand.  If I put the proper key into a door lock and turn it, I should gain access through that door.  Anything that requires me to use two hands - whether it be to push or, worse, to manipulate two handles at once - should be illegal.  

It's kind of like that part in The Last Crusade, where the penitent man shall pass?  The penitent man kneels before God - sure.  But did you notice the vertical blade that followed right on the heels of the two horizontal ones that are avoided through "penitence?"  Penitence is only the first step.  Then, you have to roll, jump, and whip just so to stop the gears before you're decapitated, regardless of your knowledge of the Old Testament.

Kneeling should be enough.  Stop making doors that resist their primary purpose - to open.

This makes me so angry.  

2) Standing in front of empty seats on public transit.

So you don't want to sit next to a stranger.  Fine.  Totally up to you.  But don't turn your back (figuratively) on an empty seat just so you can stand right in front of the damn thing, facing (literally) the abandoned possibility of sitting.  If you're afraid of other people, that's your business, but unless you're playing in the NBA, nobody benefits from you using your entitled ass to prevent people from getting where they want to go (in this case, sitting).

Move.

3) Poor snow etiquette.  

Today, I could have legally inherited three dozen milk crates, four dozen buckets, some basic patio furniture, and a trash can or two.  Nothing unusual there.  But apparently I am unaware of the true value of a parking spot, because I could also have inherited a nice wooden barstool, a baby pool, some shelving, and a stroller.  A stroller.  Doesn't your child need that?  If not, doesn't somebody's child need that?  Also, didn't that cost you over $100?

Also, chairs, buckets, milk crates etc are for the purpose of marking a spot that you personally dug out for a short duration of time while the streets and sidewalks remain unshoveled.  A week after the blizzard, you might be getting just a little possessive of that particular piece of pavement.

Also, who are the dicks going around claiming spots they didn't dig out as their own?  Let me give those dicks some advice.  Hey dicks: Moses didn't dig out that parking spot.  Someone else did.  And they didn't piss in it when they left because they are part of a community, and they're trusting that other people are too, and that we're all working together to get through adverse conditions.  By claiming that spot as your own when you leave it, you are pushing us closer to a society ruled by Jeb Bush and measles.

It's not yours.  Don't pretend it is.

5) Who's proofreading this shit?.

Look - nobody's perfect.  We all make mistakes.  And nobody needs to be perfect, especially when it comes to language, grammar, and punctuation.  We'll probably figure out what you mean.  But there's a huge gap between not being perfect and completely not giving a shit.

For example, here's a sign from the House on the Rock in Wisconsin:

I get what you mean, but I'm gonna take as much care not to climb on those rocks as you did in spraying punctuation all over that wooden post.

Also, if you're in the business of something intellectual -- like for example, you want me to use your lawyering service -- maybe spell words correctly and avoid comma splices, apostrophe s's to pluralize, and confusing sentences like this one.

How did I do?

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* Expensive!

My Friend Who Is a Dog

I hesitate to endorse other bloggers, lest it redirect traffic* from my blog to other, less valuable parts of the internet.  However, given the near limitless number of views this blog now gets from "like"-rs and the fact that, as we say down home, "they ain't goin' nowhere," I've decided that it's time for me to share the wealth and give my very first shout out to another internet Dickens.

Y'all, check out 10,000 Puppies.  It's written by my friend who is a dog.

Here is a quick sample from his blog to whet your appetite:

[/

I don't know what he's trying to say exactly, except maybe "Let me go and throw me my ball.  I don't want to put my paws on your keyboard."

Genius.


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* I think Kubrick would have put Soderburgh to shame.

I Guess That's Why They Call Back the Blues

The blues sneak up on you.  They're subtle.  They catch you by surprise.  One day you're happy, the next day you're blue - or being considered for it, anyway.

Yesterday, I auditioned for a show I never intended to be part of.  See me?  I'm the one slightly off camera, near the feet of the guy in the Pink Floyd shirt.  Yep!  That's me.  See* what I'm doing?  I'm masking myself.  That's what blue men do.  

See, I know a little about it.  After that video was taken, around 1:30 pm, I was taken into the back room and given an interview in which I learned a little bit^ about what it is to be a blue man.  Then, I was put on hold for another hour.  Then, I was taken out of the theater and over to a church a few blocks away, where I was seen by four men.  They asked me to look at them.  They made me walk and imagine.  They made me drum.  Then, they made me go home.

Then they made me come back.

Isn't this a thrilling narrative?

Today, I saw those men again.  Again they made me walk.  They made me look.  They made me imagine.  Then, they made me go home.  Again.**  This time, I stayed home.  

All of this is to say that I got past the first two cuts on the way to being a blue man.  That's not really very far, but it's far enough to get someone's hopes up, and to (ready for it?) cut when things don't work out.  

So now I am indeed a blue man, because I didn't get something I never wanted.  See what I mean about the blues?  Sneaky. Subtle.  Surprising.  

If you don't know what I mean, look in my eyes.  See it?  No?  Well, look in some other guy's eyes who got further in the process.  You'll probably see it there.  

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* No.  Clearly, you don't.

^ By "little bit" I mean "nothing."

** You can never go home again.

There's a Monster in the Middle of My Book

WHAT DID THAT SAY?  In the blog title, what did it say?  Did that say there is a monster in the middle of a book?

What book is this?

Off Track you say?  (Boy, I am tired of hearing about that book!)

Shhhh.  Listen, I have an idea.  If you do not turn any pages, we will never get to the end of Off Track.  So maybe it is best that you do not even start to read it.  If you start to read it, you may start to enjoy it, and if you start to enjoy it, you may want to keep reading it, and if you keep reading it, you may get to the middle.  And if you get to the middle . . .

WHAT ARE YOU DOING?  You just downloaded a copy of Off Track!  DON'T YOU KNOW THERE IS A MONSTER IN THE MIDDLE OF THAT BOOK?

I am going to make this hard for you.  I am going to charge you zero dollars.  That way, you are guaranteed to think the book is cheap and uninteresting, and you will never actually start to read it.

NOW WHAT ARE YOU DOING?  You just started reading a copy of Off Track!  Don't you know that it is like a pamphlet or an advertisement or a tract that a religious person might leave on your car?  It is worthless!  WORTHLESS!

Maybe you do not understand.  You see, turning pages will bring you closer to the end of Off Track, and you do not want to go there, because somewhere around the middle, you will find a monster!  Have I not made that clear?

Okay, how can I stop you from doing this page turning thing?  You have made it through the first four chapters of Off Track.  That is moving you closer to the middle, which is where the MONSTER is.  You had better stop enjoying yourself soon, or find some other reason to put the book down.  Because you are getting WAY TOO CLOSE to the monster for my liking.

WILL YOU PLEASE STOP TURNING PAGES?  If you keep turning pages, I will be forced to make a chapter near the middle VERY, VERY BORING.  And then you will HAVE to stop reading.

The next chapter is going to be very, very boring.  I'm warning you.

Okay, now you have really gone off into cuckoo land.  You are writing me to tell me how much you are enjoying the book, which I repeat has a MONSTER inside AND which I made VERY VERY BORING in one place to slow you down.  

Did you know that you are very determined?   

Oh no.  Please stop now.  You are getting frighteningly close to the monster in the middle of the book.  You are even donating a small sum of dollars to help make the book a fancy ebook, and also to benefit local community organizations, which means even more people might read this book and be subjected to the MONSTER.

Oh, please, please, please STOP.

. . .

Hello?

Oh no.  Oh no, oh no!

. . .

Oh no.  

Damned If You Do

Weather's turnin' cold in Chicago.  Yes, sir, it is.  Makes some men want to drop out, disappear, curl up with a good book and sink away into Blankettown.

Not this man, though.  This man's got a bone to pick.  A score to settle.  This man was born more fighter than coward, more devil than angel, more lounge singer than elementary school librarian.

This man went for a walk.

Wound up in a place called "Satan's Cackle Shack."  Don't know what the hell that's all about.  But it was hot.  Hot as Hades.  Empty, too, 'cept for a cacklin' skeleton.  So I wandered in.  Took the mic.  Started tellin' jokes.  Soon, a few other lost souls found their way through the half-door.  Lent me their ears.  Skeleton kept right on cacklin'.  Soon enough, people did, too.  Lifted my spirits, I'll tell you that much.  

Think I'll stay a while.  A man could get used to a place like this.

You stop in, too, all right?

Re-Reader and Re-Writing

A year ago, I both wrote and received (by proxy) a lengthy criticism related to the Chicago Reader.  Amidst a flurry of positive press for The Sovereign Statement, Tony Adler ran contrarian and poo-poo-ed** our Andersonville secession effort.  I was a bit caddy in my response.

Those days are behind me.  Really, they are.  I barely think about how much it hurt* to read that misinformed, poorly constructed evaluation of a show that was so close to me that it even bore my name in the script.  No, really.  I don't care.  I don't.  

So, of course I care even less that now, the past forgotten, the Reader has rewarded my writing where it could not reward my dancing, singing, and secret-agenting.  The rag has  highly recommended Resurrected, which is currently running at Morton Arboretum via Theatre-Hikes.

Know this, Suzanne Scanlon (you glorious goddess of critical aptitude):

You will never win me back^.  Even if you write hundreds of articles about Resurrected.  Even if you convince your colleagues at the Tribune, the Sun-Times, and Hoy (!) to review the show as well.  Even if you put a lot of Ex-Lax in Tony Adler's coffee tomorrow (and every day after).

Okay, actually, maybe if you did all of that, you might win me back.  Maybe.  I'm sorry.  Am I being caddy?

I guess some things never change.

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* It didn't really hurt at all.  I'm not that actor.
^ I am, however, that writer.
** By poo-poo-ed, I mean that he wrote something out of his ass.

Not It

In the coming weeks, a 30-second fast food commercial will air.  It will feature two men and a celebrity.  The men will compete in a battle of wits, and at the end of the commercial, there will be a status shift involving the celebrity.  There may be some improv involved.

If you see the commercial in question, know this:

- I auditioned for it via my agent.  

- I was among the last ten candidates being considered for the roles of the two men.^

- If I'd gotten cast in it, the buyout would have covered my rent for 6 months.

- I didn't get cast in it.

What would the entertainment world be like if Christopher Walken had played Han Solo?  If Danny DeVito had taken on Vizzini?  If Jack Nicholson had played Michael in The Godfather?  What about Matthew Broderick or John Cusack as Walter White?

What if I had been in that commercial?

You may argue that a regional commercial is not nearly as significant as an iconic movie.  You may also argue that while all of these actors turned down those respective roles, I was turned down for the commercial.  You may argue that in each case listed above, the correct casting choice was made.  All of these arguments are valid, but they ignore one important element of this blog:

It's about me.  And I wanted to be in that commercial.

So when you see that commercial, and you think "Boy, those guys are really funny," or "Boy, those guys really aren't funny," remember me.  And tell all your friends how it could have been.  Please?

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^ That's a 20% chance of me playing one of those two men!