My site, for once, is loading all the way.
Update: Posting this entry broke my site again. Clearly, they kill us for their sport.
Call me to celebrate dude's new phone.
Also, you will save me the trouble of reprogramming your name and number into the new cell piece as it's not SIM card compatible and I can't just transfer 'em over.
If I have never had your phone number, and would like to join such illustrious company as People I Am In A Comedy Group With, Trevor, Like Three Girls, and Whoever The Hell Upside-Down Question Mark Is.
We will talk about life and songs we like and I will describe my surroundings punctuated by "likes" and "uhms." I know you have the hella anytime minutes, Dear Reader.
646 226 2930.
The next few days are gonna be like one long day in which I am very sleepy and there are a lot of cameras.
I am leaving the house in like an hour because I have to be in midtown before 6 AM to get in a van to go upstate for a couple of days to shoot the Paid Acting Work thing, which will never be seen on TV or in theaters so don't worry about it, although if I'm lucky the experience will make a servicable short story, staying overnight there and filming all day Friday as well, come home Friday, late, I've been told to expect, then collapse 'till I have to intern at UCB on Saturday night which usually goes 'till like one in the morning, somehow magically appear in Jersey as early as possible Sunday morning to shoot/reshoot film sketches for the Hammerkatz NYU orientation show (which the legendary Jaclyn will be attending with all her new college friends if she, like, knows what's good for her) then hustle the rest of said show into a state of readiness Monday and Tuesday for its two and only performances on Wednesday night.
And last night I got three hours of sleep 'cause I had to get up for a meeting about the Acting and I don't get to sleep 'till like four every night for no legitimate reason. Walked around all afternoon figuring I'd have plenty of time for a nap which turned out to be a twenty-minute eye-close before it was out the door for the UCB show tonight, and afterwards going out and drinking it up followed by hookah seemed like a better option than sleeping and attempting to wake up at like five. Well, what's all this seemed-like shit, it was clearly the better option.
Trevor used to say, and probably still would, if pressed, that he hates when people bitch about how much stuff they have to do. Is it okay if they're not bitching? If they're excited? And inventory-ing the adventures in the days to come is just a way to kill time until you can leave the house and make 'em happen?
OK, good. I thought so.
This afternoon it was nice so I walked from Part II of my First Ever Paid Acting Gig along the water and I passed a middle-aged shirtless white guy with dredlocks and yellow sunglasses playing a saxophone into Jersey and just then another man, dressed from head to toe as Elvis, chops and all, jogged by, belt-spangles jangling.
Am I crazy for thinking I witnessed the apex of western civilization in that moment? That all human progress had been building to that? I mean, it was clearly one of the most perfect moments in human history. Nature may have produced more aesthetically, snobbishly beautiful pictures, but a human moment has to factor in the ridiculous. A beautiful natural moment is like, sun setting over a lake on which the only movement is the gentle grazing of migrating geese's wings.
A beautiful human moment is something crystalline and gorgeous like that plus, like, a unicycle.
My favorite song of all time right now is "Lazy Line Painter Jane" by Belle and Sebastian.
If there's any way you can play it at my funeral that would be awesome.
Today all I did was walk along the water and stop at benches to read, and the biggest thing on my to-do list is going to see a movie (Napoleon Dynamite, at long last.) I have decided to see a movie a week from now on to make up from almost a year's absence from theaters. This will be two weeks in a row.
Let me hear you say make money money make money money money.
Donald and I went to an audition today for an anti-smoking ad. Not just any anti-smoking ad, either. The Truth campaign. You know the commercials. Stone-faced teenagers pranking cigarette companies, with the implements of prankery being fake dead bodies, statistics, and self-righteousness, as opposed to, like, Vaseline and permanent markers. I can't tell you what 'nanigans America's Tobacco Industry is set for next, as I signed a confidentiality agreement, but suffice to say that the teevee will try to keep convincing you vice isn't cool for many years to come. We decided in the elevator afterwards that what they're looking for is kids who appear not to care but actually care. 'Cause people who look like they care aren't cool. They want people that look like they care so little they actual come back around to caring again. I am notably dispassionate about just about every cause featured on every flier I am handed on the street or attempted to be enlisted for by a guy with a clipboard, so hopefully I will get called back.
The theater keeps sending us out for these auditions. It's really awesome. They look out for their own. It's nice to have somebody at your back, trying to make sure you'll get money that will allow you to eat or maybe buy an ipod.
Speaking of the theater, I lost my phone there yesterday. I miss it. It may get terrible service and I may have dropped it fourteen thousand times and my dad may have had to duct-tape the antennae back on, but dammit, it was a phone. You could never successfully prove it wasn't.
Maybe it knows I'm eloping with Verizon.
Immediate update: Helen has it! Hurrah!
The name of the poetry collection will be Kids Gotta Eat.
I may have some Legitimate Acting Work coming up and ideally a lot of that money will go to fund it.
You should have a hard copy of my sexy-ass free verse in your hot little hands before it is officially winter.
Goodbye, Rubin Hall.
I shall leave you much the same as I found you:
Okay the blog is clearly broken so let's think of it less like a lame journaling website and more like pirate radio.
I run it off a transmitter in my backpack that I built based on a pamphlet I got at an anarchist bookstore and parts from the dumpster behind Radio Shack.
I bicycle to the top of the tallest hill in town to get better range.
If you are driving around on a Friday night and sometimes a Saturday if I'm feeling particularly anti-social that week there's a chance you will get static-y bursts of me in between a mariachi-and-rapid-Spanish station and the all night Tranceathon on KRAVe. For some reason I come in better on old radios with knobs. The search presets on your Jetta will gloss right over me, but that's okay, I'm aiming more for the primer-red-Datsun-with-a-faded-My-Bloody-Valentine-sticker-in-the-back-window crowd.
The fact that I'm playing a compilation tape off a recorder with one speaker into a microphone that was probably used by the stenographer in the Roe V. Wade hearings (you can hear me press the stop button for my between-song monologues) combined with the almost negative wattage of the transmission combined with the fact that most of the music I play is already classified as "lo-fi" means that what actually comes across is less like music and more like Morse Code. I'm sorry. If there was a higher hill I'd bike there.
There was no request line until I finally broke down and bought a cellphone, and even now no one calls but my friend Jeff and most of the time it's because he's forgotten I'm doing a pirate radio show.
Okay, if you know the area, you know there is a higher hill. But from the books I've checked out and barely understand, it's a range versus fidelity issue and broadcasting from there would put me well out of the listening radius of a girl the next town over I've been trading witty e-mails with.
She said she'd listen this week but I have no way of knowing if she actually is and maybe it's better that way. Either way, the nine o'clock New Wave block has her name on it.
What happened last week won't happen this week. I brought extra batteries.
Comments are acting hella Zelda Fitzgerald again. If you're seeing the sidebar you are a lucky dude.
I've started feeding old entries to the fire to free up server space. I hope you did not want to read about when I was in high school.
Your Humble Narrator is pronouncedly lonely this evening.
Everybody moved out. It's me and four bare matresses. Roommates gone, suitemates gone. Sure one of them was a corner-pisser, but they had a TV and they had the added bonus of making it feel like there were other people in the world.
Also, the dining halls closed on Friday and won't reopen 'till late late August, which renders the food situation, err, interesting. Even more interesting than it already was without a microwave or a fridge. That interesting. I make money babysitting but I was already having a hard enough time saving anything I make without having to buy, like, food.
Here is my theory: Nothing in New York costs less than five bucks. Even if, say, an umbrella is advertised for three, New York will somehow ensure you lose the other two bucks from your broken five dollar bill on the way home fumbling with your wallet in the rain; or you will have to take an unanticpated subway journey and they disappear that way. Not only is nothing free, nothing's a dollar. Nothing's three dollars. Everything costs, and it costs five bucks. If you're lucky.
Wow, the whining is epic. My life rules, it just does so in a very odd way whereby I'm very happy and fufilled a lot of the time then other times I want the concept of distance to not exist so I could go to a friday night double kegger at Chuck's house and drink and raise hell with AZ friends then wake up in my top bunk at the corner of Fifth and Tenth and roll out of bed and go to Hammerkatz rehearsal; whereby some afternoons it's way too chilly to be August and the wind on my farmer-tanned arms summons up this deep-seated pathological fear of it being winter again, especially while I'll be living in the faraway cold-waterfront financial district; whereby I want to "make it," get paid, taken care of tommorrow, while not missing out on any of this college stuff. I just want a bank balance and an apartment. I want to be like Rivers Cuomo attending Yale after the success of The Blue Album, only without the being nuts part. A morsel of fame and a modicum of fortune before I'm twenty-one, I don't think that's too much to ask, do you?
I spent the entire time I was a boy wanting to be a boy genius and like a lot of things I never grew out of it.
Beulah was amazing. All the best concerts I've seen this summer have been free. (I just went and flushed a bunch of money down the toilet to maintain the reality of my everything-in-NY-costs-five-bucks theory.)
Well worth missing a meeting for a gig I'm not sure if I'm gonna end up doing and is definitely not paid, and the first hour of an improv rehearsal.
I have this theory I developed after I watched Ted Leo at the Seaport through biblical fucking amounts of rain. Rock and roll is the Devil's music, right? We all know that. That's why it's normally performed in sweaty little underground venues, basements, garages, closer to Hell. At night, which contains the witching hour, and is also black, the color of leather jackets and Satan's heart. It's safe there. Safe and sweaty and evil. Playing it outdoors, underneath the sky that's a vengeful God's dominion, is baiting the deity. It's begging Him to soak your amps and turn your mic into a conduit for heart-stopping electricity. He shut down Ted Leo, man. That man played through the blackout last year. Ted Leo's opening act (Sons And Daughters) got soaked and only finished half a song (good song, too, plus they had a hot Scottish girl with a harp of some sort) , then when the sky cleared a little bit, Ted went on and played four songs before it started again, then another three before it really came down, boats bucking in the harbor, Old Testament, hipster-soaking show-stopping style. I think he got out eight songs.
Right when Beulah came on Thursday night, the drizzling started. Halfway through "Gravity's Bringing Us Down" God let loose what he hadn't already used on Ted a month ago, and they kept playing. They played harder. I can't convey how the lead singer eviscerated the "gravity has a way of pinning us to the ground" halfway through, despite being able to hear it in my head. People were heading for cover. I sure as hell was. We were being pelted. Like a lot of the songs, on wax it sounds sort of laid back, but live...I'd be pissed if I was God. They were threatening his authority. In a head-on fight they would've won.
They stopped, and a few minutes later, so did the rain. The stage was mopped and they proceeded to play all my favorite songs right in a row, with a break so the lead singer could get a new mic, one that wouldn't kill him with superstatic. Also, there were shout-outs to present family members and their teary-eyed tour manager. This was their last gig. Ever. Very sad and I've only liked them for about two months. Many people were brought up onstage to rock out on the tambourine and the moroccas. Some are pictured, blurrily, above, beneath the clouds that were for the rest of the evening cowed by the power known as Beulah.
I had only said I'd be an hour late to rehearsal so I had to leave before Beulah's Last Song Forever, but christ if it wasn't one of the best concerts I've ever been to.
Go here and download a whole mess o' Beulah tracks. They are pop in the best sense of the word. "Emma Blowgun's Last Stand" is my personal favorite, but none will disappoint if you are human and your body is the container for a soul. Not featured is "A Good Man Is Easy To Kill," which is worth tracking down on Limewire or KaZaa or buying the CD which features its rockness.
I know it seems like I'm given to hyperbole but I'm not. It's just that I experience a lot of things that are beyond awesome.
It is about pretty much trying to rock it out to the fullest at all times.
I mean, do you disagree?
Because I am in love with rock and roll music I am going to see Beulah's final show ever tommorrow night at Castle Clinton instead of going to a meeting at MTV and the first half of an improv practice.
if you want me to fight
if you want me to laugh
and cancel out the sun
I will I will
you know I surely will
'cause all you need is a pretty song
After a long string of loud swearing and tirades about being "fucking through" and something about somebody being a "cornbread cracker piece of shit" with "eleven children," coming from either the floor below or above me, which drew me out of bed just now to stick my head out the window and hear better:
I fucking care about you too much to watch you get fucking raped by some Midwestern piece of shit!
(a few seconds later)
Don't hang up on me!
Later: Death threats. A promised bat to the head, and demands to "put my girlfriend on the phone." Her name is Morgan and she's heard "please don't hang up on me" a lot tonight.
Midst of the marathon.
Street rituals. Donut-prov. Free beer. Wristbands. Breakfast s'mores. Hero worship. Auto-erotic asphyxiation.
All my entries are gonna be teases from now on.
Comments work, seems like! Leave me one being all like "I hope you will elaborate on the crazy happenings alluded to herein!" Seriously, I would love that.