out for a light run ?(?????)?

Last Week: 162

This Week: 161.4

Weight Lost This Week: 0.6 lbs.

Total Weight Loss to Date: 27.1 lbs.

Good enough. As long as the downward trend continues, even if its incremental, I’m happy. And now, I’m logging off and hitting the road. Running post mortem to come soon!

PSA of the day- Everyone should read this article. Everyone. It explains in plainer language what I spend all day trying to communicate to patients about how sugar & food affect your body. Excerpts: 

What Sugar Actually Does to Your Brain & Body

“Glucose is a simple sugar that your body likes. Your cells use it as a primary source of energy, so when you consume glucose, it’s actually helpful…

…On top of that, fructose consumption negatively changes the way your brain recognizes your consumption. This is because your brain resists leptin, the protein that’s vital for regulating energy intake and expenditure (which includes your keeping your appetite in check and your metabolism working efficiently). As a result, you keep eating without necessarily realizing you’re full. For example, a soda containing high amounts of fructose (which is most non-diet sodas) will do little to make you think you’re full even though you’re taking in large amounts of calories…

 …processing low-fat food makes it taste like crap. Companies understand this, and so they add a bunch of sugar (and often salt) to fix that problem. This process essentially exchanges fat your body can actually use for fructose-produced fat that it cannot…

 Burning off a fast food meal would require exercising for most of your day.

If you want to learn more about how to eat sugar healthily, click on through! 

Breakfast:

Honey nut cornflakes (178)

Lunch:

Fruit salad: 1 banana, 5 strawberries, 5 raspberries and approx 25g dried mango (209)

Tea:

2 stuffed peppers stuffed with: prawns, cherry tomato, cucumber and a little feta cheese. (306)

Exercise: Slow pace 2.0mph walk for half an hour (-83)

Current net calories = 610

I managed to stay strong this morning. I still have money in my bank account and I fought my crazed...

By tomorrow I will be back on track. If I gain this week, so what. I can safely say I never want to feel like this again.

I am writing these three days off as evil, evil days that I will remember when I want to eat something crap. Because nothing good comes from it. Only guilt and weight gain.

And tomorrow I will:

• Walk the dog for at least an hour
• Re-start the 30 day shred
• Go to the gym
• Eat healthily

*really been looking for an excuse to use this gif

Warm shrimp salad!

I used my goat cheese buttermilk salad dressing and the spicy grilled shrimp from last night to make a really yummy tangy *protein filled* salad!

174 calories, 6 carbs, 4 fat, 28 protein!

Recipe here:

http://piecesinprogress.tumblr.com/scrumptioussalads

I Will Get There

I’ve got that old familiar feeling, you guys.  It’s called delayed onset muscle soreness.  I had it yesterday too but I wanted to talk about it today since by now it is actively frustrating me. 

Delayed onset muscle soreness (DOMS) is what happens after you exercise harder, or with more weight, or generally do something your body isn’t used to.  Here’s some science about building muscle.  First off, skeletal muscle is basically like a braided rope.  The rope is made of smaller twisted fibers, right?  Muscles are made up of groups of muscle fibers held together by connective tissue.

When you exert your muscles with strenuous activity you are actually injuring yourself, causing microscopic tears in the muscle fiber, this is called “microtrauma.”  If you’ve ever heard that broken bones grow back stronger than before, it’s similar to that.  The body repairs the muscle fiber and increases its mass to make the fibers more resilient to damage.  It takes a few days for the body to repair the muscle, though, and during that time you’re probably going to be experiencing some amount of DOMS.

Eccentric movements are chronic offenders when it comes to having particularly heinous DOMS.  Sumo squats and I, we have a long history of DOMS together.  Squats are the perfect example of an eccentric movement; for example the quad lengthens as you squat but it also has to contract to support the weight of the bar and allow you to squat slowly instead of collapsing into the ground. 

There’s no real way of treating DOMS other than letting your body do its business.  The best way of preventing DOMS is by gradually introducing new movements and adding weight slowly. 

If you’re experiencing DOMS after a tough workout, don’t let it discourage you!  It’s not an injury that will keep you from training, it’s not your body falling apart.  It’s your body getting stronger.  But you need to allow yourself to rest.  If you train hard like I do and get horrible DOMS, active recovery with cross training (swimming, walking, yoga) and ice baths can help.  Take your prefered NSAID like aleve or tylenol AFTER exercise, not before, drink a lot of water, and get plenty of sleep.

When you feel better, get right back to work.

So I just stated a simple little diet this past week starting on june1st and guess how much I’ve lost. 4 FREAKING POUNDS!! I currently weigh 171.4. last week I weighed 175.4. This is pretty insane to me right now, You don’t even know. Funny thing is I ate out last night for my moms birthday, I had vegetable chow mein. I ate more vegies than chow mein but still. I had 5 glasses of water at dinner so that probably helped too. So I bet you’re wondering “what kind of diet are you on??” Its super simple. all I did this week that was different was not eat grains and starches. which means bread, rice, noodles… lol, oats, cereal and other things like that. pretty much all I ate was fruits and vegetables for the most part. I can’t have meat so I used a protein drink for the majority of my filler calories to meet my daily requirement of 1800 calories a day. That just proves that you don’t have to starve yourself to get the results you want. Just make healthier choises and you’re good to go. guess how much I worked out also? The whole week I burned about 500 calories on the treadmill. I seriously barely worked out. #good week

out for a light run ?(?????)?

Crack-ting

Last night I participated in a unique sort of developmental reading of a couple of handfuls-worth of short plays by Friend Nat. I say unique because Nat interspersed original songs amidst the short scenes, all of which scenes had to do with love, or some variation thereon. I mentioned it reminded me of a mix tape, which I think is a pretty accurate description of the evening. Do you have a friend who's as romantic as the most romantic Beatles covers, but also heavy into The Beautiful South and Nick Cave in terms of his comic sensibilities? That mix tape. (With maybe a few sound bites from a couple of horror movies tossed in for flavor.)

The evening surprised me. Lately, I've not been feeling all too fired up about acting opportunities. (That's a little frightening to confess, but these appetites come and go, sometimes regardless of the bigger picture.) We held the reading at the distinguished Players Club - only my second time there - and in the library, which is just a fascinating room. Actually, the whole place is fascinating. It was founded in 1888 by the esteemed Edwin Booth and others of historical import as a "gentleman's club" for the dramatic arts. It's just chock full of portraits and books and busts and photographs of people who don't necessarily get a lot of recognition outside of theatre history courses. For me, it's sort of a giddy conglomeration of things I geek out about: old New York, well-loved opulence, history and little-recalled theatre artists and variety performers.

The surprise in the evening for me, however, had to do with the reading itself. There was a small group of fellow writers for an audience, and we sat through the whole reading. Really a rather casual affair, and all of the pieces were comic in some respect or other. Nat's an adept craftsman (and irritatingly broadly skilled, not to mention) so the scenes were all interesting and highly functional. I had my favorite, and luckily I was reading in it, so I looked forward to that and relaxed and enjoyed the musical interludes. I had no reason to expect anything profound to happen to me. It did, though.

Profound, but not uncommon. It's just that it's been a while for me. I got absorbed in the character and the situation, seemingly effortlessly, and had the good fortune to be paired with an actor with whom (though I had never met her before) I clicked. I could feel the scene in such a way that, really, any and every moment on stage should feel like. Regardless of that standard, it has been a while since I felt it, and it leaves me also feeling enormously grateful; and full of craving.

The past year or so has seen a lot of backstage work for me. I put more energy into producing and directing, The Action Collective and writing, not to mention all the areas of my life outside of the theatre. There was intention to these choices, and a fair amount of gut instinct as well. As I get older, I find my relationship to acting changing by subtle but surprising degrees. There's a sense as an actor - or at least a New York actor of my background - that every job at least represents an opportunity for more, and that the exceptions are the jobs you don't take. That was a great policy in my twenties, but even in my latter twenties I was getting a little worn on the idea of swallowing everything I was served, and now it doesn't work for me at all. A certain amount of choice and creative control are essential; hence the backstage exploration.

However: Nothing really matches the magic that happens when you can give yourself over completely to an acting opportunity. If I could muster that for every opportunity, I would still be saying yes to every one that came my way, because it's utterly addicting. That feeling of living in the moment, of something unplanned yet true and apt, it defies comparison to drugs or love or other extremes. It's some strangely selfless sense of self, and outward-reaching passion that is as structured and improvisational as music. I love it.

So perhaps having a more limited (or selective?) access to that sensation is a helpful thing in my life at this time. Addictions, no matter how healthful to begin with, are not exactly aids to a fulfilled life, and I would rather have a handful of rare experiences than a gluttony of empty ones. Maybe there'll be a little more board-treading in the coming months as a result of last night's taste. I just hope I can find the opportunities that feed me as much as I feed them.

An Open Letter, A Frank Admission

Loyal Reader:

You may have noticed that I disappeared for some time and, upon my return, posted a mere single entry. It was even about a "special interest" that you may or may not share (as opposed to my usual, mainstream, populist fare). I apologize for the break in ma'blogging. The reasons are myriad, but primarily it has to do with 1} leaving June 29th for Italy, for a month, and 2} el jobbo del day freaking 'asploding in the process. Not as in disappearing in great, orangey fireballs -- oh no. More as in becoming a flurry and confusion of paperwork, urgent need and confused requests. I am John McClane here, armed only with a three-hole-punch, barefoot, and confronted with a floor full of shattered protocol.

And I have missed you, Dear Reader. Issuing these missives on a regular basis is a sort of regulatory function for my psyche and, even when rather few comments come irregularly rolling in, I trust that every so often someone out there is getting something out of my rambling as well. (A what-not-to-do warning or two, at the least.) Hence this letter -- to reconnect a bit, explain this and potential future delinquencies, and of course to catch you up on what's gone down in the interim. Hopefully this will not take as long to compose as my last entry did, continually interrupted as it was. Truly, once in Italy I will be armed with Gracie, and hopefully a wi-fi connection, and then you will be in for 'blog entries GALORE. I will leave it to you to maintain your composure during that thrilling month.

Apart from work, things have been otherwise eventful since Camp Nerdly. I've continued revising Hereafter when I may, maintained my attendance at Friend Cody's aerial silks classes, conferred somewhat with Friend Andrew over an exciting little project and even participated in a staged reading with a new company (new to me, that is). It was really a terrible weekend, though, as Friend Patrick suffered a painful and sudden loss. I was lucky enough to find out about it quickly, and talk to him a very little, and even see him on Sunday. He's off to his hometown now, and my heart goes with him and his family; he's sharing a lot about his brother James at Loose Ends, and I wish I'd had a chance to meet him. And finally, amidst a blissful absence of fanfare (unless repeated text-message vibrations count), I turned 32 years of age on Tuesday. Wife Megan and I celebrated with a quiet dinner at a favorite Astoria spot, and the rain magically held off for a day, so we enjoyed it outside.

Life, she does not stop. Not for nothing.

It's funny how quickly we can lose track of ourselves, most especially when we're busy. As Patrick will attest, "busy" is my favorite state of play, yet lately I have been wondering if I'm not losing sight a bit of some of the more important details of my life. Little things like moods, and daily thoughts, and daily actions. These are the minutiae that make up a life as much as the bigger issues (work, relationships, society-at-large) and they're most definitely getting away from me just now. In an effort to corral some of 'em, I've been trying once again to shed my chronic onychophagia for the past week. This is a little bit like quitting smoking, in that it occasionally makes me want to PUNCH EVERYBODY. So perhaps it's not all that helpful to my mood as such, but you have to start somewhere. Next up -- somehow diverting the instinctive, murderous rage I feel when blocked by people on the sidewalk/stairs/subway platform.

And so, Most Sweet Reader, no profound insights into the nature of art and life today. No, just a little address of things in general and a wish for your happiness. If I see you in person in the coming weeks, please forgive any distracted behavior, or general slip-ups on my part. I am happily busy, but June is a wild month so far. Just smile and nod, and maybe give me an affectionate chuck on the shoulder. Say, "Atta boy, Jeff. Just keep swinging."

But if you see my fingers rise to my mouth, you punch me. You punch me right square in the oral fixation.

"This is me breathing . . . "

says John Cusack's character, Martin Blank, as he prepares for his ten-year high school reunion by almost unconsciously loading a clip into his handgun and checking the chamber. I love Grosse Point Blank. It's an incredibly irresponsible movie with nothing but reverence for a by-gone era, some violence, and a whole lot of cynically glib dialogue. Love it, love it, love it. Somewhere in the back of my mind I'm constantly searching for open calls for the casting of GPBII: Son of Blank. You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one.

Movie quotes play through my head with about the same frequency as songs do, so there's nothing unusual about having one take up residence there for a little while, and the more I enjoy a movie, the more I've seen it, and there you go. Still, I try to take notice when one seems particularly stubborn about hanging onto my hippocampus, and this is one that has done just that. I'm not saying that a quote is recalled just for the purpose of trying to communicate something to myself. Rather, I think that when I do recall a quote, or snatch of song, some part of brain is working tirelessly away on some worry or other and recognizes the meaning. The old gray matter can be like a room full of people, and one of them can recognize something in another and say, "Oh man, don't leave yet. So-and-so's just got to meet you." And so, on the three-hundredth and sixty-second internal repetition, a connection is made. This is me breathing . . .

I'm a nail-biter. I don't mean that as a colorful expression of my anxious personality. Rather, I am literally a nail-biter. I try to be better about it. I generally fail. It's called chronic onychophagia, by the way, and only about 10% of men past the age of 30 engage in it. It's a rather complicated little symptom/condition. Lots of theories surround it. It's often coupled with other supposed compulsive behaviors, such as hair removal, skin removal, excessive washing, etc., and so often associated with obsessive/compulsive disorders. But it can also be diagnosed as a simple ingrained behavioral response, or an addiction, or as a kind of sublimated grooming instinct. I don't know quite what to make of it, except to say that I do it when I'm bored and when I'm anxious, occasionally without conscious thought, and that I find it enormously gratifying for some reason. I'd also like to stop. This is me breathing . . .

I have many habits. I have a lot of trouble distinguishing between my habits and possible compulsive behaviors. I'm just not sure where one draws the line. My chronic onychophagia (it's just a fun way to say it) is probably the most physically destructive h/pcb I currently engage in, though my sincere and abiding love of good beer is obviously not a huge benefit to my person. I've had worser ones in the past -- such as smoking -- but really, most of these behaviors are a little more mental than demonstrative. They may occasionally creep out in behavior, like finger-tapping or object-arranging, but as I've matured (ahem: grown older at least in terms of years) these demonstrations have lessened, either by will or accident. Because the h/pcbs can be so inexplicably internal, I often wonder just how unique they are, how many others experience them in the ways I do? I know I'm not alone. I know that. But is it maybe everyone, in their own ways? Is there a norm after all? This is me breathing . . .

They sometimes say (They being rather fond of sweeping generalizations) that life happens in cycles, and not just the easily observable variety, such as birth-life-death, or spring-summer-fall-winter. Coincidence, in the purest meaning of the word, occurs over and over again. When a celebrity dies, we await the next two to follow. Read a book about little people and, though you'd swear it's never happened before, you'll notice nearly a dozen just going about your day. The cause-and-effect is difficult to track here, though plenty of people will chalk it up to simple mental association. The brain does have a habit of seeking out patterns, rhythms and symmetries. Yet I'm inclined to believe that the world outside our minds meets us halfway, more often than not. I'm not proposing anything particularly mystical here; linear logic simply doesn't explain everything. Take, for example, weddings. What is the explanation for my attending four weddings in the next four months, including my own, and the three others that friends of mine are attending during that same period? Incidences align, and it seems to me that attributing such alignments solely to human behavior is at best naive, at worst arrogant. It's just that we're a little obsessed with ourselves, and a little in love with answers. We're also a little in love with mystery, which I admit keeps me returning to a sense of wonder when I'm given the option. This is me breathing . . .

I've been using The Big Show to help motivate me in recent efforts to curb my chronic onychophagia, which is in one sense apt, and in another, ironic. The last time I was particularly successful in ceasing the mania was during rehearsal for The Glass Menagerie, way back in 2002. I was playing a guy bent on self-improvement, who cared a lot about the impression he made on others, and it helped. Wherefore, then, ironic? Because one thing I have figured out about this behavior is that it is provoked by anxiety. When I got my first job, with a moving company, they told us that the two most stressful occasions in a person's life are a moving day and wedding day. Well, I'm here to tell you that the days leading up to said day are no piece of cake, neither. Planning a wedding is rife with reasons to return to old, comforting cycles, from the politics of negotiation to the inner-searching of a person preparing to make the change of his and/or her li(f/v)e/s. God bless. It's enough to make a fella' return to smoking. This is me breathing . . .

Where experience and discovery meet, that's good acting. You want your performance to be informed by all you've seen and done, to be true to your understanding of the world, but also to embody the questions that live in a new, first-time moment. Acting in the theatre can satisfy both my compulsion for repetition and order, and my appetite for surprise and wonder. The ultimate balance between the two is an incredibly fragile thing: It only exists for half moments, most of the time, and most of the time such moments can't be savored, lest one risks destroying them. They must simply be, and then pass. As a younger actor, I became pretty obsessed with rehearsing a role to mechanical perfection, with making good choices and being able to reproduce them exactly. The majority of my adult craft has been a process of learning about the other side of that coin, about the incredible necessity for surprise and improvisation. Hell: You can't possibly see enough possibilities to be effective without inviting forces of chance to have their say. We're at the mercy of chance -- from found money to global financial market crises -- every moment of every day, so it is in some ways natural to value ritual, to seek cycles. This is me breathing . . .

We are not, however, our cycles. (Much as we may sometimes like to be.) We're not even our choices. (Although I imagine most of us would desperately insist that is exactly what we are.) No, we're something altogether else, a synthesis of choice and chance, a combination of forces creating . . . what, exactly? Well, us. I don't know how else to say it. With every inhale, and every exhale, forces are at work, within and without. It's a little frightening to think of things this way, but fear and excitement are a couple of those component forces. When I look at things this way, it seems apparent to me that my habits are in substance simply misdirected energy, force that could be applied to making more choices or, perhaps, appreciating more chances. Then again, maybe they're leading me toward their own chances and choices. The best one can do is to keep breathing, through whatever may come.

OMG LOLcats r KILLINZ MAE

Srsly. I can has releef? Frum LOLcats nd all ther kaind?

I feel like such a freaking doof (read: doofus, only less significant). I was generally aware of the LOLcat phenomenon when it began to crystallize into what it is today, but then I forgot about it. I mean, it's pictures of cats, with blocky fonts applied. It will not affect my life. Or so I assumed...

For those of you not in the know, worry not: Wikipedia's got you covered. It includes gems of explanation for the LOLcat phenomenon like a link to the brief Time (get it?) article devoted to them, and paraphrasing their use grammar thusly -- "Common themes include jokes of the form 'Im in ur noun, verb-ing ur related noun.'" It also links me to this interesting wiki-nugget, which helps me to understand why I am so enamored of teh LOLcats. But I'm getting ahead of myself. First I must explain my love-hate relationship.

Everything about teh LOLcats seems engineered to piss me off. (For [nigh endless] examples, go here.) I mean everything.

First of all, it's pictures of cutesy animals, which reminds me utterly of those cat and/or dog and/or other-small-animal mavens one finds in any office of America. You know, she's usually a she, and she has a cubicle covered in pictures of baby ducklings or some such. It just reminds me of porn. Sick, I know, but it does. Those people covet animals like others covet wealth or sex or spiritual fulfillment.

Second, LOLcats are self-generating inside humor, which is just irritating. There's nothing quite so grotesque as when people revel in how "inside" their jokes are. Exclusivity is practically a disqualification from the category of humor, altogether! ("Exclusivity is practically...") Humor is a tool in communication, not exclusion, and though I'm not accusing the LOLcat-erz of intending to do so, they're nevertheless excludin' teh masses. But I lie: A running gag that is largely unappreciated is even more grotesque than a simple inside joke.

Thirdly, the spelling and grammar are intentionally wrong. Do you understand? THE SPELLING AND GRAMMAR ARE INTENTIONALLY WRONG. That is so messed up! I get irate over misplaced apostrophes, and I'm subjected to dialogue superimposed over cat photographs and written out in "texting" language and gobbledy-gook? Holy sack of hammers! I ought to be trying to eradicate all LOLcats and their makers, not writing a 'blog entry about them.

Yet. I love the LOLcats. It's driving me crazy that I can't get their syntax out of my head. They're responsible for a lot of time wastage of late. They are obnoxious, and not remotely cool, and they are inside and ridiculous, and I heart LOLcats.

I'm beginning to understand why, too. In the first, for reasons inexplicable by modern science, I've been wanting a cat lately. I have been an adamant dog person my entire life, and I still prefer dumb-and-loyal animals (I relate to them better), but cats are more appealing now. I don't know. Maybe it's living in the city this long. I want a pet who knows where to poop and how to get there. More significant for me, however, is this use of language in the photos.

Language is simply cool. In general. It rules. Language is fascinating and mysterious to me, and I enjoy anything that plays with it. Correction: Anything that plays with it and contains an interior logic. So people constantly confusing the uses of "take" and "bring" drive me up a wall, and a text message that says "ill talk 2 u later" (You'll talk to me later, or you're ill, and I should bring you soup?) drives me kabonkers. But LOLcats, partly through the profusion of them, have developed a rather complex psychology behind their lunatic ravings. They've even developed a mimic mythology. Stupid? Oui. Ma forse, anche genius.

You Never Bring Me Flowers Anymore . . .

No, nor sing you love songs, though that may be to your benefit given my lack of vocal training. Furthermore, I never write. Have not I feelings? Care not I about the individual attentions demanded by the sheer accessibility of all my friends and relations? Should not I, as an actor, be interested in being in constant, continual contact with every person I've ever worked/played with who returns the effort? Doesn't the sheer ease of text messages and email obligate me to at least try myself?

Probably: Yes. Nevertheless, I rebel.

Understand, please, that I'm not making a stand on some moral principle. It would be easy as all hell for me to spin it so. I could claim that the ease of communication creates an environment of a whole lot of words to very little effect, or that the millions of emails and MySpace comments that fly about every day have no social impact on anyone, anywhere. I could even plane that edge a bit, make it less proclamatory and just claim to be nostalgic for the days of yore, when letters were written to be saved, and people had to meet in person to catch up. I shan't, because I'd be fooling myself even more than you. No, the reason I'm rebelling lately is because (in my humble self-assessment) I am just sick of it.

I am. I'm grateful for being able to network with friends from the comfort of my day job. I thrill at the ability to communicate with business associates via text messaging when I otherwise wouldn't be able. I do sincerely dig checking out my peeps on their respective 'blogs, dipping a finger in the batter of their creativity. And, I am sick, sick, sick of writing people.

One of the wonderful, wondrous things about a stage play is that it captures, very simply, the beauty of someone entering a room. We have these hundreds of entrances and exits throughout each day of our lives, and they spin by, for the most part unnoticed. Of particular interest, as entrances go, are the moments when one person joins another in a space. You don't even need to know the first thing about the history of these imaginary two to appreciate the moment they join one another in a given area, do you? In that instant, a story is told. In that moment, a space comes alive, has meaning, and words haven't even entered into it yet. I wish I had a name for that. (The French probably do.)

I'm not saying it's irreplaceable (though I will go so far as to say that it is unique). I can't even properly express all that such a moment means to me. Except, perhaps, to say that I miss it. Sans nostalgia. The longing I have for it is very immediate, in fact. It's strange to feel a longing for something so abstract. It's not for one particular person, but people, but not in a group, and it's also for something more. For time to be still, just for half a moment. That suspension of everything. I'm not saying it needs to be dramatic, romantic, or anything specific. Think of knocking on your parents' door. Time stands still for just a tiny bit. There's no "ping," or "be-deep," or "You've got mail!" Your favorite song doesn't start playing, and nothing vibrates, and a magic window doesn't pop up in front of you, demanding attention, and I find that very, very appealing.

It's entirely hypocritical, this entry. The very medium that allows me to express this thought is what's responsible for all this chiming, thrumming, second-by-second communication I seem to deplore. And God knows, ignoring my email doesn't counteract the syndrome in any way at all. It's a little like fighting fire with fire, in fact. Email is an irrational form of personal communication, and I combat this by behaving irrationally myself? Madness. It certainly hasn't resulted in more visits with friends, or even more instances of substantial phone calls. All it does is further separate me from my homies, in particular those what expect a response to a non-business email sooner than a month later.

It could be a phase. Or, it could be an addiction. But me, I prefer an addiction that keeps me out of my seat, rather than one that ties me to it. So I hope you all understand that I love getting emails from you, keeping abreast (maybe even a thigh or a wing) on all you care to write about. My silence is not rejection, and when I bring you flowers, you'll be able to smell them.

And probably me, from all the entrances and exits I'm trying to make good on.

Poetics (or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Downtown Theatre Scene)

The very first show I did here in New York was one I auditioned for within my first two weeks of moving here. I wasn't even going to audition. I felt like it was a bit quick for me, and I barely had a day job yet. But, considering it was why I moved there in the first place and that my then-girlfriend was auditioning as well, I screwed my courage to the sticking place and auditioned and got a part (girlfriend, not so much). The show was called 13th Avenue (this would be the 2000 production, not the 2003 I just found out about), and it was an experience. I learned a lot about doing theatre in New York (especially original scripts) in a very short amount of time. I won't go into details about the show (you can thank me later), but I will say that it was an interesting experience in meta-theatre, being a show entirely about "below 14th Street" characters and performing it at the Gene Frankel Theatre, just south of Astor Place.

Not too long after (say, two or three shows later) I wrote a play (no, you can't read it [looking back, it's pretty terribly done]) called Tangled Up in You that addressed two subjects I had trouble getting my head around: the nature of love/obsession, and the downtown New York theatre scene. I was very much influenced by every experience I had had thus far in terms of the shows I had been involved with in the city, and my perspective hasn't changed that much in the years (SO MANY YEARS) since. In spite of it being the only sort of theatre I've done in the city thus far, I'm not a big fan. I wonder at a lot of aspects of it. Who are these people who choose to experience this extremely varied, often distressing genre of theatre? What do they want, or expect from it? Why does the more-adamant downtown theatre scene so often seem driven to avoid entertaining or providing catharsis? What drives so many of my fellow "creactors" and sundry to invest so much in shows I find so often incomprehensible, or unnecessary?

Get not me wrong. I'm a part of this movement. I have worn the Bauhaus costume. I have pretended my hair was on fire. It's just that, at heart, I'm a really basic guy . . . at least in terms of my appreciation of theatre. Just look at my sense of humor, and the work I've done the most of: Zuppa del Giorno. I like the classics; I like fart jokes; I like stories that surprise us, but accomplish a sense of ending. Call me simple. It's how I roll. I'm a fan of the unities. For those of you who managed to avoid Theatre History class (and this would include a great many theatre majors I know personally), "the unities" is a colloquialism used to refer to a parameter for tragedy described by Aristotle in his treatise on the subject: Poetics. Namely, a set of conditions that helps define, or rather contour, the shape of a tragedy. For instance, a play having a beginning, middle and end, and themes and actions complimenting each other. Aristotle mentions the word "unity" a lot in this document. Twelve times, actually. Eleven, if you're not including headings.

Last night my plan for the evening was very basic. I figured I needed rest, given my travels behind and ahead, and I knew I needed to do laundry and pack before a brief visit to my hometown this weekend. So the plan was only complicated slightly by needing to see my sister later that night, but it was a singular, welcome complication. Enter the complication master, stage left . . .

Todd d'Amour, ladies and gentlemen! Let's give him a big hand!

Actually: do. At about 2:00 yesterday Mr. d'Amour calls me at my office, completely freaking me out by leaving this voicemail, "Non esisto. Forse." ("I don't exist. Perhaps.") It doesn't take me too much longer to figure out who it is, and soon after I'm hearing the master plan. It seems Todd is inviting me and fellow Zuppianna Heather out to see a show with him at The Kitchen, one which features a favorite (downtown) "creactor" of his, David Greenspan. Oh, man. Now I have to change my sedate plans. Have to, you see, because when Todd calls it's always a good time. When Todd calls in relation to theatre, it's a good time with the potential to be life-changing, with reduced risk of hangover. So I anted up, and was in and rolling.

But I had my doubts. The show(s) was(were) The Argument & Dinner Party, based respectively upon Aristotle's Poetics and Plato's Symposium. The theatre was at Nineteenth Street, but way over between Ninth and Tenth Avenues, which somehow makes it in every respect way more downtown. And the guy taking me to this extravaganza is part of the team responsible for Stanley [2006], which, though I loved it entirely, is exactly the kind of "downtown theatre" that perplexes me under different circumstances. We were only on the wait list for the show, this decision to attend being rather last-minute, and as we sat in Trailer Park awaiting the time of reckoning on that point I found myself perhaps not minding so much if we didn't make it in.

Of course we did. Only six folks did, but we four were first on the list, thanks to Todd's enthusiasm to get our names there early. The space was cavernous, and immediately made me wish we were seeing some kind of circus show. Sadly, I knew the first act was simply a man talking. I sat and waited for the entrance I had read about in reviews all day--said man simply walking on and beginning to talk, sans cell-phone warnings or lights dimming. And then it happened. He came in, and started talking, and the first thing I noticed was that he had a slight sibilant lisp. "Oh man," I thought. "How rough is this going to be?"

That's the trouble with expectation. It's the dumbest human capacity ever.

The Argument was the best thing I've seen on a New York stage in years. I'm still mulling over what exactly it was about it that made it so engaging for me. It's possible that it was owing largely to the performer's charisma. Mr. Greenspan has a remarkable talent (skill?) for making himself inviting on stage, not just taking it by force, but literally giving you the option and making you feel as though it is continually your choice to pay attention to him. It's also possible that my interest in the subject matter--that is, the construction and mechanics of an effective living story--dominated my insecurities vis-a-vis the downtown scene. My fellow gaming geeks will no doubt agree that the construction of a good story is a topic of conversation that can inspire endless debate. Finally, there's the possibility that it was sheer empathy on my part. I've had to create my own work and hold a stage alone before (though rarely have the two conditions coincided [thus far]) and I am impressed on quite a personal level when I have the opportunity to witness someone achieving both.

But I hesitantly contend that there was a fourth factor to my renewed opinion of the scene. When I was doing 13th Avenue, the writer/director said something about going to school for years to learn all the rules and, with that production, intentionally breaking every one. I have since heard this sentiment expressed variously and in various contexts, and it invariably makes me hitch my shoulders in an effort not to throw a piece of furniture into something(-one) breakable. As I've said, I'm something of a classicist, but I feel I have good reason. Like an actor who (to pick a personal foible) makes a choice that gratifies his performance more than the story, people today are eager for an excuse to "break the rules." So eager, in fact, that this act is more often excused than it is actually motivated. I don't trust most people to understand the rule they're breaking well enough to understand what they stand to achieve by breaking it.

Watching Greenspan willfully but sensitively break some of "the rules" in his performance and creation of The Argument and, better yet, making it work in light of those rules was thrilling. I believed he understood each choice, and trusted the reasons behind them even when the literal purpose eluded me. Best of all, he was quoting these thousands-years-old "rules" to us as part of the performance. I can't even say for sure if it was theatre in the technical sense (Friend Geoff and I have a running discussion over the merits [or lack thereof] of the dreaded monodrama), but then again I suspect that's how the Greeks felt when Thespis (so it's rumored) stepped out of the chorus and began orating all by his lonesome. I can understand why the appeal of being such an originator might draw some artists to some unfortunate conclusions. Just remember, you lot: Picasso could really draw.

Sadly, Dinner Party did not thrill as The Argument did, and didn't even really entertain me until Mr. Greenspan actually entered the stage at the last. It debated the nature of love, and so should have held me pretty good (love being the only subject more likely to inspire discussion in me than "poetics"), but alas it succumbed--in my humble opinion--to my fears for the evening. Some people really loved it, methinks.

That may be the real lesson in all this: Downtown theatre is a gamble, and some of us are addicts.

"Do You Believe in Unlikelihoods?"

So I'm moving. Again. Since I first arrived in New York, I have moved six times. Which really isn't that bad for a struggling New York actor. Combine that with the constant travel associated with doing regional theatre on a regular basis, however, and it comes to seem a bit pointless, investing oneself in any particular place. The place I'm leaving, for example, I never really spent much time on making my own. It always seemed transitional to me. I've come to decide it's important, however, to have a home base that I care about. So this cycle around, I'm playing for keeps, and looking for a place of my own.

So the 'blogination may be somewhat lacking in days to come, in order to afford me more time to peruse the craigslist.

Much has been written already regarding the importance of an artist having his or her own space, from Virginia Woolf to Julia Cameron, but it can be easy to give such a notion lip service without actually appreciating the value of such a thing. Personally, I feel much more capable of good work when my work area is clean and clear (which creates an endless internal battle akin to that between Ra and Apep as my stacking impulse vies for dominance). It's not surprising then that occupying one's own space and taking control of it would help one feel in more control of his or her life. This is my hope, at any rate. A friend of mine in As Far As We Know signs off her emails with a quote from Flaubert: "Be steady and well-ordered in your life so that you may be fierce and original in your work."

"Il faut écrire des choses très folles en ayant une vie très rangée."

I don't speak French, so if the above is wrong: Bite me.

The first challenge is, of course, finding such a place. I don't know how it compares to other mejor metropolitan areas, but New York is certainly the worst of my experience when it comes to this process. It's akin to trying to get hired for an acting gig, actually. The supply of gigs/digs is so small, and the demand for them so large, the whole process is rendered ridiculous to the point of seeming pre-civilized. There is no point in looking ahead of time if you're looking to rent, because the day--the very day--that a good apartment is posted, it is taken. This creates a rather bloodsport, kill-or-be-killed environment, in which otherwise harmless-looking people will leave work unexpectedly and lurk around decrepit buildings with blank money orders clutched in their starving grasp. I carry a blackjack myself, just in case I see someone who looks wealthier than me approaching an available apartment.

The second challenge--which deserves just as much anxiety, really--is to, upon finding said place, make it both mine, and helpful to my work. These would seem to go hand-in-hand, but in my experience they do not. For example: I love movies. That's pretty natural for a young actor, methinks. I also have a lot of compulsive behaviors. Pretty natural, that, for a somewhat introverted thinker such as myself. Now, making the place my own in an immediate sense means setting up a nice, comfortable couch with the television prominently placed, surround-sound speakers installed about, and room for friends. HOWEVER, such a comfortable set-up, taking up so much space, makes it way too easy for me to get all habitual, then compulsive, about my movie-watching.

So it's a delicate balance, as with everything else.

Except moving, in which delicacy will get your ass killed.

Car! . . . Game on!

Five bucks to the first person who can name the movie quote.

I'm here today, folks, to talk about an addiction. My usual methods of coping with an addiction are two-fold:

1. Keep all resources and enablement as far away from me as possible; or
2. Indulge it.

The first is what I do with cookies and ice cream. Most of the time. The second is what I do with things like theatre, circus, etc., which, though legal, are often more difficult to attain than certain controlled substances. I practice "TYPE 1" coping with a number of things, not the least of which is television. I have no cable service, and a roommate who is okay with that. I've never attached an antenna to my TV. The only thing attached to it is my DVD player, and I'm seriously considering locking my DVDs in a time-sensitive safe that only opens on weekend evenings. This may seem excessive to you, but I assure you, it comes of self-awareness. And it always surprises me when I am praised for my discipline; for anything, really. Because it ain't discipline.

Nosce te ipsum. That's my only "discipline." If I am successful in working out regularly, it has more to do with circumstances that I can manipulate to make it easier for me than it does with any great, internal control. If I am at all impressive in my dedication to pursuing acting, it is as much because I have made my life so it's harder without the theatre, as it is because I feel theatre on a deeper level than some. It's choices, hopefully wise ones. I suppose maybe that's all discipline really is--a series of helpful choices.

My point? I have no point. (Haven't you been reading my 'blog long enough to know that?) But my purpose is to reveal that I have accidentally tripped over TYPE 1 into TYPE 2 on an old addiction. My circumstance became less helpful, I wasn't vigilant enough, and one thing led to another. Thus, I am indulging, once again, in that most insidious addiction:

Games.

More specifically:

Video games.

I know. I know. Therein does not lie the most productive use of my time! In point of fact, it is an astonishingly effective time-sucker. If you play, you know what I mean. You sit to play, maybe an hour, and when you look blearily up from your electronic pursuit, it's dawn. Someone is poking you in the head, making sure you aren't in a reflexive coma. Your survival instinct has been channeled into a screen for half a day, in which time your Mom has called saying she's fallen and she can't get up, and you didn't hear it because you thought it was the aliens firing plasma at your sidekick. The last time I was this plugged-in to the gaming world was when I was about 14, playing a D&D game in the basement (you flew dragons; it was really cool) while listening to Nirvana on my grandfather's single-speaker cassette player.

How did I come to this prepubescent nexus? A variety of factors are involved:

1. Friend D. Younce started emailing me about a year ago about game theory.
2. I gave unto myself a chemical epiditymitus (see 12/31/06), rendering me unable to exercise with purpose for months.
   
3. Friend Heather loaned me "Catch-22" to read.
   
4. Friend Adam got an XBox 360.
5. Friend Mark started playing "City of Heroes" again, and had my account reactivated so we could play together.
6. Friend D. Younce got his own "CoH" account and created a character to sidekick my own.

Perhaps you're wondering what Joseph Heller's immortal classic of war-time bureaucracy "Catch-22" has to do with my current plight. Well, I hate it. I am not enjoying it at all. This must be my problem, for it is widely acknowledged as hysterically funny. My feeling is that it excels with great vigor at telling the same joke ad nauseum. War doesn't make sense, and neither do people, and we'll never, ever, stop. I know: It doesn't even have a fart in it. Nevertheless, I am compelled to finish it. I only have 100 more pages to go. One hundred unrelenting pages, just sitting there, getting read four or five pages at a time. But oh, here's that GameBoy Advance dear Megan got me two years ago. So portable. So full of colored light patterns bent on my destruction...

So here I am, visiting Adam way up in Washington Heights to play "Gears of War," coming back home to sit at my laptop to play "City of Heroes," and during the subway ride I make Luke Skywalker my avatar for our journey through the only three Star Wars movies that matter. I am the addicted. I am the damned.

But it will pass (God, please make it pass). Because when all's said and done, I'd much rather be rehearsing a play or bettering my handstand, which is why the guilt. If I were "normal," and had a 9-5 job, and after I paid the bills could afford sections of time to save the virtual world, I doubt I would have this complex. But mine is not the "normal" life, and my "free" time is needed for a variety of pursuits, such as mailing resumes/headshots/cover letters, rehearsing audition pieces, networking and learning at long last how to do a kip-up. Hence: guilt.

But it's not rewardless. Sure, it's easy and artificial and time-consuming, but the game(s) has changed since I started wondering what it would be like to kiss a girl. Last night, for example, I signed on to "CoH" and discovered Youncey online. He lives in NoVa, and I see him maybe twice a year, if I'm lucky. And last night our heroic personae, Peppah (yours truly) and Salt Shakah (his, truly) got their asses whupped together for a couple of hours. Having a reason to see Adam more frequently than whenever the latest kung fu movie comes out is also great, and we end up talking about his stand-up comedy and my commedia dell'arte more than we might otherwise.

So all that remains (when my "discipline" kicks back in) is to sell my GameBoy on eBay. Maybe with the funds I can afford the Cliffs Notes on "Catch-22" . . .