Under

In the show that I'm in, to ward off the unhappiness of having to work on Christmas and Christmas Eve, most of the cast has put their names into a "Secret Santa" gift exchange. We can get as many gifts for the person as we want, but we will give out the big gift in between the shows on Christmas Eve.

Everyone put four or five things that they were interested in down on a piece of paper, and each of us drew those papers from a hat. The fellow that I randomly chose put down, among other things, underwear as an interest.

So I, an XL underwear wearer, went into Macy's this evening, and perused the tightie-whitie section in search of something in a medium. When I found the appropriate item (or, inappropriate item, as it were), I waited until there weren't very many people in line, and then I made my break for it, because, let's be honest, when you're buying underwear that is obviously not suited for you, you don't want to showcase it.

When it was my turn to pay, in a gesture that I only later realized was uncomfortable, I asked for a gift receipt. So, not only was I buying underwear that obviously didn't fit me, I was buying somewhat scandalous underwear as a gift. For apparently another man.

And that, children, is just about the gayest I have ever been. I'll be waiting for my ID card in the mail.

#10 - Top 13 Items to Get for Me

A Sledgehammer.

For smashing things like my ipod, laptop, head, and anything else that doesn't seem like it wants to cooperate with me this holiday season.

#11 - Top 13 Thing You Should Buy Me

I Heart Huckabees

I can't tell you how many time in the last few weeks I have said to myself, "Man, I wish I were watching "i heart huckabees." And now, gentle folks, you could make this dream a reality.

Actually, this poster to the left is pretty cool too, if you want to get me that.

No pressure.

#12 - Top 13 Things You Should Buy Me

Handmade Nintendo Bedspreads

I'm just saying, giant mushroom attacks are getting to be quite common where I live, so having Mario protect me all night would be a great relief.

#13 - Top 13 Things You Should Buy Me

The Cubix Lamp

Quite frankly, this lamp is where form and function meet awesome. All the individual wooden squares are movable, so you position them based on how much light you need.

Oh, also, despite the title, please also feel free not to buy these things for me, as I suspect that they'll all be pretty expensive. But if you're rich, and you're letting your money go to waste in "retirement plans" or "smart investments," then, well, feel free to buy away. I'll be sure to return the favor. *Wink*

Rotten

I have one knuckle (the larger of the two knuckles on my right ring finger) that is especialy dry. While the rest of my hands seem to have a sufficient amount of moisture to keep them from flaking and bleeding, that one knuckle seems to have missed the train to moisturizing-ville.

Odd. Very odd.

Pronounce

Scene: A dressing room, prior to a show, with a group of guys assembled to play cards.

Me: So, I call this game nuclear Uno, but I prefer to call it nuke-a-ler.

He: Is that like when people mean to say library and they say library?

*And there was much laughter in the dressing room*

Comeuppance

Before I get to what I want to write about today, let me explain something that's in vogue in football this year. If it is late in the game, and a team is about to kick a field goal that would help them tie the game or to win it, it has been very popular for the coach on the opposing team to call a timeout at the last possible moment. This usually means that the kicker of the first team has already had an opportunity to kick the ball, and so the idea is that having to kick the ball again will make that kicker be flustered, and perhaps miss the field goal. This is known as "icing" the kicker.

One of the first times that this happened this year was a game between the Oakland Raiders and the Denver Broncos. The kicker for the Raiders set up to kick a 51 or 52 yard field goal (which is just about as long as field goals tend to be kicked), and the play got going, and the ball made it through the uprights. It looked like the Raiders had won, until everybody on the field realized that Mike Shanahan, the coach for the Broncos, had called a time out just prior to the snapping of the ball, so the kick didn't count. The play was set up again, but on the subsequent attempt, the kicker missed the very long field goal, and the Raiders lost the game.

Before I proceed, let me say that I dislike both of these teams anyways just by virtue of the fact that they are in the same division as my San Diego Chargers, so it helps my team do well (ie, advance to the playoffs) when they do poorly. Further, I tend to dislike the Raiders more than the Broncos mostly because their fans are notorious for starting fights at games, getting obnoxiously drunk, and, in general, tending to not be very nice people. Nevertheless, when I saw Shanahan do what he did, I realized that I had a new team in the division to spend my time hating on. You may also draw from this that I, yes, even I, felt sorry for the Raiders. You see, they were an underdog in that game, and, as long as it doesn't affect my team, I like to see the underdog win; it tends to make the game more compelling.

Aside: the "icing" of the kicker is a fairly volatile point in the NFL this year, and there is a lot of talk that they will probably make a rule prohibiting it in subsequent seasons. Some people continue to laud it, by saying that it makes good strategic sense to win by whatever is legally allowed in the rules. To me, it just seems cheap. End of aside.

So, I said all that to say that the Broncos and the Raiders met again yesterday on the field, and the Raiders defeated the Broncos pretty handily, 34-20. And I, even though I dislike the Raiders, smiled for their victory.

Overheard

As I was walking downtown on my way to a late night at the office the other day, I ended up walking by a young and attractive couple, who fairly obviously spoke English as their first language. The following is a snippet of the conversation that I overheard:

Guy: So, I think I'm going to turn over a new leaf at work.

Girl: What?

Guy: I'm going to turn over a new leaf at work.

Girl: "I'm going to turn over a new leaf?" What does that mean?

That's right, folks, you read it correctly. This young woman didn't understand the antiquated expression "turn over a new leaf."

Conclusion: If you are an attractive woman, you can be as dumb as you want, and still be reasonably successful.

Conclusion 2: I wish I were an attractive woman. Stupid XY chromosome.

Engineering

As I walked out the door this morning, my roommate was also awake. While he normally gets up early for work, he doesn't usually get up this early. I asked what he was doing so bright-eyed and bushy tailed so early in the morning, and he said that some people from his work were going up to L.A. to see a taping of American Gladiators.

Ah, to be an engineer on a fun day.

Semi-Hump

Tuesdays and Thursdays are getting to be a little bit difficult. Not to complain too much, but the prospect of working one job in the morning, and then driving to a different job where you need to be there until around 10:30 at night is a little bit taxing, even for those of us who remind ourselves that we are taking definite, concrete steps toward achieving our dreams.

When you add the fact that I volunteered for phone duty tomorrow morning at 6 in the am, well, AC's prospects of quality sleep are vanishing into thin air like so many counted sheep.

Sigh. Even so, I smile.

Sleep

Have you ever been so tired that the idea of sticking toothpicks into your eyelids to keep them open seemed like a good idea?

Yeah, neither have I, but it's getting closer.

Regarding

In reference to my post from a couple of days ago about the audition that I got invited to, I found out yesterday that I got the part. Honestly, I was pretty surprised that I got it at all because I felt that, although my singing went well, my cold reading of the sides was pretty subpar, even though I got the directorial team laughing with each attempt. Nevertheless, I must have done something right if I got in, and by "done something right," I mean, "bribed the director."

While it stretches a bit into the new year, I will get to work for a theatre that I haven't had the pleasure of working for before. In addition, from how everybody I know has been talking about it, it seems like this production is going to have a pretty awesome due to the cast being full of pretty superb local actors.

Me, I'm just glad I keep getting to do shows. I loves it.

Cusp

I've got to start taking better care of myself. What with my day job and the show, I am essentially working two full time jobs, and so any deviation from my normal duties (ie, such as would arise by becoming ill) is not a very good proposition.

I feel myself on the cusp of being sicky. Thankfully, all I'm dealing with right now is a runny nose. I hope that's all I'll have to.

Country

I went to go see the movie "No Country for Old Men" yesterday. It was super violent, but it was a genuinely thought-provoking film. If you are looking for a film that is all about nihilism and post-modernism, you just about couldn't choose a better one.

Morning

A few days ago, I received a call from a theatre that is putting on Guys and Dolls, and they asked me to come in for an audition this morning. I hadn't been a part of the group of folks that originally auditioned, so it's quite flattering for me to receive a call out of the blue and be asked to audition.

I guess I'm doing something right.

Thanks

On this, the day after Thanksgiving, I humbly submit that I would very much enjoy having an additional Thanksgiving dinner from my grandma. Mind you, I had a very fine Thanksgiving dinner, but I no doubt missed some extra special deliciosity.

Mm.

Thanks

On this day, I'd like to just give a somewhat cheesy but very appropriate stanza for the day that is in a song in the show I'm in right now.

When you're worried, and you can't sleep,
Just count your blessings, instead of sheep,
And you'll fall asleep, counting your blessings.

Have a happy holiday, everyone.

Free

Sugar-free Rockstar is one of the most horrible-tasting substances that is advertised as being comestible. It's like I'm being kicked in the most by an irritated donkey who is simultaneously doing its business in and around my mouth.

Writers

I turned the channel from Monday Night Football to CBS at 8:30 last night so that I could see what I hoped would be a new episode of one of my favorite new shows, The Big Bang Theory. This show, in my opinion, is smart, funny, and the characters have heart, which makes it, well, it makes it a pleasant diversion from the normal monotony of sticking my finger into outlets. That's a big bang theory in and of itself.

Nevertheless, my rapture at the prospect of a new episode of a show I enjoy quickly fled my body as I realized that it was a rerun, which was no doubt due to the fact that the writers are on strike. Don't get me wrong, it's a funny show and the rerun was funny. I will however require new episodes.

Therefore, this is my suggestion to the WGA: all y'all should get blogs, and then put advertisements on them. You will make money hand over fist, guaranteed. Ask anyone who has a blog with ads, if you can get them away from shining their jewel encrusted snuff boxes and their diamond monocles. You will make houses full of money, and then you can get back to the most important thing in the world: entertaining me.

Thank you for your time.

Roar

As I passed an antique furniture store on my way to work this morning, I heard a load roaring sound. Obviously, this was likely just a large piece of antique furniture being scooted along the floor, but I, being tired from staying up late playing cards with some folks in the cast, briefly thought that there was a tyrannosaurus rex inside of that antique store, and he was roaring at me. I was petrified with the immediacy of the danger.

Because, you know, a dinosaur in an antique shop is the most likely explanation for a loud noise.

Do you ever take a minute to think about how on earth you manage to function in society? Yeah, most of my minutes are spent thinking about that, and, for the life of me, I just don't know.

Important

The important thing to remember is that when Marty Schottenheimer was coaching the Chargers, they won consistently. Kudos to the Chargers ownership for getting rid of their winning coaching team.

Who's

Who's Line Is It Anyways is still pretty funny. Do they even makes new ones anymore? Lord knows.

Idealism

If you would have told me, as a kid, that I would spend hours and days of my waking life wishing that I were asleep, I would probably have believed it. I was kind of a sleepy kid.

Nevertheless, when I sit at work and listen to "Evil Dead: the Musical" or sip on my eggnog latte, my mind is able to escape its exhaustion, briefly, and focus on the unbearable awesomeness of being.

Old

This is what makes me feel like I've got one foot in the grave: going to a store, and seeing many of the bands that I enjoyed in high school and college coming out with greatest hits cds.

I, like Diana Keaton, am on my last legs.

First

I did something tonight for the first time ever. I have, in the past, shunned doing this very thing do to the fact that I myself am no good with my hands, and therefore, watching others do something creative with their hands was not super interesting, no matter how creative they may be.

That's right; for the first time tonight I watched Project Runway.

And it was good.

Football

That the Chargers managed to beat the second best team in football, the Colts, on Sunday is nothing short of a miracle, especially since San Diego's offense (featuring, Phillip "I Push the Fumbled Football into the End Zone so that the Colts Can Get a Touchdown" Rivers) was horrible.
That their victory happened while I am in a Christmas show makes it a Christmas miracle.

God bless us, every one.

Read to Me

I spent part of my lunch break from work today at a bookstore in Horton Plaza. I was eager to look at the bargain books as a cast member had loaned me a book, and I wanted to see if I could pick up any of the author's other books on the cheap as I am loving this book (who are you Ken Follett, and how do you come up with such vivid characters?).

As I was kneeling and perusing the titles, a group of raucous thirteen and fourteen year olds entered the store. Another patron and I shared in a quiet laugh and an eye roll as the store, which had heretofore been fairly quiet, became filled with shouts of "Hey, look at this!" and "I don't like books." One of the boys approached me with a book and asked me if I worked there; I looked down at my ID badge from a different company to see if it was facing the correct way. I then looked him in the eye and told him that I didn't.

As I finished speaking with that boy, another boy approached me from behind with a hardcover book that I assume was about World War II as it had a large swastika on the back of it. I looked up at him, as I was still kneeling, and he said, "Will you read this book to me?" Normally, I would have smiled and played along for a moment, but for some reason, this boy ran into a cranky AC today.

"No, I won't," I answered, oddly curt. This seemed to confuse him, and he asked me if I could read, to which I replied that I could, but that I wouldn't read that book to him. Still confused, he walked away and rejoined his friends as they were exiting the store. I spent a little more time browsing the books, and I came across the book that he had had in the wrong place in the shelves.

This got me thinking: I had assumed that he had just been screwing around and asking me to read to him for the sake of bothering me, but what if he hadn't been? Sure, it's a pretty ridiculous thing to ask of somebody you don't know, but what if he had been in earnest when he asked me? Why had I dismissed him so systematically?

I'm not sure I understand how to be a grown-up. I'm pretty sure that when I do, I'll have become the person I never intended to be. I hope that that is for better than it is for worse, but with incidents like today being added to the canon of my life, the future doesn't look rosy.

Happiness

Happiness is having some free time on a Sunday to watch grown men clobbering whichever man has the oblong ball.

Sadness is watching the teams you picked for your football pool at work slowly not winning the games that you thought that they should.

Two

I had two shows of the Christmas show that I'm in today. I'll be having two shows a day three or four times a week until the end of the year.

If that doesn't get me into the holiday spirit, I'm not sure what will. Maybe eggnog. Mmm.

Old

The interesting thing to me about the show that I'm in is that when the movie version of it was made, people were so excited and interested in the concept of the celebrity that they liked to watch movies about people who were pretending to be celebrities (although, oftentimes these characters were often played by actually famous people).

Nowadays, people are so interested in the concept of celebrity that people are willing to watch reality tv shows that turn normal people (oftentimes played by normal people) into celebrities.

Which is better?

Money

That last post, which I apparently started at 12:11 am, and finished heaven knows when, is freaking hilarious to me. I think I fell asleep and woke up thinking that I still needed to post. That's money right there.

My favorite part is "seleep." Misspelling sleep: now that is tired.

Anyways, yesterday I had something like a twelve hour rehearsal, though I guess we did get a couple hours for dinner. Getting through the show was a little more slow-going than I think any of us expected it to be, which is disconcerting as we have audiences today. It's all right though; they are just preview performances, which, as any theatre person will tell you, are just a hair's breadth away from being a dress rehearsal. Just don't tell the fine folks who paid to see it.

Or, if you do, don't tell them I told you. Or if you do, don't tell me that you told them I told you.

Love

I wish i had some more seleep.

Perks

One of the perks of having a relatively small part in a musical is that you have a lot of free time during tech week while they "work on the dancing" and "run scene changes" and "snicker at AC for thinking he's an actor." To demonstrate just how much time I had today during rehearsal, let me tell you what I did: I read a 220 page book.

Mmm. Now that's some quality free time. Er, quality "free" time.

Tap

I am in awe of people who can dance well. In particular, I have always been amazed by people that can tap really well. I don't know what it is, but there's just something about lots of people stomping out a rhytmic percussive unison sound that just amazes me.

There is a big tap number in the show that I'm in right now, and it is amazing. Even the rough version that I saw in rehearsal last night blew me away. Wow. Just wow. This show is going to be fun. And cute. And fun.

Hero

I love Guitar Hero II. It is fun and difficult and an incredibly worthless way to spend an evening. Currently, I'm trying to beat the game on expert.

For those of you unfamiliar with the game, there are four levels of difficulty, easy, medium, hard, and expert. For me, at least, most of trying to beat the game on expert is equal to trying to just squeak by.

I did, however, spend probably two hours on one song yesterday, and I still wasn't able to beat it. Most of this song's difficulty is that there are 9 different guitar solo sections. These are proving to be too much for me. Nevertheless, I will plod on, as it is my custom in everything.

Rehearsal

The funny thing about having a decent sized part in a musical while not being in very many of the songs is that when you are a part of a group rehearsal, people start to ask you, "Are you still in this show?"

It's pretty funny.

Disassociation

In order to disconnect from any personal problems, I spend a great deal of time thinking about the arts (popular or otherwise), as if weighing my mind down with more lofty things would save me from myself stepping on toes (literally and figuratively). In doing so, I find myself saying things like, "It makes me sad that 'How I Met Your Mother' is sliding downhill," which, really, is a pretty lame thing to feel sadness over. With all the things in my life that I could feel badly about, I opt to feel badly about a comedy that, even in it's third season, is past it's prime. Good for me; I'm sure that they'll name hospitals after me for my gift of empathy.

Nevertheless, this is my critique, and it starts with my key point: Barney is the best character in the series. The other four main characters are flat both in comparison with Barney and standing alone. I can't quite tell if this is the fault of the actors or the writers, though I suspect that it's the actors. The actor playing Ted seems to think he's cooler than he is, the actor playing Robin seems to have relied too much on her looks and not enough on learning how to deliver lines, the actor playing Marshall is sometimes funny though generally tries too hard, and I'm not convinced that the actress playing Lily can play a different type of part. Nevertheless, the flatness worked when Robin and Ted were in a dating relationship, because, even if they were flat individually, they were cute together. Lily and Marshall were still flat, and not as cute as Robin and Ted, but they were planning their wedding, so at least they did things to advance plots.

Now, with Robin and Ted having broken up, they are back to being flat characters, which, in a roundabout way, brings me back to the character of Barney. Barney is a great character because he is as unapologetically amoral. Because of this, when Barney shows his sensitive side, it's very funny, because we, as the audience, know who Barney is supposed to be, and when he's sensitive, it's compelling because it's over the top. When he is his normal amoral self, he's funny because he does things that many of us secretly wish we could live with ourselves for having done.

However, with Ted and Robin broken up, the writers are trying to turn Ted into a Barney character, spending all of his time eagerly pursuing one night stands, threesomes, and generally all the sex he can handle. While this is amusing when Barney does it, to have two characters with the same M.O. is too much; it is overkill. Further, this just leaves Robin being awkward, which is not really enjoyable to watch the "pretty girl" of the show doing. Marshall and Lily are now married, so they're not even really pushing towards something anymore.

Further, everyone seems to be cheering Ted's sexual escapades on, which makes the show lose the cuteness factor that, in my opinion, was critical to its success. Season 1 had Ted pining for Robin, and season 2 featured Ted with Robin. Both of these scenarios were great to watch because you could see how in love with Robin Ted was, and that was endearing. Now it's just Ted with random girls, which is neither cute nor endearing, clever nor amusing. But I guess he's got to fill his empty life with something, right?

While there are still funny points to the show, overall, I'm just sad about it, because I think it has such potential. And that probably tells you more about me than I could ever write.

Sometimes We All Need to Feel Like the Hero

As I sit at my computer feverishly entering and revising data before month's end so as to not get into trouble with my superiors for, whether feverishly or not, not having entered and revised said data, I look up and notice that the clock has struck twelve. A smile creeps across my face as I realize that, on this midnight following Halloween, I will neither be bothered by ghosts or ghouls nor turned into a pumpkin so that a child with a dull knife can go to town on me.

Nope, I smile because I've done all that I can do. I've said my piece. I've given' her all she's got, Captain. Had I a hat and jacket, I would slowly rise myself from my keyboard, put them on, and walk deliberately to my car, while the music crescendoes and the screen fades to black.

Welcome to November.

Insight

That may be the most insightful music video since the last time music videos were relevant.

The Drunk and the Overworked Love Me, or, I'm Huge in Anaheim

First, in reference to the title, if you think that by saying "huge" I'm talking about my weight, and you think that it be more correct to say that I am "huge" everywhere and not just in Anaheim, then I am not your friend anymore, and I will club a baby seal and blame it on you.

Now that we have that unpleasantness behind us, let us consider the following scenario: on Saturday, I, my fiance, a couple of friends, and a bunch of people that I don't know all decided to go to Medieval Times in Anaheim. Seriously, there were literally dozens of people there. Also, I'm the one who counted men at the million man march and came up with 500,000. My seat ended up being on the aisle, which I was excited about because, as some of you snarkily pointed out from my title, I am huge everywhere, but I am particularly huge above the place that I need to sit down with. Therefore, being on the aisle is always a good thing as it provides the excess AC to roam wild and free, and, in this particular instance, it provided me with several opportunities for people to know and love me.

1) Our waitress, who looked a little small for all of the heavy metal plates that she has to carry around, seemed to thoroughly enjoy the fact that I said thank you every time she provided a service for me. This enjoyment on her part lead her to bend the rules so that, instead of only filling my glass twice without paying extra, she filled it two and half times. As you can imagine, I said thank you. Our only confusion stemmed from the fact that at one point I asked her how they decided which knight won from night to night, and she, though appearing to have heard me, answered my question by saying that on weekends in the summer they have three shows, but as demand dies out from fall through spring, they go down to one show a night. For my part, I nodded vigorously as if she had answered my question exactly, which seems to be my M.O. for situations like that. Lesson for the world to learn: politeness will pay off in the form of half of a free beverage refill, and it's better not to question when it's loud and she's busy, no matter how smily she is.

2) As a large, young man passed by aisle seat, he felt the need to introduce himself to me with a "Hi! I'm Chris!" and a hand shake. I shook his hand and said hello, and he said, "Is your name Chris too?" Not sure why he made that leap in logic, I replied that it wasn't and gave him my name, to which he replied, "Well, you should say that!" He then explained that he was fairly wasted, and then he then wandered off, likely to the restroom, with a buddy that was trailing behind him. Lesson for the world to learn: regardless of how drunk you are, if there are knights battling to their fictional deaths behind you, I probably don't care what your name is, nor do I care to introduce myself.

3) For part of the evening, I sat with my right leg crossed over my left one, with my right foot resting on my left knee. This proved to be confusing to two young women who were likely pretty inebriated, and this was evidenced by the fact that they used my foot as if it were a railing for the stairs that they were walking down. The first one didn't notice at all, and I suspect that the second one wouldn't have noticed if not for the fact that I opted to change seating positions. She laughed and apologized. Lesson for the world to learn: when shoes start looking like railings, you should maybe consider not having another super grande margarita.

So, as you can see, specific types of people love me, as well they should. Now I just need to work on the non-drunk and the non-overworked. Then, I can please all the people all the time, and I can prove that self-righteous Abraham Lincoln wrong. Maybe then he won't feel like he should look so smugly at me on the five dollar bill. He's always like, "I freed the slaves; what did you do today, AC?" and I'll be like, "I pleased all the the people, all the time; how you like me now?"

I Think This Speaks for Itself

Shame on you, Yahoo! (Click on it to make it bigger).

Not Sure What Brought It On

So, apparently sometimes I wake up at three in the morning and can't go back to sleep.

On these days, I also apparently decide to go to work early.

I'm not sure what brought either of these things on, but at least I get to go home early, right? Of course right. This should make for an interesting day. Either that, or it will make for a copy of a copy of a copy, like every other work day, right? Of course right.

Barry, Barry, Barry...

If you follow baseball even a teenie bit, you have no doubt heard of a fellow named Barry Bonds who will likely break the all time home run record set by Hank Aaron. This is a vexing issue for many people because it's pretty likely that Bonds was juiced up, and by "juiced up," I mean that he was likely habitually using steroids.

That being said, today, espn.com reported that "Barry Bonds said he would give his game-worn gear to the Pro Baseball Hall of Fame should he break the all-time home run record. Bonds said he would only want to keep his shoes, bat and jersey from the record-breaking game and the Hall could have the rest of his gear."

So, basically, Bonds said that he was wanting to keep only the things that any collector would want to display, and the Hall of Fame could have the leftovers. Like his jock strap.

Zero Sum Games, or, Maybe I AM Crazy

My place of work has a fridge that is frequently restocked with various drinkable items on our floor. We employees get to partake of the aforementioned drinkables for free.

However, on the way to this fridge, I have to pass by the women's restroom. From time to time, as I pass this restroom, the door swings open and a female emerges. Now, I think most peoples' reactions to a sudden opening of a door would be to look and assess the situation, and I used to do just that.

However, the more that I thought about that, the more that I realized that it was perhaps uncouth to do so. After all, though the book is called Everybody Poops, I suspect that there is a reason that its follow-up book, I Just Got Done Pooping Minutes Ago, and I Would Like You to Know about It, Random Guy in the Hall, didn't sell quite as well.

So, I have taken to, whenever I notice that the women's restroom door is opening, immediately looking at the floor. This, however, poses its own problems:

1) I feel like I am being rude by not acknowledging other people's presence,
2) My sudden looking at the floor would almost certainly be construed as embarrassment, making me seem like an even more hermit-like figure on the 8th floor than I already am, and
3) If the person leaving the restroom is not a woman, and is in fact a zombie, I am going to spend my last few moments on earth being eaten alive considering how proper decorum has once again proven an inappropriate relic from the past.

This leaves me either with walking the long way to the fridge, appearing to be a weirdo, or appearing to be a pervert.

Sigh. Maybe I'm not thirsty after all.

That Rascal Raskolnikov, Or, Who Liked Match Point?

I watched Match Point last night, and it was very, very different from the image of it that I had in my mind. I understood that this was a Woody Allen movie, and I also knew that this one was not trying to be funny, but then I thought, how is that different from the rest of his movies?


This got me to thinking about other movies that were very different in my mind before I watched them. I'll start with Match Point.

1) Match Point




What I thought it was going to be: A touching, moving, sad movie a la Lost in Translation or Broken Flowers starring Scarlett Johansson and Ewan McGregor as star crossed lovers who just couldn't manage to get their relationship together.

What it was: A movie that either stole or homaged some ideas from Crime and Punishment about how living above any sense of morality is going to bite you in the end. Perhaps Allen got the "bite you in the end" idea from Soon Yi. In addition, Ewan McGregor was nowhere to be found in this movie; I guess the actor looks enough like him on the dvd cover to fool me, even though I'm certain the actor's name must have also been on the dvd cover, probably very near the picture of the actor, leaving me with no excuse for thinking that McGregor was in this movie. Also, that actor was pretty good, whatever his name was.

2) Man of the Year


What I thought it was going to be: An opportunity for Robin Williams, who is generally funny, to do some funny, broad, ridiculous acting and get people to like him again through the general buffoonery of his character. Basically, I thought it was going to be a funny movie that would appeal to the same people who like Mrs. Doubtfire.

What it was: There was some funny to this movie; it started out being a movie with some overly artistic camera shots featuring witty banter with Williams' associates. However, this movie was primarily about a bug in a new voting system, with people willing to kill people who knew about the bug. And not in funny ways, like by giving out exploding cigars.



3) Employee of the Month

What I thought it was going to be: A movie that prominently displays Dane Cook's horrible acting (see: Saturday Night Live skits involving Dane Cook), Jessica Simpson's, erm, assets, and the priviledge of seeing both of those things with a view time of no more than 70 minutes. Also, I figured some crude innuendo would thrown in for good measure.


What it was: A movie that prominently displays Jessica Simpson's horrible acting for 103 grueling minutes. Seriously, the government would be in a lot less international hot water if they just made the folks we're holding at Guantanamo Bay watch this movie. I mean, if I've never committed war crimes, and I would be willing to confess to said war crimes that I didn't commit after watching this movie, I'm sure they would too. Nah, it's too cruel and unusual, even for terrorists. That being said, Dax Shepard was kind of funny.


p.s. I inadvertantly watched three Dax Shepard movies in the last couple months. The other two are Idiocracy and Let's Go to Prison, both of which are very funny, but very innapropriate. For anyone. Ever.

College Memory

Professor (during a small off-topic conversation during class): What type of flowers can you get a girl when you go on a date?

Classmate 1: Roses?

Professor: Good. What else?

Classmate 2: Tulips?

Professor: Excellent. Anyone else have an idea?

Me: Carnations?

Professor: (Insert, in my opinion, excessive laughter here) What are you? Cheap?

Me: (Flushed)

Thought for the Day

When you own a gay bar, do you set out to own a gay bar? Or, do you set up a bar, and one day you look around and say to yourself, "Huh. Looks like I own a gay bar."

Ka-Ching

So far, I love the government in April. They should give us refunds every month.

Now, I suppose that it could be argued that we get refunds every month in the form of filled potholes, water sanitation, and the shipping of homeless people to Bahrain, but still, I'd like to have some more filthy lucre.

Mmm. Filthy.

This Was My Dream

I oftentimes can't remember what I dreamt, but last night, I had a dream so vivid and remarkable, that it actually managed to journey from my unconscious to my conscious mind.

And here it is.

I, and three young women and one young girl from the show that I was just in, were together in a house. It wasn't any of our houses, mind you, but I'll get to that aspect in a second. This house was fairly labyrinthine, in that moving from room to room was a lot like following the line at an amusment park: the turns were very angular and there was only one way to go without turning around. Further, much of what we saw as we were walking through this house was behind a mesh covering, much like most of the things that you see in line at the Indiana Jones ride at Disneyland.

Now, for some reason, at the top of our lungs, we were all singing the Aerosmith song "I Don't Want to Miss a Thing," which is the song that was popularized by being played approximately twenty-seven million times in the late nineties and by being the love song in the movie Armageddon.

As we continued singing and walking, we realized (or, I guess, intuitively understood as there was no real reason to believe that we were where we were until a bit later) that we were making our way through Aerosmith's house. This really hit home to us when we passed by a couple of beds, one of which was occupied by Joe Perry and the other by Steven Tyler. Steven Tyler was in fact so impressed with our collective rendition of his song, that he gave us a big thumbs up.

Other than that the details are a little shaky. I remember deciding to go to head tone instead of chest tone for the one of the high parts (the "yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, Yeah!"), and I felt shame in the dream as I thought that I had sounded ridiculous, and this fact was emphasized when one of the women gave me the stink eye after that note.

When we got to the end of the song, we all looked at each other as if to say, "What now?" And then I woke up.

I think my dream means that one day, soon, Steven Tyler will approve of me, and women will hate me. What else could it mean?

My Girlfriend Is Funny

"See, I look at traffic laws more like opportunities to be polite. People and the police should be honored when I obey them."

I Am A Thought Criminal

I came up with an excellent idea maybe a month ago. Actually, I can't remember if I was the one to originally think of this, or if it was somebody close to me. I find that this issue of origination is apparently frequently open to interpretation in my noggin'. For the life of me, I can't figure out why, as most of my day to day thoughts are a variants on four subjects:

1) When I'll be eating next,
2) When I'll be sleeping next,
3) When I get to hang out with my girlfriend again, and
4) Just how many staples I could get into my jugular vein before I passed out from blood loss/whether I could count said incident as a work related accident, and get paid while I'm in the hospital.

Nevertheless, the awesome idea that may or may not be able to be attributed to me probably struck me right around the time that I watched Casino Royale. I remembered that I had seen very few of teh other Bond films. This seemed like a shame as Casino Royale was so much fun. Therefore, I thought that it would be terrific to devote a weekend to watching all of the Bond films sequentially. Just the sheer quantity of movies would surely require nearly two whole days of no sleep.

However, after speaking with some friends and remembering what the second thing is that I tend to have on my mind, we decided to go with breaking the Bond viewing action up.

So, tomorrow night, I'll be watching From Russia With Love, and whatever the devil the first Bond movie is.

Mm. Sean Connery goodness. I can't wait

Uhm

Over the course of the last couple days, there have been multiple loud, crashing sounds coming from the elevator shafts.

Should I be worried?

Touche Karma, Touche

Last night I had an audition that for a couple of shows that are looking to promote local actors that are a part of a local acting organization. As I looked at the posting online, and went over the email correspondence for the audition, nothing was said about the necessity of bringing headshots. Further, as I am a part of the aforementioned organization, that organization has my headshots on file, and the audition was across the hall from that organization's offices, I figured I was safe to not bring them.

Can you guess the first question that I was asked when I got there? That's right, it was something to the effect of "So, did you bring headshots?"

Crap.

I immediately thought of saying something about how I was confused about whether or not I needed to bring them, but as I looked around, I saw that EVERY OTHER PERSON there was holding 8 x 10 glossy photos of themselves.

Crap.

The audition monitor then, while trying to be nice, kind of looked at me like I was barely functionally retarded. Maybe I'm not as smart as I think I am.

Just So You Know

This is going to come out sounding like it's pompous, but I am not overly concerned. I consider myself to be a reasonably intelligent person. I'm not exactly a genius (which I measure by the fact that I'm not curing cancer in my spare time), but I'm not exactly a dullard (which I measure by the fact that I don't constantly laugh at the fact that I have toes) either.

Because I consider myself reasonably intelligent, sometimes somebody else will do something to me that makes me think less of their intelligence.

Example: This morning, I walked into work carrying a book with a rich and beautiful story and an intriguing and thought-provoking set of characters. Someone asked me what I was reading, and I told her.

She (with minor disgust): What? Didn't you see the movie?
Me (trying to gauge and respond to her unspoken criticism): Yes. I guess the movie was probably too sissily romantic for someone like me to watch, but I thought it was ...
She: Romantic? I thought that movie was boring. (Laughs) I thought that movie was boring.

Response to She: First, let me say that your repeating your point twice doesn't really add that much to the conversation. I'm not sure if you were saying it for emphasis or not, but I suspect that you weren't. Second, if someone is reading the book of a movie that they've already seen, that probably means that they found a depth in the movie that they are looking to expand upon, and they hope that the book will provide that added depth. Thirdly, insisting that a movie was boring to a person who is reading the book will probably make you look like you are functionally retarded, and just barely so at that.

Sigh. Maybe I am pompous. I'll have to work on that.

An Open Letter to the Whole World

Dear Everyone,

Please do not use this:

If you do use it, the mere act of taking off your shirt at the end of the day will produce a smell so horrible that you will wish for the glorious ease of death.

Love,

AC

Myspace Ads

I just saw this ad over at Myspace, and I thought it was hilarious.

The ad may as well be subtitled, "Men, Making Women Suffer Since Before Suffrage."

Note to Self

When you go home for Easter weekend, and you remember that a friend of yours has taught you how to do a circus trick that looks like this except that one of the bodies is reversed so that the heads are pointing in opposite directions as opposed to the same direction,

and you decide that the best things to do is to recreate this scene with your brother, you will more or less succeed, and it will be pretty cool.

However, because you opted to be the base (the one with his feet on the ground), for the next few days following said circus-ery, your legs will feel like you spent the entire weekend kicking butt and taking names, but you will have neither names nor remembrances of butts to console your aching, burning thighs.

Be advised.

An Addendum

I mentioned that I needed and purchased deoderant in my last post. I needed deoderant because my last deoderant had an anti-perspirant in it, which was causing my sensitive armpits to rash up. As you may have guessed, when I used "sensitive" in that last sentence, I didn't mean that my armpits liked to sit around, drink read wine, and talk about how much they liked The Notebook. No, I mean sensitive in the way that if they rash up and I decide to move my arms, I could swear that the flesh beneath my arms was being grated off by a cheese grater.

So, I bought new deoderant (sans anti-perspirant), and this morning, I slathered it on my armpits, eager to see if my body would have any kind of reaction to it. In retrospect, it would have been smarter to just use a little bit to test it, but I'm an all or nuthin' type of guy. So far, no rash has appeared.

Unfortunately, the "fresh" scent of the deoderant is driving me crazy. I have never felt so much like puking at the office than I do right now, and I am effectively left with no recourse as there are no showers here (except for a theoretic one that I have heard legends about in the basement), and, even if I could find this mystical shower, I have no towel with which to dry.

With my only other option being left wet and naked, I am only left with the option of throwing up in my cubicle, which I can only imagine will elicit the following conversation:

"Hey AC, are you okay?"
"What?"
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. Just some deoderant problems."
"Hmm. Smells to me like some ODER-ant problems. High five!"
"I'm not going to give you a high five."

At which point, the puking will continue. On the upside, at least this shirt will smell like a fake pine forest for many, many years.

Stream of Consciousness in the Detergent Aisle

Last night, I was a little bit hungry, so I ran over to the grocery store for a couple of those delicious frozen pizzas that are always on sale and are always delicious. However, as often happens to those of us who don't make weekly trips to the store, I found myself remembering other things that I needed that I may as well pick up so that I don't have to make another trip in the near future. My internal monologue was going something like this:

"Mmm, pizza, that'll be delicious...what goes with pizza...I need something to drink...Sprite Zero?...Fresca...I wonder if I were to purchase Diet Orange Sunkist and I were to add a hint of vanilla vodka if it would taste anything like Henry Weinhard's Orange Cream soda...that would probably taste good...would it smell good?...I need detergent...detergent smells good...I need deoderant."

And so, ladies and gentlemen, for a brief period of time, I was a character in a Sylvia Plath novel.

God Bless Things I Find on Wikipedia

I need to move to one of the following states: Alaska, Florida, Nevada, South Dakota, Texas, Washington, or Wyoming.

Why is that you ask? I need to move there because these states charge no income tax on the state level. Sure, I will have to continue to pay federal income tax, but, because I live in stupid California, I am apparently paying 9.3% in interest tax like a re re (because members of the mentally handicapped community apparently like to pay high income taxes).

Further, I once heard from some family friends that Alaska even pays its citizens to live there. While it's not a whole bunch (I believe that they said that the state pays about $2,000 per person per year), I would assume that people that substain themselves primarily on whale blubber (as far as I can tell) don't care much about the physical comforts in life.

And while we're on the topic of state stereotypes, here are the things that I would look forward to in each of the other states:

Florida: Humidity, old people, and hurricanes, together at last!
Nevada: Free drinks and gambling! Can life get better? I submit that it cannot!
South Dakota: Had I a sister, I could marry her at Mount Rushmore with minimal condemnation from the other townsfolk.
Texas: I could be President of the United States.
Washington: I could live somewhere that provides me no immediate stereotypes!
Wyoming: I could be faced with the inanity of the chart over here (it's about half way down the page), that claims that 6.05% of the the state's Hispanic residents are white. How can this be? Are they lying ("Sir, I can see that you're white...")?

In summary, sucks to your asthmar, California! Get your hand out of my pocket, because I don't like you that way.

Ah, Lent!

Once a year, there is a magical time when well-meaning people deprive themselves of things that they enjoy in an effort to feel closer with the Almighty. This is known in most circles as getting up out of bed early on a Sunday morning and going to church on Easter Sunday, because we all know that God's only really watching that Sunday anyways. Every other Sunday He just catches the reruns.

I kid. He's watching you now and taking notes.

But seriously, with Lenten season running down, let me be the first to say that I just simply cannot wait until Sunday when I can go back to the thing I gave up for Lent: clubbing baby seals. Of course, by "clubbing baby seals," I mean drinking sugary soda. I sometimes question the correlation between fizzy sugar water and love from the Almighty, but it is at those times that I quietly pat myself on the back, and say, in soothing tones, "Shush, shush, it'll all be okay."

This brings me to my real topic of the day: my girlfriend. You see, a few weeks ago, my girlfriend did something that was actually quite loving. She bought a six pack of my very favorite specialty soda, Henry Weinhardt's Orange Cream, and said that I could have one when I came over for dinner. In my excitment over the prospect of something so delicious entering my gullet, I hopped in my vehicle, and hurriedly made my way over to said girlfriend's house. It was only once I reached her domecile that I realized that it was still Lent, and that there was to be no joy in Mudville that day. Well, at least not any joy that came from a sweet tasting nectar of the gods.

Mmm. Sunday's going to be delicious.

Just Five More

With only five more shows left to go of Fiddler, I can't help but think that I'll miss it. It will, however, be awesome to just be able to rest nearly any night of the week.

Mmm...Rest. I'm looking forward to that. 96 performances is a freaking lot.

The Thing About Callbacks

I love acting; I really do. I derive great amounts of both joy and pleasure from it. As you may or may not know, however, in order to act, you must go to both auditions and callbacks. Sometimes these callbacks are far away, and you must drive for forty-five minutes to get there, and then drive for nearly an hour and a half to get home because Cal-Trans decided that last night was the opportune time to shut down Interstate 5 a few miles before before the exit to my apartment.

Sometimes the part that you make the afore-mentioned journey for only has three lines: "All right, knock it off," "Impossible," and "Goodbye boys." While you are thankful for the callback, you can't help but spend your minutes sitting around waiting at the callback trying to figure out just how much gas spent driving comes out to on a per word basis.

I love acting; I really do. But sometimes, just sometimes, I'd rather be taking a nap.

Advertising

And by that, I mean I did a commercial. It's going to air during Padres games. I'm going to be on tv.

That's kind of cool.

The Problem with Having a Bushy Beard

To the left is a picture of myself from back in December when I was in a great need for headshots, and ::mandy:: very graciously took a few.

The beard has not really been trimmed since that time, so it is, by now, very, very bushy.

A few moments ago, I turned my head to the left while I was sitting in my cubicle at work, and my heart started to race as I could have sworn that I had seen a dog run through my cubicle. This would have raised a variety of issues, not the least of which being the question of why exactly there was a dog in the work place.

However, there was no such luck. As you may have guessed, I had just seen my beard in my peripheral vision, and I mistook this for a furry quadroped.

I have to say that I'm glad that it was the beard, as the only other explanation is the massive amount heroin running through my system. And by "heroin," I mean love.

Starbucks Crumble Coffee Cake

The crumble coffee cake at Starbucks is delicious. I love it. Were it possible to marry a pastry dish without scorn from ignorant people who just don't understand our love, I would consider marrying it.

However, the honeymoon with my new infatuation has to end sometime, and mine ended this morning when I read that each piece of coffee cake has 500 calories. I'm sorry, but that is an exorbitant number of calories from something that doesn't even have frosting.

As you can imagine, this realization led to the first real fight in my secret relationship, which I will document for you here.

Me: Coffee cake! I love you! How can you be so bad for me?
Coffee Cake: ...
Me: How can you just sit there in silence? I demand a response!
Coffee Cake: ...
Me: Oh, I see how it is. Consider us over!
Coffee Cake: ...
Me: How can you be so cold and cruel?

In other news, the call back that was supposed to have been on Friday got pushed back to this coming Sunday. I was really hoping to get it out of the way on Friday, because then I would know one way or the other more quickly. I guess it's kind of exciting to still be in the running, though.

Unfortunately for me, I have verified that one of the two other actors who is still up for the same part is one who has already worked for the theatre. With this theatre liking to hire the same actors repeatedly, this doesn't bode well for the AC. However, I continue to think that the director is really interested in me for this part, so I guess we'll just have to see how this plays out. Theoretically, I have a 33% chance. I like those odds.

A Call Back for a Call Back

Yesterday afternoon, I received a call from the theatre company mentioned yesterday, requesting me to come in for another call back, which I will be going to tonight.

Based on a variety of things which may or may not prove to be mind games in my own mind, I really think that the director wants me for this role. As I have never been this far in this theatre's audition process, I don't know how odd it is for them to have a call back for a call back.

I REALLY want to get into this show. I'll keep you updated on how things progress.

Part of what makes me think that acting is a good career choice for me is that I love both auditions and call backs. For the most part, I am pretty confident in the abilities that I have, and I am very willing to work on the abilities that I don't have (see: dancing). With this in mind, auditions become less about self doubt, and more about just trying to do your best, which I think is a trait that all of us have had pounded into our little heads since grade school. Certainly I don't get cast in every show, but not every show needs my type of character. I can usually accept this pretty well.

Here's to hoping this show needs my type.

A Call Back

Yesterday, I had a call back for a part in a show about a certain Old Testament biblical character who had a certain coat of many colors.

While I'm trying not to get my hopes up too much, I really think that I did a good job, and I also kind of think that they liked me. The only thing (and it's quite a major thing) not in my favor is that an actor that they have used before was also up for the same part, and this company tends to like to continue to work with people it has already worked with. This makes it so much more important that I get in, because then I stand a chance of them just calling me and asking me to do other roles.

The show plays at a local theatre company that, while it looks like it would not give me points for getting in the actors' union, pays its non-union actors pretty well. As we all know, supplemental income is always a nice thing.

The director said that the company would let me know within 72 hours, which is nice in that some theatres say nothing, and you are left alone to scrutinize why they aren't calling and how you could have possibly done better. This way, I know that if I haven't heard by Saturday, I'm probably out of luck.

Wonder of Wonders, Miracle of Miracles

My branch of the company that I work for has, probably, seventy employees. Nearly all of these employees at some point during the day need to use a particular database. Unfortunately, for some reason, this database can only accommodate 38 users at a time.

Let me be the first to say that the idea that 38 out of 70 workers can use this database at a time is EFFING BRILLIANT. This fact PLEASES ME, and doesn't at all make me want to SHOOT MYSELF IN THE FACE.

Ahem. Excuse me.

On the plus side, the company has decided to start stocking the fridge with cranberry juice again, so, uhm, I guess at least my kidney health will be first rate when the rest of my body goes into total meltdown mode.

If You're Looking to See a Bad Movie...

You should go ahead and rent the movie La Moustache. I originally read about this movie in one of the girly-froofy-"men's" magazines that I read (Esquire), and the premise of the movie that the magazine laid out sounded pretty interesting. The movie was supposed to have been about a man who, on a whim, shaves off the mustache that he's had for years and years to play a joke on his wife; the man is then thrown a curveball when his wife claims that he's never had a mustache. Based on this premise, I suspected that this movie would be whimsical and joyful, a la Amelie or something out of Monty Python, or at least poignantly beautiful, like one of the myriad of sad, yet achingly funny movies that Bill Murray has been making in recent years.

Boy, was I wrong.

The first fifteen minutes of the movie were just as advertised; that is, a man shaves his mustache off. The wife denies it. After that, though, instead of hilarity ensuing, the man and his wife just get progressively angrier and angrier with each other as the woman continues to deny the fact that he ever had a mustache. We do learn that the woman may be a pathological liar based on an incident that is revealed from her childhood by her brother. However, even if she is a liar, the man is still up a creek due to the fact that no one else he knows is able to remember that he has ever had a mustache either.

The anger continues, and the man jumps on a random plane which is going to Hong Kong. The narrative then moves to about twenty minutes with very little dialogue while the man rides in ferries. That's right; with the audience not knowing what is going on, the director opted to film the man taking boat rides. Eventually the man makes it to what we can only assume is Bali, which is based on the fact that his wife had a series of photographs that was marked Bali from a vacation that the couple apparently went on a vacation to.

The man lives in Bali for an amount of time equaling the amount of time necessary to regrow his facial hair, and, one day, he comes back to the hotel room he's been staying in to find that his wife (who he left in France when he travelled to Hong Kong and with whom he has had no contact with) is packing up clothes and saying that this had been a good vacation and that they need to catch the flight in the morning. She acts as if she has been with him the whole time. She then makes some comment about how he should probably shave before they go back to France.

He shaves his mustache again, and she likes it and she remembers that he had a mustache. The film closes with the man opening his eyes after being asleep with his wife.

That's it. That's the whole movie.*

Now, this film leaves the viewer with many questions, not the least of which is "WHAT IN GOD'S NAME JUST HAPPENED?" Is the man crazy? Is his wife crazy? Is she a pathological liar? If so, how did she find him in Bali? Was this some elaborate practical joke that went astray? Do I just not understand the conventions of French cinema? Neither my girlfriend, my engineer roommate, nor I (all of which are fairly bright, college-educated people) could figure out just what the point of this movie was.

If anyone out there in cyberland can figure this out and will explain it to me in a way that I can understand it (that is, with pictures and farm animal sounds) I will be forever grateful.

*We missed about three minutes of the movie because the dvd that we rented was bad, and refused to play those three minutes, no matter how much cajoling we offered. Perhaps everything gets wrapped up in those three minutes, but I highly doubt it as those minutes were towards the middle of the film, which is generally where the rising action of a narrative occurs, and not the climax or the denouement, which, come to think of it, I didn't ever find. Come on, French film makers! Denouement is even a French word! Use it in your movies!

New Commenting

I do apologize for having to now moderate comments, but it appears that too many people are now leaving links on this little site-e-poo trying to peddle their wares of viagra and celebrity sex tapes. While this was amusing at first, mostly because I figure that there are all of about 6 people who come here regularly, it has grown tiresome.

In other news, I still haven't heard back from my grad school audition. I kind of expected that it would take a few weeks for them to decide that I was the best choice, but even so, I still hoped that they would make their decision more quickly.

On the other hand, perhaps they, in looking through my transcript, have realized that I got that "C" grade on my under-grad senior recital (I wrote 45 minutes of original choral music for that dang thing...what does everybody want from me?), and they have decided that I am therefore too average to join the higher echelon of their student body. If this is the case, I will strike it up as yet another reason that I should have thought twice about trying to get a music degree from "Frank's Technical College of Applied Dentistry and Metallurgy."*

Sigh. Some day I'll get into grad school. Some day.

*The college I went to is actually a very fine college. Really.

An Apparently Bullet-Proof Get Rich Quick Scheme*

1) Write lots of bad checks for thousands of dollars to Indian casinos to get cash to gamble.

2) Get paid for the bad checks before they realize that they're bad.

3) When the casinos come a-calling wanting their money, tell them "huh-uh."

4) Go to court.

5) Let the judge rule that because the casino was lending credit to an American citizen on Indian land, the American courts can't force the citizen to pay for the checks because America has no jurisdiction in different sovereign nations.

6) Get off scot-free, with, hopefully, some of the money you wrote bad checks to get.

*This is according to a news report I heard on the radio, but haven't been able to find a link online. Kinda crazy, huh?

Random Burst of Creativity on a Friday Afternoon

The Reason I Will Die an Early Death from a Massive Coronary Explosion

In-N-Out Burger offers their fries "animal style." For a while, I had thought that this process, which involves adding grilled onions, extra cheese, and extra special sauce, could only be done to their burgers.

But no. Just say the word, and you, in an act of cheesy delicious gluttonous goodness, can get your fries animal style.

With this in mind, I will be updated/creating my will accordingly. If anybody wants any of my stuff in particular, leave me a message in the comments.

Grad School Audition, Or, Why I Didn't Get Much Sleep the Last Couple of Days

I had an audition for an MFA program for acting this morning. In case you don't know, an MFA is much like an MA except recepients of this degree tend to have slightly looser wrists.

Jokes in poor taste aside, the program that I'd sell at least one kidney to get into is small, and, due to the fact that it is run in conjunction with a regional theatre that every couple of years sends shows to Broadway, I suspect that this program would even make a happy man out of perennial sour-puss Richard Milhouse Nixon.

The audition itself went well. I had to prepare a couple of monologues, which wasn't a huge deal, and I think I played them pretty well. They said that they'd let me know in a couple of weeks, which is, of course, theatre-speak for "Your acting just threw up in my mouth a little bit," or, occasionally, "We'll let you know in a couple of weeks."

However, what did bring on a bout of existential angst was the few minutes I spent in a room with another auditioner prior to both of our auditions. I had been told to wait in a specified room, and upon my entrance, I noticed a woman in there, who was probably in a similar age range as myself. We said hello, and then went back to our respective personal bubbles.

Or at least I did. The woman got up and started to stretch, which I found to be a reasonable use of time. Stretching is a good way to loosen up so that you're at your best for all types of stressful circumstances, such as athletics or running from the law. While she stretched, I went back to going over the words of my monologues, hoping that I wouldn't have some kind of bizarre black out, and look like a goober in my audition. However, in her stretching, I noticed that she had bent over at the waist, which I just assumed meant that she had had some good dance training, because she was obviously very flexible, but before I could think any more about it, the woman did a somersault in the middle of the room.

As you may have guessed, I wasn't quite sure what to do with this, and this is where the angst enters this narrative. All of a sudden, I began second guessing myself. Should I be doing somersaults? Am I a bad actor because I do not do somersaults before auditions? Would I be a better actor if I did somersaults in rooms that have people that I've never met while wearing fairly nice clothes? Etc.

This is a definite point to ponder. I wonder if my gym offers tumbling classes. Perhaps that's what I'm missing.

Something I Don't Get About Myself

Nearly every day, I come home late at night, because that's just how I roll. Invariably, I am exhausted and seeking the sweet comfort of sleep. Nevertheless, lately, I have found a new addiction that robs me of my sleep.

Why is it that I find myself drawn, like moth to flame, to the History Channel? Seriously, can anyone answer me this question?

And, the thing is, I would understand this obsession if I were drawn to the supposedly "cool" shows that that channel has to offer. For example, if you were channel surfing, and you came across a show that had to do with secret societies, many of you would stick around for a few minutes to learn something that is fairly entertaining.

This is not the case with me. When I roll past the History Channel, and I see that it's a show on secret societies, I keep on a-flipping, because Lord knows I just don't much care about things that normal people find interesting. However, if I'm changing channels and I happen upon a show about the Presidency of Richard Nixon or just how was that the reconstruction of the South happened after the Civil War, brother, you've got my rapt attention for the better part of an hour.

I've found that the History Channel can only be trumped by something funny on Comedy Central late at night (which is unlikely), heavily edited for tv horror movies from the early nineties starring people who are famous today (see Leprechaun starring Jennifer Aniston in tiny shorts), or, if the mood hits me, any movie that I already own. Now, when I say that last bit, I don't mean the "good" version that I have on dvd; I mean the crummy version that has been edited for tv. It can be a movie that I haven't seen or wanted to see in years, but if I find it on television, I am compelled to watch it as well.

Ah well. At least I'm getting my money's worth for the cable.

A Response to the Woman Who Loudly Proclaimed During Yesterday's Performance, "He's Not Old!"

It's called the suspension of disbelief, lady. Deal with it.

Complainy Monday

1) Blogger just forced me into switching to the NEW Blogger as opposed to just keeping the old blogger. The biggest difference so far seems to be that instead of being able to log in with the name analystcatalyst, I must now log in with the email address analystcatalyst@gmail.com (please do not write me there unless you like that fact that I will likely not get back to you until the next time I check that address, which will likely be around the same time as the next ice age). I think that this is a genius tactic on Blogger's part because it has taken my login, which was already long to begin with, and made it longer. Because if there's one thing that makes a consumer happy, it's providing the SAME SERVICES UNDER SLIGHTLY MORE DIFFICULT CIRCUMSTANCES.

2) The door that leads to the stairwell on my floor was, for a short time, repeatedly opened and slammed shut, and the handle was repeatedly turned with great force. Based on this evidence, I can only conclude that my company was providing an outreach on door-opening to the unfortunate people of the community who, for whatever reason, never learned how to open a door. Failing this, my only other theory is that mentally-handicapped rhesus monkeys have been let loose in the afore-mentioned stairwell.

While I'm on the topic of rhesus monkeys, please remember that:

Understudy Rehearsal Today

This afternoon, the show that I am in is holding an understudy rehearsal to enable the understudies to go over the music with the musical director.

I am the understudy for two roles, neither of which have solos, and one which is an entirely non-singing role.

I find this situation profoundly humorous.

The Return of Heartless McCrymeariver

This afternoon, NPR's local affiliate station, KPBS, ran a feature on economic inequality. That is, they talked about the fact that some people are poor and some people are rich, and how, they wondered, can the poor be helped into having more money. They offered opinions on a spectrum of ideas from tax breaks to improving and expanding the education that lower-income households receive.

Immediately after this segment, a KPBS reporter went on the air saying (to an audience that is, likely, primarily made up of upper income, leftwards leaning folk) that if you liked the previous program, please consider making a contribution to KPBS, as it is pledge week.

Man, KPBS is getting as good at making people give money as most churches.

You Know What's Funny? Pretending to Punch Women

There is a part in the show that I'm in where a large group of the cast gathers behind a see-through curtain and sings a little bit at the end of perhaps the most serious scene in the show. We enter to stand behind this curtain about forty-five seconds before we actually sing, and during this time, we are expected to stand quietly frozen while looking at the ground.

A few nights ago, a buddy of mine in the cast who is not a part of the group that stands behind the curtain was trying to make me giggle by whispering things like "AC is a sexy man," and various other items that are not necessarily repeatable in this context. This is what is affectionately referred to in theatre circles as "being a jackass." I managed to keep myself composed pretty well.

Nevertheless, our group sang our bit which was followed by a blackout that ends the scene. It was during this time that I decided to, on my way offstage, playfully pretend to punch my buddy in the stomach. I did so, and continued to pass the person who I had punched, smiling to myself at the playful banter. I continued smiling until I noticed that my friend who I had punched was in front of me. I found this peculiar largely due to the fact that I had passed the person who I had punched.

It was at that moment that I realized that I had just pretended to punch the midsection of the woman who plays the main mother in the show, who had also been waiting in the wings to make here entrance. My heart immediately sunk a little bit, and I figured that I had had a good run at that playhouse, and that my check would be in the mail.

The woman ended up being amused by the whole incident, especially after I explained what had happened, and, at the next performance, actually hit me back, which I guess was fair. In any case, all of this just goes to show that the old saying is true: when you pretend to punch someone in a blackout, you will sometimes accidentally punch the wrong person, and you will feel like you will get fired, but then that person will be okay with it.

Feel free to quote me on that saying. I might make t-shirts of it because of its inherent wisdom.

Am I Asleep Yet?

For the life of me, I have nothing noteworthy to post. So, here's a game for your amusement.

(Hint, if you shoot them while they're coming out of the ground, it's easier.)

The Thing about Audiences

Sometimes, when you're on stage, you know where you stand with an audience. When they applaud loudly for what is applause-worthy, they laugh at what is funny, and they are respectfully quiet during sad or awkward scenes, you know that you have their emotions in the palm of your hand and that your performance is really reaching them.

However, when the opposite occurs, that is, when they are quiet when they should be loud and there is lots of rustling and/or coughing when they should be quiet, you can't help but feel like you're not doing a very good job, like, despite your best efforts, you just can't suspend their disbelief. It's quite discouraging.

Last night's audience was, as you may have guessed, somewhat like the latter group. They seemed unappreciative and distracted. Worse yet, they were occasionally distracting. For example, during a scene that is lit only by black light for an extended period of time, a woman wearing a large white coat (which was very, very noticable thanks to the black light) decided that that was the perfect time for her to get up from her fourth row center seat, and slowly make her way to the lobby, illumined for all to see.

During the show, nearly everyone in the cast made some comment about how the crowd was "dead" and "unresponsive."

However, when curtain call came, we received a standing ovation.

People are fascinating.

An Open Letter to a Rude Man

Dear Sir,

When my girlfriend and her parents visited your restaurant, the Oceanaire Seafood Room, we expected a nice meal. We also knew that it was going to be a bit pricy, but, we were prepared because we expected that from the Oceanaire Seafood Room, because sometimes you have to pay for ambience at a fancy restaurant.

What we did not expect was your frank smugness and downright rudeness.

While it is true that, at least my girlfriend and I, don't dine at many exceptionally fancy restaurants such as yours, the Oceanaire Seafood Room, I don't really feel that our lack of knowing just exactly how you'd like us to respond to things gives you liberty to look down your nose at us and generally treat us like garbage using methods such as violently pouring our wine for us and your spoken rudeness that hid behind the paper thin veneer of politeness.

At first, I thought that you would be a great waiter, because your disheveled white hair in conjunction with the fact that your white coat and white apron kind of looked like a scientist's coat made you kind of look like Christopher Lloyd, of Back to the Future fame. Unfortunately for us (Great Scott!), there was no kindly gentleman hiding behind that kindly appearance at the Oceanaire Seafood Room.

In short, sir, you made the whole evening a particularly unpleasant experience, and so I will likely not be dining there, at the Oceanaire Seafood Room, again. Plus, with the number of times I've mentioned the Oceanaire Seafood Room in this post, maybe, just maybe, this post will come up in a Google search for the Oceanaire Seafood Room, and maybe, just maybe, this post will keep someone else from wasting entirely too much money on food that could be had elsewhere for a sixth of the price and without the added benefit of an unbelievably rude waiter.

No longer a friend of the Oceanaire Seafood Room in San Diego, California,
AC

My Secret Destruction

What can destroy a person? For Samson, it was his hair. For Caesar, it was that fateful decision to cross the Rubicon. For Britney Spears, it was marrying and having kids with Cletus, the Slack-Jawed Yokel.

Today, I'm going to reveal what has the capacity to destroy me. I'll give you a hint: it's books. I love to read them, but it seems like even more than that, I love to find new ones that I think I should read, purchase them, and then quickly forget about them. It is as if my mind thinks that through the simple act of buying a book, I have the potential to receive the wisdom and knowledge that the book contains, and if I do not purchase them, I will UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES receive said knowledge.

I am enticed because by reading, I can not only reflect what I have read, but, in a sense, cause what I have read to reflect upon me. In short, I play the Narcissus to the books' clear pond.

However, though I always love books, I sometimes find that I am too busy for reading. Further, I find that I have a kind of feast or famine approach to reading, that is, sometimes I'll go from title to title faster than a fat man achieves the goal of heart disease, whereas sometimes months will go by without reading more than a magazine because I just don't want to commit to anything that can't be accomplished in two hours, i.e., most of the literary works I am interested in.

So, more for my own personal curiosity than anything else, I will be keeping track of the books that I read within by frequently updating this post for the year of 2007 just to see what I can assume numerically about my reading habits after 2007 ceases to be. Also, I will be including plays in the list, even though I'm sure that some people might consider that to be "cheating" and "beefing up one's book count the easy way."

It is to those people I say, "Come look at this pond."

1) Who Moved my Blackberry? by Lucy Kellaway **
2) Art by Yasmina Reza*
3) The Disappointment Artist by Jonathan Lethem
4) The Pillowman by Martin McDonagh*
5) A Midsummer Night's Dream by Billy-Boy Shakespeare*
6) Killing Yourself to Live by Chuck Klosterman
7) Copenhagen by Michael Frayn*
8) Apathy and Other Small Victories by Paul Neilan
9) JPod by Douglas Coupland
10) The Pleasure of my Company by Steve Martin
11) Beneath the Wheel by Hermann Hesse
12) Curse of the Starving Class by Sam Shepard*
13) True West by Sam Shepard*

Also, if you are interested in any of the books that I've read, and you don't have them, I can either loan them to you, or, if you'd like, you can get them through an affiliate program that I have with half.com, and I can make a couple bucks in the process. Please use the following link if you'd like to do that.

eBay's Half.com, buy more for less.

* Denotes a play
** Denotes a book started in 2006

Note to Self

When you're doing a show with an actor who is reprising a lead role that he's done nearly a dozen times, and, in particular, when you are with him in a group of people who are supposed to be moving in strict unison during the opening number of the show, and he moves his arm at the wrong time, and, likely due to being flustered, very obviously proceeds to start to turn around when the group is supposed to be moving to stage right while facing forward, you will be able to keep yourself composed. However, when the group is turning at the correct time, and you hear him say in his gravelly voice, quite audibly, "Oh boy...", you will very nearly poop your pants as you try even harder to hold back the laughter that you had been holding back previously.

Relatedly, when you get off-stage, you will think to yourself with a smile, "God, thanks for this one. I love what I do."

An Open Letter to Arby's

Dear Sirs,

Let me say that, in general, I am enamored with your restaurant's premise and its food. In an ocean of burger places, I find solace in your island of roast beef. Plus, your extra large cup is made out of styrofoam, which, while it will kill the environment, doesn't "sweat" when I leave it in my dressing room during shows and get all over the place.

Because that's what I stand for, Arby's, convenience with drinks over having an earth to live on.

Nevertheless, last week, as I stopped by your establishment for a delicious beef and cheddar, I found myself repulsed. Upon receiving my food, I took it over to the condiments station to add both Horsey and Arby's sauces to my sandwich, because they, much like Red Vines and Mr. Pibb, are crazy delicious. However, when I opened the bun up, instead of seeing several pieces of roast beef, as I am accustomed to, I only came across one large-ish one. It also looked slightly off-colored, but I, like the plain girl at the bar who's had one too many and is asked to dance with a man of questionable character, decided that this was my best shot.

After condimenting it up, I headed back to my car and got back on the freeway where I proceeded to unwrap my delicious treat. I eyed it with approval, just as one might eye the "Casual Encounters" section of Craigslist if one were hopelessly depressed and/or desperate.

And I was desperate. For a hot beef injection. My mouth watered with anticipation. I took a bite, and started to chew. However, something was amiss in my mouth; it was as if there were a party in my mouth, and only ugly people were invited. You see, my experience with Arby's has conditioned me to believe that roast beef will be tender and savory. This roast beef however, was a little bit chewy and spongy. I would bite down, and my jaw would be forced back open with the sheer resistance of the meat. I felt like someone had taken squid, hammered it into a thin sheet, dyed it brownish, and stuck it on my supposed beef and cheddar sandwich.

I am not one to quit, however, so I proceeded to chew what was in my mouth until it could be swallowed, and my revulsion at doing so can only accurately be compared to what people feel when they remember that Courtney Love isn't dead yet.

I felt betrayed. I was humiliated. I was lonely. I had no sandwich to help me through my lunch hour time of need. My lunch hour will never be the same. I will be forever skeptical.

Therefore, Arby's, I'm not asking for much. I just want my innocence back.

Failing innocence, I will accept twenties, but I want you to know that you're just making it worse.

With whatever love is left in my heart,
AC

An Open Letter to the IT Guy Who Fawns Over the Attractive Girl in the Next Cubicle

Dear Sir,

As you are middle-aged and kind of weird, and she is early twenties and devoted to fitness, I place your chances of what I can only imagine you are thinking of doing with her somewhere between the likelihood of the events of Jurassic Park actually transpiring and the idea that the 1969 moon landing was staged.

I just thought that you should know.

With love,
AC

It's Opening Night

After two weeks of rehearsals (the last two of which were twelve hour days), the show is set to open this evening.

I can hear you now: "Your show is opening on a Tuesday? What's that about? Did you take stupid pills this morning, AC?"

The answer to the basic issue posed by the previous three questions is that the theatre that is putting the show on is part of a resort which tends to be filled with vacationing folk who still reminisce about the "Great War" in their day to day conversations. These folks are looking to be entertained on a Tuesday night with a classic musical, and we are just the people to do the entertaining. It's a good thing that there's not a bingo hall close by, or we'd face some serious competition.

But seriously, it's a great show, and it's going to be a great run. Believe me, legs will be broken, and I mean that in the good, theatrical way.

An Open Letter to CalTrans

Dear Sirs:

Firstly, let it be noted that I sincerely appreciate the way that you perform repairs and general upkeep on things that are and relate to our roads. However, as I was waiting at a red light at a crowded intersection this afternoon around lunch time, I noticed that the light was not just red, but that it was blinking red, which led me to assume that something was amiss. I found that it was doing so because it had been apparently decided that lunch time was the best time to work on that particular traffic light.

Needless to say, people were upset.

I humbly request an either/or solution to this issue. Why don't you,

A) Maybe think about working on that light at another time during the day when there are fewer people on the road, or

B) Allow me to punch you in the face. Your collective face.

Your concerned friend and loving companion,
AC