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

Yes, Folks, He's a Hummer

Perhaps it's due to the tons of rehearsal, or perhaps it's due to the fact that I am functionally retarded, but whenever I'm not in rehearsal, I find myself humming or softly singing some part of some song from the show. Now, while this is presently a pleasant thing, I can think of two distinct potential problems*:

1) One line of a song that I sing goes, "Dai dai dai dai," which, as you no doubt have realized, sounds suspiciously like "Die die die die." I can only imagine the pained looks/talk of "silent alarms"/outright weeping when I start mutter-singing that line at a liquor store/bank/child's birthday party, and

2) While it's all fun and games now to constantly have the music going through my head, I can only imagine a day when I will start humming a song from the show, and I will wish that someone would rip a hole in my stomach, insert a hefty-sized garbage bag full of live kittens into said hole, and then suture that hole shut while screaming at the kittens to "Claw your way to victory" and "Stay away from the acid; it'll just slow you down" in an effort to get my mind off of anything related to the show.

On that day, it will just be fun, and no games.

*In ninth grade, I was in a punk band called Potential Problem. Even as I sit here looking at that name, I can't help but smirk at the fact that I capitalized it. Our songs had clever lyrics like, in a song that talked about Sid and Nancy, "Why, why why? Why did you? Why did you have to, turn him into, $*&#? He was just fine, he was just fine, without you!"

While I guess I could say that the band's influence on me was a good thing in the long run, as being in the band is what made me pick up the bass guitar (when the three of us started the band, only one of us knew how to play his assigned instrument. That's right, assigned. We got together, decided we should be in a band, and assigned who should play what. For the record, I think that the first time we assigned instruments, we had the guitar player playing drums. We were maybe not as clever as we thought we were at that time), for a long time the stronger influence of being in the band was that I distrusted "preppy" brands like Tommy Hilfiger, Ralph Lauren, and Nike in favor of acceptable brands like Dickies and Vans.

Sigh. I'm such a poser. Do the kids still use that expression? Poser? Oh well, back to my Warped Tour cd.

p.s. This may very well be the best idea anyone has ever had, and that statement includes indoor plumbing and pigs in a blanket.

How to Feel Good About Yourself, AKA My New Year's Resolutions

1) Lose at least 1 pound -- As long as I don't go on a twelve month bender of overeating, overdrinking, and other assorted means of worshipping Dionysus, I figure I've got this one in the bag. At the very least, I can just not eat on next December 30th, and that'll probably get the job done.

2) Use allusions that people will get -- Dionysus was the Roman god of wine and frivolity, who is represented in a painting by Damon Denys like this:

Frankly, at the end of the day, in addition I should perhaps think twice about referencing a deity whose thumb ring, shirtlessness, crown of leaves, and pleased with himself look all suggest that he might be a little too eager to come over and watch Brokeback Mountain with me.*

3) Not get fired -- Again, this should be fairly easy to attain, so long as I keep up the good work, and I mean that in the biblical sense, like being kind and charitable and restoring sight to the blind. It could happen.

4) Invent teleportation -- This is, admittedly, the wild card of the resolution list, but it hearkens back to a time when I, as a child, was convinced, convinced that I could build a time travel device using solely the various leftover parts from washing machines that my grandfather had in his back yard. Though that plan didn't come to fruition, I am certain that this one could work because I just rewatched an old Simpsons' Treehouse of Horror and they had a teleporter on there, and (warning: abrupt shift) as Disney's Fantasmic show would lead me to believe, I am only limited by my imagination, or, in this case, other peoples' imaginations. Also, I just really want one because, really, who wants to be driving all the time? Can you drink while you drive? You can, but it's seriously discouraged in this so-called "free" country. However, while we're told not to drink and drive, I've never once heard, "Don't Drink and Teleport." Think about it; you'll see that it makes a lot of sense, and I think that you'll come on board.

*While I don't necessarily have anything against the movie, the prospect of watching it with a shirtless guy just kind of gives me the willies.

Laptop = Hours of Tears = Opportunity for Inanity

So, I tried to post yesterday from my apartment from my laptop, but either blogger or the laptop opted to, instead of post what I had writ, make my writing disappear into the darkness and the abyss of the world wide web. I tried surfing the net in order to find it, but I ended up worrying that I would get hacked and that cyberthieves would steal my credit card numbers and that I would end up in a commercial that featured my body being voiced by a fifteen year old girl who was talking about how she was excited that she got a whole bunch of new "Hello Kitty" schwag.

So, long story short, I cut my losses, and returned to my bottom line: "I did not have sexual relations with that woman...Miss Lewinsky."

Now, onto something that has merit: I have rehearsed for the show twice now, and it is just about the most fun that I have ever had. It also doesn't hurt the ego that I seem to be picking up stuff very easily, and that people in authority have commented happily on it.

I would say "Go Me," but I think that those first two paragraphs drove my nerd factor way up, and, frankly, I might just burst into tears if it goes up any higher. Or, if I may, I may just burst into one giant tear, and slowly dissolve and dissipate into the carpet, and, as I am looking forward to tomorrow, I don't think that that's the best idea.