A man named Pedro makes a second daring escape from a prison, breaking into a flat out sprint across a golf course-like lawn, lit by floodlights from all sides. As part of some kind of protest, I and my fellow Improv Everywhere compatriots mill about in similar clothing on the lawn, confusing his incarcerators. I struggle with the morality of this, while Pedro’s get away car pulls that prank on him where the driver pulls a few feet away just as you reach the door. The improv group of three hundred laughs.

The protest over, I am walking Buffy the Vampire Slayer home (not Sarah Michelle Gellar, mind you, but Buffy). I am in a Xander-esque best friend role and have no romantic interest in the petit blonde. As she enters her dorm room, I notice that the building is actually Whitefish Bay High School. It is dark, and something is lurking. I make my way through back hallways and the like, avoiding shadowy pursuers, ducking into stairwells at appropriate times. My fear strangles me.

—

Yep. It’s audition season. I wonder who Pedro is meant to be.

ROBERT:
Someone to hold you too close,
Someone to hurt you too deep,
Someone to sit in your chair,
To ruin your sleep.

PAUL: That’s true, but there’s more to it than that.
SARAH: Is that all you think there is to it?
HARRY: You’ve got so many reasons for not being with someone, but
Robert,
you haven’t got one good reason for being alone.
LARRY: Come on, you’re on to something, Bobby. You’re on to something.

ROBERT:
Someone to need you too much,
Someone to know you too well,
Someone to pull you up short
And put you through hell.

DAVID: You see what you look for, you know.
JOANNE: You’re not a kid anymore, Robby. I don’t think you’ll ever
be a kid again, kiddo.
PETER: Hey, buddy, don’t be afraid it won’t be perfect. The only thing
to be afraid of really is that it won’t be.
JENNY: Don’t stop now. Keep going.

ROBERT:
Someone you have to let in,
Someone whose feelings you spare,
Someone who, like it or not,
Will want you to share
A little, a lot.

SUSAN: And what does all that mean?
LARRY: Robert, how do you know so much about it when you’ve never
been there?
HARRY: It’s much better living it than looking at it, Robert.
PETER: Add ’em up, Bobby. Add ’em up.

ROBERT:
Someone to crowd you with love,
Someone to force you to care,
Someone to make you come through,
Who’ll always be there,
As frightened as you
Of being alive,
Being alive,
Being alive,
Being alive.

AMY: Blow out the candles, Robert, and make a wish. *Want* something!
Want *something*!

ROBERT:
Somebody, hold me too close,
Somebody, hurt me too deep,
Somebody, sit in my chair
And ruin my sleep
And make me aware
Of being alive,
Being alive.

Somebody, need me too much,
Somebody, know me too well,
Somebody, pull me up short
And put me through hell
And give me support
For being alive,
Make me alive.

Make me confused,
Mock me with praise,
Let me be used,
Vary my days.
But alone is alone, not alive.

Somebody, crowd me with love,
Somebody, force me to care,
Somebody, make me come through,
I’ll always be there,
As frightened as you,
To help us survive
Being alive,
Being alive,
Being alive!

From the musical, “Company,” by Stephen Sondheim

I never thought anything good could ever come out of shows like American Idol. Not truly GOOD, anyway. It’s good to be wrong sometimes.

And from an old and dear friend, another day-maker. I risk breaking my site structure to show these, so they must be something, right?

National security, global prosperity, moral responsibility. All in one change. Can we do it? The answer is yes.

This will be a collection of thoughts apropos of nothing and likely unrelated to one another. Expect nothing and enjoy.

—

On the highway this weekend I was cut off by a Sonata. I was giving it a close examination from behind (hey-oh) when I saw that the I and A were switched, so that the raised letters read “Hyundia.” For a moment, I wondered if it was a knockoff.

—

I watched Fast and Furious this weekend on a guy day with Dr. Mike. It was as advertised, but it did strangely give me motivation to get back on track with my training. I have more stage combat action in the next few months, and I will not rely on that for my workouts, as I have in the past. I think I could make a good stunt double for Vin Diesel, but I would need to get into appropriate shape and finish my training.

What really struck me while I was watching was that I used to throw myself whole-heartedly into this stunt stuff before I ever decided to do it for a living; however, now that I’m learning how to do it professionally, I’m so focused on correct technique and safety, that I don’t take enough risk.

Am I afraid to be hurt? A little, but I really should not be. If I were to be permanently injured, which is unlikely, it would be no different than if I had cancer, or contracted a disease somehow, or whatever. The only control I can exert over my bodily condition is, well, conditioning. But I may as well take the chance and get the glory. It’s more likely I’ll break an arm or something than do any permanent damage.

But I think it is similar to the block I have when sparring someone or playing a fighting game. I am so lasered in on proper, clean technique that I don’t improvise enough or let a little sloppy roundhouse score me a point. People who know me probably would not identify me as a type A, but when it comes to martial arts and the like, I do find myself a hard-ass about technique. If I want to make it as a stuntman, I gotta let that go. Discipline and conditioning channeled into boldness and freedom of motion. That’s the key.

Strange that I learned that from a plotless action movie, but there are lessons everywhere. And possibly lesions everywhere, and possibly they are one in the same.

—

I’m really enjoying Burning Crusade with my paladin. Maybe I understand gear better now, or I like Horde better, or something, but I really feel like I’m having fun playing the mid-end-game this time. Anyone know any good Horde guilds on Tanaris, by chance?

—

I finally have my FAFSA and application in to UW-M. I still don’t know whether I could focus on theater, which I would prefer. Probably there is not time to work full time and pursue an academic theater career. I’ll let the advisors at UW-M tell me for sure.

—

I finally got up and ran this morning, but it was too cold to gauge whether I like or dislike it. My lower back gave a few twinges of anger, but other than that, I don’t feel anything different. I’m going to do circuits tonight as well. Two-a-days for me until further notice.

This was originally published on 2-29-09 (Leap Day); I edited some of the specifics down, but I think it’s fairly poetic, if tainted with my maudlin style.
—
The shower has always been a place of meditation for me. While my hippie leanings tell me I’m using too much water, I’m there standing drenched in thought, the Carl Stargher of my own life. A terror to myself, and trapped in my own world of fantasy and torture.

Dreams are of empty starships desperate for living cargo. Dreams are of disapproving looks from people who know me better. Dreams are absent in the pursuit of them. They can only be caught without trying. Is intent a vanity? Is ambition as evil as I had made it out to be in my youth? Roman sin, best left to the uncaring, dead centuries.

A whisper of me can barely be heard beneath the dripping, as I pile on unwashed clothing and trudge to my daily, in need of cash and in search of meaning. I cannot count triumphs so menial, I cannot count trials so many.

At a desk, I am expected to deliver, but I can barely feel the keys beneath my fingers. I doodle a sketch of me in two years, the virtual ink barely dry on the previous regime-changing draft, and yet it, too, is two years old.

Will I be dead before I live? Every day an analysis, every day a struggle with self, but no great art to show for this pain. No genius within, no masterpiece, only the thought that infinity is nothing more than a concept. 6 billion infinities at war for dominance, none more consequential than gravity, a senseless force.

“Hide from the world, it will come for you. You have no place in this time.”

I left the Eastern satisfaction of hearth and mind for the Western decadence of bodily pleasure, and now I realize neither is substantial, even combined in some delicately balanced recipe. Mixed metaphor for a confused mind, grasping for analogy. Choking on reality.

Expunging bile brings a smile, hidden from view. Gallows humour. “Nobody likes you. Everybody hates you. You’re going to lose. Smile, you fuck.”

Cling to media. Does that matter? Your reputation is that of a coward. Does that matter? You have a talent that might take you to the top of the craft, if you get some lucky breaks. Does that matter? Play a game, have some fun. Does that matter?

The answer is still no. Rework the angles, mock it up again. Comes out no.

“Tire tread on burst stomach.”

Absolutes even fail. Rely on … what? Chaos? Ridiculous. Rely on chaos. Oxymoron. But still as true as anything.

When I was young — fourth grade is my best estimation — we took a field trip to a nature preserve of some kind. I don’t remember the bus ride, but I do remember that when I got there, it seemed to me we must have thousands of miles from anywhere. I thought I would be afraid, but instead I felt free. I was a latch-key kid, even then; I had grown accustomed to relying on myself. Granted, there were chaperones everywhere, but it felt a grand adventure.

Ostensibly, we were there to learn about nature and grasslands and whatever else you teach a fourth grader but the part of the trip that stands out in my mind was the little game they had us play. If you don’t know me well, it may surprise you that I was an insufferable nerd right up until around my freshman year in high school. Straight A’s, loner reading in the corner, video games in the summer, doing math for fun, acne and too much body fat… the whole shot. I learned to read when I was three because I wanted to be smart more than anything. Not too much has changed, but I have learned to be social, at least.

So, when the tour guide suggested a game where each student was going on a little treasure hunt, my ears perked up. We were given a map and a compass and told we were going to be “orienteering” to find our way to each step to the treasure. Needless to say, I was first to the treasure by about ten minutes, already looking for another challenge.

And I felt good about myself. I felt like I had triumphed.

No doubt much of this is washed in nostalgia and precocious childhood perspective, but I can’t say when I have since felt so strongly that the world was my oyster. That I had possibilities everywhere but driving direction.

Later in my life, when I was an apathetic teenager, my father would try to teach me how to orienteer in the wilderness without compass or map, but I paid little attention. One lesson did stick, though. Find your direction, orient on the sun and then head that direction without swerving. I managed well enough to find the truck when deer hunting.

I wonder here aloud (a-typed?) whether that sort of point-and-go attitude could get one through life. Worked for Teddy Roosevelt, right?

I was not cast in Noises Off! and now I’m not really sure what to do with myself. I had plans for very specific workshops this year, but I am second guessing in the afterglow of an unsuccessful audition. Not being cast was disappointing, of course, and there are other things where I might be a shoo-in. I think instead I will focus on personal growth outside of a show. Fitness, education, and simple meditation.

But I’ll probably change my mind tomorrow. What can I say? For me, the horizon is a moving target.

This article I don’t care much about, and I think Huffington Post can be overboard on the liberal tip, but this is a solid point.

I've always been amused at the idea that a religious person can say that an atheist will burn in hell as a result of their beliefs, and that is not considered offensive; but if an atheist says that believing in God makes no sense, that is considered deeply offensive. One person is charging the other with faulty logic; the other is charging them with a base immorality that warrants eternal torture. How is the former even vaguely more insulting than the latter?

via Cenk Uygur: The Silent Minority.